Then, abruptly, I remember. I said I’d be a couple of minutes, that I was just popping out for a bottle of wine. I feel a stab of guilt. In all my excitement I forgot about Gabe and the barbecue we were supposed to be having. I go back inside and knock softly on the door of his room.
‘Gabe? Are you there?’ I can’t hear anything, not even the low hum of a CD. I’m about to look out of the living-room window to see if his motorbike is still parked there when he opens the door.
‘Hey.’ He’s holding a book entitled How To Be Hilarious. ‘I was thinking of sending out a search party.’
‘Hi . . . Look, I’m sorry,’ I apologise. ‘I lost track of the time . . .’
But he won’t let me finish. ‘Don’t worry about it. I ate already, but I put your food in the oven to keep warm.’
‘Actually, I’m not hungry . . .’ Then I can’t help blurting, ‘I’ve just been asked out on date. It’s someone I’ve had a bit of a crush on.’ I add this hastily in case he thinks I always go out on dates with complete strangers I meet on the street.
‘Oh . . . cool.’
There’s a pause.
‘I bought champagne instead of wine,’ I say. ‘Would you like a glass?’
‘Thanks, but not for me. It’s been a long day and I’m going to hit the sack.’
‘Oh, OK . . . Look, about the barbecue.’
‘Hey, forget about it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah, of course.’ He smiles. ‘Night, Heather.’
‘Right. You too, Gabe.’
Giving him a little wave goodnight with the champagne bottle, I head back into the kitchen to put it into the fridge. My thoughts turn back to James and I’m so absorbed that when, a few moments later, I hear Gabe’s door click softly behind me, it occurs to me only vaguely that he must have remained standing there after I left him. But I’m too caught up by the evening’s events to take much notice. Smiling happily, I pop the Moët on ice. For later.
Chapter Sixteen
Outside the ivy-clad walls of Kew Gardens, a dozen or so wedding guests are congregating. With no sign of the bride as yet, and with half an hour or so to go before the ceremony is due to start, they’re taking the chance to have a last-minute cigarette and fiddle awkwardly with their outfits. They look to be mostly in their early twenties, fresh out of university judging by their woven ethnic bracelets and liquid black eyeliner, and are wearing an assortment of mismatched suits and Friday-night dresses that are too short and revealing.
And for one particular blonde way too tight, I note, and try not to stare at her black Lycra minidress, which highlights every lump and bump of her VPL as I weave my way through the guests looking for someone suitable to cadge a cigarette from. ‘’Scuse me, I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare cigarette . . .’ With every last drop of my female charm, I smile at a lanky twenty something who’s still sporting the remnants of teenage acne.
Clearly unused to female attention, he seems startled. ‘Oh, er, yeah,’ he stammers, and fumbles in the breast pocket of his jacket, which, judging by the length of the sleeves, is borrowed from a much shorter friend. ‘So, um, are you part of the bride’s party?’ he asks self-consciously, as he pulls out a packet of Silk Cut Ultra Low.
Oh, well, anything’s better than nothing. I take one. ‘Oh, no. I’m here to do the photographs.’
‘You’re a photographer? Hey, cool,’ says his friend, to whom I haven’t paid much attention as he’s been on his mobile with his back to me. He’s incredibly handsome. And knows it. ‘Maybe you could take my picture some time. I’m the lead singer in a band.’ He drops in this piece of information oh-so-casually, and throws me a well-rehearsed look that’s half pout, half smile.
I’m about to tell him that I’m only the assistant when the boy with the cigarettes says, ‘Don’t listen to Jack, he’s always like this.’ Then he holds out his lighter. ‘I’m Francis, by the way.’
I smile appreciatively. Why is it that when men are in pairs there’s always the sweet, kind one who’s every girl’s best friend, and the handsome bastard who gets all the girls?
‘Hey, listen to you, Pizza Face,’ snorts Jack, punching his shoulder as we’re in the middle of shaking hands. Two spots of colour burn in Francis’s cheeks, but Jack is grinning confidently, safe in his good looks. God, what a bully. I wish someone would put him in his place.
