The Importance of Being Married: A Novel

by Gemma Townley

  “Great. So then I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  Max wandered off and I sighed, dropping my head into my hands. Then I frowned. What was he leaving to me again? Women earning over fifty thousand? What was I meant to be finding out about them?

  Slowly, I turned back to my computer.

  “Everything all right?” Marcia appeared at her desk, smiling sweetly.

  “Fine,” I said, not looking up. “Absolutely fine.”

  “So I hear you had lunch with Anthony.”

  “Yes,” I said, smiling back, “I did.”

  “Apparently he enjoyed himself.”

  “He did?” I asked excitedly, then checked myself. “I mean, that’s nice.”

  “Is it?”

  Marcia was looking at me curiously, and I blanched slightly. “Is there something the matter?” I demanded.

  “No!” Marcia said, shaking her head. “No, nothing at all.”

  She was scrutinizng my face, and I felt myself tense slightly.

  “What?” I asked her. “What is it?”

  She opened her eyes innocently. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I mean, if you’ve got time to have a boozy lunch with Anthony as well as lead a major account then I’m pleased for you. If Project Handbag is in hand, that is.”

  I nodded. “Yes, I have,” I said. “Project Handbag is absolutely in hand.”

  “Good. Well, that’s good then.”

  Doing my best not to grimace, I picked up my notebook and flicked the pages over to look for the notes from my meeting with Max. Why was everyone so fixated on work all of a sudden? Didn’t they know there was more to life? I scanned the notebook as I flicked, then felt myself go slightly white.

  Pulp Fiction, I discovered, written in sloping handwriting. All work and no play makes Max a dull boy.

  Underneath, I’d drawn a picture of a handbag.

  And that was it.

  They were my notes from the meeting.

  Okay, so maybe I hadn’t been concentrating all that hard.

  Frowning, I wandered over to Max’s office and tentatively opened the door.

  “Yes?” he asked tersely.

  I smiled. “Hi, Max. I was just wondering. You know the meeting we had yesterday?”

  He nodded. “You’ve compiled the research?” he asked. “Because we’re working against the clock, Jess.”

  “Right,” I said. “Yes. I mean…I just wondered…”

  I bit my lip nervously.

  “Wondered what?” Max wasn’t smiling. “You’re not going to ask me to smile more, are you? Or tell me that work is overrated?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “I just wanted to let you know everything’s in hand.”

  “Good,” he said, turning back to his work. “Glad to hear it.”

  I walked out again uncertainly. Next to Max’s office was Anthony’s. I could always ask him, I reasoned. He wasn’t grumpy like Max. And it was his company. He’d know what was going on. Tentatively, I approached his office and knocked on the door.

  “Come in.”

  I opened it, and felt better immediately when Anthony grinned at me. I grinned back.

  “Jess! Jessica Wild. And how are you today?”

  “Fine, I’m fine,” I said happily.

  “Good, I’m glad. I had Max in here earlier worrying about you.”

  “Worrying? About me?”

  “Oh, nothing serious. He thought you were a bit…out of sorts yesterday. Of course, I told him he was imagining things. Told him we’d had a very sober lunch.”

  “You did?”

  “Absolutely.” He winked. “For my sake as much as yours. What Max doesn’t understand is that it’s possible to get pissed on the job and still come back and perform perfectly well. In fact, I negotiated a rather good deal with a printer yesterday afternoon, which just proves my point, and I’m sure your meeting with Max was far less dull than it might otherwise have been.”

  “Yes, it was,” I agreed uncertainly.

  “So, what can I do for you?”

  “Um, well…” I cleared my throat. Maybe now wasn’t the best time to ask him what I was meant to be doing on the Jarvis Private Banking account. “Um, well,” I said, trying to think of some other reason I’d come to see him. “It’s just that…you said you were meaning to get up to Islington. So I just wanted to say that if you did want to, anytime, I’d be happy to…show you around.”

  I smiled, nodded purposefully as though my mission had been accomplished, then turned to go.

  “How about Saturday?”

