Shit, I must be plastered. Plus I have this awful, nagging memory that when he asked me out, I demanded a pen from him and scribbled my number on the cuff of his shirt. In my defence I thought I was being very femme fatale, but more than likely came across as being anyone’s for a bag of chips.
‘Do you mean the older guy in the corner? Oh yeah, he’s a regular,’ says Nathaniel helpfully from the front seat of the car. ‘Film director, or so he says. Great man for a few drinks. Good tipper, too.’
‘I take my eye off you for two seconds,’ Barbara hisses at me, ‘and you blithely swap numbers with someone un-vetted. You should be ashamed of yourself.’
‘Yeah, but curioushly, I’m not.’
‘He was in a nightclub on his own, with no friends. Does that tell you anything?’
‘Aloof, bit of a loner, all adding to his general sehxiness quotiensh,’ I slur.
‘Suppose it turns out that he used to be a woman?’
‘All love ish a rishk, but a risk you have to take. Oh look, Barbara! That houshe looks exactly like mine! Skip outside the front door and everything.’
‘It is your house. Now good night, you drunken lush. Drink another litre of water now and I’ll ring you first thing in the morning. Well, first thing in the mid-afternoon.’
She helps me out of the taxi and on to the pavement and it’s only by a miracle the taxi pulls off before I start shouting, ‘Nathaniel, I hope you realishe you’re a very, very lucky man!’
4.00 a.m.
In bed, fully dressed, pillow looking like the Turin Shroud with all the make-up that’s mashed into it, room helicoptering around me. I’m just drifting off into a lovely deep sleep/stupor when the phone beside my bed beep beeps. Three unread text messages, all from some bloke called Eddie. I grab the phone, drop it, then have to haul myself out of bed to pick it up, all the while thinking, ‘Eddie? Who’s Eddie?’
First message was sent at midnight.
HEY VICKY, REALLY ENJOYED MEETING U TONIGHT. WILL CALL YOU TOMORROW. EDDIE X
Oh yeah, now I remember. Cutie Scottish guy, cardigan man, looked a bit like Philip Seymour Hoffmann, which as we all know is a polite way of saying chubby but attractive.
Anyway, there’s a second message from him that came through at about 12.30.
MAYBE DINNER, THIS SAT? EDDIE X
And another one, that came through about 1am.
ARE YOU HOME YET VICKY? WILL I CALL YOU NOW? EDDIE X
God bless Barbara is all I can think as I stumble back into bed. Three fellas in one night? I mean, never mind the law of attraction, by the law of averages, unless I seriously bugger things up, one of them has to turn into a boyfriend.
Doesn’t he?
Chapter Ten
Memories from last night that aren’t just a nauseous blur.
OH DEAR GOD, very, very few. I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, still trying to piece the night together, when slowly I become aware of a thud-thudding noise all around the room. It flashes through my mind that maybe this is some new type of tortuous tequila-based hangover that I haven’t experienced before, but then I realize it’s actually Gerry, aka Useless Builder, who must have let himself in, and is now attacking some part of what WILL be my showroom-condition home with what sounds like a large lump hammer.
Or could it just be my head pounding?
No, definite lump-hammer action going on. Which has now stopped. Which means he’s clocked off for one of his hour-long breakfast-roll breaks. (I wish I was kidding.)
Oh, shit and double shit. Which means that I’m late for work.
I pick up my phone and glance at the time on it.
Half nine. Really late. Bugger.
The only good thing is that I’ve no presentations today and, better still, I’m not expecting any clients to call into the office, which means I can skulk behind my desktop, quietly work away and not interact with or breathe stale alcohol fumes on or near any other human beings. Apart from Paris and Nicole, who with a bit of luck I can bag/cajole into keeping me in grande cappuccinos and lovely carb-heavy, hangover-friendly bagels or some such for the rest of the day. I’ve done it for the pair of them often enough, and now . . . it’s payback time.
I’m just padding barefoot across the freezing concrete bedroom floor into what WILL one day be my stunning en suite bathroom when Gerry shouts up the stairs at me.
‘Eh, Vicky, love, you weren’t thinking of doing anything drastic up there now, were you?’
I open the bedroom door and try to shout back but it only comes out as a hoarse croak.
‘Like what, for instance?’
