You Had Me at Hello

by Mhairi McFarlane

  ‘Here,’ he says, jabbing at an extra large announcement in 16pt font, blocked off in a thick black border.

  ‘Desperately seeking Dick,’ it reads. ‘Zoe Clarke of the Evening News is looking, without success. If you have any information about where she can find Dick, please call –’ and a mobile number follows. ‘She will pay extremely well for information leading to Dick.’

  ‘Ingenious. What a way with words. Who did this?’ I ask.

  The gangly lad sniggers, shrugs. ‘She’s got on someone’s wick, obviously.’

  ‘It’s really unnecessary,’ I say, and all of a sudden I know why Gretton was so unnaturally buoyant. ‘How did you know about this?’

  ‘It’s all round the office at yours. Someone called with a tip-off.’

  I flip through the rest of the paper and see a double page on the liposuction story, which yielded two guilty verdicts for the doctors, though the nurse got off. It uses the backgrounder and it all bears my byline, no Zoe, despite the first eight paragraphs being solely her work. I scan the ad a second time and go in search of Zoe in court, coming up empty until I spy her through the front windows.

  ‘Please don’t laugh, I’ve been piss-ripped all day. I’ve had heavy breathing calls and I’ve had enough,’ she says, dragging on a fag with the hunger of a former expert who’s fallen off the wagon with a thud.

  ‘I’m not going to laugh, I think it’s horrible. Have you complained to news desk? It shouldn’t have gone in.’

  ‘Yeah, Ken said it made us look like tools and called ad services to have a go about how they should’ve put their brains in gear when it was booked, but that’s all. And what’s the point anyway? We all know who’s to blame.’

  ‘If it was Gretton, I’m going to kick his whiskery arse into Stockport for you.’

  ‘It’s got to be him.’

  I nearly say ‘Unless you’ve annoyed anyone else?’ and think better of it.

  ‘Very likely.’

  ‘It’s nice to speak to someone who doesn’t think it’s funny.’

  ‘It’s not. Gretton’s a vindictive sod. And thanks for putting my byline on the lipo case. You should’ve made it a joint byline, you did loads.’

  Zoe looks surprised, mind still elsewhere.

  ‘Sure. The backgrounder was really thorough. You can tell you’ve done this a while.’

  ‘You’re not wrong. Drink with an old lady, later in the week?’

  ‘Yes, please. I’ll email you my new number, when I get it.’

  ‘New number?’

  ‘I can’t keep this one, every freak in Manchester’s calling me.’

  I grasp at something to cheer her up. ‘Will you come to my flat-warming party next weekend? Only a small do.’

  Zoe perks up. ‘Yeah.’

  Leaving Zoe sparking up again outside, I go looking for Gretton inside. It must be the first time I’ve been pursuing him around court.

  ‘Can I have a word, please?’ I say, tugging on his jacket sleeve as I catch up with him, rounding a corner.

  ‘Woodford?’

  ‘What you did to Zoe was completely over the top and nasty.’

  Gretton gives me a vampiric grin. ‘She sowed, she reaped.’

  ‘She’s good at her job, and younger than you, and female, and that triple whammy is more than your ego can cope with.’

  ‘How come we’ve never fallen out then?’

  ‘Because I put up with you. Zoe put up a fight instead and you’ve gone too far with this retaliation.’

  ‘Let me tell you something, you may have been walking around in a daze since your love life went kaput …’

  I fold my arms, purse my lips. Impertinent git. I haven’t been in a daze. Have I?

  ‘… She’s done more than put up a fight, she’s on the attack, and people like her need slapping down. You should’ve seen her at the end of the blobby bird trial, elbowing me out the way to get to the family afterward. Them all giving me daggers … She’d definitely said something.’

  ‘Y’see, right there, Pete. The “blobby bird” trial. Do you ever stop to think how offensive that could be to Zoe?’

  ‘Why? Clarke’s not fat. Face like a hobnail boot, but not fat.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about her background or history or … Look, this is one of the reasons why civilised people don’t go round using phrases like “blobby bird”.’

  ‘Belt up, love. Go and work for the council if you want to be PC.’

