For Once In My Life: An absolutely perfect laugh-out-loud romantic comedy

by Colleen Coleman

  Denise winks at me. ‘Good to see you back, Lily.’

  ‘Good to be back,’ I reply and realise that it does feel good. After everything over the last three years – the wedding, work, my mother – it feels like things are finally beginning to settle down into normality, and it does feel good to be out of the house and out of my pyjamas on a Friday night. I pay for the round and carry the tray over to the table.

  ‘Yay! Make way! Here she comes, bearing gifts!’ Jasmine smiles at me brightly, shoving strangers out my way and jumping up to dole out the drinks. ‘Large Chardonnay! For you, Amy?’ she asks.

  Amy, a new reporter who has just been with us a few weeks, downs the rest of her current Chardonnay and wipes her hand across her mouth, smearing her bright coral lipstick. ‘Oh, yes please. Cheers, much appreciated!’

  I’ve only ever came across Amy in the loo where she reapplies her make-up on the hour. But I’ve never heard her speak or smile like she is doing now. We wave our hellos and she returns giddily to her conversation.

  ‘Nice cold pint bottle of cider? Any takers?’ Jasmine offers.

  A short guy with red hair, one of the ad-men, raises a finger. ‘Guilty as charged,’ he reaches over to take his drink and thanks me. ‘Already feeling like a cloud has lifted, wouldn’t you say?’ he grins.

  We exchange pleasantries and I tell him how happy I am that everyone made it tonight, how pleased I am that we’re going to get a chance to show what we can do. I say ‘pleased’, I mean relieved.

  I turn to find Mark and hand him his beer.

  ‘Thanks for this, Lily. And for your speech earlier. Gave me some food for thought. I just want you to know that you can count on me. I’ll do whatever I can to help the paper back on its feet. Just one word of warning.’

  ‘Yes?’ I ask warily. I don’t like the sound of ‘words of warning’ and I can feel my stomach clench with dread at whatever he’s going to tell me next.

  ‘Watch out for that “transformational consultant”. I did a bit of ringing around. He’s a completely different league; nominated for a Global Innovators award, just finished his MBA. Anyone selected for that leadership programme is there because they’re ruthlessly ambitious. You don’t slave away for sixteen hours a day to win friends and look out for the team. So, all I’m saying is watch your back. He’s here for one reason only – to make himself look good for McArthur.’

  I raise my glass to my lips, unsure of what to say to that. Should I be thankful that Mark is giving me some insider info? Or has he got a chip on his shoulder about Christopher and all that he’s achieved so far? I want to shake my head and tell Mark that I don’t think this tallies up. That the man I met this morning has been nothing but kind and passionate. But then again, I thought Adam loved me and that Hannah would be my best friend forever. So maybe I’m not the most perceptive on this kind of thing. Maybe Christopher does have a ruthless side. Maybe he has completely dazzled me with his charm and brilliance and I’ve had the wool completely, and willingly, pulled over my eyes?

  But for now, I’ve got a job to do. And that’s deliver drinks to my thirsty team.

  ‘Rusty Nail?’ I call out. ‘Scotch and something?’

  A hand breaks through the mob and I weave my way towards Dylan the IT technician. He’s the one with the long, skinny ponytail and colourful Japanese tattoos that begin at his jawline and cover every inch of his exposed flesh. Another colleague I’ve never really got a chance to speak to before, he’s usually head down with huge headphones on, but now he smiles at me and I see his small, pointy teeth for the first time. He offers me his seat, which I accept gratefully, and I dish out the rest of the drinks to more smiling, thirsty recipients and finally take a big glug of my own.

  And it goes down a treat.

  * * *

  ‘Last orders! Ladies and gents, last orders before midnight please!’

