My Single Friend

by Jane Costello

‘No, of course. But I am sorry, Roger. Honestly. I’m absolutely gutted. In fact—’

  ‘Lucy, I said let’s leave it,’ he interrupts. ‘Consider the matter closed.’

  I take another deep breath. ‘Thanks, Roger. You’re a great boss.’

  He rolls his eyes in a way I’m not at all comfortable with. Normally, Roger and I are as close as an employer and employee can get – in a purely above board way, obviously. I’ve always worked my socks off for him and, from the moment I started work here, Roger and I just clicked.

  This morning, for the first time, I feel as though the bond between mentor and student is shattered. I am now the office dunce, the weakest link. It’s a sensation I dislike intensely.

  ‘You said there was something else?’ he says, interrupting my thoughts.

  ‘Oh, yes. I’ve got a bit of an issue today.’

  As I explain the problem, I analyse his demeanour and become even more paranoid. His body language couldn’t be more negative if he was blowing raspberries.

  ‘So basically I need someone to act as back-up on one of the clients,’ I conclude. ‘The only question is – who?’

  ‘You’ll have to keep the games one,’ he replies decisively. ‘That’s the bigger client and there’ll be national media to look after.’

  ‘The games one’ is the UK launch of a new video game developed here in Liverpool. It’s been adopted by one of the world’s best-known gaming companies and will eventually be rolled out across the globe. As the city was chosen for the first phase of the launch, they needed an organization with local connections to help pull it together.

  ‘I understand what you’re saying but my worry is that the hospital is one of our biggest and longest-standing clients,’ I reply. ‘They’re also desperate to raise the profile of their new Chief Exec, so it’s vital the TV crews are persuaded to interview her. Plus, with a new boss in place, we’ve got to underline our worth as their lead agency.’

  ‘But that job’s more straightforward.’

  I nod reluctantly – not convinced, but with no alternative. Whoever inherits the hospital job had better be good.

  ‘Give the NHS one to Drew,’ Roger says, turning back to his computer.

  I hear a sharp intake of breath and realize it came from me. ‘Pardon?’

  He looks up again. ‘Come on, Lucy. Drew’s an account manager. He should be more than capable.’

  I bite my lip and nod. He should be more than capable. But if his performance on the Ernst Sumner account is anything to go by, he isn’t.

  I’ve never been able to work out why Roger can’t see Drew’s limitations. No, actually, I have: Roger’s a great boss in many ways but hasn’t exactly got his ear to the ground. As long as the company hits its targets, he’s happy. Which is fine usually, but at times like this I can’t help feeling resentful. Roger is entirely unaware that Ernst Sumner are on the verge of firing us because of Drew’s abysmal performance – and while part of me wants him to know for the sake of the company, I’d feel as if I was telling tales if I mentioned it. Besides, people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones and after last night’s performance, my glass house must dwarf the Louvre.

  ‘Okay,’ I say reluctantly. ‘Drew it is.’

  He nods and looks away, leaving me analysing his body language again.

  ‘If that’s all, Lucy, I’ve got a lot to do today,’ he says grumpily.

  ‘Of course, Rog,’ I reply, backing out of the door. ‘Um . . . how about when this is over we arrange that lunch we’ve been meaning to do?’

  He shifts in his seat. ‘Maybe. I’ve got a lot on at the moment.’

  As I skulk across the office, I can’t help wondering if my relationship with my boss will ever be the same again.

  Chapter 33

  Every time my mobile beeps this morning, I nearly leap out of my seat like it’s wired up to an electric current. This time, I rustle around my bag, praying – again – that Paul has texted me and I’ll have something to cheer me up.

  When I open it, it’s only from Henry. I feel a stab of disappointment.

  Hope u r feeling betr, and don’t 4get: at least yr speech was memorable. H xxx

  Despite everything, I smile. I’m torn between gratitude that I have a friend in Henry and despair that I evidently haven’t got a boyfriend in Paul.

  ‘I hear I’m being drafted in to save the day,’ announces Drew, sliding into his chair and manoeuvring his hand to its permanent resting-place between his legs. ‘Couldn’t cope on your own?’

