My Single Friend

by Jane Costello

  I stumble forwards, my high heels wobbling as I clatter between tables. I reach the stage and begin to negotiate the four steps up to the podium as if conducting a high-wire act. Miraculously, I reach the top in one piece, snatch the award from the presenter, kiss him on the cheek and scuttle behind the lectern, which I grip for dear life in an attempt to halt my cardiac-fit style trembling. I can hear my teeth chattering and pray that the mike won’t pick it up.

  I gaze across the sea of expectant faces and vow that I will not freeze. I cannot freeze. I can’t let my company, Roger, or indeed myself down.

  Yet have I ever stood before such a terrifying sight? I don’t think so.

  ‘Would you like to say a few words, Miss . . .?’ asks the presenter, clearly wishing I’d get on with it.

  ‘Um, yes.’ I clear my throat.

  I try to think of something to say. Something strong, memorable, witty – something that will make everyone in the room want to hire Peaman-Brown immediately. Yet I can’t think of anything. God Almighty, why can’t I think of anything?

  Then I get a surge of inspiration: I’ll do that old trick and imagine everyone in the room naked. Yes!

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. When I open them, everyone is starkers – every last one. It’s not a pretty sight. In fact, it’s a bloody awful sight. But it works . . . it really works!

  ‘This is a huge honour for a company such as ours,’ I tell the audience, surprising myself at how convincing I sound. ‘We’ve achieved a great deal of success in recent years – winning some of the best clients in the region and recruiting the most talented staff. This prestigious award is recognition of the immense hard work carried out by a brilliant team of people.’

  This is going quite well.

  I ponder my next sentence and smile at a woman in the front row. Like the others, she is completely nude, and has such pendulous boobs you’d think she’d spent the last seventy years breastfeeding.

  ‘There is, however, another person who should be accepting this award. Someone who wasn’t able to come up here tonight – and has instead rather landed me in it.’

  The audience chuckles, to my relief and satisfaction. A man a few tables to the left who’s had too much to drink continues laughing after everyone else. I’d find it intimidating if he was wearing anything more than a dickie bow and Mr Men socks.

  ‘The person who should be here is the driving force behind Peaman-Brown’s success. A man who’s great to work with and a truly inspirational boss . . .’

  I’m building to the crescendo of announcing Roger’s name, when the guy with the Mr Men socks uncrosses his legs, leaving me with an unpleasant eyeful of his tackle.

  ‘My Managing Director . . .’

  I desperately try to shake the image of sock Man’s willy, but for some reason I am mesmerized by it.

  ‘Roger . . .’

  The only thing I can concentrate on is his . . .

  ‘. . . Penis.’

  I wait for the next round of applause but, bafflingly, the room is silent. Then people start laughing. Laughing uncontrollably. And not a single one of the buggers is clapping.

  Deciding to make a sharp exit, I sprint across the stage and stumble down the steps as my face burns so wildly I’m surprised I don’t set off an alarm. When I return to my seat, everyone on the table looks stunned, including Henry.

  ‘Why was that so funny?’ I feel tears prick in my eyes.

  Henry looks surprised.

  ‘Don’t you realize what you said?’ He looks as if he’s about to break the news of a bereavement.

  ‘What?’

  He shifts in his seat and leans over to say something quietly.

  ‘Lucy, you called your boss Roger Penis.’

  ‘Roger Peaman,’ I repeat.

  ‘Not Peaman, Penis,’ he hisses.

  ‘Peaman,’ I repeat. ‘I called him Roger Peaman. That’s his name.’

  ‘No, Lucy. You didn’t. You called him Roger Penis.’

  I start shaking my head, but I’m so numb I can barely feel it. ‘No,’ I croak. ‘I couldn’t have. I couldn’t.’

  Henry puts a kindly hand on my arm and I look up and see that Roger has returned. Holding up the award, I smile at him in a weak attempt to look triumphant. But the expression on his face would indicate that my boss is not in a jubilant mood.

  Chapter 30

  ‘Roger, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I really am desperately sorry.’

  Roger takes another gulp of wine.

