Love to Hate You (10 page)

“Nah. It's a dead month. You're the news,” he says.

But I already knew that.

“We've been the news for the last five years. But not the way you lot seem to think. It's more like trench warfare!” I moan, gesticulating hysterically.

“Yes, but where there are arguments, there's also passion—” says George, solemnly and imperturbably. When he woke up today he must have decided that he was a psychologist, instead of an economist. The look I give him would freeze the beaks off half the penguins in the South Pole.

My deputy realises that it would be a good moment to disappear. “What a shame,” he says as he gets up. “All the secretaries were hoping for some proper scandal, if you know what I mean—” And he makes a rather inelegant but highly expressive gesture.

I look at him in astonishment. “If you weren't so good at your job, George, I'd have got myself a new deputy long ago. You're a bloody gossip!”

He laughs, in no way intimidated by my threat. “That's part of my charm!” he replies, sounding sure of himself.

“Charm?
What
charm?”

As he's leaving, George bumps into Ian at my door. They say hello to each other with some embarrassment, and George goes on his way with a wink at me.

“What's the matter with everybody today?” I moan to Ian, who is standing by my desk.

“Is everything ok?” he asks. I must look like a lunatic, with my messy hair and red face.

“Yes, thanks. Why are you asking?” I try to sound professional, hoping he won't notice how agitated I am.

Deny, deny, always deny. And anyway, in all the time we've known one another, Ian has never once asked me how I was. That's why his behaviour now is so unnerving.

“Can't I even ask?” he asks, sounding perplexed.

“Of course you can, but you never have before so why start now?” I ask, with some irritation.

Ian wisely decides to ignore my mood. “Better late than never, don't you think?”

“No, not when it's coming from you. So, why now, I wonder?” I repeat.

I realise from his expression that he's on the ropes. It's perfectly obvious. “Listen, can I offer you a cup of coffee? I need to ask you something,” he says, as though it were perfectly normal.

This all sounds very worrying.

“Please, Ian, today is already going to be bad enough, I really need to hold on to the few certainties I have, do you understand?” I beg, realising how crazy I must sound.

“Of course I understand,” he says, with an expression that makes it clear that, in fact, he has no idea why I'm acting so weirdly.

“In that case, please wipe that sheepish expression off your face, because it doesn't suit you at all,” I beg.

Ian looks almost offended and I decide, reluctantly, to put my pen down and stand up.

“Ok, a coffee, but here in the office. After that stupid article I'm not even going to Starbucks with you.”

As we walk along the corridor I can't help but notice that all heads turns towards us. The lobby, usually quite noisy, is strangely quiet. Great, just what I needed today.

Ian and I approach the drinks machine and, robot-like, he inserts some coins and selects our coffees, without even asking me what I want. The fact that he already knows annoys me even more, if that's possible.

“Ok, I'm listening,” I say, steaming cup of coffee in hand, adding caustically, “and so is the rest of the office.”

“That's the problem. I want to talk to you in private,” he whispers to prevent others from listening.

There's a bump behind us. Probably Colin's secretary passing out.

“I don't think that's a good idea,” I answer sharply. I can see our colleagues' ears bending towards us, and not just metaphorically.

“We
could
talk about it here, but in that case the whole of London would find out,” Ian insists. He leans towards me and whispers persuasively in my ear, “What's the matter, Percy – chicken?”

What a bastard. He knows very well I can't resist a challenge.

I think for a moment. What's worse? Giving the office vipers something else to gossip about behind my back or meeting His Lordship somewhere else?

“I might take your proposal into consideration, but nowhere posh this time,” I say, determinedly. He seems to agree.

“Of course, you choose the place. Somewhere anonymous, the type of place you'd know.” It doesn't occur to him that what he's saying might be offensive, why would it?

“Ok, I know a pub that would be absolutely perfect,” I say, after thinking carefully, and I tell him the address. I must admit, he doesn't protest at all when I tell him the pub is out in Peckham – not exactly his usual stomping ground.

“Ok,” he says with a shrug. “I'll be there at eight.”

