‘Well, it might be – but it’s worth a try.’
‘Wow. Thank you, Ellen.’
We discuss the amount I can offer and then I put a call through to the agent, who says they’re reviewing offers right now and she’ll get back to me. It’s funny: last week they were probably biting their nails, and now they’re fighting off interest.
It’s like me. Before I went to Paris, I’d had zero interest from, or in, men for the best part of a year. It was as if I’d developed a sort of force field that prevented anyone from approaching me. And then in the space of three days I was with two different men. It’s a pity that one of them was someone I really liked, and I screwed it up.
I still feel sad about Charlie and I’m kicking myself. Why did I have to pick a fight with him over Jonathan and the girls at work? Now I’ll never know if things would have worked out with him or not. I know that on the face of it, it doesn’t look promising. We are very different; not to mention I’m twenty-nine and he’s twenty-six, which is like sixteen in boy years. But I feel as if there was something there – or there could have been.
Suddenly I make a decision. I’m going to swallow my pride and email him, and tell him I’m regretting the way things worked out. I agonise over it for twenty minutes before sending a short email saying I’m sorry I acted like a nutter, and asking him if he’d like to go for a drink when I’m back at work. He might just ignore it, of course, but at least I’ll know one way or the other.
‘When I accused Charlie of not being able to get over the fact that I slept with Jonathan, I think it was really that I wasn’t able to get over the fact that I slept with Jonathan,’ I explain to Alice when she calls me the following evening. ‘Two guys in two days: I felt like such a slapper.’
‘Don’t feel like that. I think you did the right thing emailing him,’ she says. ‘Have you heard back at all?’
‘Not yet. I’ll keep you posted.’ I’m trying to sound cheerful, but I know that an email silence of twenty-four hours doesn’t bode well. ‘Anyway. How about you? What’s your news?’
‘Well,’ Alice says. ‘You know that American literary scout I had an interview with?’
‘Yes! Did you hear anything?’
‘Yep. I got the job. So we’re going to move in September. You’ll have to visit us in LA!’
‘That’s brilliant!’ I say. ‘Fantastic news, darling! Congratulations!’
I am thrilled for Alice, but when we hang up, I feel deeply doomful. She’s my best friend and I am going to miss her horribly. And also, I can’t help noticing how her life is evolving, while mine is like a CD stuck on repeat. She’s jetting off to LA with her boyfriend, who I’m sure she’ll end up marrying, and I have trouble getting through a pint of milk by myself before it goes off.
Well, never mind. Onwards and upwards. I have my career, and my friends, and a new sewing machine. And there’s always online dating. I take out my computer, intending to log on and work on my profile, but instead I end up checking my email yet again to see if Charlie’s replied to my olive branch.
Nothing. Not a peep. And if he hasn’t replied by now, he’s probably not going to reply at all. Feeling miserable, I decide I can’t face internet dating tonight; instead I’m going to run a hot bath and read a good book. I have the whole Booker shortlist to get through, but tonight I think I’ll treat myself to my favourite guilty pleasure: an Enid Blyton book. Maybe First Term at Malory Towers. I keep them stowed in a secret box under my bed, even though there’s nobody to see them but me.
First, though, I have to make myself some dinner. Except there’s absolutely nothing to eat except half an avocado, a tin of lentils and some dried pasta. I hazily contemplate avocado lentil pasta, before I realise I’m going to have to phone for a takeaway – again. Getting around with the crutches is so knackering, I can’t face walking down four flights of stairs to go to the shops. It’s one of the many down sides of living alone: when you’re sick, you have to rely on airlifts of food aid from your local Indian or pizza place.
I’m just rummaging in the kitchen drawer for the Spice Palace takeaway leaflet when I hear a ring at the doorbell. I assume it’s one of the neighbours or someone selling something, but it’s Charlie, out of breath from the stairs and holding two big Tupperware containers.
‘Hi there,’ he says. ‘How are you?’
I stare at him in shock for a few seconds before I manage to say, ‘I’m fine! What brings you here?’
‘I thought you might want some provisions while you’re still hopping.’
‘Wow. That’s amazing – come in.’ Dazed, I watch as he walks in, puts his containers on the table and takes a loaf of brown bread, a bottle of white wine and a pint of milk out of his Red Bull bag.