  ‘Let’s forget it, Lucy, shall we?’ His tone doesn’t reveal whether he’s planning to forgive me or kill me and bury my remains under the company stationery cupboard. ‘We’ll talk about it at work tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re not going to sack me, are you? Oh God, Roger, please don’t sack me. I beg of you. I love this job. I love the company. I love you, Roger. I’d do anything to—’

  ‘Lucy, stop it. Please.’

  I think I’m about to cry. Again.

  It turns out that Roger had stepped out to take a phone call from his mother’s nursing home. She’s had a spate of funny turns recently and he won’t take any chances – even if, like this time, she’s just phoning to request he brings over a new M&S nightie.

  ‘I’m not going to sack you,’ Roger sighs. ‘Fortunately for you, your clients would object too much. Of course, how impressed they’ll continue to be after their PR company’s MD has been called a bloody great cock, I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh God, Roger, I’m so sorry,’ I wail, throwing my head onto the table.

  Henry appears at my side.

  ‘Take her home, will you?’ Roger says to him. ‘Please, just get her out of here.’

  Henry hoists me up.

  ‘It’s probably time we left,’ Henry says softly. ‘Dominique said she’d see you in the morning. One of her clients insisted they go on to a club, but she said not to worry. Shall we go and get a cab?’

  I nod miserably. ‘I need the loo first.’

  I reach the ladies and hover in the toilet forlornly, almost too ashamed to emerge afterwards. When I finally do, Rachel is at the mirror reapplying her make-up.

  ‘You okay?’ She sucks in her cheeks as if entering a decompression chamber and swirls blusher on each side.

  I nod. ‘Still hoping I’m not going to be sacked, but fine apart from that.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it,’ she tells me, picking up her mascara. ‘Everyone’s had so much to drink they’ll barely remember it.’

  ‘Well, thanks,’ I force a smile. ‘But I suspect they might. All I want to do is go home and curl up under my bed. Until next Christmas, preferably.’

  Rachel pauses mid-swipe of her mascara wand and looks at me in alarm. ‘You’re not going, are you?’

  ‘Well . . . yes.’

  ‘Right,’ she nods, trying to look casual but failing miserably. ‘Is Henry going too?’

  ‘Yes, we’re about to flag down a cab, but . . . why?’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ she replies, looking at me meaningfully.

  I’m stumped. ‘No – what?’

  Now she frowns. ‘You and he aren’t an item, are you? He told me you were just friends and I assumed—’

  ‘No, we are just friends. Hang on – you don’t like Henry, by any chance, do you?’

  Rachel goes into meltdown. ‘Like him? God, how could anyone not like him? He’s gorgeous. I don’t know how you can live with somebody who looks like that and keep your hands off him. He’s so good-looking – and intelligent too. I didn’t think they made men like that. Not in real life. Not the whole package like he is.’ This panegyric is delivered with barely a breath between each word.

  ‘The whole package?’ I ask, astonished.

  ‘He is single, isn’t he? He told me he was.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘God, what are the chances of that!’ Rachel nearly collapses with joy. ‘Tell me, do you think I should ask him out? You know him
better than I do. Would he think that was brazen?’

  I stand back and look at Rachel. At her glossy chestnut hair, glowing skin, luscious lips, impeccable dress sense. I shake my head. ‘No, I don’t think he’d consider it brazen. I think he’d be delighted.’

  ‘Do you really think so? Oh God, thanks! Do I look all right?’

  ‘You look fabulous,’ I reply, thinking how much better Henry’s night is turning out to be than mine.

  Chapter 31

  ‘Would you really have rescued me?’ I sniff in the taxi. ‘You know – gone up and collected the award in my place?’

  Henry shrugs. ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘But you don’t know the first thing about PR. What would you have said?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he muses. ‘Something vague like “Every organization needs PR as much as . . . ER . . . or R and R”.’

  I burst out laughing. ‘You’d have fitted in well. There was a lot of bullshit in those speeches.’

  ‘I enjoyed myself,’ he confesses.

  ‘I bet you did. Got Rachel’s number, did you?’

  He smiles self-consciously. ‘Hard to believe, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not at all. You need to buy into your own hype, Henry.’

