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  Tab smiles halfheartedly, but I can tell her mind has moved on to more important things than that morning's showdown. "You know," she says thoughtfully, "Olivia being so ill certainly puts my problems with IVF into perspective. The next time I'm sitting around feeling sorry for myself, I shall think of her and snap out of it."

  I nod. "I know what you mean, but in the past, when someone has said to me, 'Smile, there's always someone worse off than you,' I always used to think 'Yes, but there's lots who are much better off than me as well.'"

  She raises her eyes heavenward. "That is so you."

  "So many of us sit around whining about things that are totally within our control to change, like a lackluster boyfriend or a crappy job," I continue. "So now, I just think 'Well, do something about it then.' I suppose that's what this morning was all about really, because I've hated the job for ages."

  "Whereas Olivia and, to a lesser extent, I can't control what's happening to our health," says Tab, warming to my theme.

  "Precisely."

  She sighs. "We're about to start another round of it, so keep your fingers crossed for us."

  "Everything crossed." I wrap my legs into a knot to illustrate the point. "How's Will coping with it?"

  She nods. "Fine actually. He's so desperate to be a dad that he'll go to any lengths, although of course his life continues pretty much as normal throughout the process. He still goes out drinking with the lads and plays his rugby."

  "Talking of which, I have to say his chum Ben has really given me some terrific support regarding Olivia."

  "Ben?" Tab looks baffled.

  "Yes, I know I barely know him," I explain. "But oddly, that made it easier. When Olivia initially asked me not to say anything, I felt I had to tell someone, and a stranger who didn't know her seemed far enough removed not to be a betrayal of her wishes."

  "I see." She nods, but still looks a little unconvinced.

  "And when we went out to do the Phit segment, and I saw him in his work environment, looking after those poor children and their shell-shocked families, it just seemed like the most natural thing in the world to tell him. And I have to say, he was brilliant."

  Tab smiles. "I don't know him that well, but he does seem like a great bloke." She pauses and looks at me hesitantly. "As you and he have shared such a big secret together, did he let on to you about any secrets in his own life?"

  Now it's my turn to look baffled. "How do you mean?"

  "Like . . . did he mention a girlfriend or anything?" She looks faintly embarrassed to be asking.

  I frown slightly, casting my mind back to the conversation with Ben a few nights ago. "No, just that he'd had one serious relationship that lasted a few years before she buggered off with someone richer."

  "Hmmmm." Tab looks thoughtful.

  "Why?"

  She lets out a little sigh. "It's just that he and Will played rugby yesterday . . . like they do every Sunday . . . and after the match Will saw something a little untoward . . ." She stops and stares into the top of her glass, swilling the contents round and round.

  "Like what?" I'm faintly irritated by her drawn-out storytelling. "An alien? Lord Lucan? What?"

  She shoots me a look but ignores my sarcasm. "No, he saw Ben looking very cozy with another man."

  "Very cozy? What does that mean?" I ask, resisting the urge to add "Were they sitting under a duvet drinking cocoa together?"

  "They were sort of embracing . . ."

  "Sort of?" I look incredulous.

  Tab huffs. "Don't be so antagonistic. I'm just telling you what Will told me."

  "Sorry." I smile ruefully. "I'm probably still locked into annihilate-Janice mode. It's just that you're being a bit vague."

  "That's because I don't really know much more than that. Will says they had all left the changing rooms after the match . . . or so he thought . . . and he suddenly realized he'd forgotten his sweater. So he went back . . ."

  I say nothing, simply nod encouragingly.

  "And when he walked back into the changing rooms and round a corner, Ben was locked in an embrace with one of the other players. They sprang apart when they heard Will walk in, but not before he'd clocked what they were doing."

  I purse my lips for a moment, giving the scenario some thought. "Can we just qualify what embrace means here? Were they snogging?"

  Tab nods. "Will says he couldn't be one hundred percent sure because the other guy had his back to him but, yes, he thinks they were . . ."

