A Passionate Love Affair with a Total Stranger (27 page)

I smiled weakly. ‘It's nice to be helping them, though.'

He agreed, but said that it was all a bit time-consuming in his opinion.

He had a point. ‘You're right, actually, Bowes,' I said. ‘Why are we putting so much effort into William and Shelley? Why does it matter so much that they get together?'

Sam hesitated, and when he answered, he rather knocked the wind out of me. ‘Because we can't be, I suppose. Together.'

A big silence opened on the line between us. Sam was absolutely right. We couldn't be together. Ever. It was biologically impossible. Yet we both knew that something big and important had passed between us, and we were willing to channel it into the correct place.
How touching
,
I thought.
And how true.
Shelley and William had to fall in love because Sam and I can't.

It was simple and it was lovely.

‘You're right, Bowes,' I said slowly. ‘I hadn't thought about it like that.'

I heard him smile. ‘Have a good afternoon, Chas,' he said gently. ‘Don't let those bastards get you down. You're better than them.'

I ended the call. Samuel Bowes was full of surprises.

Then Margot marched into my office and the moment was gone.

‘I want to schedule a meeting this afternoon,' she announced, ‘in which you can start handing over the projects I want.'

I took a deep breath. I had worked out which projects I could give to her without compromising my job but the doctors' conference was impossible. I'd tried suggesting to John that Margot ran it ‘as a gesture for her recent hard work', but he'd just laughed. ‘Of course she fucking can't!' he said. ‘I'd sooner leave your parents' Labrador in charge of the fucking thing, Lambert!'

I tried to relay a watered-down version of this to Margot but she wasn't interested. ‘Sort it out,' she said.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

‘So, have you emailed that man for me yet?' she asked, switching the nasty smile back on.

I felt even more depressed. Matty.

I had checked his profile a few times and each time he was online, his round, earnest little face beaming out at me from the computer. I'd been driven insane trying to work out what was going on. Apart from anything else, he
was working in a wild garden in the wilds of Fife where, even if he sat on top of a telegraph pole, he wouldn't stand a chance of finding phone signal. It made no sense.
Why are you doing this?
I'd raged silently at his picture.

‘I didn't email him, no,' I told Margot. ‘You said he looked married. I just … needed to be sure that you definitely want to go there.'

Margot laughed, a nasty sound. ‘You don't just have a rod up your arse,' she told me. ‘You have a fucking
truncheon
. Just send him a first approach – now,' she added, ‘and forget about the rest. None of your business.'

But it was my business. It was very much my business. Margot raised her eyebrows. ‘One call to Chambers!' she whispered. ‘Just do it!'

So I did.

The afternoon passed in an unpleasant blur. I handed over the less important jobs to Margot, reasoning with myself that if I wasn't a control freak I'd have given them to her anyway. The major projects I held back and panicked over.

The high point of the afternoon was when an ecstatic (but still bellowingly loud) Shelley called to tell me that William had sent her flowers. ‘SOME ABSOLUTELY FANTASTIC PEONIES IN THIS BOUQUET!' she yelled.

But then she threw something at me that I hadn't been expecting. During her uncomfortable hours waiting for a sign of life from William, she had logged on to our First Date Aid website, as if this might bring the object of her desire closer.

‘I wanted to ask about your partner,' Shelley barked. ‘The one who's taken over from you. Now, I presume, from what you said about waiting to hear from a man over the weekend, that Sam is a partner only in the business sense.'

I confirmed that was so. Shelley continued to interrogate me about the business. And then, just as the phone call seemed to be coming to an end, she asked something even stranger. ‘Do you have a history with this Sam, Charlotte?'

‘No!' I said, shocked.

‘Not even a flirtation?'

‘Not even a flirtation.'

‘Shame,' she said reflectively, and then, in Shelley Cartwright-style, she ended the call.

The lowest point of the afternoon had been emailing Matty. And receiving an enthusiastic response within ten minutes. And then another, and another. Matty had agreed very readily to a Wednesday-night rendezvous and I was now at a very low ebb.

‘You're rather good at this email bullshit, Charley,' Margot said, as she left the office. ‘Your little dating company will probably do quite well when you crawl out of Salutech on your belly.' She shimmied off, whistling.

Please God
, I prayed.
Help me. Send me a sign.

God remained silent.

‘Bowes?' I called, shutting the front door behind me. I'd looked forward to seeing him all the way home and was kind of hoping he'd be able to make me laugh about how rubbish my life was and feed me whisky.

The flat was silent.

Disappointed, I made myself some mushrooms on toast and then, still jumpy and miserable, sent a text message to John, asking him if he wanted to go for a drink. He'd been in a board meeting all afternoon and we'd not had time to arrange anything.
Alas
, he texted back,
I've got some French friends staying. Making dinner now.
Just told them about me and Susan, might be a bit early to introduce you …
But you mark my words, the sooner I can be bashing a big piece of boeuf into submission for my dear Lambert, the better.

