The Time of Our Lives

by Jane Costello

  ‘I’m simply saying it sounds far-fetched that they’d put up some journalist in this hotel just to try to get the inside scoop. Is the story really that big?’

  ‘Nicola, it’s in every single paper in the UK this morning. On the front pages of half of them.’

  She almost chokes on her orange juice. ‘Including the serious ones?’

  ‘Absolutely. They’re loving it. And there’s only one person I’ve revealed David’s name to – Harry.’

  ‘But he hasn’t confessed to all this?’

  ‘He was never going to do that, was he?’

  She raises her hand to try to get the attention of the waitress, clearly exhausted by this conversation. And the fact that we’re being ignored again.

  ‘I thought competition winners were supposed to get special treatment?’ I grumble, feeling that if I don’t get my coffee this morning I might start banging my head against the table until I get my own way, like Animal from the Muppets. ‘This is the second time this has happened. If she doesn’t hurry up, I’ll snitch on her to Elegant Vacations.’

  ‘I’ll speak to them if need be,’ Meredith offers.

  ‘I wasn’t serious.’

  ‘Oh. Well, anyway, I think it’s outrageous,’ Meredith continues. ‘About Harry, not the waitress and the coffee, I mean. I don’t blame you for being annoyed.’

  ‘Perhaps you should have it out with him, before you come to any more conclusions,’ Nicola suggests. ‘In the meantime, one thing I am certain of is that you need to switch off. It’s beyond a joke. I’m getting wound up just looking at you.’

  ‘Me too,’ Meredith adds.

  ‘Don’t do that, it’ll stress the baby.’ I say. ‘From seventeen weeks onwards, their neuro-behavioural development is affected by your moods.’

  She shakes her head in despair. ‘How the hell do you remember this stuff?’

  I lie on the sun bed next to Meredith in the full knowledge that relaxation, at least for today, is once more out of the question. By 11 a.m. I’ve already had twelve phone calls from, among others: David (who’s now in hiding in his Great Aunt Janice’s caravan in Stornoway); Charles (who was infuriatingly calm under the circumstances); Roy (in a lacklustre attempt to ‘check in’, as he dashed to Buzz Lightyear’s Laser Blast before his Fast Pass expired); and my dentist (who I apparently short-changed to the tune of 36p last week, despite paying more than £200 for my treatment). Cosimo also sent me a text from Buenos Aires, where he’s backpacking, saying he hoped I was well, sorry he forgot to mention he was off discovering himself, and he’d have the press release about Grill-O-Bloo ready to unleash on the world’s press as soon as he was back, to try to take the heat away from Peebles.

  ‘I might take a break from the heat and go inside for a juice,’ I eventually tell Meredith.

  She looks up from her mobile, on which she’s been playing Scrabble all morning. ‘I’ll come with you. I’m totally stumped at the moment. I refuse to believe it’s baby brain.’

  ‘Baby brain’s a fallacy, it’s been scientifically proven,’ I tell her, deciding not to reveal one notable incident when I was pregnant involving a lost mobile phone, which I subsequently discovered in the freezer.

  We gather our belongings, I help her up from the sun bed and we start walking towards the bar area by the lobby.

  ‘Where did Nicola go after breakfast?’ I ask.

  ‘No idea. She was talking earlier about popping to that convenience store down the road, but she’s been gone ages,’ she replies.

  We head towards one of the sofas directly underneath a pleasingly arctic air-conditioning system, at exactly the same time as a waiter arrives from the bar area.

  Just as I’m ordering two orange juices, I’m interrupted by the distinctive sound of a tiny baby’s cries coming from a table in the bar area.

  The little girl can’t be more than eight weeks old, yet, tender age or not, she produces a phenomenal level of noise. Her father, a young Spanish man with world-weary eyes, picks her up from her pram and begins walking up and down in an attempt to pacify her, while her mother frantically roots through a changing bag the size of a small caravan, emerging eventually with a bottle of milk.