  "Oh well." I sigh gently. "I'm sure he'll get round to telling people what's what in his own good time." I drain my glass. "Fancy another drink while I've still got a few quid left in the world?"

  Tab laughs. "I'll get them. You can repay the compliment once the job offers start flooding in."

  "Don't hold your breath," I mutter as she wanders off to the bar. It's just one month to Christmas and I'm miserable, broke, and now jobless.

  Ho ho ho.

  Thirty Two

  Remember when I spoke before about those blissful few seconds when you wake up in the morning? You know, the ones where your brain hasn't quite engaged and you are briefly unburdened before any major worry pops into your head and spoils it all?

  Well, today life's problems are jostling for position in the race to pollute any potential happiness. Olivia's there, as she has been every day for weeks, my parents and how they're dealing with it all, and now there's the perilous state of my "career" to add to the ever-increasing pile. Worse, I can't even tell my family about it, for fear of adding to their woes.

  In an ideal world, I'd hop on a plane, go trekking in Nepal, "find myself" halfway up a mountain, and return to Britain a rejuvenated woman with life's priorities reshuffled and placed in the right order. But (a) I would never leave the country in case Olivia's condition worsened, and (b) I can't bloody afford to anyway. The contents of my bank account will cover about two months of my jobless state before I have to start selling the cosmetics door-to-door.

  It's now 10 a.m., approximately twenty-four hours since I told Janice to stick her job where the sun doesn't shine, and my initial euphoria has now packed its bags and deserted me. I was heroine for a day, but I know that, already, the conversation of my former work colleagues will have moved on to something else. In the fickle world of "showbiz, dahhling," I'm already old news.

  Time to recharge the laptop, I think, dragging it out from the understairs cupboard where it's been lurking untouched for months. Leaving it to charge for a while, I make myself a coffee and carry it through to the lounge, where I settle myself next to the phone and punch in Olivia's number.

  "Hello?" It's Michael, sounding exceptionally weary.

  "Hi, it's Jess. I was just calling to see how it went yesterday." Not knowing how Olivia would react to her first bout of chemo, Michael had asked me not to call until this morning.

  He sighs heavily. "Well, she had it and she's home. But she's as sick as a dog. I've already changed the bedding twice."

  My heart starts thumping in panic and I feel slightly short of breath. "That sounds really bad."

  "Sorry, I didn't mean to be alarmist," he says softly. "To be honest, her reaction is pretty much par for the course. She's showing all the classic signs."

  Tears well in my eyes and my throat feels like someone's fist is rammed in it. I'm relieved he can't see me, as now is clearly not the time for any of us to fall apart.

  "What about the children?" I ask, anxiously wondering how they're coping with the sight of their mother deteriorating so swiftly.

  "Well, we told them last week that she had a blood disorder . . . to explain the tiredness . . . and this morning I said she had a tummy upset that was making her sick. They seemed to accept it, and it should pass in a couple of days, so at least they'll see her return to her old self for a bit."

  "But how will you explain away the hair if she loses it?"

  He pauses for a couple of beats. "Yes, that's a trickier one. I haven't come up with a good explanation
yet, I'm still working on it. Anyway, do you want to speak to her?"

  I take a deep breath, mentally preparing myself. "Is she up to it?"

  "For a couple of minutes, yes. She specifically said she wanted to speak to you, but I've blocked all other calls, including your parents. She'll give them a call in a couple of days when she's feeling a bit chirpier. Hang on, I'll take the cordless upstairs."

  A minute or so passes while I listen to Michael's short, sharp breaths as he climbs the stairs to the bedroom. Then I hear muffled voices as he passes the phone to Olivia.

  "Hi there." She sounds quite bright.

  "Hello, soldier." I make my voice sound upbeat. "How you feeling?"

  "Oh, pretty shitty." She laughs. "But let's look at the bright side, all this vomiting is a bloody great diet."

  I grimace. "Michael says you should feel a bit better in a couple of days."

