‘Pre-paving,’ the book calls it,’ I butt in. ‘It even has all these case studies about people who, when it came down to it, didn’t really know what they wanted out of life. The point is: if you don’t even know in the first place, then how can it ever manifest for you?’
‘Is this some kind of cautionary tale?’
‘Emm, no, I’m just saying, at least you’re very clear about what it is that you do want. It’s a start, isn’t it?’
‘Ladies,’ says Laura slowly, ‘it’s not that I don’t appreciate you trying to help me out, honestly. But when you both tell me that all I need do is think wealth and it’ll just magically land in my lap, I have to say I think we’re in serious danger of straying into men-in-white-coats territory here, and not for the first time either.’
‘You’re focusing on money worries, so all you’re doing is attracting even more of them,’ says Barbara firmly. ‘Here’s a good one,’ she continues, opening the book at yet another well-thumbed-down page. ‘This’ll help. “Attitude is gratitude. Be grateful for what’s already yours, and more of it will somehow find its way to you.”’
Laura is looking intently at her, and I swear I can almost see some witty, cutting riposte formulating at the back of her sharp mind, so in I jump.
‘Four healthy kids is a great start. Come on, I’d be over the moon if I had that.’
‘“And when you begin to feel deep joy about what you do have,”’ Barbara continues, reading aloud, ‘“there is no speedier way to attract your true heart’s desire into your life.”’
There’s a long, long pause as Laura swirls wine around the bottom of her stem glass.
‘Yes,’ she eventually agrees, palming her tired, bloodshot eyes. ‘Of course I’m grateful for my family. And even on the very worst day, when I have to resort to grade one nagging, believe it or not, I love and adore the little monsters and I wouldn’t have things any different. In fact at this stage, my nagging is like a reflex action, and I honestly don’t know why I even bother doing it. It seems to have absolutely no effect on them whatsoever.’
‘Can I just remind you, that if you were practising at the Bar and you’d never married or had kids, right now, you’d probably be the broodiest woman in the northern hemisphere,’ Barbara adds, which is actually a terrific point and I only wish I’d thought of saying it first.
‘And they are fundamentally great kids,’ I offer.
‘You think? You want one?’
‘Stop messing.’
‘All right, ladies, I’ll admit you’re quite right, and I suppose any kind of reality check does me no harm. Do you know, my neighbour down the road was in the A & E the other night with her little boy who has chronic asthma, and yes, I do hear stories like that and just want to hug mine. If they’d let me, that is. All I’m saying is, I would dearly love not to have to worry about money the whole, entire time. It’s wearing me down. And I’m tired, and I’m fed up, and I honestly don’t know how much longer I can keep up the struggle. It’s like I’m constantly moving from one worry to another, and I’m never, ever out of the woods.’
‘Right, then,’ says Barbara in her assertive voice. Clearly, she’s the chairwoman and that’s all there is to it. ‘In that case, your assignment for next week couldn’t be simpler. I want you to write out a list of everything you’d do if money was no object. Take the kids on a summer holiday, pay fees, move to a larger house, change the car, whatever. And then . . .’
‘Staple it to George Hasting’s head?’
‘No, smart arse, then you’re going to really work on visualizing it. In fact, I think we might all do a creative visualization exercise at the end of this session,’ Barbara decrees. ‘If no one has any objections?’
‘Well, as long as the neighbours can’t see in through the windows.’
‘Just tell them we’re doing yoga or t’ai chi or something cool, that’ll shut them up.’
‘Oh, and while we’re giving Laura assignments, I have one to throw into the pot,’ I venture.
‘Yes, dearest?’
‘Keep writing.’ I don’t even know why I’m saying this to her, selfish reasons most likely. I loved reading her short story, and it’s not often I get a chance to read something in my office and crease myself laughing at the same time. ‘Just keep writing,’ I repeat. ‘Offer it up to J. K. Rowling.’
‘Right, then,’ says Barbara, flicking The Law of Attraction open to the chapter on relationships. ‘Moving on to you, Vicky.’
Oooh, great, I’m dying to talk about Daniel Best.
‘Except you’re vetoed from talking about Daniel Best.’
Shit.
