by Blake, Rosie
‘No! They’re air, of course.’
Yes, of course. ‘Okay, so going back, if I’m a Virgo, what signs should I be looking for?’
‘It’s not an exact science,’ she explained. ‘But ideally you would want to look for a Taurus or Capricorn. You wouldn’t go far wrong with the Fire signs but do not settle for a Sagittarian.’
‘Why not?’
‘I just wouldn’t,’ she said, pursing her lips.
‘Why not?’
‘Cheaters,’ she stated.
‘What, all of them?’
‘Yes, all Sagittarians are cheaters,’ she said firmly, putting an end to any debate on the matter.
‘My mother’s a Sagittarian.’
She had the decency to blush.
So it looked like I’d been wasting one sixth of my time. Un-bloody-believable. What was the point of dating people if you were not first armed with this arsenal of facts and potential pitfalls? I logged onto the dating website I’d joined and edited the info. It now stated: ‘Geminis and Sagittarians need not apply.’
Three minutes later I received an angry message from user PinkMan687. ‘What have you got against Geminis?’
Oh my God. I’m star signist.
I didn’t have time to respond to PinkMan687 because James appeared in the doorway to his office. ‘Nicola,’ he said, not quite meeting my eye as he spoke. ‘Could you pop in here and run me through the accounts for the, er …’ He mumbled the end of the sentence and I saw a red flush creep up his neck.
‘The what, James?’ Caroline smirked at him.
‘I’m coming,’ I said, getting up and self-consciously following him into his office. My palms were a little damp.
James sat at his desk and I sat across from him.
‘What did you want me to have a look at?’ I asked.
He pushed a piece of paper across to me and my mouth fell open. I had no words. James sat back in his chair and grinned at me.
‘I can’t accept this,’ I said in disbelief.
‘What are you talking about, Nicola? You earned it.’
‘Nooo, it’s too much,’ I protested, sliding the cheque with my Christmas bonus back across to him.
‘Take it,’ he said, gently nudging it towards me. ‘You’ve been fantastic, both of you have and I’ve given the same percentage to Caroline. You’ve both worked hard all year for it.’
‘I … thank you,’ I said, trying to be graceful.
‘Anyway, looks like you’ll need it now that you are wining and dining our best client.’ He laughed, shuffling papers on his desk. It sounded shorter and louder than his usual laugh.
So he had seen me.
‘It was just dinner,’ I blurted.
‘Of course, not for me to judge, I was always under the impression that you weren’t a particular fan of Chris, but—’
‘—I’m not,’ I interjected, wondering why I even felt the need to clarify it.
‘It’s none of my business anyway,’ James shrugged casually.
‘Quite,’ I said, regretting my crisp tone when I saw his face, like I’d said something cruel enough to make the smile fade from his eyes.
My breathing felt loud and my hands were curled tightly around the cheque. James opened and shut his mouth as if he were about to say something else. It never came. I got up to leave.
‘Is that everything?’ I asked curtly.
‘Yes,’ he croaked.
‘Well, I’ll get back to work then,’ I said, feeling the burning sensation of tears behind my eyes. ‘Thank you James, for the … just, thanks,’ I said, closing the door behind me.
Caroline looked up as I appeared, a frown deepening the lines round her eyes. ‘Is something wrong, my lovely?’
I plastered a smile on my face, forcing my mouth to turn up at the edges, ‘Fine,’ I announced. ‘I’m absolutely fine.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Single girl WLTM man with similar interests. She loves: carpentry.
Contact: Box No. 5902
It was the evening of the carpentry class and as I parked the car outside Frenchay College, I took a good long look at myself in the rear-view mirror. The last few days had been quiet in the office and I had barely glimpsed James. Tonight would be a chance to do something different and I was ready to test out my new idea. Rubbing at a dash of mascara that had settled on my eyelid and licking my glossy pink lips, I realised I might have overdone my look. I peered down at the carefully selected outfit. In the full-length mirror in my flat, a lumberjack checked shirt and dungarees had seemed an excellent choice. Now, I realised I looked like a female Bob the Builder, albeit with excellent long lashes and a very pouty smile. Too late now. Taking a breath, I undid my seatbelt, stepped out of the car, grabbed my bag and jogged towards the entrance.
