Ginger leaned against the wall of the gym and pleaded with Will to stop.
‘No more,’ she said. ‘I have nothing more to give, please . . .’
The sweat was dripping down her back and into the crevice between her breasts. Any deodorant she’d put on that morning had long since sweated off.
‘You’re torturing the poor girl, Will,’ said Simon, who was walking by, holding a couple of the heaviest kettlebells as if they were bags of sugar.
‘He is,’ agreed Ginger. ‘We’ve been at it an hour and I only came in to say I could do twenty minutes because I was so tired and it was late.’ She looked at the gym clock. ‘It’s five to ten!’ she said. ‘I am shattered, you tyrant.’
Will laughed, reached out and pulled her back into a standing position.
‘You stay out of this, Simon. My girl needs her training and I have vowed to be the man to train her, whether she likes it or not.’
Ginger’s heart skipped a beat. My girl? But she didn’t falter. Will was kind to everyone. So, they’d had coffee a few times and he’d bought her an after-training sandwich in the deli bar across the road, but that was just friendly, wasn’t it?
‘Whether she likes it or not?’ she added, in pretend outrage.
‘Oh, a conjugal. I’m off,’ said Simon. ‘Not getting involved in that row. You can lock up, Tyrant. I need to eat and watch crap on the box. See you, Ginger.’
Will began tidying up. The gym was emptying out. They closed late on Thursdays but it was amazing how many people liked to get in a late workout.
‘Conjugal row, ha. Simon says the oddest things.’
Ginger felt her heart leap a little. Simon could see what Will couldn’t: that she’d fallen for him. Not for how gorgeous he looked, although that didn’t hurt, but for his kindness.
He’d come one day with a giant SUV and helped her haul off some more of Aunt Grace’s endless boxes after she had confided in him about Grace’s problem and her mission to clear the house. When Jack, the photographer, had arrived to take the after-the-workout photos for the paper in the gym, Will had been there with Lulu and her hair and make-up team, encouraging Ginger every step of the way.
He’d admired the photos when they’d gone in, but he’d never said anything specific, nothing like ‘I really like you’.
‘Mr Hunk really likes you,’ Lulu had said on the day of the shoot.
‘Shush!’ Ginger had hissed. ‘He’ll hear.’
‘I hope he does,’ added Lulu irrepressibly. ‘Say something to him – he’s as shy as you are.’
But Ginger’s fear of rejection kept her from saying anything and she treated him the way she treated her brothers, and nothing else.
‘I was thinking,’ Will said, when Ginger had finished her workout that evening and felt as if she’d been in a Turkish bath for a month, ‘er . . . would you like a drink after we hit the showers? Or a coffee? You know, something casual. We could grab a bite to eat . . .?’
Ginger stared up at Will in utter astonishment and the words that came out of her mouth just flew out: ‘Like a date, you mean.’ She blushed. ‘Sorry! I know you didn’t mean that. Forget I said it. I get dizzy when I’m tired and—’
‘Yeah,’ he interrupted her. ‘Like a date.’
A little buzz of sheer excitement began to thrum through her.
‘Yes,’ she squeaked.
They sat in a small Italian restaurant round the corner and Ginger wished she had stuffed something better in her gym bag than a comfy khaki sweatshirt with a picture of a cat on it, and her equally comfy harem pants which were miles looser on the waist than they used to be. She was never going to be skinny – she didn’t want to be, she’d decided. But she was more toned, felt healthy and working out had given her an appreciation for her body.
Will was in an equally comfortable T-shirt over which he wore one of those red flannel shirts, open so that Ginger could – if she allowed herself to – look at his beautiful chest defined by the T-shirt.
‘Hey Will, nice to see you,’ said a guy coming over to him in chef’s whites.
‘Ginger, meet Mario, owner of this den of iniquity,’ said Will. ‘Mario, this is Ginger.’
‘Gina Lollobrigida,’ said Mario.
‘No, Ginger,’ said Ginger, confused.
‘My Da’s Sicilian and he loves the old movie stars. Saw you in the paper last week – liked the bikini, by the way – and said you were a dead ringer for Gina, fifties movie star. If I phone and tell him you’re in, he’ll be round in a flash. He’ll have you sitting on his knee, telling you the dreams he had about her in his youth.’
‘I love your father, but don’t phone,’ begged Will. ‘We want a quiet night.’
