by Claire Allan
If the hysterical tone in my voice earlier in the café had been high-pitched, Bob’s was almost supersonic.
The other two messages? Yes, they were from Darcy. The first was simply “Did you see the state of that?” and the second was a request that I call her immediately.
I would have called her – honest, I would – except that my mind was racing. Bob wanted me. Well, actually I think his exact words were that he needed me. I was quite happy to be needed, especially in a professional capacity. I steadied myself and I picked up the phone to call him. This was it – my moment.
37
The offices of NorthStar PR are a strange place to be on a Sunday afternoon. The carpark looked almost bereft with only three cars in it – mine, Bob’s and Pearse’s. We all parked beside each other which was completely unnecessary but strangely comforting.
I had changed from my tracksuit bottoms and T-shirt into something a little more official-looking. I had combed my hair into a high ponytail and slicked on some make-up. I was even wearing heels – which I rarely did on a Sunday. Sunday was a day for flat shoes for sure. I had sprayed on my favourite perfume and had done everything I could think of to make myself look confident. I certainly didn’t feel it. I felt like a nervous wreck. The last time I had seen both Bob and Pearse had not been happy times and, even though it was them who wanted to see me on this occasion, I didn’t feel in any way as if I had the upper hand.
I took a few deep breaths and steadied myself. I had to prove myself here and now and I had to put all my feelings about Pearse and his penis and the ownership of same aside. I had to try and be the professional PR Guru Bob believed I could be. I had to get this right.
Walking in the door and through to the inner sanctum of Bob’s office, I saw Pearse sitting there with his head in his hands. Bob was pouring, coughing and offering soothing words and the phone was off the hook. Sitting beside Pearse was Toni who looked devastated.
I swallowed hard and said my hellos.
Pearse looked at me, his face blazing, and then he took Toni’s hand.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Pearse said with a bravado I was pretty sure he wasn’t feeling.
“I’m sure it will be fine,” I said. “People have survived worse. A good sex scandal here and there has actually worked in some people’s favours. We just have to spin this the right way.”
“It’s not just a sex scandal,” Toni piped up, her eyes firey. “We’re in love.”
Momentarily I was floored. Just a few weeks ago Pearse had allegedly been in love with me. It was a cruel blow to my ego to know that he had moved on so quickly – even though I had moved on myself while we were still together.
He nodded, blushing slightly, and Bob shrugged his shoulders before handing them cups of coffee and sitting down behind his desk.
Ignoring the whole “in love” declaration, he tapped his fingers together.
“Annie is right. We have to spin this. We can make this work to your advantage. But you will be hounded by every tabloid hack in the country. We have to work this so that whoever you talk to, whoever you let take your picture, it has to be someone you trust entirely.”
“And the restaurant?” Toni asked
“You open as usual. But you stay away. At least for tonight,” Bob said.
“Actually, I think they should go in,” I said.
Three sets of eyes, all round and wide, looked at me as if I were mad.
“If you are in love, as you claim to be, then you brazen it out. You go to work. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Not even shagging over the spuds?” Bob asked incredulously, losing his cool for perhaps the first time ever.
Toni spluttered in a most unattractive fashion.
“Right, we get on to the suppliers and we arrange a whole new delivery of potatoes through the front door – where all the paps are waiting – mid-afternoon. Then, Pearse and Toni, you two arrive together. I’m assuming you are actually together now?”
Toni nodded. I looked at Pearse and he nodded too.
“We didn’t expect it,” he started. “It just –”
“Happened,” Toni interjected, giving me a look which let me know she had always, always intended for it to happen anyway.
“And your husband?” I asked.
“Well, here’s the thing. He’s not a bit happy. He’s spitting venom if the truth be told.”
I shook my head. “Harsh as it might sound, we don’t worry about him. Not today anyway. Today we get you two back out there. Tomorrow I’ll scout around my contacts and see who we can get to do this story properly. And we have to find a focus – something positive at the restaurant so we can shift attention that way.”
“There’s the Speed Dating Night?” Bob offered hopefully. “Assuming they don’t want to pull out now, we could make it unforgettable.”
My brain started to whirr with ideas. “You leave them to me. I’ll talk them round and we’ll make it work. I’ll get Zara Dunne and a few of her cohorts to come along and offer their speed-dating services. We’ll go all out to make it a sparkling event. You two – are you up for staging a speed date for the press? Could make a quirky piece. We have to make them think this hasn’t phased you at all. So what if you got randy in the kitchen? You were just following your instincts. The worst thing you could do is act like you regret it.”
“She’s right,” Bob said. “Absolutely one hundred per cent right. Genius. Let’s make the Speed Dating Night the most memorable night Manna has ever had. I’ll get the whole team on it tomorrow. We’ll get everyone we can to go. It will be brilliant. Roll on Thursday!”
