‘And that’s how Emma made you feel?’
Leo thought about it for a minute, replaying the highlights of their time together – the times when they soared and flew and were warm and tingly together. And there had been lots of them. ‘Yes.’ He laughed again, this time sadly. ‘Yes, she did. I just didn’t realise it at the time. The other thing that you have to understand about humans is that we have a tendency to take all our good fortune for granted.’ Leo wanted to talk to Emma about these things, to explain to her how he felt. But it was too late. The time for talking, Leo guessed, had long since passed.
Isobel interrupted his thoughts. There was an anxious look marring her pretty face. ‘Is that how you feel about me?’
Leo reached out and took both of her hands. ‘I think it is.’
‘I love you, Leo,’ she said.
He took a deep breath, felt the thump of his heart and then said, ‘I love you too.’
The kitchen lights started to flash on and off. Glitter floated down from the ceiling. The dishes started to jump up and down. Then, of course, the romantic music kicked in. Whitney Houston again, Leo believed. It seemed to be a favourite of Isobel’s.
‘Darling,’ he said as he took her in his arms and buried his face in her neck. ‘We need to talk about some of your worst excesses.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I sit on the toilet seat while Jo and Caron squash themselves into the cubicle with me. I’m very drunk and crying loudly. My friends look at each other in alarm.
‘We’ve come out for some fun,’ Jo says crisply. ‘Remember?’
I wail again. ‘I don’t want fun. I want Leo.’
Caron crouches down next to me. ‘You can’t spend all night at a great club like this locked in the loo.’
‘We’ve paid a fortune to get in, Em.’
I wail again.
‘Emma, he’s a bastard,’ Caron reminds me. ‘You have said so yourself on many occasions. He’s given you the run around for too long.’
‘But I love him,’ I wail. I don’t want to be in a trendy nightclub with lots of noise and ridiculous-sounding drinks and women with indecently low-cut trousers and indecently low-cut tops. Joni Mitchell was right – or was it Melanie? You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. I want to be at home with Leo, curled up on the sofa and watching crap on telly. And I know that I moaned when we did that, but I hadn’t realised how nice it was at the time.
‘He’s not good enough for you,’ Jo chips in. She doesn’t say it with any great sense of conviction.
‘But I love him!’ I pull some more loo roll from the holder and blow my nose fiercely into it. And now he’s with someone else. Someone lovelier than me. And they’re probably curled up on Leo’s sofa right now watching Wife Swap Saved My Marriage or some other dross, feeding each other Maltesers.
‘You could have anyone, Emma.’ Caron continues her cajoling. ‘You’re beautiful.’
I don’t look it at the moment. My lipstick is smeared. My hair is birds-nesting of its own accord and there are two tracks of wet mascara down my face. Men are just like mascara – running at the first sign of any emotion. I’ve bought a new ‘going-out’ dress especially for the occasion on another retail therapy expedition. It looked great in the shop – dangling its promises of sexiness alluringly in front of me. My credit card was handed over in a greedy blur and maxed once more. And now it looks dreadful – tarty – as if I’m a desperate single person out on the pull for a boyfriend. Which I am.
‘You could have anyone,’ Caron continues gently. ‘Leo’s not even that good-looking.’ She looks to Jo for support.
‘He is,’ Jo mouths. ‘He’s bloody gorgeous!’
Caron scowls at her.
‘But I love him,’ I wail.
Jo also kneels down beside Caron. ‘Emma. Sweetheart. He’s found someone else. Someone who you say looks like a million movie stars rolled into one.’
I wail louder. ‘But I love him!’
‘Come on. Come on.’ Caron and Jo hoist me from the toilet. ‘Be a brave girl. Let’s put our party face back on and go out and get a new man!’
‘But . . .’
‘No buts,’ Caron says firmly. ‘You can do it.’ She pulls off some more loo roll and hands it to me. ‘Now. Good girl. Dry your eyes.’ She dabs at me with the loo roll. ‘Right, big blow. No one will want to dance with you if you’re all snotty.’
I unwind some more and blow my nose again, smiling weakly at my friends.
