Do You Want to Know a Secret? (24 page)

‘It’s me. Go on, you’re thinking it, so you might as well say it.’

‘I was going to say your presentation skills let you down, that’s all. Come on babe, don’t shoot the messenger.’

‘The messenger had it coming,’ she sniffs, but I notice the tears have stopped. Which, at least, is something.

‘You’ve got to help me, Vicky. I watched you in there and thought, “God, I wonder if she ever realizes how amazing she’s being?” You were so cool and articulate and unafraid. I need you to train me to be like you for this bloody audition. Cos the way I feel now, you’re more likely to get a part in this than I am.’

‘You can count on me, you know that,’ I say, squeezing her arm. ‘We’re in this together, and I’ll never let you down. We just . . . have our work cut out for us, that’s all.’

Two cigarettes and a lot more walking later, Barbara’s heart rate seems to be back into double figures. But as we slowly turn down street after street, all the while getting closer and closer to the scene of my, ahem, next appointment, guess what, now it’s my turn to start getting antsy.

We turn a corner and now we’re on the street where the Café en Seine is, scene of my scheduled rendezvous. With Peter. Handsome, funny Peter, guy number two from my miraculous night of the hat trick. And it’s just the freakiest thing. It’s like every shred of nervous tension that poor old Barbara had to deal with has, by some mysterious osmosis, left her and taken over my body, like in an
Alien
movie.

‘Now remember, you’re just trying him on for size, to
see
how he’ll fit, that’s all,’ says Barbara, sounding an awful lot stronger and more assertive again, now that we’ve moved into her particular field of expertise; and nothing like the gibbering wreck she was only a few short minutes ago. ‘Just think of this guy as the flesh-and-blood equivalent of a Donna Karan dress. You know it may not necessarily suit you, you probably won’t end up buying it, but it’s there, so you try it on anyway.’

‘Right, yeah, OK,’ I say, a bit short of breath, but otherwise no visible panic-attack symptoms. Well, not really. ‘Right, here I go, once more into the fray. Check me for mascara gloop, will you?’

‘You’re perfect. Want me to stay with you till you’ve made a connection?’

‘I’d love you to stay with me for the entire date, except it might look a bit like I’m clinging on to my security blanket.’

‘OK, so here’s your instructions. See how you bond in daylight hours, only stay for forty-five minutes and not a minute longer. I’ll ring your mobile and you can pretend it’s the office and that you’ve a crisis you have to go and troubleshoot.’

‘Why the time limit?’ I ask, a bit panicky, thinking, suppose, just suppose, we’re getting on? Won’t I look a bit aloof and snooty by just abruptly getting up and leaving?

‘So he’ll realize just how busy and important you are, dopey. Haven’t you ever heard the old showbiz saying, “Leave them wanting more?” Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’ve never cut a date short before.’

I’m too embarrassed to admit that I haven’t. Even with Eager Eddie, I stuck out an entire three-course meal. The triumph of optimism over experience, that’s me. When it comes to fellas, I’ll stick anything out, no matter how miserable, because there’s always the hope that things might improve.

‘Let him pay,’ Barbara continues, ‘then, when you’re back at work, send him a short text message saying thanks for coffee, and see you soon. Nice and vague, so it’s up to him to make another arrangement.’

‘Right, got it.’

‘Oh, and remember, don’t talk about yourself too much, just keep asking loads of questions, like with Eager Eddie. Tell yourself you’re Jonathan Ross and he’s a reluctant guest that needs the answers coaxed out of him.’

‘OK. Got it.’

‘Remember your ultimate goal is to take him as your date to the PR do in a few weeks time.’

Shit, I was kind of hoping she’d forgotten about that.

‘Don’t forget, he’s already survived my incredibly thorough screening process, so before you even go in there you know he’s single, available, interested and straight.’

‘Got it.’

‘And like the law of attraction book says,’ she goes on, ‘just believe in your own fabulousness and you’ll attract guys to you that think you’re fabulous, too.’

‘No, it doesn’t.’

‘Well, words to that effect. Piss off and leave me alone. I’ve had a rough day.’

‘Nice to have you back to yourself. I always know you’re feeling better when you start telling people to piss off.’

‘If you’re not careful, I’ll march right in there and tell him that up until a few weeks ago, your nickname was The Dateless Wonder.’

