by Jane Fallon
‘Yes. Bin it.’
She peered at another scrap. ‘Some kind of shopping list?’
‘Let me see.’
She handed it over.
‘It looks like groceries.’
I lobbed it straight in the bin without looking. Bea dabbed at the space that had been created on the desk. Tiny lethal microorganisms spluttered and died.
‘He’s going to the Lifestyle Cable Choice Awards. Don’t you think that’s a bit odd?’
She looked at me quizzically. Obviously Patrick and his possible lack of fidelity weren’t at the forefront of her mind like they were mine.
‘Patrick.’
‘Oh. Well, that’s work isn’t it? You can hardly read anything into that.’
‘He’s going all the way up to Birmingham to go to an awards ceremony where his network doesn’t have a single nomination and where there will be absolutely no one of any note that he doesn’t already have a working relationship with.’
Bea nervously picked up a paper coffee cup, looked inside, sniffed it. ‘Oh, come on! Maybe he just fancies a night out. Are you trying to grow some kind of biological weapon here?’
I took the cup from her. Inside was a furry green forest. ‘Eeew. Sorry.’ I added it to her bin bag.
‘I know. But if that was the case wouldn’t he just go to the pub with his mates?’
Bea shrugged. ‘I don’t think it’s that big a deal. I mean, if I hadn’t told you what I’d heard would you even think twice about it?’
I thought hard. Of course I wouldn’t. Going to dull events was a legitimate part of Patrick’s job.
‘No.’
‘Well then.’
‘But you did tell me. That’s the difference.’
‘Do you want me to pick this up at lunchtime?’ Bea said, holding up a dry-cleaning ticket that I thought I’d lost weeks ago.
‘What? Oh, yes. Brilliant. Thanks. And could you get me a salad from Chopped? Mixed leaves, tomatoes, avocado …’
‘Radishes, spring onions, cheddar cheese and chick peas. Yes, I know. Pecan brownie? Skinny latte?’
‘Have I ever told you I love you, Bea?’ I said, laughing. ‘I mean in an appropriate boss/assistant kind of way.’
‘Many many times, but you can say it again.’
‘Oh, and maybe pick up the new Broadcast and get me a copy of Glamour? And see if those shoes you took in to get the heel fixed are ready.’
‘Sure.’
She carried on sifting through the debris. The pile she had earmarked for filing was starting to look like the leaning tower of Pisa. I brooded some more.
‘It’s the fact that it’s up in Birmingham. I can’t help wondering if he just wants an excuse to stay away for the night.’
Bea stopped what she was doing for a second. Looked up. ‘He’s staying the night?’
‘Apparently.’
‘But … what? You think he’s just hoping to get lucky?’
‘That’s exactly what I think.’
‘Seems a bit random.’
‘Big fish, small pond. Some ambitious third assistant working on Britain’s Smartest Caravan will be flattered by his attentions. I don’t know …’
‘You know what I think?’ she said. ‘I think you can read anything into anything. If you started scrutinizing anyone’s behaviour it would probably be open to all sorts of interpretation.’
‘You’re right. I need to do some work, take my mind off things.’
‘I’ll get out of your way,’ she said, tying up the now straining black bag. ‘What time do you want lunch?’
‘Oh, whenever. One?’
I knew she was right, knew I was probably fabricating a whole snowy mountain range out of a tiny bump in the grass, but that didn’t stop me going over and over it in my head while I tried to read through the contents of my inbox. I was relieved when Ashley stuck her head round the door and asked if I wanted a slice of Anne Marie’s Battenburg cake. Ever since the previous week’s episode of Bake Off I’d known the Battenburg was an inevitability. It was only a question of when.
‘Just a small one, thanks. Tiny.’
Ashley laughed. ‘Oh no, you don’t get away with it that easily.’
‘How much does it weigh?’
‘It’s like a collapsed star.’
‘Perfect.’
She hovered in the doorway. ‘Is there anything else you need while Bea’s out?’
‘Nothing. Thanks.’
In actual fact I did need someone to photocopy a budget I’d been sent to approve, but for some reason, even though Ashley works for all of us equally, I always save all my jobs for Bea. I feel more comfortable that way. I know they’ll get done properly.
Ashley smiled. ‘I’ll be back with the cake. I’ll be the one wearing a back brace.’
How can I describe my work mates so that you can adequately picture them? I know, I’ll see if I can ascribe them each a few key words or phrases to give you a shorthand. Just enough to allow you to create a sketch in your head.
Ian: forty-four. Prematurely greying. Prematurely balding. Glasses wearing. Fit, though – in the athletic sense of the word only. He runs marathons for fun.
Anne Marie: sixty-three. Short. Blondish bob with a fringe (in my opinion the new default blue rinse and set for the older woman. I have already decided to resist that hairdo till the day I die). She has the build of a small wiry terrier. I imagine she could have won a bar fight in her day.
Bea: thirty-one, as you know. Tall, slim, long brown mane, striking features (i.e., a bit of a big nose). The one on Next Top Model that they would describe as ‘editorial’.
Lucy: twenty-six. Also tall, also slim, also brunette. Chocolate-box pretty. The one on Next Top Model they would describe as ‘commercial’.
