A Passionate Love Affair with a Total Stranger

by Lucy Robinson

  Shelley looked up from her BlackBerry and once again I had the sensation of looking straight at myself. Only this time something was different. I might not have mastered the art of relaxation yet but, as we eyed each other, I knew that we were no longer in the same world. I was not on that BlackBerry, or in that suit, or indeed in that head any more. I was not a Power Woman. I was just a Normal Woman. Who now got a stonking eight hours’ sleep every night and was learning that there was a life beyond the office.

  ‘Charlotte Lambert,’ she barked, shooting a hand out. ‘My God! What a bloody pleasure, at long last!’

  Without any self-consciousness she stood back to appraise me. ‘You look quite good,’ she announced eventually. I nodded a thank-you and wondered if I would ever get used to the way she behaved. Sam snorted and tried to turn it into a cough, and Shelley’s eyes swivelled to him. ‘Well,’ she said, again standing back to look him up and down. ‘Sam, Shelley Cartwright. I’m one of Charlotte’s clients. Or, at least, I was,’ she added, with a fleeting, blissful grin. The grin quickly closed down and Margaret Thatcher came back. After a quick appraisal of Sam, she nodded. ‘Were you satisfied with the interview?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sam started. ‘Actually, it was great that she was so interested in –’

  ‘Excellent,’ Shelley boomed, cutting him off. ‘I believe it will be in the paper this Sunday.’

  ‘Thank you very much for this, Shelley,’ I said. ‘It’ll really help us.’

  She waved a hand. ‘Yes, yes. How long are you down here, Charlotte? Do you two have time for dinner?’

  I wished fervently that I did. I was still on a high from Sam marching off and demanding that I wear my glasses and some marginally less stupid clothes; I was desperate to be with him for longer. ‘My train’s in ninety minutes,’ I said sadly.

  Shelley nodded vaguely and I realized her head was elsewhere once again. What was going on with her at the moment? Sam’s phone went and he retreated to answer it with a very happy look on his face. Arrgh! I thought. Fucking Katia!

  Shelley watched him go and I wondered once again if she, too, was after Sam. It seemed pretty improbable but, there again, every woman on earth fell in love with Sam at some point. I just hoped that my turn would prove brief and merciful.

  ‘I hear they’re very excited about him over in rehearsals,’ she remarked.

  I was surprised. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said airily, ‘David, the director, is my cousin. Couldn’t believe it when he told me he’d cast Sam. I thought, I know that bloody name! Anyway, David’s been raving about young Master Bowes.’

  I swelled with pride. Of course he bloody was! My clever Sam!

  Then Shelley dropped a bomb. ‘The chemistry between him and the girl playing Miranda is extraordinary,’ she said knowledgeably. ‘Part of the reason that Anna, the Times journalist, wanted to do this piece was that she’d recently read an article in the Stage describing them as the most beautiful couple in Theatreland.’

  Shock and disappointment smashed into me like an iron weight. The most beautiful couple in Theatreland?

  Oh, God! Of course they were! Had I not looked at Katia Slagface and thought she was the very embodiment of Sam’s perfect woman? ‘Yes,’ I said bravely. ‘I reckon they’re a couple offstage as well as on.’

  Shelley nodded confirmation and I decided that I’d like to die.

  The cruelty of this timing was intense. The day I’d grasped how I felt about Sam he’d gone to London and fallen for someone else. It was beyond cruel.

  I tried, with limited success, to pull myself together, aware that Shelley was watching me curiously. ‘It’s a shame you’re not here tonight,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘A contact of mine wants to channel some funds into a UK venture and he’s specifically looking for something with popular appeal. He’s trying to increase his portfolio of fluffy investments.’

  I winced.

  ‘Not that First Date Aid is fluffy,’ Shelley continued smoothly, ‘but in comparison to Middle Eastern oilfields it’s fairly homely.’ Sam wandered back over to us. ‘Just telling Charlotte about a contact who’s keen to invest in a company like yours,’ Shelley explained. ‘He loved the sound of First Date Aid. Was keen to meet you while you were down here.’

  Sam looked at me, but I couldn’t meet his eye. You’re shagging Katia Slagface, I thought miserably. Just go away and leave me alone.

  ‘I’d love to meet him!’ Sam said, just as I said, ‘I’m really sorry but I can’t.’