If there’s one thing I love about our Barbara, it’s her ability to bounce back. From deep despair to wisecracking in the space of one short walk. She’s amazing.

Anyway, one big hug later and in I go, with our watches synchronized, like in an espionage thriller. The lunchtime rush is well over and I immediately spot a lovely bright table in a corner so quiet and discreet, it might as well have a sign hanging over it saying ‘suitable for first dates’. Right then, I text Peter, to say I’m here, as per our arrangement, then whip a colouredy folder out of my briefcase and pretend I’m studying it intently while I wait for him. Oh, and re-apply lip-gloss while I’m at it. Approximately four minutes later, the door opens as someone comes in, I look up and there he is.

Pro.

Oh my God, so much handsomer than I remembered. Dark hair, lovely piercing green eyes, and he’s dressed in casual teacher gear: blue shirt and chinos. Put it this way, if I was a student in one of his classes, I would definitely have a crush on him. No question.

Another pro.

He’s straight over, full of chat and how am I and how was my lunch meeting? It’s all very easy and relaxed, then, as he goes up to order for both of us, Barbara’s words come back to me. Shut up going on about myself and concentrate on him.

Slight con.

The minute I ask about how work is going for him, he starts talking about Clare. The ex-girlfriend. Turns out the school the two of them run together teaches those English as a foreign language TEFL courses, so this is probably the busiest time of the year for them. His conversation is peppered with ‘Clare was just saying’, and ‘Clare had this terrific idea’, and at one point we even had a: ‘You just have to meet Clare. You both have lot in common.’

Definite pro.

Turns out they were together for seven years. SEVEN years. That beats the longest relationship I’ve ever had in my entire life. By about, ahem, six years to be exact. Anyway, isn’t it a healthy, emotionally mature thing that
they
still run the business together and get on so amicably? Course it is.

After a bit more of Clare this and Clare that, I eventually pluck up the courage to ask the one question that’s been burning me up. There’s a slight lull in the chat so I go for it. ‘So, Peter, if you don’t mind me asking, why did you and Clare break up?’

‘Oh, you know how it is, we just grew apart,’ he replies, stirring the froth around his cappuccino. But he’s smiling at me when he says it. And me like . . .

Biggest pro of all.

Barbara calls me precisely forty-five minutes later and, although I’m glad to see her back in messing mode again, I can only hope Peter doesn’t overhear any of what she comes out with.

‘Hi, Paris Hilton here,’ she says in a faux-LA-valley-girl voice. ‘There’s an emergency and you have to come back to the office right NOW.’

‘Oh, what kind of emergency?’ I ask, acting all pretendy-concerned, purely for Peter’s benefit, you understand.

‘Well, I was photocopying my arse, and my G-string got stuck in the machine, and I’m having afternoon tea with my godmother, the Duchess of Cornwall in half an hour, so you’d better get back here with sharp scissors right now or else Auntie Camilla will set the corgis on you.’

‘I’ll be right there,’ I say, snapping my mobile shut
immediately
, so Peter can’t hear the raspberry she’s now blowing down the phone.

Then, just as we’re getting ready to go our separate ways, he lets slip, ‘Actually, it’s no harm to cut our date a bit short and leave now. I’d better get back to the school fairly pronto, or else I’m in for a right slagging.’

‘Why’s that?’ I ask innocently.

‘Because I told Clare I was meeting up with the first gorgeous woman I’ve met since we broke up – and if I’m gone any longer, she’ll think I’ve run off with you.’

All this delivered with this cute, broad, slow smile he has.

Yummmmmm . . .

I wait till I’m safely back in a taxi before I ring Barbara.

‘I don’t want to jinx it,’ I say excitedly, ‘but I think we might just have a keeper on our hands. Now I ask you, when is the last time you heard me say that?’

Chapter Fifteen

The Butterfly’s next meeting. June
.

OK THEN. OUR
progress reports to date.

BARBARA
. She is giving herself five out of ten, although personally I think she’s being a bit harsh and deserves a minimum score of at least eight. On the plus side, she worked her ass off on polishing up an audition piece for Serena Stroheim; she did Hermia’s forest speech from
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
and was stunning. Absolutely the real deal. And I should know, I only saw her rehearsing it about fifty times. In fact, I could probably recite the lines along with her myself at this stage.

