Girl on the Run (23 page)

‘I got the same message. Where’s whatsisname, anyway? Your date?’

‘Ian,’ she says solemnly. ‘He dumped me this afternoon. You’d think he could’ve held on for the ball, wouldn’t you? I only bought this fascinator because he liked it.’

‘Oh no. Priya, I’m really sorry,’ I frown. ‘You’d been together for weeks, too.’

‘More than
a month
.’ In Priya’s world this is the equivalent of their Ruby Wedding Anniversary.

‘Your handsome prince will come some day,’ says Matt. ‘Until then, I suggest you have a glass of champagne to make you feel better.’ He grabs two glasses from a passing waitress and hands one to each of us.

‘I never did have any willpower,’ I shrug, taking a sip. I glance at the door and feel my stomach whirl. It’s Doctor Dishy. Looking dishier than I thought humanly possible.

‘What an amazing job you’ve done, Abby,’ grins Geraldine as I bump into her and Mau next to the cloakroom.

‘Thanks, but it wasn’t all down to me. The girls have done most of it. Besides, we’ve enjoyed it. Anyway, you’re looking absolutely gorgeous.’

In fact, this hardly covers it. Put Geraldine on a red carpet now, and everybody else would look like they’re off to clean toilets.

‘It’s nice of you to say so,’ she says, looking down at her delicate lemon dress. ‘I wish Tom would notice though.’

‘Oh, I’m sure he does,’ I say, surprised at the comment.

‘Are you?’ She doesn’t sound convinced.

‘What she means is, there’s still no engagement ring,’ says Mau sympathetically.

Geraldine flings an arm round her waist. ‘I think he’s more likely to ask you to marry him than me, Mau.’

As they head into the marquee, I spin round and come face to face with Adam. Jess’s husband looks statesmanlike in his tux; as if he goes to events like this every other evening – which might not be far from the truth.

‘Abby, how are you?’ There must be something about the atmosphere tonight because even Adam seems less stiff than usual.

‘Hi, there. I’m great, thanks.’ I decide to kiss him on the cheek whether he likes it or not. ‘I hope Jamie’s okay?’

‘I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ he replies, slightly flustered from my kiss. ‘Jess is devastated not to be here.’

‘I’m devastated she’s not here. It’s all rather nerve-wracking.’

‘Oh, I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about,’ he smiles. ‘It’s a super venue and everything looks under control. Let me introduce you to some people.’

He turns to a stocky man with corned-beef cheeks. ‘This is Peter, our Managing Partner, and Debi, his wife.’

Debi is heavily made-up, dripping in diamonds and has a tan the colour of a Chesterfield sofa.

‘This is the young lady responsible for tonight – the one I talked about on the way here,’ continues Adam.

‘Oh, wonderful!’ hoots Debi. ‘You’re running a marathon, aren’t you?’

‘Well, a half—’

‘For your friend with leukaemia?’

‘Multiple scl—’

‘And you run an interior design company?’

‘Web des—’

‘Well done you!’ interrupts Peter with a bellow. ‘Lovely to see someone your age with a bit of get up and go.’

‘Peter was interested to hear the background of tonight’s event. So I’m sure you’ll get plenty of cash out of him tonight,’ Adam winks.

Debi slaps him on the arm in a manner that’d be playful if she didn’t have a right hook capable of flattening Ricky Hatton. ‘Oh you are a one!’ she cackles, as they disappear into the marquee.

Following Missy’s advice, the format of the evening is relatively relaxed. Once people have had a drink and a mingle, they’ll sit down to a five-course dinner and hopefully become sufficiently tanked-up to pledge tons of money. In the finest tradition of charity events, the auction will therefore be held
after
dinner.

I tried to persuade Heidi to say a few words, but she insisted she wanted me to do it instead. She’s always been brilliant at presentations to a handful of people, but has never liked the idea of public speaking in front of a big audience. Add to that the subject-matter, and I can understand where she’s coming from.

My plan is to keep it short: even though the fundraising is uppermost in my mind, we can’t shove it down people’s throats. The emphasis tonight is on fun; anything else would be counter-productive.

‘Looks like most of your guests are here,’ says Missy. ‘I’m going to get Ronny to do his bit, then we’re off.’

Ronny is our announcer. He looks about a hundred and ten and is brilliant at his job: dressed impeccably in red tails and with a voice that’s rich, distinguished and capable of hitting the volumes of a Formula 1 dragster.

‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN . . .’ A hush descends. ‘WOULD YOU PLEASE BE SEATED FOR DINNER.’