Ashley: twentysomething. The one who wouldn’t even get on Next Top Model. Normal height. Normal-looking girl. Hair. Eyes. Arms. Legs. All present and correct.
By the time Bea got back, my salad, magazines, dry cleaning and reheeled shoes in tow, I’d had time to think. I had A PLAN. It had popped into my head out of nowhere. I had examined it. Dismissed it as crazy. Thought it through again. Weighed up the pros and cons and gone over the many ways in which it might go wrong. On balance I had decided it was worth it. It was all I had anyway. I just had to get Bea to agree.
‘Sit down a sec,’ I said when she’d finished counting out the change from the thirty quid I had given her before she left.
‘Everything all right?’
‘Just hear me out. Don’t say anything till I’ve told you the whole thing.’
‘Oh God,’ Bea said, moving an old Costa carrier bag with the remains of breakfast inside out of the way so she could perch on the arm of the sofa. Crumbs fluttered onto the carpet and she leaned down to pick them up.
‘This doesn’t sound good. What have you done?’
Her nervousness made me laugh. It was so unlike her. ‘Nothing. Not yet anyway. And actually, even then, it won’t be me doing anything.’
I took a deep breath. Braced myself.
‘It’ll be you.’
Bea looked at me, eyes wide.
‘No Tamsin. Whatever it is, no.’
7
‘You’re talking about a honey trap.’
‘Technically, yes, I suppose so.’
Bea and I were still locked in fevered debate. I had laid out the details of my idea and she had laid out every objection she could come up with. I have to say I was starting to lose my resolve the more she pointed ou
t the pitfalls.
She sat back and folded her arms. ‘There’s no “technically” about it. That’s what it is.’
The scheme I had come up with was this. Patrick apparently could not resist a pretty face. Bea definitely had one of those. He was going to be at the Lifestyle Cable Choice Awards without his wife, and with an empty hotel room waiting for him upstairs. Surely, if the rumours were true, then if an attractive young woman basically offered herself up on a plate he would find it hard to say no? Bingo. Caught in the act. I would have the proof I needed to understand exactly what kind of a man my best friend’s husband had turned out to be and then … Well, I didn’t quite know what would happen then to be honest. I hadn’t got that far.
Some of Bea’s counterarguments had included:
‘What if he already has a woman lined up? Then you’d be none the wiser.’
‘What if he just doesn’t fancy me? However bad he is he can’t fancy everyone, right?
‘What if he works out who I am somehow?’
I tried to bat each one away. Even if he did already have an assignation set up, she might be able to spot who it was with, note some inappropriate behaviour on his part. She was gorgeous, what red-blooded man would be able to resist? (Well, that would prove nothing then, Bea snapped back. If any old man would go for it then Patrick would be no worse than the rest of mankind.) They had never met, never even spoken on the phone, why on earth would he rumble her?
‘What am I supposed to do if he goes for it? Are you asking me to sleep with him?’ She looked straight at me, nostrils flared. I knew I wasn’t handling this very well. If indeed there ever could be a good way to handle it.
‘No! God, no. What’s that phrase they use in the papers – you could just make your excuses and leave. But then we’d know. We’d have him.’
‘Honestly, Tamsin, you know I’d do anything for you. But this is too much. I’m sure it must be illegal or something.’
‘What? Propositioning a man at a party?’
‘I don’t know.’ She put her head in her hands. ‘Please don’t ask me to do this.’
I felt bad for her, I truly did. I knew I had overstepped a line in boss/assistant protocol. But I also knew – if I’m being really honest – that she would struggle to say no to me.
‘You don’t have to. Of course you don’t. It’s just … I have no idea what else to do.’
Bea laughed a nervous laugh. It didn’t sound very convincing. ‘How about nothing?’
‘What if it’s true, though?’
‘Why does it have to be me? Lucy’s hot …’
That one was easy. ‘You’re the only person I can trust.’
Bea let out a dramatic sigh. ‘I’m not sure I can pull it off.’
I saw a chink in the armour. ‘Of course you can. Wear that red bodycon dress you’ve got.’
‘I haven’t got a ticket. It might be sold out.’ I couldn’t help but notice the tiny glimmer of hope in her voice.
I had already addressed the ticket situation. Before I spoke to Bea I had called and enquired and been told that there were indeed tickets left. I’d got the feeling the man on the other end had wanted to say ‘loads’ or ‘hundreds’ or something like that. He’d certainly sounded disappointed when I’d said I didn’t need a plus one.
‘I doubt they’re sold out,’ I said now. ‘Let me call them. And I’ll pay, obviously. And for any expenses. Your fare and room and stuff.’
‘I don’t want to have to stay up there,’ she said, and I knew I’d got her.
‘It might be better. That way you can get ready in the hotel. Otherwise you’ll have to negotiate the train in your full slap and killer heels. At rush hour, too.’
We sat there in silence for a moment. I knew I had to wait for Bea to speak.
‘Shit.’ Pause. Silence. Nothing but the white noise from the overhead light. I held my nerve.
‘OK.’
