‘Hi!’ Rob grins and I do a double take.
Oh thank God – I imagined it. Because soon my gorgeous neighbour is shaking hands with my gorgeous boyfriend and I find myself the filling in an eye-candy sandwich.
‘Hi!’ Matt grins.
They continue shaking hands. And grinning. Then do a bit more of it. So much more in fact that the situation becomes distinctly uncomfortable – something that can’t be attributed
just to the fact that when three people stand in my kitchen it’s like being in a lift.
‘Soooo,’ I say, clapping my hands together in the manner of a primary-school teacher about to suggest finger-painting. ‘Rob, would you like some coffee? Matt makes it
brilliantly.’
Rob glances at me and I wonder if I ought to explain why Matt has made the coffee at my flat and not me. Then I think that if I explain it’ll look like I’ve got something to hide
and, patently, I haven’t. Although it’d be best for all concerned if I never disclosed that we once spent the night together and I thought he’d given me a venereal disease.
Matt opens the kitchen cupboard and takes out a cup.
At this point I also start to wonder if I should explain why Matt knows where my cups are kept, and from the look on Rob’s face I’d guess that’s an issue he’d very much
like to address later on too.
‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Rob,’ Matt offers.
Rob stiffens.
‘All good, of course.’
Rob shifts onto the other foot.
‘Emma tells me you can speak Cantonese,’ Matt adds, and I try to stop myself from visibly wincing.
‘I know about three sentences,’ Rob mumbles. Now I wonder if I need to explain the fact that I
wasn’t
trying to make him sound more impressive than he is. Honestly.
‘My old girlfriend was Chinese,’ he explains.
I have no idea why the reference to the old girlfriend is yet another little pancake to throw into this frying pan of awkwardness, but it is. We all bite our lips.
‘So . . . what do you think of Emma’s list?’ Matt asks. I hold my breath.
He’s saying it to change the subject and, in the words of my dad,
he means well
. It should be a welcome relief, a light-hearted diversion in a conversation that’s already
stuttering so badly it needs therapy.
Should
is the operative word.
‘What list?’ He scrunches up his nose as Matt glances anxiously at the fridge – where the list was once displayed, until I hid it in the kitchen drawer precisely to avoid
alerting my boyfriend to it.
The reason for the move – its two slightly risqué entries – clearly hasn’t occurred to Matt. Perhaps he thinks Rob wouldn’t care about those items, or perhaps he
assumes that I’ve already given Rob the full details, or at least the edited highlights. The reality is that I haven’t given him the highlights, lowlights or
any
lights.
‘Oh . . . it’s not a big deal,’ I mutter. ‘I was actually going to mention it this week. Just a daft thing that I’m doing. With the girls.’
‘What daft thing?’ Rob asks flatly.
I take a deep breath. Matt is looking at me stiffly, wide-eyed, as if trying to convey the words ‘Whoops, sorry!’ telepathically.
‘Well, when the girls and I were teenagers we drew up this list of things that we wanted to do by the time we hit thirty. I found it a couple of months ago. So I decided that it was a good
idea to give some of them a go, given that I’m thirty this year.’
Why do I sound so guilty?
‘So that’s what I’m doing.’
He nods. ‘What’s on the list?’
My mind is suddenly blank and the
only
things I can think of are the one-night stand and the snogging.
‘Polo!’ Matt blurts out.
Rob frowns.
‘That’s it!’ I add, as if I’ve discovered the theory of relativity. ‘I’m going to learn to play polo. You can come, if you like. Oh, and the guitar . . .
learning the guitar is one of them too. So you see – you’ve been helping me already. Thanks!’ He looks entirely unmoved.
Matt makes his excuses and leaves shortly after that. And, call me inhospitable, but I’m glad to see him go.
When I was at school, my careers advisor was fond of saying, ‘Fail to prepare, prepare to fail.’ So, having spent most of last week and all last night researching
everything that’s hip, happening and hot in the world of interior design, I couldn’t feel more clued up if I was Jasper Conran himself.
While my mental preparation is second to none, the same cannot be said of my physical state. I wake on Friday morning – the day of the interview – with a zit on my forehead that
I’m convinced is visible from the International Space Station.
