by Shari Low
Okay, okay, that was passable. A touch on the rambling side, but he was laughing so he must have been amused.
‘So what’s planned for the weekend then?’
‘Nothing much,’ I answered, and then quickly realised I was talking drivel. ‘Apart from the final date tomorrow night. Oh, and lunch on Sunday, with a…friend.’
‘A boyfriend?’
‘That’s right–you saw how they were all lining up outside my flat last week. Okay, one boyfriend at a time please, leave the grapes by the side of the bed and don’t take any more than five minutes because there are another ten blokes at your back.’
To my eternal mortification, I did the whole of that last bit in the voice of a crazed ticket inspector. I could barely look at him.
‘That’s a shame, because I was going to ask you if you’d like to have lunch with me on Sunday.’
He was? Crap! How un-bloody-believable was this? For the last two years I’d been an unintentional world leader in the field of Nice Man Avoidance, and now I had two, count them, bloody TWO, wanting to take me out to lunch on Sunday.
‘Maybe next week?’ he added, a definite tone of hope in his voice.
‘Next week would be great.’ I stopped at that, determined to come out with at least one sentence that was witter-free.
He took the stairs two at a time and I tried really hard not to watch the muscles in his legs and bum flex and contract, flex and contract, flex and con—I needed a cup of tea to settle the giddiness.
Back in the cubby-hole, I treated myself to an extra sugar, then stirred and tossed the used teabag in the bin, an action that somehow unleashed chaos. I spun back round too quickly, spilt some of the tea, burnt my hand, jumped with pain, and knocked over a four-tier-high stack of paper trays, which nudged a large pile of mail and the whole lot toppled to the floor.
Bugger. How did Millie operate in this room? If Zara pissed me off even once next week I was calling Health and Safety and tipping them off about the cubby-hole.
Leaving the tea safely out of reach, I scooped up the trays and contents and shoved them back on the shelf in something approximating their original order, then I bent again to collect the mail, all still sealed except a large brown envelope, the contents of which had scattered from one side of the room to the other. It was only when I’d gathered about half of them that I realised what they were. Each sheet was headed with a different star sign: Aries, Cancer, Pisces, etc., followed by a date of birth, but it was what came below the heading that captured my attention.
Despite working for one of the country’s leading astrologers (apologies to Russell Grant and Mystic Meg), I’d never managed to muster a crumb of interest in the powers of the stars. Call it cynicism, call it lethargy, or maybe it was just a lack of understanding as to how I could read the forecast for my star sign in several different newspapers and they’d all predict completely conflicting events.
But what I was reading now completely changed my mind.
The one at the top of the pile had ‘Cancer’ followed by Gregory’s birthday as a heading, and went on to sum up his personality so perfectly it was like I’d written it myself. Sure, I’d sent in a report to Zara, but that only contained a shred of what was in here and there were so many defining characteristics that she could never have known about. The interest in sport, the love of simple pleasures and the reticence to discuss personal issues and emotions she could have got from the information I’d provided. But how had she known about the attachment to his mum; the reluctance to hurt the feelings of others; and the emotional depths that could often be confused with shyness or rudeness? I hadn’t covered any of that in my feedback.
The text went on to elaborate on the subject’s likes and dislikes, strengths and weaknesses, areas of improvement (wardrobe, current trends, independence) and then followed a chapter on their ideal date. The sports stuff I would have expected was in there, but so were four other suggestions (Sunday Lunch: a local, unpretentious pub; Last-minute Date: dropping in to visit family; the Romantic Date: an evening walk at the beach; and the Dreaded Date: PR launch or dinner at a fine-dining restaurant).
Even though I’d only known Gregory for a few hours, I knew that this profile was absolutely accurate. On I read, every line resonating, every recommendation ringing true, and every warning sign pitched absolutely perfectly.
