Do You Want to Know a Secret?

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘Come on, Vicky, drink up, you’ve that big meeting tomorrow morning, remember?’ she eventually says, invoking our pre-agreed dating code-phrase that means we’re outta here.

  I don’t put up any arguments till we’re outside, then, as we’re hailing down a cab I say, ‘I don’t get it. Shouldn’t we have done another half-hour in there? Whatever match was on couldn’t have lasted much longer, and there were some serious cuties gathered around that big screen. Without wedding rings. I checked. You know me, I’ve X-ray vision for that type of thing.’

  ‘Honey, the only person hitting on you in there was a dyke. And you’re too naïve to have even spotted it. So now, they probably think we’re a pair of beards who only go to sports bars so we can hang out with butch-looking women. Right. Next stop, the Bailey.’

  On and on we go, bar after bar, and honestly, by closing time I have absolutely no good news to report. Nada, not a single thing. Or should I rephrase, I’ve no good news to report, Barbara, naturally, was hit on right, left and centre, so nothing unusual there. As she and I were deep in conversation, though, her standard response to any poor unfortunate who dared interrupt her was, after a cursory glance of assessment: ‘We are TRYING to have a private conversation here, do you mind?’

  ‘Barbara, do you think maybe we’re losing sight of our end goal here? Maybe? Just a bit?’ I tentatively asked, when we’d moved on to our fourth bar and still no joy.

  ‘I’m saving you from arseholes. I mean, did you see the state of that last one? Looks like his mother picked out that suit for him. Fifteen years ago when he was making his confirmation.’

  On the plus side, though, I haven’t seen her in so long that we do get an awful lot of catching-up done. Rehearsals, it seems are going brilliantly, and everyone is blown away by Serena’s boundless energy and amazing ideas for the production, which is kind of music to my ears. Plus it’s beyond fab to hear Barbara, the same girl who most likely knocked about two years off her life-expectancy through sheer nerves and blind terror when she first met the mighty Ms Stroheim, now chat away about her like they’re bestest pals. You should hear her: it’s all Serena this, Serena that. The big dress rehearsal is coming up in the Iveagh Gardens, so they’re all getting psyched up for that.

  The only other major update she has is that Evil Angie has split up from her make-up artist boyfriend and is now dating Oberon, King of the Fairies.

  ‘What?’ I splutter when she divulges this particular nugget of info.

  ‘That’s his character in the show. And he’s straight, you eejit. Anyway, he’s been hanging around our flat twenty-four seven and the only thing is . . .’

  He fancies Barbara, I think, secretly delighted to see her getting one up on Evil Angie. Finally.

  ‘. . . I’m not 100 per cent, Vicky, but I’m pretty sure he has an eye in my direction and . . . well, he’s fun, he’s a cutie, hot bod, me like. But he’s dating my friend, so that’s the end of that, really. Come on, drink up, no joy here either. We’ll go to Krystal.’

  ‘Just a thought,’ I say, as we gather up our stuff to go. ‘OK, so this guy is seeing Ev . . . sorry, Angie at the moment. But who’s to say what’ll happen in the future? My point is, yes it’s very noble of you to automatically reject a guy because he’s dating a friend, but what you have to ask yourself is this. Would she do the same for you?’

  ‘Course she would,’ Barbara snaps, a bit too quickly, though.

  Midnight.

  We’re both sober, amazingly in my case as I’m normally rubbish with drink and my hit-rate is an embarrassing total of . . . one. And she was female. Plus, at this stage, I’m almost nauseous with tiredness and am practically fantasizing about getting home to bed. Alone, that is, to sleep. Oh, just listen to me, I’m officially sounding like a granny. I’ll be saying novenas and making gooseberry jam next.

  ‘I just don’t get it,’ Barbara is saying as we hop out of a cab outside Krystal nightclub, her favourite late-night haunt. ‘Where are they all tonight, anyway? It’s like the Village of the Damned.’ Not that matters are vastly improved when she does haul me up to the members’ bar upstairs. Slim pickings, we silently nod at each other, dragging ourselves up on two bar stools.

  ‘Oh, here comes my f**k buddy,’ she hisses at me, as Nathaniel the barman, her on-again, off-again love interest, zooms over to ask her what she’s having. She orders a margarita; I completely lose the run of myself and go for a fizzy water, although if the truth be told, what I’d actually, really love is a cuppa tea, a Hobnob, home, and bed.

