Greatest Love Story of All Time

by Lucy Robinson

  January 2010 Sent: Thur, 07 Jan 2010 09.08:46 GMT From: Customer Services [no-reply@orangehelp.com] To: Frances O’Callaghan [franocal@fmail.com] Subject: DO NOT REPLY: Missing texts CALL REF O22965M4 Dear Miss O’Callaghan Thank you for contacting Orange regarding missing text messages. I understand that you believe that you have been unable to receive incoming text messages, specifically from phone number 07009 704462. As discussed we have carried out a status check on the connection between this number and yours and have been unable to detect any faults. There is no record of this number having sent you an SMS since 23 December. Best wishes, Orange On day sixteen of my post-dump incarceration, Leonie told me it was time to go back to work. ‘No chance,’ I said, appalled. ‘Are you mad? Although, while we’re on the subject, I’ve been wondering what you told ITN.’ I gnawed listlessly at a horrible polenta cake Stefania had put through my cat flap last night. Leonie started giggling. ‘I told them you had gynaecological issues. It worked a treat.’ She added quickly, ‘They didn’t ask a thing! You could probably take six months off before they dared to probe any further.’ ‘Well, thanks, Leonie. It’s always good to have your colleagues chatting in the staff kitchen about the state of your vagina.’ ‘That’s the spirit, Franny! Knock ’em dead, my girl!’ I glowered at her. She held my gaze. ‘Fine, you can have the rest of the week off. But if you don’t go in on Monday I’m telling them you have a perfectly healthy minge. Perhaps you could start things off by coming to Gin Thursday tomorrow night? We could do it in a pub near here, maybe.’ A few hours later, my phone rang. I shot out of my coma like a (smelly) firework. Let it be Michael let it be Michael, oh, PLEASE GOD, YOU TOTAL BASTARD, CAN YOU PLEASE DO SOMETHING DECENT AND MAKE THIS BE MICHAEL? ‘Oh, hello Dave,’ I said, disappointed, sounding deeply masculine. Sixteen days of joints and muteness had left me with a voice like Frank Butcher’s. ‘Er … Fran? Is that you?’ ‘Yup. Sorry about the voice,’ I said croakily. ‘Just had a joint.’ ‘Where the fuck are you, you wee skiver? What the fuck’s going on?’ Dave sounded quite concerned. I wondered if he’d heard the vagina story. ‘Er, I’m just not too well,’ I said vaguely. I heard Dave drag at his cigarette. ‘Just tell me what the fuck’s going on,’ he said eventually. ‘Michael left me. Well, he asked for a three-month separation but, yeah, essentially he’s left me.’ There. The first time I’d said it. Dave whistled. ‘Fuck. Seriously? Oh, Fran, that’s terrible. Are you OK? Christ, you poor thing. Is someone looking after you?’ My throat was smarting but I hadn’t the energy to cry again. ‘Dave, I can’t talk about it. I’ll come back soon. Goodbye.’ I ended the call. Talking to Dave was like talking to Dad – if I started crying I’d never stop. I hugged a sock of Michael’s that I’d found under the bed and rolled over on my front, longing for a painless death. Chapter Eight

  March 2008 Sent: Tue, 18 Mar 2008 18:30:28 GMT From: INTERNAL TAPE LIBRARY [tape.library@itnnews.com] To: O’Callaghan, Frances [frances.ocallaghan@itnnews.com]; Subject: Change of department Dear Frances We notice that you have been performing the below searches on a regular basis: SEARCH TERMS: ITN REPORTS: Michael Slater + Kosovo SEARCH TERMS ITN REPORTS: Michael Slater + Mitrovica SEARCH TERMS ITN REPORTS: Balkans + Michael Slater According to the internal phone list you currently work on the Entertainment and Culture news desk. Should we change your user profile to Foreign Affairs and increase your access to the Balkans collection? Please advise us accordingly and state which line manager we should contact for authorization. All best, Steve TAPE LIBRARY Sent: Tue, 18 Mar 2008 18:32:47 GMT From: O’Callaghan; Frances [frances.ocallaghan@itnnews.com] To: INTERNAL TAPE LIBRARY [tape.library@itnnews.com] Subject: RE: Change of department Importance: HIGH Hi Steve No need to contact anyone. I won’t need to look at the Kosovo archives again. My line manager is very busy so please do NOT contact her about this. Many thanks! Fran Michael came home at the beginning of spring. The day when London emerges from its winter hibernation and everyone capers around excitedly in parks full of daffodils and sunshine. I was at Gatwick and I was a mess: breathlessly excited, horribly nervous and hoping, praying, that