I’m wide awake at five in the morning, my brain alert and whirring, ready to go. Barely slept a wink all night, in fact. All I can think over and over again like a loop playing in my head is … I’m doing it. I’m coming clean to Jake. Before this day is out. For better or for worse. What Helen said to me the other night in her calm wisdom, is the right thing to do. She’s absolutely on the money and what’s more I know it. Every spare hour that I spend time with him, every phone call, every long, meandering gossipy chat is time that I’m effectively leading the guy up the garden path. Should I choose to continue being as pally with him as I have been up till now, then I’m deceiving him, simple as. Something friends do not do.
Not that I’d particularly know how friends behave or how they don’t, but as I pointed out to Helen, I’m on a learning curve.
Anyway, ever since that toe-curlingly awkward meeting in the Green yesterday, I can’t handle keeping the truth from him anymore. I swear it’s physically giving me heartburn. And I know it’s going to be awkward, and Jake will have every right to be furious with me, but for better or for worse, I’m telling him out straight. As we say in the Post, welcome to the wonderful world of got-no-choice. Should he choose to meet Lily and be a part of her little life, then whoop-di-do, but if not, then at the very least, I hope we’ll part company as friends.
I hope.
Christ alive, to say I nearly had a heart attack yesterday afternoon is an understatement and I still shudder to think of what might have happened. All it would have taken was for Lily to waddle over to me demanding some chocolatey treat and calling me Mama, like she always does. That’s all, then the game would be up, it would be all over bar the shouting. And, I keep asking myself, would it have been in any way fair on poor Jake to find out like that?
But, somehow, miraculously, the angels took pity on me and let me get away with it, albeit leaving me a nervous, trembling wreck for the rest of the entire day. So by far the best thing all round is just to get it over with and just pray he doesn’t want to do a runner or storm off in high dudgeon the minute he realises exactly how much I’ve been leading him on. As, I reluctantly have to admit, he’d be perfectly entitled to do.
Because in a rare moment of introspection I realise that, well, I’d miss chatting to him, wouldn’t I? I’d miss being able to sound off against him, miss telling him all the thousand irritating little minutiae that make up my average day. I’m surprising myself at how much my heart physically twists at the very thought that after this day is out, there’s a chance I might never get to see him again. I’d miss hearing him chat all about his day too and about how he is getting on at the language school. And I’d especially miss sniggering at all the devious tortures that he’s always threatening to carry out on Seth Coleman as punishment for continuing to bark up my bum day and night. Miss it all far more than I’d ever have thought possible.
With sudden realisation, I can clearly see now just how dependent I’ve become on him. The extent to which I lean on him. Me, of all people, whose proudest boast once was that no man was an island, but that I sure as hell was. Which is why today is D-Day. Endgame.
As it’s Sunday, I’d planned to take Lily to a Disney movie she’s been pestering me to see, then I dithered a bit about whether or not to invite Jake along, so he and Lily could spend a bit of time together. But on Helen’s sage advice, I decided not to.
‘I’m worried it might all be too much too soon, for Jake, not to mention Lily,’ she wisely counselled. ‘Better to meet him alone, just the two of you, and break it to him then.’
‘Easier said than bleeding done. Then what?’
‘Then just see how he feels about the whole thing and take it from there. If he agrees to see Lily, then and only then, I think would be the right time to tell her. At the very least, you’re protecting her from being let down. Remember, we don’t know if he’s going to want to be a part of her life yet. Far better at this stage just to play it safe, don’t you think?’
Four in the afternoon and Helen, Lily and I are just streaming with the crowds coming out of the multiplex cinema, with Lily singing at the top of her voice then, as usual, demanding ice cream, when my mobile rings. The office of course, screaming at me to get in, that there’s an emergency with next week’s Culture section that needs troubleshooting.
Rats, so much for precious Sunday afternoon Mummy-time. Reluctantly, I drop Lily and Helen back home, then race on into work. And on the way, with my resolve still solid, I call Jake and arrange to see him for dinner later on tonight. He already left a few messages for me yesterday evening which to my shame I never got back to; couldn’t. Needed time to plot and plan out what the hell to say to him.
‘You know I’d love to,’ he says. ‘But I’ve got a night class at eight. Unless I pick you up at work beforehand and we have a quick bite to eat then? Would that work for you? I’m already starving.’
I tell him that’s fine, thinking that it’s not really; I’d far rather have the whole evening to talk to him when he didn’t have to rush off, but it’s at least better than nothing. He agrees to call into the office for me and that’s that. The stage is set.
