by Jane Green
‘He is a monster,’ I shriek, proffering my cardigan to Lucy, who groans and starts to clean it with an old dishcloth while screaming for Ingrid at the top of her voice.
A shadow falls in the hallway and I smile faintly, wondering how on earth an au pair girl can manage to look so immaculately groomed, my immediate second thought being how on earth Lucy can trust Josh with Ingrid in the house, because isn’t that always the classic scenario? Wife comes back to find husband in bed with young, nubile Scandinavian tottie?
Ingrid runs her fingers lazily through her hair and steps gingerly into the kitchen, which is when I notice that in between her blood-red toes are wads of cotton wool protecting her newly applied nail polish. So that’s what they do all day.
‘Were you calling me?’ Ingrid asks, which is quite an extraordinary question, given that Lucy has been shrieking her name for at least three minutes.
‘Ingrid. Yes. Look, would you mind keeping Max with you? Playing a game with him? Staying in the playroom? Something? Anything?’
Ingrid looks perplexed. ‘But I have just finished my nail polishing. I cannot play any games at the moment.’
Lucy stares, dumbstruck, at Ingrid’s feet. ‘Well, I’m not actually saying you have to play cops and robbers,’ she says finally, patience wearing thin, which is amazing, really, because Lucy has more patience than anyone I know. ‘What about a quiet game?’
Ingrid can see that she’s not going to win this one, so she shrugs and walks off down the corridor.
‘How do you put up with her?’ I whisper, when I’m sure the coast is clear.
‘Oh, she’s all right. Rather sweet, actually. She just seems to be obsessed with clothes and make-up. Maxy adores her, and that’s all I care about.’
‘So the fact that she doesn’t really like Max doesn’t bother you.’
‘She does like Max.’ Lucy grins. ‘She just has a funny way of showing it.’
‘And don’t you worry about having someone like that in the house?’
‘Worry? Why on earth would I worry?’
‘Well, how does Josh get on with her?’ Lucy looks at me, confused, and then starts to roar with laughter.
‘Oh, Cath. Darling, Cath. Now that is funny. Josh and Ingrid! Ingrid and Josh!’
‘So glad I’ve amused you,’ I say grumpily, wondering what the joke is.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lucy says finally, giving my hand a squeeze. ‘It’s just that it had never occurred to me. I didn’t know what you were talking about. As far as Josh is concerned, Ingrid’s a naïve young girl, far away from home, who’s doing a fairly good job of looking after Maxy.
‘And as for Ingrid, she probably thinks Josh is old enough to be her father. Oh dear, Cath. You have made me laugh. Anyway,’ she says, slipping her glasses on and sitting opposite me at the table, pulling a large notebook towards her. ‘I’ve been trying out recipes for weeks, so here’s the final list.’ She passes me a copy.
‘These sound amazing, Lucy.’
‘I’ve made each one personally, just to check, and I’ve done a bit of experimentation and come up with some new ones. I know the virtually fat-free, sugar-free, chocolate-chip banana muffins are probably desperately unhealthy, but they taste delicious and I’m sure they’ll be a winner.’ Lucy looks at me closely, then takes off her glasses again.
‘I thought you might give me a pre-session opinion. Well? Will you?’
‘You’ll finally allow me to have a taste?’ My eyes light up.
Lucy laughs and goes to the fridge. ‘Your mother must have adored you,’ she says. ‘Other than myself, I’ve never met anyone who loves their food as much as you do.’
‘I know,’ I say regretfully, mouth already full of delicious chocolate-chip banana muffin. ‘I just wish it wasn’t quite so obvious.’
‘What are you talking about?’
I start to laugh. ‘Having a face stuffed with chocolate muffin is not the time to start bemoaning a weight problem, is it.’
‘Weight problem?’ says Lucy, who’s no stick insect herself. ‘What weight problem? You’re a woman, Cath, and that’s what women are supposed to look like. You’re gorgeous and I don’t ever want to hear you say anything else. And anway, that muffin, remember, is virtually fat-free.’