Anyhoo, her audition was held yesterday, at the dance studios, in front of the mighty Serena and her casting director. I met her both before and after and for the agonizing thirty minutes or so while she was in there, I paced the corridors outside, willing her luck, happy
thoughts
, huge success, you name it. No kidding, there were probably expectant fathers in maternity wards at around the same time yesterday, in a calmer and more relaxed state than I was. The upshot is, I can report that she went in a bag of nerves (grade one snappiness, never a good sign with her), and came out even worse. All I could get out of her was that if her audition had been a natural disaster it would have been comparable with either: a) Hurricane Wilma, or b) Britney Spears with the shaved head. Any more info I patiently tried to coax out of her was rewarded with getting the face chewed off me, so I quickly gave it up as a bad job.

Oh yes, and the reason I’m deducting two points from Barbara’s overall score is because, in a moment of misguided generosity, or pure gobshitery if you ask me, she only went and told Evil Angie, flatmate from hell, about the whole Shakespeare in the park summer project. So of course, nothing would please said Evil Angie until she somehow managed to wangle an audition for herself.

I pointed out to Barbara that this was little more than an act of the most blatant user-ism on Evil Angie’s part, but Barbara’s having none of it. Plenty of parts for everyone and may the best girl win, is her incredibly generous and philanthropic answer. Now, the amount of work I’ve put into this, and the very real possibility that Evil Angie might get cast and Barbara won’t, kind of
makes
me want to be sick. Shame we’re not casting
Macbeth
, though, Evil Angie would be a natural for Lady M, albeit a bit typecast.

Anyway, the die is cast and there’s nothing for us all to do now but sit patiently and wait for The Call. And try not to attract negative thoughts along the lines of how much I want to kill Evil Angie. Which is a bit like trying not to breathe. On the plus side, Serena did say that she hoped to have the show cast ‘in a New York minute’ (her phrase, not mine), with the result that every time either my phone or Barbara’s rings, we both leap about six feet into the air, nearly giving ourselves full-blown panic-attacks just in case this could be The Call. I don’t think I’ll be able to eat properly until I know one way or another, while Barbara has upped her cigarette intake to I think about twenty. Every two hours, that is.

VICKY.
OK, my progress can be neatly summarized thus. Number of phone calls from Peter since our coffee date, three; number of times I’ve actually seen him since said date, one; number of texts from Eager Eddie, twelve; number of phone calls from Eager Eddie, seven.

Oh, and number of sightings of Daniel Best on the two occasions I’ve been to his agency recently, big fat zero.

Let me elaborate.

Right then, Peter first.

Now, personally, I think the amount of contact I’ve had from him is quite respectable, actually, given that he’s busy and I barely have time to wash my knickers these days, work has gone so crazy. However, Barbara, my personal PM and wise guru, claims his performance to date is classic borderline-interested, most likely to do with the fact that he’s just come out of a long-term relationship. I mean, we all know what most guys are like about switching allegiances from one football team to another, so imagine how much harder it is for them when it comes to contemplating a new girlfriend. Slowly, slowly, softly, softly will win the day, is her logic.

The good news is, Peter did ask me out to lunch last week, which I thoroughly enjoyed, but the bad news is: a) he never made a move on me afterwards (OK, admittedly, it was broad daylight and we were both racing back to our desks, but not a peck on the cheek, nothing); b) he does talk a LOT about Clare. Honestly, until I actually meet her, I’m beginning to feel like I’m stuck in a Daphne du Maurier novel, you know, along the lines of
Rebecca
. The unseen rival can be excruciatingly boring and overdone in movies or plays, but in real life it’s enough to make you start gnawing at the furniture with frustration. Is she thinner/younger/prettier/richer/funnier/just a better person than me – all the usual stuff is racing through my overactive imagination.

Barbara for her part, has nicknamed Peter ‘Ex-Files’ and says I should just visualize Clare, the ex, as being the kind of woman who goes through Marks & Spencer saying: ‘Oh look at those lovely viscose slacks with the handy elasticated waistband, wouldn’t they be great to wear to the highlight of my social calendar, Bingo on Sundays? Hmmm, wonder if they have them in my size, twenty-four. Oh, have to dash, time for my mid-afternoon snack of pizza and a tin of Bulmers.’