Greatest Love Story of All Time

by Lucy Robinson

  Sent: Sun, 14 Feb 2020 12:12:47 From: Eve O’Callaghan To: FRAN PRIVATE [franocal@fmail.com] Subject: VALENTINE’S DAY Dear Frances, I wanted to wish you a hAppy St Valentinesd ay. I did try to buy you some chocolate but I’m afraid I got rather sidetracked with some housework., and then I ate it. Nicholas is spending St Valenintines’ day with bloody Luara & I am not happy between you and me Franny not happy. IT was nice to see you yestrerday please do come more often I have plenty of time on my hands at the moment speaking of which I need a manicure & maybe a pedcure. I have called Nicholas three times today he hasn#t answered maybe you could give me a call and cheer me up./ Mum Duke Ellington sat watching me beadily as I got ready for my day at the Brits. I opened my wardrobe and kept my eyes firmly to the right, avoiding the empty space where Michael’s stuff had been. Clinging to the hope of rousing his jealousy, I’d somehow managed not to reply to his message and had not heard from him again. I presumed that, having got over his little moment of madness, he was now happily ensconced in Nellie’s four-poster. The thought made me want to eat doughnuts until I passed away. I missed every bone in his body. What does one wear to report on a trendy music awards ceremony? I wondered. I tried on a slouchy eighties jumper with my new spray-on jeans and spiky boots, but removed it hurriedly when it took me straight back to my date with James last week. At Warwick Avenue tube station he had snogged me manfully against a wall and then – I trembled to think about it – he had actually begun to bump and grind against me. Thank God my handbag had been stolen just then by a moped-mounted thief. I went for a short striped dress and biker boots. Ninety minutes later I was plunged into the madness of Earls Court on the biggest day in its calendar. Eddie-the-entertainment-correspondent’s job for the day was to vox-pop bands as they came offstage from their sound checks. And my job was to snag them. Eddie was More Senior Than Me, and since my promotion he’d spent the last two years making sure I knew this. An achingly cool blonde girl wearing skinny jeans and a man’s shirt, eating a Mars bar (just because she could), handed me my pass. ‘Don’t hassle anyone,’ she said, without meeting my eye. ‘They’re here to rehearse, not to chat. If I get any complaints, you guys are out. OK? Marcel, can you send Robbie Williams to the stage, please?’ she barked into her walkie-talkie. ‘Robbie Williams?’ I asked, amazed. ‘Actual Robbie Williams?’ She raised a haughty eyebrow. ‘Yes. Actual Robbie Williams. He’s picking up Outstanding Contribution. Do me a favour and leave him alone, yeah?’ It quickly became apparent that I had lost all of my celeb-badgering abilities since coming back to work. I was tongue-tied, shy and completely flat, watching hopelessly as act after act sped past me without so much as acknowledging my existence. Those who weren’t coked off their tits were too busy running to the toilet to get coked off their tits or flirting with the blonde bitch to pay any attention to me and my timid approaches. ‘FRAN!’ Eddie yelled, as Calvin Harris walked past me and disappeared into the green room, from which we were strictly banned. ‘We’ve only got two interviews in the can and they’re shit. What’s wrong with you?’ He stormed off for a fag and Sean-the-mediocre-entertainment-cameraman-who-should-have-been-working-at-MTV looked at me with pity. ‘I’m shit, aren’t I?’ I said to him. ‘Yep’ he said briefly. I sat down, my head in my hands. I felt stupid, fat and ugly. I didn’t have the confidence even to look at anyone here, let alone chat to them with a big TV voice. Maybe I should text Michael back. ‘Everything OK?’ said a rather plummy voice above my head. I looked up and saw a face I had definitely not banked on seeing today. Standing above me, ten different passes hanging round his neck, was the preposterously attractive man from Meditation. ‘You look suicidal.’ He smiled. You’re not far off, I thought, as I got up. ‘I’m meant to be getting musos to vox pop,’ I said. ‘It’s going very badly. I’ve only got one of JLS and a backing minger.’ Preposterously Attractive Man laughed. He had thick dark hair, the same suntan he’d been sporting two weeks in a row at Meditation and the relaxed demeanour of someone who knows that he’s extremely attractive. ‘One of them even told me I looked like a lesbian,’ I muttered, glaring down at my offending biker boots. The man laughed. ‘Charlie Swift,’ he said, grabbing my hand. ‘I missed you at Meditation last week.’ ‘I was on a shit date,’ I said, taken aback. Why did he even care who I was? ‘My name’s Fran. I work for ITN. What about you?’ ‘I’m a DJ. I do the drive-time shift on Love FM for the pennies but really I’m a club DJ,’ he breezed. ‘Just got back from a stint in the Caribbean, in fact.’ ‘Right,’ I said. I wasn’t sure how to respond so blurted, ‘Weather must be nice out there this time of year!’ Charlie touched my arm briefly. ‘Actually, I’ve been wondering who you are –’ He stopped as Eddie and Sean stomped back from their fag break. ‘Hi, guys,’ he said. ‘Oh, hi, Charlie! How’s stuff?’ said Eddie, switching on his showbiz voice. Gross. ‘Stuff is good. I’ve just bumped into Fran who I meditate with.’ Eddie’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Right,’ Charlie said, getting out his mobile phone. ‘Let’s fix you up some interviews.’ And, within minutes, there was Lily Allen, all tumbling curls and angular fringe. I shook her hand, speechless. Next came Dizzee Rascal. I couldn’t believe my eyes. How come I’d been working on the entertainment desk for years and never even got close to people like this? Charlie laughed and put his arm round me. ‘Fran’s my clever journalist friend,’ he told Florence Welch. I nearly passed out with pride and Eddie looked sick with envy. Straight though he was, he looked, from where I was standing, like he wanted to bum Charlie. Charlie’s trump card was a short interview with actual real-life Robbie Williams as he left his sound check. I stared throughout Eddie’s interview as if I was in the presence of God. Under the megawatt beam of Charlie’s brilliant smile I forgot completely that I was a heartbroken thirty-year-old spinster with alcoholic tendencies and a dangerous stalking habit. I hope you’ve been keeping busy today, said a text from Leonie. And I hope you’re still on for Gin Thursday this week. I’m having withdrawal symptoms! Fuckloads of gossip, I reported back. Met Robbie Williams. Yes we’re on for GT. X As I handed over my pass to a security man at the exit I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘I hope I’ll be seeing you later on, young lady,’ said Charlie. ‘Me?’ He laughed. ‘Yes, you!’ ‘But I can’t … I’m not invited and, besides, I look like a dyke,’ I said, going red. He roared with laughter. ‘But you’ve been making me laugh all afternoon. I can’t get through tonight without my new favourite lesbian by my side,’ he said, as he walked me over to a makeshift reception area. ‘And there’s plenty of time for you to go home and transform yourself.’ This whole thing was plain weird. Why was he even talking to me? I looked awful and, apart from the odd gaffe about my outfit, I wasn’t aware of having said anything remotely interesting. Charlie seemed to read my mind. ‘Of course I want to see you again. You’re a breath of fresh air! Most of the people I come across in my work have their heads up their own arses. It was just nice to hang out with someone who didn’t give a shit.’ ‘Was it that obvious?’ I said, as we walked out. ‘Yes. And it was delightful. Let’s get you a wristband for tonight. How many?’ ‘Well, two, I suppose … if it’s OK for me to bring a friend,’ I said, somewhat dazed. Charlie was back a minute later with two complicated wristbands and Brit Award passes on shiny silver lanyards. ‘See you later, lesbo,’ he said casually, kissing my cheek. He lingered there a fraction longer than necessary, then smiled at me. ‘Yves Saint Laurent,’ he said. ‘You smell lovely.’ And off he walked. As I watched his back retreat into Earls Court my phone started ringing. ‘Er, how do you fancy going to the Brit Awards tonight?’ I asked Leonie. After a rather crazed leg-shaving session and a tumultuous throwing on and off of a million outfits, I emerged into Camden Road in one of my new micro tunic dresses with massive cage heels and far too much makeup. I got into the taxi that contained a sleek, vintage-dressed, red-lipsticked Leonie. She stared at me in some surprise. ‘Fran, you’ve turned into a tran