  Their efforts to calm her down meet with mixed success; the cries die down every so often, only to resume soon afterwards. She doesn’t want the bottle offered by her mum; she doesn’t want a dummy. Eventually, Daddy – with a generous sweat on his brow – decides to bundle her past us for a walk outside, which, judging by the continuing if distant cries, is about as successful as his previous attempts to cheer her up.

  ‘I remember Florence doing that once in Costa Coffee,’ I say. ‘I was mortified. Still, they’re so gorgeous at that age. So tiny . . . and that lovely soft skin.’

  I glance at Meredith, who is looking at me like I’m talking in some strange, obscure dialect that her ears can’t process. ‘Do you really think that?’ she asks.

  I shrug. ‘Of course.’

  Meredith shakes her head, still staring at me. ‘But it’s making SO. MUCH. NOISE.’ I notice her voice is laced with panic. ‘I mean, that poor man! I bet he was good-looking once, but now he’s got purple bags under his eyes and his beard is grey. And that’s before we get on to him pounding up and down outside instead of sitting here having a nice coffee. And as for his wife’ – we glance over as subtly as possible – ‘she looks broken.’

  The woman is now slumped at the table, reading the wine list longingly.

  ‘It won’t always be that hard,’ I assure her. ‘It’s no walk in the park – I won’t insult your intelligence by claiming otherwise. But it does get easier. And even at its most challenging, it’s still worth every minute. You’ll see.’

  ‘Will I?’ she says sarcastically.

  I laugh at first, convinced it’s a joke. Until I really look at Meredith’s face, the tension in her jaw.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask, squeezing her hand as the father returns with a – mercifully – quiet baby.

  Meredith sniffs and forces a smile. ‘Course. Sorry. Oh God, look . . . there’s your arch enemy.’

  She nods in the direction of the double doors we came through a few minutes ago. Behind them is Harry. Just looking at him makes fury sizzle up in me, something Meredith senses.

  ‘Are you going to say something?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Who’d have thought he’d be to blame for all this? He had such potential too.’

  ‘The truth is, my ludicrous boss is to blame for being too liberal with the term “in-flight entertainment”,’ I tell her, ‘and my deputy is to blame for disappearing to Euro Disney when he was supposed to be covering for me. Various PR companies are also to blame for being about as useful as a steak and kidney pie at a vegetarian dinner party.’ I’m really working myself up now. ‘And then there’s me, for using the term “third base” and “boobs” on national radio, in the press and – Charles informed me earlier – on TV this morning.’

  Meredith’s eyes widen. ‘TV?’

  ‘Apparently my quote was read out on every “what the papers say” round-up in Britain,’ I explain. ‘I was trending on Twitter at one point, until I was knocked off by Harry Styles announcing he’s squeezed a spot or something.’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ she says, rubbing my arm. ‘Maybe you do need to get this off your chest.’ She nods over towards Harry. ‘Be careful what you say, though. He might be taking notes.’

  ‘There’ll be few printable words,’ I reply, steeling myself as I stand up and start to march in his direction.

  I barely realise Nicola is coming up behind me until she grabs my elbow, just before I push my way through the door.

  ‘Imogen! You need to see this.’ She’s out of breath and carrying a stack of A4 paper.

  ‘What’s this?’

  She diverts me back to the sofa next to Meredith, where she hands it over. I start flicking through the pages.

  ‘Harry’s writing. Imogen, he doesn’t appear to have w
ritten a single tabloid article in his entire career. He’s not even what I think you’d class as a news reporter.’

  I open my mouth to say something, but shut it again. ‘What is he then?’

  ‘He writes for various newspapers. It’s all very serious stuff. He’s a science correspondent.’

  ‘What?’

  She nods. ‘There are features here covering everything from genetics to space travel, IVF to climate change. And absolutely none about groping chief executives.’

  My head throbs. ‘But I heard him talking about me, about this story. He said he was filing it before the deadline. I heard it all when I was hiding in the Gents.’

  She looks at me as if I’m unhinged. ‘Why were you hiding in the Gents’?’

  ‘Because – oh, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s your man, Imogen.’

