The Hopeless Romantic's Handbook

by Gemma Townley

  God, his head hurt.

  Still, maybe that was what Kate wanted. And if it was, good luck to her.

  “You alright? You didn’t half toss and turn last night.”

  Tom jumped. He opened his eyes again, shielding them with his hand, and saw Lucy grinning at him. He frowned. He could vaguely remember calling her as he stumbled out of Sal’s house after sharing another bottle of wine with Ed, telling her to come over. But he’d never thought she would. Had they … ? He had no idea.

  “You don’t mind if I have a fag, do you?” she asked conversationally, sitting up so that her breasts appeared from under the duvet and rested on it gently. “I know I shouldn’t, but sometimes you’ve just got to live a little, haven’t you?”

  “It was awful,” Kate said, sitting back on her chair and looking at Gareth morosely. “Everyone was arguing and Tom was being a complete arse, and by the end I just couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Joe didn’t say anything, but I know what he was thinking—are these really her best friends? The ones she kept going on about how nice they all were?”

  Gareth nodded. “They’re all just jealous,” he said. “Joe’s better-looking than any of them, and it’s making them paranoid.”

  “You think?” Kate frowned.

  The two of them were reviewing footage from the Moreley shoot in the small, dark editing suite. Gareth nodded again. “That’s the thing with people you think are friends,” he said matter-of-factly. “They like it when you’re down, can’t take it when things start going well.”

  Kate looked at Gareth, uncertain.

  “Happened to me,” he explained with a shrug. “Got myself a gorgeous—and I mean gorgeous— man a couple of years ago and suddenly my friends were bitching and freezing me out. Went on for a whole month. Soon as he dumped me, they wanted to hear all about it.”

  “Hmmm,” Kate said. “You could be right. It didn’t help that Tom was drunk and Sal was pissed off with Ed for something or other.”

  Gareth patted her shoulder. “So, come on,” he said, “let’s hear what Penny’s come up with to say about the Moreleys.”

  He pressed “play,” and the credits were soon replaced with the image of Penny outside the Moreleys’ house, a pained expression on her face.

  “The couple who live in the house behind me, Marcia and Derek Moreley, have found themselves in a rut,” she said, as if it was the worst thing she’d ever heard. “Having succumbed to middle age, they’re now hurtling fast toward old age with drab looks, a drab house, and nothing to look forward to. They called us because the two of them want to get some magic back in their lives, but they’re not sure how. But they needn’t worry, because the Future: Perfect team is here to help. In the next hour stay with us, and you’ll be able to see for yourself their transformation from frumpy to fabulous!”

  At this point, Penny smiled flatly into the camera, a facial expression that Kate knew she tried to avoid as far as possible because of the pressure it put on her beyond-Botox crow’s feet. Then the screen was filled with the image of Marcia and Derek, sitting on their sofa and explaining why they were on the show. Kate giggled as she remembered how many takes the researchers had been forced to do because Marcia couldn’t seem to understand that they were being filmed and that she couldn’t interrupt the interview to ask questions. She also hadn’t really appreciated that “because we both have big noses and can’t afford a nose job” wasn’t an appropriate answer to the question of why they’d contacted Future: Perfect. “Maybe you want to revive the passion you felt all those years ago?” the researcher would ask, only for Marcia to shake her head. “No,” she’d say, “I just want a nose job. …” Somehow someone had managed to coerce her, however, and now she sat on screen talking about personal growth and reviving their youthful enthusiasm as if she’d been born to be on daytime television.

  “And now, let’s meet the Future: Perfect team,” Penny was saying, and suddenly Kate was on screen, sitting next to Lysander.

  “Kate Hetherington is our interiors specialist. So, Kate, tell us what we’re going to be doing to brighten up Marcia and Derek’s home!”

  “We need to bring some more light into this house,” Kate heard herself say, and she made a face at Gareth. “Why didn’t you tell me my hair was sticking up at the back like that?” she squeaked. “Oh, God, I look dreadful.”

  “Shhh,” Gareth hushed her. “I want to listen.”