svestite. Are you all right?’ ‘Thanks, Leonie. Yes, I’m fine. Not much going on for me at the moment – losing my boyfriend, getting shoved out of a job by his best mate … Oh, and did I mention that my self-confidence is at an all-time low and you’ve just made it worse? Yes, all things considered, I’m great.’ ‘Oh, Fran, stop it. Tonight will be fine. If you can’t cope, we’ll go home. Or, at least, I’ll put you in a taxi. I’m not missing this for the world.’ She squeezed my hand. I wanted to jump on her and hug her tightly but her belted red dress was spread carefully across the taxi seat and I didn’t dare. Instead I smiled at her and squeezed back. ‘How’s it going with Alex, anyway?’ she asked. I rolled my eyes. ‘Hideous. He keeps going off to have secret phone calls, blatantly with Michael. It’s killing me.’ Leonie winced. ‘So you currently hate him, correct?’ ‘Correct. He’s always bloody sniffing round my work offering to “help”,’ I said, shuddering. Leonie just shook her head. Charlie spotted me almost as soon as I arrived. ‘Looking good, little lesbian.’ He chuckled. ‘Let’s do the red carpet together, yah?’ I shivered as he put his hand on the small of my back and walked me past the photographers. They shouted his name and papped crazily. ‘Are you actually famous, then?’ I asked, turning my back on them. ‘Turn round, you fool!’ He laughed. ‘Yes, reasonably.’ I kept my back turned. ‘Fran, have you invited me here as your wingman?’ Leonie asked, staring suspiciously at Charlie when he went to sign a housewife’s autograph book. ‘Wingman? Leonie, I’ve just lost my boyfriend! I’ve got as much interest in pulling as I have in fucking crochet.’ ‘Liar,’ she whispered. I wasn’t having this. ‘Do you honestly think I give a shit about him or any other man in the world? Because, let me tell you, I don’t. He’s absolutely nothing to me.’ My whisper had got a little loud. ‘Charming,’ said Charlie, behind me. ‘Why don’t you two make friends and meet me down the front?’ he said, gliding off to the flash of camera bulbs. ‘Well done, Fran,’ Leonie said tightly. She and I stood glowering at each other like we had done as small children. She’d always won. ‘Come on,’ I said grudgingly. ‘I’m sorry I shouted. But I didn’t invite you here as my wingman. I’m not interested in Charlie and I wanted you to come so we could have fun. OK?’ ‘You’re a cock, Fran.’ She smiled, following me into the main hall. It was an incredible sight. Acres of candlelit tables stretched away in front of us, all containing faces that we’d spent years perving at in magazines and on the TV. Music boomed fatly over the chink of champagne glasses and the buzz of excitable conversation. Slightly overwhelmed, I grabbed Leonie’s arm and hung on to her as she wove minxily through the tables to the front, where Charlie was waiting. He’d got us into a small roped-off bit just to the side of the stage. ‘How did you do this?’ I asked, thrilled. ‘My station is this year’s main sponsor,’ he shouted. ‘And I’m the face of the station. Tonight, Frances, your wish is my command!’ The ceremony passed in an increasingly drunken blur. Leonie and I shamed ourselves quite comprehensively by screaming our heads off, dancing like apes and reaching out to try to grab Robbie Williams like the teenagers at the front of the audience. Charlie, miraculously unfazed by our regression, stood very close to me all evening. He whispered gossip into my ear about the acts and presenters and, although I tried not to, I couldn’t help enjoying it. When the cameras stopped rolling and Charlie shoved us into a taxi to the after-party in Knightsbridge, we were impressively drunk. There were six of us in a five-man taxi and Charlie put me on his knee. I beamed like a toddler until I realized that I was thinking rather rude, un-toddler-like thoughts about sitting on his lap. Of course, I regarded myself as being far too mad and tragic to be considering other men – but this was fun. Maybe some paparazzo would picture us and Michael would see it and beg