My flat, Thursday, 14 June
‘Jack, it’s Evie. We need to talk.’
No, no, no, that’s all wrong. I sound like someone from a bad daytime soap. I have now practised so many deep, meaningful and often pathetically tearful conversations with Jack–with everything from my shower head to my steering wheel–I’m starting to wonder if I need therapy.
The problem is, I just don’t know where to start. Because I have no idea whether or not he and Beth were getting it together, I just don’t know what approach to take here. Do I confront him again? Or do I beg for forgiveness?
There has also been something else nagging at the back of my mind and it’s this. It has now been five days since our fight and it’s not as if he’s banging down my door to try to patch things up. In fact, I haven’t heard a solitary word from him. And I am now absolutely sure that he hasn’t attempted to contact me as I have taken my mobile into Carphone Warehouse twice since Monday to check whether it needs servicing because it never seems to ring (or at least
he
does
n’t). Apparently my Nokia is in such rude health it is currently on course to out-survive me.
It’s been a weird few days. A numb, horrible, sick-to-my-stomach few days. And although I can’t deny I’ve had a continual stream of visitors–everyone from Charlotte to Valentina has turned up laden with
Sex and the City
DVDs and Maltesers–there’s something strange about the whole thing. I’ve never been surrounded by so many people. But I’ve never felt so alone.
Liverpool city centre, Friday, 22 June
‘Can I get you a drink?’ he offers as we find a table in a quiet part of the bar.
‘A glass of white wine would be great,’ I say.
‘Coming up,’ he replies.
When he returns to the table, he’s clutching an ice bucket and a bottle of champagne instead.
‘What’s all this about?’ I ask. ‘Have you won the Lottery? If you’d mentioned it earlier, I’d have agreed to go out with you ages ago.’
‘I just thought we ought to be celebrating,’ he says, smiling.
‘Oh?’ I reply. ‘Celebrating what?’
‘Celebrating the fact that two friends have been reunited,’ he says.
‘Were we friends?’ I ask. ‘I don’t remember it like that.’
‘No,’ he says. ‘You’re right. Two
lovers
reunited.’
It’s nice being out with Seb. I know I told myself I wasn’t interested, but things have changed since then. And one thing’s for sure, I can’t spend another moment moping
around my flat waiting for Jack Williamson to call, even if it has been good for my standards of household cleanliness.
It’s been almost two weeks now. Two weeks of moping, crying, hating myself, hating
How Clean Is Your House
. But enough’s enough now. He hasn’t phoned, he’s not interested and there’s only one thing for it. I’ve got to pick myself up and start again.
‘So, I know you work for a building society,’ I say, ‘but tell me again what your job involves exactly?’
‘Well,’ says Seb, and starts to tell me again.
I’m aware I already asked him about this at Georgia’s wedding. But when you’re in a profession like mine, where you’ve got something visible to show for your efforts at the end of the day–even if it is sometimes only three nibs about library opening hours–trying to get your head around a job which involves ‘determining regional strategy’ and ‘finding synergies to improve overall efficiency’ is a bit weird.
‘…so you see,’ he concludes, ‘it’s all quite straightforward really.’
I get a flashback of Jack telling me about his job when we first met, but push the thought out of my mind immediately. So what the hell if Jack helps impoverished families in famine-hit regions of Africa? Big deal. Determining regional strategy and finding synergies to improve…whatever it is Seb improves, is probably just as interesting–only in a different way.
‘You know,’ he says, ‘I was really gutted when you dumped me at uni.’
‘
Sorry
,’ I say jokingly. ‘I was an idiot.’
‘Nah,’ he says, ‘I’m sure I deserved it. You were probably too good for me anyway.’
I don’t let on how much it means to me, but it is genuinely nice to hear Seb saying this sort of thing. My self-esteem has never felt as battered and bruised as it has recently, and Seb being so lovely tonight has gone a long way to cheering me up.
‘Anyway, I won’t hold it against you,’ he continues, with a teasing wink. ‘We’ve all grown up since then, haven’t we? Things change.’
He’s damn right about that one. A few months ago, the closest I’d ever got to commitment was deciding on a new colour for my living-room walls and sticking to it.
Darren Day’s romantic history looked modest compared with mine. But–and I say this in all seriousness–things are different now. I have come to the realization that the only way I’m ever going to end up in a serious relationship is by trying harder, criticizing less and being much more tolerant. Not that I need to be particularly tolerant when it comes to Seb, of course.