I know it’s odd not to have a table for my own company. It would have been the obvious thing to do: adhere to convention, wine and dine existing clients and tap up potential new ones.

But, after careful consideration, I could see some highly persuasive arguments for not having one. I can do my networking after the dinner. I’ve got too many clients to fit on one table and wouldn’t want any to not feel special. Plus, not having a ‘top table’ gives a pleasingly equitable air to the whole event. There’s also the small issue about me not being able to sit next to Oliver if I hadn’t insisted on joining the running-club table. Can’t imagine which has been the deciding factor.

‘Nice place.’

My eyes flick to Tom at the opposite side of the table and he’s smiling. He’s so glamorous in his tuxedo that just looking at him makes my head swim.

‘I’m glad you think so,’ I reply. ‘We put in a lot of work.’

‘It shows.’ He hesitates for a second. ‘So, Abby Rogers . . . are you speaking to me yet?’

‘Why on earth wouldn’t you be speaking?’ Geraldine appears at his side and sits down. ‘I hope he hasn’t been misbehaving, Abby?’

‘Tom’s joking.’ My neck reddens, but I compose myself. ‘Of course we’re speaking.’

His face breaks into an expansive smile. ‘Glad to hear it.’

‘I’ve poisoned your starter, of course,’ I add.

He laughs. ‘I wondered why the waitresses kept trying to foist a vegetarian option on me.’

‘Cyanide mushrooms,’ I reply. ‘They’re a speciality.’

I sense a presence next to me and look up to see Oliver, holding my gaze as he sits. My pulse quickens and I look away.

Then I get a flashback to the article I read in the taxi. Come
on
, Abby. What would Gretchen F. Cassidy do in this situation?

‘How are you?’ he smiles.

‘Oh, well, I . . .’ I pause and then pull myself together. There’s only one way forward with Oliver now: to be so full-on seductive that my feelings could only be clearer if I sat on his lap in a pair of nipple tassels.

‘I’m fine.’ I say this in the most sultry voice I can muster as I focus my gaze at his right eye, concentrating on the black recesses of his pupil as it dilates. ‘Thank you,’ I murmur, before swiftly and subtly switching my focus to his left.

‘And you?’ I hone in on his mouth, narrowing my eyes to create such a smouldering effect that the smoke alarms almost go off.

When he doesn’t answer, I look up again.

‘Er . . . very well. So – will you raise much money tonight?’

I’m about to answer this when I remember Gretchen’s words. Intense contact from eye to eye:
that’s
the key!

‘I hope so,’ I breathe, parting my lips sensually as I gaze – intensely, as instructed – in his right eye. ‘I
think
so,’ I add, flipping rapidly to his left. ‘At least . . . that’s the plan!’ Now I shift to his mouth as it strikes me that it’s unbelievably difficult to concentrate on this, as well as thinking about what to say at the same time. Again he doesn’t answer. I blink and narrow my eyes. ‘Did you say something?’ I ask anxiously.

He looks oddly perplexed. ‘No.’

‘Oh.’ Starting to have my doubts about this tactic, I scrutinise my cutlery, twisting my napkin in frustration.

Tom and Geraldine are sharing a joke at the other side of the table and I’m struck by their impossible charisma as a couple, how mutual adoration permeates every part of them.

I return to Oliver with renewed determination.

‘So . . .’ I resume staring into his right eye, so closely I can see my own reflection perfectly – and note that my mascara needs touching up. ‘Have you been to Knowsley Hall before?’

‘Once or twice. It’s beautiful.’ He pauses and looks at me, suddenly courageous. ‘Not as beautiful as you though.’

Without warning, I am unable to breathe.
Not as beautiful as me? AS ME?!

Then I remember I haven’t switched eyes; in fact, I’ve glared at his left for so long he must think I aspire to be an optician. I move to the right. ‘Thanks,’ I whimper, my heart racing round my chest.

I force myself to continue the flicking, determined not to be so overwhelmed by the ‘beautiful’ comment that I blow Gretchen F. Cassidy’s theory and go completely to pieces. As she says:
subtlety is the enemy of a masterful flirt
.

So I abandon anything approaching subtlety and flick, flap, flip away until my eyes have covered so much ground you’d think I was taking part in a search-party.

‘What’s for dinner?’ Oliver asks, picking up the menu and breaking the spell. ‘Rump of lamb. Sounds wonderful.’

I bite my lip in frustration, nearly drawing blood.

