by Jill Mansell
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘And don’t forget, I still love you. More than ever now.’
‘Just friends is enough.’ Evie was being outwardly brave, but inside she was in turmoil.
‘It’s not enough for me. But it’ll do for a start.’ Joel conceded the point with one of his winning heart-melting smiles. ‘Just so you know, though, I’m going to do everything I can to win you back.’
On his way back from a meeting with a major client in Kelston, Flynn encountered a backlog of traffic that had ground to a standstill on Newbridge Hill. Switching on the radio, he learned that there had been an accident on Windsor Bridge Road and central Bath was in a state of gridlock.
Luckily, it had been his last appointment of the day. On the down side, he wasn’t going to get home any time soon. Instead, diverting to the left, he made his way to Victoria Park.
It was six o’clock in the evening, still sunny and warm. Families were queuing at the ice-cream van as Flynn left the car and made his way past them into the park. After last night he should be dropping with exhaustion but, if he were back at the flat now, he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. All day, this morning’s furious argument with Lara had been replaying itself on a loop in his head.
It was a situation that clearly needed to be sorted out. And he may as well do it here, in the park they’d spent so much time in as teenagers.
Hands in pockets, he followed the path leading towards the wooden bridge over the pond. This was where he and Lara had liked to come and watch the ducks.
Lara, Lara. God, the last couple of days had been utterly surreal. This morning he had said some things he probably shouldn’t have said. And so had she. Their emotions had got the better of them and they had got carried away. Which hadn’t been ideal, and he was regretting it now. It was like happy families being visited by tragedy; when a child died, instead of clinging together and supporting each other, the parents found themselves grieving alone, taking their anger out on each other and eventually breaking up. It was a statistical probability, he knew that.
But this was the opposite scenario. Lara was back and he had gained a daughter, which was unbelievably amazing. He was a father. And Gigi was amazing too. This was no tragedy, it was a good-news story. Pretty much the best news possible.
And yes, Lara had been wrong to deprive him of his daughter for the last eighteen years, but she hadn’t done it to punish him, he knew that. She’d thought she was making a sensible decision. It hadn’t been a malicious one.
He could appreciate that now. Resting his forearms on the bridge’s wooden balustrade, Flynn gazed down at the water. Sunlight bounced off the ripples created by a surge of activity from the ducks as an overexcited small boy hurled an entire loaf ’s worth of bread slices into the water, all in one go.
He’d missed out on all those precious duck-feeding years with Gigi.
‘Oh, Darren, you big wally,’ wailed the small boy’s older sister. ‘You’re supposed to do them one at a time!’
‘Ow!’ Darren howled, as she gave him a shove and knocked him over. Grabbing a handful of stones, he flung them at his sister, who let out a scream when one of them hit her in the face.
‘OK, you two, that’s enough.’ Their exasperated mother dragged them apart. ‘If you can’t be nice, we’re going home.’
‘I want to go home! He’s used up all the bread and now there’s none left for me! Darren, you are a PIG!’ bellowed his sister.
Flynn watched them leave. Maybe duck-feeding wasn’t always as idyllic as it was cracked up to be.
Anyway, he and Lara had hopefully got the worst of the anger out of their systems now, for two reasons. Because, as Gigi’s parents, it was going to help if they were on speaking terms.
As for the second reason . . . well, it was pretty simple. Lara was back in Bath, back in his life. And seeing her again had only proved what he’d always suspected.
He’d never got over her. Nor had anyone else ever managed to match up. Crazy though it sounded, she appeared to have been the love of his life. God knows, he’d tried to replace her and, over the years, there’d been plenty of willing candidates, but the chemistry that had bound them together had never been equalled. When Lara had looked at him with those thickly lashed, gunmetal silver eyes, she just knew him, and vice versa. They had shared something he couldn’t even begin to explain.
And, all these years later, that feeling was still there.
A pair of swans had sailed out from under the bridge now, to investigate the remains of the bread. As Flynn watched them, a small dog on a lead brushed against the back of his trouser leg.
