‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m very tired,’ Isobel admitted.
She’d gone very pale and seemed so fragile that it tugged at his heart. She looked like a hologram that was fading. ‘Let’s get you inside.’ He kept the concern from his voice. ‘You’ve had far too much excitement for one night.’
Leo scooped her up into his arms and was frightened by how insubstantial she felt.
Chapter Forty-Seven
I stand outside a splendid Georgian house in Harley Street. A small gold plate on the smart black door reads Dr P. Sloane, Psychiatrist. The P, I think, is for Pricey. Pressing the bell for the umpteenth time, I bash the brass knocker against its plate and hammer loudly at the solid door.
A milk-float pulls up and the milkman jumps out, passing me by to place two pints of red top on Dr P. Sloane’s doorstep. He tips his hat to me and then jumps back in his cart and drives further down the road to continue gaily on his round, whistling tunelessly, seemingly unmoved by the crisis that is taking place in front of him. Perhaps there are frantic patients trying to beat down the psychiatrist’s door every morning.
I check my watch. It’s early, but not that early. Shouldn’t a doctor be up and about by seven o’clock? Particularly when she has desperate patients. And I’m definitely desperate. A lone jogger puffs past, red-faced and sweating. Perhaps I should take up jogging. It’s supposed to be good for improving both the physical and emotional state – and my emotional state could definitely do with some improvement.
I’ve left a dozen messages on my psychiatrist’s answerphone since about five-thirty this morning, when I decided I couldn’t bear lying in bed thinking about Leo whizzing across the sky for a moment longer. The woman said she’d be available 24/7 – her words, not mine – and that I should call whenever I need her. Well, I need her and I’ve been calling. So where the hell is she?
‘Come on! Come on!’ I yell into the letterbox. The morning’s refuse collection is starting to take place. The men in their orange fluorescent jackets are giving me strange looks as they hoist the black refuse sacks into the waiting lorry. Pulling my coat around me, I lean nearer to the door.
‘I haven’t got all day,’ I mutter to myself. At this rate, my sanity won’t last until tea-time. Opening the letterbox again, I peer inside. Nada. All I can see is the vast emptiness of the hall with its acres of black and white chequered floor tiles. ‘I haven’t got all day,’ I shout into it.
I pace up and down outside on the pavement. ‘I pay this woman a fortune,’ I shout to the watching refuse collectors. ‘An absolute fortune. You’d think she’d be available when my life is crashing around me.’ They hurry about their work.
Eventually, a dishevelled-looking woman in a tired velour dressing-gown half-opens the door. I push my way inside. ‘Emergency,’ I bark. I know she’ll agree when she hears this. She might even get a book out of it.
‘Good morning, Emma,’ the psychiatrist says sleepily, and bends to collect her milk from the doorstep before following me inside.
I’m lying on the psychiatrist’s couch. The psychiatrist, nursing a cup of tea, is still in her dressing-gown. The room is supposed to be relaxing, but I find it oppressive. It looks like a gangster’s office. All brown leather chairs with green glass reading lamps next to them and pictures of racehorses on the wall. It isn’t what you could call feminine. What does that say about Dr Sloane?
I’m in full flow. ‘Tap dancing,’ I say. ‘I spent all night tap dancing. And I thought it was a dream, but I woke up on the London Eye in nothing but my pyjamas. Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?’
Dr Sloane scribbles on her notepad.
‘And now I think I’ve gone completely mad. They were floating across the bloody sky last night,’ I prop myself up on one elbow and raise my voice, ‘on balloons. Leo and his gorgeous new girlfriend. I wasn’t asleep, I was wide awake. There’s no way that was a dream.’
Dr Sloane scribbles again.
‘That’s not normal, is it?’ I say.
The psychiatrist stifles a yawn.
‘I know there’s something funny going on,’ I continue, ‘but I don’t know what. I’m sure it’s down to this new woman of his.’
More scribbling. ‘You can’t blame everything on Leo’s new girlfriend,’ Dr Sloane tells me. ‘She’s just an ordinary woman. She has no hold over Leo.’
