I squirm. ‘I’ll know soon,’ I reply. Frankly, after my performance on national radio, I’m in no position to rock the boat work-wise.
‘
When
will you know?’
‘I’m working on it, I promise. But, you know, it’ll be absolutely fine if Debbie has to take you. She’ll hold your hand. And I can pick you up that day,
definitely.’
‘It’s not the same.’ Her little voice wobbles.
‘I know, sweetie. I’ll do my best. I’ll do my very, very best. I love you, Flor—’ The line goes dead.
I glance at my phone and realise that a message has been left while I was talking, from someone at the police station. It’s in an odd, Spanglish-type language, but I work out this much:
there’s bugger-all news on the necklace, and they’d like me to desist from phoning them.
I perch on the end of my bed, utterly dejected. I’m in this beautiful hotel room, supposedly miles from my troubles and with everything I could wish for, yet the simplest of things –
relaxation – eludes me.
Part of me wants to pack my bags and go home. Although that would involve showing my face at work and, after the performance I’ve just managed, it’s not a prospect I relish.
Instead, all I can do is lie back on the bed, gaze at the ceiling and remind myself how lucky I am to have Florence, even if she is too busy with her grandma’s shoes to do anything other
than grunt at my pathetic pleas for affection.
It strikes me that Florence’s assertion of her personality seems to accelerate by the day, judging by her recent declarations that she’s now too sophisticated for most things, from
Dora the Explorer
to holding hands when we cross the road – she seems to think of the Green Cross Code as a quaint but entirely optional custom. I have no doubt that more surprises are
in store, which is exactly how things have been from the beginning.
When Roberto pulled me into his arms in the bathroom after I’d taken my five pregnancy tests, I was convinced it was the prelude to him saying goodbye. That, or trying to
persuade me to get rid of the baby. He had a forceful personality – not in a sinister way; he was simply someone who knew his mind and wasn’t afraid to express it. And he’d made
his views perfectly clear.
The thing I’ve since discovered about having children, however, but didn’t know then, is that they force you to change. You think you know yourself, but until there’s a tiny
person in your life, totally dependent on you alone, you have no real idea of your capabilities, your potential, the depths of darkness and the highs of light you have within you.
And, even before Florence was born, when she was no more than a few cells making magic inside me, she managed to effect the most fundamental turnaround in a human being possible.
‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated, over and over again, through numb lips. I’ve never been one for saying that word. My terminal reluctance to admit I’m wrong is one of my
worst flaws, something Roberto could’ve complained bitterly about. But not that day. That day, I couldn’t say it enough.
We didn’t discuss it for hours. We carried on as if nothing had happened – went out for a walk, then came back and curled up on the sofa in front of back-to-back movies. But that
whole time, throughout that enforced, unnatural silence, a storm was building inside me. Inside both of us.
Roberto cooked his signature dish that night,
risotto ai carciofi
, but I could hardly touch it. And when I went to clear up the dishes, he gently took hold of my wrist.
‘Imogen.’ I was convinced his eyes said everything. ‘This baby . . .’
I didn’t want him to say the words I knew he was going to, the ones he had every right to say:
We can’t keep it.
Only he didn’t say that.
‘I want us to have it.’
My stomach twisted in shock. ‘
Really?
’
‘I know what I said. I know what I told you. But now it’s happened, I feel different.’ He picked up my hand and weaved his fingers between mine. ‘I want us to have a
family together.’
And that was it. The day everything changed. The day we thought our lives together – me, Roberto and our child – were mapped out.
Which goes to show that nobody ever has any idea what the future holds.
‘Imogen, relax. The interview can’t have been as bad as you think,’ Nicola says, picking at a bowl of
patatas bravas
.
We’re at a tapas bar at the end of the beach where, despite the warm swish of evening breeze and mouth-watering food, I feel queasy for reasons that can’t be blamed on a dodgy
scallop.
‘Nicola, I said the word “boobs” on national radio. How could it possibly have been worse?’
‘Tits?’ offers Meredith.
‘What?’
‘You could’ve said “tits”,’ she repeats. ‘Or arsehole, or fanny or—’
‘Thank you,’ I interrupt. ‘The point is, it was so bad that I couldn’t even bear to go to the business centre to look at the newspaper websites this afternoon.’
‘I can get them on my phone if yours still can’t get online,’ Meredith offers.