  I can hardly believe it when Denise the barmaid rings her bell. I guess it means I’ve not stopped drinking and giggling for nearly three hours. It turns out that Jasmine and Dylan are a couple, due to get married in just a few months, so there’s no way they wanted the paper to fold, not only because they need every penny but because they met by the Gazette water cooler a year ago when Jasmine started temping and they’ve have been together ever since. Mark is in the process of building his own house, so he also needs the paper to stay afloat to make sure it reaches completion. Amy worked for another regional paper, The South-Eastern Star which collapsed last year, making her unemployed for six months and meant she had to move 300 kilometres away from friends and family to start afresh at the Newbridge Gazette, so the last thing she wants is to do that all over again. The South-Eastern Star was a great paper with first-class reporting. I bet Amy has a lot more potential than Gareth gave her credit for. Maybe we have more in common than I gave her credit for. It seems like the shiftiness I interpreted as apathy was good old-fashioned terror of the unknown.

  Well, we’re all in the same boat there. My last few attempts at change and adventure backfired spectacularly, so I’m not interested in life outside of this little paper in this little town and I don’t want to make myself vulnerable to the whims and decisions of others, because that’s where you get hurt. When you take risks on other people, on other places, you lose control of what you want your life to be like. Then people don’t stick to their promises and they chop and change and crush your dreams and you are left completely alone and exposed. And devastated. Like someone has bombed out your heart and all you can do is riffle around in the smoke and rubble, trying to find a way to piece it all back. So, my intention now is to stay put, to stay safe and to stay here in my bombproof bubble of Newbridge, in my cosy little cottage by night and at my Gazette desk with the plastic plant by day.

  We raise our glasses into the air and toast our new chapter… which will begin bright and early on Monday. But for now, we’re here, so I make an executive decision that we have one last drink for the road. I swipe a handful of pork scratchings from Mark’s open packet and dash up to the bar to conclude an absolutely belting staff night out.

  ‘Same again!’ I holler over to Denise. ‘And throw in five packets of crisps please!’

  She gives me the thumbs up and starts pouring. ‘Just made it in time there, Lily, cut it very fine indeed.’

  I look up to the clock just as it strikes midnight. I laugh and squeeze in beside the seated drinker at the bar.

  ‘Tell your mum we said hi! I got her last album – best one yet.’

  ‘Thanks, Denise, I haven’t seen her in ages, not since my granny’s funeral in fact, so last summer? But I’ll pass on your kind words over the phone, she calls at least once a month.’

  ‘Just once a month? My mum calls me ten times a day!’

  I’m kind of stumped; I don’t really know what say to this, so all I can do is offer a shrug. The truth is, since my granny died, my mum has called even less than before. Sometimes she just sends me a photo: a new city skyline, a screenshot of a great review, a glass of wine at the end of a long gig.

  ‘Of course, it’s different when your mum is a big singing sensation right? Touring and late-night shows, and the US time difference. I guess it’s easy to lose touch.’

  I nod, rearranging the drinks on the tray. ‘Well, I’ll save up your lovely compliment and pass it on to her the next time she’s having a bad day. It’ll really cheer her up to hear you liked her new stuff. You know what she’s like.’

  Denise rolls her eyes knowingly. ‘One crazy diamond,’ she says, and I laugh out loud. Denise is used to my mum’s backstage diva antics. Change the seating, dim the lighting, the sound’s not good enough, the temperature is too hot, the wine is too warm, the mirror in the toilet makes me look old…

  And then I stop laughing. Because there are a pair of olive green eyes staring straight into mine. And a mess of dark hair. And two soft parting pink lips with an incredulous half-smile.

  I lean in closer, squinting as the light seems to dart and
dance in my blurred, wine-riddled vision.

  Uh. Oh.

  It’s him.

  It’s definitely him.

  It’s Christopher, sat right up at the bar. All by himself. Pen in hand, working on something…

  ‘Hey, it’s you. I wasn’t expecting to see you in here,’ he says, smiling and swinging around to face me.

  My hands fly to my mouth, and in doing so I knock over Dylan’s Rusty Nail, the Scotch and Drambuie drenching the bar and seeping into the open notebook Christopher has in front of him, and now spilling on to his trousers.

  ‘Oh my God,’ is all I can say… along with I’m sorry over and over.

