‘I’m glad to hear it. What about Carmel?’
‘Oh, she’ll come around. Carmel and I have been together for thirty-one years, you know.’
‘She told me it was thirty-four.’
He frowns. ‘Maybe it is. Hmm. The point is, I know Carmel better than she knows herself. And she might be angry with me now – hairy McMary, she’s got every right to be! –
but we’re made for each other.’
I’m about to ask him if he’s heard about the heroic part she played in Meredith’s labour when he looks me up and down. ‘Have you . . . done something to
yourself?’
‘Yes, I broke my arm, and fell over and gave myself a black eye.’
‘Oh. Sorry to hear that. But I was talking about’ – he waves his arm around in front of me – ‘you know . . . your frock. And the lipstick and whatnot.’
I look down at my clothes. I don’t know why I felt the need to put on one of the dresses we bought on my
Pretty Woman
day in Barcelona, and throw on some make-up Meredith donated to
me, but it just made me feel good knowing I look half decent. I might even do it again tomorrow.
‘Nothing important.’ I shrug.
‘Well, you look . . . fantastic!’ He grins. ‘You’d better watch yourself, or Gaz Silverman will come onto you.’
In fact, Gaz has already invited me to lunch, which I obviously declined. But he wasn’t too upset; the woman who cleans the phones is due in again next week.
‘Anyway,’ he continues, ‘the point I wanted to make was that that article in
The Economic Times
went a
long
way towards making amends. And I’ve told the
board – both here and at Getreide – that, with your contacts, there’s plenty more where that came from when the merger is announced in September.’
‘I’ll certainly see what I can do.’
‘That’s the next big thing for you and me, Imogen. The merger. We need to prepare for the announcement on September the 2nd like we’ve never prepared in our lives.’ He
pauses and rubs his hands together. ‘If you can imagine something in between Rocky Balboa getting in shape for a big fight and a ground squirrel in the run-up to winter – that’ll
be you and me. The press conference is scheduled for 9 a.m. and I want you right by my side so that—’
‘I’m not attending the press conference, David.’ He looks like I’ve kneed him in the solar plexus. ‘I can’t attend. I have a more important
engagement.’
He can barely get the next word out. ‘
What?
’
‘I can’t attend the press conference. I’m sorry, but I need to book the morning off.’
‘You
have
to be there, Imogen. It’s simply not an option to not be.’
‘David, it’s my daughter’s first day at school.’
‘I’m sure little Fiona—’
‘It’s Florence. And I
have
to be there.’
He looks as though a small explosion is going off in his cerebral cortex. ‘Imogen, this is the most important day of your year, the most important day of your
career
. The idea that
you couldn’t be there, well, it’s—’
‘David, let me stop you there,’ I say, lowering my voice slightly. I read once that it was a technique for commanding authority favoured by Margaret Thatcher and it’s
blisteringly effective. ‘I have given this company my blood, sweat and tears for the last seven years. You were very good to me during my maternity leave, and you’ve been an excellent
boss.’
‘Why are you saying that as if you’re resigning?’ he whimpers. ‘It’ll look terrible if you go off with stress too, Imogen.’
‘I’m simply saying, David, that I think I’ve been good too – at least, I’ve tried to be. I’ve
tried
to do everything I possibly can for this company.
Because I love working here, David – I’ve loved working here since the day I started. But I
haven’t
loved this week.’
‘Nobody could dispute—’
‘I have just been on what was supposedly my first holiday in more years than I can remember. And, instead of being allowed to relax, I have returned feeling as though I’ve spent the
week crawling through the Burmese jungle attempting to fight off snipers.’
He opens his mouth to argue, but I cut him short. ‘The phone has not stopped. I’ve had meetings, I’ve done interviews, I’ve spent every waking minute devoting this week
to
trying to save your arse
. This is despite the fact that I still haven’t officially been given this job, let alone the salary to go with it.’
He sticks out his bottom lip.
‘And, yes, it didn’t all go as smoothly as I might have wanted. But I
tried
,’ I continue, impassioned. ‘And that’s why I’m asking this of you. In fact,
I’m not asking – I’m telling. My only daughter wants me to take her to her first day at school on the morning of September of 2nd. And I am going to be there.’
