by Shari Low
‘I’m almost finished,’ I blurted, before reason and fact had a chance to catch up with the whopping great big fib.
‘You’re only at number eight–two-thirds of the way through, Leni, and it’s not good enough. I need those results and I need them soon. There is such a thing as a deadline, you know, and it’s the thirty-first of May–that’s less than two weeks from now. And let me tell you, lady–if all twelve reports are not on my desk on that date then I’ll be reclaiming every single bonus I’ve ever paid you.’
My back was against the wall. I was like a wild animal cornered by a lethal predator in a tie-dyed kaftan and flip-flops. Think. Think. Think. Lie.
‘Actually, I’m much further ahead than that. I had a date last night with a…’
What was Ben? What was Ben? Mind blank, mind blank! Then…of course! His birthday was 29 September, three weeks before mine, but we shared the same star sign! Shame that was the only bloody thing we had in common.
‘Libra!’ I blurted. ‘And I’ve also already arranged to meet up with a–’
It was time to call on every ounce of resourcefulness, strategic brilliance and downright duplicity that I possessed–otherwise known as grasping at straws and being severely economical with the facts. Stu–what sign was Stu?
‘Taurus! I’m seeing a Taurus next weekend.’ Which was true–we had a long-standing arrangement to catch the new run of Dirty Dancing at the Aldwych Theatre.
‘So that means I just need to set up a…a…’ Damn! I knew I should have memorised all this stuff.
‘Virgo and Sagittarius,’ she finished archly. She paused, one eyebrow cocked with cynicism. ‘And have you already selected the candidates and organised the final two?’
‘I have a shortlist to call this morning.’
I groaned inside as she eyed me with very obvious disbelief. What was I thinking?!! I was standing there, telling bold-faced lies to a psychic! It was like arguing with an astronaut about space. Or lecturing Stu on germs.
There was no doubt about it, she was going to fire me…Or, at the very least, kill me and use the powder from grinding up my bones to fertilise her Zen garden.
‘Where are the applications for the two dates that I didn’t know about?’ she asked, her tone deadly.
‘They’re on my desk.’
Her lie detector screeched into life. Actually, it was just the phone–Millie saving my ass by informing us that Stephen had arrived and was waiting in reception.
‘I’ll look at them as soon as I get back,’ she spat, obviously preferring to leave firing and bone-grinding until after her meeting with a Hollywood superstar, so as not to mess up her hair or smudge her make-up.
My resentment pushing fear aside, I lifted my chin, aped her steely glare, and spat a defiant, ‘Fine.’ It was a proud, bold moment of self-assurance and dignity–one that she didn’t see because she was already halfway down the stairs.
I’d show her. Unprofessional? I don’t think so! My professionalism and quick wit would prevail–right after I’d had a terror-filled panic and a quick cry.
How the hell had my life turned into a bad soap opera? I flicked through my phone, desperately searching for an old photo of Ben. Success. Actually, it wasn’t exactly a photo of Ben–he’d always avoided the camera, behaviour that I realised now probably had less to do with modesty and more to do with minimising evidence that could find its way into his wife’s hands–but I had once taken a photo of the photo on his military ID card. Found it! With a quick touch-up using Photoshop I was pretty sure I could make it look like a standard passport snap.
His application letter I could forge without a problem. I’d just skip the address and use a false telephone number. If anyone checked later I could just say the number must have changed. I wasn’t too worried as these were all going to be documented as anonymous case studies anyway.
Okay, Ben was done, now Stu. The residual adrenalin from the conflict made my hands shake as I pressed his speed-dial number. He answered on the second ring. It was so sweet that he still had an iota of attention to give me considering I’d spent all day Saturday sobbing into the folds of his new Gucci shirt.
‘Stu, next Saturday night–would you mind classifying it as a date?’
‘Ah, babe, I thought you’d never ask. But if Verity knew what you were suggesting, she might take you out with one blow from an expertly aimed nipple tassel.’