  ‘This stupid advert is the end of it, OK? No more games. Stay away from Zoe. Promise?’

  ‘If she starts with the—’

  ‘I’ll keep her in check in return. Promise me!’

  Gretton wrinkles his nose. ‘For you, then. I’ve got no issue with you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Your news editor thought it was funny, though.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I rang Baggaley anonymously to tell him it was there and he was roaring, I can tell you.’

  Ladies and gentlemen – the line manager in charge of my pastoral care.

  ‘D’ya fancy a quick pint?’ Gretton adds, unusually friendly.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Got to see a man about a dog, I’m afraid.’

  35

  I thread my way through the well-shod early afternoon shoppers and office workers, catching sight of Rhys outside Holland & Barrett, looking like a man who could do with some de-stressing St John’s Wort. He’s wearing a navy anorak and a concentrated scowl. I remember pulling on the drawstring at the hood to tighten it at the neck when I kissed him goodbye. Only likely to happen now in an attempt to cut off blood supply.

  I expect to feel a nasty pang – I’ve been churning on this meeting for twenty-four hours – yet now we’re face-to-face, I don’t feel any tumult of emotion, only a resigned sort of grief. We’re just two people who were once very fond of each other and now don’t get along any more.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘I’d nearly given up. We said one.’

  ‘It’s only five past …’ I check my watch. ‘Ten past. Sorry. Case overran.’ Er. The case of the tardy woman and the glossy magazine.

  Rhys thrusts a canvas holdall at me. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I unzip it and peer inside. Books, a necklace, a teapot I’d forgotten belongs to me. How did I miss all this?

  ‘Why did you leave so much stuff? What am I meant to do with it?’ Rhys asks.

  ‘I thought the idea was I left things.’

  ‘Yeah, furniture. I didn’t say leave ninety per cent of your crap strewn about the place. Were you making the point that you wanted to get out of there so fast you left tyre marks?’

  ‘No.’ I see the ghost of genuine hurt behind Rhys’s mask of perpetual annoyance. ‘I didn’t want to fillet it, that’s all. If you want me to take more, I can come back for it.’

  Rhys shrugs.

  I wonder whether to suggest getting some lunch.

  ‘Why’re you off work?’

  ‘Booked a day to go car shopping.’

  ‘You’re not keeping the old one?’

  ‘Fancied a change. You know how that feels.’

  A pause.

  ‘Your place is in town, then?’ Rhys says.

  ‘Yes. Northern Quarter. Come round sometime if you like.’

  Rhys makes a face. ‘No, ta. What for, Dorito Dippers and X Factor?’

  ‘Just, you know. To be civilised.’

  ‘Huh. What’s it like?’

  ‘The flat?’

  ‘No, X Factor. Yes the flat.’

  ‘It’s …’ I have absolutely no idea why I think saying it’s incredible feels so personally wounding, but it does, and I mumble: ‘Alright. Bit cramped.’

  ‘Cramped for one person with no possessions. Must be tiny.’

  I need to change the subject. ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Rhys says, thrusting his chin out.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘No offence, but I’m not
going to go for lunch with you like nothing’s happened.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘I’m sure it would make you feel better.’

  ‘Rhys, come on …’

  I glance up at the faces streaming past and the sight of Ben emerging from among them is like being socked in the stomach. We spot each other simultaneously, there’s no time to turn my back. He swerves off course to come and say hello, his smile freezing on to his face as he sees who I’m with.

  ‘Afternoon!’ I say, trying for casual. Rhys glances over. ‘Rhys, you remember Ben from uni? He’s moved up to Manchester.’

  I think I’m holding it together. Ben, however, looks mortified.

  ‘Hi. Wow, long time.’ Ben sticks out his hand.

  Rhys shakes it. ‘Yeah. How are you?’

  ‘Good. You?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Conversationally, it’s clear none of us have anything else to offer. Ben glances at the bag in my hand and starts backing off, bumping into passers-by.

  ‘I better run, anyway,’ he says. ‘On the clock at work. Nice to see you again.’

  ‘Bye,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, bye,’ Rhys adds.

  Ben rejoins the flow of pedestrian traffic, very much in the fast lane.