I turn to Francis. ‘Thanks.’ I smile, then cup my hand round his so he can light my cigarette. He strikes his lighter a couple of times and finally there’s a flame. I take a drag and savour the head-rush of a retired smoker. ‘Nice meeting you.’
‘And you.’ He smiles gratefully. Unlike Jack, who mutters something unrepeatable about me having no sense of humour and turns to the blonde girl with the VPL.
I begin to make my way back through the crowd to the Together Forever van. I hardly ever smoke, especially not on the job, but today I’m anxious. I take a puff of my cigarette. Very anxious.
I knew something wasn’t right as soon as Brian picked me up this morning. Instead of the usual pre-wedding banter, we drove in silence but for the tap of Brian’s signet ring as he drummed his fingers on the steering-wheel. There was something on his mind, that was for sure, but I didn’t like to ask what – I’m too much of a coward. And I was too busy daydreaming about James.
But, then, just as we were pulling into the car park, his phone rang. He mumbled something about it being an important call and gestured for me to give him some privacy. It was all very cloak-and-dagger and quite unlike Brian, who usually chats away with the phone stuck under his chin as he does a million other things. Unlike most men, he’s quite the multi-tasker.
But not this time. This time he’s giving his full attention to whoever is on the other end of the line. He’s still pacing the car park. Up and down he goes in his grey flannel suit, mobile phone wedged to his ear, face solemn. The warm breeze blows over snippets of conversation. ‘Uh-huh . . . Yes . . . Absolutely . . . I completely understand . . .’
My stomach tightens. It sounds like bad news. With everything that’s been happening recently I haven’t brooded upon Brian’s confession about how badly the business was doing, and how if we didn’t get a miracle in the shape of a huge job he’d have to let me go. But now it all comes rushing back and, inside, I feel a knot the size of a fist.
‘So what kind of numbers are we talking? Hm . . . Hm . . . Oh, really? As much as that?’
Oh, God. It’s someone from the bank calling about the loan. I stare at his shiny black brogues as they crunch rhythmically on the gravel. I can feel the tension mounting. I wish I could conjure a great big fat wedding out of thin air.
‘Heather, I need to talk to you.’
Brian’s voice interrupts my panic. He’s hurrying towards me, coat tails flapping. His hands are clutched to his chest as if he’s holding some big news. Grinding out my cigarette under my heel, I dig in my bag for a packet of Polo mints and pop one into my mouth.
‘You do?’ I say, in trepidation. I smash the mint between my molars.
‘I’ve got some good news.’
‘Good news?’ I parrot.
‘Wonderful news,’ he whoops, a delighted smile breaking across his face. He puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘I think you should sit down.’
As he eases me on to one of the wooden benches that border the lawn I look at him in confusion. ‘But I thought it was about the loan?’ I gesture to his mobile phone.
‘Not exactly.’ He’s jigging up and down on his heels. He’s so twitchy he can’t keep still. ‘But we’re talking about a lot of money here.’
‘But how can that be good news?’
‘It’s not good news. It’s wonderful news, Heather,’ he reminds me. ‘Wonderful news.’
I don’t believe this. My boss has gone stark raving mad. Finally I snap: ‘Brian, will you please stop talking in riddles and explain why owing a lot of money is wonderful?’
‘Who said anything about owing money?’
‘You did. Last week. The conversation in the van about having to let me go.’
‘Now, now, let’s not dwell on the past,’ he says dismissively, flapping his hand in the air. ‘A lot can happen in a week. In a week a business can go from owing a lot of money to making a lot of money. Especially if it gets a client who just happens to be the Duke of Hurley, whose daughter just happens to be getting married—’
‘You mean Lady Charlotte?’ I interrupt.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘The blonde socialite who’s always in all the magazines?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘There was a picture of her only this week at some party with Paris Hilton. I swear, they’re almost identical’ I shake my head.
‘Lady Charlotte has much thicker ankles,’ confides Brian, lowering his voice. ‘Word among a few of my old paparazzi pals is she’s got legs like a man.’
‘Really?’ I whisper.
‘Really,’ nods Brian, knowledgeably.
‘But surely she can’t be getting married. Isn’t she only about twenty-one or something?’