There was me thinking I could re-analyse with the girls in fine forensic detail the story of bumping into him on the street with Eager Eddie last week. For about the thousandth time. Not that there’s actually that much to tell: he was his usual laid-back self, chatted affably about the movie they’d all seen, then politely asked where we’d been, whereupon Eager Eddie went on about Eden and how wonderfully romantic the whole meal was, the dirty big liar.
As for me, I can’t be 100 per cent sure, but I think what I came out with might have been along the lines of, ‘Well, err, umm . . . you see . . . yeah, we did have a quick casual bite to eat and now we’re calling it a night. I’m absolutely dying to go home.’ Then, with horror, I realized, as if Eager Eddie and I didn’t already look coupley enough, that I was making it sound as if we were rushing off home together to rip each other’s clothes off. So I back-pedalled, and added, ‘Emm . . . home to my house, that is. Where I live . . . emm . . . on my own.’
Daniel did that slow, lazy smile he has which makes his eyes go all crinkly at the edges, then, as far as I can remember, he threw in something like, ‘Well, I’d better catch up with my gang. Nice meeting you, and safe home, Vicky. To your house, where you live. On your own.’
Then, pretty much all last week, I was in touch with Best’s about the ad campaign which I’ve started working on in earnest, but all I could glean from Amanda was that he’d gone to the States on business and that no one was really sure when to expect him back. Not that I’m bothered, really.
In fact, I don’t even know why his name keeps slipping out.
The thing is, though, I just . . . well, I’d just hate him to get the wrong idea about me and Eager Eddie, that’s all. And Barbara is dead right: I shouldn’t keep going on about him. I should just sit here quietly, hear what she has to say and reap the benefits of her far superior-management skills.
Oh f**k it, I can’t resist.
‘Can I just ask you, oh wise dating guru, one teeny question about Daniel?’
‘NO!’
‘It’ll take you ten seconds to answer it!’
‘NO!’
‘I don’t want him to think that I’m seeing someone!’ I blurt out anyway, what the hell.
‘We’ve been over this and over it, and the fact is . . .’
‘Oh, come on, what is your main objection to him?’
‘For about the hundredth time: one, if you start fixating about him, then you know right well that you’ll end up doing your usual trick of focusing entirely on him while ignoring other lovely guys all around you; and two, you’re going to be working for his company. Bad idea to get involved with anyone you work with, trust me.’
‘You’re always getting involved with actors you work with.’
‘I’m not looking for a life-partner, though, am I?’
She has me there, so I’d better just shut up. Honestly, half of me thinks, yeah, she’s right, I shouldn’t fall back into my sad old way of putting all my eggs into one basket, which let’s face it, has a success rate of zero per cent; but the other half is screaming inside, But I really like this guy! And now he thinks I have a boyfriend, and I bloody well don’t!
‘Could you be ignoring the obvious possibility that maybe Daniel thought you were just out with a friend?’ says Laura, kindly.
‘I appreciate your lovely sentiment, but come o
n, it was a Saturday night, me and a guy, just the two of us, out for dinner in a restaurant like Eden, which everyone knows is a well-known couples’ hangout . . . I’m sorry, but an intellectually challenged alien newly landed from Mars could have figured out we were out on a date.’
‘Well, in that case, isn’t it a good thing that Daniel realizes that other guys are after you? Shouldn’t that, theoretically, make him keener?’
‘If he was ever keen to begin with,’ says Barbara firmly. ‘Sorry, Vicky, but I’m afraid asking you to join him and a gang of his mates to see some open-air movie isn’t a date. I think we can safely say we’re in the friend-zone here.’
She’s right, and deep down I know she’s right. I just hate hearing it, that’s all.
‘You’re still not off any hooks though, honey,’ she goes on, stretching herself out on the sofa and kicking her shoes off. ‘By the non-negotiable rules of this club, you were required to go on two dates before we met up again. So, technically, you still owe us a date. And then when you’ve done that, we’ll pick another Thursday night and go out trawling the town for single, suitable guys again. Like I keep saying, it’s a numbers game and nothing more.’
‘God, Barbara, in moods like this, you make coffee nervous.’
‘So what about Eager Eddie?’ says Laura, topping up our wine glasses. ‘Any word?’