  ‘My multi-tasking doesn’t stretch to being in two places at the same time.’ Then I rein myself in, reminding myself that he is helping me. ‘Look, thanks for stepping in. The hospital’s an important client, so I appreciate your help.’

  ‘Fine,’ he shrugs. ‘Oh, I heard about your speech last night. Shame I couldn’t be there. Your bit sounded like the highlight.’

  The temperature of my blood starts to rise, settling just below the melting point of lithium.

  ‘How did you get along with David Carruthers?’ he continues. ‘He’s one of my favourite clients.’

  I shiver. ‘Really? Did you meet at the same charm school?’

  ‘I suggested Lynette put you next to him on the seating-plan,’ he grins. ‘I thought you two would get along like a house on fire.’

  ‘Oh, did you?’ I try to keep my mouth shut but it requires so much effort I get toothache.

  ‘Hiya all! Hardly any post today, I’m afraid.’

  I look up and see that Little Lynette has had her spray tan topped up and is the colour of a well-soaked conker.

  ‘You’re looking very healthy, Lynette,’ says Drew, as he puts his hands behind his head and looks her up and down appreciatively.

  She giggles. ‘I’d never get away with saying I’ve been to Barbados, would I? I’ve been for my Fake Bake,’ she whispers to me. ‘J’ya know, Lucy, I’d recommend that salon in Whitechapel – they do it lovely and deep. Not like the last place I went to. I came back looking like Wednesday bloody Addams!’

  In fact, in the seven years I’ve known her, Little Lynette has never been a shade paler than chestnut.

  ‘It suits you,’ grins Drew. ‘But then, I can’t think of anything that wouldn’t suit you.’ She collapses into more giggles of delight.

  ‘You know,’ he continues, ‘it struck me the other day that I never see you in the Dog and Whistle after work, Lynette. How am I going to chat you up if you never come for a drink?’

  ‘The Dog and Whistle isn’t really my style,’ she says apologetically, referring to the fact that if you asked for a Cosmopolitan in the office local they’d send you to the newsagent’s.

  ‘Really?’ he says. ‘Not even on pub quiz night? Come on my team, Lynette, and I’ll show you what it’s like to be one of life’s winners. Have I told you I’ve been on the winning team of the North-west Pub Quiz of the Year competition for three years running?’

  ‘Not in the last ten minutes,’ I mutter.

  ‘You did mention it,’ says Lynette, looking impressed. ‘I’d love to be dead clever like that.’

  ‘I went to a good school,’ says Drew in an uncharacteristic attack of modesty.

  ‘Aren’t you lucky?’ she says dreamily. ‘I was never academic, I’ve got to be honest.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that, Lynette.’ He gazes down her top. ‘You’ve got many other attributes, of that there’s no doubt.’

  The rest of the day is spent pulling together the final pieces of the gaming launch and setting things up before the TV crews go to the hospital. Given that Drew is supposed to be looking after this client today, you might think this was his job. Instead, it is left to me to frantically get everything sorted: arrange times and places, brief personnel and beg my contact at the news station to interview Lena Williams, the hospital’s Chief Exec.

  Drew meanwhile twiddles with a press release not due until a week on Thursday and, to my disbelief, makes one call all afternoon – to the Journal bu
siness desk, asking again about the Ernst Sumner story that is yet to make it into the paper.

  By the time I leave for the launch I feel like a juggling octopus. But the preparation for both jobs is done and I am satisfied that all Drew has to do is turn up and babysit.

  It doesn’t stop me feeling twitchy – and not just because he’s as trustworthy as General Pinochet. TV crews are forever pulling out at the last minute to dash off to a breaking news story. Until their footage is in the bag, I’m not taking anything for granted.

  The launch is a whirlwind of activity: of harassed marketing people, nervous commercial directors, bemused technical people and tons of media. Which means that it goes off without a hitch. Because tons of media means tons of coverage – and a job well done.

  I get into my car with the Operations Director’s glowing words of thanks swirling round my head, but there is no way I can relax until I’ve reached Drew. I’ve been texting him for reassurance for the past hour and a half – with no response. As I reverse out of the car park, I put my phone on hands-free, dial his number and feel a swell of relief when he picks up.