I poked my head around the door of Classroom 12B. This was the place. Long, empty tables were arranged in lines down the big room. The strip lighting highlighted a thin layer of orange dust on the surface. Numerous tools were scattered about unattended. The room was empty of people, bar a lone man with his back to me, leaning over what (I would later discover) was called a ‘workbench’, doing something with a ‘tenon saw’ and a plank of wood. I coughed lightly, my heart hammering at the prospect of the hour ahead. The sound made the man look up from his work. He frowned momentarily, glanced surreptitiously at the clock just above my head and, finally, broke into a smile.
‘You must be Nicola.’
‘I’m early, I’m sorry.’ I started flapping my hands. ‘I can wait outside.’ I turned to head back into the corridor.
‘Don’t be silly! It’ll be good to show you the ropes before the rest appear, so you don’t feel too at sea on your first day. Just let me finish this. Choose a workbench and pop one of them on over your clothes.’
He pointed to a row of pegs lined with aprons. I unhooked one and approached a workbench in the middle of the room, poking my head through the string on the apron and tying it at the back. I flung my handbag on the floor by the radiator.
The man strolled over, holding out his hand. ‘Tom. Thanks for enrolling.’
I took it and shook. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt underneath an apron that matched mine. He had reddish hair and a thick beard that seemed flecked with sawdust. His hands were enormous and he smelled like hard work and beeswax.
‘Now, don’t be alarmed, but this class is quite er … male-heavy.’
‘That’s what I expected,’ I said, a little too enthusiastically. I turned red.
‘Yes, well, not to worry. I’m sure you will be made to feel welcome. They’re a good bunch, mostly beginners and all at varying stages with different projects on the go.’
I nodded along.
‘So, what inspired you to take up carpentry, then?’ he asked.
I’d practised my answer in the car on the drive over. ‘I want to be able to make something, create something from scratch, something, um, beautiful.’
‘Sounds good to me. The guys here range from those who want to be able to do basic woodwork without shaming themselves, to Clive who wants to build his own boat. Friendly advice: Do NOT get onto the subject of sailing in front of him unless you have a spare couple of hours to hand.’
I laughed and mentally deleted Clive from my list.
Tom spent five minutes setting me up for the class ahead, fetching the planks and tools I’d need. It looked like a bewildering array of items. I must have looked nervous because Tom reached across and gave my shoulder a squeeze. ‘Good luck.’
As the rest of the group filed into the room I found myself humming the theme music to Blind Date for a moment, expecting Cilla to appear, her great orange bouffant quivering, as she pointed at me and shouted: ‘Nicola from Bristol is here to snare a man, so who is going to be the nuts to her bolt?’ By the time the last man arrived, I was wondering quite what I’d been thinking when I’d signed up for this class. Of course, I couldn’t just pretend to have lots of masculine interests in the hope of find
ing the man of my dreams. Tom presented me with a plank of wood just a fraction taller than me and I took it hesitantly.
‘Some of them have had a good few lessons now, but not to worry, you’ll catch up in no time. In fact, Alex will show you how to mark out your wood, won’t you, Alex?’
‘I’d be delighted,’ came the reply. A tall man with curly light brown hair and pronounced dimples turned and smiled at me. A light spattering of grey hair placed him in his thirties and the shirt and tie under the apron suggested he had a respectable job. I looked at him and flashed a smile that I’d also practised in the car on the way over.
‘Great.’ I was fairly sure my lashes were fluttering.
‘First you’ve got to cut this thing into two,’ Alex said, kindly. ‘I nearly took my hand off with the tenon saw last week so I’ll start you off. I could do with the practice.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, stepping aside so that he could work.
‘You slot it into this thing, can’t for the life of me remember what it’s called but it keeps the wood still. And then you cut it down towards you, it’s more effective apparently, and also safer. Well, that’s what Tom told me after I nearly lost my hand.’