We end up in a club of Seb’s choosing, a city centre haven of the beautiful, the evenly tanned and the expensively dressed. Okay, so some of the fashion ensembles in here are not always what you’d describe as
understated
style, but they definitely cost a packet. In fact, I suspect my mortgage wouldn’t cover the price of the average pair of shoes here.
As we pass the doormen, Seb nods in acknowledgment and I immediately get a sense of how Charlotte must have felt six months ago. Everyone in here seems to be so skinny I strongly suspect there are hundreds of regurgitated dinners swilling about somewhere in the lavatory system of this place.
‘I must remember to book in for some liposuction before my next visit,’ I mutter.
‘You’re gorgeous as it is, sweetheart,’ says Seb, putting a reassuring arm around me.
As we walk past the dance floor and Seb heads for the bar, I spot someone who, despite the regulation hot pants and strappy heels, makes me do a double-take.
‘Beth,’ I say, feeling very wobbly all of a sudden. ‘Er, hi.’
I might have known this would be the sort of place she’d come. Although she immediately looks as awkward to see me as I am to see her.
‘Hi, Evie,’ she says, flicking back her long dark hair.
I smile as naturally as possible, which I think in practice is about as convincing as someone on a particularly poor chewing-gum advert.
‘Sorry to hear about you and Jack,’ she says.
‘Right, yes,’ I say casually. ‘Georgia told you about it, did she?’
‘No, actually, it was J—’ she says, then immediately looks like she regrets it. ‘I mean, yeah. Yeah, Georgia told me about it.’
I narrow my eyes, my mind racing as I scrutinize her expression. You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to work out that Georgia didn’t tell her at all. Which only leaves one other person. Jack. I feel a stab in my chest. So I was right all along.
‘Right–well, nice seeing you,’ I say, forcing myself to smile again, which is difficult now I know that they were–
are
–definitely seeing each other.
‘Yeah, you too,’ she says. And away we both go to separate ends of the dance floor.
As Seb and I start dancing, I give it my best but it’s hard to get in the mood under the circumstances. Besides that, dancing here just doesn’t feel as much fun as it used to, camping it up to ‘Native New Yorker’. Or even singing Ruby Turner as appallingly as I managed to. I push the thought out of my head and tell myself that now, more than ever, I’ve got to forget about Jack.
After a while, Seb somehow gets us into the VIP room and we sit in a booth and each order a cocktail from the waiter.
‘I’ll need something to wash this little beauty down with,’ he says, taking something out of his jacket pocket and putting it onto the table.
I watch in silent astonishment as he proceeds to chop and line up a pile of white powder with the side of his credit card and roll up a new £20 note. He then snorts it up in a movement accompanied by the sort of sound effects you’d expect from a warthog with a congestion problem.
Seb leans back with an unnerving smile on his face and powder stuck on the end of his nose as if he’s dipped it in a sugar bowl.
‘Er, you’ve missed a bit,’ I whisper.
He brushes it off his nose with a finger and snorts that up too.
‘Here, let me set a line up for you,’ he says casually.
‘Oh, no,’ I say hastily. ‘Honestly, I’ll stick with my cocktail. Besides, aren’t you worried someone will see?’
‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ he scoffs. ‘This is the VIP room. Everyone’s at it in here. Come on, I don’t want to party by myself.’
‘Really, I’d prefer not to,’ I say.
He looks at me as if he’s suddenly got Miss Jean Brodie sitting opposite him.
‘Come on, Evie,’ he says. ‘It’s just a bit of fun. It’ll help you loosen up.’
‘No. Honestly, Seb, I’m loose enough–really,’ I say, although I suddenly feel distinctly un-loose.
Mercifully, the waiter comes over to give us our cocktails and, despite his bravado, Seb puts his paraphernalia away. But over the next couple of hours, he proceeds to take his little packet of magic dust from his inside pocket to perform the same ritual three separate times.
‘Did you enjoy Georgia’s wedding?’ I ask, trying to ignore what he’s doing.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Yeah, I did. It was good to see some of the old gang again. You in particular.’
I smile.
‘There were some pissed people on that dance floor by the end of the night though, weren’t there?’ he adds.
‘Aren’t there always at weddings?’ I say.
‘Yeah, but did you see that guy in the stripy jacket with his missus?’ he adds, shaking his head and smirking. ‘Those two looked like they needed locking up.’
