As Adam came closer she could see he was frowning and he didn’t look as if he’d been to bed. But then he normally looked like that.
Cara rushed over to him. ‘Adam,’ she blurted out. ‘You’ve got to help me.’
He lifted his eyes and looked wearily at her. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s Emily.’ Cara followed him to his desk and perched on the corner. Adam sat down. She lowered her voice, making sure that Chris and any of his cronies were out of earshot. ‘Oh flip, Adam, she’s in such a mess! We’re in such a mess.’
The extent of her distress didn’t seem to be registering in Adam’s expression and he continued to stare at her blankly. Cara grabbed the bundle of daily papers from the news desk. ‘Look at this.’ She waved the Sun under his nose. ‘It’s the same in all of them.’ She spread the other papers out before him. Emily featured large in all of them. ‘We are under siege, Adam. There are reporters knee deep camped outside my house. Emily can’t move. She’s been sacked from her job.’ Cara stopped blathering and looked at Adam. ‘We don’t know what to do.’
Adam looked terribly, terribly tired. ‘I’m not sure that I do,’ he said.
Cara sagged. ‘I thought you might have some ideas?’
Adam shook his head and raked his untidy mass of black hair back from his forehead. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘You said she could come and stay with you,’ Cara reminded him. ‘It might be a good idea. Then they wouldn’t know where she was. She could at least get some peace to think about things.’
Adam inhaled slowly and rubbed his hand over his stubble as he thought about it. ‘She can’t come to me, Cara.’
‘But you said—’
‘I know.’ Adam stopped her. ‘Things have changed since then. I’ve got . . . I’ve got some problems myself,’ he said.
Cara sneaked a look over at Chris who was carefully monitoring their conversation. She desperately wanted to touch Adam, to reassure him, but it was dangerous territory with so many people watching. He did look particularly careworn today. ‘Anything you want to talk about?’
Adam also checked to see if Chris was ear-wigging. He moved closer to her. Cara went very warm. He was giving off very strong chi. Very manly chi. Very yang chi. Cara licked her lips.
‘It’s Josh,’ he said, completely unaware of the effect his chi was having on her.
Until yesterday lunchtime, Cara had almost forgotten Adam had a son. He spoke very rarely about Josh, but she could tell they had a deep bond. It felt good that he had started to open up and talk to her about him. That was a positive sign, wasn’t it?
‘I’m going to fight for custody of him,’ he continued. ‘I just don’t think it would be a good idea if I had Emily staying at my flat. If my ex-wife found out, it is exactly the sort of thing she could use against me.’
Cara sighed.
‘You do understand?’ Adam said.
‘It would only be for a few days,’ Cara pleaded. ‘Until she can get herself sorted out.’
‘I would love to help,’ Adam said. ‘Really, I would. You know that. But I can’t risk it, Cara. I just can’t risk it.’
Cara folded her arms. ‘I don’t know what else to do.’
‘Something will come up,’ Adam said. ‘Besides, this story might run for a few more days and then it will be old news and Emily can start rebuilding her life.’ He looked at the picture of her friend on the front of the newspaper. ‘I feel as if I know her,’ he laughed.
‘You’ll have to come and meet her,’ Cara said. ‘When all this is over.’
‘I’d like to.’ Adam surreptitiously flicked his thumb towards Chris. ‘It would make someone very jealous.’
Cara snorted. ‘Emily is way out of Chris’s league. She’s lovely, Adam. You’d really like her. And she certainly doesn’t deserve all this.’
‘Well, I suppose she found out about her boyfriend’s true colours before it was too late.’
‘I think losing your home and your job could possibly be classified as being “too late”.’
‘Yeah,’ Adam said. ‘I take your point.’
‘Declan’s lovely too,’ Cara insisted. ‘He’s such a charmer. Fantastic-looking. But Emily was too soft with him. Declan needs someone strong to keep him in check. It’s a shame,’ Cara tutted. ‘He realises he’s made a mistake and he’s desperate to get back with Emily.’
