Still, there is a bright side: not only are Seb and I growing closer than ever, I’ve lost those five pounds I haven’t been able to shift since Christmas. Sitting at my desk, I take a sip of Pepto-Bismol (sadly I had to forgo my usual triple latte this morning in favour of the pink stuff). Maybe I should suggest it to Fiona as an alternative to one of her fad diets.
An image flashes across my brain of Fiona ingesting raw chillies – she’s never one to do things by halves – followed by another image of our shared bathroom being out of bounds for the next week.
Then again, on second thoughts, perhaps not . . .
Focusing back on the paperwork on my desk, I start making a pile of invoices. I’m busy sorting out the arrangements for Sir Richard’s retirement party, which is happening at some swanky private members’ club in Mayfair next month. Next month! At the thought I’m seized by a clutch of worry. I’ve been trying to block the reality of Sir Richard leaving out of my mind, brush it away as some fuzzy, blurry event that’s going to happen in some way-off distant future. Except I can’t put off the reality forever. It is happening, and I do have to think about it.
OK, so this is what I know so far:
1) They’ve been interviewing several candidates for his job.
2) Much to everyone’s dismay, it turned out the rumours were true and one of them was Wendy (a collective groan went around the office when she went in for her interview with the board).
3) As yet there’s still been no announcement about who’s going to replace him.
4) But I do know that whoever they choose, I’ll have to reapply for my job as it was only ever a temporary contract.
My stomach knots at the prospect. Sir Richard said he’d write me a wonderful reference, but who am I kidding? I’m never going to make PA of the Year. In fact, it’s probably pointless me even applying. Even if by some fluke I did get the job, my new boss is never going to be like Sir Richard. And it could even be Wendy, I remind myself with a shudder. Which leaves me . . . where exactly? Out of work? On the dole? PA to a boss who hates me?
Heaving a sigh, I make a mental note to call up some temping agencies this afternoon. Maybe I can find another contract. One that requires someone who can type with only two fingers, create Excel spreadsheets with too many cells that crash for no reason and can do a really good impression of the answering machine.
Exactly. I’m sure there’s heaps of jobs like that just waiting for me.
Collecting up the pile of papers that need Sir Richard’s signature, I make my way to his office. His door is ajar and when I poke my head around the corner I see he’s not there. He’s probably doing what he calls his ‘walkabout’. Sir Richard has a policy of being friendly with all his staff and on Monday he tends to do the rounds after the weekend, catching up with everyone, seeing how everyone is. As a CEO he really is one in a million.
Oh well, never mind, I’ll just leave him a note, I decide, entering anyway. I make my way across his office towards his desk and am just popping the papers next to his laptop when he comes back in.
‘Good morning Sir Rich—’
I’m stopped in mid-greeting as he charges towards me and almost flings himself on top of his laptop, snapping closed the lid under his weight. ‘Ah, Tess, yes, good morning,’ he puffs, trying to appear nonchalant as he lies prostrate over his desk.
Startled, I stare at him for a moment before quickly recovering. ‘Is . . . um . . . everything OK?’
‘Yes, fine, fine,’ he nods, smoothing down his comb-over and pushing his glasses up his nose.
I wait for him to move. Except he doesn’t. He remains lying there, head resting on his elbow, as if in some bizarre bikini pose.
‘And you?’ he says chirpily, as if everything is perfectly normal.
‘Um . . . yes,’ I say unsurely. His behaviour is off the wall, even for Sir Richard. Out of the corner of my eye I notice there’s one of those little webcams on the desk. What on earth is he up to?
‘Well, unless you need me for anything . . .’ he trails off, and I suddenly remember the papers.
‘Oh, yes, sorry. I need your signatures on these.’ I gesture to the pile of invoices and forms. ‘If I just leave them here . . .’
‘I’ll get them signed and straight back to you,’ he finishes, still not moving.
‘OK, great,’ I smile brightly and, leaving him still lying there, I turn and walk out of his office.
What on earth was all that about?
I’m still thinking about it when I get back to my desk to find my phone ringing. I snatch it up. ‘Hello, Blackstock and White, Sir Richard’s PA speaking.’
‘You dirty stop-out!’
It’s Fiona.
‘Where were you all weekend?’ she demands teasingly. ‘I nearly sent out the search and rescue services.’