He walks off back to his office, and all the curious heads turn in his direction.

*

I'm sitting at the bar nursing a whisky and trying to relax. I know that I'll need all the help I can get tonight.

I'm tired and stressed, and to be honest, Ian's the last person I want to see right now. The absolute last. I think I'd rather go out with my mum, which ought to give you a clue about how I'm feeling. Paul the bartender is keeping me entertained with his usual racy stories, having noticed my gloomy mood.

“What's with the long face, anyway?” he asks, his curiosity piqued.

Paul knows Vera, Laura and me quite well. We only live round the corner and we often come here. It's a dark, anonymous place, not a hipster in sight – the perfect place to relax. Perfect for the three of us, anyway.

“Stress, stress and more stress,” I answer resignedly, while I observe my already half empty glass.

“In that case, you need a top up,” he says, filling it. Do I really look that desperate?

“Cheers.” I lift my glass as though drinking a toast to him and swallow another drop of the amber liquid.

“Are the girls coming later?” he asks, trying to make the question sound casual.

“Nope. Sorry.”

Paul's always had a crush on Vera, but he's never quite got the nerve to ask her out. “I'm meeting a colleague tonight. It's sort of a work thing,” I explain, trying to justify the absence of his
inamorata.

Paul looks at me as though he knows something I don't.

“Well, love – if your 'date' is the bloke who's just come through the door, I don't really know what you're looking so miserable about.”

I turn towards the door and see Ian coming in. He's looking around for me, but the dim lighting makes me hard to spot.

“That's him,” I confirm, sighing in resignation. I was hoping he'd get lost on the way, but no such luck.

“Flipping heck, Jenny—” says Paul, without even finishing his sentence. Both of us know what he's thinking.

“Yeah—” I say. I understand why he's astonished – anybody would be. Ian's wearing his usual work suit, without tie, and is carrying a coat that probably cost about five months' of a normal London bartender's salary. And it's evident.

Good job he didn't want to be noticed, I think in annoyance.

Finally, he sees me, gives me a wave and walks over.

“Good evening, Jenny,” he says. He looks a bit stiff, not really at home in these surroundings.

“Is there anything good at all about this evening?” I answer, not caring if I sound rude.

“Shall we get a table?” he suggests, giving Paul a glance. It's obvious he doesn't want an audience.

“If we must,” I answer, getting up from my stool, glass in hand. Ian quickly orders a pint of ale and follows me over.

“Listen, let's not beat about the bush. I'm exhausted and I'd like to get home as soon as possible. If you don't mind, let's get straight to the point,” I say.

“Of course, sure,” he says, seemingly in agreement, “but there's just one thing I have to ask you first: am I ok parking the car round here?”

I look at him worriedly. “Why? What kind of car did you come in?” I ask.

“The Porsche,” he answers, sheepishly.

“Oh, Ian!” I snap, banging my hand on the table. “That was bloody stupid of you!”

I can see he's irritated. “And what car should I have come in, then? My grandfather's Bentley? I've got a Porsche and I use it!” he says angrily. Never touch a man's car, a lesson we all learn at a very young age.

“Ever heard of public transport, Your Highness? The tube? Have you ever even used it
once
?”

“Of course I have! I just wasn't sure that I'd manage to find this god-forsaken place without a car and a navigator, you bloody smartarse!” he defends himself.

“Well, I'm sorry it's so far from Regent's Park—”

The usual antagonism between us rears its head for a moment, and then the silence seems endless.

“Ok, this is beside the point,” Ian says eventually, running his hand through his black hair.

“As usual. And as this is bound to go on all night, I think I'll get something to eat,” I say stoically, and I gesture to Paul, who sees me and nods.

“Are you sure it's safe to eat here?” Ian asks, looking around the place.

“It's perfectly safe. I'll eat, you talk. So, you were saying—” I press him to continue.

“Actually, I'm a bit peckish myself,” he interrupts me, saying it as though he were talking about deciding to try sword swallowing or something equally daring.

