Now it’s like the floodgates have opened and there’s a ‘whose life is worst’ contest raging between the three of us.
‘George Hasting’s last book,’ says Laura, slowly and precisely, holding on to the edge of the table, like she’s just warming up for a good old ding-dong, ‘sold precisely ninety-one copies, thereby putting me into the acutely embarrassing position of having to beg my mother on bended knee for a hand-out.’
OK, so maybe she wins this round.
‘What was the book called again?’ Barbara asks.
‘A Brief Treatise on the Laws of Sewers, Including the Drainage Acts, 1980–2007.’
‘And you’re telling me that wasn’t snapped up and made into a movie?’ says Barbara.
Laura gives her cute, slightly lop-sided smile. She knows she’s been out-wisecracked.
‘My go,’ I say. ‘The last DSM I dated, that merchant-banker guy, broke up with me via a message on my answering machine. Bastard said he felt he was seventy-five per cent compatible with me, but only twenty-five per cent compatible with himself. Now you can both laugh all you like, but that is without doubt the lamest excuse for being dumped ever, and I should know, I’ve certainly heard a few.’ (A DSM, by the way, is our code for a decent, single man, something that eejit definitely wasn’t.)
‘Requiem for a relationship,’ muses Laura, swirling her drink. ‘I only hope you’re keeping a diary.’
‘But there are thousands of available guys out there,’ says Barbara, while I look at her, thinking, yeah, easy for you to say. ‘All you need to do is flex your dating muscles a bit, that’s all.’
‘Sorry, but when you say thousands of available guys, I hear, great, thousands more opportunities for me to be humiliated.’
‘Oh, come on, you’ve got a dream home,’ she goes on, ‘or at least, it will be by the time the builders are finished, and—’
‘A mother who thinks I can be cheered up with lovely new bedding plants and an order of guilt on the side?’
‘I can top that,’ says Laura.
‘Oh come on, you’re a wonderful mother and you know it.’
‘Yes, you’re probably both just waiting for the Disney bluebird to land on my shoulder. Anyway, during the course of my daily rummaging, I found a condom in my son’s jeans pocket.’
‘But isn’t that an OK thing?’ says Barbara, looking a tad confused. ‘I mean, you know, he’s being safe and . . . emm . . . responsible and all that?’
‘Barbara, he’s twelve.’
‘Oh, right. Sorry.’
‘My only fervent hope is that he doesn’t know what it’s for. Ladies, I just don’t get it. I took a break from a hugely satisfying career at the Bar so I could be a full-time, stay-at-home mom, and I have the baby-vomit-stained T-shirt to prove it. I’ve invested all of this time and energy in my kids, so why couldn’t I have reared the Waltons? Or the Railway Children?’
And then a eureka moment hits me more sharply than a chilli finger poked into my eye. ‘I have it,’ I say. ‘It just came to me.’
‘Top up her glass,’ says Laura bossily. ‘The girl looks as if she’s having a road-to-Damascus moment. Come on, spit it out.’
‘My birthday wish,’ I say firmly. ‘I know what it is.’
‘Shoot.’
I pick up The Law of Attraction and shove it into the middle of the table.
‘We’re doing it,’ I say. ‘The three of us.’
‘The three of us are doing what? Forming a jazz trio?’
‘We, ladies, are going to project-manage each other’s lives, according to the rules laid down in this book,’ I announce, in what I hope is the same assertive tone of voice I use with my bank manager.
‘Cool. Loving it. I’m in,’ says Barbara, beaming.
‘Project-manage?’ Laura asks. ‘Do you mean like Svengali? Or Henry Higgins in an all-girl Pygmalion, perhaps?’
‘Ehh, well I was actually thinking more in terms of Simon Cowell on The X Factor. But same idea, yeah.’
‘And exactly how much champagne have you had?’
Great, now she’s looking at me like I’m only a few coupons short of a special offer.
‘No, this time it’s not the drink talking. Barbara, I’m putting you in charge of my love life, and I for my part will come up with as many ways as I can to turn you into a household name within . . . within . . .’