He looked up from the wood and mock-frowned at Tom.
‘Right, Nicola, there you go. I’ll leave you to do the hard bit, I can’t be trusted round this thing,’ he indicated the saw. ‘When you’ve done that I’ll show you how to mark out your wood for the next bit.’
‘Um, thanks.’
Alex moved away, seemingly oblivious to the impact he had made. He had a great arse …
CONCENTRATE, Nicola. You have a tray to make.
As promised, Alex showed me how to mark out the wood. ‘If you want to make a line two centimetres from the edge, you do this. Then you can run it up and score a line into the wood. This will show you where your cut will be.’
He pointed at various sections and I used these moments as an excuse to glance at his ring finger. No ring. Feeling encouraged, I spent the rest of the class quietly working, enjoying the logical process, seeing the project coming together in stages. We were doing something with rebate joints when Tom announced that the lesson was over. I headed back to my car realising, as I drove away, that I was grinning. I was still smiling as I ate dinner, as I brushed my teeth and as I lay in bed. But it wasn’t Alex’s face in my happy mind’s eye. All I saw were my little planks of wood, all lined up together, my tenon saw resting nearby, my workbench covered in sawdust, and the sound of clapping as the guys in the class congratulated me.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Waking groggily from an amazing night’s sleep, my stomach plummeted as I read the clock with one eye. 8:34 a.m. was NOT A GOOD TIME. My morning routine flew out of the window as I raced around the apartment and then down the stairs and into the street. I was going to be late to the office. Late. I was NEVER late. This didn’t happen to me. The small hole in my tights, which I’d made when hoisting them hastily up my legs, had turned into an ugly ladder scarring one calf. With no time to pick up spares – why hadn’t I remembered to pack them in my handbag? – I pushed open the door to our office and thundered up the stairs.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m late but I’m … standing alone in the office,’ I said, looking around the room and registering the fact that no one else was there. Laughing, I scooped up the post and then noticed the flash of the answerphone. I hit loudspeaker.
‘You have six new messages.’
I raised my eyebrows. This was going to be a long day, I could feel it.
Number one was a frantic message from Caroline.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m going to be late. Ben is off school with tonsillitis or some such vile disease …’
‘Mummmm …’
‘Shh, not now, Benjamin, I’m on the phone … So I’m waiting for the babysitter to turn up. Should be soon, sorry, Nic, call me later …’
Oh dear. Poor Caroline. I pictured Ben milking the situation for all it was worth, hugs, kisses, jelly, lots of cooling ice cream, and smiled.
The second, equally frantic, message was from James.
‘Good morning team, I’m heading up to Birmingham today for a last-minute meeting with John from Earpiece Productions. It’s a lunch meeting and the man can drink, so I’m taking the train just in case. If I haven’t returned by this evening, call all the A & E’s round Birmingham as I imagine I’ll be having my stomach pumped. Adios, senoritas, don’t let the office burn to the ground in my absence. Bye.’
I rolled my eyes and ripped open the first of the post that day. The third answerphone message made me freeze in my tracks. A loud, impatient voice filled the office.
‘James, this is Glenn. Where the hell is Lydia? We’ve set up the shoot and she was given a call time of seven A.M. She better be on her way …’
Christ. Glenn. Glenn was as scary. He was the agency’s biggest client over at Lime Productions and was shooting a series of adverts for a mobile phone company. He’d been using all our actresses and actors and he was, as Caroline put it, ‘the bread on our table’, or ‘our bread and butter’, or, oh, something about bread. Either way he was important. And pissed off.
‘… James, for Christ’s sake, where is she? We are ready to go, everyone is here, get her down here now.’
We couldn’t lose his business. James had spent weeks, no months, courting Glenn. He’d returned from meeting after meeting drained but exuberant. Glenn was demanding but loyal.
‘… James, I don’t need to tell you that I am losing my patience. If she isn’t here within the hour we will be looking elsewhere. And not just for this job.’
I’d heard enough. I grabbed the ‘Bookings’ file and flicked through to today’s list. Lydia was meant to be in a town centre studio an hour and a half ago. I grabbed the phone and dialled 1471. Private number.