‘And green beans. Hmmm. And julienne of carrots. Delicious.’

Right. Okay. Let’s be positive about this. I can use the opportunity to try out the third element of ‘The Triangle of Flirtation’.

‘Have you read any good books lately?’ I ask. Okay, so this isn’t exactly the intelligent and witty banter I might’ve hoped for, but as Gretchen F. Cassidy argues, it’s not what you say, it’s
how
you say it. My eye-contact couldn’t be any more strenuous if I had a magnifying glass.

As he turns back, I make a concerted effort to glance from one shoulder to the other, ever-conscious that the wider the triangle, the more impact it’ll have.

‘I don’t really get time for books,’ he replies.

‘Really?’ I mumble, shifting my look again.

‘Too busy saving lives.’

Sod ‘The Triangle of Flirtation’: I’m gazing into his mouth now without bloody well being able to help it. The corners of his mouth turn up in a blatantly provocative smile.

This is
working
! Gretchen F. Whateverhernameis is a genius!

It strikes me that I still need to step this up though. If I don’t get moving, the starters will arrive and these movements are challenging enough without simultaneously eating soup.

I look into his right eye, then left, then his right shoulderblade, then left, then . . .

‘Abby, may I ask you something?’ Oliver says, lowering his voice. Oh, God, I may just melt!

He leans in and looks into my eyes, sending my pulse into overdrive.

‘Of course.’

‘It’s quite a personal question.’

I take a sip of champagne. ‘My favourite kind,’ I reply huskily.

‘I’ve never noticed it before, but I think you need to perhaps see a doctor.’

I smile at the come-on. ‘
You
perhaps?’ I say breathily, raising a flirtatious eyebrow.

He frowns and sits back in his chair. ‘No, not a cardiologist,’ he says, looking bewildered. I take a slug of champagne and try to concentrate on what he’s saying as the bubbles burst on my tongue. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. Nystagmus can be entirely harmless.’

‘Nystagmus?’

‘Involuntary, darting eye movements.’

Liquid catches the back of my throat and I start spluttering.

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ he says hastily. ‘It’s very common for affected people not to know it’s happening – and I’m sure it’ll be benign, it usually is. Tell me, are you on any medication?’

The food is a triumph. The wine is a triumph. The swing band is a triumph. The only thing that isn’t a triumph is my seduction of Doctor Dishy, and the blame for that lies firmly at the door of Gretchen F. Cassidy – whose F in my vocabulary now stands for something with several stars.

‘Abby, would you like to introduce the auction now?’ asks Missy, tapping me on the shoulder. I excuse myself from our table – which has become one of the rowdiest in the place courtesy of Mau’s repertoire of dirty jokes – and head to the podium.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ announces Ronny, ‘would you please give a warm welcome to the organiser of tonight’s event, Ms Abigail Rogers.’

My throat dries as I approach the lectern and wait for the applause to die down.

‘Good evening, everyone.’ I’m painfully aware, not just of everyone in the room looking at me – but of Oliver looking at me. Probably to see if he can diagnose any more unusual medical conditions, but looking at me all the same.

‘I’ll be brief, but I wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone who’s helped us tonight: to Pink Sky florists, the Joel Jones Swing band, Knowsley Hall, Punch stationers, Corinne Scott wine distributors and, most of all, my small but perfectly formed team – Heidi, Priya and Matt – who’ve worked so hard on putting tonight together.’

I glance up and take a gulp of air.

‘We’re raising money for multiple sclerosis tonight, and for those who don’t know much about the disease, I’d urge you to Google it and read up about it. MS is the foremost disabling neurological disease in the United Kingdom, affecting eighty-five thousand young people in this country alone. These are usually people who previously seemed perfectly healthy, but who are now dealing with symptoms that can be as devastating as they are unpredictable, ranging from simple tingling, to paralysis and loss of cognitive function.’

I pause and look at Heidi, feeling my stomach clench. I’m uncomfortable saying this in front of her, even though she’s read my speech and has assured me she thinks it’s fine. But there’s no other way to make people aware of why we’re doing what we’re doing.

‘The really awful thing is that there’s no cure. The disease has been described as the polio of the twenty-first century: an illness against which we still have no vaccine and no unequivocal idea of the cause.

‘Research is desperately needed. And that’s where you come in tonight: to help raise money for exactly that. I’m doing my bit – as most of you probably know – by running a half-marathon at the start of next year. And for those of you who also know about my phobia towards any form of exercise, then you’ll be aware how much I’m relishing that.’