  In that order.

  Anyway, Barbara and Nathaniel are soon deep in conversation, and I’m just on the point of reaching for my handbag and slinking off home when a slightly familiar-looking guy slides up on to the bar stool beside me. Older, maybe fifties, soulful expression . . . or maybe then again, that’s just me romanticizing him. Wouldn’t be the first time, either.

  ‘Hey, pretty lady, don’t tell me you’re leaving?’ he says, in a gravelly, cigars and cognac voice.

  Oh shite, this is driving me mental, I know I’ve met him before . . .

  ‘At the risk of jogging a lady’s memory, in answer to your bewildered expression, yes, we have met before. And no, I can’t remember your name either, my dear. Although I have a vivid recollection of your scribbling your phone number in biro on my cuff.’

  Oh for f**k’s sake. Now I remember. The last time I was here with Barbara, I was so trolleyed drunk that what he’s saying is seriously beginning to ring a bell. Did I really write my phone number on his shirt cuff? Christ alive, I must have been plastered . . .

  ‘So should we re-introduce ourselves? I’m Tom, by the way. Pleasure to become, emm, re-acquainted with you. I don’t actually recall how long it is since we last met, but then time is irrelevant here in the seventh circle of hell.’

  ‘Vicky,’ I smile, shaking his hand and trying to weigh up whether I fancy him or not. No wedding ring, which is a good start. And it’s a bonus to find out his actual, correct name: I have this vague idea that the last time we met, I kept drunkenly calling him Tom, no Tim, no Tom.

  ‘May I get you a proper drink? I assume that glass of water in front of you is some sort of joke.’

  ‘Oh, well, go on then, a glass of white wine.’

  ‘Glass of white for my friend Vicky here, and I’ll have my usual,’ he calls over to Nathaniel, who’s still deep in chat with Barbara.

  Barbara’s here, brilliant, I think, as I introduce them. She’ll do her twenty-questions lark on him and screen him for me, won’t she? Course she will. So the three of us chat for a bit, and I swear I can physically see Barbara trying to get the measure of him. Our drinks arrive and I can’t help noticing that his is a double whiskey, on the rocks. Which he pretty much gulps back in one, then shakes the empty glass at Nathaniel as if to say, same again. And there’s just something about the smooth, practised way he does it, that half makes me think this is a regular occurrence.

  On the plus side, though, he’s full of funny stories and anecdotes about the club, where it seems he’s such a regular they might as well have his name carved on the back of one of the bar stools there. Barbara starts quizzing him about what he does, which I take as my cue to nip to the Ladies. She joins me a few minutes later, shaking her head and giving a thumbs-down sign.

  ‘Attractive, if you’re into those middle-aged Frank Sinatra types, and I think he does like you, but take my advice and stay away, Vicky,’ is her verdict.

  ‘Give me one good reason,’ I say, suddenly all defensive. I mean, come on, the first bloke who’s shown a flicker of interest in me all night, and all of a sudden I’m in a position to be picky?

  ‘He’s a boozer. Look at him, alone, in a late-night drinking hole, knocking back doubles. Big trouble. Avoid, avoid, avoid.’

  ‘Barbara, no offence, but look at where your screening has got me so far. Nowhere.’

  ‘You know, I asked him what he did for a living and he said he’s a director ‘in-between
gigs’. You know what that’s code for? It means he hasn’t worked in . . . like, for ever, because no producer worth their salt will touch him with a bargepole. Makes you wonder why, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t appreciate your advice, but on this occasion – now maybe it’s the loneliness talking but, just for tonight, I’m choosing to go my own sweet way. And he’s only had two drinks, what the big deal? I’ve seen you knock back five times that amount and you’ve seen me . . .’

  ‘Nathaniel says he’s in here alone, most nights, always the last to leave and always stocious by closing time. I’m telling you, Vicky, guys like that are fine, but only if you happen to love dating a project.’

  As if to back up her point, she shoots me a loaded ‘told you so’ look when we rejoin him. It’s nowhere near closing time and yet he’s already lined three more doubles up in front of him. Which is unusual. Normally at closing time in this country, the rattle of the bar shutters coming down is a bit like the bull run in Pamplona; guys just seem to crawl out of the woodwork to get a last order in. But up until then, no one really panics and . . . you know, lines them up like this . . . at least, no one that I’ve ever seen outside of a Western movie.

