Love to Hate You (19 page)

“And he let you?”

I chuckle with satisfaction. “It's not like he had much of a choice, he could barely stand up. He was far too sick to cause any problems. He has some sort of weird posh person insurance too, so that wasn't a problem. And the trip was almost pleasant – well, it was very, very quiet at least. Apart from the groans of pain.”

“Poor Ian—” says Laura compassionately.

“Poor
Ian? That
idiot? Getting himself into the state he did… I hope he feels awful!” I say angrily, my voice getting louder. Really, Ian will have to perform a miracle to make amends for this terrible weekend.

“Anyway, tell me, what were the kisses like?” she asks dreamily, returning to the only point she really cares about.

“Laura Durrell! Stop asking questions like that right now!” I snap – perhaps I'm going a bit over the top, but I can't let my friends get weird ideas about things that don't exist.

“Stop asking questions like what?” asks Vera, arriving at that moment.

“She won't tell me anything about the kisses!” pouts Laura, adorably.

“What, are we already at plurals?” says Vera, with a sly smile. “Darling, you know what the rules are! Tell all about the kisses.”

We're in the habit of analysing each of our first kisses. We're all convinced that you can already tell how a relationship will go from them. In fact, I should never have gone out with Charles after the first one: it was horrible – far too slobbery and with too much tongue.

“But I'm not going out with Ian!” I say, trying to convince them. “They're just pretend kisses, they don't count!”

“Doesn't matter, they're still kisses,” says Vera seriously.

“You two are a pair of pains!” I moan, but I give in. “Anyway, let's just say that despite not being real they were actually pretty good kisses,” I admit, blushing.

Laura bursts out laughing. “Not bad?! Sweetheart, you've gone bright red just at the
thought
of them.”

“And how long did they go on for?” asks Vera, sounding like a policewoman.

“Altogether? A quarter of an hour, maybe…” And at this they both open their mouths in shock. Maybe I shouldn't have admitted that. Ok, I
definitely
shouldn't have admitted that.

“We got a little carried away,” I say through clenched teeth as I hug the cushion to my chest.

“He must be a pretty decent kisser, though… I mean, for you to be going along with it all that time…” says Vera, sarcastically.

“Do I really have to answer?” I ask. They look at me like a couple of vultures. “Ok – he's a very, very, very good kisser! Satisfied now?” It was obvious that he was a good kisser, they didn't need me to confirm that for them: he must have kissed half of London, so he's definitely not lacking training.

“Someone had to make you admit it,” points out Laura. “The truth above all.”

“If you two have finished analysing me, I'd like to go and have a shower,” I mutter, getting up from the sofa with difficulty. My bottom is getting sorer by the minute and so my departure from the lounge isn't a particularly dignified one.

“Why is she limping?” Vera asks Laura.

“She fell off a horse trying to save a pheasant,” I hear Laura reply.

And they both burst into raucous laughter. If I weren't in such a state, I'd hobble back in and kill the pair of them.

I'm starting to hate Monday mornings. Almost as much as the weekends before them, given my recent experiences. Anyway, this is by far the worst Monday I've had lately: after sleeping the whole night like a log, happy to have my privacy back and not to have to share my room with anybody, I woke up so stiff and aching that it took me half an hour to get out of bed. My muscles are aching after yesterday's ride, and my bottom is totally violet where I fell off the horse. I couldn't feel or look worse than this. Every step I take, a new part of my body starts throbbing, and trying to sit down on the tube was a huge mistake too: my bum just can't deal with chairs at the moment.

For all these reasons, I'm about forty minutes late when I finally get to the office.

“Good morning!” Colin greets me cheerfully as soon as I'm out of the elevator. Today's not a good day to be cheerful with me.

“Glad to hear today's a good day for someone, at least,” I groan, as I limp towards my office.

Colin's smile disappears immediately. “Are you ok?” he asks, offering his arm.

“I could say that I am, but why bother lying?” I answer through gritted teeth as I accept his help. I'd even accept a crutch, should anyone offer me one.