Three long hours later and I’m still with Marc from Culture, hammering out the final layout for the following week’s magazine and having one of my bickering sessions with him over what gets the final cover. As usual, it goes along the following lines:
Him; has to be some band that have played fewer than twenty gigs in their whole life but who are now not only a massive YouTube phenomenon but who are about to play their debut gig at the Oxegen festival and need all the press promotion they can get. Otherwise they’ll end up gigging in a remote field in County Meath, surrounded by a few indifferent cattle, while half a dozen mud-drenched revellers drunkenly look on. Assuming they’re lucky and get even that much of a turn out, that is.
Me; over my dead body, no one’s ever heard of that shower, barring they’ve spent the past two years on the lunatic fringes of the internet. They’re way too obscure, and anyway, who wants to read a magazine cover story about a band that’s largely unknown outside of their own living room? The cover needs to go to either a big Oscar-winning movie that’s opening or else our national theatre’s touring production that’s about to open on the West End. Which, unlike Marc’s bloody no-name band, chances are more than a handful of the cognoscenti might, perish the thought, actually want to see.
Next thing, Rachel’s stand-in sticks her head round my door and curtly informs me that there’s someone here to see me. (This one’s name is Ursula by the way, and she’s an honours journalism graduate whose style secret appears to be heavy black eyeliner and a complete and utter refusal to smile.)
The door is already half open and next thing, standing there, all six feet two of him, is Jake. Grinning cheekily and bless him, carrying a gorgeous bunch of Stargazer lilies, my favourites. Half of me lights up, genuinely delighted to see him, but the other half of me starts to get a bit shifty, knowing what’s ahead. And dreading it.
But here he is, standing large as life in front of me. No getting out of it now.
‘Hey,’ he says, filling up the doorway with the sheer hulking size of him. Looking handsome, in a crumpled, laid-back way and wearing a light blue shirt the exact colour of his eyes.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt …’
‘Oh that’s quite alright,’ says Marc, taking him in from top to bottom and back up again, like he’s sizing him up for a new suit. In fact he’s staring at Jake so intently that an utterly disconnected thought flashes through my head; bloody hell, never knew Jake would be Marc’s type. Knew he was gay alright, (the hair being the key giveaway; no straight man would dream of wearing it quite that bouffy for starters) but I’d have sworn he was in a long-term relationship with Sean from Advertising on the QT. So anyway I introduce him to Jake, who’s still standing patiently at the office door, bouquet of flowers in hand, and suddenly Marc’s French architect-style glasses nearly steam up.
‘Oh right,’ he says, recognition lighting him up as he puts two and two together and gets four million. ‘That’s who you are. Yes, of course, I’ve heard all about you, Jake.’
I shoot him a look that’s primly intended to convey, ‘Ahem, hello, wrong end of the stick here mate,’ but it’s no use. Received office wisdom round here is that Jake and I are an item and I know of old that the best way to let any story die down is purely to ignore it and let it just die a quiet death in its own good time. Adding useless denials is nothing more than fuel to the fire and tends to only prolong things round here.
‘Right then,’ says Marc, gathering up his manbag and laptop, ‘well, that’s me off then. See you in the morning Eloise. Great to finally meet you, Jake. Better get going, I’ve a movie screening to catch tonight.’
‘Anything decent?’
‘Transformers 4.’ This, by the way, said in the exact same tone as someone in revolutionary France on their way to the guillotine.
‘You have my sympathies,’ I half smile at him, knowing that having to sit through a kids movie would be anathema to someone with Marc’s more elitist cultural leanings.
He rolls his eyes up at me and on his way out throws back, ‘I’ll have the cover mock-ups for you by about ten tonight.’
‘No rush. It’s a Sunday night.’
A look so shocked from Marc that I have to resist the sudden urge to smile.
‘I’m sorry … Did you just say “no rush”? Did I really hear that right?’
‘Come on Marc, you’ve earned some breathing space. Enjoy a bit of time off after your movie and we can take this up again tomorrow.’
A stunned, dazed look from him and just like that, he’s gone, leaving Jake and me alone.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
‘For you,’ he says, thrusting the flowers over.
‘Jake, they’re lovely, thank you.’
‘Come on then, I just got paid this week and I’m treating you to dinner at the poshest restaurant we can find.’