‘Twelve months,’ Barbara interrupts. ‘Let’s give ourselves till your birthday next year.’
‘A good suitable bookend, I agree,’ says Laura. ‘Rest assured, I’ll be observing how both of you progress from the sidelines, with great interest.’
‘Sorry, Laura,’ I say. ‘You may not fully buy into all of this, but that’s too bad. We need your particular no-nonsense approach here, so you’re in. Welcome to the wonderful world of “got no choice”. And if we happen to come up with a sure-fire way to make you a fortune into the bargain, so much the better.’
She tops up our glasses, doing her lop-sided smile. Which is always a good sign with her.
‘I suggest we hold monthly, organized meetings in each other’s houses,’ I go on. ‘Kind of like a book club, but without the homework, and with margaritas instead of tea and sandwiches.’
‘Free booze. Always sounds good to me,’ says Barbara.
‘And we’re really going to work on visualizing our perfect lives, too. You know, like they do on the space programme, Apollo Thirteen or one of them.’
‘Well, maybe not thirteen,’ says Laura quietly. ‘Pick another Apollo. One that didn’t almost kill everyone.’
‘Girlies, I haven’t a clue what the coming twelve months hold, but I can promise you this. If we just stick to the plan, by this time next year, our lives will be unrecognizable. Deal?’
I don’t even know if what I’m saying is making any sense. I can’t describe it, I just feel like I’m acting on inspired thought.
‘Up until yesterday,’ says Barbara, ‘I’d have said it’s useless to dream because nothing ever changes, but that American chick was pretty bloody convincing. So today, I’m prepared to give it a go. Right, I’m in.’
She clinks glasses with me and looks like she’s really up for it, bless her.
‘Against my better judgement,’ says Laura slowly, ‘and only because it’ll mean I get to see more of you pair, then, OK, count me in, too. I don’t particularly think it’s going to work, but I am rooting for you. In short, you, my dears, have a deal.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
Chapter Three
The law of attraction in action. Well, at least that’s the plan . . .
NOW, IF YOU’RE going to do a thing, you might as well do it properly, I always say. The only trouble is, my workload in the office has gone virtually stratospheric and I’ve had damn all time to sit down and actually organize my own project management task: turning our Barbara into a household name within twelve months.
Bloody hell.
Anyway, the following Friday after the birthday weekend, I’m still in the office late in the evening, working so hard it’s almost like I’m stuck in a time warp. I have to come up with a pitch for a huge cosmetics contract I’m hoping to land, and pitching, let me tell you, is THE single most difficult part of my job. The idea is that I have to condense every single idea I’m simmering with for this product launch into a single sentence, then hopefully use it to bewitch a jaded advertising executive, who’ll fall in love with my idea and pay me a fortune to make it happen. At least, that’s the plan. The phone rings and I grab it, automatically answering, ‘Hello, Harper PR?’
‘Oh, listen to you, Cinderella, little Miss No-Date, still in the office at nine o’clock in the evening.’
Barbara, cutting to the chase as always. There’s never any preamble with her, never a: ‘hi, how are you?’ She’s always just straight in, straight to the point.
‘Shit, I didn’t realize it was so late. I have to have a pitch done for a me
eting on Monday morning and I’m not happy with what we’ve got so far.’
‘And where’s Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie then?’
That’s Barbara’s nickname for my two assistants, which actually really suits them as one is a tall blonde with long, swishy hair extensions hanging out of her, and the other’s a skinny brunette. Anyway, they’re both perky and pert and only about twenty-five. So, of course, working here for them is just the perfect excuse to go to a lot of parties and premieres, while they’re waiting for Mr Right to show up.
Honest to God, there are times when I look at the pair of them and really think I got my life priorities all wrong. And even though I know to the penny exactly what I pay each of them, they’re both always miles better dressed than me and always seem to have far more disposable income. Oh, and their real names, for the record, are actually Lucy and Kate, but somehow, behind their backs at least, the Paris and Nicole tag just stuck. Believe me, it just seems to suit their personalities an awful lot better.
‘Left hours ago. Gone husband-hunting. Like single people are supposed to on a Friday night.’