This is not what I want to hear. I want to hear that Leo is under some sort of siren spell and that as soon as she releases him, he’ll come back to me. But, of course, that isn’t what you pay psychiatrists for.
‘You can do what you like to me,’ I say, flopping back down on the couch. I have a cup of tea too, but as yet it’s untouched. ‘Hypnotise me. Stick me with pins . . .’
‘Acupuncture,’ the psychiatrist interjects.
‘Give me strong drugs. Lots of them. Or one of those useless sodding self-help CDs. I don’t care.’ I feel my eyes prick with tears. ‘Do whatever you like. I just need to stop thinking about Leo.’
With a well-practised move, the psychiatrist hands me a tissue. On cue, I start to cry.
‘You have an unhealthy attraction to bad boys,’ Dr Sloane says in her most soothing voice.
‘But Leo isn’t bad, he’s just . . .’
The psychiatrist flicks through her notes. ‘Unreliable, untidy, infuriating, unpunctual and unusually irritating. We’ve discussed this before. Several times.’
‘But I can’t stop thinking about him.’
Dr Sloane gives me an ingratiating smile. ‘That’s what letting go of a bad boy is all about.’
I burst into a bout of fresh tears. ‘I don’t want to let go of him. I love him!’
Chapter Forty-Eight
The brashly-lit offices of Thornton Jones were filled with very peaky-looking staff. There was the low-key air of a corporate hangover and sales of Resolve in nearby chemist’s shops had soared.
Leo, however, was full of beans. He wasn’t sure if it was to do with surviving a near-death experience à la helium balloon, but he felt full of the joys of spring or summer or possibly all of the seasons rolled together. It seemed he was alone in this. Even Isobel looked sickly. Her skin was normally pale and porcelain-like, but today she looked as white as a ghost and even a bit transparent in parts.
They’d caught a taxi together to the office and she’d sat wanly in the back, gazing out of the window. Leo wondered if she had used up too many of her magic powers last night – if that was possible. He didn’t have a clue how these things worked.
Leo gave her arm a gentle squeeze. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
Isobel nodded weakly.
‘You could have thrown a sickie,’ he said.
She looked at him blankly.
‘A duvet day,’ he elaborated. ‘You could have stayed in bed.’
‘I wanted to be with you,’ she told him tiredly.
‘Well,’ Leo said, giving her a kiss on the nose, ‘that’s understandable.’
She smiled good-humouredly at him.
‘I’ll see you later then,’ he said.
Isobel went off towards her office, listlessly, and didn’t see Leo’s frown.
Grant was sitting on Lard’s desk with their traditional morning pile of pastries heaped in front of them. They must both have hangovers too, despite their flirtations with orange juice, as Lard was picking his way cautiously through a pain au chocolat and not demolishing it whole as was his usual modus operandi.
Leo sat on the other side of the desk and nicked a pastry too.
‘Good party?’ Grant said.
‘Excellent!’
‘Manage to get a taxi home?’ Lard asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Thought so,’ Lard said, and he and Grant exchanged one of their looks.
Leo concentrated on the delicious custard in the middle of his pastry.
‘You’re a very nice dancer,’ Grant said.
‘Thank you. You two were giving it plenty as well.’
They both nodded in a considered manner.
‘I need to talk to you.’ Grant took Leo by the arm and steered him away from Lard’s desk. This must be serious if Lard wasn’t party to it. Those two were like the Marx Brothers – sharing everything in a slightly irritating, but comical manner.
They headed over to the coffee machine and Grant went through the palaver of getting two revolting cups of coffee for them whilst avoiding Leo’s eyes.
‘Leo,’ he said, as he handed him a polystyrene cup, ‘I’ve got a bit of a problem.’
‘We aren’t allowed to have problems,’ Leo reminded him. ‘Company directive. We can have issues or situations, but not problems.’
‘This isn’t a work matter,’ Grant said, ‘and I definitely have a problem.’
Leo shrugged, trying to make light of it as was his way. ‘Haven’t we all?’
‘Well,’ Grant ploughed on, ‘this is a bit delicate.’
‘A blokes’ problem?’
‘You could say that.’
‘I just did.’
‘Leo. Shut the fuck up and listen.’
