The Time of Our Lives

by Jane Costello

  ‘Oh, give over,’ I reply, rolling my eyes. The more I’ve got to know Harry this week, the more my view that he must be a raging lothario has shifted. But I refuse to believe this is anything other than Instagram Eyes, caused by the sex, the alcohol, and him wanting a bit more of both.

  ‘I’m serious.’

  For a fleeting moment, I believe him. But I do so in the realisation that it’s only because I want to believe him.

  I look down at my glass. ‘You know, this has been the first time since . . .’ I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence.

  ‘Since Roberto?’

  I nod.

  ‘That must have felt strange.’

  I shrug.

  ‘Well,’ he begins, formulating his thoughts. ‘I want you to know that I’m honoured that I was the one you chose.’

  I reply with a smile, but it’s a forced one this time. Because the reminder about why it’s been such a long time since I did this intimate, intense thing chills the blood in my veins.

  Suddenly, I feel as though everything’s changed. I look down and try to push various unpleasant thoughts out of my head. Then I throw back the last of the champagne and wonder what to say.

  ‘I’d better get out. My fingers are shrivelling up.’

  It’s gone 3 a.m. and I plummet into sleep surprisingly quickly, my final thoughts registering only how strange it feels to have a man’s arms around me in bed. I’m so used to sprawling out in the middle, alone and unfettered, that it takes a moment to get used to the protective warmth of human contact.

  But that’s not the whole story. Although exhaustion drags me towards dreams, they’re unsettled from the beginning. I wake several times during the night, before registering where I am and pushing away consciousness again.

  As dawn creeps into the room, the events being played out in my head become increasingly distressing. I drift in and out of thoughts about Roberto until, finally, as sunlight shears through the cracks of the hastily drawn curtains, they turn to his funeral.

  The last time I’d been on a plane to Florence, Roberto had been sitting in the seat next to mine. This time, I was buffered either side by my mum and dad.

  ‘Do you want some Bach’s Rescue Remedy?’ Mum leant over and asked, scrunching up her nose. ‘I think you could do with some.’

  I shook my head without looking at her. I couldn’t. I hadn’t been able to look at anyone for days because every time I did I crumpled into a heap of tears. I wasn’t crying now, but was simply in the grip of a sharp, acute grief, one that tore up my stomach and wouldn’t allow my hands to stop trembling.

  I closed my eyes and cradled my bump as I felt the soft thuds of our baby’s first kicks under my palms. It should’ve been a moment of unrestrained joy; instead, I was swamped with the ugly realisation that Roberto would never feel those kicks, surely the most fundamental of paternal rights.

  In truth, that was the least of it. Roberto would never be able to do anything. Swim in the Indian Ocean. Climb Kilimanjaro. Kiss me in the morning as he stepped out to work.

  We only stayed in Florence for two days, partly because I knew I wouldn’t be able to bear any longer than that. The funeral, I’m sorry to say, provided no comfort at all. You know how some funerals are beautiful, a celebration of someone’s life? Roberto’s wasn’t. It was organised by his mother, and was a very obvious reflection of the fact that she didn’t know her son very well at all.

  It took place in a small, dark church in a remote village outside the city. The music was turgid. And, although three of his friends from London had flown over – the others sent cards and flowers in their dozens – I got the impression the ceremony was largely full of people he’d barely known.

  He’d have hated it.

  Its one saving grace was that, after days of torment about whether or not to read a eulogy, I actually managed it. His cousin translated. I hadn’t thought I’d be able to, but it’s amazing what the human spirit is capable of when you’re determined enough. And I felt I owed it to Roberto: it was up to me to remember the real him and, as arrogant as it sounds, there was no doubt in my mind that I knew him better than anyone else there.

  ‘Roberto once told me that when our baby was old enough, he was going to buy a boat. Nothing flashy, just a little wooden rowing boat, the simpler the better. He wanted to while away sunny afternoons with our child, exactly as he’d done as a little boy.

  The long, hot summers he spent in Lombardy with his grandfather, who he adored, were the source of his happiest and most vivid childhood memories, the ones he talked about most.