  I stopped walking, then slowly turned back. “Saturday?”

  “I’m at a loose end on Saturday evening.”

  “You are?” I asked, my voice incredulous. “I mean…you are?” I repeated, toning the surprise down a notch or two.

  “Are you?”

  I gulped. “Um, I believe I am,” I said, pretending to mentally check my nonexistent social calendar. I wasn’t prepared for this. I didn’t know how to react.

  “Then it’s a date. I’ll pick you up at eight PM.”

  “A date. Right.” I cleared my throat.

  “Jess?”

  I stopped, almost relieved. Of course. It was a joke.

  “You’ll need to e-mail me your address.”

  I turned my head, stared at him suspiciously.

  “So I can pick you up.”

  “Pick me up,” I said, hardly trusting myself to speak. “Right, then. I’ll e-mail it over right away.”

  “Okay.”

  I walked out of Anthony’s office; as I passed Max’s office I saw that the door was open and, without meaning to, I caught his eye.

  “Everything okay, Jess?” he asked.

  “Okay?” I looked at him blankly. “Absolutely. Things couldn’t be better.”

  Chapter 15

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE you actually asked him out! I just can’t believe it!”

  I looked at Helen worriedly. I couldn’t believe it, either. More to the point, I couldn’t believe that he’d actually said yes. For the past couple of days I’d been veering between excited incredulity that I was going on a date with Anthony Milton, and utter fear and despair that it was a joke, that it was all going to go horribly wrong, that I’d bamboozled him into it, and that he was already dreading it. Even now, on Saturday evening, with a huge pile of clothes on my bed and my fifteenth change of clothing on, I was still in slight denial. “I didn’t mean to. It just…came out. Oh God, he’s going to think I’m desperate, isn’t he?”

  “Desperate? No! No way. He’s going to think that you’re confident, that you know what you want. I just can’t believe you, of all people, actually asked him on a date. Ivana’s a genius.”

  “I didn’t exactly…I mean, it was him who said ‘how about Saturday.’ I just said I’d show him around Islington sometime.”

  “That’s what I mean. You set up the goal beautifully and still let him score. That takes real talent.”

  I allowed myself a little smile—lately Helen had taken to watching football on television, owing to a sports quiz show she was thinking of applying for. “So, do I look okay?”

  “No. It’s the skirt,” Helen said, shaking her head. “It isn’t tight enough.”

  “It’s absolutely tight enough,” I said firmly. “I can barely walk as it is.”

  “Skirts aren’t about being able to walk. They’re about what you look like from behind.”

  “Maybe something longer,” I suggested, anxiously turning around to see my rear view. I wasn’t entirely comfortable being this much on display.

  “No, we need your legs on show.”

  “My legs? No, no, they’re better hidden.”

  “Rubbish. Come on, Jess. Remember, Jessica Wiiiiild.”

  She dashed into her bedroom and brought back a twirly red skirt with black buttons. It was short—too short in my opinion—but at least I’d be able to sit down in it. I grabbed it and put it on; then we both looked into the mirror.

  “
I guess it works,” I said dubiously.

  “It’s great!” Helen agreed. “Who’d have thought?”

  Quickly she whipped out some red lipstick and applied it. Then she stepped back.

  “Okay, you’re done.” She looked at me proudly.

  “Really?”

  “Put on your shoes.”

  I put on the tall, black, pointed shoes.

  “Now turn around.”

  I duly turned.

  “And smile for me.”

  I grimaced. “I’m not a flipping car model,” I complained, but only halfheartedly.

  “Smile for me,” Helen said sternly, and I obliged. Then she held up a mirror and I gasped. I had smoky eyes and an impressive cleavage and my waist looked tiny. “So what are you going to do on the date?”

  I frowned in concentration. “Ask lots of questions and laugh at his jokes.”

  “And what aren’t you going to do?”

  “Talk about myself, disagree with him, leave early.”

  Helen grinned. “My God, I think you’re ready,” she said, pretending to wipe a tear away from her eye. “I just can’t believe my girl has gone and grown up on me.”