Twenty minutes later we’re sitting at a cosy little table for two in Ciao Bella, a gorgeous Italian bistro only about a ten-minute stroll from the office. Popular with the T. Rexes, but as it’s a Sunday, I reckon I’m safe enough from them. The place is quiet tonight, which couldn’t suit me better. Privacy for what I’m about to say, I reckon = really good idea. We order and while we’re waiting I think … Just bloody well do it now. Go for it. Get it over with.
But somehow, I just can’t. Just silently sit looking at him, thinking how in hell do I ever begin?
A tension knot inconveniently forms in the pit of my stomach and suddenly I’m finding it difficult to breathe.
‘Good to see you taking a bit of time out to eat a proper nosh,’ he smiles across the table at me, eyes twinkling, giving me his big, open, trusting smile.
Silence from me. And now I’m aware of the background music playing; Marilyn Monroe singing My Heart Belongs to Daddy. A sign, surely?
‘You know, I really worry about all the crappy food you eat? Sometimes I think you’re on the John the Baptist diet – you’d live off grass shoots and the odd fistful of herbs if you could – the odd Big Mac meal, now Missy, would do you no harm at all.’
I nod absently. Still skirting around it, formulating in my head how best to approach this. Feeling like a child caught up in a complex lie.
Guess what Jake, you’re a dad … And I never told you … And by the way, I’ve been lying to you basically since the first time I met you … Ehh … no, probably not.
‘… Plus it’s always lovely to have an actual dinner with you,’ he grins across the candlelit table at me, ‘not just try and get you to wolf down a sandwich in between meetings.’
Still no reaction from me. Our food has arrived by now and as Jake horses hungrily into a deluxe-size cannelloni chatting easily away, I play with a house salad, pretending to eat. Doesn’t take long though for him to cop there’s something up with me and, as ever, is straight in for the kill.
‘Eloise?’
‘Hmmm?’
‘What have I just been talking about?’
‘Emm …’
‘I knew it. Knew you were miles away.’
‘Sorry, I’m just a bit …’
‘Here’s me warbling on about my big exams next week and ordinarily by now you’d be messing round with your iPad and producing study timetables, but instead you’re just staring into space, totally tuned out. Are you OK?’
‘Sorry Jake,’ I say, regrouping, snapping out of it. ‘Didn’t mean to be rude. Your exams, that’s important. Sorry, tell me more.’
‘Never mind the fecking exams for a minute.’
‘No, go on, tell me.’
‘Some other time,’ he says, shoving his plate aside and looking at me keenly with his cloud-blue eyes unflinching. ‘Right now, I’d really like to know what exactly is going on with you. You’re not yourself at all tonight and you hardly said two words to me on the walk over here. So come on, what’s bothering you?’
Still I can’t answer him. Bloody hell, this is exactly how Lily acts when she’s in trouble. Just stays stony silent so I have to try and drag it all out of her.
‘Eloise, you’re really starting to worry me now. Is there something going on?’ He’s looking directly at me now, worry clouding over him.
No avoiding this.
‘Someone or something bothering you in work? Come on, you know you can tell me. You can always talk to me. Or let me guess, are the walls in here bugged by the T. Rexes at the Post?’
He’s looking straight at me now in that unflinching way he has; oddly disconcerting when you’re on the other end of it.
‘Jake, I … Well the truth is, there is something I want to talk to you about.’
‘Whatever it is, it’s okay. You can tell me anything, you know that.’
‘Can I, Jake?’
‘Of course you can.’
Shit, what’s keeping the bloody glass of wine I ordered? Need alcohol to get me through this. Very badly.
‘Well … you know how you and I have an unspoken agreement never to talk about our private lives?’
‘Well, yeah …’
‘The thing is …’ I break off again uselessly.
A silence and I swear I can physically feel his eyes burning into mine.
‘Eloise? Were you … I mean, are you …?’
‘What I’m trying to say is …’
‘Eloise, are you married? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?’
Now he looks bewildered and a bit hurt.
‘No! Where’d you get that idea from?’
‘Separated? Living with a guy that you don’t want to know about me?’
‘None of the above, you’ve totally got hold of the wrong end of the stick. It’s just that …’
‘Well, well, well. Look who we have here. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world.’
Shit and double shit.
I do not buggery well believe this.
Like a lingering bad smell that just won’t go away, Seth Coleman is standing right beside us, as ever, looking like a forty-year-old choirboy whose mammy continues to dress him for work. But that’s not what makes a cold clutch of terror grab at my chest. Right behind him, smiling benignly in that patrician way he has and taking in the whole scene – me, Jake, the bunch of flowers, the candlelight, the works – is none other than Sir Gavin Hume.