  He lowers his eyes. ‘Yes, well . . . let’s see if she phones.’

  ‘She’ll phone.’ I’ve never felt more confident of anything in my life. ‘But to go back to my original point, I wish I’d let you rescue me. If had, I wouldn’t have made the worst acceptance speech since someone thanked their chiropodist at the Oscars.’

  He suppresses a smile.

  ‘Except, I can’t let you rescue me all the time, can I?’ I moan. ‘I need to stand on my own two feet.’

  ‘It’s not as though you’ve never rescued me,’ he replies.

  ‘Have I?’ I stare at him, puzzled. ‘I don’t remember rescuing you from anything.’

  ‘Course you have. Let me think . . . Colomendy, 1994. There’s a good example.’

  I grope around in my long-term memory for Colomendy, 1994, before the penny eventually drops. ‘I’d forgotten about that.’

  Colomendy was an outdoor activity camp in North Wales that played host to ‘city kids’ like us at least once during our school career – twice if we were unlucky. No, ‘unlucky’ isn’t fair – it wasn’t that bad. But it is fair to say that memories of the first trip away from Mum and Dad are bittersweet for most of us.

  There was some good stuff: midnight feasts, country walks and missing school for three days. On the flipside though were the kids from the tougher schools, the putrid dinners and more mud than you’d find in the Dead Sea.

  For eleven-year-old Henry, there was also Andy Smith. I’d like to say that Andy had matured into a charming, sensitive boy since the days when he used to steal Henry’s homework books. Sadly, as we discovered the day of the obligatory cross-country race, the opposite was true.

  ‘Who’s signing up for the big race?’ called Mr Rogers, the Geography teacher. Mr Rogers was one of those trendy teachers, fancied by all sixth-formers because he wore hooded sweatshirts and was oft-spotted in HMV on a Saturday.

  ‘Go on, Henry.’ I nudged him as we sat on a wall sharing a bag of cola bottles large enough to prompt a diabetes outbreak.

  ‘Hmmm . . . maybe.’

  ‘What do you mean, maybe? I’ve seen you run and it’s like watching someone with a firework up their bum. You’ve got to be in with a chance of winning.’

  ‘I’m happy here,’ he shrugged.

  ‘Don’t be daft. Our school’s hardly got any decent runners. We’ll look like a bunch of losers if you don’t.’

  It was obvious from the look on Mr Rogers’ face that he didn’t consider Henry a potential winner. Although I knew he could run like the proverbial off a shovel, he kept his skills to himself and had never signed up for the running club. He never would, as long as Andy Smith was Captain of our year.

  ‘I’ll cheer you on,’ I added encouragingly.

  He hesitated and stepped down from the wall. ‘I’d better get my shorts on then.’

  ‘Yeah, give us all a laugh, mate,’ jeered Andy, when Mr Rogers was out of earshot. ‘Are they the ones with the stripes? You are so uncool.’

  By the time Henry was at the startline, the competition was more intense. Not only had Andy signed up; so, it appeared, had every hard-knock in the north of England. I was looking at Fagin’s gang in Diadora tracksuits.

  ‘Come on, Henry!’ I shouted from the sidelines as he disappeared into the woods with throngs of other competitors to complete four circuits – about two miles – before emerging and heading for home. I waited at the finish with the other too-lazy or too-slow kids, and it seemed to go on for ever. Or perhaps that was a reflection of how tense I was, desperate for Henry to prove himself.

  When the front-runners finally appeared, it sent the crowd into a frenzy. Four were way ahead of the others: two kids at the front from St Peter’s – a rival school – Andy in third place and Henry right behind him.

  ‘Come on, Henry, you can do it!’ I squealed.

  As the final four approached the finish line, Henry looked up and got a surge of energy. He whizzed past Andy, past the hard kid in second and, after a nailbiting few moments when he was neck-and-neck with the leader, sailed across the finish line as if he’d barely broken a sweat.

  The best part was the cheering: scores of kids yelling Henry’s name.

  ‘You’re a hero!’ I screeched excitedly.