‘I’m sorry, I meant to text,’ I smile, winding the telephone cord around my hand and sinking back into my chair.
‘But you got distracted with all that love stuff,’ she finishes, inhaling loudly on a cigarette.
‘Something like that,’ I say, feeling myself blush. ‘So how are you? How’s Tallulah?’ I ask, focusing back on her before I get all gooey.
As if on cue there’s a sharp barking in the background and I hear scuffling.
‘Oh, coming along. I’m taking her to an obedience training class tonight,’ she replies airily, but her voice rises sharply. ‘So, things are really hotting up between you and Seb, then?’ she says, swiftly changing the subject.
‘Yes . . . I think so,’ I reply, reaching for my bottle of Pepto-Bismol. ‘Hotting’ quite literally being the operative word, I grimace, taking a hefty sip.
‘Well, if a guy wants to spend all weekend with you, it sounds like he’s really serious,’ she reasons.
I nod wordlessly, but doubt prickles. It’s not that I don’t think Seb is serious. He invited me to a wedding, remember? But is spending all day Sunday by myself watching Star Wars films while Seb is at the gym, the same as spending all weekend together? I’m distracted by the sight of Sir Richard emerging from his office and heading towards my desk. ‘Hang on a mo,’ I hiss, quickly covering the receiver with my hand.
‘Here you go.’ He waves the pile of papers at me. ‘All signed,’ he says cheerfully.
‘Oh, thanks,’ I reply, taking them from him.
‘Who was that?’ demands Fiona as he strides away.
‘Sir Richard, my boss,’ I answer, taking my hand off the receiver. ‘I went into his office earlier and asked him to sign these invoices for his retirement party—’
‘Uh . . . mmm . . .’
I can tell Fiona has already lost interest and zoned out. Individually the words ‘office’, ‘invoices’ or ‘retirement’ are enough to send her to sleep; strung together in a sentence and I’m amazed she’s not already comatose.
‘ – and he was acting really weird.’
She snaps back. ‘Weird? How?’
Now someone acting weirdly is a different matter altogether.
I pause and surreptitiously glance around to make sure no one is listening. There’s only Kym nearby and as usual she’s engrossed in her Missed Connections. I slink down further behind my computer. ‘Well, you know he’s getting divorced,’ I whisper into the mouthpiece.
‘Hmmm, do I?’ she says vaguely.
Admittedly I don’t take my work home with me so maybe I haven’t mentioned it. My mantra’s always been, ‘What happens in the office, stays in the office’.
‘Well, anyway, I was just in his office, and when he saw me in there he slammed his laptop shut and looked really secretive. It was like he was up to something.’
‘Well of course he’s up to something,’ she snorts, as if it’s obvious.
‘He is?’ I say in surprise, then quickly lower my voice again. ‘What?’
‘Internet porn,’ she replies matter-of-factly.
I gasp in horror. ‘No, not Sir Richard!’ I protest.
‘Divorced, lonely
. . .’ she continues.
At that moment an email pings through to Sir Richard’s email account, to which I have access. It’s from an ‘undisclosed website’ and tells me that his ‘credit card payment for the subscription fee has been processed and you now have full member access, including all videos and live webcams.’
I stare at it, frozen. Oh my god. Fiona’s right!
‘Trust me, we did an article on it at Saturday Speaks, one of those real-life stories . . .’
But I’m no longer listening. I’m trying to imagine Sir Richard—
I slam on the cerebral brakes. Argh, no! Stop it, Tess. Scrub that image from your brain right this minute. Giving myself a little shake, I quickly compose myself. I’m being immature. After all, there’s nothing wrong with a grown man using such a . . . an online resource. I mean it’s perfectly normal. Everyone has needs. Even Sir Richard—
Oh god, I’m doing it again. Stop it.
‘Fiona, I need to get back to work,’ I say abruptly.
In full flow about someone who was addicted to internet porn and ran up thousands in credit card debt, she breaks off. ‘Oh, OK,’ she says cheerfully. ‘No worries, see you later.’
‘Yeh, bye.’
‘Bye.’
Putting the phone down, I stare at the email for a second more, chewing my thumbnail, then with a flick of my mouse I quickly hit delete.