‘Got the hint. At least I think he did. It’s hard to tell, as he keeps texting me to say thanks for a great night, which proves he’s a filthy liar, as it most definitely was NOT a great night, not by any standards.’
‘You said on the phone today you had other boy news,’ says Barbara, looking at me keenly.
Ooh, yeah, I do. Good news, too, at least I think it’s good news. In fact, I can’t believe it almost slipped my mind. In fact, this probably should have been item one on the ‘project Vicky’ agenda.
‘OK, remember the miraculous night of three guys?’ I say, far more animated now. ‘Well, hang on to your odour eaters, now . . . number two only called me yesterday! Peter. Remember?’
‘Honey, I can barely remember where I was last night, never mind the week before last. Give me a visual.’
‘We met in Pravda, there were two of them, the friend was chatting you up, my one looked a bit like Ralph Fiennes . . .’
‘Oh yeah, yeah, now I have you, my one looked like a baldie Edward Norton. Yeah, gotcha. So, anyway, what happened?’
‘Well, nothing, really,’ I say, starting to hope that I didn’t build this story up too much and now it’ll be a let-down. ‘But we really did have a lovely chat, no awkward silences or long pauses, none of that, and we said we’d meet for a coffee next week. Now, I know it’s only a coffee, but it’s something, isn’t it?’ I look at her hopefully.
‘Right then, missy,’ says Barbara, knees up as she’s sprawled out on the sofa, staring at the ceiling with this really scary glint she gets in her eye when there’s devilment afoot. ‘Now maybe this is coming to me in a vision, or maybe it’s a drunken haze, but boy oh boy do I have the scariest assignment for you. If you’re man enough to take it on, that is.’
‘Shoot,’ I say, thinking, how bad can it be? Go skydiving with him? Introduce him to my messer brothers? Reveal my cellulite in all of its thundering glory?
‘I want you to go on the coffee date with him . . .’
‘Right, yes,’ I say, thinking, easy peasy, so far so good.
‘Then . . . you know your big PR dinner in a few weeks’ time? You’re going to invite him, as your date.’
I look at her, stunned.
‘And, as a sweetener, I’ll even come with you myself, with the baldie friend as my date. We’ll go as a foursome. Now come on, can I say fairer than that?’
‘You have to be kidding me.’
‘Fine, be a bloody coward. Stay single, see if I care. And me and my teenage lover will come and visit you in your old folks’ home when you’re eighty.’
‘Oh Barbara, I’m really not sure, I mean, if I ask him to the do, it might sound like I’m jumping in too fast, like a female Eager Eddie . . . it could end up being a complete disaster . . .’
‘If it does, I’ll be right there for you, with a big margarita in my hand.’
‘And most people don’t even bother bringing partners, I mean, they’d be bored stupid, it’s a work night, it’s a PR dinner for God’s sake, full of advertisers, people are really just there to network . . .’
‘Vicky, you are going, and I’m coming with you, and we’re double-dating and that’s final.’
Right then, nothing for it, but to do what I normally do, i.e., say yes now, then worry about it later. Much later. Like the night before it or something.
Anyway, in what seems like no time, it’s Barbara’s go and I get a little self-important glow as I take the floor. Not blowing my own trumpet or anything, but I really spent ages working on this, and I really think the girls will be blown away about how much progress we’ve made. Plus, in our little Butterfly gatherings, it’s nice to actually be in control for a change, and not be permanently stuck in my usual ‘manless loser’ corner with a big ‘serially single’ label stuck to me.
I make a big show of opening my briefcase and producing a neatly labelled file for each of us.
‘Bloody hell,’ says Barbara, sitting up on the sofa, ‘whenever I see the colouredy folders coming out, I know you mean business.’
‘OK then, ladies, let’s begin by opening the pink file labelled ‘possible directors’.
They both ooh and aah and look suitably impressed, but what neither of them realizes is that I have a bit of a trump card up my sleeve. Barbara works her way down the list, with a pencil in her mouth, muttering under her breath, ‘Slept with him . . . dated him . . . told him get lost at a drunken wrap party . . . I think I might have kissed him . . . he’s definitely gay, had some kind of civil ceremony on a beach a while back . . .’