‘Ahh, Madame Editrix, there you are,’ he smiles kindly as I leap to my feet and rush to shake his hand.
Oh holy fuck. What in the name of arse is Sir Gavin doing with Seth? And here of all places, when I so badly needed to be alone with Jake?, What the hell is going on between this pair that I don’t know about?
‘Hello there,’ I try to say calmly, composing myself. ‘Can’t believe you’re both meeting outside of work – and on a Sunday too! Everything okay?’
My intention is for that to sound innocuous and breezy but it comes out so strangulated, I’m practically singing soprano.
‘Oh, Seth and I just had one or two bits and pieces to discuss,’ he says lightly. ‘Nothing whatsoever for you to worry about, Madame Editrix. You two seem to be, well, otherwise occupied as it is.’
Now, whenever anyone tells me not to worry, my shoulders will, on cue, instantly seize up and my heart will start palpitating. But when it’s the chairman of the board saying that to me, then believe me, I’m this close to needing emergency services.
‘We’re just having a quiet dinner à deux, as it happens,’ Seth smoothly informs me, just a hint of a gloat in his snivelly voice.
‘Indeed,’ says Sir Gavin, patting his portly, overhanging stomach. ‘And in fact if we don’t order soon by the way Seth, I’m in danger of passing out with hunger.’
Right, that’s it, my mind shoots up a gear to overdrive now. They’re having a quiet dinner? Just the two of them? Unheard of! So who asked who, is what I immediately want to know. I stand there with a frozen smile practically hard-wired onto my mouth, thinking all the while, Jaysus help Seth if he even thinks about writing this off as a company expense and if I find out, that’s all I have to say.
‘Emm … would you like to join us?’ I ask desperately.
‘Wouldn’t dream of intruding on your romantic evening. No you enjoy your meal and we’ll just have our little chat privately.’
‘Well, enjoy,’ I manage to say weakly, hoping it came out politely, but afraid my subtext is all too apparent. I hope you enjoy it, Sir Gavin, but may Seth Coleman choke on an asparagus tip and end up in an overcrowded emergency room surrounded by screeching kids with saucepans stuck on their heads. Serves him right for doing whatever he’s doing behind my back. But mark my words, I’ll find out precisely what’s going on, even if it bloody kills me in the process.
‘Tut, tut, Eloise. Now where are your manners?’ says Sleazebag Seth, noticing Jake now and suddenly in no rush whatsoever to leave. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us to you new friend?’
Jesus, I think, suddenly irrationally furious. How does he do that? Manage to make the word friend sound like ‘gigolo’?
I mumble my way through the introductions, hot flushing like a menopausal matron.
‘Heard a lot about you,’ sniffs Seth, taking Jake in from head to toe, while Sir Gavin just shakes his hand then stands patiently by, saying nothing, just glancing up at a board with all the day’s specials written on it every now and then.
‘Likewise,’ Jake smiles politely back.
‘Right well, have a lovely meal,’ I say, having to clear my throat a couple of times before it comes out right.
‘Yes, we’ll leave you to it.’
Then I think, feck it. Might as well throw this in.
‘Emm … Sir Gavin, are you sure you don’t need me to be aware of, well, whatever it is that you are discussing?’
‘No need at all. Nothing for you to fret about, you’ve quite enough going on as it is. That’s all too apparent. Well, nice to meet you Jake.’
‘You too, Sir Gavin,’ Jake smiles easily, utterly unfazed by all this, while I just stand there clutching and unclutching sweaty palms.
They’re almost gone, it’s almost over when Seth pauses for a split second before turning back to our table, à la Peter Falk in Columbo.
‘Just one more thing, Jake, wasn’t it?’ the slimy git says as he whips out one of his monogrammed hankies and dabs his long, bony nose in a gesture a dowager countess circa 1910 would baulk at using. ‘I’m assuming I’ll see you next weekend? At the directors’ corporate function?’
Jake doesn’t answer, just shoots me an inquiring look, so I try to flummox my way out of it.
‘You know, I don’t actually think that’s going to be possible.’ I half stammer. ‘Jake is teaching, you see and his hours are a bit …’
‘Nonsense, of course you’ll have to be there,’ says Seth, clearly sensing my discomfort and revelling in it. ‘Won’t he, Sir Gavin?’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Sir Gavin chimes in. ‘You must come Jake,’ he nods politely, ‘as a guest of Madam Editrix, you’d be more than welcome. I absolutely insist. Everyone will be delighted to meet you.’