‘She can be sixteen for all I care, just as long as she’s legal.’ Suddenly the penny drops. ‘What? You mean . . . we’re going to cover her wedding?’
‘Yep, you and me, kiddo. In three weeks!’
‘Isn’t that a bit short notice?’ I’m so astonished it’s all I can say.
‘Apparently it’s all very last-minute and hush-hush because they don’t want the press to find out. That was the Duchess on the phone just then. She called a few days ago, completely out of the blue. Said she remembered me from the sixties.’
I pounce: ‘You mean you’ve known about this for a few days?’
He holds up his hands in self-defence. ‘I had to keep you in the dark. It wasn’t definite and I didn’t want to get your hopes up . . .’
‘Oh, Brian, it’s fantastic news!’ Overcome with relief I jump off the bench and throw my arms round him.
‘It’s more than that – it’s a bloody miracle!’ he gushes, and as I hug him tight I feel a ripple of excitement.
I wished for a miracle, didn’t I? And now we’ve got one.
A commotion interrupts my thoughts. ‘Oh, look, is that the bride arriving?’ I glance towards the driveway where people are circling.
Brian stands on tiptoe to see over the heads. ‘No, some idiot’s just had a drink thrown in his face.’ He laughs derisively.
I peer over his shoulder and spot the idiot in question: it’s Jack, the wannabe rock star. Only he doesn’t look like one now. His face is dripping and his white shirt is soaked with what looks suspiciously like vodka cranberry, and he’s spluttering with angry humiliation. I feel a glow of satisfaction. What was that about wishing someone would put him in his place?
‘You two-timing creep!’ I recognise the blonde girl in the tight black Lycra dress. ‘Who do you think you are? Some kind of stud? I wouldn’t mind, but for all the big talk, you’ve got a willy the size of a—’
Chapter Seventeen
‘Cocktail sausage?’ James guesses. He’s listening to my story from the other side of the restaurant table.
Oh bloody hell, Heather.
And our first date had started so perfectly. Instead of agonising over what to wear I’d chosen the first thing I’d tried on: a dress made of plum satin that I found in a second-hand shop a few months ago that goes beautifully with my new pink satin shoes. And instead of jewellery I’ve clipped my hair up with all these glittery little grips I’ve had in my drawer for ages but never been brave enough to wear.
Normally I never attempt anything adventurous – it’s always a quick blow-dry and a tonne of serum – but tonight I wanted something special. I wanted to feel different, to look into the mirror and not see jeans-’n’-T-shirt Heather, Daniel’s ex with the heavy thighs and the mad curly hair that looks like a fibre-optic lamp, but knock-’em-dead Heather, James’s date with the sexy dress and the sophisticated hairdo, so I copied a photograph in Vogue and, would you believe it?, it worked. Right down to the little tendrils at the sides of my ears.
And then, like clockwork, James picked me up at exactly eight and we drove in a cab to this gorgeous little Italian restaurant in Soho. The maître d’ showed us to our candlelit table, which was tucked away from the others in a romantic corner of the courtyard, a waiter poured me a glass of perfectly chilled champagne and James told me how lovely I was looking. Then came the pause.
Now, I’m not talking a long pause, like an uncomfortable silence, more a pregnant pause. A pause in which we were supposed to catch each other’s eye and he would smile and I would blush and it would be all wonderfully flirtatious.
Instead I did what I always do when I get all nervous and awkward: I filled the silence. Even worse, I filled it with the first thing that came into my head, which just so happened to be my anecdote about Jack the wannabe rock star. And his penis.
I look at James across the candlelit table and want to crawl underneath it. ‘Erm . . . now I come to think of it, I can’t actually remember . . .’ I say evasively. I take a large gulp of champagne. Come on, Heather, think of something to say. Something witty. Something that shows you’re not a penis-obsessed idiot. Something you’re both interested in. I rack my brains. Come on, think – think.
Suddenly it comes to me in a blinding flash of light: ‘I’m reading this wonderful book.’
He looks at me with interest. ‘You are?’