Mario raised an eyebrow. ‘You two . . .?’ he asked Will. ‘Because if this is friends, I might ask Ms Gina if she would care to go out with me—’
‘Hands off,’ said Will evenly. ‘Not friends.’
Ginger perked up.
Will reached across the table and grabbed her hand. ‘We’re on a date, Mario. Skedaddle. Or I’ll load up the weight bar next time you’re in and see how you cope.’
‘Gotcha.’ Mario shot a finger at Will, blew a kiss at Ginger and went back into the kitchen.
‘Half-Sicilian, half-Belfast, fiery combination,’ said Will, still holding her hand. His large fingers began to stroke the underside of her palm and Ginger found it to be the most erotic thing anyone had ever done to her – and that included her encounter with her fake wedding-date.
‘Is this a date?’ she asked, wanting to know before she said the wrong thing. Because it couldn’t be—
‘Do you want it to be a date?’ Will kept holding on to her hand.
Ginger nodded.
‘You’re like a wild deer in the forest, Ginger Reilly,’ he said, looking into her amber eyes. ‘You look sassy and tough, but you’re shy, vulnerable. Like you’ve been hurt. I wanted to take it slow but I couldn’t. Now that the article has been done, and the final shoot is over, you keep coming back and I’m afraid that one day, you won’t show up anymore.’
Ginger could say nothing. She could only breathe. For the first time in her life, she felt seen. Utterly understood by a man who was not a relative.
‘I want it to be a date,’ she said, in a breathy tone that was not like her and not fake. It just came out like that. ‘But—’
‘But you have no confidence and you aren’t sure?’
Ginger looked at him across the table.
‘How do you know?’ she asked, all artifice gone. No longer sassy Office Ginger. Not don’t-look-at-me Ginger. But just pure Ginger, all her heart and soul spiralling into that one simple question.
‘I can see it in you.’
There was silence. He still held her hand.
Will sat up a bit straighter. ‘OK, this is my story. I haven’t dated in a while,’ he said. ‘Got my heart broken a few years back, takes a while to get over that, and then I saw a few people. Nothing felt right. I wanted—’
‘—a connection?’
‘Yes.’ His warm eyes roved over her face, not her body, just her face. Seeing her, drinking her in. ‘Exactly. I’m thirty-four and my mother worries herself sick I’ll never find the right person. She’s an artist: thinks the women who fancy me are all gym bunnies who care about the superficial and she hates that. She and my dad have something special: something deep. I want that.’
‘It’s what I want too, but I’ve never had it,’ said Ginger. She’d never been this honest before. Not ever, really. Girlfriend would approve. Be honest. If he can’t accept you as you are, but only as the version of you he likes, then he is not the right man. YOU are good enough.
She kept going. ‘My heart’s been broken but only by – by me, I guess. By me pretending to be people I wasn’t, trying to fit in. By someone I considered a best friend who humiliated me.’
‘Who? Tell me?’ he demanded.
Ginger shook her head. ‘Not now.’ She smiled. ‘Another time.’
There would be another time.
‘That first day in your office, after you’d been working with that girl, I could see the decency in you. You understood her and her fears. And then you showed me the picture of you when you were . . .’ She didn’t want to use the word fat anymore. It was a horrible word. A word to put people down. She would never use it again. ‘Like me,’ she said instead. ‘A bigger person in this thinner person’s world.’
‘I understood that. I try to change that in my gym. It’s part of our ethos: we make the real you stronger.’
A waiter arrived, apologising for the delay, blaming a sick member of staff, an eclipse, something. They both grinned at him, not listening.
They let go of each other’s hand just to take the menus.
Ginger had often wondered what she’d eat if she ever was in a restaurant with a man. How crazy was that? Imagining what to order so as not to look like a crazed foodaholic.
The gym had great leaflets on good foods. There were no bad foods, just moderation. Exercise. Moving more, being happy.
‘Pizza, Hawaiian,’ she said firmly.
‘I love Hawaiian,’ said Will delightedly.
‘And sweet potato fries.’ Healthier than fries, she knew, and she loved them. ‘Sparkling water.’
‘Same,’ he said to the waiter, his eyes on Ginger.
They ate, and talked as if they’d both been in a desert for years, starved of human company.
They talked about his family, hers. He loved Aunt Grace, whom he’d met when he’d helped with the endless unopened boxes.
‘Should have her own TV show,’ he said.