  ‘That was awkward,’ Rhys says, and I look at him in startled confusion.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t remember him at all.’

  36

  I’ll say one thing for entering your third decade and your life falling apart, it does shift the pounds before a party. As diet plans go, though, it might be a bit extreme. The old red dress I haul out for my flat warming suddenly fits quite well and skims over my ‘twin airbags and side impact bars’, as my ex-fiancé had it.

  It gets screeches of approval when Caroline and Mindy arrive with their other halves, plopping overnight bags inside the door. Caroline asked to stay over as she’s booked an induction at a city centre gym for half nine the next morning (nothing changes) and when Mindy found out, she demanded to stay as well.

  ‘Mindy, you live ten minutes’ drive away,’ I said.

  ‘If she’s staying, I want to stay too,’ she insisted. ‘It’ll be like old times!’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ I said, remembering when we stayed up talking until dawn in our halls. These days, I need my sleep. Mindy settled the issue by saying there was easily room for three in Rupa’s bed, and I couldn’t deny that.

  ‘Rach, this is Jake,’ Mindy says, as a slight, dark-haired, nervous-looking man follows the done-up-to-the-nines Mindy into the flat. I don’t like to think we look old, but he does look young.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ I say. He blushes. Yep, very young.

  Mindy does a pirouette in a black sequin dress. ‘Does this say Studio 54 – or “fifty quid for him to watch”?’

  Before I can answer, Ivor butts in. ‘You could never look that cheap, Mind.’

  She puts her tongue in her cheek and turns to him. ‘Wait for it.’

  ‘It says “a hundred pounds for him to watch, plus dry cleaning, and not on the face”.’

  ‘Zing!’ Mindy says.

  Ivor holds up clanking bags to me. ‘Where?’

  ‘Over there,’ I say, pointing to the pink lady fridge.

  ‘You’re trolleyed already, aren’t you, Rach? Is that boozer’s flush I see?’ Graeme says.

  ‘It’s rouge,’ I say. ‘Going for the Palace of Versailles look.’

  The only way to deal with Graeme is to play along. Or at least, that’s the only way to deal with him when he’s married to one of your best friends.

  Graeme peers into the sink.

  ‘What the devil’s going on here?’

  I’ve put the plug in and filled it with white flowers, peonies, lilac and roses, their stems coiled and bent under the waterline. I saw this piece of stylistic flash at the gathering of a fashion writer once and always wanted to copy it. It wasn’t on the cards when I lived with Rhys. He’d have demanded to know where he should put the dregs of his lager and, most likely, I’d have told him.

  ‘Did you run out of vases?’ Graeme asks.

  ‘Gray,’ Caroline says. ‘Stop being a wind-up merchant.’

  ‘Vases are for gravy,’ Ivor says.

  Graeme looks nonplussed.

  ‘You’ve done a great job,’ Caroline says, looking round and, if I do say so myself, I really have. I’ve run ‘landing strips’ of tea lights in clear glass holders along every straight line and there are vertical explosions of white gladioli in glass tanks dotted around the room. I was never much of a fan of gladioli when I lived in Sale, but there’s something about their imperious legginess that suits this apartment.

  ‘Funeral parlour minus the corpse,’ Graeme says, with what he imagines is his roguish twinkle that exonerates all sins.

  ‘One could be arranged,’ Caroline says, crossing her arms.

  ‘So,’ Graeme fixes me with a beady look, ‘Our Lady of the Ruinously Expensive Tastes, what’s your rent here?’

  ‘None of your business,’ I say, hopefully sounding sweet.

  ‘I’m only thinking of you. You’re going back into the housing market with a single income, and six months here is a chunk of your deposit gone, I’ll bet.’

  I look to Caroline to silence him, but she’s already stalked off to get a drink.

  ‘I can’t buy yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’ve split up with someone I spent half my life with and I don’t know what I want or where I want to live.’

  ‘You’ll always need a roof over your head, won’t you? You’re not going to join a Bedouin tribe?’

  ‘You can’t always do what makes absolute practical sense … I’ve got a drink, Caro, you’re alright.’

  She nods, hands Graeme a glass, sips from her own, eyes downcast.