  Shelley was annoyed: ‘Are you absolutely sure, Charlotte? Could you not go back in the morning?’

  I glowered. All I wanted now was to get the hell out of there, away from Shelley, Sam and all the beautiful people in that studio. ‘No,’ I said shortly. ‘Sorry, but I have a dog to look after. My parents are abroad.’

  Sam looked surprised. ‘You’re looking after Malcolm?’

  I was not. I had put in a bid but my mum had rejected it, opting to accommodate Malcolm with the Joneses in East Linton so he wouldn’t miss out on his daily splash in the River Linn. ‘Yes,’ I lied.

  ‘But Hailey could look after him?’ Sam sounded confused and I wanted to punch him. Fuck OFF! I thought angrily. Leave me alone and run off to your pretty little girlfriend!

  Shelley folded her arms. ‘I’m offering you something very special here,’ she announced unsympathetically. ‘Most small businesses never get within a hundred miles of an opportunity like this.’

  Sam was staring at me. I knew the face he’d be making, kind but a little frustrated. And then I realized I was going to start crying. No! I thought. NO! Please, please no! Without looking up I tried to locate the door so I could make a run for it. I didn’t care how odd a galloping exit would be: all that mattered was that I didn’t let them see that I was crying. But just as I worked out where the door was, I felt a hand close round mine.

  ‘Charley?’ Sam said gently. My face was hot and red, and I knew I was sunk. Two large, helpless tears slid out of my eyes and on to the floor. ‘Charley!’ Sam repeated. ‘What’s wrong, dude?’

  I shook my head, hoping I’d disappear in a puff of smoke. I felt Shelley shift uncomfortably in front of me.

  ‘Sorry,’ Sam said. ‘Can you just give us a sec?’ He held on to my hand and led me outside, where I bawled on to his shoulder for two whole minutes. Huge sobs racked me and I clung to him for dear life. I knew that this was just about the worst shoulder to be crying on but I had little choice in the matter: these sobs were coming whether it was convenient or not. When they finally subsided into snotty sniffs and little spasms, Sam took my handbag and pulled out the packet of tissues that he knew would be there. He held one over my nose and instructed me to blow, which I did, expelling a vast river of snot. Sam sniggered. ‘Nice,’ he said, dropping it delicately into a bin.

  I tried a smile. I could see my red nose and couldn’t even begin to imagine how mad I must look with mascara and thick studio make-up running down my face.

  Sam put a hand on each of my arms. ‘Please tell me what’s going on, brother,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ve been on edge all day.’

  Just for a second I considered telling him. What did I have to lose? Sam was going out with a beautiful actress; I’d lost already. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear to watch his face cloud over with pity and listen to his gentle explanation that he ‘really valued me as a friend but …’ And, anyway, I’d begun to understand that Sam and I just couldn’t communicate in real life the way we could on email.

  There was no point. No point trying to talk to him.

  ‘Just having a really hard time coping with everything,’ I said eventually. ‘You know those days when you wake up and everything’s too much?’

  Sam nodded sympathetically. ‘You’ve been through some huge shit,’ he said. ‘Like, multiple cowpats. Of course you’re feeling bad.’

  We stood looking at each other, Sam smiling in a kindly way and me gazing at him through sad, swollen eyes. I
looked away first. It was too painful. I needed to get out of there, on a train and back up to Scotland where I belonged.

  But Sam had other plans. ‘Stay,’ he said. ‘Let’s hang out tonight. We don’t have to meet the investor, we can just bimble around if you want. You can come and see my horrible flat in the ghetto! I’ll even make you some healthy shit!’

  I wanted to. I wanted to be spontaneous and, more to the point, to hang out with Sam, but I felt too raw. What would I say to him? What would I have to talk about beyond the fact that I’d gone and fallen in love with him?

  ‘Please, Chas,’ Sam said. ‘I miss you.’

  I sniffed loudly. ‘You won’t be hanging out with Katia?’

  ‘Actually, I was meant to be. We were going to rehearse at mine.’ A smile crossed his face quickly, which stabbed me in the heart and then in the womb for good measure. ‘But I spend all my time with Katia. I’d like to hang out with you tonight, my brother.’

  And then I had no option but to sniff, attempt a smile and say yes.

  ‘If you don’t fancy the ghetto we can just find a pub and have a pie,’ Sam said. ‘Or a salad,’ he added quickly.