‘If he’s so desperate to get her back, he’s the one who should be helping her,’ Adam advised.
‘Emily won’t let him near her,’ Cara said. ‘She won’t even talk to him.’
A little twinkle returned to Adam’s tired, red-rimmed eyes. ‘But that doesn’t mean you can’t.’
Cara let her mouth curl up into a slight smirk. ‘No, it doesn’t, does it?’ She jumped down from Adam’s desk. ‘I think I might just pay Declan O’Donnell a visit,’ she said.
‘What a fine idea, Ms Forbes,’ Adam said with a smile.
‘I have a very good adviser,’ Cara replied with a grin. ‘You know, Adam, if there’s anything I can do to help, you only have to ask. I mean it.’
‘Thanks. But I need to sort this out myself.’
‘Do you have any healing crystals in your flat?’
‘Er . . . no.’
‘They can be very helpful.’
‘Er . . . right,’ Adam said. ‘I’ll try to remember.’
Cara checked Chris again and he was still watching them intently. ‘I want to give you a big hug,’ she said softly to Adam.
Adam followed her gaze. ‘I don’t think this is the right time, do you?’
‘Maybe not,’ Cara said. But the time will come, she added to herself.
Chapter Thirty-Four
I have just discovered that HO-HO-HO means the same thing in about eighteen different languages.
Cara and I are sitting watching some sort of twenty-four-hour digital news channel. It is terrifying. Truly terrifying. They are showing clips from news programmes all around the globe and I’m staggered to see that my bottom is doing a world tour all by itself. There is a lovely blonde presenter behind a desk in the UK studio, recounting my story in suitably sombre tones and, I have to say, that again I’m coming out of this reasonably well – betrayed, if slightly bimbo-ish girlfriend and bastard boyfriend, etc. However, that doesn’t stop them from flashing my naughty bits all over the place.
I finally managed to speak to my parents today, who are denying all knowledge of me and are thinking of emigrating to New Zealand on the strength of this. I did consider going with them. They too have had a minor press posse camped on their doorstep. My mother has come over all peculiar and is convinced she’ll be excommunicated from the Bridge Club. I don’t think that’s a bad thing; if she’s at home every now and again it might force her to have a conversation with my father for the first time in twenty years. Anyway, it won’t matter if they’re going to live in New Zealand, will it? I didn’t, however, voice that opinion. Instead, I apologised for being the worst daughter in Christendom and for bringing shame on their household and slurring their good name. I also apologised for a lot of things I’m not responsible for too. I’m not going to ring them again for ages. If they want to know how I am, they’ll have to start buying the Daily Mail.
I pop up in Italy, my cheery picture lurking behind a tiny, immaculately groomed presenter and the majestic Coliseum. Why? Why on earth are they bothered about this? They have housewives stripping off on their telly all the time. One more isn’t going to make the slightest bit of difference. They don’t have a game show on that doesn’t feature some woman’s bare chest. I know this from a particularly rainy holiday Declan and I spent at Lake Garda. It was impossible to tell where the rain stopped and the lake started. We spent seven days cramped in the television lounge surrounded by damp Germans. Believe me, there was nothing else to do. I’ve never been back to Italy since.
‘This is dreadful,’ Cara says, helpfully echoing my own sentiments. ‘Really dreadful.’
I
think I’m well aware of that by now. I am trying to dull my pain through the vin-ordinaire route. Cara has lit some aromatherapy candles and is dropping Rescue Remedy down her throat like it’s going out of fashion.
‘You should take some of this, Emily,’ she says, waving the bottle at me.
‘I’m trying to give it up,’ I say, waving my own bottle on the way to filling my glass again.
My bottom pops up next to a small Japanese presenter. ‘This is unbearable.’
I close my eyes and when I open them again I’m in New York. Boy, do I get around. And that’s the general theme of the presenters – how easy it is to humiliate your girlfriend on a truly awesome scale without really trying. Such is the power of the worldwide web.