I couldn’t quite believe it. ‘Oh my God. You’re an absolute star. I owe you.’
‘You need to tell me exactly what you want me to do. I mean, I don’t even know what he looks like for a start.’
‘You’ve got a few days. We’ll go over and over it, work out anything that could possibly go wrong and a way to handle it.’
‘And the point is to get him to make a pass at me. Invite me up to his room, something like that? I don’t have to do anything?’
‘God, no! Of course not. Just act like you’re up for it and see how he behaves.’
‘This is going to go so wrong.’
She was right, of course. My master plan had the potential to veer off course in a million different ways. I couldn’t even begin to factor in the variables that might mean we didn’t get a true reading.
‘It’s my only option,’ I said.
For the next couple of days pretty much all Bea and I spoke about was THE PLAN. We worked out a whole cover story for who she was and why she was there (a development person at a fictitious new independent company called Kismet, for some reason. Bea had wanted to call it Honey Trap Productions but I had vetoed that idea pretty swiftly), I had assured her there was bound to be a seating plan somewhere, so she could track down her prey, and I’d forced her to look at a hundred happy snaps of Patrick that I’d taken over the years.
‘She looks nice’ had been her response when the first one of him and Michelle together had popped up.
‘She is,’ I said. ‘She’s a sweetheart.’ I had spent the previous evening poring over the photos myself as I decided which ones to show to Bea. Michelle looked blissfully happy in all the pictures of the two of them together. I vowed to punish Patrick in a hundred different ways if I found out he’d cheated on her.
We had conceived endless scenarios in which Bea might introduce herself to Patrick: a spilt drink (‘Oh, I’m so sorry, let me get a cloth and wipe you down’); a case of mistaken identity (‘You look just like my friend Tom. I really thought you were him for a second there. Maybe you’re related?’); an all-out head-on assault (‘Can I sit down? You’re the only person here who looks halfway interesting’). Understandably, Bea had baulked at the latter.
‘Just imagine you really have seen someone you like the look of. What would you do?’
She pushed her sunglasses up her nose. We were sitting outside the frozen yoghurt shop during the pre-lunch lull. Cars chucked their toxic fumes at us as they idled at the lights.
‘I don’t know. Lurk about and hope they approached me I suppose.’
‘You might have to be more proactive on this occasion. Tell him you want to pitch him an idea, or ask if he likes cats or … ballroom dancing.’
‘Is he gay?’
‘Of course not. I’m just using examples. If all else fails, fall over in front of him. Or, even better, on top of him.’
‘Tell me things he’s into so I’ve at least got half a chance.’
‘Good idea,’ I said. ‘He’s a big retro fiend. Anything from the seventies and eighties.’
‘I could wear a ra-ra skirt. Or short tartan trousers,’ Bea said sarcastically. ‘Or, I know … carry a placard about the miners.’
‘Very funny. Just flutter your eyelashes at him. If he’s up there on the lookout it’s not going to take much.’
‘If I wind up getting arrested for soliciting it’s on you.’
She stabbed her plastic spoon into what was left of her Peanut Butter and Banana, then pulled it out and waved it at me. I wasn’t entirely convinced my bribe of a half-hour skive and a free frozen treat had won her over.
‘That’s easy for you to say.’
‘Honestly, Bea, you have no idea how grateful I am. This is above and beyond and all those things. I’ll make it up to you somehow, I promise.’
‘Maybe this is where I should ask for a pay rise.’ Bea laughed to let me know she was joking.
‘If it was just up to me I’d give you one, too. You can have the whole of Friday off, how’s that?’
Maybe I should stop for a moment and explain why Michelle’s happiness means so much to me. Why I would go to such ridiculous lengths to secure it. The fact is that I would do anything for Michelle. She might think I saved her that day on the bus, but the truth is she has saved me many times over.
I’m not just talking about the little things. The late-night phone calls, sympathetic ears or just simply being theres. I’m talking about the big stuff. The time when we got caught shoplifting (my idea. I wanted a pair of earrings from Top Shop really badly but I had no money) and she took the rap for it because my parents were a hundred times more strict than hers, or the time she got out of bed at three in the morning and drove halfway across London to pick me up after I’d lost my bag on a night out and had no way of getting home. Or the time she came to the clinic with me when I’d found out I was accidentally pregnant and I knew I couldn’t – shouldn’t – go through with it. She was the only person I told and, even though she already wanted a baby more than anything in the world, she never once tried to talk me out of it.
When we were fifteen my dad got a job in Sheffield. My two brothers had already left home, so it made no difference to them. I was presented with a fait accompli. A school had been chosen that would take me. We would move in the summer holidays. Telling a fifteen-year-old girl that she has to up and leave all her friends and move hundreds of miles away is not unlike telling a fifteen-year-old boy that he is never allowed to lock his bedroom door again. It’s like delivering a death sentence. I cried, I shouted, I sulked. My mum and dad were immoveable. And then Julian and Miriam stepped in and suggested that I could live with them in term-time if my parents were agreeable. I moved into their house – and into Michelle’s room – for the next three years. If we had been close before we were inseparable then. I became a part of their family. I would do anything for her.