  ‘OK, so he likes a drink,’ I mutter to her as we head back to our seats. ‘And, yes, maybe he likes to sit in clubs on his own. No man is perfect and, after all, it’s nothing that the right woman couldn’t work on and sand down, you know, gradually. Over time.’

  ‘Oh yeah, sure. Because men always change.’

  Well you know what? Right now, I don’t care if Barbara doesn’t approve. Because, where has her seal of approval landed me? It’s OK for her, she’s doing her dream gig and there’s Nathaniel with his tongue practically hanging out of his mouth every time he looks at her. She doesn’t have to go home alone tonight, if she doesn’t want to. If Tim, no Tom, no Tim makes a move on me, I decide, slipping back up on to my bar stool, it’s game on. I just wish I could get his name straight in my head once and for all . . . TOM. That’s it, definitely Tom.

  He doesn’t. Four a.m., and I’m actually yawning into his face, I’m that exhausted. Nathaniel’s closing up for the night, and even the indefatigable Barbara is starting to worry that she has to be up in a few hours’ time.

  And I’ve lost count of how many drinks Tim, sorry TOM’s had, but the funny thing is, he’s not falling over, or in a coma, as I would be. No, he’s as cool and articulate as ever. It’s only as Barbara and I are putting coats on, grabbing bags and really, really, really going home this time that he makes a move.

  He grabs my hand and pulls me to him, kinda roughly, but I like it.

  ‘So how about meeting up this weekend?’ he asks in the deep, gravelly voice.

  I don’t even have to think about it. Not for a second. Decision made.

  ‘Love to.’ And no need for phone numbers scribbled on shirts this time, I think, a bit smugly. ‘Here, let me give you my card.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I SHOULD HAVE guessed that something was seriously amiss when the scariest woman on the planet, aka Laura’s mother, calls me in work the next day.

  ‘Vicky, is that you?’ she says imperiously. Even though I answer the office phone clearly saying, ‘Hello, Vicky Harper speaking.’ Contrary old cow.

  ‘Mrs Lennox-Coyningham speaking. I’m afraid there’s a slight problem here and I’m going to have to ask for your help. No choice in the matter, I’m afraid.’

  Shit, I think, racking my brains, what’s the old battleaxe on about? Today’s Laura’s big day in court, well, traffic court, but who cares, it’s still court and Mrs L-C is supposed to be babysitting . . . oh no, I think as a slow, sickening feeling creeps from the pit of my stomach . . . oh no, please, please don’t let this be happening . . . please . . . not today . . .

  ‘You see, Laura left me in charge of the children while she went off to the district court this morning,’ and I’m not kidding, even the way she emphasizes the word ‘district’ court makes it sound like an insult. ‘Leaving me here at her house for the day. Alone. With the children. All of them. No play dates arranged for the older ones, nothing.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Lennox-Coyningham?’ I say in a dear-Jaysus-please-don’t-let-this-call-be-about-what-I-think-it’s-going-to-be-about tone.

  ‘But the thing is, with all the screaming and general hysteria in this house, I’ve come down with one of my dreadful migraines, and I really have to go home now and lie in a nice dark room. So if you could possibly help out, Vicky, and get over here right away, I’d be most grateful.’

  She says this in a tone that’s not expecting any argument, and I nearly drop the phone in pure disbelief.

  ‘But . . . Mrs Lennox-Coyningham, I’m in work! I mean, I can’t . . . I’d love to help out, of course, but the thing is, we’re snowed under here and it just isn’t possible for me to drop everything and . . .’

  ‘Vicky, I really wouldn’t ask, only this is an emergency. I tried your chum Barbara, who seems to be at a perpetual loose end to me, but for the first time I can remember in decades, she actually has some sort of job, and is in rehearsals it seems, or at least so she tells me.’

  ‘But, no offence or anything, but I’m the world’s most useless babysitter, isn’t there someone, anyone else you could ask? An agency? Anyone?’

  ‘Believe me, if Laura only had a reputable child-minder I shouldn’t dream of having to trouble you, but this is an emergency. And my migraines can take days to recover from.’

  Just as she hangs up, my mobile goes. Laura, sounding about fifty times more stressed than normal, which God love her, is really saying something.