  The two of them would splash about for hours on the lake, throwing stones and catching fish. It was there, Roberto told me, that he learned from his grandfather how to become the man he wanted to be.

  I never got to meet Roberto’s grandfather, as he died the year before he moved to London. But I feel certain that he would’ve been proud of Roberto. A successful lawyer. A loyal son. A man who adored books and films, who could cook a delicious dinner out of seemingly nothing and who loved a good debate, as I discovered myself, often.

  Roberto had endless amounts of love to give. And I will forever thank God that I was the one to whom he chose to give it, even if it was for a far shorter time than any of us imagined.

  I can’t think of many people who’d have made a better parent than Roberto. I can think of few men more capable, patient and loving. And I know that, of all Roberto’s skill in his job – something we all know he was unbelievably good at – his true vocation was one he’ll never get to fulfil: a daddy.’

  I’d got through the whole speech remarkably well until that point, but that word had crashed into my head, opening the floodgates for my tears. The last sentence was almost impossible to say – I still don’t know how I managed it.

  ‘But today isn’t a day to dwell on what Roberto was denied. Today is a day to remember him . . . how he was. And how lucky we all were to have him in our lives.’

  I didn’t stay long at the wake. I couldn’t stand the looks from his family as they gazed into my sunken eyes and told me I really must start eating again. Which of course I knew was true – I was carrying a baby – but was easier said than done. Every mouthful felt like I was trying to digest a rock.

  The following day, we were due at a lunch hosted by his family. It felt wrong being with his parents when he wasn’t there, as if someone had forgotten to invite the most important guest. But of course I went; I did my duty and my parents did theirs. It wasn’t their fault I couldn’t stand being around any of them.

  I made my excuses and walked aimlessly, numbly, across the Ponte Vecchio as tourists and locals weaved around me. I stood and gazed at the sunset over the Arno River, contemplating briefly if the child I was carrying was the only thing that was stopping me from jumping in.

  I scolded myself for being so melodramatic, but I made myself a promise. Or rather, something I simply knew would be the case. For ever.

  Living or dead, Roberto would always be the only man for me.

  Day Six

  Chapter 41

  I wake up with a forehead damp with sweat. I reach automatically for my necklace and remember that it’s not there. I turn and look at Harry with a sharp sense of disconnection from the events of the night before.

  I know what I did. I know what I felt. And as I gaze at his parted lips as he snores lightly as he dreams, I’m aware that were he a lesser man – someone less sweet or kind – I’d probably be recoiling in horror right now.

  So I don’t do that. Not quite. Instead, I’m struggling to process what happened, or indeed to recognise the woman I became last night.

  Had I been someone else, I probably wouldn’t have thought anything of sleeping with someone I’d only just met, not when he’s single, I’m single, we used protection and had an undeniably good time.

  But I’m not someone else. I’m me.

  And I don’t think I’m being too hard on myself for the growing repugnance I’m feelin
g. Not because I acted like a slut, but because I’d acted like I’d forgotten.

  I peel myself out of bed and creep around the room, picking up clothes in the dim morning light as I try desperately not to wake Harry. I quietly wrestle with my clothes until I’m dressed – at least in a fashion. My dress is dish-cloth soggy from spilt champagne and, after discovering my knickers in the Jacuzzi, my only option is to stuff them in my handbag and go commando.

  I spot my phone on the bedside table and the recollection of turning it off propels me into a cold panic. I press ‘On’ with a heavy sense of dread, convincing myself as it springs to life that I’m being neurotic. I wriggle into my shoes as the phone checks for messages, repeating to myself that turning it off for twelve hours was absolutely the right thing to do and, in fact, could’ve done me the world of good.

  That’s before the first text appears. Then the second, third and fourth, pinging onto my home screen like coins dropping from a slot machine. The arrival of several voicemail messages coincides with Harry stirring.

  My instinct to get out of there before he can speak to me is halted as I glance at my phone, registering the final tally of missed calls: sixteen. Then I open the last text message that David sent:

  Imogen: YOU’RE FIRED.