For the rest of the morning I get on with work and try to put all thoughts of Sir Richard out of my mind. Like I said, he’s a grown man – it’s his business what he gets up to. But still I try to avoid him, and when I need a signature on a letter, I have a flashback to the email reference to ‘live webcams’ and initial it myself, rather than go to his office. Well, I don’t want to interrupt anything, do I?
So I’m quite relieved when it gets to lunchtime and I can escape to the café across the street to meet Fergus. He left a message with Kym earlier that he needed to speak to me urgently.
‘What’s up?’ I ask, squeezing between the tables and plopping myself down opposite him. He looks as if he hasn’t shaved all weekend and is almost sporting a beard, while his thick black hair is sticking out in crazy tufts all over his head.
‘Two days twenty-three hours and eight minutes,’ he deadpans.
‘’Scuse me?’ I look at him blankly. I know I’m late as I had to send an urgent fax, but I’m not that late.
‘And I’m still waiting.’
‘Sorry Fergus, you’ve lost me.’
‘My Missed Connection!’ he gasps, as if it’s obvious.
Suddenly the penny drops. ‘Is this what was so urgent?’
He looks at me as if to say how could I ask such a question. ‘She hasn’t replied!’ he says pointedly.
‘Yet,’ I add, equally pointedly.
A waitress appears and puts a large baked potato down in front of him, heaped high with sour cream, cheese and black beans. ‘Can I get you anything?’ she asks, turning to me.
‘Just a plain potato, thanks,’ I reply, looking at Fergus’s plate warily. Sadly I’m zero topping. I daren’t risk it. Not after Mala.
‘She’s not going to, I just know it,’ continues Fergus, as the waitress disappears. He eyeballs his smartphone, which sits silently on the table between us. ‘It was a stupid idea, I’m an eejit.’
‘She probably didn’t even see it,’ I argue. ‘How do you even know she reads Missed Connections?’
‘Hmmm.’ He looks unconvinced and opens his mouth to say something, then seems to change his mind. ‘So what are you up to this week? Anything fun?’ he asks, digging into his potato.
I run though my diary in my head. Last week I signed up for military fitness and tonight’s my first class. Earlier I was a bit worried I wasn’t going to make it because of my stomach, but now I’m feeling back to normal. Still, I’m not sure it’s exactly what I’d call fun. Then there’s the wedding Seb invited me to, but that’s not till next week anyway, plus I know enough about men to know it’s unlikely Fergus would class that as fun either.
‘Seb’s taking me to a concert tomorrow night,’ I proffer instead. He managed to get two tickets on eBay for one of his favourite bands and he just texted earlier to tell me the good news.
‘Ah yes, I forget, some of us have a love life,’ he says glumly.
Which reminds me . . . Ignoring Fergus, I grab a pen out of my bag and scribble on my hand.
‘What does that say?’ he asks, trying to read my terrible handwriting.
‘Earplugs,’ I say, turning my hand around to show him the black scrawl.
‘Am I that boring?’ he frowns sulkily.
‘No, silly, they’re for the concert.’
‘You’re wearing earplugs at the concert?’ Fergus looks bewildered. ‘Forgive me if I’m getting this wrong here, but don’t you usually go to concerts to actually listen to the music?’
My cheeks grow pink. ‘Well usually, yes, but it’s not my kind of music.’
‘Who’s playing?’
‘Some indie band I’ve never heard of,’ I say, wrinkling my nose.
‘You don’t like indie music?’
I look at Fergus in his torn Ramones T-shirt and feel slightly defensive. ‘Nope. I’m afraid I’m a lot more naff than that.’
‘How naff??’ he grins.
‘Very naff,’ I smile ruefully.
‘The Nolans?’
I burst out laughing.
‘What’s wrong?’ he says with a straight face. ‘They happen to be a highly successful Irish band, I’ll have you know.’
I stop laughing and look at him curiously. He is joking, right?
‘“I’m in the Mood for Dancing” was a number one hit.’
‘It was?’ I look at him in surprise. Gosh, no, I don’t think he is joking; in fact he seems deadly serious.
‘In Japan,’ he adds solemnly.
‘Japan, wow, that’s amazing,’ I enthuse. Gosh, I hope I haven’t offended him. He’s probably really proud of them because they’re Irish. In fact, maybe they’re a national treasure, like the Queen is for us Brits.