I felt a girlish rush of excitement at the thought of John standing at his marble-topped work surface being manly with a meat hammer.

I spent an hour on the phone to Ness, who told me to confront Matty rather than tell Hailey, and then I drafted twenty different emails to Matty, deleting every single one. The moment I pressed send, I would set in motion a process that surely had no possible outcome other than Hailey ending up heartbroken and single. Potentially carrying his child.

I couldn't do it. Not today. And so, hating myself for being so weak when I should be strong for my friend, I did some work, exchanged some cheeky messages with John about
saucisson
and slunk off to bed with my tail between my legs.

I was just curling up into an exhausted ball when my phone began to ring once again. ‘Fuck off,' I muttered, peering at it. My heart sank. It was Shelley again. My enthusiasm for helping her was not high at this moment in time: William had sent flowers, for God's sake!

But Shelley hadn't called with a crisis: she had called to announce – rather grandly, I thought – her intention to ‘help' Sam and me with our business.

Slightly defensively, I began to remind her that I was a businesswoman myself and felt confident that the company was in good shape. ‘And, besides, it's no longer mine to worry about –'

‘No, no,' she interrupted, in her most terrifying boom. ‘Listen here, Charlotte. I turn good companies into hyper-successful multi-billion-pound businesses. With minimal effort I could bring you huge investment and help you turn First Date Aid into something that would set you up for life.'

‘But … we don't
want
to turn it into something huge,' I said lamely. This was a lie, of course. ‘It's really nice of you but –'

‘I want to thank you for what you've done for me,' Shelley said loudly. ‘William and I spoke for three hours tonight. I think he's perfect for me. I've never felt so sure about a man, especially after such a short time.'

In spite of myself I smiled. ‘Oh, that's marvell–'

‘The fact of the matter, Charlotte, is that you have an excellent business model, which could be developed aggressively and expanded into overseas territories. You have only one competitor in the United States – are you going to let him come and pinch Europe from under your nose?'

‘Erm …'

‘No,' she answered for me. ‘You won't. And for that reason I've secured you and Sam two last-minute places at an extremely important investment dinner on Thursday.
Go to the Balmoral Hotel at seven p.m. and ask at Reception for the RBA event.'

I agreed, if nothing else to get her off the line. That would be my final, final, final thing. After that I'd walk away from First Date Aid completely and concentrate one thousand per cent on Salutech. I needed to.

On Thursday night I scuttled along Forth Street towards my front door, clutching a baguette and some deli ham. My plan for the evening was quite simple: eat baguette, eat ham, mutter darkly about John's French friends – who were still bloody well staying with him – and go to bed.

It had been a challenging week. Margot had now taken over several of my smaller projects and the lessening of my workload had actually been quite pleasant, even though the circumstances were all wrong. Also, much to my relief, Bradley Chambers had decided to come over from Washington next week so there was no question of me giving her my bigger gigs. Even Margot knew better than to try to mess with Chambers, who would short-circuit and possibly explode if I was not visibly in charge.

Things at home were still bleak. Dad was lost, according to Mum, and twelve more patients had transferred themselves to the medical centre in Dunbar while he was off work. ‘We're a bit buggered,' Mum said tightly to me. Mum didn't swear. I was worried.

But there was, at least, a tall, handsome, funny man brightening up my days. The chemistry was intense and rather naughty but, much to my chagrin, his friends had been staying with him all week and were not leaving until tomorrow. We had had minimal physical contact, apart from a rather shameful twenty minutes in the deserted
third-floor boardroom on Wednesday morning.
I am
being eaten alive by the thwarted desires of my penis!
he had texted me earlier, while sitting directly across the table from me in a management meeting. When I declined to respond but instead voiced my reservations about a TV documentary that had been pitched to us, he stared at me in anguish and sent a barrage of further messages.
LAMBERT
!
My penis is waiting to hear back from you! Kindly show him some respect!

I smiled as I walked up the stairs. Penis and I would get together very soon. And in the meantime I had a nice French baguette and some ham for dinner.

As I fumbled for my key, the door was pulled open by Sam.

‘Oh!' he said. He seemed to be in some sort of a hurry. ‘Turn round!'

‘Bowes?' I exclaimed. ‘Is that a
suit
, Bowes?'

Sam smiled self-consciously. ‘Thought I should make an effort.'