  I glance in his direction. ‘But he must be.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  I look down at the papers again. Suddenly, none of it makes sense any more. I have no idea how to explain the conversation I overheard in the toilets but, equally, judging by Nicola’s evidence, writing a sleazy story for the Daily Sun doesn’t seem to be Harry’s style.

  ‘Just because he doesn’t usually write for the Daily Sun doesn’t mean he never would. Why else would he have been talking about me and the Peebles story in the toilets?’

  ‘No idea. You clearly need to ask him. But, Imogen?’ Nic puts her hand on my arm warningly. ‘This time be nice.’

  Chapter 34

  Harry is with the same group of people I saw yesterday, who appear to have gathered in preparation for an excursion. Which, when I think about it, probably isn’t what you’d expect a roving reporter to do when they’re hot on the heels of a major scoop.

  I feel ridiculous marching up to him when there are spectators, particularly Clipboard Barbie, who is today wearing chic, wide-legged trousers and a simple vest: masculine-looking items which have the converse effect of accentuating her soft, slender curves. But there seems to be no other option.

  I straighten my back and walk towards him casually but with conviction, determined that nobody could be left with the impression that there’s anything untoward about this conversation.

  I clear my throat meaningfully. He doesn’t look overly pleased to see me, which could be attributed to the mouthful of abuse with which I rewarded him the last time we spoke.

  ‘Um . . . have you got a sec—minute?’

  Clipboard Barbie lowers her sunglasses and glares at me as if she’s just trodden in something gelatinous that’s washed up on the beach.

  ‘A sec-minute?’

  ‘It’s somewhere between a second and a minute. About thirty seconds, to be precise.’

  Clipboard Barbie sighs. ‘We are going to Camp Nou. We need to get on the bus.’

  I turn to Harry, who responds with an apologetic-but-not-really shrug at me. ‘You heard the lady.’

  ‘Okay,’ I reply, aware that the entire group is watching me, anticipating my next move. I’m going to have to do this – in public, it now turns out – so I might as well get it over with. ‘Well, I wanted to say that I may have got the wrong end of the stick about something yesterday. About what we discussed in the’ – I glance at the others and steel myself – ‘in the toilets. If that’s the case, and frankly I just don’t know what to think any more, then, clearly, I’m sorry. Although I still don’t know why you were talking about me and David and the flight. So if it was because you were writing for the Daily Sun, then in that case I don’t apologise. Absolutely not. My original comments stand. But if you weren’t, then they don’t.’

  Harry looks utterly lost. ‘Hmm. Glad we’ve cleared that up,’ he deadpans.

  ‘The point is, when I’m wrong, I say so,’ I clarify, whilst injecting a noble tone to my speech (even if it isn’t true). ‘And, I may be. Though I’m not sure. So . . . I am doing . . . At least I think so. By which I mean, I say sorry when I am. And . . . I am I think.’

  The group now stares at me as if I’ve just added a racy twist to a Neighbourhood Watch meeting by throwing my car keys onto the table. I feel an urgent need to get out of here, despite being no closer to solving the mystery.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it!’ I announce, spinning on my heel and torpedoing myself towards the door. Anything to escape the looks of utter bafflement on everyone’s faces.

  Outside, I quicken my speed towards the beach, for which I am not remotely dressed, but that’s the least of my worries. A tidal wave of thoughts is rushing through my head as I try to estimate when the coast might be sufficiently clear to be able to return to the girls, when a voice calls out.

  ‘Imogen, wait!’ My heart swoops as I turn round and see Harry running towards me. My legs begin to tremble spontaneously. Only, there’s nowhere to hide now.

  I can’t look in his eyes long enough to work out whether he’s cross at me or not, but I suspect I know the answer to that. I stand up straight to give an entirely flimsy illusion of composure.

  But it’s not only the thought of confrontation that makes me uneasy. I’m getting that sensation again that makes my insides feel wrong, the one I got last time I was around Harry, and the time before that. But I know his effect is fairly universal, judging by the female attention his smiles attract; I don’t know when I got so predictable, but I seriously dislike it.