‘Yes, with Esmerelda in it too: they could sell jewellery and add hints on life.’ Ginger giggled. ‘Esmerelda is worried I won’t ever find a man, so she is suggesting women lately. Once I get the ring on my finger, that’s all that matters. Esmerelda has a very clear-cut view on life.’
‘She and Grace both look like women who have lived good lives, enjoyed the heck out of it,’ Will said.
‘Yeah.’ Ginger looked up to find Will watching her wiping her mouth with her napkin. His eyes were a little glazed as he watched and Ginger realised she was turning him on.
Right there in the restaurant, she felt herself heat up to about one thousand degrees.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
In the gym car park, they looked at their two cars. ‘I don’t want this evening to end,’ Will said. ‘Would you like to sit in mine and talk before you go home?’
‘You mean we’re not going to spend all night together?’ teased Ginger, astonished at her own daring.
Will groaned. ‘Please, don’t tease me. Let’s do it slowly, go slowly. I would sell my soul to go to yours right now and rip that cat sweatshirt off and hold you but—’ He took a deep breath, steadied himself by leaning both hands against his car. ‘But slow. Right. I’ve tried the fast thing and it doesn’t work.’
Ginger nodded as if she knew this too, when she really had no idea. She felt jealous of him going fast with anyone.
They sat in his car, some jeep type thing that was high up.
‘Right now I’m sorry I don’t have one of those classic old American cars with the bench front seat,’ he said, turning to face Ginger, and she grinned. She knew exactly what he meant.
It was slow. Will leaned forward and took Ginger’s face in his two hands, cradling her, and then his mouth was on hers, moving softly. And suddenly, it wasn’t slow at all. He kissed her with intensity and this time, Ginger didn’t even have to think about where to put her hands. She felt safe and sexy, wanted to be holding him, to be held by him. Their tongues melded, her hands strayed to his T-shirt, pulled it up to rub her flat palms over the sculpted beauty of his chest.
‘Don’t,’ he moaned.
‘I want to touch you.’
‘I want to touch you too, but not here, not in my car in the car park.’
‘Five more minutes,’ Ginger said, and pulled him back to her.
This time, his hands slid under her sweatshirt.
Both their breathing caught as his hands reached her full breasts, his large hands roaming, making Ginger moan at the exquisite sensitivity of it.
‘Oh Ginger, not here.’
Will sat back in his chair, looking seriously rattled, his eyes dark with desire.
‘We are doing this properly, in a bed.’
Sanity reasserted itself. ‘Right. In a bed,’ Ginger agreed. ‘Whose bed and when?’
Will laughed. ‘Very soon,’ he said. ‘Or I might just explode.’
The next day, Jodie was stinking out one end of the giant newsroom, the features end, testing nail varnishes.
‘Can you not do that somewhere else?’ groaned Fiona.
‘How am I supposed to test these damn things otherwise?’ said Jodie.
She held up one hand with each finger painted a slightly different colour. In front of her on the desk were a gaggle of beautiful little nail varnish pots in various shades.
‘I sort of like this one,’ she said, wiggling her index finger in Fiona and Ginger’s directions. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think they all look exactly the same to me,’ said Fiona, ‘and they stink. I’m sure it’s a health hazard.’
‘That one’s the cutest,’ said Ginger, pointing to a pearly pink on Jodie’s ring finger.
‘Bit of a classic,’ said Jodie, going into beauty-speak.
From her corner, Fiona grinned. ‘We are not the readers. We know this stuff because we have been sitting beside you for ages.’
Ginger smiled. It was funny how the three of them had bonded over the fitness articles, even though Ginger felt you couldn’t get three more different women if you tried.
She and Jodie had gone out to dinner one evening and then Ginger had brought Jodie back to her place for tea where Jodie had gone into blissful admiration over the adorableness of Ginger’s house and been thrilled to meet the guinea pigs. Jodie lived in a tiny rented flat and said she’d have killed to live in a beautiful little house like Ginger.
Now that she knew Jodie, she could see that the other girl was a lovely twenty-six-year-old woman who’d just started dating a decent guy called Peter. She wasn’t into the club scene like Liza or her friends and she didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with Ginger because she wasn’t interested in those things either. It was comforting being with Jodie, having a friend.
Ginger went back to working on her article and was in the writing zone when her desk phone rang. It was the managing editor’s personal assistant. Mr Leon, said managing editor, wanted to see her pronto.