‘Like flush the loo. Or, God forbid, have a shower.’
‘Oh, Gerry, are you really telling me I can’t use the bathroom?’
‘I had to cut the water off, love. There’s a problem with your tank in the attic. Might need a whole new one. And sure, you know yourself, it’s gonna cost you.’ All this delivered in the tone of someone who actually loves imparting bad news; in fact, the worse the better. The bastard is wasted in the construction industry, he should have been a medical consultant.
I groan and slam the bedroom door shut, wince at how bloody loud the noise is, then throw on a suit and swab my face with a baby wipe. This physically hurts so much that I can’t bring myself to go all the way and put myself through the torture of actually applying make-up, so I opt for the ‘why bother?’ option instead. Miles better idea.
I scrape my hair back, gargle with heavy-duty Listerine and off I go.
‘Looking a bit rough there, love,’ says Gerry as I stomp downstairs and into what WILL be my elegant yet homely kitchen, oh, I don’t know, probably around the same time that hell freezes over.
There he is, sitting on the furniture I borrowed from Mum and forgot to give back, work abandoned, feet resting on a bag of grouting, fag in hand, reading the racing page of the Daily Star and eating a breakfast roll. You should just see him, there are Zen masters living in caves in Tibet less chilled-out and zoned. But then, why am I even surprised? After all, this is a man who considers three hours rolling a cigarette to be a morning well spent.
I take a deep breath, clench my teeth and remind myself, like it says in my Law of Attraction book, attitude is gratitude. A day that Useless Builder actually turns up for work is a good day.
‘Overdo it last night, did you then, Vicky? I’ve seen healthier-looking ghosts.’
Now I don’t know what’s making me feel worse, the cigarette smoke, the smell of bacon, or just maybe the fact that I’m still a bit jarred from last night. All I know is that I have to get out of here NOW. If I don’t, there’s a good chance I’ll a) have a fight with him, therefore have to get someone else in to finish the job, who’ll probably charge me double, and that’s if I’m lucky and I actually DO get someone. Option b) is that I throw up. And right now, I’m just not on form for either, really. Not to mention the fact that I’m stuck with a loo I can’t even flush.
‘Oh, just a quiet night out with the girls,’ I snap. ‘So, do you think I might have running water by the time I get home? Kind of difficult for me to function without it.’
I meant that to sound pissed-off and vaguely threatening, the way Laura would if she had to deal with this, but the rule of thumb with Gerry is, the more you try to assert yourself with him, the more his type B ‘lazy-arse’ personality asserts itself. In fact, times like this, I really, really wish I could be more like Laura, who’s capable of throwing a look so icy it could freeze an espresso.
‘I’ll do my best, love,’ he says, managing not to lift his eyes from the racing page. ‘But I can’t guarantee you.’
‘Gerry, can I just point out that you’ve now left me without running water. If I lived in Africa, people would be sending me money. Bob Geldof would probably have a fund up and running by now.’
‘Would you relax? I’ve a great tip for you.’
‘Oh, terrific. Is it perhaps to stand under garden sprinklers on my way to work and wash myself that
way? Or maybe to invest in a few buckets, leave them out the back and pray for heavy rain?’
‘Now, now, now, don’t be taking your hangover out on me, love. Here’s me only trying to do you a favour.’
I sigh deeply. Clearly better just to hear him out and then get out of here. I’m too tired and my head’s thumping too badly for yet another fight with him.
‘Yes, Gerry, what is it?’
‘Little Dancer, in the four o’clock at Aintree. Worth fifty euro each way. The going is good and if you ask me, she can’t lose.’
I grunt goodbye, fish my car keys out from under a packet of Jaffa Cakes on the patio table and mutter something about how I really want to see some work done by the time I get home.
‘It’s not up to me, love, it’s up to the people at the builders’ providers. I mean, if they happen to have a galvanized steel tank in the exact dimensions that’ll fit your attic, with an access hatch and a ball-valve cover and all, then I’ll have it done for you when you come home. Otherwise, sure you’ll just have to wait.’
I glare at him, waiting for that catchphrase, which he always tags on to the end of every excuse, without fail: ‘I mean, I’m not a miracle worker.’