‘Wonderful!’ I say in a strangulated high-pitched voice I hardly recognise as my own.
‘So that’s settled then,’ is Seth’s last, triumphant word. ‘See you next weekend Jake. And by the way, I’m very much looking forward to playing a round or two of golf with you.’
Jake, I notice, says nothing to this, just stares back at him, arms folded, giving absolutely nothing away.
And finally, they’re gone to the upstairs section of the restaurant, mercifully leaving us alone.
Oh bugger this to hell. It’s as good as decreed now. If Sir Gavin himself has invited Jake, then short of the Post going into receivership before next weekend, that’s it. He’s got to come with me and that’s final.
As soon as they’re well out of sight and safely upstairs, Jake’s sprung to his feet, gripping my arms as he gently eases me back into my chair. Then he sits me back down, as ever, making me feel tiny beside the sheer hulking size of him.
‘You okay?’ he asks me, looking straight into my eyes, all concerned. ‘Jeez, you were tense enough before they came in, but look at the state of you now …’
‘I’m so far from okay, I can’t tell you.’
You just don’t know why, that’s all …
‘Sir Gavin seems alright,’ he says thoughtfully, ‘but if you ever want me to sort out that Seth git for you, believe me, it would be my absolute pleasure. I feel very protective over you, and God help anyone who tries to have a go at you when I’m around, that’s all I can say.’
‘One day I’d like to have that man vaporised, but for the moment …’
‘Now you’re beginning to sound a bit more like yourself,’ he smiles, the old twinkle coming back into his eyes. ‘That’s a lot more like the strange and troubled woman I know. So just listen carefully to what I’m telling you. Let. It. Go.’
I give him a wobbly smile, all while thinking, how do I get our conversation back on track? He sits back down and now we’re back to pin-drop silence, which, for once, Jake misreads.
‘Eloise,’ he says softly, ‘don’t get stressed about why Sir Gavin is meeting with git-face Seth. It’s not worth it. Whatever’s going on, I’m sure it’s nothing for you to worry about.’
No, nothing compared to what I’m about to land on you.
‘Besides, if it had been anything concerning you, don’t you think they’d have told you?’
I nod, though for the minute, I’m not even thinking about Seth and Gavin. Yeah, sure something’s up between the two of them alright, I can practically smell it. Don’t know what, but it’ll only a matter of time before it all filters back to me. Sooner or later everything does. And I’ll deal with it then, and only then.
I take a sip of the wine that’s finally arrived and look over to him, worry now etched all over his fair, freckled face. Though he’s not half as fecking worried as I am.
‘Jake, just to get back to …’
‘Please,’ he says, leaning against the window now and looking intently back at me, ‘I know what you’re thinking and I don’t want you to get all stressed about it. You don’t have to. Because I won’t go unless you want me to. I mean come on, me? At some corporate weekend do? Playing golf with gits like that Coleman wanker? Are you kidding me? I’d end up punching him in his smug self-satisfied gob if he as much as looked crossways at you.’
‘It’s not that, Jake,’ I shift around uncomfortably in my chair.
‘Wish you could tell him the only use we have for golf clubs where I come from …’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘What? Tell me.’
Just then, the bill arrives, which Jake very generously insists on paying, then starts getting ready to leave.
‘You have to go already?’ I say, stunned. He can’t go, not now, not yet.
‘Yeah, sorry I have to rush, but remember I told you I was teaching an English class tonight? In fact I gotta run or I’m going to be late. So what was it you wanted to say to me anyway, before we were so rudely interrupted?’
Oh God, not now, not when he’s running out the door.
Shit, shit, shit.
‘It was … emm … nothing that can’t wait.’
‘You’re stressed out of your mind about this whole corporate weekend, aren’t you? Isn’t that why you’ve been so jumpy all night?’
‘Well, partly …’
‘What, is it like some kind of partners’ thing, or something?’
‘It is, actually …’ But that’s the least of my worries.
‘I see,’ he says, thoughtfully. Then after another pause and a good long look at me he adds, ‘and for what it’s worth, I think I do understand what you were trying to tell me. Or rather, what you weren’t.’
More bloody silence, and for once I can’t think of a single thing to prise out of my mouth that might fill it.
Next thing, he’s on his feet, pulling his jacket on.
‘Jake? You’ve got to leave right this minute?’
‘Yeah, or I’ll be late.’
‘Oh,’ I say, deflated. ‘So maybe I’ll talk to you afterwards?’