‘Mr Leon would like to see you at half four, if that is convenient?’ said the assistant in a voice that implied that unless Ginger was having something amputated at that precise time, it had better be convenient.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Ginger anxiously.
‘Shit,’ she said, turning to her colleagues.
‘What now?’ said Fiona. ‘I have got to have this filed in ten more minutes.’
‘I’m being summoned to see Mr Leon in forty-five minutes,’ said Ginger. ‘What do you think I’ve done?’
‘Written some bloody good articles, that’s what you have done,’ said Fiona. ‘Sorry, can’t talk, gotta type.’ She swivelled her head back to her computer.
‘It’s got to be good,’ said Jodie, pulling her wheelie chair over closer to Ginger’s. ‘Our fitness series has had a huge number of hits on the site and your piece is the most popular, so could he want to see you about that?’
‘Dunno,’ said Ginger. ‘A couple of months ago I was writing advertorials about peanuts and industrial estates and now this . . .’ She shivered. ‘What if I’m getting the sack?’
‘He’s not going to fire you,’ interrupted Fiona. ‘He doesn’t do the firing. Someone from human resources delivers the news and you get a box to clear out your desk. So either he wants hints on working out, or he has some brilliant new thing he wants you to do. Now shut up, you pair. I am going to need earplugs to work soon.’
Ginger bounced back to her desk an hour later.
‘What is it?’ said Jodie, ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Course it’s OK,’ said Fiona, grinning. ‘Tell us, then!’
Ginger could barely hold it in. ‘The editor says I’ve been writing such brilliant pieces that he wants me to take over a lot more major feature writing. I’m getting a two-year contract and more dosh! Isn’t that amazing?’
‘Oh, Ginger,’ sighed Jodie and hugged her friend. ‘I am so pleased for you. You deserve this. You’re a brilliant writer and . . .’
‘. . . And that will be one in the eye for Carla Mattheson,’ finished Fiona with glee. ‘That will shut the old cow up.’
‘That’s not the point, obviously,’ said Ginger quickly, ‘but . . .’ she paused, ‘. . . it would be nice to have it recognised that I’m not just something to be kicked around.’ And the three of them laughed uproariously.
There was still chattering and discussing exactly what Ginger’s new role would be, when a sharp cough made them all look up. Carla Mattheson stood close by, elegant and perfect as ever. Long legs encased in a skintight but somehow elegant skirt and a little swishy top that managed to conceal and not conceal at the same time. She looked amazing, Ginger thought with a hint of irritation. And then felt guilty. Carla Mattheson did bring out the worst in her.
‘Ginger,’ said Carla, in a sort of husky, come-hither voice she normally reserved for the men she wanted to impress around the building. ‘Can I talk to you for a moment in my office?’
‘Sure,’ said Ginger, about to grab her pens, notebook and tablet.
‘You won’t need any of that,’ said Carla.
Ginger followed Carla’s gently swaying hips. How did a person do that? she wondered. Some sort of motorised hip movement that just made everything sway. No wonder all the men were crazy about her.
In her office, Carla shut the door, that friendly smile still on her face. It was the smile that was making Ginger really nervous. It was the sort of smile that a woman-eating snake gave before she swallowed a person whole, reticulated jaw opening up to gulp them right down.
‘So,’ Carla sat elegantly behind her desk and motioned with one perfectly manicured hand for Ginger to sit too. ‘I hear you’ve been promoted. Won’t be working in our little magazine anymore.’
‘Yes,’ said Ginger, not even slightly surprised. The editor hadn’t said that he’d told everyone else, but then of course Carla was on the management team and she’d know all about it . . .
‘I was all for it,’ Carla said gravely. ‘I really believe in women getting ahead.’
It was all Ginger could do not to laugh out loud, but as it was she managed to hold it in somehow. She and her friends helped each other. Carla never helped anyone but herself. But if Carla wanted to think denial was a river in Africa, that was fine by Ginger.
‘You did a really good job on those gym pieces. Funny and real. The readers really liked them. Great ratings and a lot of readers on the internet version of the paper.’
‘Yes,’ said Ginger carefully. She wasn’t sure where this was going, but there was a hint of danger. As if Carla was already working up her jaw for the whole body-swallowing thing.
‘That guy Will Stapleton who runs the gym,’ went on Carla. ‘What a charmer he is. I knew you’d like him. Everyone does, totally gorgeous and sexy, isn’t he?’ She smiled then at Ginger, a smile that said so many things. ‘I put him onto you because I knew he’d take care of you. He’s great with people who need . . .’ Her eyes scanned Ginger’s body. ‘With people who need extra help. And he’s kind, you know. Kind to everyone. Of course, women are always falling in love with him . . .’