Amid sounds of ecstasy I finish the muffin, only to see Lucy looking at me sadly.
‘Oh, Christ,’ I say. ‘What’s the matter? You look like you’re about to cry.’
Lucy shakes the expression off her face. ‘No, no. I was just thinking how wonderful it is that we’re finally fulfilling this dream, and the only thing that would make this complete would be if you found yourself a wonderful man. I just don’t understand why you haven’t got anyone. Josh doesn’t understand it either.’
‘I’m really not that interested,’ I say, slightly disturbed that she and Josh have spoken about this, although I’m not surprised. ‘I’m quite happy with you, Josh and Si.’
‘I know,’ she says with a smile. ‘That’s what worries me.’
Chapter eight
Sundays have always been my take it easy day. The one day when I’ll allow myself a lie-in, scooping up the papers to take out to brunch with the rest of the gang.
But today Josh and Lucy are taking Max to friends in the country, and Si is all loved up with Will, so there won’t be a brunch. Instead, Si has decided that Will is definitely more than a fling, and that therefore it is time to seek my approval, so Si has decided he will bring Will over for tea.
I did say that tea might be better at his house, particularly given that Si’s flat is so much nicer than mine, but they are going antiquing – ‘revoltingly coupley’, said Si, with glee I might add – and Si has decided they will come over on their way home.
I do not understand how, in the space of two weeks, Si has found someone with whom he can go antiquing. Isn’t that the prerogative of long-term couples? Of people who are used to one another, who know all of one another’s foibles?
But perhaps I shouldn’t be so surprised, because Si has always done this. He always decides, within minutes, that this time he has met the right one, and instantly attempts to create the intimacy, the level of comfort, that you don’t usually have for at least six months. And of course this always frightens them away. I hope this time it’s different. I hope that Will could turn out to be someone special, and I suspect that after this afternoon I’ll have a pretty clear idea of his intentions.
*
I clamber out of bed, pull on a pair of tracksuit bottoms, a baggy sweater and trainers, and shake my hair out on the way to the bathroom to get washed.
I know what Si’s expecting. He’ll be expecting Mr Kipling’s finest, but today I’m going to surprise him. I plan to put on a proper English tea. Not quite scones and cream, but certainly cucumber sandwiches.
And, oddly enough, I’m in the mood for baking. Not that I actually know how to, but, in his quest to turn me into something vaguely resembling a female, Si has bought me a few cookery books over the years, and before I leave I pull out a few and look at the recipes.
Chocolate sponge. Not too difficult. I list the ingredients, shove the piece of paper in my pocket, and walk up to Waitrose.
‘Oh my God!’ Si’s mouth is hanging open with shock, as Will and I stand in the doorway, watching him with amusement.
‘Catherine Warner, I do not believe this.’ Si’s frozen by the coffee table, on which are piled plates of dainty cucumber sandwiches, a teapot that rarely sees the light of day, and delicate bone china cups and saucers.
Si sniffs. ‘Something smells good too. What have you made?’
‘Shit!’ I run back into the kitchen just in time to stop the chocolate sponge from burning. Si follows me in.
‘Well?’ he whispers. ‘What d’you think? Do you like him?’
‘Si!’ I start laughing. ‘Give me a chance. I’ve just said hello to him.’
‘But what does your gut tell you?’
‘That I’m hungry.’
<
br /> ‘Oh, come on. Seriously.’
‘Si, I honestly have no idea. I know you think I’m a witch, but my powers only start working after twenty minutes, okay? Ask me again in twenty minutes.’ Si makes a face at me before dashing back into the living room to look after Will.
I bring the cake in, to find Si sitting on the sofa next to Will, holding hands and looking like a match made in heaven. They do look good together – Will has floppy blond hair and classic good looks, but, and I would never say this to Si at this stage because I’m not even sure why I think this, but I’m not sure Will is someone I would trust.
Not that there’s any reason for it. He was perfectly charming when we shook hands, but there’s something hard and cold behind his eyes, and I am pretty damn certain that Si’s going to come out of this one very hurt.
