James heads off in the direction of the bathroom.
‘Will you call me again?’ I ask Nathan hopefully.
‘Definitely. Next time I think of a joke. And you can always call me. Although I’ve only got a mobile at the moment so it’s not the cheapest.’
‘Shit, have you been talking to me all this time on your mobile?’ I gasp.
He laughs. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
We ring off and I’m so ecstatic I can hardly contain myself. When James wanders back through with a towel wrapped around his waist a few minutes later, I have a big grin on my face.
‘How was your night?’ I ask him merrily.
‘Good, thanks,’ he replies, still freaked out by my good mood. He comes over and gives me a kiss on the top of my head. ‘I’m just going to get dressed,’ he says.
I sit there for a moment looking down at the receiver.
‘Who was that?’ James asks, when he reappears a few minutes later.
‘Sam’s younger brother, Nathan,’ I tell him truthfully, but slip the ‘younger’ in so it seems less threatening.
‘Oh, I didn’t know he had a brother,’ he responds.
‘Yeah.’ I hand him the wedding photos. He flicks through the first two, quickly, then pauses on the one of the wedding party.
‘That’s him there.’ I point.
‘You’d think he could brush his hair.’ He grins. I poke him in the ribs, good-humouredly.
‘Give ’em here.’
James hands the pictures over.
‘Want to hear a joke?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, okay.’
I tell him the nun joke.
‘I don’t get it,’ he says.
‘You know, “show him your cross”…your Jesus cross, and the other one takes it to mean “show him you’re mad”…’
James shrugs his shoulders at me.
‘Never mind.’
It’s a Saturday evening a couple of weeks later and I’m meeting Karen and Reena outside Strada in Piccadilly. James has gone to Henley on his own. He seemed fine about it.
‘I’m so glad you could come.’ Reena gives me a big hug. ‘You look gorgeous,’ she says, pulling away.
‘So do you!’ I exclaim. She’s dazzling anyway. Her parents are from Bombay (well, Mumbai, now) but she grew up in Buckinghamshire. She has the smoothest caramel-coloured skin, dead-straight dark chin-length hair and her eyes are a striking green. Everywhere we go, men–and women–stare at her. Karen and I always told her she should be a model in her spare time but she wanted to concentrate on her studies. She’s a doctor now. Beautiful and smart. I would be jealous if she wasn’t so bloody nice. It’s so good to see her again.
We go inside, take a seat and have a quick catch up about life, love and work, until, ten minutes later, Karen arrives in a flurry of perfume and shopping bags.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ she says, in her broad Yorkshire accent. She’s from Hull, up north. ‘I just couldn’t resist,’ she says, plonking bags from French Connection, Oasis and Zara down at our feet. Then she leans in and gives us both big kisses, making loud smacking noises as she pulls away.
Karen was always the boisterous one in our group and it used to drive us nuts when we’d go out to a quiet restaurant only to have her draw attention to us with her deafening voice. But now it just makes us smile.
‘How are you?’ Karen asks as she pulls up a chair. ‘No, I’ll just nick some of their rosé, thank you,’ she says to the hovering waiter. ‘Is that alright?’ She turns back to Reena and me.
‘Of course,’ we both insist. Karen grabs the bottle and pours wine into her waiting glass and then tops up both of ours. ‘Let’s order olives!’ she says, suddenly.
‘Go for it.’ I laugh. She’ll come back to us in a minute. She’s always like this; can rarely concentrate on anything for more than a few seconds.
‘How’s Paul?’
Paul is Reena’s boyfriend. He’s also a doctor.
‘Good, thanks,’ Reena answers. ‘Busy.’
‘Well, he bloody would be, being a doctor.’ Karen laughs. ‘And what about the gorgeous James?’ She turns her attention to me.
‘He’s cool.’
‘How’s his work?’
‘Busy too.’
‘You girls and your busy men…Thank goodness Alan is a builder. Nine to five! Always got my man at home.’
Karen is a hairdresser in Greenwich, south London, ten minutes’ drive away from where she and Alan live in Charlton. She and I did media studies together, until she decided it wasn’t for her and retrained as a hairdresser.