this might be it. That the man who was belted up preparing for touchdown would be the man I would spend the next sixty years picking up from airports, missing him, loving him, feeding him and, all things going well, having a fair bit of sex with him. Leonie texted me: You OK? Outfit working out? NO. Shitting self in a serious way. Hate outfit. In Monsoon buying new one I replied from the changing room. Five minutes later I was scanning the crowds streaming out of Arrivals in my new rather middle-class ensemble. And then there he was. Tired-looking, taller than I’d remembered and displaying freckles I’d not seen in the cold hard light of February. His hair was shorter and he was wearing a long-sleeved grey T-shirt that gave a definite impression of things I’d not been expecting to see. Biceps. Pectorals. In fact, muscles in general. Jesus Christ, did Michael go to the gym? I felt my stomach tighten with fear. Perhaps I should hold off sex for a few weeks while I did some sit-ups and stuff. Finally he saw me. His face opened into that beautiful lazy smile and I hurled myself across the terminal at him, like a big, mad dog. His arms closed around me and I smelt the clean-laundry scent of his T-shirt and felt him laugh, a deep, rumbly noise that made his chest shake. I was so happy I could have exploded. He pulled me away after a few seconds and kissed me tentatively. We stood back and gazed at each other. I couldn’t really say anything: I was overwhelmed by how beautiful he was and how happy he seemed to see me. ‘Franny … God, you’re lovely. I’ve dreamed so much about this day.’ He ran a finger under the neckline of my top and stared at me shyly. ‘You are pleased I came back, aren’t you?’ ‘What? Oh, my God, I haven’t thought about anything else!’ I coloured slightly, realizing that that wasn’t particularly smooth. ‘No, don’t apologize. I needed to hear it. I just had a panic on the plane that I’d been too hasty … I like your outfit, by the way. Did you shoplift it?’ he asked, with interest. ‘Um … no. Why?’ ‘Just that your cardigan is on inside out and the label is still on. We may need to talk about this.’ ‘Right. I … kind of … Oh, fuck it. I just had a panic about how I looked so I sort of ran into Monsoon and bought this. And now you probably think I’m the biggest knob in the world,’ I added, shamefaced. Michael laughed and kissed me again. His arms locked round me and he muttered into my hair, ‘I think I love you, you batty woman. In fact, I’m sure. I’m so happy I came home.’ Jesus Christ! I had an actual boyfriend! Who loved me before he’d even seen me with my kit off! A boyfriend who would love me and laugh at me and cook manly joints of beef! A further explosion of happiness erupted in my stomach, far greater and more beautiful than anything I’d ever seen in Battersea Park on Fireworks Night. We snogged all the way to London, so much so that a large American woman asked us to stop. We went and sat on a luggage rack and continued until the ticket collector threatened to fine us for indecent exposure. ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ I said, laughing. ‘We’re just kissing!’ He squinted at us for a second. ‘So you are, so you are. As you were, kids! I’ll tell that lady to put a sock in it. Can’t she see you’re in love?’ In my excitement, I shoved my hand up the back of Michael’s T-shirt and encountered a lower back rug. ‘Oh, my GOD! You’ve got a hairy back!’ I giggled, rubbing appreciatively. ‘Do you ever think before you speak?’ he asked. ‘Not so much. But you’re not insulted, are you? I LOVE your back rug!’ Michael hugged me harder. ‘You’re nuts,’ he said into my neck. I glowed. Arriving at Victoria, Michael stood staring at the swarming mass of people on the concourse and looked bewildered. ‘Bloody hell … Did you have to live in London? I’d forgotten how ridiculous it is.’ He fished a bottle of something disgusting out of his bag. ‘I think we should get drunk immediately. Otherwise I’m kidnapping you and taking you back to Kosovo.’ So that was what we did. We each had a hearty swig from the bottle and w