Ginger could only stare at her. All the joy of the previous night vanished.
‘He is kind of charming, isn’t he?’ she said, doing her level best to smile. She would not break down in front of this bitch.
‘Yes, very charming, and as I told him when I set up that initial meeting with you, it would be so good for his gym to be featured in the paper. After all, people would kill for that sort of PR. Two months of articles in the Sunday News. Who wouldn’t do anything for that?’
Ginger had no more fight left. She just stared at Carla.
‘I rang the gym earlier to check on my free membership and guess what, some guy on the desk said you and Will had been on a date last night? Sweet,’ Carla went on. ‘I’m sure you had a great time with him, but I have my eye on him. So hands off. He’s out of your league. I asked him if he’d come with me to the newspaper awards and, naturally, he said yes. He knows it would be fabulous publicity and think of all the contacts he’d meet. I hear on the grapevine you might be up for one . . .’
‘Really? I’ve never been and, no, I hadn’t heard that rumour,’ said Ginger. Somehow, she rose gracefully, smiled, and said, ‘Lots of work to do, Carla. Bye.’
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Jodie when Ginger raced over to their corner and frantically grabbed her handbag and her phone off the desk.
‘Nothing,’ said Ginger. But she knew she was going red, knew she’d cry any minute now and she had to get out of the office before that happened, before anyone else witnessed her pain. Even Jodie and Fiona, her dear friends. She couldn’t let them see how hurt she was. Because Will had used her. Will and Carla had used her. First Liza, and now them.
Will answered on the first ring.
‘Hey gorgeous,’ he said in a warm tone.
Ginger felt like a volcano that had been building up pressure for thirty years and today it was going to blow.
‘You never told me you knew my boss, Carla. And how could you agree to go to the press awards with her? Why did you agree?’
‘Ginger,’ he protested, ‘she phoned this morning. She’s sort of pushy. I knew she wanted a free membership when she suggested us for the magazine feature and the gym needs more publicity, but it’s just work, Ginger.’
‘Just work. Which part? Her or me? At least I know now, Will.’
‘It’s not like that—’ he protested. ‘Damn it, Ginger, after everything we shared last night—’
‘Exactly. You didn’t share one vital thing. All the old girlfriends, yes. The fact that you know my bitch of a boss, and were capable of going to an event with another woman when you’re allegedly going out with me, no. You never told me any of that. So case closed. Goodbye, Will. It was, briefly, nice knowing you. Until you showed me your true colours.’
And she slammed down the phone.
He kept phoning and phoning, but she blocked his number and deleted it. He could try to wriggle his way out of this one, but it was no good.
Ginger knew that Carla had simply seized upon the opportunity presented to her because she was angry that Ginger was being promoted. But why did Will have to go along with it? There were ways to get publicity without going on a date with another woman. He could have said: ‘Sorry, I’m dating Ginger Reilly.’ But he hadn’t. He’d been ready to jettison Ginger for publicity, and who knew if the ‘date’ with Ginger had just been publicity too . . .? She might never know. But she no longer cared. Ginger had had it with men.
Will sent flowers to the office, a giant bouquet of pink flowers that made the delivery person almost stagger in carrying them.
There was also a note.
Please answer my calls. I am so sorry. I’ll get out of it. She is work – you were never work, Ginger, never. I’ll wait and hope you phone. I won’t give up.
Will.
She crumpled the note into the bin and sent a simple text: Go with Carla. Publicity comes first. Stay away from me. It’s over.
Who needed a man, anyway?
The Caraval table was by far the noisiest at the Press Awards. The media group had taken out four wildly expensive tables and the staff were making full use of the free bar.
Ginger was excited despite the pain in her heart. Her friends were thrilled that she was nominated for best feature writer of the year. She’d never expected to be up for an award, had thought that Carla had just been taunting her, but it turned out to be true. Totally unexpected as far as she was concerned, but true.
She didn’t have a hope in hell of winning, particularly when someone as experienced as Carla Mattheson was up for it as well. When she thought nobody was looking, she ran her finger over the names of the people who’d been nominated. She never let her finger touch Carla’s name, as if mere contact with that name would contaminate her. Carla contaminated everything.