Declan always used to complain that his Internet service was too slow. I think slow is a relative concept these days. This is something that can enable you to send instantaneous email messages, very cheaply, to anywhere in the world. Tap a few keys, click a couple of buttons and – bang – they’re gone. Timbuktu, tropical rainforests, Totleigh Barton – there is nowhere out of its reach.
These days there are varying degrees of slowness. It all depends on your perspective. In the days of the stage-coach we used to think that one week was quick to deliver a letter. Actually, in these days of gross inefficiency in the post office, we still think that’s quick. I’ve had Christmas cards posted in Hampstead that have winged their way to my door three streets away via Timbuktu, tropical rainforests and Totleigh Barton.
Personally, I can’t believe how quickly I’m being whizzed round the world. To me, this feels as if it is spreading like wildfire. And I thought it was only good news that was supposed to travel fast.
‘You need to do something about your image, Emily,’ Cara says, pointing at me pouting on the screen. ‘They’re portraying you as a brainless harlot.’
Thank you, my friend.
She turns away from the television where I’m now Down Under. I don’t think my parents will manage to escape my notoriety even in the sleepy backwaters of New Zealand, which is only a hop, skip and a jump away from Australia. My mother will be dogged by her dodgy daughter in bridge clubs across the globe.
‘I think it’s your chest that does it,’ Cara continues in a considered manner. ‘No one is going to take you seriously while you have boobs the size of nuclear warheads.’ This is a dangerous conversation to be having with someone who has had rather a lot to drink. ‘Have you ever thought of having them surgically reduced?’
‘No,’ I say. But I do wonder whether it’s possible to get your friends surgically reduced.
‘They make you look like a pin-up, Emily.’
‘That’s obviously why Declan chose to parade them on the Internet.’
Cara points at the television where I’m now in France, juxtaposed against the lovely, slender Eiffel Tower. ‘Over ten million people have seen them already,’ she says.
‘What a comforting thought,’ I answer. ‘Thanks for that.’
‘I was only telling you.’
‘Well,’ I huff. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
‘You can’t get away from it, Emily. Big breasts make women look stupid. You become mere sex objects.’
I quite like being a sex object, but that’s not something I’m going to share with Cara. And I didn’t particularly want to share it with the rest of the Western world either.
‘Your stance on this wouldn’t be down to the fact that you’re a 32AA in a Wonderbra?’ I suggest. Cara is the only thirty-two-year-old woman I know who doesn’t confine her sock-wearing to her feet.
‘Flat chests are making a comeback,’ my friend informs me through pursed lips.
‘Yeah? And so are Showaddywaddy.’
‘Big chest and blonde hair, Emily. Recipe for disaster,’ she says sagely. ‘You’ll be recognised wherever you go.’
The news moves off my bottom and onto slightly more weighty subjects – earthquakes in Pakistan, world famine, the destruction of the ozone layer, the relentless spread of terrorism. That sort of thing.
But Cara is right for once: I do need to do something about my image. Certainly in the short-term. If I want to shop in Sainsburys with a degree of anonymity I need to get a disguise. I don’t want to be recognised on every checkout across the land while I’m out buying my Pot Noodles.
‘Have you got any hair dye?’ I ask, putting my wine to one side. I’m in a decisive mood.
Cara flicks the television off. ‘Probably.’
‘Come and dye my hair for me,’ I say.
‘Can’t.’ Cara twiddles her dreadlocks. ‘I’m going out.’
‘Where?’
‘I’m meeting a friend for a drink.’
I grin. ‘Not the lovely Adam?’
‘No, unfortunately.’ Cara sighs. ‘The lovely Adam is playing hard to get.’
‘You need to up your chanting a bit,’ I say.
‘I think so,’ she nods earnestly.
Sometimes I could strangle my best friend.
‘Can I come with you?’ I’m getting very bored with being a recluse. I don’t know how Howard Hughes coped.
‘How can you, Emily?’ she says. ‘I’m going to have to run the gauntlet of the world’s press.’