‘If you’d be good enough to flick to page two,’ I say, ‘and check out the name with a star beside it . . .’ I pause a bit here for dramatic effect. OK, so I am milking it a bit, but it’s just that I cannot WAIT to see the look on Barbara’s face when she sees this. ‘Serena Stroheim . . .’ I say, trying to be as blithe and cool and throwaway as possible.
‘Serena Stroheim?’ says Barbara, now sitting bolt upright. ‘Not THE Serena Stroheim?’
‘The very one.’
Oh my God, you should just see Barbara. It’s hysterical, and I only wish I had a camera; she has exactly the same glazed look that big winners on the lottery get, or else people who’ve just come out top in Big Brother.
‘Sorry, ladies, can you fill me in?’ says Laura. ‘You’ll forgive me for being a little out of touch with the world of culture.’
‘Serena Stroheim . . .’ says Barbara, and I’m not kidding, she’s actually now beginning to stammer, ‘is so, so hot, she’s practically volcanic. She’s won . . . like, a Tony, a Critic’s Circle, an Olivier. You name it, the woman’s sideboard is practically gong central. Actors, and by actors, I mean real A-listers, practically queue up to work with her in the theatre, and by the theatre I mean Broadway, baby. She directed, like, this breakthrough production of The Women of Troy last year and, I’m not joking, the standing-room-only tickets were selling on eBay for, like, a hundred smackaroos.’
‘Well, are you ready for this?’ I ask, almost wishing I came with a drum-roll effect. ‘We, and by we I mean you and I, only have a lunch date with her next Wednesday.’
Laura whoops, and then remembers there’s a slumbering baby in the room and instantly covers her mouth with her hand, while Barbara clutches her chest and gulps for air, like some elderly dame in an Ealing comedy, circa 1950.
‘Tell me . . . tell me . . . tell me everything . . .’ she manages to splutter. You should just see her face, she’s gone snow-white, and now there’s wine actually dribbling on to her white blouse. Oh rats, I really wish I could bask in the credit for this, but, much as I’m enjoying my little moment of
being the group miracle worker, I have to own up.
‘OK, so during the week I got Paris and Nicole in the office to cold-call every single director’s name on that list and pitch the idea at them. They were brilliant the pair of them, I made them rehearse first, and I ear-wigged on the calls, and hand on heart, they got everything note-perfect. Shakespeare in the park, three nights only, everyone gives their services for free, and it’s all in aid of the Children’s Hospital.’
‘The Children’s Hospital?’ Laura asks.
‘I heard on the grapevine that they had been doing the fundraising rounds and I thought, who better to be our beneficiary? Now pay attention, Bond, because that becomes critical to the plot in a minute.’
‘Go on,’ says Barbara, still looking at me with the ghostly face.
‘So the girls are working their way down the list and keeping me posted on what response they’re getting. A lot of the directors we targeted said they were “committed elsewhere”, which we reckoned was code for: “Couldn’t be arsed getting involved with a project that’ll take up about eight weeks of my time and that’s not even going to pay me.”’
Laura shakes her head sadly and keeps topping up our glasses.
‘So then Nicole bounces over to my desk, clutching the list and pointing madly at Serena Stroheim’s name. It turns out, she’s only a VBF of her mother’s, apparently they both have holiday homes right next door to each other in the South of France. Although, I think when Nicole says “holiday home” we would probably call it an eight-bedroomed mansion house with a pool and a tennis court and a view right over the Med.’
‘Keep talking,’ says Barbara, who’s knocked back an entire glass of wine in the last couple of seconds alone.
‘So next thing she’s only whipped out the woman’s ex-directory phone number, has actually got her on the phone and is chatting away to her goodo, while I’m sitting at my desk with a face like a slapped mullet. I’m not joking, at one point she actually calls her “Auntie Serena”. Then Nicole hangs up with a big cheerie bye and I could be mistaken, but she may even have said something about seeing her at the Monaco Rose Ball and was it true Prince Albert was bringing a new date? She’s so connected, that girl, I mean you wouldn’t believe some of the names that she drops . . .’
Do You Want to Know a Secret? Page 16