‘Damn,’ I cursed, slamming the phone down.
I could make it. I could go in person and apologise. I could sort this out.
I yanked open the filing cabinet and leafed through to Lydia’s CV and details. There she was. I’d ring her on my way. I picked up my keys and raced out of the door.
Huffing, I reached the studio door less than eight minutes later, and then hopped from one foot to another, waiting for someone to buzz me in.
‘Hello,’ I breathed down the intercom. ‘The Sullivan Agency, I’m …’ I took a breath, but the buzzer went off and I was in.
I raced to the reception desk. ‘Hi, morning, I’m from the Sullivan Agency and I’m—’
‘—LYDIA,’ came a roar from behind me.
A large man dressed in an expensive grey suit was bearing down on me. His nostrils flared as he shouted at me. ‘You are nearly two hours late. What the hell are you thinking? We need to shoot this thing now. We’re bleeding money, every minute we—’
‘—Oh no,’ I interjected. I’m not Ly—’
‘—There’s no time for apologies or excuses. Follow me,’ he bellowed, marching off. He made it three steps before spinning back around. ‘I thought you had long hair?’ he barked.
‘Well, no, you see the thing is—’
‘—PAUL!’ he yelled to a bespectacled man I assumed to be the director (he was sitting in the director’s chair looking at a camera). ‘I thought you said she had long hair?’
‘She did,’ Paul said, turning pale as he took me in. He frowned and rubbed his head, ‘She … did …’
‘I’m not—’
‘—It doesn’t matter now. I think I actually prefer it. Right, get the girl into her clothes and let’s get this thing moving. I need to be out of here by lunch, this place costs a damn fortune!’ Glenn strode off to yell at some poor runner nearby.
‘Um … excuse me,’ I said into the ether. Everyone seemed busy, looking at monitors, checking cables or being yelled at by Glenn.
A girl with cropped hair and a tiny nose ring came rushing forward and took my coat and Lydia’s CV from me.
�
��Nice photo,’ she smiled, glancing at it briefly. ‘You look younger in the flesh, ooh you’ve done a stint on Casualty, how exciting,’ she said, running off with the CV.
‘Oh no, I … I’m not …’
Before I could call after her, I was spun round by an enormous woman with a sizeable chest and tight blonde curls. ‘I’m Pauline, wardrobe, you had us worried there. Now, we’ve got some great outfits for you today so follow me.’ She pushed open a nearby door which led to a room lined with racks of clothes. ‘MAKE-UP,’ she screamed suddenly, making me jump.
‘Well, you see, actually —’
‘Arms,’ she said, signalling that I should raise them.
Uncertainly, I lifted my arms. ‘You see, Pauline, I think there might be a little confusion,’ I babbled into the material as it was tugged over my face.
‘Hmm …’ she muttered, rummaging through the clothes rack. ‘I thought you were a 36B but those puppies look bigger.’
I crossed my arms over my chest self-consciously. The urge to confess ebbed as I realised I really didn’t have an alternative plan. I hadn’t even called Lydia. Where was she? Oh God, where was I? What was I doing? It wasn’t even nine in the morning and I was semi-naked, being prodded by Pauline and about to pretend to be an actress in an advert I knew nothing about.
Pauline whipped around. ‘Your first outfit is a one-piece so take off your trousers and we’ll get you into it.’
‘Um, right, yes,’ I said, not really understanding what she’d just told me, but understanding enough to realise that I was soon about to be standing in this room dressed only in my bra and pants. The only comforting thought was that they matched.
‘Right, we got you these.’ She produced a pair of red shoes that seemed so teeny tiny that Tinkerbell herself could have worn them.
‘Oh no, I’m a seven,’ I explained before anyone tried to jam my feet into them.
‘Well they’ll be a tight fit then!’
I bent down and attempted to cram my oversized feet into the delicate little shoes. My heels were hanging over the side. Both my little toes were peeking out at strange angles. Pauline sighed crossly and grabbed her notebook. ‘It says here you’re a four,’ she said consulting the pages.