As I drove home there was a small nagging feeling which refused to go away. I knew I could do this – that didn’t worry me. I would call in every favour I could and, that aside, I knew there would be no problem whatsoever in getting a journalist to follow up their story. In fact, I already had one in mind – and as for the speed-dating crowd – we could spin this beautifully. Skirting around the whole shagging-in-the-kitchen fiasco we would spin Manna as the place to fall in love. With a few minor celebs on board – and maybe even a sponsorship from Haven (for Super Kissable Lips . . .) it would be the biggest night out the town had seen. It was going to be okay. And yet the nagging feeling wouldn’t leave.
Clambering up the stairs once again and into my flat, I sat down and set to work, planning our strategy, emailing a select few reporters and lifting my phone to make a few very important phonecalls.
“Hello?” Darcy answered.
“Hey, babes!” I said cheerfully.
“About fecking time!” she roared. “It’s Scandal Central up there and you leave me hanging. And don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about because I know of your sordid addiction to the celebrity-gossip columns in the Daily Mail online. Would you have thought he’d have it in him? The randy fecker!”
“Actually, he could be quite the Mr Lover Man when he got going,” I teased.
“Tell me,” she said, her voice laden with curiosity, “did youse ever do it in the kitchen? You know, a bit of a Nine and a Half Weeks scenario? Some whipped cream, strawberries and a ripe banana or two?”
“We bloody well did not!” I protested. “Now, his office, that was another matter . . . but, anyway, yes, I knew about it. In fact, I have spent the last two hours in his company. And Toni’s too for the record. They are in love.”
“Shit,” Darcy said. “Are you okay? I mean, I know you and him are no more and all – but in love, already? Shit. That’s harsh.”
“I’m fine,” I said, and I was. “And it has actually been a blessing in disguise.”
I explained to her how Bob had called and how NorthStar needed me and how this was going to be the coup of my career and that, perhaps more importantly, it meant I actually did still have a career. Hurrah! I would not have to trade in my lovely flat for a cardboard box or go begging to our parents for a crisis loan. That certainly cushioned the blow of knowing Pearse had move
d on.
Sated in her desire for salacious gossip, Darcy rang off and I set about working again. I grinned when an email from Owen popped into my inbox.
“So,” he wrote, “tell me you’ve not booked that Manna place for our dinner? I’d hate to be put off my spuds!”
I grinned and hit the reply button to assure him, without going into details, that Manna was mostly definitely not on the cards.
It was then I realised just what had been giving me that sinking feeling all afternoon. Thursday. The big night at Manna. Thursday. The big non-date with Owen. I couldn’t not go to Manna. I had to be there. Absolutely and entirely. If I wanted to keep my job there was simply no choice in the matter.
But it wasn’t like I could just reschedule for another night with Owen. It wasn’t as if he lived just over town or was always up and around these parts. He lived 200 miles away – which was not exactly an acceptable driving distance for a non-date dinner. Perhaps serendipity was just messing with our heads.
I didn’t type a response, because I wasn’t sure what to say. It surprised me, more than I cared to let on, that I was annoyed about it. Perhaps annoyed was too strong a word. Disappointed for sure. I knew he would be disappointed too – just knew it. With a sinking feeling I made myself a cup of tea and climbed to the roof terrace where I stared out into the cool evening air and sighed. There was nothing for it. I would have to work my arse off to save Pearse and my job and hope that, if fate was as good at bringing Owen and me together as we had originally thought, it would find a way to make things happen.
38
It had gone swimmingly well. The press had lapped up my calls. Pearse and Toni had done a Hello-style photo shoot in the much more desirable location of Pearse’s house on the hill. Toni’s husband had gone incognito as his own torrid affairs started to jump out of the closet. Zara and her cohorts were lined up for the big night and the speed dating crowd had been easily won over – especially when they knew Elise was off the case. “We never really liked her much anyway.”
The team at NorthStar had all pulled together brilliantly, even Fionn who was hurtling towards her hen night and wedding with an increasing hysteria.
If it hadn’t been for the fact I’d had to bail on Owen for our non-date I would have been on Cloud Nine. Not only was the night at Manna going to be a success, it was going to be a huge success. I was back, well and truly, in Bob’s good books. He’d even promised me a gold star and an Employee of the Month award.
All we had to do was to get through tonight – but I was confident about that. Bob had, as expected, insisted that I be there. I had set aside my proposed Thursday night outfit of linen trousers and a casual top in favour of a glittery tunic dress, footless tights and killer heels. One of the beauty consultants from Haven had given me a make-over – a really fancy one with false eyelashes and everything. It was a joy to have these applied by a professional – my own efforts generally ended up with me spending all night running to the ladies’ to make sure they hadn’t run off across my face somewhere. I wore my hair in a subtle beehive – very smooth and glam and not at all frizzy. I looked like I knew what I was doing – like I had been born to run around with a clipboard and earpiece at a big celebrity function. The assembled press even wanted to take my picture along with the other organisers which, believe me, was a coup. At a previous similar event I had been asked to step out of the frame of the photo because “I didn’t quite fit in”.
Fionn was there – equally and effortlessly glam – but nervous. She was finding any time away from the intricacies of wedding-planning hard going.