‘I didn’t make the bread,’ he says. ‘But I did make you a chicken pie … and this is a cassoulet. In case you were missing France. Thanks for your email, by the way. I’m sorry I didn’t reply – I took the day off today to do some cooking.’
I look at him unpacking his provisions. I can’t believe he cooked all this stuff for me, and came all the way over to my place with it. I thought only girlfriends would schlep across town and bring you food when you’re sick, but I was wrong about that. I was wrong about a lot of things, it seems.
‘Charlie, this is so nice of you. Thank you. How did you even know where I lived?’
He puts a finger to the side of his nose. ‘That’s the advantage of having a brother in the Force … No, I’m joking. I asked Sorrell.’ He digs into his bag and produces a white cardboard box. ‘Here’s something else I thought you might like …’
I open it up and find four pasteis de nata from the Bar San Marco. I look up at him and just grin stupidly, because I can’t think of anything adequate to say.
‘If I were you, I’d have the pie tonight, and the cassoulet will reheat nicely for tomorrow,’ he says. ‘And before you ask, yes, I did make the pastry. Ever noticed how, any time you produce a pie, people ask you if you made the pastry? What’s that all about?’
I realise he’s nervous, which makes me love him even more.
‘I hope you can stay and have some with me,’ I say. ‘Do you want to open up that wine? The glasses are above the hob, on the right.’
‘Great,’ he says, looking happy. ‘I’ll just stick these cakes in the fridge … we can have them for dessert.’
I crutch over to him, take his face between my hands and kiss him. He looks surprised at first, but then he kisses me back passionately, putting one arm around me to support me so that I don’t need the crutch. I decide that we might not get around to having those cakes for dessert, but it doesn’t matter; they’ll also be very nice for breakfast.
POPPY
You know it’s not going to be the most productive day when you’re googling ‘George Clooney pet pig’ before 10 a.m.
But it’s that kind of day. It’s the middle of August, the heatwave is in its second week and the office air conditioning keeps breaking down. All the bosses are away and nobody can cope with any mental challenges greater than choosing between a Solero or a Mint Magnum. I feel like I’m losing an IQ point with every degree the temperature rises. But that’s OK: I read an article in the New York Times recently saying that stupid people were happier. Or was it that being happy made you stupid? Something like that. I re-read one of my college essays recently and I wasn’t at all sure what it was about. Though I know the real reason I’m so happy and it has nothing to do with the temperature or my IQ …
I’m startled by a brisk knock at the door. Charlie’s standing in the doorway. He nods to me and Sorrell, who sits in the cubby right outside my little office.
‘I just wondered if you’d had a chance to read my draft report on our email campaigns?’ he asks, very formally. His sleeves are rolled up and his arms are all tanned against the white cotton of his shirt. Raaaaaawrrr.
‘Oh yes,’ I say, in the same formal tone. ‘It was … very interesting. Particularly the bit about the �
� click-through rates.’
‘Yes?’ he says, almost sternly. ‘And what about the section on test emails?’
‘Yes, I thought that was good,’ I say, clearing my throat. ‘Very helpful. Especially the ones with one key link versus … lots of links.’
‘Don’t forget to send me through anything you want to add – from your perspective.’
‘Will do,’ I say, very crisply.
‘Great. Thanks. Bye, Poppy.’ He strides off and I find myself staring at his rear before I turn back to my computer, hiding a smirk.
Charlie and I decided this morning, as we took the Tube in together from my place, that we’d better continue having conversations in the office – just so as not to arouse any suspicion. Then I got off a stop early and went into Bar San Marco to get a coffee (though I really just wanted a pasteis de nata cake and the coffee was an excuse). We never walk in to work together: that’s rule number one. And we never stop by each other’s desks and chat – except on a few strategic occasions like this one. We’re basically acting as if we’re spies on opposite sides of the Berlin Wall in 1981. It’s so much fun!