‘Yes. It’s amazing.’ I look him in the eye as I play my ace. ‘It’s called Life of Pi.’ I try not to smile triumphantly, but it’s hard. I’m so chuffed at my quick thinking I almost want to high-five myself.
‘Oh, yeah, it’s had some great reviews.’ Then – to my disbelief – his nose wrinkles. ‘But I couldn’t get past the first couple of chapters.’
My stomach lurches. ‘You couldn’t?’
‘No. I gave up in the end – too much of a struggle. I’m obviously a bit of a Philistine.’ He reaches across the table and stokes my hand. ‘So, tell me, why are you loving it so much?’
I’m in the middle of another gulp of champagne. The bubbles fizz up my nose and I hold back a sneeze. ‘Erm . . .’
Oh, my God, me and my big mouth. ‘. . . well . . .’
I grapple for something to say. Damn. I should have stuck with penis sizes.
‘. . . it’s the perfect size for propping underneath my coffee-table,’ I quip, ‘to correct the wobble.’ I laugh nervously.
James doesn’t. Laugh, that is. In fact, there’s not a flicker of a smile. ‘Oh, right.’ He seems puzzled. Then there’s another pause. Only this time it’s definitely awkward. And this time I definitely don’t try to fill it.
Fortunately a waiter does it for me by arriving to take our order and reeling off a list of specials. There’s chicken, beef, rabbit, pastas, risottos, a dozen different types of salad . . .
‘Mmm, it all sounds good,’ murmurs James. ‘What do you feel like, darling?’
Darling?
He says it casually, so naturally, so affectionately, it’s as if he’s unaware he’s even said it.
Except he did say it.
All my earlier embarrassment vanishes. I can’t believe it. A term of endearment. Women can wait years for this level of intimacy from a man, and yet here’s James, calling me ‘darling’ on our first date. ‘It all sounds great,’ I reply, as if nothing out of the ordinary has just happened when in reality I want to dash to the loo and call Jess on my mobile. But she’s on her own first date with Greg. And even if she wasn’t, I’m thirty years old, and supposed to be a sophisticated, mature adult.
I sit up straight in my chair and throw James what I hope is a sophisticated smile. ‘But I’m actually a vegetarian,’ I say coolly. ‘Well, according to my flatmate, I’m technically a pescetarian as I eat fish—’
‘Are you serious?’ interrupts James, all wide-eyed. And I’m just wondering what I’ve said now when he clinks his champagne glass against mine.
‘I’m a vegetarian too.’
‘What a coincidence.’ Wow, he really is my perfect man, I tell myself. He’s looking at me in a way that makes me feel intoxicated – and it’s got nothing to do with the champagne.
‘So tell me, are you a mohair-sweater-wearing-lentils-and-nut-roast-vegetarian? Or the microwaveable-macaroni-and-cheese type?’
‘Oh, definitely the second.’ I smile. ‘I hate nuts – I’m allergic to them.’
‘No way! So am I!’
‘Really?’
‘No, not really.’ Smiling, he shakes his head. ‘But I can be if you want me to.’
‘No, it’s OK.’ I laugh. ‘You seem fine the way you are.’
Reaching across the table he brushes my fingers, which are entwined round my wine glass, with his thumb. Now it’s his turn. ‘Really?’ he asks quietly.
I look down at his hand, that’s now covering my own, and feel a delicious tingle run all the way up from my groin. ‘Really.’
The waiter coughs to attract our attention. ‘Have you decided?’ he asks patiently.
James closes his menu but keeps hold of my hand. And, turning to the waiter with his lovely, lazy grin, asks, ‘Would it be possible to make two macaroni cheese?’
The evening gets better and better. After dinner, which James insists on paying for, we drink lattes and share a tiramisu at Bar Italia, a pavement café in Soho, then grab a cab back to our flats. That’s one good thing about dating your neighbour: you get to go home together.
En route, James entertains me with stories – about how his sister regularly beats him at Scrabble, he can cook a mean porcini-mushroom risotto, and the scar on his wrist is the result of falling off his sledge when he was six years old. Most intriguing of all is the story of how he’s been plucking up courage to ask me out for months. ‘There was never a right time. We kept bumping into each other but I was scared of looking like an idiot . . .’