  I smiled. ‘Thanks, Bowes,’ I snotted. ‘You’re the best.’

  When we went back in, Shelley resumed bullying us about meeting her contact. ‘A drink! An hour of your time, for God’s sake!’ she foghorned. ‘There’ll be plenty of meetings further down the line … For now he just wants to meet you. Come on!’

  Sam tried to hold her off for my sake, but I gave in. It was clear that we would not be leaving the studio until we said yes and, in spite of my fragile state, I did know this was a once-in-a-lifetime offer. Shelley marched off, delighted, to call him.

  ‘Seven o’clock, Mandarin Oriental in Knightsbridge,’ she snapped on her return. Her face softened briefly. ‘With your help I met the man of my dreams, Charlotte,’ she said. Her voice was suddenly quite human and sweet. ‘I really wanted to return the favour and this was the only thing I could think of. Good luck.’

  And then off she swept, shouting into her BlackBerry, the click-click-click of her heels ringing out around the studio.

  ‘I wish she’d stop sending us to posh hotels,’ Sam said wistfully. ‘I have fuck-all idea how to behave in those places, Chas.’

  I looked at him and – forgetting my anguish over the Most Beautiful Couple in Theatreland – I laughed. ‘Do you know what, Bowes? Me neither. Let’s have one drink with him and then get the hell out of Knightsbridge.’

  We shook hands.

  Sam went off for the final two hours of his rehearsal and I went for a mini pedicure and a coffee in Harvey Nichols, sitting in gay denial about Sam being part of the Most Beautiful Couple in Theatreland. I fantasized about him ending his romance with Katia Slagface because she was uncomplicated and carefree (he preferred difficult, uptight workaholics). And I prayed that his kindness towards me today had been a sign of a deep and all-consuming love.

  When six forty-five came, I felt reluctant to leave. I didn’t want to go back into reality. Reality involved pretty much none of these things being true.

  We met outside the hotel and, even though I’d seen him two hours before, my heart still leaped. LOVE ME! I implored him. NOT KATIA! He looked madly handsome and also a little bit tired, which just made me want to put him in my pocket and take care of him.

  We gazed up at the imposing edifice of the hotel, straightened ourselves out and marched in.

  Almost immediately, we found ourselves in a strange situation. The bar was almost empty, save for a rich-looking couple from the Middle East, so Sam and I sat down and ordered drinks. But before they even arrived the receptionist appeared at my elbow, asking if I was Charlotte Lambert, here to meet someone from Holden Steiner. ‘Er, yes?’ I said. It sounded about right.

  ‘Your contact called to say he was running a little late.’ She smiled at Sam, ignoring me completely. ‘But if you’d like, you can check into your room while you wait?’

  I explained that we were not guests, but she smiled and handed me a smart white envelope. Inside was a printed message: I felt bad about bullying you into staying in London. Have a room on me. Shelley.

  Speechless, I showed it to Sam. ‘Sweet Mother of Jesus,’ he said, face white. ‘CHAS! You lucky fucker!’

  The receptionist was clearly in love with Sam already, but she tore her eyes away from him and smiled at me. ‘Welcome to the hotel, Ms Lambert,’ she said kindly. ‘I’ll get someone to show you up to your room right now.’

  The room was incredible. The bed was larger than my flat and the views over Hyde Park were stunning. Were I with the man of my dreams, this would have been the best hotel room I could have asked for. And, sadly, I was with the man of my dreams, but he was whispering sweet Shakespearean nothings into the elfin ear of a wispy-dressed slag.

  ‘Can I bounce on your bed?’ he asked, breaking my thoughts.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. And then: ‘Christ, Bowes! Look at it!’

  Sam bounced on my bed while I wrote Shelley a grateful message of thanks and then went through an elaborate pretence of calling the Joneses and asking them to look after Malcolm for me. Perhaps after a luxurious sleep and the greatest breakfast ever, I’d feel sufficiently fortified to leave this Sam stuff behind in London.

  Perhaps.

  ‘Let’s go and meet the investor,’ I said tiredly. Life could be very cruel at times.

  Down in the super-sleek bar we made idiots of ourselves by asking three different businessmen if they were here to invest in us. None, embarrassingly, was.

  I called Shelley when it got to seven thirty. ‘HANG ON,’ she roared, even though she appeared to be in a silent room. ‘I’LL CALL HIM.’