  “And now Lysander Timlington, our fashion guru. Tell us, Lysander, what look are you going to be going for?”

  Kate frowned. Penny never referred to her as an interiors guru. Why was she just called a specialist?

  “I want to get some more structure in their wardrobe,” Lysander said smoothly. “This season it’s all about volume, but we need to tread carefully so that the volume is all in the right places!” He winked as he said that, and Kate rolled her eyes.

  “Thanks, Lysander. And what about hair and makeup? Let’s ask our Future: Perfect specialist, Gareth Mason.”

  Hah, Kate thought. Gareth’s only a specialist, too.

  “Marcia has been ignoring her skin care for far too long,” Gareth-on-the-screen said soberly. “I want to update her makeup, and perhaps introduce Derek to some of the male skin-care products currently on the market to revive his complexion. Then we need to update Marcia’s hair, losing her old perm and creating a bit more bounce, and, as I say, updating Derek’s look with a shorter but less stern coiffure.”

  The Gareth next to Kate gasped at the screen. “Update! Update! I said it about five times. Why didn’t someone tell me? Oh, it’s just too horrible.”

  Kate put her arm around his shoulders in a show of solidarity. Repeating the same word a few times was nothing—she’d once said the word absolutely ten times in one sentence onscreen. Magda would never let them retake unless someone had obviously screwed up, like Marcia, or had said something libelous. “It’s good enough,” she would say, clapping her hands, and moving on, oblivious to—or willing to ignore—the faces being pulled behind her.

  They continued to watch as Dr. Proudfoot, the show’s silky-voiced plastic surgeon, told Penny in sympathetic tones that for those people sadly afflicted with facial features that didn’t allow them to reach their full potential, surgery was really a godsend.

  “Is that the new term for big noses?” Kate asked Gareth. “Features that don’t allow you to reach your full potential?”

  Gareth didn’t answer and Kate pouted. He pretended to agree with her when she bitched about Dr. Proudfoot and his needles, but she knew full well that Gareth had asked about the price of Botox, and he’d admitted once that if he ever got fat he’d get liposuction right away.

  The camera panned around the “before” shots—the house, dismally lit and looking even worse than it actually did before Kate got to work; Derek and Marcia’s drab outfits; and finally, their faces (with a nice profile shot of their noses), made significantly worse by the pained expressions they had been asked to assume.

  “Well, now that we know what we’re working with,” Penny’s voice could be heard saying, “it’s time to get to work!” She put on a hard hat and picked up a hammer and Kate rolled her eyes.

  “Like she knows what work is,” she said. “I can’t believe she actually gets paid all that money to just talk crap and act like a prima donna.”

  “Talking of work, what happened to that woman who was stalking you?”

  Kate frowned. “Stalking me?”

  “Carole whatsherface. The one who was going to sue you. I thought you were going to call her.”

  Kate grinned. “Ah. Carole. Yes, well, turns out she isn’t suing me after all. She loved the makeover.”

  Gareth looked at her curiously. “She loved it?”

  Kate nodded. “Apart from the lipstick you put on her, but she’s agreed not to call in her lawyers.” She giggled. “No, she wants my help refurbishing a hospice.”

  “A hospice?” Gareth’s face was still indignant from the lipsti
ck comment.

  “Yup. A hospice. Only she doesn’t have any money. I thought Magda might be interested but she wasn’t, so …”

  “You think it would make good television?” Gareth asked with interest.

  “Definitely. I mean, it’s heartwarming, isn’t it? And it’s such a good cause. The people there are amazing, and it’s all run by this small charity, and—”

  “So take it to another production company,” Gareth interrupted her.

  Kate looked at him dubiously.

  “Seriously,” he said. “Someone’s bound to buy the idea. Bringing hope to ill people. It’s bloody perfect.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” Kate mulled over the idea. “Do you know any other production companies?”

  Gareth shook his head. “But you could try the Yellow Pages.”

  Kate heard something that sounded like a dry laugh, and spun round. “Is there someone there?” she asked nervously. “Gareth, turn on the lights.”