‘I hope that ho Mattheson doesn’t win,’ said Paula, settling herself down beside Ginger, when the MC had finally insisted for the fourth time that people had to come in from the bar and sit down because the awards were going to begin, and that the bar would close if they didn’t all shift it.
‘You know she will,’ said Ginger glumly, not bothering to correct Paula for her use of the word ‘ho’. She’d spotted Carla clinging on to Will and her heart had felt like the proverbial stone. If he looked good in gym gear, he looked utterly delicious in an evening jacket.
And not hers, she reminded herself. Stupid Ginger – again pining for someone who would never be hers. It astonished her how much it still hurt. Nothing had ever hurt so much.
They’d become friends all that time in the gym, she realised. They’d laughed and joked as he trained her. He’d been a part of her life as a friend and she’d fallen in love with him. Deeply, heart-wrenchingly. How was it that her heart ached in a way that no squat could ever make her thighs ache?
‘You should win,’ said Paula.
‘Oh come on, this is my first time being nominated, nobody wins on their first time,’ Ginger said, and then followed it up with the lie she’d been telling herself all evening: ‘This is fun, I’m having fun.’
‘Me too,’ said Paula, casting dark glances over at a guy from the sports department who was gorgeous, and clearly fancied her right back. In honour of this event, Paula was dressed in a knock-off version of a Hervé Léger bandage dress which was moulded to her body like a second skin. Paula had bought an incredible Victoria’s Secret push-up bra to help with the cleavage department.
Ginger knew she didn’t need any help in the cleavage department, but she was still pretty pleased with her appearance. Thanks to the personal training, she looked different, incredibly different. Nobody was ever going to call her skinny, but she was standing up for bigger, curvier girls in the best way possible. Her sister-in-law, Zoe, had helped her pick out the dress and she wore the amethyst silky sheath with pride. It was strapless, therefore wildly dangerous.
‘Try this,’ Zoe had said in the shop, when Ginger was in the changing room flinging evening dresses on and off with great abandon.
‘Are you nuts?’ said Ginger, looking at the sheath dress. ‘I have boobs, Zoe, big boobs. When you have anything in that department, you cannot go strapless, because this dress would be down around my ankles in about four minutes, and this is not the sort of event where I can let that happen. I am up for an award.’ She did not mention that the man she’d once been crazy about was going to be there with a woman she hated.
‘I promise you that will not happen,’ said Zoe. ‘You just need the right strapless bra.’
‘You’re crazy; I can’t wear this. Look at it, it’s a sixteen and I can’t fit into a sixteen.’
‘Try it, it’s got an inner control panel.’
‘Designed by NASA?’
Only because she wanted to please Zoe and because she thought it might be interesting to see if she could actually fit into the dress, Ginger had squeezed into it. ‘I can’t do the zip up the whole way,’ she said.
Zoe popped her head into the changing room. ‘Ginger, you look incredible!’
‘I look like I’m about to go out on the game,’ said Ginger, grinning. Before she’d toned up, she could not have fitted into this. She liked feeling fit and Will – oh, Will – had been right about fitness making a person feel strong and healthy. She had to join another gym. She obviously hadn’t been back to his.
‘You look extremely sexy and soignée,’ said Zoe.
‘I can’t quite close the zip,’ said Ginger, ‘and I don’t know what sort of bra is going to hold my breasts up in this, but it better be industrial grade.’
‘Don’t worry, leave it with me. Lulu insists that undergarments are the key to all. There will be no wardrobe malfunctions.’
Thanks to a really amazing strapless bra that must have been designed by NASA because it cost so much, Ginger fitted into the dress. She wore her beautiful hair up, her skin was porcelain pale and Jodie had done her eye make-up for her. She looked the best she had ever looked in her life and that included the original photo shoot for the fitness article. She hadn’t been toned then. Toning was the key, it was nothing to do with being fat or not being fat, as Will had said to her on many occasions.
‘It’s to do with fitness levels,’ he used to say. ‘There are many incredibly thin, skinny people and they’re totally unfit, Ginger. Being fit – that’s what matters. Fit, toned and strong. Gives you strength and confidence on the inside too.’
Her heart certainly didn’t feel strong these days, but she’d recover, Ginger thought miserably, extending an arm and admiring the emergence of biceps as she did so. She might have biceps but Carla had Will.
Still, she’d get over him if it killed her. She’d become aware of a few of the guys from work watching her, and she’d even caught Zac looking her way in admiration once or twice this evening. But maybe she was imagining it. Zoe had told her she looked amazing: ‘You look fabulous, Ginger. I wish you’d believe it too.’