‘I know, right?’ he nods earnestly. ‘But then it’s a brilliant song, isn’t it?’
‘Brilliant,’ I agree fervently, ‘really catchy.’
‘And the harmonising . . .’ Shaking his head in deference, he says in a low voice. ‘Respect.’
‘Respect,’ I nod, trying to look suitably reverential.
He pauses, then clears his throat. I feel a stab of alarm. Oh no, he’s not going to do what I think he’s going to start doing. Not here in the middle of the café—
But he is. And he does.
His voice is loud and baritone and I stare at him, frozen, as he starts singing ‘I’m in the Mood for Dancing’. I’m not sure which is more startling, the fact that he’s broken into a Nolans song in the middle of a busy café and people are staring, or that he’s actually got quite a good voice. ‘Come on, harmonise,’ he cajoles.
‘Um, no, I don’t think so,’ I start to protest, but he nags louder.
‘Come on . . .’
Oh fuck. You know when you just know you’re not going to be able to get out of something. My heart sinks. I’m a terrible singer. And yet I don’t want to offend him.
Swallowing hard, I join in.
‘Atta girl,’ he grins.
And after a few seconds I realise that actually, I’m not that bad and I’m really quite enjoying it and I’m closing my eyes and doing the chorus and . . .
Hang on, what happened to Fergus?
Realising I can’t hear his voice, I snap open my eyes to see him keeled over the table, killing himself laughing.
‘You bastard!’ I gasp.
‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist,’ he cracks up. ‘That was classic.’
‘Harmonising?’ I cry, bashing him with my hand.
‘Ouch.’ He clutches his stomach.
Despite myself, I can’t help breaking into laughter. ‘So anyway, what are you up to this week?’ I ask a
few moments later, after I’ve wiped my eyes with a paper napkin and sworn I’m going to get him back.
‘Probably what I’ve been doing all weekend,’ he shrugs.
‘What’s that?’ I ask curiously.
He gestures to his phone, lying silent on the table. ‘Staying in, checking my emails.’
Chapter 25
At exactly six o’clock I turn off my computer and race out of the office to catch the tube to Wimbledon for my first-ever military fitness class. I don’t want to be late. I already filled in the form online and got ready in the Ladies loos at work. I’m wearing my new sports gear: black Lycra leggings, with these little go-faster stripes down my legs, and a matching sports vest; bouncy, top-of-the-range trainers, plus lots of sweatbands.
It’s amazing, but just wearing it makes me feel much fitter already and I keep getting these little glances of approval from people on the tube, as if they think I’m a real athlete. So much so that by the time we cross Putney Bridge I’m starting to feel like one. In fact, I even catch myself looking disapprovingly at someone sitting opposite me eating a big bag of Maltesers and reading the Metro. I mean, honestly, some people!
So I’m feeling quite positive as I set off at my stop and start springing jauntily down the road towards the park, swinging my arms and blowing out clouds of white air like a steam train. Gosh, it really is quite chilly, I realise, pulling up my pink woolly scarf around my ears. Still, soon I’m sure I’ll be all warmed up and rosy-cheeked with exercise.
I smile to myself. Believe it or not, I’m actually looking forward to this class. In fact, maybe dating Seb again has helped me discover something about myself that I didn’t know. All this time I thought that I didn’t like sports or exercise, but perhaps I do. Perhaps I’ll be really good at it and it was just my school’s fault. Perhaps they made me think I was rubbish at sport, like they made me think I hated rice pudding. It was only years later, when Nan died and left me all her own recipes, that I discovered it wasn’t necessarily lukewarm with a horrible skin on the top, but hot and creamy and utterly delicious.
Turning the corner I see the floodlit park ahead. According to the instructions I read online, we all meet in the car park where I’ll be introduced to the instructors. I feel a beat of anticipation. Gosh, this is actually quite exciting. I mean I love Seb, obviously, but still, what girl doesn’t go a bit fluttery at the thought of meeting lots of super-hunky fitness instructors. All that testosterone and army fatigues. I should bring Fiona along . . . in fact, yes! What a fantastic idea! Why didn’t I think of it earlier? She can get fit and meet someone! Forget all that online dating business – military fitness is where she needs to be . . .