  “No need,” she heard Penny say. “I’ve got what I was looking for. And I’m leaving now.”

  Kate sat open-mouthed as the door of the editing suite opened, and Penny’s outline could be seen leaving.

  “How long was she here?” she gasped, looking at Gareth, who had gone white.

  “It’s alright,” he said, as if trying to persuade himself. “We didn’t say anything bad. At least, I didn’t. You said she was talentless and lazy, but she can’t blame me for that.”

  “Thanks, Gareth,” Kate said, sighing. “So basically, Tom and Sal get antsy and argumentative as soon as things start going well for me, and you scarper as soon as things go wrong?”

  Gareth managed a weak smile. “No one’s perfect,” he said. “Not even me.”

  20

  Sal tapped her fingers against her desk and looked around furtively, trying to work out if anyone had noticed that she was a bit flushed. Relieved to discover that no one was in the least bit interested in her or the state of her body’s thermostat, she turned back to her computer.

  Following last week’s detox in the gym, fancy retoxing? Having a shitty day and wouldn’t mind a drink after work if you’re free? J

  The e-mail had arrived twenty minutes ago, and Sal had been rooted to her chair ever since, reading and rereading it until she felt she could have written a five-thousand-word essay on its possible interpretations.

  It was just a friendly drink with a colleague.

  Or it was the beginning of the end of her marriage.

  Or anything in between.

  She never thought she’d find herself in this position. For one thing, she wasn’t the sort—Sal had never been a flirt and had never considered herself particularly attractive to the majority of men. She was sensible, down-to-earth. The guys she went out with always told her how refreshing it was to have met someone who wasn’t up and down all the time, who didn’t cry at nothing, shout at everything, and insist on being taken out to ridiculously expensive restaurants or bought luxurious gifts.

  And it was true: Sal rarely got hysterical, didn’t argue unless there was a very good reason, and preferred money to be spent on sensible things like mortgages and pensions rather than squandered on frivolous things like meals out and jewelry.

  But that wasn’t to say that every so often, she hoped against hope that maybe Ed would buy her something that came in a small box and was an indulgent surprise instead of something practical that she needed and wanted. That maybe Ed would one day come home and whisk her away somewhere, ignoring her protests that there was no need and that she hadn’t taken his suits to the dry cleaner yet.

  She knew, though, that he wouldn’t, because that wasn’t who she was. She was practical. Pragmatic. Organized.

  Boring.

  But now … now she didn’t feel boring. Boring, pragmatic people didn’t get e-mails from people like Jim suggesting a drink after work. Dull, settled people didn’t get a flutter of excitement every time he walked near her office and turned to flash a little secret smile at her—smiles that she had ignored at first, assuming they were aimed at someone else, and that now she waited for, on tenterhooks, every time she saw him stand up.

  Now she felt a bit like Cinderella must have on her way to the ball. As if she was someone else completely—someone who flirted with colleagues, who went for illicit drinks, who was fun and decadent and …

  Except she wasn’t, was she? And unlike Cinderella, she’d already married her prince.

  Sighing, Sal closed the e-mail and picked up the phone.

  Penny smiled to herself and held her phone close to her ear.

  “Joe?” she purred. “It’s Penny here. Penny Pennington. Remember me?”

  “Penny?” He sounded surprised.

  “I hope you don’t mind me calling you like this. Your agent kindly passed me your number.”

  “Sure. I guess,” Joe said, still sounding a bit nonplussed. “Is it about the ad? Do we need to reshoot?”

  “The advert?” Penny laughed. “No, Joe. No, it’s not about that.”

  “Okay,” Joe said uncertainly. “Then …”

  “Joe,” Penny said, her voice low, “I know that you’re going out with Kate. And it’s sweet. I’m sure you make a lovely couple. But I thought you should know that she isn’t going to have her job here for much longer. It’s a long, boring story, but the management here have just had enough of her—her lack of professionalism. I thought you should know, because I’m sure you’ll want to support her, to step up and help her out—financially, emotionally. … I imagine she’s going to go through a bit of a hard time, Joe.”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone, and Penny smiled to herself.