  ‘Give over, Lucy.’ He blushed, but he knew it was true. God, I was happy for him.

  After the race, everyone was supposed to head for the canteen for dinner but I’d forgotten something from my bunk and left Henry being congratulated by teachers and pupils alike. I can’t remember what it was – just that the diversion made me late. As I headed to the canteen, hoping to slip in unnoticed, I saw something that immediately raised my suspicions.

  I hid behind one of the sheds as Andy emerged from the shower block and sprinted across the grass, carrying what looked like a bundle of washing. He threw the clothes over the fence just into the muddy, cowpat-ridden field next to him, then picked up a stick and jabbed it through, smearing his bundle until it was nicely coated in the recently discharged contents of a bovine bowel. He chucked the stick to the ground and left.

  As I approached the spot, I could tell almost immediately who the clothes belonged to, since nobody else would own a shirt in that shade of green unless they were colour blind.

  Under normal circumstances, I’d have picked up the clothes and returned them to the block. Unfortunately, they were covered in enough cow dung to keep a field of leeks fertilized through the year. I was furious; my first instinct was to storm to the food hall and confront Andy myself. Then I remembered Henry. I ran to the shower block.

  ‘Hello?’ I called out tentatively.

  ‘Lucy!’ His head appeared from one of the windows. ‘Oh, thank God. This is really embarrassing, but—’

  ‘Someone pinched your clothes,’ I finished for him. ‘It was Andy Smith, the nasty little sod. Clearly couldn’t cope with being beaten. He’s got a problem. Do you know, I ought to—’

  ‘Lucy?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could you get me some clothes?’

  ‘Oh. Course I can.’

  Fortunately, as everyone was at dinner, I was able to sneak to the boys’ dormitory and get Henry some clean clothes from his bag. But by the time we walked into the canteen twenty minutes late, Andy had shared the details of his little act with his clique. We sat at the end of a bench with our sloppy mashed potato, limp green beans and leather boot soles (or ‘roast beef’, as the dinner ladies claimed, though they didn’t fool us), as their snide laughter catapulted through the room. Henry put on a brave face but I know it took the shine off his victory. How could it not have?

  I’m happy to say that Henry didn’t have to put up with the bullying for much longer. The following term, Andy’s parents moved
him to a private school – something he spent weeks boasting about before he went – and that was the last we saw of him. Life became a lot easier as a result.

  Of course, Henry was never going to be Mr Popular overnight – he was still too shy, still too weird. But his social leprosy became less acute after his triumph at Colomendy. So I suppose this is what he means when he says I rescued him, though I’m certain it can’t be attributed to me.

  I’m also certain of something else: that I’m going to feel like total crap tomorrow morning.

  Chapter 32

  I know I’ve hit rock bottom at work when I find myself wondering whether staying at home watching Jeremy Kyle would be a better alternative.

  My hangover is nothing compared with the burning, shameful memory of last night. Or the fact that Roger has refused to look at me all morning. Or that my speech is reported – word for word – in the business gossip section of one newspaper (picture caption: All present and erect . . . Lucy Tyler, who paid tribute to Peaman-Brown owner ‘Roger Penis’).

  On top of this, a problem has emerged: two TV stations have finally agreed to a ‘behind the scenes’ piece with one of my clients, a hospital. I’ve been pitching the idea for weeks so, under normal circumstances, I’d be delighted. The problem is, they want to go today, to coincide with the publication of an NHS report – at exactly the time I’m running a major product launch for another client. Both are too important to delegate, yet I can’t be in two places at once. My only option is to raise it with Roger.

  I take a deep breath as I knock on his open door and smile nervously. Roger looks up from his computer and visibly stiffens. He looks as cheerful as a battery hen.

  ‘Got a minute, Rog?’

  ‘Come in,’ he replies as I enter the room and shut the door behind me. ‘If this is about last night . . .’

  ‘It’s not,’ I say, and immediately wonder if it ought to be. ‘Well, that’s obviously one of the things I wanted to talk to you about, but—’

  ‘Let’s not dwell on it.’ He has a weary look on his face, as if he’s trying to forgive me, but it’s causing him physical pain to do so.