‘It’s not a real date, you twat. I just want to cross off another star sign and I haven’t done a Taurus yet, so I thought you could be it. I’ll let you run riot in the pick ‘n’ mix before the show. I just need you to email me over a photo from your PDA.’
‘Certainly. Would you like it to be naked or fully clothed?’
‘Clothed, you perv.’
His laughter was a mellow, deep gurgle. ‘You never could seize the moment, Leni, could you?’
‘You’re a twisted, twisted man. Now, date or no date?’
‘Date. But don’t blame me if you have to suffer violent repercussions from an irate glamour icon. Now, have you put the cream I gave you on that lip? Has the swelling gone down any more? Because, you know, scar tissue could be forming and that…’
‘Sorry, Stu, have to go. Love ya.’
My fingers whizzed over the keyboard, producing two masterful, engaging application letters. I printed off Stu’s photo and attached it to Taurus and put it in my pending pile. Ben’s pic was stapled to Libra, and I then went on to write a full and completely fictional account of our night together. Even the lies made me wince. I created a fictional world where he wined me, dined me, and then saw me home, all the while entertaining me with subtle humour and self-effacing charm. The bastard.
I’d just added the final full stop when Zara stormed back in and stopped directly in front of my desk.
‘Applications?’ she demanded, demonstrating that the embers of our spat were still glowing brightly. I calmly handed over the results of the last frantic hour and she examined every word. Eventually, almost grudgingly, she threw them back on my desk with an agitated, ‘Fine! Arrange the other two dates for this week, then we can finally put this whole thing to bed. About bloody time. Try to remember, Leni, that professionalism is key to everything we do here,’ she concluded pointedly. With that, she turned and strutted over to her own desk.
And that’s when I was faced with Zara Delta’s back view in all its unexpected glory: her posture strong and proud, her long, luscious locks bouncing with the rhythm of her movements, and her flowing silk kaftan? Tucked into her knickers at the back.
In a purely professional manner, of course.
EMAIL
To: Jon Belmont
From: Leni Lomond
Subject: Making progress
Do you want the good news or the bad?
I’ll start with the good. I’m two dates further along and I should be done by a week on Saturday.
And the bad? I think I’ve become a compulsive liar and I’ll probably be unemployed by the time we finally have a proper night out.
I don’t usually lie (and you can choose whether or not to believe that, but I can provide sworn affidavits from my best friends testifying to my integrity), but I faked a couple more dates. Well, when I say faked…I just manipulated the truth very slightly.
And here’s the problem that brings up: if Zara’s as good as she says she is, won’t she know about this? I keep waiting for her to strut in and fire me in a dramatic fashion.
To be honest, I think the only thing that’s saving me is that she’s a little distracted by a certain wild, A-list movie star who’s been having his chart read on a daily basis.
Anyway, I think my unemployment benefit would still stretch to two large cocktails and a packet of crisps, so hope to see you soon. Lx
EMAIL
To: Leni Lomond
From: Jon Belmont
Subject: Re: Making progress
Dear Compulsive Liar,
You’re on–me, you and your giro cheque
, lunch a week from Sunday. Can’t wait for this to be over–soooooooo difficult knowing that you’re around but not being able to see you. So I was thinking (and stop me if I’m getting carried away here) and I’ve had a few ideas about things we can do: drive out to the country for the day, catch a show (comedies only–don’t think I could handle a traumatised woman!!!), and maybe even take the Eurostar over to Paris for the day (but be warned, my sister is demanding to accompany us on that one–something about Louis Vuitton and big price tags! She claims I owe her for hooking us up…actually, maybe she’s got a good point!).
Sorry, am I getting a bit mushy? I’ll get back to being a stern, financial type straight away!
Or maybe not…
Do you know how much I’m looking forward to seeing you? A huge amount. Giant. Massive.
And I never lie. J xx
28
Starman
‘Fuck it, just chuck the job and get out of there–she’s a fucking maniac.’
Déjà vu. My eyes automatically rolled heavenwards. ‘Could you please pick an advice position and stick to it? So far you’ve told me to leave, then stay, then leave, then stay…If I was clutching on to the edge of a cliff by my fingernails and counting on your opinion on whether or not I should jump, I’d need a bungee rope.’