‘Alfie, stop it. I’m so sorry . . . oh, Flynn, I didn’t realise it was you! Hello!’
Her name was Nerys and she was a retired piano teacher who had been friendly with his parents before they had both died. Still elegant in her late seventies, she was walking her Jack Russell.
‘Nerys, how nice to see you again. You’re looking very well.’ He greeted her with a kiss. She and his mother had shared a passion for music and had often attended the opera together.
‘Well enough, I suppose, dear. Touch of arthritis, but I can’t complain. Better than being dead, I suppose.’ She gave him a bright smile tinged with sympathy. ‘I do miss your ma and pa. You must too.’
Flynn nodded; they had gone within weeks of each other, first his mother succumbing to cancer, then his father to a heart attack. It had happened four years ago now.
‘It’s a blessing they went as close together as they did. Like a pair of swans, they were.’ Nerys matter-of-factly indicated the swans on the water. ‘Find the right partner and that’s it for life. Romantic.’ She paused and surveyed him with interest. ‘And how about you, dear? Settled down yet?’
‘Not yet.’ Flynn smiled briefly.
‘Taking your time, eh? Nothing wrong with that, did the same myself. Don’t worry, it’ll happen.’ Giving Alfie’s lead a tug and preparing to move on, Nerys said cheerily, ‘When you meet the right one, you’ll know.’
When she’d gone, Flynn stayed where he was for a while longer and watched the activity on the pond as the last of the sodden bread disappeared.
Like it or not, Lara appeared to be his swan. The question now was, would he turn out to be hers?
At the moment, there was no way of knowing.
One thing was decided, though. He would forgive her, but he wouldn’t grovel.
From now on, everything that had gone before was water under the bridge.
When Harry switched on his computer on Wednesday morning his first thought was that the antivirus must have failed. His email inbox had been spammed, completely overrun with emails. The last time it had happened, offers of Viagra had poured in. This spamming virus, however, appeared to have attached itself to the order forms on the website account. Which might be less embarrassing than the Viagra episode but it was still a complete pain, because computers weren’t his forte and now he was going to have to take it along to the expert at the repair shop to get it sorted out. Damn and blast.
He made himself a cup of tea then sat back down, gazing helplessly at the screen. Not all the emails were viruses. So long as he didn’t click on any of the bad ones, would he be OK? Or was that the wrong thing to do? Would it cause the virus to spread like typhus? Maybe he shouldn’t risk it.
Harry leaned back with a sigh and sipped his tea. It was half past eight; the local computer repair shop didn’t open until nine. He heard the sound of a car pulling into the courtyard. Morag and Betty had arrived for work but they’d be no help either.
Two minutes later, they appeared in the office. Morag, pink-cheeked in a floral dress and clutching a fluorescent yellow Post-it note, said, ‘That singer fellow who was here the other day. Did he have pointy gold teeth here and here?’
She was baring her gums, pointing to her yellowish incisors. Bemused, Harry said, ‘Yes, he did.’
‘Was his name EnjaySeven?’ Betty chimed in eagerly.
‘Our Darren just called me! You’re on his website!’
Darren was Morag’s fifteen-year-old grandson. ‘Your Darren’s got a website?’ If he were technically minded, maybe he could get rid of this wretched virus.
‘Not him, you twit! EnjaySeven! Here, our Darren’s given me the site. You just have to type this in and it’ll take you to the right bit.’ Morag triumphantly slapped the yellow Post-it on to the desk.
‘I can’t, there’s something wrong with the computer. Look at all the messages.’ Harry pointed to the screen. ‘That means we’ve been infected with a virus.’
‘They’re orders,’ said Betty. ‘It says so.’
‘But it can’t be actual orders,’ Harry patiently explained. ‘There are too many of them.’
‘Shift your backside, pet. Let me do it.’ Betty took over the swivel chair and began tapping away at the keyboard like a pro. ‘See? They’re orders. Told you!’
‘But how . . .?’ Harry rubbed the back of his head.