I doubted if even Glenda could have summed up her boy this well. I took what was left of my tea back through to reception and studied the others. Aries–Daniel: an unbelievably accurate portrait of a self-conscious single guy who would do anything to please. Capricorn–Craig: astoundingly true, down to his strongest characteristics: smugness, smugness and more smugness. Scorpio–Matt: the lying git who would sell his soul for a shot at stardom. Virgo–Kurt: the desperate wannabe, who would, according to the predictions here, eventually make it. I stumbled a little over Jon, the Gemini, but only because I thought, using my limited-to-non-existent astrological knowledge base, that Zara had strayed from the truth and reverted in some areas to stereotypical traits for that star sign.
Like all great productions, it was the finale that assured me of its brilliance. The final sheet was headed ‘Taurus’–19 May. Stu’s birthday. The same Stu who would be my date the following night. Zara wasn’t just analysing the past, she was predicting the future.
A shiver ran from the base of my spine to the top, where it pushed up the hairs on the back of my neck. How could she know? How could she know so much about someone she’d never met, never studied, never dated? This was the Encyclopaedia of Stu, everything about him described in glorious Technicolor right down to every last fear and phobia. My opinion of Zara changed in a thudding heartbeat. If it was true that there was a thin line between genius and insanity, then she was on a space-hopper and bouncing back and forth across it. Suddenly, her eccentricities, her idiosyncrasies, and yes, even her dark side diminished beside these fifty or so pages of astounding talent. I’d completely misjudged her as a deluded, flaky fluke, but here was incontrovertible confirmation that she was a freaking genius.
It was also confirmation, not that I needed it, that I was off doing my HNC in Crap Boyfriends and Questionable Choices on the day that God was giving out adequate people-judgement skills.
The taste of freezing cold tea signalled the passing of time and I realised that two hours had gone by already. It was 3.30 p.m. My internal phone buzzed. ‘Hey you,’ Conn’s voice was smooth as a Galaxy Ripple that had been left next to a radiator. ‘I’m going to head off in ten minutes, so is it okay with you to knock off early so that I can lock up?’
‘Mmmm, let me see–finish work an hour and a half early on a Friday? I think I could just about manage that.’
As I hung up, my eyes fell on the pile in front of me. Crap, I hadn’t processed the rest of the incoming post yet. I bolted the storm doors, grabbed all the mail and ran up the stairs, trying to mimic Conn by taking two at a time, changing my mind after four strides had almost snapped my hamstrings.
I left the mail on my very talented boss’s desk, figuring at least that way she’d find it if she popped in–as she occasionally did–over the weekend. It was the lesser of two evils. Would she freak at having to use her two-hundred-pound, silk compound false nails to open it herself? Absolutely. Would she freak even more if she wanted to check what had arrived and couldn’t find the post pile? Definitely. With any luck she wouldn’t come in this weekend and I’d get it all opened and sorted first thing on Monday morning. With no luck, she’d launch into a tirade and Conn would come to my defence and explain that he’d made me finish early. Seemed like he was coming to the rescue a lot these days.
On the way back to the door, I stopped at my desk to grab a Kit Kat from the top drawer. Phones! I hadn’t checked my phone messages all week. Bugger.
I picked up the receiver and dialled my voicemail. ‘You have two new messages.’
Smashing. I was obviously an indispensable wheel in the cog of industry. I’d been off for
a whole week and I had the grand sum of two new messages.
‘Erm, yes, this is Detective Sergeant Phil Masters here. I will try you on your home number, but if I don’t reach you there, please call me back.’
That one was from yesterday, and when he’d called the house Mrs Naismith had croakily informed him that no, it wouldn’t be a problem for me to come down to look at some mug shots at the station next week, just as long as she could come with me for moral support. I could tell the proximity to all things Crimewatch was giving her a thrill.
The irritatingly posh lady on the recorded message informed me that I had one more message, left this morning at 9 a.m.
‘Leni, it’s me.’ My heart stopped. Ben. But how had he got this number?
‘The message on your mobile gave this number so I hope it was okay to call here.’