As his friend looked like he might be inclined to hit him, Leo did as instructed.
‘I’ve got a problem that I want to discuss with you. Seriously.’
Leo’s mind was racing. ‘Floppy todger?’ He punched his friend playfully on the shoulder.
Grant sighed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘A bit too perky, if anything.’
Leo waited for an explanation as he’d no idea what else Grant could want to discuss with him. His friend took a deep breath. ‘I’m in love,’ he said eventually.
Leo was taken aback. Grant wasn’t normally moved to say such things. In all the time Leo had known him, he didn’t think he’d ever come out with the ‘L’ word. He was more resolutely a bachelor than Leo ever was. ‘This is a bit sudden.’
‘Well, yeah.’ Grant looked embarrassed. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Anyone I know?’
‘Well.’ Grant rubbed at his hair. ‘As a matter of fact, yes.’
Leo waited again. And he ran through all the possible contenders he knew from the office. Slack Suzy from the third floor. Easy Elizabeth from Human Resources. Titanic Tania with Triple C tits on reception. They had discussed the charms of these women, and more, many a time. In a very politically correct way, of course.
Grant was chewing at his lip. ‘Emma,’ he said. ‘I’m in love with Emma.’
Leo’s brain trawled through the names of their female colleagues to no avail. ‘Who’s Emma?’
‘Oh, Leo,’ his friend sighed.
Leo was nearly rendered speechless, but managed to stammer, ‘Em . . . Emma? My Emma?’
Grant nodded.
Leo leaned against the wall for support. ‘You and Emma? Emma and you?’ He felt breathless. ‘I can’t believe this. You’re supposed to be my best friend.’
Leo’s supposed best friend’s jaw set. ‘And?’
‘And?’ Leo ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. ‘Emma’s my girlfriend.’
‘I’m not sure that Emma – or Isobel – would see it that way.’
‘Ex-girlfriend, then,’ he said. ‘Barely ex-girlfriend. My side of the bed’s probably not had time to go cold yet.’ A sudden thought hit him. ‘You haven’t, have you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Grant glowered at him. A very Heathcliff, slightly unhinged sort of glower.
This was extraordinary news. Grant and Emma! ‘Anyway,’ Leo said, struggling to regroup his scattered senses, ‘you can’t be with Emma. What about her new fiancé, Stephen or Stefan or whatever the hell he’s called?’ Due to the shock he’d almost forgotten that someone else was already warming up his side of the bed.
‘New fiancé?’
Clearly Grant didn’t know about this little development. Then his friend laughed out loud. ‘New fiancé? Oh Leo. One day I would like to visit your planet. It must be wonderful.’
Leo had no idea what he was talking about.
‘So,’ Grant continued, ‘you have a problem with me and Emma getting together?’
‘Yes,’ Leo said. ‘I have a slight issue with it.’ This possibly wasn’t a rational response. Perhaps he should be clapping Grant on the back and wishing him well and telling him about all the cute little things Emma could do with her tongue if you begged long enough. Leo couldn’t even contemplate that they might complete Full Docking Manoeuvres together! He closed his eyes. This couldn’t be happening. ‘Actually, I have a big problem with it.’
‘Why?’ Grant said. ‘You didn’t hesitate to dump her for Isobel.’
‘She dumped me.’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Leo. Get into the real world. Neither of you are fifteen any more. Isn’t it time you grew up and started behaving like an adult?’
‘Presumably that would involve me being happy for you to get low down and dirty with Emma?’ Leo started to pace the floor. If he wasn’t very much mistaken, he’d say they were squaring up to each other. ‘I’ve seen how you treat your women.’
‘I think that’s a fine statement coming from you.’ Grant jabbed his finger at him. ‘You never loved Emma.’
‘I did,’ Leo shouted. ‘I do.’ His breath was coming in ragged pants, he was so out of condition. Leo thought he’d die on the spot if Grant hit him. Don’t get him wrong, he adored Isobel. How could he not be blown away by someone from another world with the magical powers that she had? Leo would be the first to admit that she had turned his head so much that it was still spinning. In one moment, his life was literally turned upside down by her. But that didn’t mean he’d simply forgotten about Emma. On the contrary, he still felt far too much for her, if the truth was known. ‘I do,’ he repeated. Leo’s voice was barely audible but he said, ‘The problem is I do still love her.’