‘I like your new hairdo…’ I always feel obliged to say it, although actually I’m not overly keen on this one. She’s dyed it the blackest black and has spiky hot-pink highlights sprouting out everywhere. But it doesn’t matter if I like it or not; if her past behaviour is anything to go by she’ll change it in a matter of weeks. And she wouldn’t give a crap what I thought anyway. What it must be like to have her confidence…
After the musical, our voices hoarse from singing along, we head for a quick drink in a nearby pub. Karen goes to the bar while Reena and I spot a couple of people leaving a table.
‘That was brilliant, wasn’t it?’ Reena says.
‘We should go to Dirty Dancing next!’ I suggest.
‘Yes! Why don’t we?’
Karen comes over to the table with three vodka-lemonade-and-limes. ‘Do you fancy coming to see Dirty Dancing?’ I ask her.
‘God yeah!’ she exclaims. ‘Really? After all this bloody time trying to pin you down, are we really going to get another date in the diary?’
I look at her, a little taken aback. I know she doesn’t mean anything malicious by it, but it still hurts a bit.
‘Yes,’ I say, meekly.
‘Well, that would be bloody brilliant.’ She grins, and Reena smiles too, a tad embarrassed on my behalf.
Karen has a point. These two catch up with each other practically every month and I’m usually snowed under with work or with James. He tends to socialise at City bars with his colleagues during the week while I’m out at launches or wining and dining clients, and occasionally we go out for dinner or clubbing with his mates from work on Saturday nights. But I’m never that comfortable around guys like Edward or Jeremy. Although Edward doesn’t say an awful lot, he always makes me feel like he’s judging me with his dark eyes and humourless face, and Jeremy, well, Jeremy is just a slimy git. They don’t feel like my friends, and they’re not: they’re James’s.
I decide right there and then that I’m going to insist that James and I make an effort to go out with Reena, Karen and their boyfriends next time they’re planning a big night out.
It’s good to see them again. I don’t have many friends in the UK, after coming here at the age of sixteen. I didn’t really bond with anyone at college in Somerset, where I did my A Levels, so Reena and Karen are my closest friends here. I think of Gemma and Chloe again and remember what fun Chloe and I had in Milan. I am definitely, definitely going to go out with those two next Friday after work.
Chapter 16
‘Hang on, hang on, I’ve got one for you. How many mice does it take to screw in a light bulb? Two. The hard part is getting them in the light bulb.’ I hear Nathan chuckle at my joke. We’ve been on the phone for twenty minutes. I’m in the bedroom because James is in the living room, watching the cricket. The rugby and football season is over and now we’re onto tennis and cricket. Whoopie-doo.
To say I’ve been preoccupied wondering when Nathan would call me again is an understatement. I totally forgot to ask him for his mobile number when he rang me the first time so it was a huge relief to hear his voice when I picked up the phone this morning. It’s Saturday evening in Australia and he’s at home–the renovations are finished now, and he’s had a few estate agents in to value the house today. He’ll be sad to leave it, he says, but he’s already put an offer in on the next one, a couple of streets away.
It’s the we
ekend after my theatre trip and Nathan is pleased to hear I went.
‘Did your boyfriend go to Henley with Edward and whatsher-name?’ he asks.
‘Susannah? Yes.’
James came home late on Sunday afternoon, looking tired and hung-over. They’d all been up drinking red wine until the early hours.
‘Give me your number this time,’ I say after a while.
‘Shit, sorry, we forgot last time,’ Nathan says.
‘I know. I’m glad you called again. Where did you get my home number, by the way?’
‘Molly’s address book again. It’s handy that, I now have a plumber, an electrician and a hairdresser!’
I laugh. ‘You’re not going to cut your hair too much, are you?’
‘Nah. But it does need a trim now that Amy’s off the scene. She used to cut it for me,’ he explains, and my heart sinks slightly. I do still wonder what went on between them. Was it more or less than either of them made out? Not that it’s relevant anymore, apart from satisfying my warped curiosity.