  "God, I hope so, it's rather knocked me down." She sighs. "And I've got another seven sessions to go after this one. If I can survive that, I can survive anything."

  "You will," I reassure her. "You've always been a tough cookie."

  "I'm a bit crumbly today though." She lowers her voice. "Now then, any luck with the memory boxes?"

  "Yes." I'm whispering too, though I have no idea why. "I popped out on Sunday and got a couple of really nice ones covered in a sort of red velvety material. They're each the size of about two shoeboxes."

  "Excellent, thanks. I'll come and collect them when I'm feeling up to it."

  "I'll drop them round if you like?"

  "No, not just yet," she says hastily. "I still don't want Michael to know, as he'll see it as me being defeatist. So I'll probably bring the bits and pieces to yours and leave the finished boxes there. As I said, they'll be nice for the kids to have anyway, even if I get better."

  "You mean when you get better," I chastise amiably.

  "When. Yes, that's what I meant," she says. Her voice rises again. "Ah, my prison warder has just appeared at the door, medication in hand. He's very strict with me, you know."

  I laugh, pleased to hear she's still up to teasing Michael. "OK, I'll let you go. But will you ask him to let me know when I can visit?"

  "Will do. Love you," she says simply, then the phone goes dead.

  I sit motionless for a few moments, staring out of the lounge window at the top of a tree swaying gently in the breeze. I'm not sure if I feel reassured or even more spooked by our brief chat. On the one hand, she sounds quite upbeat; on the other, the side effects of her treatment sound a lot more severe than I expected.

  Sighing, I eventually stand up and carry my cup of cold coffee back through to the kitchen, where my laptop is still charging.

  Using the main adapter for power, I switch it on and sit back whilst it loads. There are thirty-two e-mails. After hitting the delete button to banish the spam, I'm left with eighteen.

  The majority are from work colleagues, written just minutes after the cessation of the features meeting that will no doubt become legend. Many are guarded in their praise, written with the presumption that Big Brother might read their company e-mails; others--most notably Kevin Makepeace--less so.

  Fucking HELL!!! Go, girl! You really shafted that sour-faced old bag and I sincerely hope she gets the heave-ho. Did you see Eddie and Tara's faces? Priceless!! Would love to meet for a drink to discuss and relish the moment all over again, but in the meantime, if you need help looking for a new job, let me know. I have lots of friends in low places!

  Kevin xxxxx

  Smiling to myself at his unbridled joy, I compose a swift reply.

  Hi there,

  Thanks for the supportive e-mail and glad to hear I livened up an otherwise dreary Monday morning! Once I get my act together, a drink would be nice, and in the meantime any help with finding a new company to pay my crippling mortgage would be much appreciated.

  Jess x

  The next e-mail address in the list is one I don't recognize.

  Hi there,

  I saw your ad on the Internet dating site some time ago and toyed with the idea of getting in touch--but, as I have never responded to a dating ad before, I bottled it! And now, fortified by a couple of the finest whiskies, is that time.

  Maybe you have already met someone, or maybe you're still looking, but either way, perhaps we could just correspond for a while and see what happens? Who knows, we might even become friends?

  I'm not sure if that appeals, so I will keep this initial approach short and wait to see if I hear back from you. Suffice to say, I'm in my thirties, live in London, and work in insurance (don't worry--I won't try and sell you a policy!). I'm wearied by the thought of trying to meet the right person on the wine bar/pub circuit, then finding out they're either a serial killer or work in insurance (I'm the only interesting one in that profession!), so I thought chatting via e-mail and establishing common ground first might be a good way forward.

  I hope you feel the same.

  Best wishes,

  Seb Northam

  Quite frankly, I need a new friend only marginally more than I need to go on yet another blind date with someone who turns out to be mad, bad, or downright dangerous to know. The mere thought is enough to make me sigh so deeply that the newspaper in front of me flaps in the breeze. But something stops me from pressing "delete." Instead, I save it to reconsider at a later date.