We gaze at each other as if we’ve both got a pistol in our pocket and can’t decide who’s going to draw it out first. I’m so determined not to back down, I’m
prepared to develop eyeballs like sandpaper.
Eventually, he sniffs and looks at his fingernails. ‘Could you come in afterwards, maybe join us for the debrief?’
I try not to smile. ‘Of course.’
‘That’s settled then.’
It’s only then that I realise how shocked I am. And how glad I am that I don’t have to start job-hunting. Because, as much of a knob-head that David can be, he’s not
all
bad. And I love this job; I
need
this job. Imperfect and demanding as it is, it’s mine.
He stands up and straightens the sleeves on his Savile Row suit. ‘I’m glad we cleared all that up.’
‘Me too.’
‘And I’m sure we can sort out the job title, you know – make it official. The pay rise might have to wait until next month but, again, it’s all do-able.’
I bite my lip as the hangover of adrenalin kicks in. ‘Thank you, David.’
He nods. ‘No, Imogen. Thank
you
.’
Sometimes, that’s all you need to hear.
We don’t get as much post as we used to. Like every other office in the world, most things are done electronically these days, from the delivery of invoices to asking a
colleague two desks away if she’d like you to pick up a cheese sandwich for her on lunch. But today, Laura enters with a stack of documents for my in-tray and alerts me to the fact that the
letter on the top is distinctly out of kilter with the rest.
‘Morning . . . um, Imogen. Quite a bit of mail this morning. Including this . . .’
She smiles as I take it from her. It’s the colour of Amaretto, tied around with a plush, dark-chocolate-coloured ribbon. ‘Private And Confidential’ is handwritten in
half-cursive letters in the corner. There’s no postmark and no stamp.
‘Did this come in another envelope?’ I ask.
‘It did, now you mention it. Why?’ she replies, clearly overcome with curiosity.
I consider asking if there was an Aberdeen postmark, but decide it’s easier to find out for myself. ‘Probably someone trying to sell me something,’ I say, hoping that this
isn’t the case. I twirl it round between my fingers. ‘Thank you.’
‘Oh . . . a few of us are going to Punch & Judy after work on Friday. I know you’ve got Florence so it must be difficult, but Elsa and Stacey said you used to go quite a lot. I
just thought it’d be nice if you could make it, maybe for half an hour or so.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t . . .’ I hesitate. ‘Actually . . . maybe I could. For half an hour, anyway. As long as I leave on time, of course. Which I’m going to.’
‘Fab,’ she says, before disappearing out of the door.
A smile flickers over my lips as I open the thick, crisp paper, and I stand and walk across the room.
July 28th
Dear Imogen ,
I’ve made a rash decision. I’m writing this having stepped on the plane only minutes ago, partly because you said you missed letters and partly because there
are no decent in-flight movies. (I’m joking of course. They’ve got Miss Congeniality.)
Actually, neither is the whole truth. I wanted to write to you, really, to underline something at which I’ve hinted already but feel honour-bound to spell out,
while trying my best not to sound like a lunatic. Which will be quite some feat given that this time two weeks ago, I didn’t even know you.
Still, if I’ve been gripped by a temporary madness, at least I can say it’s the best kind.
Imogen , in the last eight days you’ve entered my world like a blaze of fireworks. It’s something I’ve not ever experienced before and, after
thirty-four years, I’m not overly optimistic about experiencing it again. You might argue differently and it’s a moot point, of course. But it’s also not a chance I relish
taking.
In case it isn’t obvious, this is a love letter. A bona-fide, bells-and-whistles love letter, the kind that is supposed to have been obliterated by modern
technology. Although I’d never be so hasty/tacky/plain daft as to use that word – the L word – after just eight days (because we both know that’s JUST NOT POSSIBLE), I
am prepared to believe this:
You are the most incredible, funny, gorgeous and amazing woman I’ve ever encountered. And, yes, we barely know each other. You don’t know my bad habits (of
which there are obviously none ;-) ) and I don’t know yours. But I am certain about something: I think you and I need to be given a chance. My hunch might be wrong, but I couldn’t
live with myself without at least trying to find out.