When we're in the office, Colin shuts the door quickly and stands in front of me, blocking my way. “What the hell happened to you at the weekend?” he asks.

“Nothing much, except for falling off a horse,” I answer calmly. Colin's expression becomes gloomy. “It wasn't Ian's fault, if that's what you're thinking,” I re-assure him. For a moment, I had the impression he actually suspected Ian of having pushed me off. He moves aside, relieved. “Glad to hear it—”.

But then he remembers something. “So how come Ian's not here yet?” he asks.

“How would I know? I'm not his baby sitter!” I snap. “I've already told him, but I'll tell you too: I don't get paid enough to look after him as well as put up with him!”

I guess Ian didn't feel too great when he woke up this morning, if the state he was in yesterday is anything to go by. But this is confidential info, and I'm not planning to divulge it. I walk over to my desk and wonder: should I sit down or not? This is a real dilemma. Colin's expression is so funny that I almost crack a smile despite the pain. Apparently he really is worried about Ian.

“I didn't murder him! I swear! He'll turn up eventually, alive, maybe looking a little green in his face. At least, that's how he looked yesterday when I dropped him off at home”.

“Did you poison him?” he asks, sounding serious.

I burst out laughing. Does my boss really think I'm some sort of psychopath?

“I swear I didn't,” I answer while laughing.

Colin finally relaxes. “Ok. Can we please forget I even asked?” he asks, looking almost ashamed.

“Of course we can,” I say generously.

I'm tired of standing, so I slowly lower myself into my chair, but as soon as my bottom makes contact I can't hold back a moan of pain. That's when George rushes in.

“Hi, boss!” George says to Colin. “So we're all in here, then.”

“Apparently I had a meeting this morning,” I say.

“Ian just arrived!” he informs me happily. “I've never seen him in this state—” That's because you didn't see him yesterday, I think to myself.

George is sweet: he'd rushed in, hoping to bring me good news. Of course, under other circumstances, seeing Ian arriving in such a state would have been big news, but today I'm feeling generous. Today we're both sharing this deeply painful situation.

“I'll go check on him,” says Colin immediately upon hearing George's words, “Bye!” And he rapidly disappears.

“What's the matter with Colin?” George asks, as he approaches my desk.

“Nothing. He was scared I'd murdered Ian and hidden the body somewhere on his grandfather's estate.”

“Well, judging from the face he has today, I'd say you got pretty close,” my young colleague teases me.

I shoot him a nasty look. “As I've already told Colin, Ian did it all by himself. And, in fact, if you want to know the details, it's his fault that I'm limping today. By the way, have we got any cushions I could use to make this damn chair any softer?” I ask with a pained expression.

“I'll see what I can find,” he says gallantly. “Thanks,” I whisper, as I watch him leave.

“Oh, one more thing, Jenny,” he says from the doorway, “You do know that people will start making up the weirdest possible explanations for why both of you are sick today, right?”

“Nothing could be weirder than the reality. But I'd be grateful if you didn't encourage any betting about it,” I warn him.

“Who, me?” he asks in the most innocent tone he can, before disappearing.

Fine, I can start working now. If I can think of anything else but this unbearable pain I feel all over, that is. I will never ride a horse again, I swear.

I'm going through the e-mails that arrived over the weekend when my telephone starts ringing. It's an internal number, Ian's to be precise. Not that he's called me recently, but I remember his number quite well. “Know your enemy,” always a good tip.

“Yes?” I answer, trying to sound neutral.

“Hi, Jenny,” he says, sounding very rough.

“Are you feeling ok, Ian?”

“Better than yesterday,” he admits, “which is already something. How are you?”

“My bottom's had better days,” I say, disconsolately.

A few moments of embarrassing silence follow. I can tell Ian is trying to find a way to apologise, but he's so unused to it that he doesn't even know where to begin. I hear a sigh coming from the other end.

“Did you want to tell me anything else?” I ask abruptly, after waiting for a considerable amount of time.