He looked lovely. The suit, which was tailored right into his frame, was an unusual shade of grey, which, with his narrow-striped fashion shirt made his eyes look greener and brighter than ever. He was even wearing hair product and man perfume. Feeling suddenly proud of my beautiful flatmate, I tucked his smart scarf – which had gone a bit haywire – into his suit jacket and straightened his wool coat. ‘Whoever she is, she's a lucky girl, Samuel Bowes. You look gorgeous!'

Sam shook his head. ‘I bloody knew you'd forget. It's our investment thingy at the Balmoral, Chas.'

‘Oh, no!'I smacked myself on the forehead with my baguette.

Sam consulted his watch. ‘But thankfully you're home much earlier than normal. Come on, let's dump your stuff and go.'

I was stricken. ‘But my baguette!'

‘We could meet someone who wants to invest in us all the way into Europe!' Sam exclaimed. ‘Fuck the baguette!'

‘But – but what about Margot? I've told her I'm not involved with First Date Aid any more. What if one of Salutech's investors is there tonight and he mentions it to someone? She'll find out I'm there, Sam, I know she will!'

Sam turned round and gave a big V-sign to Edinburgh. ‘FUCK YOU, MARGOT,' he shouted. ‘Chas, it's fine. We'll call it my company. You're already off the website. You can just be there as my date or something. But will you fucking
come on
? I know nothing about business investors!'

With one final wistful glance at my baguette I gave in and ran off to my room. I changed my work blouse to a deep purple silk slip, which John had expressed a particular liking for, and threw my suit jacket back on, joining Sam on the stairs. ‘Right then, Bowes,' I said, clattering down the stairs in my work shoes. ‘Let's go and get our company some investment! Oh – I mean
your
company.'

Sam chuckled, offered me his arm and we chatted companionably all the way up the hill to the Balmoral.

‘We're here for the RBA event?' Sam said to the receptionist. ‘Samuel Bowes, First Date Aid,' he added shyly.

She looked at a piece of paper and nodded. ‘This way, please.'

We followed her through the grand foyer and two
opulent lounges, grinning self-consciously at each other. It felt odd to be in grown-up business mode when the ‘business' in question was a flirting service run from our sofa.

The receptionist walked us into Number One, a very smart Michelin-starred affair where I'd eaten once before with some colleagues. ‘Please,' she said, gliding towards a table in the corner. I looked at Sam, who seemed as confused as I was.

The receptionist offered to take my coat. ‘Sorry,' I said. ‘I think there's been a mistake. We're here for an investment event, not dinner.'

The woman nodded. ‘All delegates dine first,' she explained. ‘The presentations and mingling begin at nine p.m. next door.'

Sam was ecstatic. ‘That's great!' he squeaked. ‘Thanks!' It wasn't every day that Samuel Bowes ate in Michelin-starred restaurants.

The receptionist, caught in the firing line of a Sam's smile, was immediately helpless. ‘No problem, sir,' she simpered. After a few seconds she scuttled off with a big red scald on the back of her neck.

I sat down, laughing merrily. ‘Oh, Bowes! Do you ever get tired of it?'

Sam shook his head solemnly. ‘Never, my brother.'

A waiter appeared at my arm and handed us menus. ‘Champagne?' he asked. We looked at each other like two excitable school children. ‘YES, PLEASE!'

After ordering, we eyeballed the diners around us, speculating over potential investors. To my intense relief I didn't recognize any of them. ‘I reckon the dude with the moustache is good news,' Sam said. ‘He'd love you, Chas.
A big tall businesswoman who uses all those crazy corporate words. Flash him your tits, go on.'

I wanted to laugh but I was momentarily stung. Even though I knew he wasn't making a dig at my height I couldn't stand Sam calling me ‘big' and ‘tall'. His predilection for tiny willowy women had always made me feel bulky and unfeminine. But I pulled myself together and sipped some champagne. It didn't actually matter what he thought: we were business partners and housemates.

‘How are you at the moment, Chas?' Sam asked.

‘Erm …' I didn't actually know. ‘Well … up and down, I suppose. But OK. John's certainly helping matters.'

Sam was thoughtful. ‘I've got a lot of respect for you, brother,' he said. ‘You've had a rough year. But you're fighting on. Which is full-on awesome.'

His approval was welcome. I'd never really thought that Sam took much notice of my life; it was, after all, so different from his.

‘I hope John gives you all you want,' he said, after a pause.

I nodded enthusiastically.

Sam was obviously waiting for a fuller response.

‘It's going really well,' I told him, unsure as to what he was after. ‘I'm happy. He's been really sweet about Granny Helen and … I dunno, we're just having a nice time.'

Sam smiled, rather politely, I thought, as the waiter put down some tuna carpaccio in front of us. It looked quite incredible, sitting on what appeared to be a topiary garden of oriental vegetables.

I got stuck in with gusto, but was rudely interrupted.

‘YEEUUGH!' Sam shouted, bringing the restaurant to a standstill.

