Up Close and Personal (11 page)

‘Oi,’ Yasmin said, as coffee slopped over the edge of the plastic cup and onto the carpet. ‘Look where you’re going, can’t you?’

‘My apologies,’ Rob said, not sounding sorry at all. ‘I didn’t see you – which, given the size of your head, is a minor miracle.’

Yasmin stopped in her tracks. ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’ she fired at her colleague’s departing back.

Rob didn’t break stride. ‘Just that you’re in danger of getting too big for your boots,’ he replied.

‘Aw, diddums, is ickle Robbie upset because he didn’t get the cover of the supp?’ Yasmin put her hands on her hips. ‘Face facts, Rob: I got the cover because my interview’s better than your piece on match-fixing. Simple as that.’

‘You haven’t even written the bloody thing yet,’ Rob retorted. ‘For all I know, you’re going to turn out a complete pile of crap – and even if the guy did open up about his marriage split, it’s hardly Pulitzer Prize-winning stuff, is it?’

Yasmin snorted, aware that half the office was listening to their heated exchange. ‘And your piece
is
?’

Rob sat down at his desk, where a framed photograph of his two young sons jostled for position with piles of press releases and reference books. ‘My piece is a meticulously researched, thoughtfully written, hard-hitting exposé,’ he
said, without a trace of irony. ‘Yours, on the other hand, is pointless showbiz fluff.’

Yasmin sighed. ‘Why do you always feel so hard done by? Can’t you just accept defeat graciously for once?’

Rob picked up his phone and punched out a number. The conversation, apparently, was at an end.

Yasmin walked back to her own desk. She and Rob had never got along. From day one he’d been unfriendly and obstreperous and in recent weeks they’d had several public spats. And yet, despite this, Yasmin had a grudging admiration for Rob. He was sharp and witty and brilliant at his job – and, although she’d never admit it, she actually found him quite attractive. He was older than her – nearer forty than thirty, with a cute dimple in his chin and a tendency to wear clothes that a cynic might suggest were slightly too young for him. According to the
Post
’s editorial assistant, who seemed to know all the office gossip, Rob was single after going through an acrimonious divorce a couple of years earlier. His wife and her new partner had recently moved to Dublin and now he only got to see his kids every couple of months, which must, Yasmin supposed, be pretty tough.

Usually, Yasmin enjoyed sparring with Rob, but today’s contretemps had just left her feeling annoyed. ‘That man is such an ignorant pig,’ she muttered to Pete, the junior showbiz reporter, as she sat down. ‘He can’t stand it if anyone gets one up on him, especially if it happens to be a woman.’

Pete leaned back in his chair, a stupid smirk on his face. ‘Why don’t you just admit it, Yasmin … You fancy him, don’t you?’

‘Oh, puh-lease!’ she said, as she checked her email.

‘I bet Rob wouldn’t say no to a quick one, either.’

Yasmin looked up. ‘Why, has he said something to you?’

‘No, but anyone with half a brain can see you two have got the hots for each other.’

Yasmin gave him a scornful look. ‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you?’ she said witheringly. ‘I wouldn’t shag Rob Pritchard if he was the last man on earth.’

It was four months since Yasmin had started work at the
Post
and here she was, still eating lunch at her desk. The realization depressed her. She would’ve loved to spend her lunch hour wandering around the shops with a colleague or gossiping over skinny cappuccinos in Starbucks – and, as she sat alone, poking at the limp salad she’d brought from home, she couldn’t help thinking she only had herself to blame.

Yasmin had arrived at the
Post
full of enthusiasm and determined to make her mark. In meetings she was outspoken and, if she felt she was in danger of being overlooked, downright belligerent. When it came to chasing stories, she was like a dog with a bone: persistent, tenacious, occasionally aggressive. She often arrived in the office half an hour before everybody else and was rarely home before eight – not because she had nothing else to fill her time with, but because she loved her job with a passion: the thrill of meeting talented people, the adrenalin rush of breaking an exclusive, the fact she got to go places and see things that ordinary mortals didn’t. Somewhere along the line, however, her colleagues seemed to have mistaken ambition for aggression, confidence for arrogance, dedication for ruthlessness. Why else did she feel
like an outsider? Sighing, Yasmin clamped the lid on her Tupperware and picked up her handbag. She needed to get out of the office. A brisk walk in the park would soon set her to rights.

When Yasmin returned half an hour later, she was carrying a giant box of Krispy Kremes. She paused in the lobby to offer one to Val, the
Post
’s long-serving receptionist.