‘Tea?’ I start to pour for Will, who says, ‘Actually, do you have Earl Grey?’
‘You’re lucky she’s got PG Tips, her kitchen’s so badly stocked,’ laughs Si, while I apologize frantically for not having Earl Grey, suddenly feeling very inadequate at only being able to offer boring old breakfast tea.
‘Sandwich?’ I pass the plate to Si, who greedily shoves one in his mouth while putting another three on his plate, and then watch as Will takes one sandwich and puts it on his plate, which he then places on the floor.
Does this man think I have fleas?
‘So,’ I say, rubbing my hands together because suddenly there seems to be an awkward atmosphere, which is ridiculous given that Si is one of my best friends. ‘Did you find anything good today?’
‘I found a wonderful Victorian washstand,’ Will says. ‘So beautiful and he took a good offer, so a bit of a win for me.’
‘Si?’
‘Nah.’ Si shakes his head, as Will starts laughing.
‘He was trying to buy a huge Victorian dresser, but it was obviously repro.’
Will looks smug, and I wonder what gives him the right to patronize Si in this way, because it certainly does appear to be patronizing, even though Si doesn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps simply chooses to ignore it.
‘Will knows far more than I do,’ Si says finally, deferring to his new partner. ‘About antiques, that is. Not much else.’ Si gives Will an affectionate squeeze, but this last comment doesn’t seem to go down all that well with Will.
‘So, Will. What do you do, then?’ Now I really hate asking that question. Not because I’m not interested in what people do, but because it really does epitomize small talk, which I loathe and detest because it is all so meaningless. Very occasionally you will ask that question to discover that the askee has a fascinating job, and you, the asker, can then fall into a deep discussion with them for hours. But more often than not they’ll say something like, ‘I work in computer programming’ or ’I’m a lawyer’, and you quickly have to think of more questions that you don’t really want to know the answers to, except you don’t want to appear rude. ‘Oh?’ you ask, feigning interest. ‘What sort of law? What sort of computer programs?’
‘He works in PR,’ Si says impatiently. ‘Remember? I told you.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’ I try to think of the next question. ‘Who do you work for?’
‘I’m the Head of Press at Select FM.’
‘Really? How interesting!’ I strive for enthusiasm, trying to catch Si’s eye to make a slight face, but Si’s too busy gazing at Will in rapt adoration.
‘It’s actually a huge responsibility, but I enjoy it.’
‘How long have you been there?’ Jesus, this is like pulling teeth.
‘I joined two years ago as a Senior Press Officer, and when the Head of Press left I was the obvious choice.’
‘Right. Select is incredibly popular,’ I say, remembering all the features I’ve read recently about their new image. ‘You do a wonderful PR job. How many people are on your team?’
‘We’ve got four people working across the group, all of whom report directly to me.’
‘He’s very important,’ Si says, pride shining out of every pore. ‘Aren’t you?’
Will shrugs, too full of his own self-importance to give an answer.
Si leans forward and helps himself to more sandwiches.
‘Have some,’ I encourage Will, because if they don’t go I’ll be eating cucumber bloody sandwiches for the next week.
‘I’m fine,’ Will says disdainfully, still not having touched the sandwich on his plate.
‘Oh God,’ Si groans. ‘I’ll have to make a confession now. I’m sorry, Cath, but we went out for a huge lunch. That’s why Will can’t eat anything.’
Right, I want to say, and why can’t Will speak for himself, but I know Si’s just trying to protect him.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, ‘not a problem,’ although if this lunch were so huge, how come Si can still manage to stuff himself?
‘You know,’ I look at Will, suddenly interested, ‘I know someone who works for Select.’ Si looks thrilled: if I have a friend there he can find out everything he wants to know in one easy phone call. ‘Alison Bailey?’
‘Of course I know Alison,’ Will says. ‘How do you know her?’
‘God, I’ve known her for years. We used to work together at an ad agency before she switched sides and moved into sales. She’s pretty senior now, isn’t she?’