‘
What?
' I hissed.

‘They didn't cook the fucking fish!' Sam whispered. ‘Look! It's raw!'

I burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Bowes. It's meant to be! It's carpaccio.'

‘Oh,' he said, mortified. I laughed even harder. It really was like having a little brother at times.

‘Stop laughing,' he said, obviously hurt. ‘We don't all dine at posh restaurants all the time, Chas.'

I was instantly remorseful. ‘Oh, Bowes … I only go to places like this because of my silly work,' I lied. ‘Otherwise I'd be stealing napkins and spitting raw tuna out of my mouth like a normal person.'

Sam brightened up and I made a mental note to avoid any further ridicule. He wasn't a trumping teenager on my couch any more; he was very precious and brilliant and he deserved respect.

The conversation somehow turned back to John.

‘Are you in love with him?' Sam asked interestedly.

I thought about it and realized, to my surprise, that I didn't know yet. I wondered if this was weird but decided it wasn't. After all, we'd only just got together. ‘I'm very happy,' I said firmly.

‘OK. Well, then, is John in love with
you
?'

I began to feel cornered. What was he getting at? Since when had Sam Bowes, who never went on more than one date, cared so much about love? ‘Er … I don't know. He's been exceptionally keen. Don't forget he married Susan in the hope that he'd get over me, and then left her when it didn't work out,' I pointed out. ‘That's got to be pretty significant.'

Sam looked pensive. ‘Significant or insane, depending on how you see it.'

I flushed. I couldn't stand the idea of my friends disapproving of John after I'd waited for him so long. ‘Sam,' I said awkwardly, ‘I told you, John was trying to avoid a difficult work relationship. Yes, he went about it in an odd way but the point is that he
had
to put Salutech first. He's the bloody CEO.'

Sam gazed levelly at me. Eventually he shrugged. ‘OK,' he said.

I didn't like Sam's tone one bit. ‘Piss off,' I muttered. I poured myself some more wine, much to the consternation of the waiter hovering nearby. There was an awkward scuffle as he tried to take the bottle off me and I fumed, knowing that Sam was watching me with a patronizing expression. What was his problem?

He touched my hand when the waiter went away. ‘Sorry, Chas,' he said quietly. ‘I didn't mean to insult you or John. I just want you to be happy.'

I looked at him suspiciously. He certainly seemed genuine, but I hadn't missed the implication that being with John would make me
un
happy.

‘And I'm sure you will be happy!' he added, obviously spotting the same flaw.

With a considerable effort I pulled myself together again. I didn't know why Sam and I were having so many spiky moments these days but I wanted them to stop. We weren't just old friends now – we were business partners and we had a duty to put up a united front.

I made myself smile. ‘To First Date Aid!' I said, raising
my glass. ‘May we bleed the rich dry tonight, Samuel Bowes.'

We clinked glasses. Things returned to normal.

Over the main course, which Sam declared ‘the best fucking meal EVER', he dropped into the conversation – rather casually, I thought – that, following a trip to London yesterday, he was on final recall for a ‘massive' part in a ‘massive' play. ‘Is that or is that not MASSIVELY EXCITING?' he asked, his face alight.

‘Very! So does that mean the play's in London?' I asked, rather hoping it wouldn't be. I was enjoying living with the all-new functional, hygienic Sam.

‘Yep. The Garrick. Er, Charing Cross Road, major West End theatre,' he added, when I looked blank. ‘It would be
amazing
if I got this gig.'

‘Wow, Bowes! Amazing indeed! High five?'

Sam grinned. ‘Not yet. Final audition is Monday.'

The booze was seemingly limitless and Sam and I got embarrassingly drunk. We also, unfortunately, got the giggles. Neither of us seemed equipped to eat in a Michelin-starred restaurant. Twice I loaded my fork, only for everything to drop off as I lifted it to my mouth. Then followed a desperate and unladylike scramble to restore everything to my plate; a scramble that attracted pin-striped disapproval and made us laugh even harder. Strangled snorts escaped across the otherwise calm and civilized restaurant; the waiter smiled glassily. And just to prove to Sam that I only went Michelin in a work capacity I pilfered a Balmoral napkin. (A few minutes later I put it back when he wasn't looking.)

Sam took things to a whole new level when dessert arrived: he tried to stab his way into the brandy snap construction that was encasing his mango ice cream. It proved tougher than predicted and his spoon ricocheted sharply, flying out of his hand. It shot across the table and pinged loudly against the wall, coming to rest in the middle of the floor where he and I stared gravely at it before starting to snigger again.

‘Fucking stop it!' I whispered at him, trying to cover my face.

‘You stop it!' he hissed back. He had his napkin held in front of his mouth, not that that helped in any way.