‘And why didn’t you go with them?’
‘Cos they’ve gone to one of those cool trendy bars where the only people you see over the age of thirty are there to collect their kids. Plus, I have to work.’
‘Yeah, right, fine, way to go, Vicky, put work ahead of all else, that’s what has you sitting in an empty, cold, dark office all alone on a Friday night while all the normal people have gone out to play.’
‘Barbara, this isn’t a Charles Dickens novel, you know. My office does actually have light and heat, thanks very much. You make it sound like there should be hounds baying at the window under a full moon.’
‘Just know that you’ll end up at Paris and Nicole’s five-star, fancy double wedding like some toothless maiden aunt, sitting in a corner hoping beyond hope that you’ll catch the bouquet, and that the groom’s seventy-year-old uncle, who’s on a waiting list for hip replacement surgery, will ask you to bingo with him some Sunday afternoon. You keep this up and that’s the road you’re headed down, baby.’
You have to hand it to Barbara, she paints quite a picture.
‘I know, I know, I should be out there, but it’s just that this meeting on Monday is a big deal and I still haven’t finalized the pitch,’ I whinge, in an effort to get off this highly embarrassing subject. ‘And on top of everything else, the clients are so bloody vague. All I can get out of them is that they want the product to evoke “the glamour of Hollywood during its golden era”.’
‘What’s the product anyway?’
‘Cosmetics. Oh, the usual, you know, face cream and foundation developed by scientists at NASA and so grossly overpriced, you’d swear they were personally hand-squeezed by the Queen from the hind leg of last year’s Grand National winner.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘Wait for it. “Original Sin”.’
‘Hmmm, biblical. Yeah, loving it. So what have you come up with for your pitch?’
‘I’m thinking of a film noir theme for the launch. You know, the kind of party where just walking through the door will almost feel like stepping back into a black-and-white movie. Piano music, champagne cocktails, models floating around who look like Barbara Stanwyck, with the guys dressed like Humphrey Bogart in white tuxes. Classy and sophisticated. Think Cole Porter. Think art deco. And of course the freebie bags will be stuffed with that pillar-box red nail varnish and the heavy lip-gloss all the great femme fatales used to wear.’
‘God, you are good.’
‘Piece of cake. The hard bit will be trying to talk the creatives into this. God alone knows what kind of ideas they have up their sleeve.’
‘Just don’t forget to wangle me an invite to the launch. You know me: I’m your girl for freebies. Well, freebies that other people end up paying for.’
‘Consider it done.’
‘And while you’re at it, any chance you’d ask them to cast me in their ad – sez she cheekily, fully expecting the answer no?’
‘Barbara, by the time I’m finished with you, you’ll be such a household name, the cosmetic companies will be queuing up for you to front all their ad campaigns. You’ll be like Keira Knightley on the Chanel ad.’
Now that’s actually not such a bad idea, I’m thinking, if Barbara was only world-famous, she’d be a terrific brand representative, she’s so gorgeous-looking and funny and charismatic. I mean look at Nicole Kidman or Catherine Zeta Jones or any of them: plugging perfume and night cream didn’t exactly do their careers any harm, now did it? Or their bank balances, come to think of it . . . hmmm . . . I start absent-mindedly drumming a pen on my notepad thinking about just how in the hell I’m going to get her there . . .
‘Excellent,’ says Barbara. ‘Glad to see you’re on the case. Anyway, that’s why I’m phoning you. I spoke to our lovely Laura and we’ve arranged to meet up tomorrow night to kick-start our cunning plan. I was calling our little gathering the “Maisonettes”, you know, because we’re there to help each other, like an all-girl freemasons, but Laura reckons it makes us sound like the Tiller Girls.’
‘Yeah, it does put me in mind of the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall, all right.’
Next thing I start doodling a picture of a butterfly . . . well, that’s what the three of us are trying to do with our lives, aren’t we? Change, just like butterflies . . .
‘So, eight p.m. it is,’ Barbara goes on. ‘You provide the tequila and I’ll bring the margarita mix. And I already know you’re free and dateless, because that’s what the whole point of tomorrow night is.’