  Chapter 42

  Harry wants me to stay. I have never wanted to leave anywhere faster.

  ‘You don’t understand. I need to . . . look, I’m sorry,’ I mumble. ‘You’re a really nice person. But this was a mistake.’

  A veil of hurt sweeps over his face, but I have other things on my mind. I glance again at my phone and go to dive out of the door.

  ‘Wait!’

  I pause as he stands up, clutching the sheets to his midriff. He might technically be covering his modesty, but the sight of his half-naked body feels indecent this morning, and I tear away my eyes to avoid looking at what stirred me last night.

  ‘Look, I . . . thank you for the champagne.’ He looks offended, and I briefly consider adding, ‘And the orgasms.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ he says awkwardly.

  ‘You were excellent company.’ I force a smile.

  ‘Look, is everything okay? I know it’d been a while for you, but I want you to know that I thought last night was . . . lovely.’ He frowns. ‘That’s a rubbish word. It was a lot more than lovely. And so are you. Also . . . this is not something I tend to do either after knowing someone for so little time. So I’m slightly rattled too. But seriously, Imogen—’

  ‘I’ve been sacked,’ I interrupt. I don’t know why my need to share that with him is so urgent, except that I can’t bear listening to this any longer.

  He looks shocked. ‘When? And why?’

  ‘I’ve got sixteen missed calls and a load of voice messages on my phone so I suspect I’m about to find out.’ When I look at him again, my eyes land on his lips. It’s followed by a wave of self-hatred. ‘I need to go. Thank you, Harry.’

  He steps forward. ‘Imogen . . . I’m leaving the day after tomorrow. I’d really like to see you again. Can we get together again today?’

  I hesitate and move away just enough to stop him from touching me. ‘I think I’m going to have a lot on my plate. Probably best not.’

  His jaw tightens and, for a moment, it appears that he doesn’t know what to say or do.

  I turn to leave, but he touches my hand; I hesitate, and he leans in and kisses me on the cheek. When he withdraws, my hand reaches up to my still-tingling skin.

  I know I have to get out of here.

  Chapter 43

  The walk of shame to my room is excruciating. I avoid the lift because the prospect of getting stuck in there with someone for even twelve seconds is about as appealing as biting someone else’s toenails.

  So I opt for the stairs. Only, there are twelve floors to descend, meaning I can’t stand too close to the rail because the possibility that someone below might glance heavenwards when I’m minus knickers is too much to risk.

  The stairs are far from quiet at this time of the morning and, worse, it appears there is a certain type of person who chooses this route: families with small children; the only couple over the age of sixty I’ve seen in this hotel since I got here; oh, and my Italian.

  ‘Oh! It is the beautiful Eenglish—’ He stops mid-sentence and looks me up and down, deciding to quit while he’s ahead.

  The word ‘beautiful’ is so obviously tantamount to taking the piss that his mouth simply refuses to complete the sentence. My dress couldn’t be less socially acceptable breakfast attire if I’d tattooed a swastika on my face; I have brushed neither my teeth nor my hair; and, as I discover to my horror when I look down sharply, one of the false eyelashes with which I experimented last night is hanging by a precarious, gluey thread, like a caterpillar preparing to abseil down my cheek.

  ‘Um . . . hello – I can’t stop, sorry!’ I push past him as he pulls a curious expression: half put-outedness – he’s obviously not used to women running away from him – and half relief.

  I start my phone calls the second I enter my bedroom and sweep aside a note from Meredith letting me know she’s at breakfast. It becomes apparent very quickly that getting hold of David is going to be near-impossible. I pace around for forty minutes and leave several messages for him before I’m forced to concede that the reception at Great Aunt Whatsherchops’s caravan is defeating me.

  Engaging in a conversation with David is barely necessary to work out exactly what his problem is, however. His problem is crystal clear from his messages, and I listen to them with an increasingly twisted knot in my stomach.