‘Ooh, thank you, lovie,’ Val said, falling hungrily on a glazed chocolate ring. ‘What’s the occasion?’

‘Nothing in particular,’ Yasmin said with a smile. ‘I just felt like treating everyone.’

Inside the open-plan office, she continued distributing her booty. The doughnuts were such a small thing, but the gesture elicited a surprising degree of warmth from her colleagues and Yasmin found herself wondering why she hadn’t thought of it sooner. She was halfway round the room when she spotted Rob. He was talking to Sue, one of the picture researchers, a doll-like thing with a sheet of silky blonde hair that shone like a halo. Yasmin felt an unexpected prick of envy as she watched them together, heads bowed over a portfolio, bodies so close they were almost touching. As she approached, they both looked up. Rob was scowling, clearly annoyed at the interruption.

‘Sorry, I don’t mean to barge in,’ Yasmin said.

‘Don’t be silly; we were just going through some photographers’ books,’ Sue said pleasantly. She eyed the box of doughnuts. ‘Ooh, can I have one of those?’

‘Go for it,’ Yasmin said. When Sue had made her selection, she held the box out to Rob. ‘Can I tempt you?’

‘No, thanks, you’ve probably poisoned them.’ He smiled sardonically. ‘Anything to get ahead, eh?’

Suddenly Yasmin’s cheeks were burning hot. She tried to think of something smart to say back, but her usual wit deserted her.

‘What’s the matter?’ Rob jeered. ‘Hit a nerve, have I?’

Yasmin turned away. ‘Fuck you, Rob.’

8

Dante adjusted his grip on the golf club and focused on the fifteen-foot stretch of turf that lay between his ball and the ninth hole. Tensing his forearms, he swung his upper body, then watched in satisfaction as the ball rolled smoothly towards its target before disappearing from view.

‘Nice shot,’ Connor called out. ‘You were obviously telling porkies when you said you were out of practice.’

Dante smiled. ‘I haven’t played in ages; I just got lucky.’

‘Puh! Luck doesn’t come into it. You’re a bloody good player and that’s all there is to it.’

It was a week since Juliet’s dinner party and the two men were enjoying a round of golf. The doctor’s invitation had come out of the blue, and Dante – who was finding Ashwicke’s gloomy corridors increasingly oppressive – had accepted immediately. Connor, meanwhile, had his own reasons for wanting to escape the house. After a busy week at the surgery, he’d been looking forward to a relaxing weekend. Unbeknown to him, however, Nicole had planned a relentless schedule of infant-friendly activities, all of which he was expected not only to participate in, but also to
enjoy
. The first of these was a visit to a farm park more than an hour’s drive away where, Nicole had gleefully informed him, newborn lambs could be seen.

‘I don’t know why we can’t just have a nice quiet day at home,’
Connor remarked as he watched Nicole stuff a garish jungle-print bag with nappies and wet wipes.

His wife shot him a censorious look. ‘We’ve got a baby now; we can’t just think of ourselves.’

‘I’m sure Tilly wouldn’t say no to a nice long nap, while Mummy and Daddy read the papers,’ Connor said, glancing at his daughter who was sitting on the floor in her car seat. ‘Would you, sweetheart?’

‘But she needs stimulation,’ Nicole replied. ‘I’d have thought you of all people would know that. You are a doctor, after all.’

‘Yeah, and as a doctor I’ve had a bloody hard week at work and I really don’t fancy tramping around some shitty farm in the middle of nowhere just to see a flaming sheep.’

‘But just think of Tilly’s face when she sees those adorable lambs.’

‘Mmm …’ Connor muttered. But he wasn’t thinking of Tilly; he was thinking of Zoe Tripp and her magnificent breasts.

And so, unable to talk Nicole out of the excursion, Connor had made the long drive to the next county and then spent two mind-numbing hours pretending to admire a series of domestic beasts he was already perfectly well acquainted with. He pushed the buggy dolefully from enclosure to enclosure, while his wife cooed and burbled with Tilly as if baby talk were her mother tongue.

After a very mediocre meal at the farm park’s ludicrously overpriced café, they’d set off for home, their journey time nearly doubled because of an accident on the bypass. When they finally arrived, Nicole had taken Tilly straight upstairs for her bath, leaving Connor to shake the mud from the
car mats and unpack the changing bag. Afterwards, he’d slumped on the sofa, utterly exhausted and slightly nauseous at the thought of tomorrow’s activity: a parent and baby swimming session.