The room was reasonably quiet as the MC made a few jokes and then started the countdown to the various awards. It really was a lovely night, thought Ginger, her mind going off into the ether. She wished she’d been able to bring someone from home: Mick and Zoe or Dad or Declan and Margaret. They’d have enjoyed it, enjoyed seeing her name written on the list of people who were nominated for the best feature writer.
Even though there was just no way in hell she was going to win it, it was something to be nominated. It was like this big start to her career, saying she’d arrived. Therefore, in expectation of not winning, she wasn’t in the slightest bit nervous as the presenter read out the list of people nominated for her award. Carla sat at one of the top tables wearing a short metallic dress that had probably cost thousands – or would have if she’d actually paid for it. Paula said Carla was notorious around town for getting discounts out of designers and designer shops. Plus, if she wore something that was photographed, it was good publicity for the designer and tonight she looked quite amazing with that sleek blonde bob and her usual push-up bra. Beside her sat Will, looking so familiar and so handsome. Ginger’s heart ached.
She was so busy in her contemplation of Will, Carla and her glossy beauty that she wasn’t listening and suddenly Paula was poking her painfully in her side with her elbow.
‘Get up,’ said Paula.
‘What,’ said Ginger. ‘What is it?’
‘You’ve won.’
‘Won what?’
‘You’ve won the award.’
‘You’ve won best feature writer, Ginger!’ said Brian, who was sitting at their table, smiling at her.
Suddenly all eyes were on Ginger. Was this a joke? Was this like Liza’s wedding, everyone ganging up on her to make her look stupid? And then she saw the huge screen and saw her name on it. Ginger Reilly, Sunday News, Feature Writer of the Year. Her stomach swooped.
‘Really?’ she said.
‘Really,’ hissed Paula. ‘Now get up there and say thank you to everyone. Remember to say thank you to the important people at the top, too, or you will never work in this town again. Don’t fall over anyone on the way up. I give you free leave to bring a glass of wine and throw it into Carla Mattheson’s face en route, if you want,’ added Paula, but a startled Ginger was gone, pushed happily along by other people.
‘I don’t believe this,’ she said and people smiled as she passed, because it was quite clear that this tall, statuesque girl, with her fabulous piled-up hair and her beautiful warm face, genuinely hadn’t expected to win.
She managed to get up on the stage without tripping even though her shoes were incredibly high. Because she was tall, she towered over the presenter.
‘Oh my,’ she said, looking around her. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
She took a deep breath. She would not make a fool out of herself. A man she was trying desperately to get over was down there looking up at her and he didn’t want her. He’d chosen someone else.
But she was a warrior woman: she would not let his presence upset her. She had a career to think of.
‘This is my first time here and I do not have a handy speech tucked into this dress. Nothing else will fit.’
Everyone laughed.
‘I wasn’t really a proper feature writer until a few months ago. Up until then, I was writing advertorials where, for the uninitiated, you have to write about peanuts and garages and make it all sound terribly thrilling but keep it under a thousand words.’
Everyone laughed some more.
‘And suddenly I’m here, nominated for an award and I win. I wasn’t thinking about that. I was looking around the room and thinking how wonderful everyone looked and wondering how soon I could take my shoes off because they are so tight.’ She poked a shoe out from under the dress, a dress with a side split that showed off those amazing legs.
Whoops accompanied the laughs this time.
She went on to make a list of thank yous, carefully mentioning all the people she worked with, including her pals Paula, Fiona and Jodie, right down to the girls who cleaned up in the evening, whose life stories she knew.
People were clapping, for her!
‘Finally, I’d like to thank my dad, my two brothers, Michael and Declan, my two sisters-in-law, Zoe and Margaret, and my Great-Aunt Grace for always being there, because they believed in me when nobody else did.’
And then Ginger made her way down the steps holding her glass award.
People tried to grab her and congratulate her.
‘You must come and work for us, you know,’ said one guy in a dark suit.
‘No, we saw her first,’ said his pal.
‘She could turn our magazine around,’ said a woman in fuchsia.
‘I’m happy where I am, but thank you, thank you,’ said Ginger, smiling at everyone with that great warm smile that captivated people.
‘You and I need to talk,’ said Alice Jeter, grabbing her. ‘I have a wonderful idea if you want to go along with it. I know your writing as Girlfriend is very personal—’
Ginger blinked. ‘You knew that?’