  ‘How did it go?’ I ask hastily.

  ‘What kind of a greeting is that?’

  ‘Come on, Drew, tell me. Did the crews turn up?’

  ‘There’s no need to be so aggressive, Lucy.’

  ‘Drew, for God’s sake. Please tell me what happened this afternoon.’

  ‘Sorry, Lucy, I’m about to go into the tunnel. I’m going to lose you . . .’

  The phone goes dead. I spend twenty minutes trying and failing to get hold of him before I start to fear the worst. I try to reassure myself that I did everything I could; I planned it to the last detail. All he had to do was turn up. Surely even Drew can’t have buggered that up . . .

  Then I remember we’re talking about Drew. Roger may believe he’s brimming with potential, but as far as I’m concerned he’s brimming with something else altogether.

  I hit redial, but for the umpteenth time it goes to voice-mail.

  ‘Drew, listen . . . can you please phone back and let me know how it went? You know how important this client is to me. Come on, put me out of my misery!’

  I still haven’t heard from him by the time I swerve into our road, pull my car into the kerb and leap out of it. Our front gate is shut and, in a rash attempt to emulate Cagney and Lacey, I leap over it, stub my toe and hobble upstairs with a stoop like Mrs Overall.

  ‘Christ!’ exclaims Henry as I burst into the living room.

  ‘I’m in a rush, I’ll explain later,’ I tell him, snatching the remote and flicking on the television as the title music for the regional news starts.

  Chapter 34

  I needn’t have worried. The item is on fifteen minutes into the programme and it’s perfect. The crews turned up, produced a three-and-a-half-minute package (a marathon in TV news terms) and even interviewed Lena Williams, exactly as I’d pleaded with the producer to do.

  When the item is over, I lean back and close my eyes in relief.

  Then something strikes me: I ought to say thank you to Drew. Little of this was a result of anything he did, but he was the one on the ground today and not to say something feels petty.

  I pick up my BlackBerry and start typing. Drew – saw the piece and it was great. Thx again.

  I’m about to press send, when the BlackBerry flashes, showing that an email has arrived. When I open it, it’s from Roger to Drew. I am cc’ed.

  Drew, I watched the news and wanted to congratulate you on an excellent piece of work. This is particularly the case given it wasn’t your client. I understand it was important that their Chief Executive was interviewed – so to get her on screen for so long was a masterstroke. Your star is rising rapidly in this company. Many thanks, Roger.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I splutter. ‘Bloody, bloody hell.’

  ‘Something the matter?’ asks Henry.

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  He doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Okay, do ask.’ I’ve got to get this off my chest. I am halfway through the story, when the BlackBerry flashes again and I open it up. It is Drew’s response.

  Thanks, Roger, glad to know my efforts haven’t gone unnoticed! The client also seemed delighted with what I’d arranged! It makes all the hard work worthwhile! Drew.

  The addition of three cheery exclamation marks makes me want to drive to his house and take a bread-knife to his tyres.

  ‘What is it now?’ asks Henry, concerned.

  I sigh. ‘I think tonight might be a chocolate trifle night.’

  He smiles. ‘Fine. I’m celebrating anyway.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Rachel called. I’ve got a date.’

  Chapter 35

  It is more than a week since I heard from Paul and abundantly clear that another promising relationship is nestling miserably in my emotional wheelie-bin, awaiting collection.

  It’s so demoralizing. When did I become so unattractive? I’m sure I never used to be. What’s ironic is that my diet, with the exception of the chocolate trifle, has been going splendidly. If I stand in a certain position on the scales – on one foot and leaning slightly to the left – I’ve lost at least five and a half pounds, often more after I’ve been to the loo.

  ‘Lucy, you are not unattractive. On the contrary, you are gorgeous,’ Dominique tells me on the phone on the way home from work. I’ve been with her all day but this isn’t a conversation to be had in the presence of your colleagues. ‘Some men wouldn’t know a good thing if it hit them in the face.’