alked hand in hand into Green Park where the pale sun hung in a hard spring sky. Bold beams of modest warmth crept through the still-bare lime trees and lovers held hands in striped deckchairs, trying to pretend that it was a summer’s day as they shivered in short sleeves. We drank Michael’s horrible liqueur on a bench and exchanged stories of teenage love affairs. When I told him about my doomed liaison with Patrick Moorestead, whom I’d found in the stationery cupboard with his face lost between the tits of our massive-titted DT teacher, Miss Redpath, Michael was convulsed with laughter. ‘Oh, God, Fran, you’re scarred, aren’t you? You’re going to be one of those girlfriends who wants a pair of fake breasts for Christmas!’ ‘Shut up! I was devastated!’ I cried. He continued to laugh. ‘Shut up, Michael!’ I shouted, punching him. ‘Oh Fran … I’m sorry. For what it’s worth I’m sure yours are perfect as they are. I look forward to meeting them,’ he said, nibbling my ear. ‘In fact, I think we should go back to your house at the earliest possible juncture so I can have a chat with them. We have a lot to discuss.’ It was all I could do to prevent myself booking us into the Ritz next door and yelling, ‘TAKE ME NOW!’ Instead I looked him in the eye and said steadily, ‘That’s fine. We’ll go now. But you should know that I have a third nipple.’ I cleared up our mess and smiled to myself while he stood behind me, wondering if I was serious. On the tube to Camden Michael tried to put the bottle of meths – or whatever it was – back into his bag but I grabbed it, grimly aware that I might be required to take my clothes off soon. ‘I’ve not done with that,’ I muttered, in response to his raised eyebrow. ‘I’m up for getting trolleyed.’ ‘Nice.’ He chuckled. ‘You get better by the minute.’ By the time we got back to my flat, I was rollicking. Michael ran off to the loo and I sat on the floor and talked to Duke Ellington, who was obviously angry at my late return. ‘WEEOOOW,’ he said crossly. While he ate his Tesco Supreme pouch with great irritation I stroked him carefully and whispered to him about Michael. He ignored me. ‘So this is him. The fiend. The tiger.’ Michael was standing in the kitchen doorway, so handsome I didn’t know where to look. WHY WAS THIS MAN SO INTO ME? ‘Yes. Duke Ellington, meet Michael Slater. Michael, meet Duke Ellington.’ I tried to grab Duke Ellington’s paw to offer to Michael but he withdrew it and waved his tail threateningly. ‘Right. Enough,’ Michael said, striding across the room and bundling me up off the floor. ‘It’s my turn now. Duke Ellington has had enough of your time.’ He threw me over his shoulder and marched out of the kitchen amid screams of ‘I AM TOO HEAVY FOR YOU TO PICK UP! PUT ME DOWN!’ ‘A man has needs, Fran,’ he replied curtly, throwing me on to my bed and kicking the door shut. I felt a little bit guilty about Duke Ellington but, of course, a woman has needs too. ‘Where’s the third nipple?’ Michael said, pulling off my tights and then my dress without a great deal of regard for the buttons. I was shaking, partly with nerves, partly with the rampant horn. ‘Um, not sure,’ I muttered, as he took off his T-shirt and started to move a hand along my leg from my knees. ‘Is it here?’ he whispered, moving down and kissing my thighs softly. ‘Nope. Higher,’ I said, gasping as he travelled up my legs. ‘Here?’ ‘Nearly …’ ‘Here?’ ‘Oh, God, yes. Yes. There … Oh, God … please don’t stop …’ The next morning I woke up to the sight of Michael’s dark grey eyes smiling at me. He was curled up, like a prawn, next to me, his hand playing with my hair and his feet resting on my leg. I decided it was time I started practising a religion. Chapter Nine

  January 2010 I sat on the floor of the wet room while water thundered on to my head, bouncing off my nose and knees. I looked blankly at my feet. The pedicure I’d had, ready for my thirtieth and possible engagement, was still almost completely intact. I’d let slip to the lady who’d done it that I might possibly be proposed to in a few days. ‘Oh, love, that’s great. Should we book you in for a Brazilian?’ she’d said. ‘Everyone wants a nice fresh foo-foo for their engagement night!’ I circled my feet with my hands, numb. It felt strange, remembering happiness. The girl giggling about fresh foo-foos felt like another person, a Fran who belonged in a parallel universe, not the Fran I was stuck with now, the Fran who felt crushingly sad and lost. The Fran who spent hours and hours fantasizing about what she would say if Michael called her and begged her to reconsider, then dissolved into tears when she remembered that contact was out of the question. The Fran who felt so empty she had no idea how to get out of bed and start the day. What had Michael been doing while I was having my birthday pedicure and talking foo-foos? Was he out buying a ring or was he planning his dumping speech? Was he thinking about how happy we were together or how much he wanted to get rid of me? I heard an angry miaow and reached above me to turn the shower off. If Duke Ellington hadn’t been so consistent with his meal demands I probably wouldn’t have got out of bed at all. In spite of all the food Stefania was leaving through the cat-flap, I was still barely able to eat. He yowled again. ‘All RIGHT! I’m coming, dammit.’ Unconvinced, he miaowed once more, this time with renewed force. ‘Oh, my God! Shut up, Duke Ellington? Can’t you see I’m dealing with a broken heart here?’ He responded with the feline equivalent of a bellow. My broken heart was clearly a matter of supreme unimportance to him. I dragged myself up and into a cold towel. Chapter Ten

  April 2008 The first drop of rain splashed heavily on Michael’s nose as he got started on his second pint of Kronenberg. ‘Bollocks. Let’s go back inside.’ ‘But we can’t! Gin Thursday has moved outside for the spring!’ Leonie nodded in agreement. ‘She’s right, Michael, we’re going to have to brave it. And Stefania’s coming tonight – she’s a stickler for the rules.’ Stefania only came to Gin Thursdays about once a month, but this was a gala celebration: it was Gin Thursday Welcomes Michael Slater. Even Mum had threatened to turn up after her busy day at Harvey Nichols and the Royal Opera House. (Guiltily, I hoped she wouldn’t come. Her response when I’d first told her about Michael had not been ‘Oh, how exciting!’ or ‘He sounds wonderful!’ but ‘Does he have clean ears, Frances?’ In Mum’s world, anyone who didn’t scrub the inside of their ears with disinfectant and a pressure hose on a daily basis was probably a drug addict.) Dave was bringing Freya. While I didn’t necessarily want to be confronted with her unnervingly serene beauty, I was desperate for Michael to see me as someone who had a large, colourful group of friends. The kind of friends who enjoyed challenging debates about social anthropology and threw organic dinner parties. I didn’t want him to know that Gin Thursday was really only about Dave and me getting drunk in a corner while Leonie got off with whoever was handy. Michael had invited his super-brainy friend Alex with whom he’d studied at Oxford (‘He’ll probably try to make you feel like you’re really thick,’ he’d warned me reassuringly), while his sister Jenny and her husband Dmitri were scheduled to make an appearance too. All in all, there were going to be a lot of brainy people around. (I had bought a Bohemian scarf for the occasion and was primed with as many pub quiz facts as I could remember.) So far, so good. Leonie and Michael had been laughing in an easy, non-sexual way when I’d arrived late after a bit of a work emergency. He glanced up as I sprinted in and there it was: the smile that was just for me. The smile that made me want to swing from the trees screeching and thumping my chest. ‘So sorry to be late,’ I said as I kissed him. I felt so proud! This was my actual boyfriend! Who ran me a bath every morning, who cooked complicated meals and who slept like a curled-up prawn! ‘No worries. Leonie was telling me about Knut. Apparently he only likes back-door sex,’ Michael reported, with one eyebrow slightly raised. Leonie nodded sadly. ‘It’s chronic, Fran. My arse is beginning to suffer. What should I do?’ I burst out laughing. ‘Wow. I’m sorry, do you two already know each other?’ Leonie batted me off. ‘Fran, if Michael’s living with you he might as well know the truth about me. I’d hate him to have a nasty shock later on.’ I blanched. Michael had been staying with me since he’d come back to London but nothing had been said yet abo
ut him moving in. Naturally, I wanted him to stay for ever: I wanted us to have a checked tablecloth and pots of lavender and the same bath towels, but I hadn’t dared bring it up in case he got frightened and went off to rent a black ’n’ chrome bachelor pad in London Bridge. Somehow sensing my panic, he put his arm round me and whispered, ‘If you’ve got room for a lodger I’d love to stay,’ into my hair. Man. My life was perfect. At that moment Dave and Freya arrived, Dave marching up to Michael with one of his paws outstretched and a roll-up hanging out of his mouth. ‘All right, fella?’ he said, in an unusually masculine manner. Michael stood up and grasped his hand. ‘Dave. Hi, mate. Drink?’ Off they went, chatting gruffly about Derby’s relegation. I looked at Freya. ‘Why are men so weird? What’s with this mate and fella and football?’ She smiled politely. Leonie rolled her eyes. ‘It’s to do with erections and testosterone. But anyway, hi, Freya!’ she said brightly. Leonie, I knew, felt as awkward around Freya as I did. Freya smiled calmly and offered Leonie a smooth peachy cheek, then did the same to me. ‘Mmm, you smell nice!’ I told her. ‘I have a bubble bath that smells just like your perfume!’ ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ she said levelly. Dammit. ‘Yes! Deffo! It was a very expensive bubble bath …’ Freya merely smiled. ‘I’ll go and help David with the drinks,’ she murmured, ‘and meet Michael. I’ve heard quite a lot about him.’ And with that she slid off elegantly, all healthy freckles and paraben-free shampoo. Leonie and I watched her in silence. After a few seconds, Leonie turned back to me and we sat down. ‘Feel like a buffoon?’ ‘Yep. Always.’ I smiled. ‘Anyway, Michael! I like what I see, Fran. Do you think he’s right for you?’ I was a little taken aback. ‘Does that mean you think he’s not?’ ‘Don’t be a dick. How would I know? I’m asking you.’ ‘Sorry. I’m just paranoid. Well, yes, I do think he’s right for me. And the amazing thing is, Leonie, that I think I’m right for him. I just can’t believe it – he wants to see me all the time! It’s a frigging miracle!’ Leonie smiled indulgently. ‘Well, I thought as much. You’ve missed two Gin Thursdays in a row and I’ve hardly heard from you.’ ‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s just so new and exciting, and I … I just love him, Leonie. It’s hopeless. I’m like this great moronic smile on legs. Hugh thinks I’m on magic mushrooms …’ I trailed off, blushing. Leonie got up from the other side of the table and came round to hug me. ‘I bloody love you, Franny. I’m so happy for you! Of course you’re allowed to miss Gin Thursday – he’s only just got here.’ ‘I love you too,’ I said fiercely, into her fur coat. It smelt of Chanel No. 19 and digestive biscuits. We picked up the glasses and moved Gin Thursday back inside the pub until further notice. Two hours later, Dave and I were arm-wrestling for the last crisp in the packet while Leonie whupped Michael’s arse on the fruit machine. Stefania was on her fifth tomato juice, talking animatedly to Freya, Michael’s sister Jenny and his friend Alex. Jenny’s husband Dmitri was outside yelling into his BlackBerry, as he had been doing most of the night. Stefania was on excellent form. Since arriving she had called the barman an ‘ignorant rectum’, she had forced Alex to spend a week being vegan, and she had told Michael that even though I’d moved into my flat three years ago I still hadn’t remembered to buy a washing line so I hung my knickers from the tree in our yard every summer. ‘She’s amazing,’ Jenny breathed as Stefania barked at Alex about the mortal dangers of meat. I liked Jenny already. She was so easy and straightforward and, better still, she looked just like Michael in a girly sort of way. She was six months pregnant and radiated happiness. I imagined us meeting for lunch once we were sisters-in-law: she’d tell me how ugly and stupid Michael’s previous girlfriends had been and how I was the best thing that had ever happened to him. I was less sure about Alex. He was of the fashionable Oxbridge brigade, the type who lived in large flats in East London decorated with dark mahogany furniture and portraits of Victorian industrialists. He had a sharp, pointy head and a rather unsettling way of looking at you for a few seconds before answering your question. Worse still, it turned out that he also worked for ITN. Only he worked in the Special Building for Clever People in Millbank and he had my dream job: politics producer. It was exactly as Michael had warned me: I felt extremely stupid in his vicinity. Much to my amusement, Alex seemed to be rather smitten with Leonie who, perhaps sensing my discomfort around him, was ignoring him. (‘Michael’s friend is a bit of a cockhead,’ she’d muttered when we’d been at the bar earlier. ‘He quoted T. S. Eliot at me just now and told me he only smoked cigars.’) Dave smashed my forearm down on the table, laughing at my furious face. ‘Fine, have the bloody crisp, you monstrous human being,’ I said darkly, watching Leonie and Michael out of the corner of my eye. I’d never seen Leonie not flirt with a man before and felt weak with relief at the complete lack of chemistry between them. ‘Do you not trust them?’ said Dave, catching my eye. ‘Sorry?’ ‘C’mon, Fran, I can see what you’re thinking. Do you not trust them?’ he repeated. ‘No, I do, I just … Well, you know how men go mad for Leonie. You can’t blame me for being a bit scared. Doesn’t Freya ever get suspicious about you and her?’ Dave laughed briefly. ‘Nope. I can honestly say Leonie doesn’t trouble her at all.’ That was what I wanted. A relationship free of fear, just like Dave and Freya’s. I looked at Michael and Leonie again and started to grin, knowing deep down that that was exactly what I had. Michael had wanted to be with me all the time: in the two and a half weeks since he’d returned he had put me before his friends, his family and even his new colleagues. I felt like a princess for the first time in my life. No fear! But Fear gave me a little kick in the gonads when, a few seconds later, a perfectly manicured hand was placed limply over mine and I heard Mum’s voice say, ‘Good evening, Frances,’ with suspicious precision. Precision in Mum’s voice normally meant she was drunk. I looked up: she was drunk. Even though her hands were reasonably still her eyes betrayed her: they had the bleary film I’d come to recognise as trouble at an early age. She was wearing one of her power suits in starchy peach and was shrouded in some sort of gigantic fur coat that made Leonie’s vintage number look like a dirty old stoat. Harrods and Harvey Nicks bags hung from her arms and her hair was a rock-hard halo of Thatcheresque perfection. My heart sank. ‘Hello, Mum!’ I said brightly, as Dave got up to take her coat. A loud cackle came to us from the fruit machine. Leonie yelled ‘Take that, you fucker!’ and Michael groaned loudly. Mum stiffened. ‘Leonie’s language really is disgusting,’ she said, with a shudder. Her eyes narrowed as Michael shook hands with Leonie to end the game. ‘Is that Michael? Why is he not here with you?’ Dave went to get Mum a drink. ‘Mrs O’Callaghan!’ Michael arrived at the table, looking so incredibly handsome and lovely and eager that I nearly wept. I had the most perfect boyfriend in the world. Even Mum, after God knew how many glasses of champagne at the opera, couldn’t fail to be impressed. ‘Well, now. You must be Michael. Fran has spoken about little else,’ she said grandly, offering him her hand as if she were Queen Victoria. ‘Mum …’ I said, my cheeks staining red. ‘Shush, Frances,’ she said. ‘You have every right to be proud of this young man. I hear you’re a political journalist,’ she said to Michael, with a beady stare. ‘Yes. I’m still finding my feet at the Independent but it’s mostly what I’m used to – hanging round Westminster badgering politicians, same old same old,’ he said easily, as if he was working in a launderette. I swelled with pride. ‘Well, I have to say I’m a bit disappointed not to have seen your name in the paper since you started,’ she said, a little sniffily. Mum disapproved of any paper other than the Telegraph; I was touched that she’d been buying the Independent. Although she was probably doing so to show off about Michael to her neighbours. Michael smiled. ‘A lot of what I do is editing other people’s work so my name often doesn’t make it into the finished article.’ ‘And you never get to see what I’m up to,’ I said loudly, in Michael’s defence. ‘I’m a total gofer by comparison!’ Michael and Alex l
aughed – Alex perhaps a touch too much – but Dave interrupted: ‘Not true, Fran. And I’ve heard a little rumour that your job description’s about to change anyway.’ I swung towards him, surprised. ‘How?’ Dave grinned. ‘I shouldn’t tell you,’ he said. ‘But you will,’ Leonie commanded. Dave batted her away. ‘Well. Hugh pulled me in earlier, wanting to know what I thought of your performance in Kosovo. And I told him you’d been a fucking legend, Fran, and how much you’d impressed me.’ I felt my face flush with gratitude and pride. Freya smiled prettily, watching me with interest. ‘And he said – if it doesn’t work out you can’t hold me responsible – that he was going to make you a proper specialist producer for ents and culture. Frances O’Callaghan, specialist producer!’ I stared at him open-mouthed. I tried to talk but nothing came out. And then, eventually: ‘OH, JESUS! SHITTING BOLLOCKING – OH, MY GOD!’ I launched myself at him and sent the remainder of his pint flying. ‘Thank you thank you thank you,’ I cried, into his sideburn. Dave pushed me away. ‘Oi, off. And go and buy me another drink, you mad beast.’ He looked delighted. Dave was so kind; Freya was a lucky woman. As she glided calmly to the toilet I saw her smirk. It was almost imperceptible but I knew it was there. Disgust at me and my swearing and my poxy little career. Well, sod her, I thought, smarting. And Alex, who had watched with a raised eyebrow. They could be as superior and grown-up as they wanted. I had Michael Slater and a very exciting promotion. ‘This calls for champagne,’ Mum said loudly. She looked pointedly at Michael, a section of hairsprayed quiff falling into her eye. I felt simultaneously embarrassed and appalled. Mum was not this person. Michael sprang up. ‘Quite right, Mrs O’Callaghan,’ he said brightly. ‘You’ve got a very special daughter!’ Everyone, except Alex, smiled. ‘Don’t worry about him,’ Michael said, when I joined him at the bar. ‘He can be a right wanker. Ignore!’ I felt safe and warm and loved. ‘OK,’ I said, beaming up at him. Another hour later, Mum was absolutely steaming and I was in hell. I sat rigidly next to Michael with a sickening tension headache pounding at my temples. Mum had already told Michael about my ‘shabby’ father leaving her when I was thirteen and was now slurring on about the affair she’d been having ever since, with all of its attendant petty dramas. Leonie and Dave had seen this often enough, but for this to be Michael’s introduction to my family was crucifyingly awful. ‘His wife, Laura, is one of the most poisonous women you could ever hope to meet,’ she whispered conspiratorially. ‘And the way she keeps their house is disgusting. I’ve only been there once but I saw all I needed to see. There was a multipack of crisps in their downstairs cloakroom,’ she told him, with a shudder. Michael’s lips twitched as he shook his head politely. ‘Disgusting,’ he said, with just the right level of affected horror. I squeezed his hand under the table. ‘It’s time to get you into a taxi, Mum,’ I said eventually. Seeing her like this was too sad. I wanted to enjoy the last hour of Gin Thursday with Michael’s and my friends, who were giggling about something at the other end of the table – probably Knut’s fixation with anal sex. Stefania had finally given in and had a glass of wine. Now she was red-cheeked and shrieking with laughter at whatever Leonie was saying. She was really quite pretty, I thought, as she fell sideways on to Dave mid-laughter. On the rare occasions that Stefania actually drank, she always flirted with Dave. Freya looked on calmly; she had seen it all before. Alex was staring at Leonie with guarded eyes but she was ignoring him. Jenny and Dmitri had gone home. Mum stood up, then sat down again. ‘Dear me, Fran,’ she said, ‘that wine hasn’t done me any good at all. And, you saw me, I only had two glasses.’ As Michael got up to fetch her coat her eyes beseeched me not to take her to task on the bottle of champagne she’d probably downed at the opera. Or the gin and tonics she’d probably had at Harvey Nicks. Guilt and shame hovered wetly in her eyes. ‘’Bye, Eve,’ Leonie said, coming over to kiss Mum’s cheek. ‘Ah, Leonie, goodbye,’ Mum said, trying to sound grand again. ‘You’ve heard about Fran’s promotion?’ ‘Yep. She was always destined for big things,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘So, too, were you, dear,’ Mum said shrewishly to her. I froze. Leonie’s eyes stopped smiling but her mouth stayed fixed. ‘Fran’s flying the flag for both of us,’ she said carefully. She went to sit down with Stefania and downed the rest of her gin. ‘I’ll get in the cab with you to Victoria, OK, Mum?’ I said, unable to abandon her. Michael looked sharply at me. Sorry, I mouthed at him, shrugging. He shook his head briefly to reassure me that it didn’t matter and kissed me quickly as I walked past, Mum swaying on the end of my arm. ‘’Bye, guys,’ I muttered, as we teetered away. Dave sat back. ‘Take care, Fran,’ he said. He didn’t look impressed. I ignored him. My boyfriend got it, even if Dave didn’t. Stefania looked away: she had always disapproved of Mum’s drinking. As soon as I’d put Mum on a train to Cheam, I sat on a bench in a deserted Victoria station and stared at the picture of Mum and Dad I kept in my wallet. They were sitting on a beach in Devon, Mum with long hair, a hippie headband and poncho, Dad with a mop-head haircut and tight swimming trunks. They were hugging each other and Mum was doing some sort of ballet