‘That’s my big brave girl,’ Caron says. ‘Now – let’s go and drive the men wild.’
I’m getting too old for dancing, I decide. I’d like to go back to the time when it was more genteel. A time of perky bopping with the girls round a pile of great, sack-like handbags. Now you can’t take out a handbag because it’s likely to be stolen, so everyone has those silly little purses that hold nothing. And the perky boppings are now obscene gyrations, grinding your hips in time with men that you don’t know and are never destined to see again.
‘This is great,’ Caron shouts encouragingly. ‘Isn’t it?’
I nod and widen my smile. It’s terrible. More than terrible. It’s sheer torture.
The music is at a level that’s making my ears want to bleed and I wish that more people who were determined to end comfy long-term relationships to regain their youthful freedom spent a few nights in clubs like this. It’s better therapy than Relate could ever offer. It has certainly made me realise in a flash that the singles scene is a hugely overrated phenomenon.
All the women look tarty and hard. They laugh too loudly and toss back lurid-coloured drinks at an alarming rate while eyeing up lurching, drunken men with predatory stares. Is this what I want to turn into? Once upon a time men used to come up and ask you to dance and even engage in conversation before they tried to grope your bum. Didn’t they? I’m sure I can remember back that far. Well, gone are those days. Now the men come up and either prod you in the chest as some sort of basic mating ritual or just stand there and twitch in front of you, not giving you the choice to say yes or no. And most of them are definite nos. They only manage to get halfway through a dance track before their hands are trying to locate your underwear. Leo could never be classed as gallant, but even at his worst he’d never been this bad. My boyfriend – ex-boyfriend – has a certain charm, which is more than can be said for this lot of single-cell amoebas.
Caron and Jo surround me on the dance floor. They look like a pair of sheepdogs guarding a particularly skittish ewe, scared that it’s going to bolt at any moment. And they’re probably right. It will take very little encouragement for me to be heading back to the loo for another cry or to jump in a taxi and dash for the sanctuary of my home. I’m grateful that my friends are trying to jolt me out of my misery, but this clearly isn’t the way to do it. How am I going to find someone caring and sensitive in a place like this? Where on earth is the magic of romance to be found for the woman of the new millennium?
A handsome young guy sidles up to me. He’s already jigging. I brace myself.
He places his face close to mine and I try not to recoil. ‘Would you like to dance?’ he yells.
I burst into tears. It’s all too much. The noise, the crowd, the gaping hole in my heart.
The young man looks terrified. ‘I take it that’s a no?’
‘I’ll dance with you,’ Jo says. Caron glares at her, but the young man shrugs his shoulders and, without the need for any further persuasion, gets jiggy with Jo instead.
I see my escape opportunity and rush out. The loo, it seems, is my only refuge.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Leo was at his desk and it looked as if a tornado had recently hit. Even by Leo’s levels of untidiness it was bad. Half-empty coffee cups nestled amidst a mountain of discarded chocolate wrappers from bars all cadged from Lard’s never-ending stash. He wished he could smoke a cigarette. Leo was desperate. And he was having to work. Really work. Things in the unfathomable world of fina
nce were going horribly wrong and Leo didn’t know what to do. He needed Grant or Lard to sort it out, but they were both in a meeting and Leo didn’t dare go in to admit defeat. He’d be out on his ear as soon as you could say ‘hopeless failure’. He’d hit the phones but none of his deals were showing any hope of saving the day. Leo punched at the keys on his computer in the vain hope that something he did would make a difference. But he was drowning. Slow, painful glugs that were sending him further and further into deep water.
Isobel came in. ‘Coming for lunch?’
She held up a brown paper bag, clearly stuffed with all manner of goodies. Leo couldn’t bear to ask whether she’d been out to buy this impromptu picnic or whether it was something she’d conjured up herself. In fact, he hardly needed to ask. Leo wondered if there were any calories in food created by fairies? This could well be another huge business opportunity. And he felt that he might be looking for a new job very shortly.