‘Listen, Eloise,’ he smiles down at me, ‘if you need company at the corporate piss up, count me in. I’ll be there for you and I won’t let you down. Sure, I’d do anything for you, you know that, don’t you?’
I give a weak, automatic smile, not wanting him to go, not yet.
‘But as for the partners side of it …’ He went on, not quite able to look me in the eye now. ‘Eloise, you’ve been so good to me and I’ll never forget you for that. You were a true pal when I needed one most. But …’
‘Yeah?’ Not sure where that ‘but’ could be headed.
‘Well then maybe this might put your mind at rest a bit. I was going to tell you, but …’
But what, I think?
‘That girl I met you with in the Green the other day?’
‘Yes, I remember. Monique, wasn’t it?’
Hard to forget the Girl from Ipanema, tall and tanned and young and lovely and the adoring way she batted her two-inch long Bambi eyelashes in Jake’s direction.
‘As a matter of fact …’
And I swear with a journalist’s knife-edge instinct, that I already know what’s coming next.
‘She’s been asking me out for a while, so we’re just going out for drinks to celebrate my exams being over at the end of the week. Just as pals, you know.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘You and I have always been straight with each other, so I just thought I’d let you know.’
Me? Straight with you? You don’t know the half of it, sunshine, I think, barely able to meet his open, trusting, blue eyes. So exactly like Lily’s that it would melt a heart of stone.
‘Oh absolutely,’ I manage to smile brightly, ‘that’s great news.’
‘Yeah, she’s a lovely girl, Monique. She’s twenty-two.’
‘Twenty-two?’
‘Yup. Teaches Bikram yoga and as you probably gathered the other day, needs English lessons VERY badly.’
‘Yoga?’ I repeat stupidly.
‘So just in case you were worried about me taking the partners thing seriously …’
‘Oh no, no, not at all …’
‘But if you want me to go with you as your buddy, you can count on me. You know that.’
‘No worries. Have a lovely night and I’ll see you during the week?’
‘Sure, I’ll call you once my exams are out of the way.’
‘Best of luck!’ I call after him brightly, and two seconds later, he’s gone.
I knock back the dregs of my wine and speed dial Helen the minute he’s gone, hissing everything that’s just happened down the phone to her.
‘You mean you didn’t get to tell him?’
‘Couldn’t. I tried my best, I really did, then Sir Gavin and bloody Seth Coleman interrupted us.’
‘I don’t believe it!’
‘I know, I nearly choked.’
‘So tell him before you go away for the weekend then.’
‘Can’t.’ I sigh helplessly. ‘He’s got five full days of exams ahead. How can I land this on him on this of all weeks? If he failed, it would be entirely my fault. And he’s worked so hard.’
‘The weekend then. You’ll have to tell him then. You can’t put it off any longer. You’ve waited this long, you can wait another six days, can’t you? And until then, just stop all your worrying and put it out of your head. Nothing else you can do. In fact, the weekend is probably an even better time, because it’s down the country and you’ll be able to snatch a bit of time alone together, won’t you?’
I’m only half-listening to her though.
‘And another thing, he’s dating that slapper we saw him with in the Green yesterday.’
‘Oh shit, you’re kidding me.’
‘When do I ever?’
‘You know what?’ she says to the soundtrack of Lily bashing out Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on the piano in the background. ‘I’m quite psychic. Saw this coming a mile off.’
‘Saw what exactly coming?’
‘Well, you’ve gone and done all the heavy lifting on him, haven’t you?’
‘Explain?’
‘You’ve gone and found this rough diamond and sanded him down and moulded a perfect gentleman out of clay: you’ve groomed him and prepped him and all for what? So some other girl can just step in and have all the benefit? I don’t know what he was like when you first met him, but to look at him now, you’d think, that guy can have anyone he wants. He’s perfect. Handsome, lovely, kind, polite, intelligent. And you’re the one who made it all happen. I often think the same about me and Darren, you know. I’ve spent years honing and sanding down his rough edges and if we ever break up, what’ll happen? The next girl that comes along will get all the benefit of all my long years of patiently grafting and nagging and he’ll be married to her within a year. Seen it happen a thousand times.’
‘Helen love, just so you know, men aren’t always the answer.’
‘Then why do we always end up talking about them?’
‘And another thing; don’t forget that Sir Gavin’s wife insists on being addressed as Lady Hume.’
‘Ah get off the stage, please tell me you’re having a laugh.’
‘When do you ever see me joking?’