‘You big numpty! I can’t believe you’ve never heard of EnjaySeven,’ Morag chided. ‘I can’t believe I was working away in the back room and you didn’t even think to tell me he was here. EnjaySeven’s right up there with Eminem and Kanye and Jay-Z. He’s massive.’
For heaven’s sake, would you listen to them? He was thirty-eight. Betty and Morag were in their sixties. They’d be breakdancing next. Or whatever kind of fancy dancing it was called nowadays. On the few occasions he’d seen it on TV it had looked a lot like dislocating your hips.
And now Betty had brought the website up on to the screen, and it was an impressively glitzy and professional affair with flashing bits and music playing and . . . oh good grief, a still from the video taken right here in this very office . . .
‘There you are! That’s you,’ said Morag. Just in case he hadn’t recognised himself.
Betty pressed play and the scene sprang to life, causing Harry’s neck to prickle with embarrassment. He’d always hated seeing and hearing himself on friends’ videos.
In dumbstruck silence they watched the clip, reliving the episode where Vampire Teeth – OK, EnjaySeven – demanded to buy all the shirts and Harry refused to sell them. The recording had been edited; the next moment he was saying they didn’t take American Express, then that he wouldn’t be listening to EnjaySeven’s music. After that, the filming resumed inside the Maybach, with EnjaySeven mimicking Harry’s reluctance, his reserve and his English-butler accent. Finally, it cut to EnjaySeven in his hotel room, wearing a smart suit, super-shiny shoes and one of the cream shirts.
‘So here I am,’ he drawled, ‘all ready to go out on the town tonight, and I gotta tell you, guys, this is my all-time favourite make of shirt. The Effing Ducks, this is them,’ He leaned towards the camera and tapped the logo with a manicured fingernail. His tone conspiratorial, he said, ‘It’s supposed to be the Flying Ducks but we’ve renamed it now. So you go to the link on our website and head on over to their website, where an orffully nice gentleman will take your order. So that’s it, y’all get yourself a cool shirt like mine, yeah? You won’t regret it. The Effing Ducks. Quack quack!’
The clip ended, fading to black.
‘Ah, isn’t that lovely?’ Morag clapped her hands.
‘And doesn’t it suit him?’ said Betty happily. ‘Mind you, he’s got the body for it. Nice pecs. You can tell he works out.’
Harry stared at the pair of them in outrage. ‘Excuse me, are you both out of your minds? Has it not occurred to you that there is something . . . wrong with this situation?’
Mystified, they gazed up at him. ‘What’s wrong, pet? It’s brilliant!’
‘How can it be brilliant when he’s saying . . . what he said?’ Bad language wasn’t something that tripped naturally off Harry’s tongue; he’d just never been the type to use it. ‘The Effing Ducks.’ He found himself stumbling over the words. ‘That’s just completely offensive.’
‘Oh, you’re such an old fuddy-duddy, pet. Young people say it all the time these days. Anyway,’ Morag’s tone was soothing, ‘Eff stands for Flying, so that’s all right.’
‘It is not all right! It’s outrageous. What if our customers got to hear about this?’
Wordlessly Betty clicked off the garish site and returned to the emails. She began scrolling down the list of new orders. And down. And dooooooooown. At last, one hundred and seventy-six emails later, she came to the end and said, ‘Well, these customers don’t seem too bothered.’
‘I don’t care. That man’s bringing our name into disrepute. We have a reputation to maintain and I won’t let him sully it.’
‘But he’s not sullying it, pet, not really. He’s saying it’s his all-time favourite shirt! All these years,’ said Morag, ‘we’ve never had a celebrity wear one of our shirts, and now we’ve got EnjaySeven! This is like a dream come true . . .’
‘It really isn’t.’ Harry shook his head. ‘I don’t mind people making fun of me, but I won’t have them making fun of our good name. Right, leave this to me, I’ll sort it out. You two can go and make a start on these shirts.’
Within ten minutes he had fired off an email to the contact address on the website. In a calm but firm manner, he made his feelings clear. Finally, having expressed his hope that the situation could be resolved in an amicable manner, he signed off with ‘Yours most sincerely, Harry Wells’, and pressed send.
