Do You Want to Know a Secret? (33 page)

Then, clear as crystal, I can hear Emily shouting downstairs to Laura: ‘MOM, YOU DON’T GIVE ME THE RESPECT I DESERVE.’

Then Laura hollers back up to her, ‘YOU KNOW WHAT? YOU’RE ABSOLUTELY RIGHT! I GIVE YOU TOO MUCH.’

Anyway, while this little one-act radio play is going on, my mind races. Oh my God, it’s to do with Desmond Lawlor. Has to be. That’s it, he’s asked her out, to some piano recital or similar, I bet . . . don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled for her, of course I am, but a tiny part of me is feeling . . . well, a bit deflated, to be brutally honest.

I mean, I’m the one who wanted to attract romance into my life, so what’s Laura doing right that I’m getting so hopelessly wrong? And am continuing to get hopelessly wrong.

And why does Daniel have to buy a bloody
penthouse
anyway?

Sorry, that just slipped out.

‘REMEMBER WE TALKED ABOUT NOT USING OUR HORRIBLE VOICE?’ Laura pulls me back to our phone call, screaming upstairs to Emily, then she’s back to me again.

‘Wow, way to guilt her,’ I say.

‘Thanks, it’s what I do. So sorry, dearest, I really can’t apologize enough for that outburst. It’s just that if I don’t implement a zero tolerance with the little madam, there’s always a price to pay.’

‘So, tell me the news,’ I say, trying to sound bright, and half-wondering what Desmond asked her to, although my money’s on a cello recital somewhere. Or else an obscure one-act play in German by some writer I never even heard of maybe . . . you know, something classical, cultured and very, very posh.

‘I’ve been asked to take a case!’ Laura squeals in a voice so ecstatic, so utterly and totally over the moon that now I feel like a complete heel for my, ahem, little flash of jealousy. ‘Can you believe it?’ she goes on, barely pausing for breath. ‘After all this time, a friend of my father’s who’s a solicitor just called me now and offered me the brief.’

‘Oh, sweetheart, I really am thrilled for you . . .’

‘. . . now, it’s no great shakes, it’s just a minor offence, only district court, so we’re not exactly in
The Winslow Boy
territory here, but . . .’

‘That is so fabulous! So what’s the case?’

‘Absolutely black and white. A clear violation of paragraph two, subsection four, of the 1961 Road Traffic Act . . .’

‘Give it to me in layman’s terms.’

‘Idiot client forgot to pay his parking fines.’

‘Oh. Right. Well, honey, who cares about what the case
is?
The fact is, it’s court! You’re back!’

There’s just one tiny question that’s burning at the back of my mind . . . but, typical Laura, she beats me to it.

‘And of course, I’ll have to donate pretty much every penny of my fee to buying a huge gift for my mother who, astonishingly, has agreed to child-mind, may God have mercy on her.’

‘Wow, fair play to her,’ I say, a bit stunned, to put it mildly.

Laura’s mother is all right for doing the odd Saturday night, probably out of guilt more than anything else, but always adamantly refused to take care of the kids so Laura could go to court, claiming that daytime babysitting, school runs etc., would interfere with her tennis/bridge/searching in forests for eyes of newts to put in her potions/broomstick practice/whatever the hell it is she
does
get up to in her spare time.

Oh well, maybe the old she-witch is mellowing with Botox.

‘Well, I for one couldn’t be prouder of you,’ I gush,
still
feeling a bit guilty for jumping to conclusions about her love life. ‘I know you’ll get that wig and gown on you, stride into that courtroom like you were never out of it, and shear the defence like Delilah.’

‘Let’s hope not, dearest, I
am
the defence. But, for the moment at least, I almost feel like a character in a sitcom. You know, where they say, ‘This is so wonderful and, for once,
nothing
can possibly go wrong!’

So that’s the good news and now to the bad. Much later in the afternoon, I had to run over to Iveagh Gardens to meet with Serena Stroheim’s lighting designer, a sweet guy, absolutely lovely, tanned, toned and with a sensational body, which as we all know is girl code for . . . gay. He’s called Stephan, is brilliant fun and keeps making me swear to introduce him to the city’s gay bars, like I’m not having enough trouble at the moment among the straight community. Anyway, he’s so thorough about his job and makes me inspect the lighting rig so many times that the upshot is, it’s well after seven in the evening before I crawl back to the office, exhausted, but still with yet more work to do.

I wearily let myself in and am almost knocked over by Paris and Nicole, both with their coats on, like they were only just waiting on me to get back so they could skedaddle. And not that I blame either of them, really.

‘Girls, I’m so sorry, my meeting ran way over . . .’

The first warning sign I get is when Paris yanks me
out
into the office corridor and closes the door firmly shut behind us.

‘What’s up?’ I ask, suddenly worried. The office is flooded? A random VAT audit? Some kind of rodent problem? ‘Give me the last sentence first.’