‘No,’ I shake my head determinedly. Then, ‘Oh . . . go on then.’
‘NO!’ Nicola interrupts. ‘There’s nothing you can do about it now anyway, so please just try and relax.’
I put my head in my hands. Stacey texted from work earlier to tell me that everyone in the office had heard the interview and they all wanted to offer me their support. When I replied asking if
that meant it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was, there was a half-hour delay while she thought of a diplomatic response, before I received another:
Well, we all just think it was really unfair for you to have been put in that position without having had the proper training. P.S. Keep
your chin up – I will bring cake in on your first day back! : ) Hugs xx
Another text then arrived seconds later, which read:
P.P.S. I take it you are coming back?
‘You’re probably tired too,’ Meredith says. ‘I know I haven’t helped with that. Did I snore again last night?’
‘Hmm, kind of.’ I quickly change the subject. ‘I dread to think what the newspapers’ full editions will say in the morning.’
‘Why don’t we shuffle around tonight? You and I can share,’ Nicola suggests to Meredith. ‘At least then Imogen’s guaranteed a half-decent night’s
sleep.’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ I say dismissively.
‘No, I insist,’ Meredith replies.
‘Well, thank you. But, honestly, don’t worry about me. In fact, let’s not
talk
about me. I’m sick of even thinking about my catastrophes. Can’t we discuss
your problems instead?’
‘We’re meant to be on the holiday to end all holidays,’ Meredith points out. ‘I’d hoped we’d labour under the delicious falsehood that none of us had
any.’
‘Fine. Let’s talk about things that are going well, then.’
Meredith thinks for a second. ‘Nicola, how’s Jessica?’
Nicola looks up. ‘Jessica’s great. Jealous as hell that we’re sunning ourselves while she’s having to work, but apart from that, wonderful. I spoke to her just before we
left the hotel.’
‘You two are so good together,’ Meredith says. ‘I’m in awe.’
‘We’re not perfect.’
‘You never argue.’ Meredith widens her eyes without having to spell out that you couldn’t apply this description to her and Nathan.
‘Not often,’ Nicola concedes.
‘Do you think you’ll ever get married? Oh, go on, do! I love a good wedding. I haven’t been to one for ages.’
Nicola shrugs. ‘Things are still tricky with Mum and Dad, to be honest.’
‘Do you think they’ll ever agree to meet Jessica?’ Meredith looks at her sympathetically.
Nicola bites her lip. ‘I’d like to think one day they’ll thaw enough to do so. But at the moment, I can’t see it.’
‘How does Jessica feel about it?’ Meredith asks.
Nicola takes a deep breath. I know at that moment that Jessica couldn’t be more pissed off about this bundle of issues if they came tied up with barbed wire and were delivered by a man
with dog poo on his shoes.
‘We had an argument about it just before I came out here,’ Nicola confesses. ‘I feel terrible about it. Even though my mum and dad are wrong, they’re still my parents and
I love them. But I know this whole thing makes Jess unhappy. And me, for that matter.’
‘Maybe you should try talking to them about it again?’
‘Yeah, maybe.’ Nic shrugs. ‘The thought of it brings me out in a cold sweat, but you’re probably right.’
That night my room is so silent I have to cough every so often to check I haven’t gone inexplicably deaf. I pull the duvet around my shoulders, turn off the lights and prepare to sleep.
With only the faint amber glow of the loo-roll light to subtly illuminate the designer surfaces of the room, it couldn’t be more relaxing.
All, in fact, would be perfect, if an explosion of thoughts hadn’t infiltrated my mind about Florence, her school, my job, Harry, my radio performance . . . oh, and what tomorrow’s
papers are going to make of their latest big scoop.
I have my answer at 6.40 a.m., when I wake after four fragmented hours’ sleep, tug on my dressing gown, grab a key card and lope groggily to the business centre to view
the online versions of the papers.
The first story I stumble across is about a tragedy somewhere in South East Asia in which hundreds of office block workers were killed in a fire. It’s a dreadful piece, one that makes me
count my blessings as I read it. All those poor people . . . this must be more newsworthy than our predicament surely? Then I spot the first article about David.
It isn’t good. It couldn’t be further from good if it’d taken a one-way ticket to Bad, changed its identity and vowed to never come back.
PEEBLES CHIEF IN MID-AIR SCANDAL
That, it turns out, is one of the tamer headlines.