I feel a surge of heat rising to my cheeks as I realize that the couple he’s referring to are Bob and my mother.
‘You’re talking about Bob,’ I say. ‘Bob and, er…’
‘Oh, do you know them?’ he says, before I get a chance to finish. ‘I hope I haven’t offended anyone.’
‘Er, well–no, you haven’t offended anyone,’ I say, shifting in my seat. ‘But it was my mum and her husband you were talking about.’
‘Shit!’ he says, laughing. ‘Christ, talk about the wrong way to impress your date!’
I laugh too. Seb wasn’t to know who he was referring to. And, let’s face it, it’s nothing I haven’t said about my mum myself.
‘I have to say though,’ he continues, ‘I’ve never seen a pair of tights quite like the ones she was wearing.’
‘No, you’re right,’ I say, chuckling. ‘She’s got unusual dress sense, that’s for sure.’
‘And that hat.
Jesus
,’ he adds, rolling his eyes.
‘Er, yes,’ I say, starting to feel a bit uncomfortable.
‘Listen, I’m just glad you haven’t inherited your mother’s sense of taste–or lack of,’ he adds. ‘You look amazing tonight.’
The compliment somehow doesn’t have the same effect as his earlier ones did.
‘Yeah, okay, Seb,’ I find myself saying with an agitated tone. ‘So my mum looks a bit unconventional. But that’s the way I like her.’
‘Whoa,’ he says, holding his hands up. ‘Just having a little joke. Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.’
He looks like he means it. I untense my shoulders and suddenly feel a bit silly.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to snap.’
‘That’s okay.’ He winks at me. ‘I’ll forgive you.’
I shift uneasily, but remind myself how much I’ve enjoyed being out with Seb tonight.
I’m just thinking about this when he leans over and, taking me by surprise, kisses me on the lips. I say he kisses me, but I can’t help thinking Seb’s manoeuvre reminds me of a giant octopus pouncing on its prey. He goes from nought to sixty in seconds, with full-on tongue and not a great deal of opportunity for the small matter of breathing.
I pull away, gasping for breath, and lean back on my seat. I know it’s only because of the way I’ve felt since Jack and I split up that’s making me react like this. But I still can’t help it.
‘What’s up?’ he says.
‘Oh, nothing.’ Then I look up and spot Beth on the other side of the room.
‘I mean, I don’t know,’ I add.
But as Beth looks away, I realize I do know. Of course I know.
My flat, Thursday, 28 June, 5.15 p.m.
I’ve got to admit, I’d almost given up on Benno’s story about Pete Gibson, the angelic pop star with a secret penchant for cocaine and orgies.
After phoning Benno three times a week for the last two months to see whether the business with the dodgy copper has been sorted out, so I could go ahead and write my story, I started to fear that the whole thing was going to come to nothing.
Not least because I couldn’t believe the nationals hadn’t picked up on it yet. If I’m entirely honest, despite how desperate I have been for this story, I’ve also had other things on my mind more recently.
However, this evening, I get back from work after an early shift, slump in front of the television with a bowl of reconstituted noodles which look barely fit for human consumption, and the phone rings.
I recognize the voice as Benno’s immediately.
‘What are you up to?’ he asks.
‘Eating rubbish and watching
Richard and Judy
,’ I say.
‘Well, you need to tear yourself away from both and get
yourself down here with a snapper,’ he announces. ‘You’re about to get your story.’
‘What? Really?’ In my excitement, I throw my bowl down on the couch next to me.
‘But before that I want a favour,’ he adds.
My heart sinks. ‘You know we don’t have much of a budget,’ I say.
‘Tsk, I know
that
, love,’ he replies. ‘I’ve seen the car you drive. No, you know my daughter?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘How is Torremolinos?’
Benno and his wife had a ten-year head start on David and Victoria Beckham by naming their child after the place in which she was conceived.
‘She’s great,’ he says. ‘Now look–she wants to be a journalist. So I was just wondering if you’d be able to sort her out with some work experience or something.’
On these occasions I’m supposed to say that there’s a long waiting list and she’ll have to write to the Managing Editor. But this story is just too good and, even with the threat of a bollocking from Simon, I take an executive decision.
‘Benno,’ I tell him, ‘I’ll get her some work experience all right. In fact, I won’t rest until she’s editing the
Sunday Times
.’