Do You Want to Know a Secret? (16 page)

‘Now, now,’ she says in her best mammy voice. ‘Would you care for me to put things into perspective for you? You’re speaking to a woman who began her day at six a.m. this morning, by refereeing a screaming match between Jake and George Junior – who are capable of having a feud lasting both their lifetimes and well into the next generation over a box of Cheerios. So any delicious, distracting gossip you might have for me right now concerning last night would be like manna from heaven.’

‘Fair point,’ I say, suitably chastened. ‘Are you OK, hon?’

‘Vicky, I had four hours’ sleep last night and that’ll probably have to do me till mid-August. I won’t be OK until the baby is eighteen. Back to last night. I take it by your
Exorcist
tone and the fact that you’re only going to work at ten a.m. that it was a success? Full breakdown please: names, places, social security numbers, dish it out.’

‘A roaring success. The bits I remember, that is. I mean, I
know
it was a good night, because I always feel rotten the next morning in inverse proportion to how good a time I’ve had. Oh Laura, I know this is
the
world’s greatest lie, but I am never drinking again.’

‘No, dearest, the world greatest lie is: ‘You’re my wife, of course I love you.’ Trust me on this, I have personal experience. Anyway, at least you get to spend the rest of your day nursing your hangover in adult company. There’s a lot to be said for it. When I hang up, I have to go and scour the inside of a gerbil’s cage. Now don’t let me down, I rang you for some grade A juicy news, please. My wounds could do with some balm.’

I fill her in and she sounds suitably impressed.

‘I’d forgotten just how incredible Barbara really is when she’s in action,’ I say, beginning to feel a bit perkier now. ‘You should have seen her, she’s like some sort of man-whisperer. It’s like they just roll over and obey her every command.’

‘Do you think it might work with boys under the age of thirteen? I only ask because last night I caught George Junior trying to hold Jake’s head under water.’

Just then my phone beep beeps as another call comes in. Shit, probably the office, wondering where the hell I am . . . if I’ve fallen down an open water main in my house or something.

‘Laura, can I call you back?’

‘No problem. Just know that I’m very proud of you. Three different eligible bachelors, all in one night? May I just say I expect you to become the subject of a trivia question very soon. Oh, I wrote my short story by the
way
, is it OK if I email it to you? I’ve a strong intuition that it’s complete rubbish and that my writing style is the same staccato, brochure-cliché that you get in law reports, but I’d really value your editorial input.’

‘Fire away, call you later! Hello?’ I say, instantly clicking on to the call that’s waiting.

‘Ehh, hello, is that Vicky?’

Man’s voice, Scottish accent, which is ringing a bell . . .

Oh my God, it’s Cardigan Man, the first guy I met last night, in Ron Blacks bar. Shit, what’s his real name, quick, quick, quick, what’s his bloody name . . .

‘It’s Eddie here, I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.’

‘No, not at all, just on my way to a . . . ehh . . . meeting . . . emm . . . Eddie.’

‘Ah great. I just wondered if you’d like to come to dinner tomorrow, Saturday, if you were free? After the grilling your friend gave me last night, I felt it would be downright churlish of me not to invite you out.’

Oh, isn’t that sweet? I’m thinking, as I immediately accept. He seems genuinely delighted, and we chit-chat on for a bit, about last night mainly.

‘You and your mate Barbara disappeared quite abruptly, did you both have early starts this morning, then?’

‘Ehh, yeah, something like that,’ I say, a bit guiltily.
Anyway
, we chat on and he tells me he’s on his way to do an audit this morning but that he’ll call tomorrow to confirm the restaurant, and for once in my sad dating life, I absolutely 100 per cent believe this guy. Three texts and a phone call within the critical twenty-four-hour period just after you first meet? Bloody right tomorrow will go ahead. In fact, this guy just sounds so enthusiastic, I might as well start calling him Eager Eddie. In a good way, of course. Hand on heart, this is making a lovely change for me.

I once read a quote that said that men are a bit like taxis: either their lights are on or they’re off. And obviously, for my purposes, after all my years of dating emotionally unavailable cretins, a bright glaring ‘I’m available’ light is what I’m after, just like Eddie. This is all so
amazing
, I think, pulling into my parking space and nearly scraping the car on a pillar. (Shit, I must be still a bit squiffy.) In fact, I’d almost forgotten what fun it can be in the early stages of, dare I say it, a courtship. You know, when everything is foreplay, even early-morning phone calls.

God, I cannot wait to pick the whole thing over with Barbara. I glance at the clock on the dashboard. Quarter past ten. Nope, nobody ever rings her before two in the afternoon,
nobody
. Even her agent knows just to leave a message, although Barbara did say he hasn’t picked up a phone to her since around the time of the last Olympics.

Anyway, by the time I get into the office, Paris and Nicole are buzzing around with so much energy/enthusiasm/general sparkliness that I feel knackered just looking at the pair of them. They’re getting goodie bags organized for a press launch that’s scheduled for this morning, which in my muddy-minded haze had totally slipped my mind. In my defence, though, it’s not really a major client. (It’s for a new anti-stress spritz called ‘Arctic Ice’.) I don’t have to be there (thank you, God, I owe you one), and it’s been more or less their baby from the word go.