Grant’s face looked sad and defeated. ‘And – strange and foolish woman that she is – she’s still very much in love with you.’
‘I can’t help that,’ Leo said. The ridiculous thing was that it gave him a thrill just to hear Grant say it.
‘I think you can, Leo. You could let her go. Don’t you want to see Emma find someone else to love?’
‘Yes. Eventually. But not you.’
‘That’s a very selfish attitude.’
It would be utter torture seeing Emma with Grant. Leo might have to socialise with them and stuff like that. It would be impossible. How could Leo tell him that? They were blokes – they didn’t discuss such matters of the heart. ‘I think you’ll find that once women have worshipped at the altar of Leo, they have great difficulty accepting a “normal” man.’
‘And now you’re testiculating.’ Office-speak for waving his arms and talking bollocks.
Grant was right. But Leo didn’t really want to face this. He’d rather Emma was engaged to some dodgy Bulgarian chappy called Stefan than see her with Grant. ‘I can’t help it,’ he said. ‘There’s very little I can do about it.’
‘There is,’ Grant said flatly. ‘I want you to ask Isobel to help.’
‘Isobel?’
‘I’ve seen the things she’s been doing, Leo.’ Grant stared at him evenly. ‘I witnessed your impromptu balloon flight.’
‘Ah.’
‘I know that she can do these things. This is a very small favour to ask,’ he said, his voice rising. ‘Can’t she help me too?’
‘Ssh,’ Leo hissed. ‘You’re not meant to know that she’s a . . .’ He glanced round in alarm ‘. . . a thingy.’
‘Or is that because she isn’t really a . . .’ now Grant looked round ‘. . . a thingy at all?’
‘Ssh,’ Leo hissed again. ‘Don’t say that! Of course she is. How else can you explain the things that she does?’
‘But she just does them for you?’
‘Well,’ Leo admitted, ‘as a matter of fact she does.’
‘Sometimes, mate,’ Grant spat back, ‘you can be a right royal pain in the arse.’
‘You’re the one trying to steal
my ex-girlfriend.’
‘Get a life, Leo.’
‘You are going the right way to be crossed off my Christmas card list,’ Leo warned him.
‘You don’t send Christmas cards,’ Grant said as he stormed off. ‘Emma always did it.’
Leo stood and watched him stomp off down the corridor and thought about what he had said. And, among other things, it was true that he’d never ever written one of his own greetings cards.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Isobel was sorting some papers, lethargically and by hand, when Mr Baldwin came into the office behind her. He looked dreadful – pasty and sweating. So she wasn’t the only one feeling terrible. Perhaps her own tiredness was down to the excesses of the party, after all. Mr Baldwin flopped down into the seat behind his desk.
‘Morning, Isobel.’ His voice was croaky and dry.
‘Hello.’
‘I think we need to break out the headache tablets,’ he said. ‘Too much of a good thing. Perhaps I had one glass of fizz too many.’ He reached into his drawer and pulled out a packet of Nurofen and chased two down with some water, shuddering as they hit the spot.
‘It looks as if all the team are feeling the same,’ Old Baldy continued. ‘They all go mad at the sight of a free bar. It certainly made the party go with a swing though. I know you’ll find this hard to believe,’ he gave a little laugh, ‘but Thornton Jones’s parties are normally quite staid affairs.’
She wondered if any of the staff realised how much of the evening’s success had been down to her intervention. She also wondered how many would find it impossible to believe, even if she told them the truth.
‘You look a little pale too. If you don’t mind me saying.’
‘I am a little tired,’ she admitted. ‘But I had a great time. Wasn’t it a magical evening?’
‘Magical?’ Mr Baldwin laughed. ‘My dear Isobel, what a funny thing to say. There’s nothing very magical about drinking too much and making a fool of yourself. Even though it was fun at the time.’
‘Is that all you think it was?’ She stopped her work. ‘You had such a great time simply because you’d had too much to drink?’
It’s a Kind of Magic Page 20