It’s been three weeks since Paris and nobody suspects a thing. Except maybe Sorrell. She must be able to see that there’s a suspicious new shimmy in my step and a sparkle in my eyes, plus I’ve stepped up my grooming dramatically. No more shaving just my lower calf when I’m wearing cropped trousers, or repainting my big toenail instead of doing a full pedicure. I’m wearing fake lashes almost every day. And I’m constantly distracted during important discussions because I’m busy thinking about Charlie and what we did the night before …
I turn back to my work, sternly telling myself I need to prune my inbox before it becomes completely overgrown. But then my phone rings. It’s Alice; she never rings me at work, so I answer it, instead of letting it go to voicemail.
‘Hi darling,’ I say. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve got some news,’ she says. ‘Is this a good time?’
‘Absolutely,’ I say, smiling to myself because I can tell from her voice exactly what this news is going to be. But when she tells me ‘We’re engaged!’ I still find myself shrieking. ‘Aaaaaaaaaggggh!’
Sorrell pokes her head around the door in alarm and I give her a thumbs-up so she knows I haven’t spilled a caramel frappuccino all over my keyboard – again. I got in trouble with IT over that (and over the vintage hatbox collection I keep under my desk, which they claimed was a fire hazard).
‘Oh darling, I’m thrilled for you. For you both! Sam’s a lucky man.’
‘Thanks!’ she says. ‘I’m so happy, Poppy. I keep leaving the milk out of the fridge and missing my stop on the Tube and everything. The other day I tipped a tenner in Starbucks by mistake.’
‘That’s interesting! I read that—’ I’m about to share the happiness-equals-stupidity theory when I remember Sorrell sitting right outside. I don’t want to corrupt my assistant (or look like an idiot myself).
Alice tells me how it happened – Sam proposed on the Millennium Bridge, and she was so discombobulated she almost dropped the ring in the Thames – and I ask if they’ve made any wedding plans.
‘You’ll hardly have time to get married before you leave London, will you?’ She and Sam aren’t leaving until September, but that’s not long now.
‘No. We’re going to do it in Los Angeles, on October the tenth. And I know it’s really far and I understand if you can’t make it, but if you possibly can … I would love you to be one of my bridesmaids.’
‘Aaaaaaaargh!’ I scream again, but this time Sorrell doesn’t bother to investigate. ‘Of course I will! I’ve got holiday to use up anyway, and … What am I saying! Even if you were getting married in the Antarctic I’d be there with Gore-Tex on. I’m so honoured you want me to be your bridesmaid!’
‘Thank you! I’m also having my friend Ruth, who you know, and my cousin Lily. You’ve met her, haven’t you?’
‘Of course! She’s fun.’ Lily is a willowy blonde clone of Alice – physically at least. Where Alice is gentle and sweet, Lily is a bit of a live wire; bridesmaiding with her should be entertaining. ‘Isn’t she an actress? She’s going to love Los Angeles.’
‘She’s an aspiring actress really,’ Alice says. ‘I’m a bit worried about that aspect of things, to be honest. I don’t want Sam to be put under pressure to find her a part.’
‘I’m sure she wouldn’t overstep any boundaries.’
‘You don’t know her like I do. Overstepping boundaries is her favourite form of exercise.’ Alice laughs. ‘But she’s an absolute sweetheart. I’m really glad you two are going to get to know each other better. And if you wanted to bring a date …’ I can hear the smile in her voice. ‘You’d be very welcome to ask Charlie.’
‘Oh no, I don’t think so,’ I say. ‘Thanks, but that would be way too soon. I mean we’ve only been—’ Again I remember that Sorrell can hear me from outside. ‘I’ve only been, um, using that sewing machine for three weeks,’ I say in an extra-loud voice. ‘That’s too soon. Isn’t it?’
Of course now I’m imagining jetting off to Los Angeles with Charlie and going to Alice’s wedding with him on my arm. It’s a nice fantasy, but it would never happen. Or would it? Charlie and I are such an unlikely couple, I sometimes think I’m going to wake up and find I’ve dreamed the whole thing, Paris and all.
‘Well, he’s your sewing machine,’ says Alice. ‘Why don’t you have a think about it and let me know?’
‘Oh God, this is amazing,’ I moan as Charlie leans over me. ‘No, that’s too much. Stop! Just … OK, fine, cut me the whole quarter.’