‘I can’t wait to see Tilly in that dear little costume I bought her,’ Nicole had gushed earlier that morning when Connor was lying in bed, still half asleep. ‘She’s going to have such fun in the water. Not that it’s just about having fun, of course; she’ll be improving her coordination and motor skills at the same time and that’s so important when they’re this age.’ She’d nudged him in the ribs. ‘You’re going to love it too.’

No, I won’t
, Connor thought to himself as he sat on the sofa listening to the sounds of splashing and laughter overhead.
I’ll hate every sodding minute
. And so, while Nicole had her hands full with Tilly, he’d looked up the Fishers’ number in the address book by the phone. Connor knew his get-out-of-jail-free card had to be Dante, for if he arranged to meet any of his
real
mates for a jolly, Nicole would’ve thrown a strop and forced him to cancel. But, seeing as she was the one who’d suggested he take the young American under his wing in the first place, he thought he might just get away with it. He was right.

‘Oh, but it’s Waterbabies tomorrow,’ she said when he told her he’d made plans to see Dante the following day. ‘I thought I told you.’

‘Shit,’ Connor said, clapping the heel of his hand to his head. ‘I completely forgot about it. Sorry, Nic.’ He reached for the phone. ‘No problem, I can easily cancel Dante.’

‘No, don’t do that,’ she said. ‘He’ll be really looking forward to it.’

‘Well, if you’re sure …’ Connor began.

His wife nodded. ‘Tilly and I can easily go to Waterbabies on our own. What are you and Dante going to do anyway?’

‘I thought I’d take him to the golf club for nine holes. Then maybe I’ll introduce him to some of the other guys.’

‘That’s a great idea,’ Nicole said, leaning over the back of the sofa and wrapping her arms round his neck. ‘Thanks for taking the initiative, darling. I really appreciate it and I know Juliet will too.’

Connor couldn’t help grinning as he congratulated himself for pulling off such a nifty manoeuvre.

‘You don’t have to rush home, do you?’ Connor asked as the American retrieved his ball from the hole.

‘Nope,’ said Dante. ‘Why, what did you have in mind?’

‘A couple of drinks in the clubhouse?’

Dante shoved the ball in his pocket. ‘Sounds good to me.’

After stopping off in the locker room to deposit their cart bags and change their muddy footwear, the two men headed for the clubhouse bar. It was late afternoon and the place was bustling. As they found a spot at the horseshoe-shaped bar, Dante looked around with interest. Apart from the dinner party and a few visits to the local pub, it was his first foray into Loxwood society and he was keen to soak up the atmosphere. The bar was pretty plush and had an exclusive feel. Most of the clientele were fellow golfers, dressed in expensive-looking separates, but there were also several youngish, prettyish girls wafting around, as well as a gaggle of horsey types at a large corner table, gossiping over a bottle of Prosecco.

‘What are you having?’ asked Connor, pulling his wallet out of his pocket.

‘No way,’ Dante said. ‘This one’s on me.’

Connor smiled. ‘Okay, if you insist. I’ll have a Scotch and soda, thanks.’ He patted Dante on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me for a minute, will you? I need to use the Gents.’

As he waited to be served, Dante perused the leather-bound cocktail menu. The choice was modest and, in the American’s opinion, rather unimaginative. On impulse, he ordered a Cosmopolitan, keen to see how it compared to his own effort. He watched closely as the bartender mixed the drink and poured it into a martini glass, frowning when he made an amateurish mistake, flaming the orange-peel garnish too close to the surface of the liquid so it left a nasty black film. After paying for the drinks, Dante looked around for a place to sit. In one of the cosy corner booths, two men had stood up and were putting on their jackets. Assuming they were about to leave, Dante went over and stood a few feet away while they gathered their belongings. As he hovered, snatches of their conversation drifted over to him above the general hubbub.

‘Have you tried the new Nike SasQuatch Sumo?’ the older man said to his companion as he adjusted the belt on his garish checked golf trousers. ‘It’s an ugly bastard, but I reckon it’s just about the most forgiving driver on the market.’

The other man nodded. ‘Yeah, and let’s face it, Mike, with a swing like yours, you need all the help you can get.’

The first man was about to say something smart back when he noticed Dante watching them. ‘Sorry, are you
waiting for the table?’ he said pleasantly. ‘We’re just going.’ He turned to pick up a rucksack, which was lying on the leather banquette. Suddenly, he looked back at Dante. Instantly, his face hardened. ‘Hey,’ he said, elbowing his friend. ‘Look what the cat’s dragged in.’