I spend most of the morning employing a combination of attack techniques, with the aid of an elaborate, quasi-pharmaceutical list of preparations – everything from tea tree oil to
toothpaste.
I am, of course, totally determined not to do the one thing I’m desperate to do – but that all the books tell you
never
to do. Squeeze it. Listen to the beauty editor of any
magazine and you’d be convinced there’s only one certain consequence of squeezing a spot: your head will cave in. So, obviously, it is a no-no. For about three-and-a-half minutes.
The zero efficacy of the tea tree/Colgate combo means that, before I can even think about what I’m doing, I’m poised with a piece of loo roll on either side, assaulting the offending
carbuncle until my eyes water. All of which does precisely nothing but make my horrendous red protrusion even more horrendous, red and protruding.
I won’t bore you with the other minor disasters that the morning throws at me, except to say that they involve two pairs of laddered tights, a splattering of jam on my dress and, courtesy
of having to run for the Manchester train, blisters on each little toe that could double for airbags on a Land Rover Discovery.
By the time I arrive at the office of Loop Interior Design, I’m feeling far from calm and collected.
Still, as I press the buzzer and am led into the entrance of the chic King Street office block, I take a deep breath, check for stray mascara in the lift mirror and compose myself. Then I check
for anything stuck in my teeth. Or more jam stains. Or splits in the skirt of my dress, ladders in tights, bird poo in my hair or any other stray miscellany that might scupper my success.
It is just when I’ve decided to pull out my neckline and have a subtle sniff to make certain my Sure is firing on all cylinders that I glance up and realise that the door is open and that
I’ve been enthusiastically inhaling my armpit in full view of someone.
‘You must be Emma,’ the woman says, shaking my hand as I step out. She’s in her mid-fifties and dressed impeccably. I note a chic silver bob, smooth, papery skin and an elegant
smile. She speaks with the tone of a voiceover artist for a luxury brand of chocolate: refined, deep. ‘I’m Lulu McMasters. Come on in.’
The office of Loop is as you’d expect from an interior-design company: glorious. There’s no other word for it. It’s airy and beautiful, with soft grey sofas, white floors,
splashes of colour on Moorish jacquard cushions and – I physically gasp when I see this –
a harp
. This office has a genuine real-life
harp
right there in the corner. I
couldn’t be more impressed if Enya herself was sitting at it, giving us a turn.
‘Like it?’ Lulu grins, clearly proud. And why wouldn’t she be? I’d run to work every day if I were employed here.
‘It’s gorgeous. Exactly the sort of thing I love,’ I say, wondering if this counts as arse-licking, given that it’s actually true. There are five work stations in the
office, only one of which is currently occupied, by an ice-cool blonde who appears to have survived on no-bread cucumber sandwiches for most of her life.
We end up in Lulu’s office and I’m invited to take a seat on the other side of an imposing desk.
She flicks through my C V, and glances up. ‘I’m glad you like what we’ve done in here. Although we’re in the middle of a rebranding so I’ll probably update the
office area too.’ Frankly, the office area couldn’t look more updated if it’d been painted yesterday. ‘Ooh. Let me show you the new logo designs.’
With a modest smile, she removes a folder from her bottom drawer. ‘Have a look at how it compares with the old one,’ she says, placing the two logos next to each other. ‘I was
never happy with that. It’s just not right, is it? My old partner chose it and we never got on. It was a mistake going along with him, to be honest.’
She pushes the two logos in front of me.
‘Oh, it’s stunning!’ I gush. ‘This new one fulfils
everything
you’re trying to achieve. It’s contemporary but traditional, it’s chic,
it’s sophisticated. I love the sage colour on the company name, the way the L curls round. It’s a million times better than the old one. I mean, gosh . . . I don’t know what your
partner was thinking but you’re so right. It doesn’t work at all, does it?
Not at all
. You were totally right going for this new one.’
She stares at me and then glances at the logo I have in my hand. If I’d gushed any more over it, I’d be in a big pool on the carpet.
‘
That’s
the old one,’ she says flatly.
And I sink back in my seat, wondering if she’d consider a bribe.
I’m all for the idea of being happy and contented when you’re single. But there are some unquestionable benefits of having a boyfriend, one of which I am
experiencing this Saturday night.