‘Can’t. Can’t.’ Leo shook his head furiously and gave Isobel his most stressed look. This was serious. ‘Mega, mega problems. Market’s crashing. Dollar’s buggered. I’m buggered. Flipping awful.’
Isobel leaned over his shoulder and frowned. ‘Let me see,’ she said and then eased Leo off his chair to take his place. That bloody wand appeared from nowhere.
‘Isobel!’ Leo hissed.
‘Sssh!’ she said.
Isobel checked that no one was watching – so she must have learned some discretion – and then wafted her wand over his computer. The numbers on the screen started to flash and go crazy. It all scrolled up and down and sideways and goodness only knows what else.
‘Oh heavens to Betsy,’ Leo breathed, wanting to sink to his knees and disappear into the carpet. However, he was careful not to voice this.
The only other thing he saw flashing before him was his career, such as it was. The dole queue, Leo feared, was looming large. And not a chirpy dole queue where they were all dancing, like that scene in The Full Monty, but a serious dole queue where they’re all in grey suits and manacled to the floor. If it wasn’t beckoning before, then Leo was absolutely sure it was now. Any minute his computer was going to start smoking and then quietly explode into a thousand smithereens. Leo could hardly bear to watch. So he didn’t. Instead he covered his eyes and pretended that he was lounging on a Bahamian beach.
Eventually, Leo peeped through his fingers. The screen had finally calmed down and all the figures had come to a halt. ‘Oh my word.’
Isobel smiled. ‘Is that better?’
Leo edged her out of his seat and gazed at the screen, trying to take in the full enormity of what she’d done. This woman should have come with a health warning. ‘Better?’ he squeaked.
‘I can do it again. If you like.’
‘I don’t like,’ he said. ‘Keep that damn thing to yourself.’ He pushed her wand away from him. It was like being next to a loaded gun. A smoking loaded gun in this case.
He ran his eyes over the figures just in case he was mistaken – but he wasn’t. The evidence was right there before him. Leo’s breathing was very shallow. ‘Do you realise you have just made an awful lot of people instant millionaires?’
‘But that’s good, isn’t it?’
Leo flopped back into his chair. He felt very pale. The computer screen flickered away innocently. No worse for its experience – unlike Leo. Who had just aged ten years. ‘It’s very good.’
Leo had no idea how he was going to explain away this sudden streak of brilliance that had befallen him.
‘Can we go to lunch now?’
Even though it would be several hours before his heart-rate returned to normal, Leo managed to shrug. ‘Why not?’
As they headed for the office door to escape into the fresh air and a rare spot of seasonal sunshine, Grant and Lard appeared looking ragged after their meeting. They both looked towards Leo and Isobel, mimicking the motions of drinking. Leo shook his head – more glitter – and gestured towards Isobel, who in turn showed them the picnic bag. Speaking or any form of coherent explanation was beyond Leo – most of the time – but particularly now.
He saw Grant and Lard exchange another one of their glances, but Leo couldn’t worry about them now. He had just narrowly avoided the sack and a heart-attack in the last five minutes, and that was more than one man should have to bear. A nice sit-down and a sandwich was about the most strenuous thing Leo could cope with right now.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
‘We’re losing him, aren’t we?’ Lard said as they watched Leo depart with Isobel.
Grant nodded thoughtfully.
‘What will happen to the Curry Monsters’ Club?’
‘I think you’ll find that its current membership will be cut by a third.’
The friends wandered over to the window, just in time to see Leo and Isobel emerging from the office and running across the road, dodging the traffic, to the small, scrubby haven of green across the street that masqueraded as a park in this part of the City.
The grass was littered with relaxing bodies – businessmen and women, stretched out for an hour, jackets removed and enjoying the rare window of sunshine. Seemingly unaware that they were being monitored, Isobel and Leo opened the wrought-iron gate and found the nearest bench. They were cuddling and laughing, teasing each other.
‘They’re very much in love,’ Lard said, a vaguely wistful note in his voice.
‘That is truly nauseating to watch,’ Grant said, pretending to turn away. ‘I’m going to be sick. Really I am. I can feel all that vomity stuff coming up in my throat.’