By this time, yet more orders had come pouring into his inbox. Which was pleasing in one way, of course it was, but the standard of the grammar in some of the accompanying messages was frankly appalling:
‘Yeh man, giv uz a gray 1 in meedum but y no pinck or beter cullrs eh?!!!’
Harry winced. Oh dear, oh dear, what were the young people of the world coming to? At this rate ‘textspeak’ was set to signal the downfall of civilisation. Still, at least this one hadn’t mentioned the Effing Ducks, like the sender of the next order.
And the next. Who spelled it Efinn.
Another called it FN Ducks.
After thirty minutes he printed off the list of orders and realised they were going to have to get a couple of extra workers in. The recession had taken its toll on the company as it had with so many, and sales had halved over the last decade. They still had two machines standing idle; now they could be brought back into service. He’d ask Betty if her sister would like to join them for—
Bbbrrring bbbrrring. The phone burst into life on the desk and Harry reached for it.
‘Good morning, Flying Ducks, how may I help you?’
‘Yo, Harry, how ya doin’, man? EnjaySevaaaan!’
It wasn’t the kind of voice you could easily forget. Harry said sternly, ‘Oh hello. I’m well, thank you. But not too happy. In fact I’ve just sent you an email voicing my concerns.’
‘I know you did, man. That’s why I’m calling you. The girl who passed it on to me thinks you’re kinda cute, by the way.’
‘Well, thank you, that’s flattering to hear, but we really have to do something about this Effing Ducks business.’ There, he’d said it.
‘We?’ EnjaySeven sounded amused.
‘You,’ Harry said firmly.
‘It’s just a bit of fun, man.’
‘Maybe it is to you. But to me it’s besmirching the good name of our company.’
‘Besmirching, that’s a helluva word. You know what? I think I like it.’
‘I just feel it’s disrespectful,’ Harry reiterated.
‘Oh man, I ain’t dissin’ you, I thought you’d be pleased. It’s free publicity, yeah? I tell my fans something’s good, they buy it. Big companies pay a fortune to be endorsed by me.’
‘I’m sure they do. And I am grateful . . .’
‘You had any orders since we put the video up on the site?’
‘Yes, we have. Quite a few,’ Harry admitted.
‘How many?�
�
‘Orders for two hundred and eighty-six shirts.’
‘See? And it only went up a few hours ago. Brace yourselves, there’ll be more.’
‘I won’t be filling any orders until you remove the offensive comments from the site,’ said Harry.
‘Man, are you serious?’
‘Completely.’
‘You’ll lose out on a ton of money.’
‘I know that. But I’d still have my dignity.’
‘Oh my. Oh my, oh my.’ Enjay was chuckling now. ‘You know who you sound like, Harry? You sound like my mom.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment. Although I don’t suppose I sound exactly like her.’
‘You’re right. You’re more English.’
‘And I’m a man.’
More laughter. ‘OK, Harry. I’ll get my people on to it.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘We’ll bleep out the offending words. I’ll post another clip telling people it’s Flying Ducks only and if they call it anything else you’ll sue their sorry asses.’
Honestly, these Americans and their addiction to legal action. Harry said, ‘I couldn’t afford to do that.’
‘I know. We just say it, that’s all. It’ll be cool.’
‘OK.’
‘Happy now?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘You’ve got everything you could possibly want out of this and you only think so? Harry, you crack me up. You’re a funny guy.’
Did he mean funny ha-ha or funny peculiar? Harry thought he could hazard a guess. Luckily it didn’t bother him. He said, ‘I wouldn’t say I’d got everything I could want.’
‘Oh really? An endorsement by a global superstar not good enough for you? What’s better than that, man?’
‘Well, no offence,’ said Harry, ‘but personally I’d have preferred it to be Prince Charles.’
‘Morning,’ said Flynn, when Lara opened the door.
‘Hi.’ She may as well get it over and done with. ‘Sorry about yesterday. You had every right to be angry.’
His expression softened. ‘I know. But so did you. I’m sorry too.’