FIRST-CLASS BOOB: CEO arrested after he ‘copped a feel’ of topless woman on flight
MILE-HIGH MAESTRO: Police step in after Peebles boss gets frisky on flight
David is identified in all but one of them. He’s thoroughly, one million per cent busted, as is the woman – a sinewy redhead with inflatable lips who works for a
small-sized clothing company. As she’s nothing like as high profile as David, she gets off fairly lightly.
I scan through article after article in a desperate attempt to unearth
some
redeeming feature – my quote about our charity work for example, or a mention of our exceptional
performance throughout the recession. But they’re nowhere. Instead, in every tabloid and broadsheet is a line that goes something like this:
Imogen Copeland, a spokeswoman for Peebles, confirmed that a senior executive at the company had been involved in what she termed, ‘funny
business’, adding, ‘He got to third base.’
Did I
really
say that?
Ms Copeland confirmed that the executive had – in her words – ‘copped a feel’ of the woman in question’s
‘boobs’.
I am overcome by an urgent desire to fall to my hands and knees and cry until my eyeballs have shrivelled up.
As I stare out of the window across the vast blue of the sea, I tug my dressing gown tighter with one hand while a question pounds through my brain: how did they find out it was David? I
didn’t mention him in the interview, and the subsequent official quotes provided by Charles certainly didn’t. Someone as slick as him wouldn’t have blurted it out . . .
I pause. I think. And another hideous wave of recognition sweeps over me. I might not have blurted it out on national radio, but I blurted it out somewhere. My last conversation with Harry comes
back to me in blood-curdling technicolour.
‘
I am on
holiday
. If you people want to interview me, or find out anything you like about David Hartnett and his . . . misdemeanour, then please do as everyone else has done and
phone my PR company
.’
Oh God. I’ve been completely stitched up.
As Meredith scrutinises the breakfast menu, Nicola seems to be failing to grasp the gravity of the situation.
‘I’m simply saying it sounds far-fetched that they’d put up some journalist in this hotel just to try to get the inside scoop. Is the story really that big?’
‘Nicola, it’s in every single paper in the UK this morning. On the front pages of half of them.’
She almost chokes on her orange juice. ‘Including the serious ones?’
‘Absolutely. They’re
loving
it. And there’s only one person I’ve revealed David’s name to – Harry.’
‘But he hasn’t confessed to all this?’
‘He was never going to do that, was he?’
She raises her hand to try to get the attention of the waitress, clearly exhausted by this conversation. And the fact that we’re being ignored again.
‘I thought competition winners were supposed to get special treatment?’ I grumble, feeling that if I don’t get my coffee this morning I might start banging my head against the
table until I get my own way, like Animal from the Muppets. ‘This is the second time this has happened. If she doesn’t hurry up, I’ll snitch on her to Elegant
Vacations.’
‘I’ll speak to them if need be,’ Meredith offers.
‘I wasn’t serious.’
‘Oh. Well, anyway,
I
think it’s outrageous,’ Meredith continues. ‘About Harry, not the waitress and the coffee, I mean. I don’t blame you for being
annoyed.’
‘Perhaps you should have it out with him, before you come to any more conclusions,’ Nicola suggests. ‘In the meantime, one thing I am certain of is that you need to switch off.
It’s beyond a joke. I’m getting wound up just looking at you.’
‘Me too,’ Meredith adds.
‘Don’t do that, it’ll stress the baby.’ I say. ‘From seventeen weeks onwards, their neuro-behavioural development is affected by your moods.’
She shakes her head in despair. ‘How the
hell
do you remember this stuff?’
I lie on the sun bed next to Meredith in the full knowledge that relaxation, at least for today, is once more out of the question. By 11 a.m. I’ve already had twelve
phone calls from, among others: David (who’s now in hiding in his Great Aunt Janice’s caravan in Stornoway); Charles (who was infuriatingly calm under the circumstances); Roy (in a
lacklustre attempt to ‘check in’, as he dashed to Buzz Lightyear’s Laser Blast before his Fast Pass expired); and my dentist (who I apparently short-changed to the tune of 36p
last week, despite paying more than £200 for my treatment). Cosimo also sent me a text from Buenos Aires, where he’s backpacking, saying he hoped I was well, sorry he forgot to mention
he was off discovering himself, and he’d have the press release about Grill-O-Bloo ready to unleash on the world’s press as soon as he was back, to try to take the heat away from
Peebles.