  The first goes like this: ‘Imogen. I’ve seen the papers, I’ve reviewed all the coverage and I saw your quote. Now, as you know, I always say, “Things happen. Winners make them happen the way they want.” And, obviously, this has not happened the way we want. But I’m trying to stay calm. I’m trying very, very hard. Because I know you work hard and I know you’re under pressure. But we need to talk about this. Urgently. So, I’m waiting on the moors right now for you to phone me back because I need there to be some sort of . . . correction, or apology or something in tomorrow’s papers. I know I said I didn’t care about Getreide but obviously I do and this needs to be sorted before they get wind of it. So phone me. Now. Please.’

  His second message says: ‘Imogen. I’m still waiting. I am relying on you. Please.’ Then he adds, solemnly: ‘It is now raining.’

  His third message is less discernable against its background noise, which sounds as though he’s watching the final scene in The Perfect Storm with the volume turned on high. ‘IMOGEN! It is ABSOLUTELY PISSING DOWN. LIKE I’M IN AN AMAZONIAN RAINFOREST OR SOMETHING. ONLY COLDER, WINDIER AND MORE SCOTTISH.’ There’s a pause, followed by frantic rustling, as if he’s running for cover. A few seconds later, he continues breathlessly. ‘I’ve spoken to Charles and we both need to contact you, urgently, because I remember you saying you had some sort of alternative story that might knock this off the front pages. Well, we need it. Now. I’m counting on you, Imogen.’

  Charles phones after that, demanding to know what this mystery story is. Little does he know that all David’s talking about is Cosimo’s press release about Grill-O-Bloo – something that’s about as likely to knock anything off the front page as a scoop about grass being green.

  David’s fourth to seventh messages become increasingly irate, increasingly desperate, and basically illustrate that there is an acute correlation between the colder and wetter a person is and the angrier they become.

  His penultimate message says: ‘Imogen. I am IN. CAND. ES. CENT.’ He takes a full breath between each syllable. ‘It is one thing making this almighty fudge-up in the first place; it is quite another ignoring the urgent calls of your chief executive when this company’s reputation is on the line and you potentially have the ability to get it out of this mess. I’m sorry I promoted you! You’re clearly out of your depth!’ he rants. ‘And . . . and . . . if I don’t hear from you in the ne
xt twenty minutes, I’ll have no alternative but to treat this as gross misconduct and dismiss you with immediate effect.’

  The next I heard from him was at exactly twelve minutes past midnight. The text that sealed my fate. The text containing words that I, Imogen Copeland, proud former school swot and workaholic never, ever thought I’d see: ‘YOU’RE FIRED.’

  The door opens and Meredith strolls in, back from breakfast. She’s looking lovely and tanned now, simultaneously glamorous and maternal.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  I can tell from her expression that I look as though I’ve just crawled out of a municipal tip.

  ‘I’ve just done the walk of shame,’ I reply, numbly.

  ‘YAAAAYYYY!’

  ‘And I’ve been sacked,’ I add.

  She frowns. ‘Oh, what a bugger. Why?’

  ‘Because I screwed up,’ I reply, slouching onto the bed. ‘I’ve screwed up everything. Absolutely everything . . .’

  ‘Yeah, but at least you’ve screwed!’ she whoops. She sits down next to me and holds both of my hands. ‘Imogen, you’ve had SEX! This is the best news I’ve had all week. I’m proud of you,’ she adds, as if I’ve just got my 25-metre front-crawl badge.

  I look at her, bewildered. ‘How can you be proud of me? It’s terrible! I feel awful.’

  ‘About your job?’

  ‘Obviously that, but I feel very, very weird about last night, too.’

  ‘Why? You shouldn’t. Sex is a perfectly natural, perfectly human thing, Imogen.’

  I sneer. ‘It’s overrated. Seriously, what’s it got going for it?’

  She thinks for a second, before offering: ‘Orgasms can cure hiccups. Fact.’ I glare at her blankly. ‘That’s only one benefit, obviously. Wasn’t it good? Oh God, that’s such a bummer when that happens. I’d hoped it’d blow your mind the first time after . . . you know.’