They both do a bit of a double-take when they see how haggard I’m looking, but like the angels of discretion that they are, neither of them pass any comment. In fact, after I say my good mornings in an over-compensatorily bright way, Paris slips out to Starbucks across the road, gets a very large espresso and a Danish, and discreetly places it on my desk, without even saying a single word, nothing, not even a vague reference to the fact that I look like I slept the night in a tree, then gave about five litres of blood to a passing vampire on my way into work today. And this isn’t done in an irritating bum-licker way either, just cos I’m her boss. Honestly, this is a girl so well-connected she could walk in anywhere and command any job in PR that she felt like. Her Rolodex is something that publicists lie awake at night dreaming about.

Note to self: give that girl another major pay rise, keep a close eye on her to make sure no one ever attempts to poach her from me. Rare diamonds like this one must at all costs be cherished and nurtured.

Anyway, pretty soon she and Nicole are heading off to set up for the launch, both looking fabulously glamorous, fresh-faced and so
young
that I feel like a granny just looking at them.

‘Oh, Vicky, here’s a product-sample bag for you,’ Paris says, tossing over a fancy silver beaded bag full of anti-stress spritz. ‘Have a try, they’re fab.’

‘Great, thanks so much, girls,’ I say, trying my best to sound cheery and awake to keep up with their combined twenty-something perkiness. ‘Get loads of coverage and I’ll see you later!’

As they clickety-clack off, laden down with goodie bags, I revert back into full ‘slump’ mode, and with the minuscule bit of energy I have, fish the press release out from the freebie bag they gave me.

Introducing Arctic Ice, the latest cutting-edge development in unisex aromatherapy treatments! The Arctic Morning spritz invigorates both mind and body, Arctic Afternoon spritz balances out the chakras, while Arctic Night calms and soothes tired, frayed nerves at the end of a long day. Truly the coolest, most refreshing sensation this side of the polar ice-caps!

Oh, for God’s sake, who wrote that shite? I think, stuffing it into the bin and switching on my computer. And then I realize. I did.

Anyway, I think I’d better do some work. The combination of a nice quiet office and lovely strong coffee is beginning to help considerably as I get cracking. Right then, today’s agenda is as follows: on top of my normal day’s work, I have to finish off reading a profile development and then come up with a launch strategy for a new jewellery designer brand. Now this is all very well and good, except that the manufacturing company involved have, up until now, been mainly noted for making cutlery. This is a big branch-out for them, so my one-line brief is, ‘It’s gotta be hot and it’s gotta be good.’

No pressure or anything. Plus I have a ton of phone calls to make on behalf of ‘project Barbara’, all the more important now, seeing as she went to so much trouble for me last night. Anyhoo, I click on my inbox and bring up my emails before I get started.

My eye quickly scans down and . . . oooooh, yes, there it is, Laura’s short story for the competition. I know I’ve a pile of work to get through before the weekend, but I can’t resist. I click ‘open’ and up it comes.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: The things I will do for cash
.

Dearest Vicky
,

Now this is only a first attempt, so go easy on me. All comments gratefully appreciated, although am still unsure whether or not the world is quite ready for my particular take on yummy-mummy-hood. Have to dash, just got a call from Jake’s school principal to say he weed on another boy’s moccasin shoes, then accused the child of being gay when he cried, and is now being sent home as punishment for the rest of the day. Will have strong words with headmaster and try to explain that to an eight-year-old, being sent home is NOT punishment, it’s a lottery win, as he will now spend rest of day with his feet up watching Nickelodeon
.

Chat later, hopefully when my blood pressure is down to double figures
,

Lx

I click on the attachment, absolutely dying to read it, and there it is.

Checkout Time is at Eighteen Years . . .

The Official Laura Lennox-Coyningham Guide to Single Parenthood.

Or, why I’m absolutely not and never will be a fully-fledged YM (yummy mummy).

Any reader expecting this to be about the jobs of motherhood, put this down right now and walk away. It is not, repeat, not for you. I fail all qualifications for yummy-mummy-hood and if you don’t believe me, just ask any mother at the school gates who knows me, namely:

You see what I mean, reader? The only two things I have in common with these women are kids and guilt. Four kids to be precise, and guilt about a marriage break-up in which I was the blameless party but somehow ended up
taking
full responsibility, at least in my children’s eyes. And I don’t quite know why, because my ex is the one who’s adoring his kid-free, newly single existence, which of course makes me want to scream at him, ‘I do know that you actually have a wedding ring. I KNOW. I was THERE.’

My two best friends have variously described this man as my emotional equivalent of Pearl Harbor and have jointly offered to get a hit man after him for my birthday present. If you’re reading this, thanks so much, ladies, and I’ll get back to you
.

Now the primary disadvantage to being a single mother is that, at the end of yet another tiring, exhausting day, I have no one to shout at apart from the TV. That, and of course the fact that the only man in the world who saw my stretch marks and sagging breasts in all their glory, and would still have normal marital relations with me, has now left home for good. Although, on reflection this could possibly be construed as a plus on the grounds that if I were still married and if my husband asked me what my ultimate sex-fantasy was, at this stage, I’d probably tell him it would be for him to run the Hoover round the living room a few times
.