‘Can’t help it. I’m so distracted by the news that that big prick Ben showed up and you phoned Stu instead of me. Why d’you think I bought that Uzi on eBay?’
We were huddled at the back of the Great Morning TV! studios, watching the flurry of activity as the team descended on the sofa during the commercial break. Even in real life and in her mid-forties, Goldie radiated gorgeousness: her face incredibly tight and unlined, her body as svelte as a teenager’s, her tailored scarlet suit clashing brilliantly with her copper pixie cut. Zara, on the other hand, was taking eccentricity to a whole new level, her hair a mass of pleats and ponytails so bizarre that the net effect was a demented cross between a large fern and Wyclef Jean. And that was the more conservative part of her overall look. The kaftans were gone, and in their place was a beautiful (but frankly inexplicable) Celtic wedding dress. Yes, apparently on Planet Zara it seemed like a good idea to prepare for the unlikely eventuality that she’d run into a minister and a groom on this very day and decide to tie the knot there and then in a ceremony of ancient Scottish tradition…especially since, as far as I knew, her sole connection to all things Scottish was a rabid crush on Ewan McGregor.
The dress itself was breathtaking: a fine ivory jersey-silk fabric column with long sleeves and a round neck, which subtly draped over her torso before gently flaring out below her waist and falling effortlessly to the floor. Slung low across her hips was a gold chain, clasped at the front, at its lowest point, by a large gold medallion with an emerald stone in the centre. A wedding scene in Braveheart? Perfect. Great Morning TV! sofa? Barking.
I just hoped that she wasn’t sending out some kind of subliminal message to her (alleged!) new man. I fully expected to hear that Stephen Knight had fled the country before the end of the day.
I dismissed Zara’s agenda to the back of my mind, and pushed ‘pacifying my friend’ up to the top of mine.
‘Okay, I’m sorry I didn’t phone you first. It was Grey’s weekend off–I thought you’d want time together without trivial interruptions from hysterical friends.’
‘Good point. We were a bit tied up all day Saturday and all day Sunday.’
I didn’t ask. Coming from a normal human being that could mean that she’d had a busy weekend, taken up with all those trivial little jobs that mount up in everyday life. Coming from Trish, there was a good chance it involved sexual deviance, chains and a gimp mask.
‘Three, two, one, cue Goldie.’
‘Welcome back. And for those of you who have just joined us, Dr Craft is here with advice on coping with a prolapse, but first it gives me great pleasure to welcome the woman who knows exactly what you’ll be up to this weekend, Miss Zara Delta. Good morning, Zara, so lovely to have you here, as always…’
Trish leaned right into my ear and whispered, ‘She hates her guts, you know.’
‘Who?’
‘Goldie. She hates Zara with a passion. Told the producers yesterday that she wants Mystic Meg or Russell Grant in before the month is out.’
Nooooo, this was not good news! Zara would be gutted. Her morning TV slot was at the centre of her career web, and everything else spun out from there. Without her weekly publicity stunt, her market would shrink, her credibility would suffer and her ego would go into rigor mortis. I’d once overheard her saying she’d rather shack up with an oligarch than go back to feng shui-ing the homes of rich, bored Belgravia housewives. As Zara’s manager, Conn would be devastated, and if they had to cut costs they might close the office, then Millie would lose her job and…oh, bloody hell, I really would be unemployed. Uh-uh, couldn’t let that happen.
‘Trish, you’ve got to stop that happening,’ I fretted. ‘If they bin Zara I’d definitely be out of a job, and…’
‘You do know that since I passed up my role as director of television in favour of a shite job as head of hospitality, I no longer actually have a say in who is employed.’
Sarcasm dripped from every vowel. ‘Anyway, don’t worry, the producers vetoed the change. They say that Zara has the biggest fan base, and at the end of the day all they care about is viewing figures. Goldie was livid. Probably had to have an all-night three-way just to take her mind off it.’