I bang my fist on the table again with a moan. “God, is this nightmare
ever
going to end?”

I turn towards Paul and make another gesture, this time towards the person sitting in front of me. Our bartender sniggers and nods.

We'll see who's laughing when you ask Vera out, I think vindictively.

“Ok, problem solved. Now, can we talk about why we're here?”

I'm speaking too loudly, but it doesn't matter. I'm annoyed, if that wasn't clear enough already.

“We're here because you refuse to be seen anywhere 'posh' with me,” he answers, like the lousy know-all little nobleman he is, while fluttering his long eyelashes like some kind of celebrity.

I swear I'll kill him if he doesn't give it a rest.

“God, give me strength,” I mutter, exhausted.

Ian looks amused. I'm playing right into his hands.

“Ok, back to the business at hand,” I repeat, nervously pushing my hair out of my eyes.

“Right, well it's about the article—” Ian starts.

“Oh, no! Not that article again!” I stop him, banging my hand yet again on the table in exasperation. The few other patrons of the pub look round in surprise.

“Look, how can I tell you what it's about if you keep interrupting me?” he asks, knowing he's got a point. I realise that we've reached another standstill, when Paul arrives with our dinner. “Here you go,” he says, giving me my usual plate of grilled vegetables and placing a plate of steak and chips in front of Ian, who tries one immediately and nods in satisfaction. One look is enough to understand he's a carnivore – one of those who likes his steaks rare. It was easy enough for Paul to guess his tastes.

“Very nice,” he mutters, while chewing, failing to hide his surprise.

“I'm glad your aristocratic palate approves of our humble repast.”

“It certainly does, though I'm not sure how I'll survive without silver cutlery,” he teases. I decide to ignore his lame provocation for once and pretend I haven't heard. This evening has already gone on far too long, better not to make things any worse.

“Anyway, at the risk of sounding repetitive, could we please get back to the reason why we're here tonight? I mean, apart from the fantastic company—”

Ian looks at me with a laugh. “We could, but it'd be a shame – I was really enjoying this.”

I stare at him in astonishment. “Ian, get a life! I understand that high society is boring, but I have better things to do than entertain you in my spare time. They don't pay me enough to put up with you outside office hours,” I say.

He gives me a very ambiguous look, the meaning of which is a complete mystery to me.

“Ok, let's get back to the point. I have to admit that article made me realise something interesting: getting photographed with a normal girl meant that a lot of the others stopped hassling me… Apparently, showing up with the usual looker doesn't work any more, but turn up with someone a bit less obviously attractive, on the contrary… brilliant! They all think that if I'm going out with you, it must be something serious.”

This is how he explains his twisted thought process.

My fork hangs in the air, and the piece of grilled pepper hanging off the end falls back down onto my plate. If I've got any oil on me, I swear I'll decapitate him.

“Pardon?” I ask, hoping that I've misunderstood.

But Ian is in the mood for pointless conversation. “It's been unbearable, recently. There's a whole gang of girls literally harassing me—” he continues relentlessly, not noticing my expression. And for the record, I think my facial expressions are usually fairly eloquent.

“Poor thing, being so irresistible—” I mutter, nauseated.

“Exactly – it's not my fault, obviously. It's all because of this ‘title' nonsense,” he concludes.

I don't think it is
just
because of this 'title nonsense', though. When was the last time he looked at himself in a mirror? Of course, I'd never say anything like that to
him
, or at least, not until aliens have landed on earth and taught us all how to live together in harmony and brotherhood, but it's a fact: he is objectively terribly, annoyingly good looking.

“So?” I ask, regretting it almost instantly.

“So you'd be perfect!” he exclaims enthusiastically. For a moment I'd actually hoped for a different conclusion.

I must have misunderstood. He can't really be asking what I
think
he's asking. “Ian, are you on some kind of weird medication?” I ask very seriously. There's no other explanation. That or a temporary memory loss. Does he even
realise
who he is asking to pretend she's his girlfriend? He laughs as he tucks in to his ketchup covered chips, and the sight is upsetting, to say the least.