  He jumps up from his seat and lifts the Scotch-soaked notebook into the air.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry. Denise! Towel please!’ I can’t believe this has happened, my worst nightmare realised. To be half-drunk and clumsy and smelling of deep-fried pork product in front of my new colleague, manager, consultant… bloody green-eyed MBA global award nominated, ruthlessly ambitious transformational consultant Christopher! The one who holds the future of the Newbridge Gazette and my career in his hands.

  I feel tears surface. I know the options: fight, flight or freeze. I always freeze. Sometimes I freeze and lose the power of speech. Other times I freeze and scream. Also, I’ve covered freeze and cry, freeze and beg rescue. This is freeze and gape soundlessly. But my mouth keeps opening and closing, goldfish style. Mute and slack-jawed, I nod and wipe my hands down my face.

  Denise slides me the tray of drinks, including a fresh Rusty Nail, across the counter, and I throw her a twenty quid note with instructions to keep the change.

  ‘I better go,’ I say. ‘Think I’ve disrupted you enough…’

  Christopher tilts his head. ‘Seriously, it’s nothing, I’ve already wiped it from my memory.’

  That’s kind of him to say but I doubt it very much. So much for keeping up appearances. I tried my hardest in that office today to look competent and credible only to undo it all with some drunken spillage. Great.

  Up until five minutes ago, I was actually thinking I could do this. That I could be a boss and motivate a team. That I could make a go of this second chance we’ve been given. But I haven’t even written one word and I’ve already screwed up. No wonder Christopher is an up-and-coming fast-track leader. He’s working on a Friday night, coming up with new ideas. Ideas I should be coming up with. And then he finds me in here, shouting for last orders like a fishwife, only to then stumble over him and drench his work in booze. Brilliant impression I must have made on him. I can imagine what McArthur and Jennings are going to say when he tells them first thing Monday morning.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Christopher asks me, this time the half-smile gone from his lips and genuine, tender concern on his face.

  I nod, arms pinned stiff at my sides, unmoving like a mannequin’s. Am I okay? I am mortified.

  I look to his notebook. ‘I’m so sorry! This couldn’t be more awful. I know what you must be thinking, what a complete mess I am…’

  He puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘Whoa! Slow down, it’s fine! Really! I was in having a few drinks myself – it’s Friday night, you’re having a drink like ninety-five per cent of the world, no big deal. Actually, I’m really pleased. When I heard I was coming to Newbridge, well, I had to look it up, never heard of the place in my life. I admit, I didn’t expect much. But this place is fantastic; the atmosphere, the music, this local beer is incredible… Is it like this all the time?’

  I search his face for traces of sarcasm but I can’t find any. He’s sincere this guy, I can sense it despite what Mark said earlier. Of course, my judgement could be a little clouded. But right now, it’s what I want to believe. This is a fresh start after all.

  I nod. ‘Weekends always, but it’s even busier when the festival is on. Can’t get in the door in here, never mind a get a seat.’ I pause as I take sight of his sodden notebook once again. It’s ruined. Not only the notebook but all the pages and pages of handwriting in there. What if they were really important ideas? Or passwords? What if they can’t be recovered or replicated? I know how devastated I’d be if I lost loads of precious work this way.

  ‘I feel terrible about your notebook. Really I do, I can’t apologise enough…’

  He lifts it up and shakes it slightly. It’s soaked through, and just as I suspected his handwritten notes are now blurry with Scotch. ‘Just a jot pad, no problem. I was just scribbling down bucket list ideas actually. Trying to come up with something inspired that would impress Mags and the readers… and you, of course.’

  ‘Impress me?’

  ‘Well, you’re the one who has to go through with it.’

  I press my fingers into my temples. Maybe he doesn’t think I’m as drunk as I think I am? Or maybe I’m not that drunk? No, I am that drunk. Unless, do pork scratchings absorb all the alcohol from your bloodstream? Or maybe Christopher really doesn’t care about my current level of intoxication and can’t help himself yabbering on about our new project?