So I have one big question for you and it’s this—
I am holding my breath as I turn the page.
Would you like to go for lunch ?
Harry X
With my heart racing I grab my mobile out of my bag and pull up Harry’s number before sending a text:
What do you mean: ‘Would you like to go for lunch?!’ x
A response arrives a second later:
I *mean*: would you like to go for lunch?
I scroll down, holding my breath, as I read his explanation: the smallest of sentences that bursts into my head like sherbet on my tongue:
I’m downstairs.
I walk out of my office in a near daze, only briefly acknowledging Stacey waving at the other end of the room, ignoring the Minnie Mouse ears Roy tries to foist on me (his gift
to say sorry), and dodging David’s PA’s attempts to book me in for a meeting. I glide past Accounts until I reach the lift, step in and press the down button, feeling my stomach whirl
as it sinks to the first-floor balcony overlooking the lobby.
I inhale deeply, my legs tingling as I step onto the short escalator that leads down to the ground floor, and descend, fixing my gaze on the man by the door in the geometric T-shirt with the
shimmering midnight blue eyes.
He is pacing next to the window, watching the taxis jostle for space outside, or perhaps watching nothing at all. Then he turns. I step off the escalator and stand, convinced as he looks at me
that I’ve never seen a more beautiful man in my life. I am momentarily immobile, certainly speechless. He smiles.
Then I do too, not knowing what to do except walk towards him with wonder and elation running through my veins.
‘This is a long way to come for lunch,’ I say.
He laughs. ‘I know. I’m hoping it’ll be worth my while.’
We walk towards one of my favourite Covent Garden cafés on one of those grey, leaden days you sometimes get in the UK, the ones in defiance of the fact that it’s
supposed to be summer. It’s a world away from the blinding sunshine of Barcelona, yet as heat spreads through me, I’ve never felt warmer.
‘Did you get in trouble for not attending your media dinner on the last night in Spain?’ I ask.
He looks sheepish. ‘I hope I’ve made up for it.’
‘Oh?’
‘I wrote an email to the owner of the hotel as soon as I got home, thanking him for his hospitality and praising Delfina for her superb work in promoting them. My travel piece is going in
next week, and I couldn’t have been more glowing about them if they’d offered guests a complimentary wank every morning.’
I burst out laughing. ‘Shame it’s too late to save her job.’
‘Yes and no. She emailed me this morning to let me know she’s got another PR role – for Calandria Benevente.’
‘The film star at the hotel?’
He nods. ‘So you don’t need to feel too sorry for her.’
There’s a momentary silence as we approach the café, until I turn to Harry, unable to stop myself from grinning. ‘Thank you for your letter.’
The brush of his arm against mine provokes an urgent need to reach out and touch his fingertips, but I restrain myself.
He stiffens and takes a deep breath. ‘I don’t know whether to be embarrassed about it or not.’
‘Why would you be embarrassed?’
‘Because I hardly know you. Yet here I am making all these grand declarations like a complete . . . plonker.’
I stifle a laugh. ‘I don’t think you’re a plonker. Besides, there’s a lot to be said for grand declarations.’
At that, he takes my hand gently and we stop and turn to each other. He looks into my eyes and I swear the rest of the world has disappeared as my heart races in anticipation for just one more
kiss from him . . .
Only he doesn’t kiss me. Instead, he says something that makes my legs momentarily incapable of supporting the weight of my body.
‘I’m not moving to Aberdeen.’
I shake my head, feeling my chest rise. ‘What? But why? What about your mum?’
He thrusts his hands in his pockets in a way that makes him look sweetly vulnerable. ‘Turns out she didn’t say no to dinner because she was going to bingo.’
‘Oh?’
He suppresses a smile. ‘She’s got a boyfriend.’
‘What?’ I laugh. ‘What happened to “she’ll never find someone”?’
‘I guess I’ve been proved wrong. Which I’m very happy about, incidentally. He’s called Frank. He’s owns a landscape-gardening company, and likes cooking and jazz.
And they’re in love. At the age of fifty-nine, my mother has fallen in love.’