  ‘Vicky? Oh thank God, what am I going to do? I’m on my way into court with my client and Mum just called to say she can’t babysit for me . . . I think I’m actually having palpitations . . . my chest is constricted and I can’t breathe . . .’

  ‘Shhh, shhh, calm down, hon, I’m a step ahead of you, your mum just phoned here and explained. It’s OK, I can go over.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Paris and Nicole looking at me as if to say, ‘Eh, no you can’t, we’ve our backs to the wall here.’ But I hold firm. What else can I do? I’ve no choice.

  ‘Oh Vicky, I really hate imposing on you, when you’re so busy, but I really don’t know who else to turn to . . .’ She breaks off here, and I’m almost sure I can hear her getting a bit choked. ‘I’m literally on my way into the courtroom now and there’s no turning back. And if you know how much it broke my heart to leave the kids this morning. Oh shit, what the hell is wrong with me? For the last few years, all I’ve dreamt about, all that’s sustained me is going back to the Bar and now here I am . . . and I just want to be with my babies. Julia was up coughing half the night and it nearly killed me to leave her . . . bloody hell, will you just listen to me? I’ve just turned into one of those pathetic clinging mums . . .’

  ‘Honey, it’s absolutely fine and there’s no need to panic,’ I interrupt her, doing a fair impression of someone who sounds calm, although I’m far, very far, from feeling it. ‘I’m on my way over to your house now and don’t worry, of course I’ll stay there till your case is finished.’

  ‘Vicky Harper, I’ll be indebted to you until the day I die and that’s a promise. OK. I’ve left enough food in the fridge for the whole day, and there’s veggie burgers in the freezer if Emily gets stroppy about not eating. Now Julia seemed all right when I left her this morning, but there’s a thermometer in the medicine cabinet if you want to take her temperature. And the Calpol is there, too, just in case. OK, I need to switch my phone off in court, but I’ll call when we get a recess . . .’

  ‘Laura, stop panicking, I can cope. Now relax, go in there and win.’

  It’s absolutely fine, I think, driving over to Laura’s, still a bit shell-shocked, but then, you gotta do what you gotta do. Don’t you? Course you do. A couple of deep, soothing breaths later and I’m almost calm. I mean, come on, it’s only babysitting, not rocket
science. If I’m able to run a successful company, not to mention get an outdoor show off the ground without any prior experience whatsoever, then taking care of four kids for one day should be a doddle, comparatively speaking. Yes, OK, so I had to postpone two meetings till tomorrow, but I did take my laptop with me and can easily get loads done from Laura’s front room while the kids are all engaged in healthy outdoor activities and while the baby peacefully slumbers.

  In fact, I’d say I might even get more than normal done, given that I won’t have to deal with the office phone ringing every two minutes. Paris and Nicole were absolutely brilliant, practically shoving me out the door with reassurances that they’d take care of everything, and that if there was the slightest problem, they’d call me. Today in court is a huge deal for Laura and I have to be there for her, simple as that.

  Besides, wait till you see, the kids will probably just play happily in the garden with their . . . emm . . . swingballs or emm . . . spacehoppers . . . or whatever the latest fad in toys is, then come in knackered, then crash out in front of the TV.

  To be honest, I really don’t see what all the big fuss about child-minding is, really. Yes, OK, I have to be there to supervise, but apart from that, what else can there possibly be to it?

  11.00 a.m.

  The minute the hall door is opened, Mrs L-C is out of there like hot snot, practically leaving a trail of dust in her wake. Not even a thank you, nothing. She just calls after me, ‘They’ve all had breakfast, Vicky, but I’ve no idea what you can do about lunch. I can’t think straight with one of my heads.’ Into her Mercedes and gone.

  It’s a lovely hot summer’s day, so I’m vaguely surprised to see George Junior and Jake glued to the TV, but then I figure as long as they’re being quiet, who am I to argue? Emily is up in her room with some pal of hers who’s wearing a belly top and who has a pierced navel. She’s introduced to me as Tiffany-Amber and as the pair of them seem happy enough in their own company, I leave them to it. Baby Julia’s dozing away in her little Moses basket up in Laura’s room, so all quiet on the Western Front, then. I make myself a coffee, plonk the baby walkie-talkie monitor yoke, or whatever you call it, down beside me and switch on my laptop, feeling very Mary Poppins altogether.