  ‘Living for the day is all very well in your twenties, you’ve got to start planning for the future sometime,’ Graeme continues. I know what he means is, no one else is going to do it for you now. ‘Things don’t fall into place by accident.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  As he launches into another monologue, I interrupt: ‘Graeme. Par-tee. Noun, two syllables, a social gathering for the purpose of pleasure.’

  Ben, Olivia and Simon arrive while I’m busy mopping up a spilled drink and Caroline lets them in.

  She leads them over to the kitchen, and as I join them Simon’s saying to her: ‘… Had cocktails at a bar on Canal Street, or should I say Anal Treat. Ben said it was mixed straight-and-gay, then the only woman in the place had an Adam’s apple like a tennis ball. They were all the sort who could select scatter cushions, I’m telling you.’

  Never mind Adam’s apples, I just hope Simon’s tongue is in his cheek most of the time.

  ‘We brought you a homophobe, and this,’ Ben says to me, as Olivia hands over a Peace Lily in a gold lacquered pot, ‘to help warm your flat.’

  Ben’s wearing washed-out-to-look-old-but-new grey jeans and a black sweater. As ever: phew. Olivia’s in a delicate grey wrap dress. Between the two of them, they must love grey. He leans in and does that double kiss thing again. I’m better prepared for it this time but I still get flustered, glad of the distraction the plant affords.

  ‘This is amazing,’ Ben says to Olivia, looking at the flat, putting an arm around her. ‘Isn’t it, Liv?’

  ‘Your house is even nicer and your house is really yours,’ I say to Olivia, with feeling, and she beams.

  37

  I’d forgotten that approximately four per cent of parties, like four per cent of nightclubbing experiences, are truly superb, which is why you waste time, money, bandage-like undergarments and hopes on the other ninety-six per cent. And astonishingly, odds-defyingly, my flat warming has fallen into the magical minority. Conversation’s buzzing, the drinks flow, the soundtrack works, the décor’s admired, circulating happens effortlessly, my domestic-slut choices of snack (square crisps, round
crisps, the ones that resemble tiny rashers of bacon) have been received well, or at least, eaten.

  Zoe appears to be having a whale of a time, laughing non-stop with the MEN crowd, Gretton’s advert forgotten.

  I feel as if I’ve been climbing a hill for a very long time and suddenly the sun’s broken through and I’ve found a spot to sit on my cagoule and admire the vista. I’ve been missing Rhys like a phantom itch in a lost limb but for the first time I don’t miss him at all. Time for another drink.

  As the night wears on, Mindy takes control of the music, which makes things more raucous. Jake waves to me as he leaves, having explained he has to be up to revise in the morning; Ivor rolls his eyes behind his back. Caroline is deep in conversation with Olivia. I find myself next to the panoramic window, with Ben and Simon.

  ‘Natalie said the interview went well,’ Simon says.

  ‘Good, I’m glad,’ I say, dismissing a stab of discomfort. ‘I thought so.’

  ‘And when do I get to take you to dinner?’

  Ben does a double-take.

  ‘Whenever you like,’ I say.

  Ben does what I suppose must be a triple-take.

  ‘Do you like Italian food?’ Simon asks.

  ‘Sure. Food in general, really.’

  ‘Rachel’s learning Italian,’ Ben says.

  ‘I know some Italian, stayed in Pisa on an exchange trip,’ Simon says. ‘Parli bene?’

  ‘Uh … non.’

  ‘Non?’

  Oh shit. Shit! Subject change, quick.

  ‘I was reading these tips about icebreakers today,’ I blather. ‘Party prep. Can I try one out on you two? OK. Your most embarrassing incidents in the last year. Go.’

  ‘Last week. My Latvian cleaning lady caught me in the nuddy,’ Simon says.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘I grabbed the nearest thing to hand that was large enough to cover my modesty.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘My payslip.’

  ‘Tosser!’ I laugh despite myself, which is becoming the form with Simon.

  I see Ben looking at both of us with mild concern, no doubt trying to figure out the dating thing. When he comes to a conclusion, I’d be grateful if he could explain it to me.

  ‘There’s one he prepared earlier,’ Ben says.