‘You’re seriously telling me that I have to call her your ladyship?’
‘Yup. Won’t answer to anything else these days. Unless she happens to have a few drinks in her, in which case you may be invited to call her by her Christian name.’
‘Where does she think she’s living anyway? Versailles? Late eighteenth century?’
‘Jake, just do as I ask, please.’
‘Out of curiosity, what’s her real name anyway?’
‘You ready for this? Shania.’
Okay now I actually have to hold the phone away from my ear, he’s guffawing that hard.
‘Sorry,’ he all but snorts, ‘just getting a mental picture of the reaction Lady Shania Hume the Fourth, or whatever she calls herself, would get if she started giving herself airs and graces round where I come from.’
‘Well, in that case, you’ll love this. She’s inner-city born and bred and if you’re to believe the rumour mill, worked in Burdock’s chipper there for years. Became a model, worked her way up, met Sir Gavin when he was just a humble hack, and never looked back. During the Celtic Tiger years, her proudest boast was that the highlights in her hair matched her car.’
‘Piss off.’
‘Jake! Language like that in front of the T. Rexes and I will personally murder you!’
‘I know, I know. Will you chill out, for feck’s sake?’
‘Course now she’s all in with the Kildare horsey set and to see her swanning around the place, you’d nearly swear she was reared in a stately home and related to the Middletons. She’s even changed her accent too and now she sounds posher than one of the Mitford sisters, by way of the Queen.’
I can almost hear the sound of his eyes rolling.
‘Well if she worked in a chipper, she and I’ll have lots in common then. We can spend a happy afternoon sharing stories about queuing up for butter vouchers. Or better yet, I can tell her that she looks a bit familiar, then ask her does the phrase “Can I have two curry chips and a batter burger with a tin of Fanta to go?” mean anything to her.’
‘Very droll. Oh and don’t forget Ruth O’Connell, you remember Ruth? Pinched face, permanently disappointed look about her?’
‘The Northern editor, yeah I remember her. Looks at men like she’s either going to kiss them or kneecap them.’
I half smile. But then, Jake has this innate knack of immediately paring people right down to their basic, elemental truth.
‘Anyway, the woman is capable of ferreting a juicy story out of a large lump of lard. So just be on your guard round her, that’s all I’m saying.’
Course that’s the least of my worries, but I say no more. And then my stomach does a flip worthy of the Cirque du Soleil even just thinking about how much else could go wrong. It’s like a whole kaleidoscope of worries about this whole shagging weekend is now unfolding, almost sickening me.
Now you know me, I’ve planned out as much as it’s possible to without actually handing out a scheduled timetable to Jake. The Saturday is an afternoon get-together, followed by a posh nosh-up that night with speeches, the whole works. But then the Sunday morning is ‘free time’. Or decoded, four or five hours for the lads to arse around a golf course and talk shop. So, Sunday morning it is, then.
I’ve thought it all through; I have a plan. I’m going to take Jake out for a walk over the grounds after breakfast and when we find a nice, peaceful spot, miles from any distractions or unwanted interruptions, I’ll tell him then. Everything, the whole works.
Sunday morning it is, for better or for worse.
‘Eloise, listen,’ Jake cuts across my stream of worrying, taking me out of my own head and back to our phone call. ‘Stop your fretting, would you? We’ve been over this time and again. You’ve prepped me inside and out and we can do no more. I know who everyone is and I’ve enough titbits about the lot of them to last me if we were all going off on a luxury cruise liner for three long months, never mind just for one lousy weekend. I know what to say and more importantly, what not to say. So will you just relax, for Christ’s sake? The point has come where you’re going to have to relinquish control and learn to trust me.’
Relinquish, I think absently. Must be his new word for the day.
‘I do trust you. You just have no idea what you’re letting yourself in for, that’s all. Oh and one more thing …’
‘Ah here, what now?’
‘Robbie Turner …’
‘Yeah, yeah, political guy, I’ll know him by the shock of white hair, you’ve already drilled it into me …’
‘If I could just finish my sentence – I was going to say his wife is Adele and she’s lovely, very warm and friendly.’
‘Safe for me to be myself around, in other words. That what you mean?’
‘Be warned though, she’s no fan of mine. Blames me hugely for the fact that she and her kids rarely see Robbie, because the hours he has to work are so mental.’
‘Ah, Eloise. You mean you never cut the guy a bit of slack?’
‘Believe me, I’ve been trying to, but you don’t realise what being a foreign editor involves. The sheer number of man hours you’ve got to put in and then you’ve got to factor in the time difference if you’re covering a breaking story from Washington.’