  The buzzer sounded, and we both froze for a second. Then Helen grabbed my coat.

  “You’ll be fine,” she reassured me. “Just smile and be fabulous. And make sure he kisses you good night.”

  “You think he’s going to kiss me?” The thought was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.

  “Well, I bloody well hope he is,” Helen said. “I mean, that’s kind of the point of a date, isn’t it?”

  “But I…I mean…I…”

  “It’ll be fine. It’s like riding a bike,” Helen said dismissively.

  “I never learned to ride a bike,” I managed to say, but Helen wasn’t listening.

  “Just remember, you’re gorgeous. You’re Jessica Wild.”

  She did a little impression of Ivana as she said my name, and I forced myself to smile. “Jessica Wild,” I said, biting my lip. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Anthony was leaning against the wall when I got downstairs.

  “So, Jessica Wild. Where are you taking me?” He grinned.

  “Um, well, Islington,” I said. I felt nervous, gawky. All the confidence I’d built up over the years was founded on my belief in myself as an intelligent, serious kind of a person, an independent soul who knew what she wanted out of life. Dressed in a twirly skirt and going on a date, I felt like a fish out of water, like any minute now I was going to be found out and ridiculed.

  Anthony didn’t look like he was going to laugh at me, though. His smile was conspiratorial, not sneering, and I felt my shoulders relax a little.

  He laughed. “I kind of gathered that,” he said, holding out his arm. “Anywhere in particular or are we just going to set up base on a street corner?”

  I met his eye and blushed. “Oh, right. Well, there’s a bar on Upper Street that’s quite good. We could go there? If you want?”

  “Quite good?”

  My blush deepened. I had no idea what it was like—Helen had given me a list of places to go, most of which I’d never stepped foot in. Never wanted to step foot in, either. “It’s meant to be very good,” I said. “My flatmate says it is. But we can go somewhere else if you’d prefer…”

  “No! Let’s go and test her review,” he said. His arm was still sticking out; I guessed he wanted me to take it, so I did, and a frisson of electricity shot through me. A few seconds later we were walking down the street, me and Anthony Milton, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

  “I love your skirt, by the way. Nothing like a flash of red, is there? Reminds me of bullfighting.”

  “Really? You think it looks okay? I mean, thanks. I mean…”

  I bit my lip. It was so hard remembering to be the new Jessica Wild, the one who knew how to take a compliment.

  “I think it looks divine,” Anthony said.

  “It’s my flatmate’s,” I said, then kicked myself.

  “Then it sounds like we owe your flatmate a debt of gratitude for this date.” Anthony winked. “So where’s this bar, then? Lead the way.”

  The debt of gratitude was forgotten as soon as we poked our noses in the bar. It was heaving with people, the music was too loud, and there was nowhere to sit. You couldn’t stand still, either, because people kept brushing past you like you were standing in their way, so after being pushed around for twenty minutes we ditched our drinks and left. Helen had suggested a restaurant called Figos that was meant to be super-hip and the place to be seen, but we looked in the window and it was really crowded, too, and there was a doorman looking people up and down like a bouncer as they walked in.

  “This one of your flatmate’s suggestions, too?” Anthony asked, turning away from the window and raising his eyebrows.

  I nodded. “She’s more…well, she’s the one who goes out, more,” I explained.

  “You don’t go out so much?” Anthony asked curiously.

  “I…I don’t always have time,” I said tentatively. “I mean, I’ve got a lot on at work and…”

  “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,” Anthony said, grinning. “I tell that to Max all the time but he never listens and look what’s happened to him. Wouldn’t know how to have a good time if you took him to a strip club and shoved a fistful of fifties in his hand!”

  I looked at him, slightly shocked. “A…a strip club?”

  He winked. “An expression, that’s all,” he said quickly. “I can’t abide the places. But you take my point about Max? Obsessed with work. And if you work in a creative industry like we do, you have to live as well as work. You need external stimuli to get inspiration. Need to see people having fun so we know what they’re looking for, how to sell to them.”