It wasn’t. It isn’t. Why the hell had I chosen today to forget to switch my phone on after I’d left the studio? And what the hell had happened to the oxygen in this room?
‘I miss you, Leni, so much. I love you, babe. And I…’
What? And what?
‘…I need to go–this is a satellite phone and it costs a fortune. I’ll call again.’
Aaaaaaaaargh. I slammed the phone down, furious with him for spoiling my happy karma. Satellite my buttocks! He was probably in the desert camp right now, shagging a buxom blonde behind the supplies tent and telling her he was young, free and single, which, strictly speaking, was true, but that wasn’t the point.
I grabbed my chocolate fix and was just about to leave when I realised that a button was still illuminated on the phone. This bloody system was older than me. It was unreliable, regularly unusable, and if Zara wasn’t so bloody tight, professionalism would have forced her to renew it years ago.
I snatched up the receiver and cut straight into another call. I realised immediately that Conn’s voice had a distinct edge to it, so I hung up straight away in respect of his privacy.
Or should I say, if I’d had an ounce of decency I would have hung up immediately, but curiosity had batted decency right out of the ballpark, so I covered the receiver with my hand to silence the noise of my breathing and carried on listening.
‘Where are you? You’ve been out of touch all day.’
‘Smear test,’ she blurted, forcing me to stifle a laugh. Apparently someone else panicked under pressure too sometimes.
‘Anyway,’ she continued, cutting off any questions he might have had. ‘How’s our problem?’
‘Don’t worry, I told you I’d take care of it and I am.’
‘I hope so, Conn, because any publicity about that little debacle last weekend could blow our plans apart. Not to mention what would happen if she sued us for putting her in danger. The lawyer said we should have vetted those blokes before we sent her out there.’
His voice was exasperated now. ‘I’ve already told you. I’ve taken care of it. She won’t go to the press, she’d never have the bottle for that, and anyway, her confidentiality contract forbids it. And she definitely won’t sue. Look, she’s a mouse, and she’s a mouse who, right now, would do anything I asked her. Don’t worry, I’ll keep her sweet…but I’m telling you, if I have to screw her then you owe me something big. How about that Marbella weekend you’ve been promising?’ he said, his laugh conveying that he found this highly hilarious.
‘If you keep her quiet, you can put it on expenses,’ she replied dryly.
‘Deal. I’ll see you later.’
With that, one of my bosses hung up on the other one.
With a shaking hand I replaced the receiver…then I ran…
33
Mercury Rising
‘We’re going.’
‘No, we’re not.’
‘Yes, we are.’
‘Not.’
‘Are.’
‘Not.’
‘Leni, I have a thirty-foot-long pink limo outside, waiting to whisk us away to the theatre. We’re going.’
I lifted my head from under the IKEA pillow and squinted at Stu’s suited form as he stood over me.
‘Pink, you said?’
‘Pink. With leopard-skin seat covers and Bacardi Breezers in the minibar,’ he replied smugly, so sure of his triumph that he was practically doing a lap of honour around Little Sweden.
It was like the bit in romantic comedies where the hero says exactly the right thing and the heroine capitulates then runs down a fire exit to snog him. Every year, roughly a month before my birthday, I would point out to Trish and Stu that I’d never been in a limo in the hope that they’d pimp my ride for my birthday treat. So far it had all been to no avail–although, thanks to Trish’s connections in the fire service, we had once hitched a lift home in a fire engine after a night at a Mongolian barbecue ended with flames, flashing blue lights, and several men in plastic yellow trousers. It had been one of my better birthdays.
But now, Stu, bless him, had finally taken the hint and arranged a very classy, elegant, screaming-pink limo with faux animal-print upholstery for our faux date. How thoughtful was that?
‘Does it look really, really naff?’
He nodded. ‘Couldn’t be more tacky if it had fake tits stuck to the bumper.’
‘Okay, I’m coming.’