me to come back … Leonie watched disapprovingly and I wondered if she was jealous. Charlie and his patent dirtiness were, after all, right up her street. At the party I pushed the thought of Michael out of my head and concentrated on staring at the unhappy-but-pretending-not-to-be musos around me. It really was very nice and comforting to be in the company of people who were as mad as I was, I thought, as I watched a Best International Female contender honking up into a champagne bucket. But after half an hour I was bored: they were ignoring me as studiously now as they had this morning and Robbie Williams hadn’t shown up. I gave in and turned my attention to Charlie. His hand had been resting lightly on my waist since we’d arrived. I could feel his breath on my neck as he talked and – after several large gin and tonics – I was really rather enjoying it. Trying to look sexy, I tried a little experimental move on the periphery of the dance-floor, which involved some reasonably unsubtle breast-jiggling in Charlie’s direction. After watching me for a few minutes he moved over and, really quite matter-of-factly, pressed himself tightly against me. Much encouraged, I expanded the dance move a little more. Why not? I thought drunkenly. A hearty rogering would do me the power of good right now! Clearly of the same opinion, Charlie suddenly leaned even closer and slid his tongue slowly down my ear, bringing about an almighty stirring in my knicker region. Smiling, I turned round and, before I had a chance even to look at his face, he kissed me hard, pressing his hands into the small of my back. Bolts of desire shot through me, surprising me. ‘FRAN!’ It was Leonie in my other ear, grabbing my shoulder. I shot her an I’m-otherwise-engaged face and turned back to Charlie. She ignored me and dragged me off to dance with her. ‘Leonie, I was busy!’ I shouted, but she put her hand over my mouth and wagged her finger in my face. ‘Too early! He’s dirt! You’ll get hurt!’ She started dancing with a tiny bloke from JLS. I minced around for a minute or two, then staggered off to the loo. When I got back, Leonie had ditched the JLS hobbit and was now dancing with Charlie. I watched suspiciously, unsure how much I liked this. She looked pretty damn hot in that red dress. ‘Can I talk to you outside?’ I shouted in her ear. ‘What’s up, Franny?’ she asked, as we emerged into the freezing air. The paparazzi jerked up but then calmed down, realizing we were Insignificant People. ‘Oh, just wondering if you’ve been shagging anyone recently,’ I improvised. ‘Eh? No, I haven’t. Why?’ That didn’t sound too good. Was Charlie next on her list? ‘Well, it’s unlike you not to be shagging anyone, that’s all … I was a bit worried.’ Leonie put her hands on her hips. ‘Are you calling me a slag, Fran?’ I put my hands on my hips, looking somewhat less commanding. ‘Are you flirting with Charlie?’ I teetered slightly on my heels. ‘What the fuck? You think I’m flirting with Charlie? Are you out of your mind?’ ‘No, I’m not. You were dancing with him. You haven’t had a fling in at least three weeks. How do I know you’re not after him?’ I knew I was being a bell end but held my ground. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said slowly. ‘You do think I’m a slag, don’t you?’ She was disgusted and hurt. No, I thought. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, maybe I do.’ What thefuck was I saying? Leonie inhaled slowly and stood up to her full height, which in heels was a fairly terrifying six feet. ‘Do you know what, Fran?’ she said, suddenly monotone and eerily still. ‘I’ve spent weeks looking after you. Weeks. I’ve forked out a small fortune keeping you alive and not once have you said, “Thank you”, or “Sorry”, or even fucking “How are you?” Not once have you offered to pay me back, even though you earn three times more than me. Fran, I didn’t try to get off with your fucking cheesy love interest tonight, but I damn well should have done, you ungrateful wanker.’ And with that she stomped off to a taxi, opened the door and shot off into the night. I watched it disappear up Knightsbridge and then fell off the pavement, much to the delight of the assembled paparazzi. Chapter Twenty-four