‘Does Molly know you’ve called me?’ I ask.
‘Nah, she’d only give me stick.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Well, don’t you?’ He turns the tables.
‘Erm, maybe. I don’t know.’ I didn’t mention it either when I called her a couple of weeks ago to thank her for the photos.
‘So,’ he says, breaking the slightly uncomfortable silence, ‘do you have a pen handy?’
‘Was that that bloke again?’ James asks, when I walk back into the living room.
‘Sam’s brother? Yes.’
‘That’s a bit odd, isn’t it? Him calling you all the time?’
‘It’s hardly all the time,’ I retort. ‘He’s only called me once before. And anyway, he’s a friend.’
‘I thought Sam and Molly were your friends,’ he grumbles.
‘They are,’ I say firmly. ‘But they’ve just got married and they’re bound to be more caught up with each other. Besides now I’m friends with Nathan too. Do you want a cup of tea?’ I head into the kitchen.
‘Er, no, thanks. I think I’ll have a beer in a minute.’
It’s only 11.30 in the morning. I switch the kettle on and take down a mug, smiling as I make tea Nathan’s way.
I’m thrilled that we’re back in touch, but waiting for his call over the last three weeks has been driving me stir-crazy. I almost cracked and rang Molly to get his number last Sunday, but managed to control myself.
I hate to admit it to myself but, deep down, I know this thing with Nathan is going to kill me all over again.
‘So tell me more about this holiday, then?’
James has booked five days off to go to Malaga in Spain with a bunch of friends from work and is flying out next Friday–back Sunday night, just over a week later.
‘You know I want you to come too,’ he’s saying.
‘How can I?’ I frown. ‘Mandy won’t give me a week off at the drop of a hat. And we’ve got the Luigi bar launch on Friday.’
‘Shit, that totally slipped my mind.’
‘I thought you were going to come with me?’ My tone is sulky.
‘Lucy, sorry, I was, but this is just too good an opportunity to pass up. You know I haven’t been on holiday for ages and Jeremy’s got this flash pad through one of his clients so it just works out. Come down for a long weekend,’ he suggests.
‘Alright, I’ll ask Mandy on Monday. I just don’t understand, though, how you managed to get a week off like this at the last minute when you couldn’t even come to Sam and Molly’s wedding, with several months’ notice.’
‘Lucy,’ he turns to me, infuriated, ‘you know that was because I’d just been promoted. Don’t you think I work hard enough that I deserve a holiday?’
‘Of course you do.’ I relax slightly.
‘And I’d really like you to come,’ he says, looking at me sincerely with his deep blue eyes.
‘Okay.’ I smile. ‘I’ll try.’
‘I’ll look on the internet this afternoon and see what flights are available. Then at least you’ll have an idea.’
‘Okay, that’d be good.’
Eugh. I go through to the bedroom and start sorting through laundry. So much for me insisting we go out with my friends. Now, here I am, agreeing to spend a whole weekend with James’s work colleagues. But weighing up the crappy company against the prospect of a weekend in the sun with my boyfriend, plus there’s the free accommodation to consider…I may as well.
Who did he say was going? Edward and Snooty Susannah, Jeremy and his latest shag. James also mentioned another couple of guys who he thinks I might’ve met before. The names Terence and Hector ring a bell but I can’t put faces to them. And another girl from work called Zoe.
‘Isn’t Zoe the girl I met at your Christmas party?’ I ask, coming back through to the living room.
‘Jeez, you’ve got a good memory.’ He looks impressed.
Well, I can also remember wondering if it was she who sent the text.
‘What?’ he asks, seeing my unamused expression.
‘Nothing,’ I tell him.
‘Don’t worry, she’s got a boyfriend.’ He grins. ‘Come here, baby. You’re such a funny thing!’