‘Don’t worry, I get it. Because the whole world will come to an end if you’re not all chained to your desks for at least eighteen hours a day.’
‘I’m just saying, Adele’s no fan of mine, so be warned.’
‘Eloise, short of you sending me mailshots of everyone with their CV attached, we can’t prepare for this weekend any more thoroughly that we already have done. Now would you ever just relax and switch off, for God’s sake? Isn’t it supposed to be an enjoyable two-day break? Isn’t it all meant to be a bit of fun? Can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it after a week of exams.’
‘Fun? Did you just use the word fun in connection with the directors’ weekend? Because let me tell you, this is all about stress and tears and sweat and hair loss. Fun doesn’t even begin to come into it.’
‘All I’m saying is, will you just for once chill out a bit?’
‘I am. I mean I’m trying to. I mean, yes, I will.’
‘And another thing.’
‘What?’
‘Given that it’s supposed to be a casual country house get-together …’
‘Casual? There are internent camps out there more casual than one of these bloody weekends, let me tell you.’
‘I wasn’t finished,’ he says, calmly overriding me, the way he always seems to be able to. ‘As a matter of fact, it’s about you.’
‘What about me?’
‘Remember when I was going for my job interview and you took me out shopping? Made me buy clothes I’d never buy in a million years? And I hated wearing them, but then they got me the job and now I’m so used to going around in non-sports-related gear …’
‘… And not wearing trainers all day every day, thank God.’
‘By now it’s almost become second nature to me to dress all, you know, middle-class. Whereas you, on the other hand …’
‘You have a problem with how I dress?’ I splutter, as the sudden bile of indignation surges through me. ‘Excuse me, my suits are all either from Reiss or else Karen Millen and I do actually own a pair of Louboutins, I’ll have you know.’
‘Ehh, let me hazard a wild guess. All in black?’
‘Well, yeah.’ I mean the soles of my fancy shoes may be scarlet red, but sure enough, okay, everything else is black.
‘Thought so,’ he teases. ‘Sounds like you alright.’
‘What’s wrong with black? It’s for the office and it’s practical. Editorial.’
‘Nothing wrong with it. I’m just sick looking at you dressed like you’re going to the funeral of an elderly relative that you didn’t particularly like and who left you next to nothing in their will. For god’s sake, this is supposed to be a relaxed weekend in the country, that’s all I’m saying,’ Jake goes on, reasonably. ‘So would it kill you just this once to wear a pair of jeans and a few casual tops instead? In actual colours too? You’d look good in colours.’
Jeans, I think, miles away. Haven’t shoehorned myself into a pair of jeans since I was in college.
‘Look,’ he goes on, undeterred by my silence. ‘You took me shopping with you once, and now it’s my turn to repay the favour. You free now?’
‘Jake, you’re meant to be studying! I was only calling you to see how the exams are going so far.’
‘I’ve been at the books cramming since dawn and my brain is just about melted. I could really do with getting out of here for an hour and taking a break. Tell you what, I could you meet at the top of Grafton St. in twenty minutes? Come on, it’s a Thursday evening, everything’s open till late, you could easily manage it.’
Suddenly the sound of loud shrieking comes from the kitchen as Lily and Helen, who are baking cupcakes, start having what sounds like a particularly messy flour fight. I cover the phone with my hand and stick my head round the door, nearly guffawing with laughter at the sight of their twin ghostly white faces, four big surprised eyes looking back at me.
‘NO, Mama, NO,’ Lily squeals excitedly, eyes full of mischief and energy, shoving me away and getting little floury paw-shaped handprints all over my neat black skirt. ‘You’re not ’llowed be in here! Me and Auntie Helen are making a supriwse for you!’
‘Give us an hour and come back then?’ Helen asks me hopefully. ‘Lily really wants to bake cupcakes for you.’
‘What’s all that racket in the background?’ says Jake. ‘You still in the office?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ I say, instinctively keeping my hand well clamped over the phone. ‘Ehh, look, I have to go now. But yeah sure, why not? I’ll meet you in ten minutes.’
I hang up, dust the flour off myself, then tell Helen that I’ll be home in an hour or so and head outside to the car. And okay, so my head may be whirring like a Vegas slot machine with everything I have to stress about. But seeing Jake even just for an hour or so will calm me down a cbit, I think.
Somehow it always does.
Besides, what’s wrong with enjoying these last few days of normality with him while I still can?