  It's now Wednesday night and I'm still jobless. But then, in a profession where bullshit is the main currency, am I surprised? I know it's only been two days, but so far, all the promises of work from various quarters have proved empty. With one surprising exception.

  Yes, Kevin Makepeace, he of the big mouth and miniscule morals, may well have come up trumps. After I returned his e-mail and said any help would be appreciated, a friend of his left a message on my mobile saying he might have some shift work for me on a new factual series for the sci-fi satellite channel Future.

  OK, so what I know about sci-fi could be written on the ball of a gnat's foot with enough room left for the complete works of Shakespeare, but the series is about the far more accessible subject of psychic powers. And besides, the main bonus for me is that it's a foot in the door to the notoriously snobby, inaccessible world of factual television. Yippee.

  That, combined with speaking to Olivia this morning and finding her much perkier, is enough to make me feel faintly optimistic about life for the first time in weeks.

  Just as well really, as tonight is my rescheduled date with Simon after Saturday's rather awkward and gloomy debacle.

  Putting Barry White's My First, My Last, My Everything into the CD player and cranking it up to full volume, I dance maniacally around the bedroom to force myself into "fun" mode. Happiness, they say, is a decision, not just a feeling. And I have decided to get rip-roaringly drunk and throw caution to the wind.

  By the time I meet Simon at 8 p.m. in Soho's Pitcher and Piano, I have already sunk two large, homemade gin and tonics and feel distinctly squiffy.

  "Hello!" I sink into the sofa next to him and give him a lingering kiss on the lips. As ever, he looks very handsome in a khaki T-shirt and faded Levi's.

  "Hello you." He gives me a heart-stopping grin, clearly relieved that the gloom and doom of Saturday have been replaced by a good-time girl. "The drinks are in." He lifts the bottle of champagne from the ice bucket and pours me a glass. "Here's to a fun night ahead," he adds, raising his.

  "Fun, fun, fun!" I chirrup, relishing the kick of the drink as it goes down.

  By the time we've polished off that bottle and are halfway down the second, I'm feeling out of control, my head spinning with the effects of alcohol and the wall of noise we have struggled to converse across for the past couple of hours. Most of the time we haven't even bothered to try, preferring instead to snog mercilessly, oblivious to the elbow-nudging and sniggering of those nearby.

  As he drains the last of the second bottle into our glasses, I know I'm rapidly reaching the point of no return and have to ac
t quickly. "Come on," I mumble, nibbling his earlobe. "Let's go play bury the sausage."

  He throws his head back and laughs. "I hope you like Cumberland."

  "Very much," I slur. "Anything but chipolata."

  OK, as witty banter goes, it's up there with a script from the Playboy channel. But when you've drunk as much as I have, it sounds like Oscar Wilde.

  Consequently, forty-five minutes later, I'm lying back on the sofa, my skirt hitched up around my waist, one of my stockings in virtual shreds, being relentlessly shagged by Simon, who's showing no signs of his previous shortcomings.

  Oh sorry, did I mention that it's my lounge sofa we're on now, not the one in Pitcher and Piano? Better had in case you think I'm really out of control.

  Finally, with his head thrown back and a facial expression that suggests great pain, Simon shudders slightly and collapses on top of me panting.

  "Fuck, that was good," he gasps after a few seconds.

  Speak for yourself, I think, tugging my skirt into place and shifting my leg to a more comfortable position. Mind you, with the amount of alcohol I have consumed, it would take the tenacity of a marathon runner to activate even the faintest of stirrings.

  He gets to his feet and hauls his trousers back on, bending over to kiss me gently. "Shall we go to bed?"

  I nod silently and lead him through to next door, where my clothes from an earlier trying-on session are still strewn across the bed. Throwing them onto the armchair in the corner, I flip back the duvet. "Hop in."

  Stark naked now, he duly does, and as I shed the last remnants of my clothes and climb in beside him, he extends his arm to gather me in. My head on his chest, I gaze unblinkingly towards the window, the only light from a streetlamp filtering through the linen blind.