If the law of attraction was instantaneous, I fume, stomping out the door and clambering into my car, then right now I would like to attract a ten-tonne anvil to land on Gerry’s head, while I sat on the sidelines and laughed, like in a cartoon.
Laura calls me as I’m driving, instantly calming me down.
‘I am slowly coming to the end of my rapidly fraying rope with Useless Builder,’ I seethe in the direction of the hands-free cradle, where the phone’s plonked. ‘Do you think if I hired a hit man to threaten him that might have some kind of motivational effect?’
‘Ooh, you’re sounding a tad under the weather, dearest,’ she says soothingly.
‘It’s only because I’m a woman on my own, you know,’ I fume. ‘If there was a man about the house, Gerry wouldn’t dare treat me like this. All I can say is, I must be paying off some hideous sins in a past life to have to put up with him and all his gobshitery carry-on.’
‘Now, now,’ she says in her best mammy voice. ‘Would you care for me to put things into perspective for you? You’re speaking to a woman who began her day at six a.m. this morning, by refereeing a screaming match between Jake and George Junior – who are capable of having a feud lasting both their lifetimes and well into the next generation over a box of Cheerios. So any delicious, distracting gossip you might have for me right now concerning last night would be like manna from heaven.’
‘Fair point,’ I say, suitably chastened. ‘Are you OK, hon?’
‘Vicky, I had four hours’ sleep last night and that’ll probably have to do me till mid-August. I won’t be OK until the baby is eighteen. Back to last night. I take it by your Exorcist tone and the fact that you’re only going to work at ten a.m. that it was a success? Full breakdown please: names, places, social security numbers, dish it out.’
‘A roaring success. The bits I remember, that is. I mean, I know it was a good night, because I always feel rotten the next morning in inverse proportion to how good a time I’ve had. Oh Laura, I know this is the world’s greatest lie, but I am never drinking again.’
‘No, dearest, the world greatest lie is: ‘You’re my wife, of course I love you.’ Trust me on this, I have personal experience. Anyway, at least you get to spend the rest of your day nursing your hangover in adult company. There’s a lot to be said for it. When I hang up, I have to go and scour the inside of a gerbil’s cage. Now don’t let me down, I rang you for some grade A juicy news, please. My wounds could do with some balm.’
I fill her in and she sounds suitably impressed.
‘I’d forgotten just how incredible Barbara really is when she’s in action,’ I say, beginning to feel a bit perkier now. ‘You should have seen her, she’s like some sort of man-whisperer. It’s like they just roll over and obey her every command.’
‘Do you think it might work with boys under the age of thirteen? I only ask because last night I caught George Junior trying to hold Jake’s head under water.’
Just then my phone beep beeps as another call comes in. Shit, probably the office, wondering where the hell I am . . . if I’ve fallen down an open water main in my house or something.
‘Laura, can I call you back?’
‘No problem. Just know that I’m very proud of you. Three different eligible bachelors, all in one night? May I just say I expect you to become the subject of a trivia question very soon. Oh, I wrote my short story by the way, is it OK if I email it to you? I’ve a strong intuition that it’s complete rubbish and that my writing style is the same staccato, brochure-cliché that you get in law reports, but I’d really value your editorial input.’
‘Fire away, call you later! Hello?’ I say, instantly clicking on to the call that’s waiting.
‘Ehh, hello, is that Vicky?’
Man’s voice, Scottish accent, which is ringing a bell . . .
Oh my God, it’s Cardigan Man, the first guy I met last night, in Ron Blacks bar. Shit, what’s his real name, quick, quick, quick, what’s his bloody name . . .
‘It’s Eddie here, I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.’
‘No, not at all, just on my way to a . . . ehh . . . meeting . . . emm . . . Eddie.’
‘Ah great. I just wondered if you’d like to come to dinner tomorrow, Saturday, if you were free? After the grilling your friend gave me last night, I felt it would be downright churlish of me not to invite you out.’
Oh, isn’t that sweet? I’m thinking, as I immediately accept. He seems genuinely delighted, and we chit-chat on for a bit, about last night mainly.
‘You and your mate Barbara disappeared quite abruptly, did you both have early starts this morning, then?’