Charlie slices carefully through the Spanish tortilla he’s just made. Glistening and yellow, with a crispy brown top, it looks like the most delicious thing I’ve had since the warm duck and fig salad he made me last time. In the first two weeks we were together, I was so keyed up that I could barely eat a thing when he was around. I lost three pounds, in fact. Now my appetite’s back, and I can see myself putting that weight right back on.
We’re sitting on my tiny balcony, which is just about big enough for an iron table and two chairs if we keep the door open and one of us sits in the kitchen. It overlooks the car park outside and all the neighbours’ washing lines, and there’s a certain eau de traffic fumes in the air. But we’re having a feast worthy of a five-star restaurant: Spanish omelette, little roasted green peppers and manchego cheese, and a salad with hazelnuts and toasted breadcrumbs, all washed down with glasses of ice-cold home-made sangria – my contribution. I’ve always thought of myself as a good cook, but now that I’ve seen what Charlie can do, I’ve turned bartender.
‘You know I’m going to turn into Jabba the Hutt if you keep feeding me like this,’ I say, taking my first bite. ‘Oh my God. This is divine.’
‘That’s OK. I mean the Jabba the Hutt thing,’ Charlie says. ‘More of you to love. I mean, to like.’
We stare at each other in alarm, before we mutually agree to act as if it was just a turn of phrase and resume eating happily.
‘So,’ he says. ‘What was all the shrieking about this morning? I thought you’d seen a mouse or something.’
‘Oh! It was really nice news. Alice and Sam are getting married, in Los Angeles in October.’ I sip some sangria. ‘And I’m going to be a bridesmaid.’
‘Excellent! You’ll have a great time. I’ve always wanted to go to California.’
‘Have you really?’ I ask, curiously. Charlie’s never struck me as much of a world traveller. He’s been to Spain on package holidays, and that’s about it.
‘Oh God, yes, are you kidding? Tasting Californian wines … breakfast at roadside diners … tacos and lobsters …’ He looks dreamy. ‘You’ll have to make a holiday of it.’
‘I will.’ Suddenly I have a picture of me and Charlie eating lobsters beside the sea in Los Angeles, wearing giant bibs and clinking glasses of white wine. Before I can think twice, I say recklessly, ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to c
ome too?’
He looks surprised. ‘To California? Or to the wedding?’ Which is silly. I’d hardly take him to Los Angeles and then leave him in the car while I attended the wedding, would I?
‘Well, both. Alice told me I could bring … someone.’ I was about to say ‘bring you’ but I don’t want him to know I’ve been discussing him with my friends. Although I totally have.
‘I’d love to, but I’ve got this golf trip with my mates in September,’ he says. ‘A week in the Algarve.’
‘Oh! Of course. Sure. No problem.’ I smile to hide my embarrassment. Yikes. That was keen of me – asking him to come to a wedding in Los Angeles with me when we’ve only been together three weeks. We haven’t even discussed whether we’re boyfriend and girlfriend yet. Let alone come out to people at work! Now I feel like one of those girls in films who wakes her boyfriend up in the middle of the night by staring at him and tracing circles on his chest.
Charlie’s concentrating on one hazelnut that keeps escaping his fork. Looking up, he says, ‘Although … I do have some holiday to use up. And there’s no rule against going away at the start of September, and again in October, is there?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
Charlie clears his throat. ‘And I’m sure the boss would understand – if I say I’m going to California with my girlfriend …’
‘With – wow. Yes, I’m sure she would,’ I say. I’m excited, but also nervous. He’s used the G word! He’s also almost used the L word! This is all happening pretty fast, isn’t it?
‘So yeah, I’d love to come,’ Charlie says.
‘That’s great! I’ll tell Alice you’re in. I was thinking of taking a week off – how does that sound?’
‘Fantastic. We could spend a couple of nights in LA, explore around there … maybe have a couple of nights in Vegas … and obviously Disneyland.’
‘Disneyland?’ I repeat. He’s joking, right?
‘Of course!’ he says. ‘The one in California is the oldest and the only one built directly under Walt Disney’s supervision. It’s got all the old-school stuff like Tom Sawyer’s Island and Main Street. And then there’s the Tower of Terror – and the new Marvel Universe thing, of course …’ He goes on for another five minutes about various aspects of the place, including how they elect the Disney mayor, before concluding, ‘It’s not just for kids, you know.’
Girls on Tour Page 7