thing with her left leg. Both of them had beautiful grins stretched across their faces. I was in the background, chubby and determined with a mound of patted-down sand in front of me and a cloth hat on my head. I still had no idea how or why it had started. Mum and Dad were in love, they had a child upon whom they doted and ‘enough money to afford a cleaner once a week’, as Mum used to say to her own mother on the phone. Mum always seemed so happy – I remember her singing softly in the kitchen and sweeping me up into her skirt, hugging and tickling me until I begged for mercy. Yes, there had always been bottles of wine at dinner but none of the hidden whisky bottles and the Drink Voice that I’d come to dread by the time I was a teenager. ‘This illness affects everyone. It doesn’t care how much money they earn,’ said the man at AA, whom I’d phoned for advice when I was twenty-five. ‘Get her to come and say hi. You can come with her, if you want,’ he added, when I found myself too choked to respond. Three years on, I was still no closer to getting her anywhere near an AA meeting. The first time I’d brought it up she’d laughed in my face, the second she’d burst into tears and told me that she was shocked and appalled by my disloyalty, and the third she had thrown me out of her house ten minutes after the last train back to London had left. After that I’d stopped trying. She simply wouldn’t have it. I knew further intervention was needed – but what sort? ‘She’ll get here when she’s ready,’ the AA man had said, when I called again two years later. ‘Not before. Just make sure she knows we’re here.’ I put the picture back in my bag, watched a lone tramp combing a platform dustbin and fought the tears that were gathering in my eyes. After several years of scraping Mum off the floor and being shouted at and generally abused, Dad had run off with Gloria, the once-a-week cleaner of whom Mum had been so proud. They lived on the Costa del Sol now and he had turned into a rotund but very jovial man with leathery brown skin and a string of upper-crust fry-up cafés in the wealthier resorts. Leonie and I periodically went out to stay with him, and before he had even greeted me, he’d always ask if Mum was still drinking. His disappointment when I nodded was evident. In the meantime, Mum had begun her affair and in the process had become a person I barely recognized. It was only when she passed out in bed and I came in to check that she was still breathing that she was the mum of my childhood. Wavy-haired, pretty, vulnerable. Watching her sleep, I’d entertain lonely fantasies of torching her power-suit collection and carrying her off to some remote hippie commune where she could overcome her drinking and become Mum again. I wanted her back. Michael was asleep when I got in, warm and prawn-like in a corner of my bed. I crept in as quietly as I could but he rolled straight over and hugged me, nuzzling the back of my neck. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said sleepily. I squeezed his hand gratefully. ‘Thanks.’ ‘Does she do that a lot?’ ‘Yes. Sorry. I need to sort her out.’ I closed my eyes. ‘Michael?’ ‘Mmm?’
‘I was wondering why your name isn’t in the paper too. Does that mean you’re, like, the political editor or something?’ ‘No. Actually …’ He paused and I turned over to face him. The shadows falling lengthwise across his face made him seem suddenly sad. ‘To be honest, I’m a bit gutted. I’ve not been allowed to write anything yet. I just said that about editing because I didn’t want your mum to be disappointed. But it’s early days. I can’t expect to take over during my first month.’ ‘No. Well, I think you’re the cleverest man on earth.’ He pulled me closer. ‘Do you really?’ ‘Yes. In the universe.’ He kissed me. ‘Thank you. That’s good to know.’ He closed his eyes, smiling. ‘Michael.’ ‘Mmm.’ ‘I’m a specialist producer! Howzaboutit, eh? High five!’ He raised a hand, smiling sleepily. ‘Alex looked a bit scornful,’ I said, after a careful pause. ‘Not surprising. He’s a snob, Fran, he doesn’t approve of ents and culture.’ ‘But that’s ridiculous! I’ve just spent the last week at the British Museum – it’s not like I’m working on Heat! For fuck’s sake, I’m a specialist producer aged twenty-eight. He knows what that means! I can crack politics another time.’ ‘He has no idea what you do. Just thinks it’s a soft option. You’re a princess, he’s a prick. No contest.’ I smiled myself to sleep. Chapter Eleven