Will lets out a short barking laugh. ‘She’s the Deputy Sales Director. So not that senior.’
I wish I could tell you that it got better. It didn’t. It got worse. Even Si started to look vaguely uncomfortable and took the first opportunity he could to whisk me into the kitchen.
‘You just hate him, don’t you?’
I sigh and look at my lovely friend, wishing I could like Will, wishing, at the very least, I could lie about it, but I just can’t. But nor can I be entirely honest.
‘He seems very nice.’ I grit my teeth.
‘Oh, come on, sweets. You can do better than that. Be honest. Tell me what you really, really think?’
‘Really really?’
‘Really really.’
‘Even if you might not like what I have to say?’
‘If I can’t rely on my best friend to tell me the truth, who can I rely on?’
‘Okay.’ I take a deep breath. ‘It’s just that he seems a bit arrogant.’ I pause, checking that Si’s okay with this. ‘And you know that arrogance doesn’t go down particularly well with me.’
‘He’s not usually like that,’ Si whispers quickly, watching the door to make sure Will doesn’t surprise us both by coming in. ‘I swear, Cath. I haven’t seen him like this before.’
‘So you mean even you think he’s a bit of a wanker today, then?’ I say, smiling.
‘I didn’t say that. I just meant that he’s normally very laid-back.’
‘And you know that because you know him so well.’
‘Now who’s being catty? Anyway, more to the point, how well do you know Alison Bailey?’
‘Do you mean do I know her well enough to ring her up and get her to dish the dirt on your friend Will?’
Si idly traces a finger along the kitchen table and looks at the floor. ‘Maybe,’ he finally concedes.
‘Okay,’ I say, as his face lights up and he gives me a big kiss. ‘I’ll ring her when you’ve gone.’
‘Find out everything,’ Si says. ‘And I mean everything.’
‘Cath? Christ, I haven’t spoken to you for ages. How are you?’
‘I’m really well. How are you?’
‘Oh, you know, same old Alison, same old life.’
There’s an awkward silence, because, much as I like Alison, we both know that I wouldn’t be phoning just for a chat, because we hardly ever see one another these days, and there has to be a point. I now have a choice: I can either beat around the bush and ask about her family, her job, whether she has a man in her life, or I can come straight to the point.
I come straight to the point.
‘I’ll tell you why I’m ringing,’ I
start. ‘I’ve just had your Head of Press over for tea, and I wondered what you thought of him.’
There’s a silence. Then: ‘You’ve had Will Saunders to your flat for tea?’
‘Umm. Yes. Why?’
Another silence. Then: ‘He’s a cunt.’
And I have to tell you, I nearly drop the phone. Not just because of the abruptness of her response, but the ‘c’ word is not one I employ in everyday conversations. In fact, I can’t even remember the last time I heard it, let alone used it.
And Alison is possibly one of the straightest people I know. She’s so bloody sensible she makes Mary Whitehouse look rebellious.
‘You are joking,’ I venture, still shocked at her language.
‘Nope,’ she says. ‘And I can’t believe you entertained him in your house. God, you should have told me. I would have come round and put arsenic in the sandwiches.’
‘Why do you hate him so much?’
‘How long have you got? I’ll tell you this, though. When Will Saunders chooses, he can be the most charming man you’ve ever met. I suppose he charmed you senseless?’
‘Well, no, actually, I thought he was slightly arrogant, to put it mildly.’
‘He’s an egocentric, self-obsessed, nasty piece of work.’
I let out a long whistle. ‘You really have a problem with him, don’t you?’
‘Every single person here has a problem with him. This place is run by a guy who adores him, which is the only reason he got the job. Two of the girls on his team are really good friends of mine, and he’s a bullying bastard. One of them had to take three weeks off work due to nervous exhaustion.’
‘Why don’t they just tell him to piss off?’
‘You can’t. I’ve seen first-hand what he does. First of all he pretends to be your best friend, and then boom. Suddenly he’s phoning you at home, every night, screaming at you, telling you you’ve fucked up, patronizing you, saying that you’re the worst publicist they’ve ever had.’