“Would you take a deep breath and calm down?”
“Table plans,” she muttered. “I’ve been working on it all evening. I was almost there – almost passed the stage of causing an international incident by sitting my Auntie Jean and his Uncle Seán together. Almost. It was all in my head, but it had to come out. Do you think . . .” she mused, her brow crinkling, “that anyone would notice if I just nipped off to the office for a bit and did a bit of work on it? I mean, you have this covered, don’t you?”
I gave her arm a gentle rub while simultaneously giving her a look which signalled that I would kill her – with my clipboard – if she so much as nodded in the direction of the office.
“Stay focused, Fionnuala, my dear. Stay focused. I’ll help you with the table plan tomorrow – promise – or even after this. But I need you here. You are my wing-man, or wing-woman. Whatever you are, you need to be here. You know what my recent track record is like. Things could still go spectacularly wrong.”
And, besides, if I had to give up the chance of a non-date with Owen, then she sure as hell could put her table plan to one side for one night. I loved her deeply, and with all my heart, but I was starting to look forward to getting her whole Big Day over and done with so that, perhaps, her sanity levels would return to normal.
“I’m sorry,” she said, blushing. “You’re right. But nothing will go wrong. Look at the queue outside – this place is the place to be. And Zara Dunne is sober. That’s always a good start.”
I looked over to where the beauty queen was pouting for the camera, her long legs making me feel like Stumpy McStumperson. She had three friends with her, all equally glam and gorgeous. They looked like they had walked right off the catwalk. The high-class bachelors of Derry would be swooning after them.
Pearse was looking really quite handsome and definitely back to his usual over-confident self. There was no trace at all of the nervous wreck who had sat in front of me just a few days before in NorthStar’s offices. He was walking around, designer suit, open shirt, big smile, with tiny Toni hanging off him like a limpet. They looked happy. He definitely looked like the cat who had got the cream. As they staged their photo – leaning over the table towards each other in deep conversation, hands touching in a wonderfully romantic way, he grinned, and I saw a trace of something I hadn’t seen in a long time. It was there and it brought a lump to my throat. This was the old Pearse. The Pearse who I had fallen for – who had been happy – before we had drifted apart from each other. While I was happy to see him smile in that way, I felt a tinge of regret for the couple we had been.
There was no time for regret, however. I had things to do. It was kick-off time – time to swan about making sure the right people spoke to the right people, that the right people had their picture taken and that Manna, Haven and the speed dating crowd were kept happy. I signalled to the burly doormen to open the door – and to be ruthless about who they let in and who they kept out – and I grabbed one of the complementary glasses of sparkling wine and allowed myself a sneaky sip. No more, mind. This was not going to be an Annie disaster.
The place was certainly buzzing and the atmosphere was all we could have hoped it would be and more. Bob was standing on the sidelines, his arms crossed, his pelvis thrust forward in a proprietary manner. The smile on his face had never been wider.
“You okay, boss?” I asked, blatantly fishing for one of his clichéd compliments.
He nodded. “I couldn’t be happier even if Colin Farrell walked right in right now, declared his love for all things gay and offered to take me back to his hotel room for some rampant sex.”
Not exactly clichéd – but I took it as a compliment anyway.
The pictures were taken, the dates were well underway and my feet were killing me. I knew I should have worn my ballet pumps, but no – I had wanted to go for all-out glam. Well, now I was suffering for it. I had an almost uncontrollable urge to make my way behind the bar, lift the ice bucket and plunge my feet as deeply into it as possible.
Instead I opted for finding a quiet corner, removing my shoes and giving my feet a quick rub while making rather suspect “oooh!” and “aaah!” noises.
“Annie?” I heard Pearse call and I looked up.
“I thought it was you. I recognised the groans,” he said with a wink. But it wasn’t a flirtatious wink. It was a definite water-under-the-bridge wink.
&nb
sp; “Well, sit down and get rubbing,” I said, proffering him my foot. It was the very least he could do. Pearse always did give a decent footrub. He sat down, lifted my foot and starting kneading. I sat back and groaned again. But it wasn’t a flirtatious groan. It was a definite water-under-the-bridge groan.
“I never said thank you,” he said. “For how you dealt with this. You saved our skin.”
“That’s my job,” I said with a salute.
“I think you went above and beyond. After everything. After how I treated you.”
“I did a fair share of the mistreating myself,” I said with a blush.
“Okay, so we both fucked up,” he said. “Not the most dignified end to a relationship I’ve ever gone through.”
“Hey,” I said with a smile, “I take it as a compliment that you were so annoyed at the split that you actually tried to ruin my life.”
He paled for a second – even in the dark room I could see the colour drain from his face. Perhaps I had gone too far. Perhaps it was too soon for jokes.
“I’m kidding,” I offered. “I’m sorry. I’ve not handled this well at all.”
“Neither of us has,” he said.
We sat in companionable silence for a moment or two.
“Are you happy?” I asked. It was suddenly important to me beyond everything that he was happy. Everything would be okay if he was happy – there would be hope for us all.