‘Course I knew. It was written from the heart, all really moving, full of empathy. You can’t fake that. That’s why I didn’t think you’d want to be outed, so to speak. But you’re too good, Ginger, to hide behind a pseudonym. What do you think?’
Ginger breathed in carefully. Too much breathing in and she might pop out of her dress. She’d been sure the Girlfriend thing was something Alice had constructed to hide Ginger behind. Not this – she had never foreseen this.
‘I’d love that,’ she said on the exhale. ‘Scary, but I’d love it.’
Alice smiled. ‘See you Monday morning,’ she said.
Beaming, Ginger finally made it down to their table, where Zac had suddenly materialised along with several bottles of champagne
‘Got to toast the winning writer,’ he said, a dangerous glitter to his eyes.
In her heels, he was the only man apart from Will who was taller than her and he was a full two inches taller. In her bare feet, he’d be six inches taller and that dinner jacket was made for him. Some men wore suits as if they’d been forced into them at knifepoint, but Zac wore his as if he was born into it. He filled a glass and handed it to her, standing really close to her. He then picked up another glass.
‘For a proper toast,’ he murmured, ‘the tradition is that we wrap our hands around each other, to get closer.’
‘Oh,’ said Ginger. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Paula making big thumbs up signs in the background, nearly bouncing out of her bandage dress.
‘Like this,’ he said.
‘OK,’ said Ginger, on a buzz after both her win and her conversation with Alice.
Zac moved closer and she was overwhelmed with the scent of his cologne. It was something woody and expensive, like him. His hair was short and slicked back, and oh, those eyes could almost see into her soul. He linked her wrist with his and then he said, ‘drink’, and she did, the whole glass, straight down.
Ginger was not a big drinker and because she had very little to eat beforehand, it went straight to her head.
‘Congratulations,’ he said and he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Do you know how sexy you are?’ he said, following it up with: ‘Would you like to celebrate later? With me. Alone?’
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Will staring over at her, eyes boring into her. Blast you, Will, she thought.
‘I’d love that,’ Ginger said defiantly. Why not?
It was time to go. Ginger had partied, been congratulated and had far too much champagne. She was making one last dash for the loo, when suddenly, Will stood in front of her, handsome in his evening jacket.
‘Congratulations,’ he said, eyes roaming over her hopelessly overexcited face.
Ginger longed to throw herself into his arms, but she knew, just knew, that somewhere in the background, Carla was there, watching.
‘Thank you,’ she said, summoning up good cheer from somewhere. ‘Hope you’re having fun.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I keep watching you—’
‘Baby.’ Zac’s arm slid around her waist. He was quite drunk, she realised. ‘I’ve got your things: bag and award. Now let’s really party.’
He shot Will a look of triumph.
Will stepped back.
‘Is this wise?’ he asked Ginger, and she felt herself grow furiously angry.
‘That ceased to be any of your business some time ago,’ she said, steering Zac away from him. ‘Bye.’
Ginger ordered a cab and when it arrived, she and the driver manhandled Zac in. He was definitely drunker than she’d thought. He must have thrown back some more champagne in the past few minutes. The gorgeous dark eyes were crossed now, but he was gazing at her breasts like it was Christmas and she had a stocking full of presents hidden in the front of her dress.
‘It’ll cost extra if he gets sick in the back of the cab,’ the driver warned.
‘I know,’ said Ginger.
Slowly, she extracted Zac’s address from him. He kept trying to kiss her, but she held him off and gave him her award to hold.
‘His place first,’ she said, leaning forward to talk quietly to the driver. ‘Then can you wait till I get him into his place, and I’ll come out and go home.’
‘Fine. On your credit card, love, we can drive all night.’
It took a while to get Zac into his rented apartment, which was a total man cave with lots of boy toys and a TV the size of a cinema screen. Zac had by now moved from happy drunk into sleepy drunk. Somehow, she got him onto his bed, loosened his bow tie, left a glass of water by the bed and left to get the taxi the rest of the way home.
‘Look what I won!’ she said to Squelch and Miss Nibbles, and then she sat down on her couch, still in her gorgeous dress, and started to cry. She’d won an award, everyone loved her and she was back in her apartment with her guinea pigs. Where were Will and Carla going? she wondered miserably.
Was this her life for evermore? Always the one home alone, thinking about other people having fun.