‘Thanks so much, why don’t you just throw a toaster in my tub while you’re at it?’
‘Do you want to get sensitive or do you want to get a man, Miss Lonely Heart?’
‘Point taken. You’re right, I have to change my attitude a bit. OK, here goes. This is the start of the official countdown from Cape Harper to boyfriend-land. Right, there you go. Does that sound pathologically optimistic enough? Here I am, in the prime of life, ready for commitment.’
‘Great, I’ll sign the papers.’
‘Commitment to a man, you big eejit.’
Barbara snorts down the phone. She never laughs in a girlie, tinkly, clinking-champagne-glass way like some women do, Paris and Nicole for instance; no, hers is a gutsy, bawdy, full-on belly laugh. When she laughs in bars or restaurants, people always stare over, and you can almost see the thought-balloons coming out of their heads: ‘God, look at that table, they’re having all the crack.’ And usually they’re right. Anyway, just the sound of Barbara’s laugh is always enough to get me into giddy form as well. It’s unladylike, as my mother would say, it’s infectious but most important of all . . . fellas go mad over it. One bloke even told her he’d fallen in love with her purely on account of her laugh, which made me try impersonating her for a while, but I just ended up sounding like Dolores O’Riordan from The Cranberries. Only worse.
‘That’s the girl,’ she says. ‘You just wait and see, this time next year, you’ll be living the life of a Danielle Steel heroine. I have great plans for you, baby. I’ve done homework on your behalf and everything.’
I’m just thinking, bless her for taking all this so seriously, she’s so fab, when, out of nowhere, something strikes me.
‘Barbara, hope you don’t mind my asking but, how come you’re home tonight? Not like you, hon. Friday night and all that.’
‘I do have a date, I’m just running late, that’s all. With the casting director from the commercial last week, remember? Can’t even remember his name. It’s something . . . somebody Vale . . . I remember thinking whatever he’s called, it sounded like a housing estate out in the suburbs.’
‘Are you seriously telling me you’re going on a date with a guy whose name you don’t know?’
‘Honey, I’ve woken up with guys whose names I didn’t know. Besides, I don’t hold out much hope for him, he’s taking me to Bang Café,
and we all know that place is just full of knickerless Ukrainian executive-stress consultants and record-pluggers. You know, one of those kips that’s like a rehearsal room for every lame pick-up line that doesn’t work on match.com.’
Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to . . . my relationship coach. The woman I’m pinning all my hopes and dreams on, of ever meeting a DSM by this time next year.
Oh God, even thinking about what I’m hoping to achieve in the space of twelve short months makes me break out in a flop sweat . . . right then. Only one thing for it. I reach over to my handbag and fish out The Law of Attraction, which, tonne weight and all as it is, I’ve been toting around with me all week, dipping in and out of it whenever the need arises. Like now.
‘Before you go,’ I say. ‘I just opened the book you gave me, at random, and here’s the perfect affirmation quote for me to leave you on. Are you ready for this?’
‘Shoot.’
‘“I choose today to give myself the best life ever.”’
And she hangs up, pissing herself laughing.
Then a text message from Laura, which is never a good sign. It usually means there’s a fresh crisis with one of the kids, such as the time her youngest threw the main house phone down the loo, and her oldest brother didn’t realize and weed on it. Anyway, she asks if it’s OK if we convene at my place the following night, that her mum has agreed to babysit, and that she badly needs a night off or there’s a fair chance she’ll strangle someone, so I text back, saying grand, no worries, my house it is. Well, house slash building site would probably be more accurate.
It WILL be lovely when it’s finished, is my permanent mantra as every morning I sit gulping down cups of coffee at my washing machine, which is doubling up as a kitchen table for me at the moment. I’m not kidding, the house and renovations are costing me so much that I can’t afford proper furniture.
Well, at least, not yet.
It’s a dotey, tiny little doll’s house Victorian railway cottage, which was waaaay over my budget when I bought it last year, in the face of a great deal of opposition from my nearest and dearest which I can neatly summarize thus:
Do You Want to Know a Secret? Page 4