As I dragged myself out of bed he had the courtesy not to comment on my comfort pyjamas, the ones that were flannel, tartan, and only came out in times of acute upset.
Getting taken for a manipulative, duplicitous ride by Team Delta had caused upset that definitely qualified as acute.
How could they? For the last twenty-four hours I’d mentally replayed that conversation hundreds of times, trying desperately to find another conclusion other than the obvious one: evil wanker genes are hereditary.
I’d been conned. Duped. Taken for the kind of ride that didn’t involve pink bodywork and an extra-long wheel base.
The most ironic thing was that it was all so unnecessary–I hadn’t even considered the possibility of Zara being personally responsible for my near brush with a criminal record last week, and I certainly hadn’t considered going to the press. Why would I? Why would I possibly want my gran to read about my new life as a London drug mule? She’d never be able to show her face down the bingo again.
The most depressing thing about the whole situation, though, was just the resounding familiarity of it all. Is the Pope a Catholic? Do bears shit in the woods? Do I completely misjudge people time after time after bloody ridiculous time?
Ben–didn’t spot he was married.
Matt–didn’t spot that he was only in it for the fame.
Nurse Dave–didn’t spot that he was the type of bloke who would shag me while he had a girlfriend.
Gregory–didn’t spot that he was gay.
Gavin–didn’t spot his connections to half the drug-dealers in London.
It had never even crossed my mind that Conn might have an agenda. Oh no. He was just being lovely and decent and kind. It was only a small consolation that, where he was concerned, I wasn’t the only one who had got it wrong. Mrs Naismith had popped in that morning with my mail and I’d told her the whole story. After she’d threatened to mobilise the lethal forces of her regiment of Help the Aged to march down to his office and provide cover while she gave him a ‘piece of her mind’, I reminded her that she’d once told me that she could sense that Conn ‘had a thing for me’.
She shook her head woefully. ‘And there you have it, love.’
‘Have what?’
‘The reason that the only man in my life is Bruce bloody Willis.’
Well, no more. I had taken off my rose-tinted glasses and smashed them to sand-like particles. From now on I was going to make a point of honing my perception skills so that I’d never waste another day languishing in despair under an IKEA duvet, berating myself for my chronic lack of insight. I, Leni Lomond, from this day forward, would be smart, savvy, and never misjudge anyone’s motivations again.
‘Hon, do you think there’s any
chance of you shifting your tartan arse so that we can get there before Baby gets shoved in the corner? Or before I berate you mercilessly for giving me whatever virus you had last week.’ Head tilted to one side, he squinted as his fingers gently massaged his neck. ‘I feel brutal today. Did your head hurt when you had that virus? And your chest? And did you feel all breathless and exhausted?’
I nodded to all.
‘Great. Next time you want to share, can you forget the viral infections and make it something out of Oddbins instead? Now hurry up, before I break into panic mode and rob Mrs Naismith of her stash of antibiotics.’
To my credit, I only groaned once as I dragged myself from the bed and headed to the bathroom for a quick shower. I’d just snapped the shower cap on my head when the phone rang, so I popped my head back into the bedroom to tell Stu to ignore it and let it go to voicemail.
‘No problem,’ he said, retracting the hand that was only inches from my Motorola. ‘Incidentally, that look really works for you. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted you more.’
He dialled into the answering machine and put it on loudspeaker.
‘Hi Leni, it’s Conn. Didn’t get a chance to say goodbye yesterday, got caught up on a call, so just wanted to say have a good weekend. Hope all’s good with you and see you Monday.’
Click.
‘Stu, what’s the current sentence for murder?’
‘Prisons are overcrowded, so you’d probably be out in ten years.’
‘I could plead PMT.’
‘A hundred hours’ community service at the most.’
I dipped back into the bathroom, musing that a hundred hours of cleaning chewing gum off the streets might just be worth it.
Five minutes later I showered, dried, and plodded back into the room to find my dress laid out on the bed, shoes sitting on the floor below it.