‘Ehh, yeah, something like that,’ I say, a bit guiltily. Anyway, we chat on and he tells me he’s on his way to do an audit this morning but that he’ll call tomorrow to confirm the restaurant, and for once in my sad dating life, I absolutely 100 per cent believe this guy. Three texts and a phone call within the critical twenty-four-hour period just after you first meet? Bloody right tomorrow will go ahead. In fact, this guy just sounds so enthusiastic, I might as well start calling him Eager Eddie. In a good way, of course. Hand on heart, this is making a lovely change for me.
I once read a quote that said that men are a bit like taxis: either their lights are on or they’re off. And obviously, for my purposes, after all my years of dating emotionally unavailable cretins, a bright glaring ‘I’m available’ light is what I’m after, just like Eddie. This is all so amazing, I think, pulling into my parking space and nearly scraping the car on a pillar. (Shit, I must be still a bit squiffy.) In fact, I’d almost forgotten what fun it can be in the early stages of, dare I say it, a courtship. You know, when everything is foreplay, even early-morning phone calls.
God, I cannot wait to pick the whole thing over with Barbara. I glance at the clock on the dashboard. Quarter past ten. Nope, nobody ever rings her before two in the afternoon, nobody. Even her agent knows just to leave a message, although Barbara did say he hasn’t picked up a phone to her since around the time of the last Olympics.
Anyway, by the time I get into the office, Paris and Nicole are buzzing around with so much energy/enthusiasm/general sparkliness that I feel knackered just looking at the pair of them. They’re getting goodie bags organized for a press launch that’s scheduled for this morning, which in my muddy-minded haze had totally slipped my mind. In my defence, though, it’s not really a major client. (It’s for a new anti-stress spritz called ‘Arctic Ice’.) I don’t have to be there (thank you, God, I owe you one), and it’s been more or less their baby from the word go.
They both do a bit of a double-take when they see how haggard I’m looking, but like the angels of discretion that they are, neither of them pass any comment. In fact, after I say my good mornings in an over-compensatorily
bright way, Paris slips out to Starbucks across the road, gets a very large espresso and a Danish, and discreetly places it on my desk, without even saying a single word, nothing, not even a vague reference to the fact that I look like I slept the night in a tree, then gave about five litres of blood to a passing vampire on my way into work today. And this isn’t done in an irritating bum-licker way either, just cos I’m her boss. Honestly, this is a girl so well-connected she could walk in anywhere and command any job in PR that she felt like. Her Rolodex is something that publicists lie awake at night dreaming about.
Note to self: give that girl another major pay rise, keep a close eye on her to make sure no one ever attempts to poach her from me. Rare diamonds like this one must at all costs be cherished and nurtured.
Anyway, pretty soon she and Nicole are heading off to set up for the launch, both looking fabulously glamorous, fresh-faced and so young that I feel like a granny just looking at them.
‘Oh, Vicky, here’s a product-sample bag for you,’ Paris says, tossing over a fancy silver beaded bag full of anti-stress spritz. ‘Have a try, they’re fab.’
‘Great, thanks so much, girls,’ I say, trying my best to sound cheery and awake to keep up with their combined twenty-something perkiness. ‘Get loads of coverage and I’ll see you later!’
As they clickety-clack off, laden down with goodie bags, I revert back into full ‘slump’ mode, and with the minuscule bit of energy I have, fish the press release out from the freebie bag they gave me.
Introducing Arctic Ice, the latest cutting-edge development in unisex aromatherapy treatments! The Arctic Morning spritz invigorates both mind and body, Arctic Afternoon spritz balances out the chakras, while Arctic Night calms and soothes tired, frayed nerves at the end of a long day. Truly the coolest, most refreshing sensation this side of the polar ice-caps!
Oh, for God’s sake, who wrote that shite? I think, stuffing it into the bin and switching on my computer. And then I realize. I did.
Anyway, I think I’d better do some work. The combination of a nice quiet office and lovely strong coffee is beginning to help considerably as I get cracking. Right then, today’s agenda is as follows: on top of my normal day’s work, I have to finish off reading a profile development and then come up with a launch strategy for a new jewellery designer brand. Now this is all very well and good, except that the manufacturing company involved have, up until now, been mainly noted for making cutlery. This is a big branch-out for them, so my one-line brief is, ‘It’s gotta be hot and it’s gotta be good.’
Do You Want to Know a Secret? Page 12