I’m walking to work every day at the moment. The rhododendrons in Dorset Square are blooming with pinks and purples and the wisteria hanging out at the front of our building is bursting with colour. The trees are full of new green leaves and the warm smell of freshly mown grass in London’s many squares screams out summer. In contrast, the tubes are so hot and stuffy that I barely take them anymore and the exercise is doing wonders for my thighs. The only thing missing from my journey is Nathan’s tape. James still doesn’t know about it and he’d definitely suspect something was up if he found it. Of course, I could download all of Nathan’s songs from iTunes and put them on my iPod but it just wouldn’t be the same.
It’s Friday, the night of the Luigi launch, and the office is buzzing when I arrive.
‘They don’t do bar reviews!’ Gemma is berating the workie.
‘Who doesn’t do bar reviews?’ I ask. I assume our workie–Kelly–has been doing the ring-round of journalists to see who’s coming to the party and has mistakenly rung someone inappropriate.
‘heat magazine,’ Gemma answers.
Journalists hate it when you ring up and try to PR something that has nothing to do with their publication. Sod ’em. We can’t read everything, especially not the poor workie who’s putting in enough hours for free as it is.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry,’ I say, trying to reassure her. ‘As long as someone from Girls Aloud falls over drunk or Paris flashes her knickers, we should still make “Week In Pictures”.’
I’ve just come from a morning meeting with the clients at the venue. It’s almost ready–they’re adding the finishing touches. They went for ‘The White Lounge’ as the name in the end, which I don’t mind. Design-wise, they’ve gone for the polar opposite to the bar in Milan. This one is all white: white velvet booths, white tables, white and silver bar…In fact, it reminds me of the ice bar in Sydney. It looks spectacular but I wonder how long it will be before someone spills red wine over the seats. Oh, well, their problem, not mine anymore.
Eliza is just as Chloe and I had imagined her: aloof, bitchy and very up herself. Her husband, Gian, is as lecherous as ever. The only time he keeps his hands to himself is when his wife’s around. And that isn’t very often, so it’s a lose-lose situation as far as we’re concerned. But she’ll be there tonight. She always turns up when the snappers are out.
Even Kelly is coming tonight and she’s beside herself with excitement. At first Mandy didn’t want anyone with spiky purple hair and a nose stud representing her company, but I managed to persuade her. I gave Kelly James’s ticket because he flies out to Spain this evening.
He managed to find me a flight at two o’clock tomorrow. I’m returning on Monday night as I don’t want to push my luck with Man
dy at this late notice. I still have my bonus to consider.
We finish work early so we have time to get ready. I have to be there at five o’clock to oversee the guest list. We’ve called all the picture agencies, we have a host of photographers coming to the venue and we’ve rolled out white carpet for the stars to walk down. Thank goodness it’s not raining, otherwise it’d be grey within minutes. Chloe and I managed to persuade Gian to make vodka sour alla maracuja the cocktail of the night. We have to be on our best behaviour until 9 p.m. and after that we’re allowed to let our hair down.
Apart from Gemma throwing up in the toilets at midnight and Chloe and me having to call her boyfriend to get him to come and collect her, the party goes off without a hitch. Seventy-five per cent of the celebrities that we’d invited turn up, which is a good success rate. The Beckhams don’t deign to join us, probably because Gian slagged David off recently and said he was more famous for his haircuts than his football. He’s just jealous because Becks is better paid. And better looking.
I’m on top of the world, until I wake up the next morning with the mother of all hangovers. I meant to pack on Thursday night, really I did, but I thought I’d have enough time this morning. I climb gingerly out of bed and swallow Ibuprofen for my stonking headache.
The plane eventually departs around three hours late so by the time I arrive in Malaga it’s after nine o’clock with the time difference. James texts to say they’re already down the main street, five minutes’ walk from the villa. They’ll be pissed by the time I get there, I bet, and I’m going to feel really out of it. The last thing I want to do right now is drink. I’m tempted to go to the villa and sleep. I text him back to ask him to meet me there in half an hour, which is how long my journey will take, according to the taxi driver.
He’s not there when I arrive so I sit on the steps by the gate and wait for him. Five minutes later, I text him again.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he calls, as he runs up the path. He grabs me by the hand and leads the way into the villa and through to our bedroom. The living room is littered with empty beer cans and fag ends.