  A few minutes later she called back and informed us, somewhat awkwardly, that Mr Investor from Holden Steiner was terminally delayed. He would be in his offices in St James’s until at least midnight. He was sorry. ‘Jolly bad luck,’ she muttered loudly. ‘Have dinner on me. Put it on your room bill. I feel very bad about this, Charlotte.’

  I hesitated. Sam and I had snuck out of the Edinburgh investment event without so much as a handshake with an investor. All we had done was throw food around the room, giggle like knobs and nearly steal a napkin. I felt uncomfortable accepting such an extravagant gift. The restaurant was run by Heston Blumenthal, for Pete’s sake! It’d cost a fortune!

  ‘No, we’ll sort ourselves out,’ I started to say.

  ‘DINNER IS ON ME,’ Shelley roared. ‘YOU STAYED IN LONDON BECAUSE I TOLD YOU TO.’

  I caved in quickly. I’d have had to be very odd to turn down a Heston dinner and I had a strong feeling that Sam would never forgive me if I said no.

  By some stroke of outrageous fortune there was a cancellation in the restaurant, and soon after Sam and I found ourselves sitting in a spare, beautiful dining room, staring at menus that sounded like they’d been invented by a nutty nineteenth-century professor.

  ‘Seriously?’ Sam said, after a few minutes’ silence. ‘Pigs’ ears? Cockle ketchup?’ He looked at me, bewildered. ‘What the fuck?’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s Heston Blumenthal,’ I said. ‘People go mad for this stuff.’

  Sam looked depressed. ‘I’m tired,’ he said childishly. ‘I want a vindaloo with naan bread and poppadoms.’

  For no obvious reason I felt convinced that this was all my fault. ‘Well, then, get a curry,’ I snapped defensively. ‘I’ll enjoy this world-class, award-winning food and you can eat a bucket of takeaway rubbish on a bench. Deal?’

  We had a face-off, which Sam broke first. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m being a twat.’

  I smiled back. ‘Sorry. I’m being bossy.’

  Sam’s eyes narrowed and I knew he was scheming. I loved his scheming face: it had the subtlety of a jumbo jet. ‘Are you tired, Chas?’ he asked me, after a short pause.

  I nodded. I’d got up at six to get the train to London.

  ‘So do you really want to sit in a formal restaurant a
nd eat dinner you don’t understand?’

  Damn him! Of course I didn’t. Reluctantly, I shook my head.

  ‘And when you called the majestic curry a “bucket of takeaway rubbish”, were you just being petulant?’

  I nodded even more reluctantly.

  Sam slapped his leg triumphantly. ‘That’s my girl! Right, we’re going to get an Indian takeaway and eat it in your fucking ginormous palace of a bedroom with surround-sound TV and shit.’

  It was a very appealing thought – I was exhausted just from sitting at this table – but I felt very anxious about leaving. ‘You can’t just walk out of a Heston Blumenthal restaurant!’ I whispered.

  Sam studied me. ‘Swear on your mother’s life that you wouldn’t prefer a cuzzer,’ he said, ‘and I’ll stay.’

  I glared at him.

  ‘Cuzzer or cockle ketchup,’ he said softly, on the edge of a giggle.

  ‘Go on, then.’ I sighed. Sam grabbed my hand and squeezed it. ‘Sterling work, Chasmonger!’ he said. ‘You go up and I’ll nip out and find a takeaway. See you in a bit.’

  And with that he sped off, leaving me to explain to an astonished waiter that actually we weren’t going to dine after all. ‘Are you quite sure, madam?’ He looked like he was going to faint. I just grinned apologetically and fled.

  As soon as I arrived back in my room, I realized that the prospect of spending one-on-one time with Sam was terrifying, particularly in a room designed to encourage luxurious lovemaking. It didn’t matter that we’d had a million meals together in my flat over the years. Things had changed. So I ordered a bottle of room service wine at my own expense. I didn’t care about being unemployed: being sober was not an option. And while I waited for Sam to return, I had a couple of pre-mixed vodka tonics from the minibar, which meant that, when the phone rang twenty minutes later, I was able to see the funny side in what was happening downstairs.

  ‘Hi, it’s Catrina in Reception,’ said an incredibly well-spoken woman. ‘I have … a man here saying he wants to come to your room. He’s carrying a plastic bag containing takeaway curry. Is this correct, Miss Lambert?’