‘This is so romantic,’ I tell Rob, as we gaze over the city lights from Panoramic, the UK’s highest restaurant. ‘Thank you so much for booking it.’
He grins. ‘I’m glad you like it. You deserve it.’
I don’t argue with him. Not because I think I
do
deserve it, but because it’ll just prompt another wave of him telling me how wonderful I am and me objecting because this
perfect vision of Emma that Rob believes in is a long way from the real me.
I’ve started doing the odd thing in front of him lately to remind him that I am not the princess he thinks I am. I filed my feet with a pumice stone in his presence, inspired by my
dad’s awful date and certain that bits of flaky foot skin are a reality check
par excellence
. It had no effect.
Cally suggested I fart in front of him while we’re watching telly, but I’m reserving that one in case things get really bad and it looks like he’s in danger of proposing
again.
‘Well, I want to pay for this tonight,’ I tell him.
‘No way!’ he laughs.
‘I’m serious, Rob. I do. I want you to know how much I’m enjoying being back together.’
He shakes his head. ‘That’s all I need to know. Now, what are you going for?’
I opt for the fish dish, kidding myself that it’s the healthy option, before taking enough bread to spark a gluten overdose and smothering it in butter. The evening is lovely. We eat, we
drink Prosecco, we hold hands – and basically all is as it should be when a girl’s on a romantic night out with her boyfriend.
Then things go awry.
‘So you know my list,’ I say, as we’re finishing the main course. ‘I thought it’d be nice if you could maybe help me out on one of the other items. Apart from the
guitar, that is.’
Rob hesitates and puts down his knife and fork. ‘Was there a reason you didn’t tell me about the list?’
‘I hadn’t thought it was a big deal.’
‘What else is on it?’
I take a deep breath. ‘I’ll show you it, if you like,’ I say, making a mental note to edit it first. ‘But it’s stuff like go and see the Northern Lights, jump out
of a plane, that kind of thing. Oh, and win a job as an interior designer – although I’m pretty sure I’ve got a long way to go before that happens.’
‘You never know about the interview – I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you think.’
‘Some of it was okay,’ I concede. ‘Some of it I was pleased with. And she really liked the room design I’d done for my application. I don’t fancy my chances after
my beautifully tactful assessment of the new branding, though.’
He frowns. ‘So . . . the list.’
‘Yes?’
‘There’s nothing
weird
on it, is there?’
I stiffen. ‘Like join a cult? No.’
He isn’t reassured by the joke. ‘There
is
, isn’t there?’
I shake my head. And keep shaking it. Over and over again. Then I stop and cave into pressure. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, come on, what is it? It can’t be that bad.’
‘It’s not.’
‘Then tell me.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Well, I’m going to think it’s
really
bad, then.’
‘It’s not
really
bad.’
‘It must be.’
‘It
isn’t
,’ I hiss.
He pauses and thinks, before leaning over the table. ‘Have you experimented with a
same-sex liaison
? You know, done a Katy Perry – kissed a girl?’
I roll my eyes. ‘No.’
He looks terribly disappointed. Then he folds his arms and glares at me. The list has obviously become a bigger issue in Rob’s mind than it’s worthy of being. Whether that’s
due to the fact that Matt knew about it when he didn’t – or simply that his mind is running wild with what the ‘weird’ bits are – I don’t know. Either way, I
don’t like the way he says the next sentence.
‘Emma, I need to know what’s on that list.’
I breathe out defiantly. ‘Have a one-night stand,’ I say, with a shrug.
His mouth drops open. ‘You
didn’t
.’
‘No, I
didn’t
,’ I say – and despite the fact that it’s the truth I still blush.
‘What else? Come on, the dodgy ones, please.’
I purse my lips and look out of the window. ‘Snog somebody famous.’
He sniffs. ‘I know you wouldn’t have done that.’
Now my mouth drops open. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘How would you get to snog somebody famous? It’s not as though you spend every night at the Ivy.’
I cross my arms. ‘I might surprise you on that one.’ He looks shocked. ‘But in this particular case, I’m not going to,’ I add hastily.
‘Any more?’
‘It’s just stuff like jump out of a plane—’