  I shift my weight on to my left leg and squint sideways at this really handsome, really smart, really well-spoken guy in front of me who wants to talk about work on a Friday night with his half-cut editor. This is definitely the alcohol clouding my judgement. I think of Mark’s warning. Maybe he’s tricking me? Getting me to trust him? Can consultants be really gorgeous, nice guys or is that naïvety on my part? Professional and romantic naïvety. Wine-thoughts. I’m definitely having rambling wine thoughts, believing someone like him could be… Never mind.

  I blink several times to try and snap myself out of whatever ball pit of stupid ideas I’m swimming around in. Getting hopes up that are never to be raised again. Because… well, I don’t want to think of that right now. Rules are made for good reason. Workmates are out of bounds. I think so and McArthur thinks so. And what about that angry blonde who was arguing with Christopher in the car park? McArthur said that those antics belonged in the bedroom not the boardroom, surely that must mean they were – are? – involved? One thing is for certain, McArthur wasn’t one bit impressed. Maybe that’s why she gave him such a severe dressing-down when he did arrive? Calling him geeky and tardy and in need of transformation himself? I mean, that’s so harsh! It all feels too complicated and mysterious and speculative. And all of that spells trouble. Spells heart-grenade.

  I take a deep breath and straighten up. I don’t want to think of anything right now other than getting out of this conversation with a shred of integrity.

  ‘Take a look yourself if you don’t believe me.’ Christopher hands me the soggy paper and I squint to make out the blurred words numbered down the page.

  Life-changing adventures, Travel, Charity, Sports, Cultural, Culinary, Before your next birthday, Before you get married, Before you die, Unique ideas, Awesome ideas, Most popular ideas…

  He leans over my shoulder and trails a finger down the list. ‘Trust me, it’s not the Scotch, my handwriting is illegible at the best of times. So, from what we’ve we got here, I’ve researched them all to find stuff that is affordable, accessible and practically possible to achieve this week.’

  This is too good to be true. Where’s the catch?

  ‘So no budget for diving in the Great Barrier Reef, I’m afraid… but skydiving we can do,’ he tells me, grinning.

  Right, there’s the catch.

  I shake my head. ‘No, skydiving we cannot do.’

  There is no way I can hurl myself to death fully conscious. Even if I wanted to, my body would seize up and I’d freeze and I’d just stay stiff and shivery and immobile until everyone got bored, gave up and started thanking me for wasting their time while the plane started its descent.

  ‘No, no, no,’ I say, wagging my finger. ‘That can’t happen.’

  ‘Oh yes it can, I checked online, there’s a place just half an hour from here, the Skyfall Centre. It’ll be a tandem jump, so you’ll be attached to a qualified instructor, a quick and easy introduction to free fall. We can
get you up and down and back to your desk to write your feature all in a few hours.’

  So he was just trying to soften me up after all, letting me believe that he was ordinary and real and down-to-earth and one of us, but really, he wants me to throw myself face first out of a plane, so he can show McArthur how much of a great leader he is.

  ‘Ah!’ he flashes me a smile and picks up a sticky pen and scribbles something completely illegible on the soggy notepad. ‘Just had an idea! How about we make it a sponsored event to show some goodwill and raise cash and awareness for a local charity – that’s a good thing to do and will help us engage some of that twenty-two per cent – let them know the Newbridge Gazette is back with a vengeance, what do you think?’

  ‘I love the charity idea but not the crashing to my death idea. Sorry, Christopher, it’s too much. And as much as I love my job, I can’t will myself to do that. I’m afraid of heights. And I’m afraid of falling. And I’m also really afraid of dying and what you’re suggesting covers all three of those, so skydiving is out for me. Back to the drawing board.’

  He squints back at his notebook, trying to read the smudgy writing.

  ‘Have you any other ideas in there?’ I ask him, gesturing vaguely.

  ‘We get new jobs.’

  I dart him a look and a smile breaks his lips.

  ‘I am joking!’ He twirls his pen in between his fingers and then pats his notebook. ‘Limitless ideas in here. I’ll keep scribbling away and I’ll be back to you Monday and I promise we’ll find something, hopefully something, that not only you want to do but sets your heart on fire, something really exciting.’