  ‘I wanted to say,’ he begins, ‘that I have no idea what you were talking about – either then, or in the loos. But, apology accepted. If of course that is what it was. I realise you are still in two minds about that.’

  I burst out laughing. ‘Thank you. Perhaps I need to explain.’

  ‘Why don’t we go for a walk?’

  ‘Don’t you need to go to the Camp Nou stadium?’

  ‘I’ve made my excuses. It’s not really the done thing on these sorts of trips, so I might as well make the most of it.’

  We find space on a couple of sun loungers and Harry puts up the parasol.

  ‘When you say “these sorts of trips”, what do you mean, exactly?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m on a press trip. Basically, a PR company invites journalists from a variety of publications to review a hotel. That’s who the others are in the group you’ve seen me with. There’s Darren from the Daily Mirror, Jill from the Manchester Evening News and Bob from the Herald. It’s supposed to be work, but I can’t pretend it’s too taxing. All you have to do is turn up, allow them to treat you like a king for a few days, go on the odd, all-expenses-paid tour, then write a travel piece. It’s hell, as you can imagine.’ He smiles. ‘I’m a freelance science writer normally, so this is far from my day job. These sorts of trips only come along once in a blue moon, and only if the features editor is in a good mood and none of the staff writers is available.’

  ‘So . . . you’re not working on the story about my boss?’

  He ponders for a moment. ‘The guy who got frisky in first class? Why would you think that?’

  I shift awkwardly. ‘I was told by my PR advisor that I might be approached by a journalist. Then you were asking lots of questions about my job the other night. And . . . then when I heard you talking about getting details out of me about the flight . . .’

  ‘The only flight details I needed were from Delfina.’

  ‘Delfina?’

  ‘The Spanish lady with the clipboard. She’s organised the whole trip, including a flight upgrade, so I needed details about the cost and schedules from the airline so I can include it in the piece.’

  I swallow. ‘Oh.’

  ‘And I didn’t mean to give you the third degree about your job. I was only making conversation. I was genuinely . . . interested.’

  The word makes my temperature soar.

  ‘I feel like an idiot.’

  ‘Well, there’s no need to on my account. And I should confess that I have done some work for a tabloid,’ he says.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Work experience for one o
f the red-tops when I was seventeen. It involved sitting outside Delia Smith’s house for three days, until someone pointed out that she was on a publicity tour of Scotland and had already been interviewed by the chief feature writer that morning.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘It was never really for me. Although I do have friends who work for some of the tabloids and I promise you, they’re very nice people. Though I can see why you wouldn’t want to meet them in a professional capacity.’

  We spend the next few hours on the beach, chatting, sunbathing and soaking up the atmosphere.

  Meredith and Nicola don’t reappear and, for the first time since I arrived, I’m not in a rush to go after them. Or indeed anywhere. Because, and I can barely say this without squirming, being around Harry is an unmitigated pleasure.

  Not just because he’s funny, sweet and intelligent. Not just because he has hidden depths ranging from a passion for judo to a job that’s seen him writing for everyone from Vanity Fair to The Economist. It’s because the way he made me feel the other night – witty, warm, generally wonderful – wasn’t a one-off. He’s gone from intimidating me wildly to making me feel entirely comfortable in my own skin.

  And everything I learn about him endears him to me. He was raised by a single mother after his father disappeared with another woman when he was seven, moved to Canada and has not shown the slightest interest in his son since. His mum never met anyone else – ‘and never will, she’s too set in her ways’ – which is clearly why he’s felt an increasing sense of responsibility towards her as he’s grown older.

  He is certain he wants to be a parent himself – ‘partly to prove I’d do everything differently from my own dad’ – but hasn’t met the right woman.

  ‘Nobody’s ever come close?’

  He thinks for a second. ‘It’s been a long time since I felt close to being in love.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘There were two people. Samia Wallace, a fiery, clever psychotherapy student who introduced me to Moroccan food, F. Scott Fitzgerald and generally rocked my world. She was an older woman – nineteen when I was seventeen.’