‘You need comfort food.’ Lard produced a Mars Bar from his pocket.
‘You’re like a magician. The David Blane of the chocolate world. Cheers, mate.’ Grant bit into the sweet, sticky chocolate appreciatively. ‘Not a moment too soon.’
In the park, Isobel stretched out and rested her head on Leo’s lap, gazing at him adoringly.
‘I think I liked him better when he was with Emma,’ Lard said thoughtfully.
‘Yeah,’ Grant agreed. ‘You knew where you where with him when he was an inconsiderate twit all the time.’
Lard delved in his pockets and pulled out a Snickers for himself. ‘Do you think we’re simply jealous because we haven’t got anyone as wonderful as Isobel in our sad little lives?’
‘No way!’
A pretty young colleague walked past to get to the coffee machine. She smiled flirtatiously at them both. Grant and Lard grinned back. As she went on her way, both Grant and Lard’s faces fell.
‘It’s just not the same, is it?’
‘No,’ Grant admitted. ‘Somehow she’s not so shiny and shimmery.’
They both glanced down at Isobel and Leo mooning over each other on the park bench – in a romantic, not a bare-bottomed way as was Leo’s usual penchant for mooning – and nibbled at their chocolate in quiet contemplation.
‘Do you believe it?’
‘What?’ Grant asked. ‘That she’s one of the little folk? Of course I don’t! She’s unutterably beautiful – of that there’s no doubt. I do, however, believe that she’s quite probably barking mad. But, in spite of that, our friend Leo has fallen for her hook, line and sinker.’
‘She must have something special.’
‘Yes,’ Grant agreed. ‘And I would vow never to look at Christina Aguilera in a lascivious manner again to find out exactly what.’ He paused and looked pensive. ‘Can I tell you something?’
‘You haven’t got a deadly disease?’
‘No.’ Grant shook his head. ‘But I think I’ve something that may be catching.’
Lard moved away from him and Grant looked sheepish.
‘I feel really . . . sorry . . . for Emma.’
‘How . . . sorry?’
‘Quite a bit . . . sorry.’
‘Sorry enough to consider a mutually satisfying exchange of bodily fluids?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ooo,’ Lard said, wide-eyed. ‘I don’t think you c
an get any cream for that.’
‘I suspect not.’
‘Leo will go bonkers.’
‘Emma isn’t his girlfriend any more.’
‘Are you sure? Miss Glitter Knickers here might have his attention for the moment, but he and Emma go back a long way. Bonds like that aren’t easily broken.’
‘Leo’s blown it,’ Grant said flatly. ‘I just have to wait until Emma realises that.’
‘It would be much better if Leo and Emma got back together, Grant. This woman is completely messing with his head.’ They both glanced out of the window and Lard put his hand on Grant’s arm. ‘There are plenty more fish in the sea. Fish that haven’t spent five years with Leo. I’d suggest that you cast Emma from your mind.’
‘If only it were that easy.’
‘Do you think we should try to split Leo and Tinkerbell up? That would restore the status quo. Emma and Leo would get back together, as they always do, and you never know, Tinkerbell might fancy one of us.’ Lard brightened. ‘Or both of us. Together.’
‘Don’t be revolting.’
‘It wouldn’t take much to put a spanner in the works.’
‘I beg to differ with you. She might look all floaty and insubstantial, but mark my words, that woman is a ball breaker.’
Grant and Lard turned away from the window and, as they did, suddenly banged their heads together with a painful thunk of skull on skull. ‘Ow. Ow!’
They rubbed their heads. ‘Jeez, mate.’ Grant looked accusingly at Lard. ‘Watch what you’re doing.’
‘It wasn’t my fault.’
‘Well, it certainly wasn’t mine. I hardly moved.’
On the breeze – a breeze which hadn’t been there a minute ago – there was the bright tinkle of faint laughter.
‘It’s cold in here.’ They both shivered.
The laugh came again and they turned back towards the window. Isobel was looking up from the park bench, eyes directed straight back at them and she had a self-satisfied smirk on her face.
‘That woman is trouble,’ Grant said sagely.