My involuntary snort of laughter earned me a furious glance and a hushing motion from the floor manager. If this job ever did end, this was the part that I would miss most: the variety and thrill of the TV stuff and the superficiality of the celebrity mingling. Being stuck in an office staring at the same four walls every day didn’t even begin to compare.
Zara was halfway through the zodiac now, her hands gesturing wildly as she spoke, her voice expressive and dramatic. Goldie was nodding with a fixed smile that could either be saying ‘Yes, I completely agree with you’ or ‘I wonder how much a hitman would cost’.
‘Anyway, I’ve got news that trumps your leading lady’s love triangle,’ I said.
‘You’re pregnant?’
‘No.’
‘I’m pregnant?’
‘No.’ Aaargh, she was so immature and irritating–my very favourite qualities in a friend.
‘Stu’s preg—?’
‘Will you shut up!’ Another furious face from the floor manager. ‘Look, do you want to know or don’t you?’ I asked, then winced, because the motion of pursing my lips in a disapproving manner had aggravated the cut that was almost, but not quite, healed.
‘I do,’ she vowed with mock solemnity.
‘I think Zara is shagging Stephen Knight.’
Her eyes were the size of side plates as she grabbed my hand, dragged me out of the studio, down the corridor, into her office, closed the door and then shouted, ‘YOU ARE FUCKING JESTING ME!’
‘I jest not,’ I replied nonchalantly, determined to milk the one and only time that I was the more interesting friend for all it was worth.
‘On what evidence?’
‘Last Monday he came in for a reading. Zara went into the session perfectly dressed, and came out of it with her frock tucked into her knickers.’
Trish’s shrieks of laughter were so loud that if I closed my eyes I could see the floor manager’s face twisting with rage.
‘He’s phoned her every day since–puts on a rubbish fake voice and calls himself Mr DeLongun, but I know it’s him.’
‘He always was a shite actor,’ Trish concurred.
‘And she’s been sneaking out at least once a day. She even asked me to lie to Conn about where she was yesterday. I hope he doesn’t find it suspicious that she just went for her second smear test in six weeks.’
Trish motioned disgust. ‘That was the best you could come up with?’
I shrugged. ‘I’m not cut out for subterfuge. I panicked.’
She shook her head for a few seconds, whistling as she absorbed the news. It was highly noteworthy for several reasons. First, they were both celebrities. Second, Stephen’s sexual prowess and chemical exploits were legendary. Third, Zara was a good ten years older than him. The press would love this. Not that they were likely to ever find out, of course, since the protagonists were obviously intent on keeping this one well and truly under wraps.
‘Well, you know what all this means?’ Trish finally volunteered. ‘There’s no way you’re chucking that job now. I don’t care if she starts to beat you with a whip; you have to stay there for the insider gossip.’
I think I could quite honestly say that when Lennon and McCartney wrote ‘A Little Help from My Friends’, they probably didn’t have a pal like Trish in mind.
‘Did you know that Zara was shagging Stephen Knight?’ Trish demanded of Stu the minute he walked into the bar.
It was ten hours later and we’d met up again so they could bolster my pre-date spirits.
‘Ssssssssh, someone will hear you!’ I scolded her. She swept her arm around in a semi-circular motion, illustrating the obvious truth that unless the nearby plant pot was bugged, there was no one within earshot.
We were back in the wine bar that Millie and I had sat in while we’d waited for Colin. When the next date showed up and I went off with him, the staff would definitely think I was on the game.
‘Indeed I did, m’lud,’ Stu answered very formally. ‘Miss Lomond passed on this information earlier in the week during a highly confidential professional meeting. Your highlights look great, by the way.’
That last bit was to me. And they did–fine slivers of blonde injected into the red had lifted the colour and made it glisten like fire. Thanks to Stu’s talents, at least something about me was bold and daring.
Stu wasn’t exactly looking shabby this evening either. Three suited females in the corner had been staring at him since he’d entered; entranced at the sight of his black Diesel boots, battered boot-cut jeans and a black T-shirt so tight I could have flossed my teeth on his abs.