“Do you want to come round for dinner one evening?” he asks. A question I
really
wasn't expecting.

“Can you say that again, please?” I must have misunderstood.

“Yes, I'd like to apologise to you,” he says. “I admit everything that's happened in the last few days is at least partly my fault.”

Well, you don't say? It's not quite an admission of guilt yet, but it's getting there.

“You don't need to invite me to dinner – I accept your apologies. Let's just say that last weekend was pretty hard on both of us.” But Ian doesn't want to give up so easily, apparently.

“I insist, really,” he says, “I'd feel much better if I could apologise properly. And I would like to do it far from indiscreet eyes.”

He's got a point – this office is turning into an episode of Gossip Girl.

“Ok then,” I say grudgingly, “but nothing fancy, please. I've had enough of you aristocrats and your formalities.” I've softened, I think to myself in annoyance. In the past I'd have just hung up on him without a second thought. I definitely wouldn't have accepted an invitation just to help him feel less guilty… I must have caught some virus that makes me feel compassionate towards those who really don't deserve it.

“Ok,” he answers laughing. “One last thing, though: is my car still in one piece?” I'm really starting to think this car is the thing he cares most about in the world, but I do appreciate the fact that he managed to talk for over two minutes before asking about it. I guess I shouldn't ask more of a man.

“It was still parked outside my house this morning. Which makes me think nobody tried to steal it during the night. Happy now?”

I hear him laughing quietly. “Hugely happy. Can I come and pick it up after work?”

“You'd better, otherwise my neighbours will start getting strange ideas about me.”

“In that case, I'll pop over this evening, if it's no bother.” His tone is still too docile for comfort.

“It is, but your car's even more of a bother, so you'd better come and fetch it,” I tease him. Another laugh.

“Who would have thought it?”

“What?” I ask, honestly curious.

“That talking to you would be almost therapeutic,” he says in a tone that sounds almost too serious.

“In that case, I'll set a pay-to-chat service,” I answer, keeping a playful tone. “I'll call you then. Bye.” And we both hang up.

I feel the strangest sensation. For someone who has a purple bottom, this fluttering in my stomach is not normal. And I don't like it at all.

By the time Ian finally comes to fetch his beloved car it's already 10 p.m. I'd nodded off while I was waiting for him, but I immediately wake up when he rings the bell. I force myself to go and get the door. Ian notices my bare feet and drowsy face straightaway.

“Did I wake you up?” he asks, while entering.

“Yes, but it doesn't matter, I had to wake up eventually anyway. I can't sleep on the sofa with my make-up and clothes on, or I'll have a stiff neck tomorrow. And I am already in pain,” I point out while leading him to the living room.

Ian's wearing dark jeans, a black sweater and a black leather jacket. It's not the usual formal style I'm used to and I must admit it suits him.

His eyes are still a bit dull, but I can see he is recovering from his atrocious hangover. Tomorrow he'll be in perfect shape.

Lucky him, I have the impression my pain won't be disappearing so quickly.

“Were you watching a film?” he asks, pretending to be interested, as he sits down on the sofa and ignores the car keys I'm holding out to him.

“I was
pretending
to watch a film,” I say, taking a seat next to him on the sofa.

I don't feel like making conversation or entertaining him, but I can't be rude either. Ian's looking at me strangely, and his eyes are glittering in an unusual way.

“I'd offer you a drink, but it's probably not the greatest idea, after Saturday.”

“God, no, please. After yesterday, I don't want to eat or drink anything.”

“Why
did
you drink so much on Saturday?” I ask abruptly, deciding that it's time I found out.

Ian keeps staring at me. I suppose he must have been expecting the question, sooner or later.

“The usual reasons. People drink to forget, don't they?” He sounds sincere – completely different to what I'm used to.

“Maybe it'd be better to face whatever it is you're trying to forget,” I suggest. His liver would be grateful at least. “I do, but I've been listening to the same lectures for years now. On Saturday evening I just had a moment of weakness,” he confides. “Which is quite rare for me.”