It’s very easy to forget that you have twenty-seven journalists sitting on your front lawn when you really try.
‘I feel so trapped,’ I whine.
‘Remember, Emily, staying in is the new going out,’ Cara says.
Which is a very hip thing for her to say even though it’s bollocks. Still, I suppose it makes a change from her talking about tofu.
‘I won’t be long,’ she promises and I suddenly realise that she is looking a bit spangly for a night sitting in watching telly.
‘OK,’ I say and it’s very hard not to let my lip tremble. I feel so very alone. One minute I think I’m coping quite well with all this and the next it hits me like a tsunami wave, threatening to leave me drowned, battered and beached.
‘You’ll be all right,’ Cara says.
‘Yes.’ I nod too vigorously. ‘I’ll be fine.’ And as she leaves, bracing herself for the renewed interest of the waiting press, I put my wine bottle to one side and decide that I’m not going to drink any more. Because – and I know I’m mad – what I actually want to do more than anything in the world at this moment is to ring Declan.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Declan was already sitting waiting in the wine bar when Cara arrived. They had decided to meet up in the West End, which smacked a bit of subterfuge, but Cara wasn’t sure whether she would be followed by one of the journalists. And anyway, it was subterfuge. After all, she was meeting Emily’s boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, behind her back and she felt very underhand. She comforted herself with the thought that it was for Emily’s own good.
Cara dodged backwards and forwards on the crowded evening Tube, doubling back on herself just to make sure she wasn’t being followed. Which was probably a bit over the top, but then real life was sort of suspended at the moment. She and Declan had arranged to meet in The Place and it was already crowded. It was always crowded. The Place was one of those wine bars where everyone wanted to go and then when it was too packed and popular because it was ‘the place’ to go, no one wanted to go there any more because it was too busy. And now it was chock-full of people who wished they’d been here when it was ‘the place’ to go. Cara shook her hair and pushed her way through the squash of bodies towards Declan.
He was looking very debonair in a Ralph Lauren shirt and chinos. It was nice to be seen with someone handsome and smart, Cara decided. She’d never had a trendy boyfriend. The last three partners she had endured had been out of the Eco-Warrior mould and there were only so many places that you could go with someone whose dress sense was modelled on Swampy. Consequently, she had never been here when it was ‘the place’ to go. And, to her surprise, she wished that she had – although being trendy seemed to involve not much more than lots of chrome fitti
ngs, wooden flooring and doubling the drinks prices. She wondered if the wooden floors all came from sustainable forests. Perhaps she was at that age where it was no longer suitable to be going out with unwashed men and hanging out in brown-painted folk clubs in the back streets of Kilburn. While it was nice to date someone who cared deeply about the planet, it would also be nice if they cared deeply about her, too. It was high time to address her own requirements in a man. It might be a little late to be considered a trendsetter, but Cara was definitely feeling upwardly mobile. And Adam certainly seemed to be a step in the right direction.
As Cara headed towards the table, she noticed that Declan was trying very hard to look languid. He was draped aesthetically across a black velvet armchair, but he was tapping his foot impatiently and drummed his bottle of beer on the table. Declan could also do with a good dose of Rescue Remedy, Cara thought. The boy was a complete bag of nerves.
Declan stood up as he saw her approach. ‘Thank God you’re here,’ he said.
‘Declan.’ Cara kissed both of his cheeks and she shook her coat off as they sat down again.
‘I took the liberty,’ he said and indicated a bottle of chilled white wine and two glasses. ‘It’s always so crowded in here.’
Cara was about to launch into her monologue about it no longer being ‘the place’ to go, but thought better of it. Declan looked in no mood to indulge in small talk.
‘I am out of my head with worry,’ he said as he downed the remains of his beer and poured out two rather large glasses of wine. And she had to admit that his normally hollow cheeks had taken on a downright gaunt look.
‘You are?’ Cara said. ‘Have you got an army of reporters following your every move? Are they camped outside your house?’
Declan shook his head.