  ‘I haven’t tried hitting them in the face.’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend it,’ she laughs. ‘Seriously though, you mustn’t blame yourself for this. I mean, you played it cool this time, didn’t you?’

  ‘Ummm . . .’

  ‘What do you mean, “ummm . . .”’

  ‘I mean, yes,’ I say decisively. ‘I was an ice maiden.’

  ‘So you didn’t phone him?’

  ‘Ummm . . .’

  ‘Lucy! How many times?’

  ‘Twelve,’ I reply sheepishly. ‘Thirteen maybe. I’ve lost count.’

  ‘Good God,’ she says, taken aback. ‘I hope you did 1571 to make sure your number didn’t show up?’

  ‘Of course. I might be desperate but I’m not stupid.’

  ‘You are NOT desperate,’ she howls.

  ‘No, you’re right.’ I bang my fist on my steering-wheel. ‘Oh God, I hope you’re right. I don’t want to be desperate, honestly I don’t. It sounds so pathetic. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t getting worried. How can I not be? At this rate I can pencil in my next snog at about the time I’m starting the menopause.’

  ‘Here’s my advice, Lucy: forget about Paul. If he can’t see you as the fabulous, intelligent woman you are, then he needs a new pair of his own specs.’

  I nod, determined to feel determined again. ‘You’re right. If a man stands you up on a date and then doesn’t bother to phone you for more than a week afterwards . . .’

  ‘Then he’s a prize-winning prick,’ she finishes my sentence.

  ‘Quite right,’ I agree. ‘Even if he begged me to go out with him after this, I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Good girl,’ says Dominique, as if toilet-training a puppy.

  ‘Right – thanks. So, where are you and your hot date off to tonight?’

  Since meeting Justin, Dominique has been unusually absent. If I didn’t know any better I’d say she was looking dangerously like someone in the early stages of a proper relationship – a concept as alien to my friend as facial depilation to Father Christmas.

  ‘We thought we’d stay in and chill in front of the TV,’ she says casually.

  I pause to check I’ve heard her right. ‘That’s not like you.’

  ‘I know,’ she whispers, as if she can hardly believe it herself.

  Usually, Dominique’s idea of a date involves an expensive dinner à deux, a wild night on the tiles and then rampant carnal relati
ons at least until dawn the next day and often the day after.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah.’ She sounds weird. ‘Yeah, it is.’

  I narrow my eyes. ‘So how are things with Justin?’

  ‘You know, hon, good. Really good. He’s . . . I don’t know what to say. He’s lovely.’

  I almost swerve across the road in shock. I’ve never heard Dominique describe a man as ‘lovely’. It’s not in her vocabulary. ‘Well-hung’, yes. ‘Loaded’, no problem. But ‘lovely’? Something’s going on.

  ‘You really like him, don’t you?’

  There’s a silence.

  ‘I’d better dash – someone’s at the door,’ replies Dominique. ‘Don’t worry about your love-life, Lucy. You never know what’s round the corner.’

  When I arrive home, I throw my keys on the side table, then stop and smile. Classical music is melting through the apartment like warm caramel: Henry is playing the piano.

  As I quietly push open the living-room door, he is completely absorbed. I stand watching him, fondness sweeping through me. Sensing my presence, he stops and turns. ‘Hey, Luce – I didn’t see you there.’

  ‘Don’t stop on my behalf. What are you playing?’

  ‘Debussy. Clair de Lune.’ He starts up again. ‘Do you like it?’

  I throw myself on the sofa. ‘It’s gorgeous.’

  He stops again. ‘How about a newer one?’

  ‘Feel free.’ He launches into another piece.

  ‘Justin Timberlake? Henry, you’re such a smartarse. Nobody’s meant to be as good at as many things as you are.’

  ‘Not everything,’ he corrects. He doesn’t have to spell out what he’s referring to.

  ‘Well, all that’s about to change. Are you excited about your first date?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he replies. ‘I am.’

  For some reason I can’t quite put my finger on, I feel a stab of something I can only describe as – and I hate myself for this – jealousy. Jealousy that Henry, like Dominique, is about to go out with someone he really likes when I’ve been dumped again and will be stuck all by myself at home.