  “You mean that going out is like research?” I asked seriously.

  He laughed. “Exactly. Research. In fact, perhaps I should expense this evening’s entertainment!”

  I didn’t know if he was serious or not, so I didn’t say anything. He, meanwhile, looked around thoughtfully, then nodded to himself. “How about,” he said, “we go to a little place around the corner I know? There’s no DJ as far as I know, but the food’s great and the wine list’s as long as your arm.”

  I nodded with relief, then frowned. “I thought you didn’t know Islington?”

  “I don’t. I mean, not really. But I came here once with a girl…a friend.” He blanched slightly. “I’m sure the restaurant’s up here somewhere.”

  “You had a girlfriend in Islington?”

  Anthony shrugged. “Not a girlfriend. Nothing that serious. And it was a long time ago.”

  I nodded. Of course he’d had a girlfriend in Islington. He’d probably had a girlfriend in every district in London. Immediately I thought about the girl in the car, the one with the sunglasses, but I forced her from my mind. It wasn’t important; Anthony was out with me now.

  “So why wasn’t it serious?” The words came out before I could stop them.

  “Why? God knows. She wasn’t my type, I guess.”

  I nodded again and there was a brief silence. Questions, I thought. Ask more questions.

  “So what’s your type?”

  “My type?” Anthony grinned. “Now, there’s a question. You know, I don’t think I know. I mean, I’m not sure I’d be able to put it into words. And sometimes people surprise you. I mean, you don’t think they’re your type and then something happens and you think again.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, you do.” His arm was around my shoulders, and my skin felt hot underneath it. Much as I looked down on women who depended on men for their happiness, I could certainly see the appeal. “Now, I hope you’re hungry, because we’re here.”

  He held open a door, and we walked in. It was tiny, just ten or so tables jostling for space as waiters slipped between; there seemed to be more wait staff than diners.

  A short lit
tle man immediately glided toward us.

  “I’m afraid we have no booking,” Anthony said, immediately disarming the man with a smile. “But I’ve been telling Jess here about your wonderful restaurant—I came here a year or so ago—and if you could squeeze us in you really would make our night.”

  The man smiled, then turned to scan the room. “It won’t be easy,” he said in an Italian accent. “But I see what we can do, huh?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? Best restaurant in London,” Anthony said loudly, winking at me. Seconds later a table had been brought into the room and space found for it, next to the window.

  “Please,” the maître d’ said, holding out my chair. “Please.”

  I sat down and remembered Ivana’s advice. Be appreciative. Make him feel like a million dollars. “That was incredible!” I breathed.

  Anthony grinned. “You can get a long way by flattering people,” he said, sagely. “Never forget that.”

  “I won’t,” I said, allowing myself a slight smile. “I really won’t.”

  The menus were handed to us, and as I tried to make sense of mine, I found my eyes wandering around the restaurant. It was the sort of place where no sooner do you take a sip out of your wineglass than someone is there refilling it for you. Where they call you “sir” and “madam” and tell you what a great choice you’ve made when you pick a wine from the list just because you like its name.

  “So,” Anthony said when we’d ordered. “Tell me about Jessica Wild. The real one, not the one who acts like Jessica Rabbit at work, all quiet and demure.”

  “Jessica Rabbit?” I frowned.

  “Frozen in the headlights,” he said. “You always look so earnest, so worried. But now I’m getting to see your other side and I like it.”

  “My…other side?” I asked uncertainly.

  “Jessica Rarebit.” Anthony grinned. “The Jessica who wins presentations, who drinks whole bottles of wine for lunch, who pretends she isn’t a party animal but knows all the most crowded bars in Islington. Tell me about her.”

  “Oh, well, I mean, I don’t know about that…,” I said, blushing awkwardly. I had to get off this subject—it was littered with land mines. Don’t talk about yourself. Don’t disagree with him. “I mean, there’s really not much to say. But you…you must have a lot of stories to tell. About all these girlfriends, for starters.”