  “Or,” she said softly, “you may want to reconsider my offer. You may want to get out whilst you can, before you’re dragged down by Kate. You and I, Joe, we could create a bit of a storm. So think about it, okay? You have my number, and I’m free tonight.”

  She hung up and marched straight into Magda’s office.

  Kate looked around Sarah Jones’s kitchen-cum-sitting room proudly and grinned at Phil.

  “Looks alright, this room, doesn’t it?” he said from his vantage point on a ladder, methodically painting the cornice above Kate’s head. “You’ve really brightened the place up, you know.”

  Kate shook her head. “You mean you have,” she corrected him. “You’re amazing. And in only a week.”

  “I knocked the wall down,” Phil agreed. “But it was your idea to do it. I hope she likes it. Mrs. Jones, that is.”

  “Well, she cried, so Magda’s happy. I couldn’t tell if they were happy tears or devastated ones, to be honest.”

  “So where’s she now, then?”

  “Don’t tell Gareth,” Kate said with a wicked grin, “but she’s gone to the hairdresser. Wasn’t wild on his interpretation of Bree Van De Kamp meets Camilla Parker Bowles. I think he took it a bit literally and gave her Camilla’s hair in bright carrot orange.”

  Phil smirked. “Leather sofa looks alright, too.”

  Kate rolled her eyes. The sofa had been Magda’s concession in order to get Sarah Jones to sign the release and waiver forms. Kate had shoved it up at the top of the room, behind where the camera crew were positioned, and covered it with cushions. But in the event, she’d ended up doing a piece to camera on it. Bizarrely, in spite of it being completely wrong in the room, being—in Kate’s view, at least—the totally wrong piece of furniture and actually kind of ugly if she was completely honest, it had somehow worked.

  “I suppose it’s not too hideous,” she relented. “Right—shall we get on with the final coat of paint?”

  She looked up at Phil, and he motioned to something behind her. She turned to see Magda standing in the doorway with her arms crossed.

  “Got a moment, Kate?” she asked, her voice tight and strained.

  Kate nodded. “Of course. We’re just finishing the painting. Do you want to see the—”

  “Now,” Magda said. “In the fr
ont room.”

  Frowning, Kate followed her out and down the corridor. It was only when they were in the front room with the door closed that Magda opened her mouth to speak.

  “Kate,” she said, pacing up and down and failing to meet Kate’s eye. “Enjoy working on Future: Perfect do you?”

  “Of course,” she said with a wary nod.

  “We don’t have big budgets,” Magda continued. “Don’t have fancy offices or big parties. But you know what we’ve got?”

  Kate looked at her blankly.

  “Loyalty,” Magda said. “Loyalty and teamwork. That’s how we get a show on air every week. That’s how we make ends meet and keep ourselves going. Right?”

  “Right,” said Kate, confused. “We’re a great team. Is there something wrong, Magda?”

  Magda looked at her for a second, then away again.

  “That’s what I asked myself,” she said sadly, “when I heard that you were approaching other production companies with programming ideas. Why, I asked myself, wouldn’t Kate come to me? Why didn’t she feel any loyalty?”

  Kate stared at Magda incredulously. “But I haven’t!” she exclaimed. “I haven’t spoken to anyone. I don’t have programming ideas, anyway. I have a project that I’m involved in, and I ran it past you and you said no. That’s it.”

  “Ran what idea past me?” Magda asked. “I haven’t seen any proposals. I haven’t had a thing from you.”

  Kate stopped herself just before she rolled her eyes. “I told you there was a hospice that needed a refurb and you said it wasn’t good television material,” she said.

  “I said no such thing.” Magda’s eyes narrowed. “A hospice? Ill people? Crying relatives? It’s bloody brilliant television.”

  “But you did,” Kate cried. “It was last week.”

  Magda frowned. “You expect me to believe that?” she said. “So you’re involved with this hospice, are you?”