‘Vicky, I’m really sorry about this, but while you were out, this guy called and he insisted on waiting for you. I didn’t know what to do, I tried calling your mobile but it was switched off, so, well, the thing is . . . he’s in your office right now . . .’

‘Was he carrying chocolate?’ I say hopefully, thinking, please let it be Daniel, please let it be . . . but then the right lobe of my brain, the sensible side I’m so rarely troubled by, kicks in. Even if it were, what difference would it make? He’s off the market, so to speak, so the fat lady’s officially sung on that one. Not that there ever was anything to speak of really . . . sorry, I don’t know why his name just keeps slipping out.

‘He doesn’t have chocolates, no, but he’s got the biggest bunch of flowers. And he asked so many questions about you, quite personal stuff too, that . . . well, I just got a bit freaked, that’s all.’

I soothe her and reassure her she did the right thing, but all the time I’m thinking . . . who’d be buying me flowers? Not to mention sitting in the office waiting for me? The girls, God love them, can’t get out of the place quick enough. We say our goodbyes and in I go.

Oh shit. I really do
NOT
believe this.

Eager Eddie, carrying a bouquet so huge, it almost dwarfs him.

One of those ‘bird of paradise’ arrangements. Which is a large piece of floral irony if ever I saw it.

‘Vicky . . . this has gone on long enough,’ is his opener while I just stare at him, knocked for six. ‘You’ve been ignoring my calls and texts . . .’

‘How did you find out where I worked?’ I say hoarsely, eventually managing to interrupt him, when I’m over the initial shock, that is. You should just see my stance: arms folded, ‘don’t mess with me’ body language. At this precise moment, I’m even intimidating
myself
.

‘Phone directory.’

Bugger. Oh well done, Sherlock, how else could he have found out? By hiring a private detective to trail me? Mind you, I don’t think for one minute I’d actually put that past him.

Anyway, he thrusts the flowers at me with this stoic, ‘you’ve wounded me deeply but I’m bravely trying to rise above it’ expression, and all of a sudden it’s as if there’s two little angel voices in my head, one good, one evil. Like in a cartoon. On and on Eager Eddie goes about how I’d been the one who wanted to take things slowly . . . so he backed off, as I asked him to . . . but now enough time has passed, and he wants us to move forward . . . as a couple (my teeth actually gnash a bit
when
he comes out with that) . . . And what’s my problem anyway? . . . And why does this always happen to him with women? . . . I was all over him in the beginning and now, here I am . . . giving him mixed signals . . .

It’s a see-saw. I’m just about to cut him off in the middle of a speech he’s delivering, which is actually sounding suspiciously rehearsed to me, about how he has a table booked at a bistro down the road and can’t we just discuss this over a bottle of wine? For a split second I waver. But at the next thing he comes out with, good/sane angel wins.

‘You know, Vicky, you can play at this hard-to-get crap all you like, I’ve dated women like you before. The ones who want to test some poor sap by giving him the perpetual run-around. Game-players, that’s what you all are.’

He’s smiling, but the tone is cold. Cutting. Nasty.

Right, that’s it. Enough. Good/sane angel wins this round. After all, I’m not a psychiatrist, and I’m just not qualified to deal with all of this shite.

‘Eag . . . Eddie, you need to leave. Now, please. We’re not in a relationship, I don’t know where you got the idea that we ever were, and right now, I’d like you to go.’

He looks at me like I’ve just slapped him across the face.

‘You know something, Vicky? Before you came back, your assistant told me you hadn’t had a serious boyfriend in years, and that you’d probably be pleased to see me, so you needn’t come off all hoity-toity like you’re not actually delighted I’m here.’

‘Eddie, you’re not hearing me. Please just GO.’

‘Single women in their thirties. Desperate bitches the lot of you. You should be down on your hands and knees thanking me for showing the slightest bit of interest in you . . .’

He’s very close to me now, and is starting to shout. I’m cornered, he’s physically blocked the door, my phone is on my desk just out of reach, and now I’m
starting
to get a bit panicky. Shit, shit, shit, why didn’t I ask Paris and Nicole to hold on for a bit?

‘I mean, how old are you anyway, Vicky? Thirty-four, thirty-five? You’re doing really well to have someone like me ask you out. Face it: I’m the best offer you’re going to get. I’m the one in the buyer’s market, remember. I could go into any club tonight and pick up a girl half your age and far better-looking than you. Easy.’

Yeah, as long as she’s in a strait-jacket, I’m thinking, really frightened now. The guy is deluded, and I haven’t the first clue how I’m going to get him out of here . . .

Then my phone rings. He looks around but I make a dart for it and grab it.

‘Hello, oh hi, that’s perfect timing,’ I say, my voice shaky. ‘Look, how far are you from my office? That close? Fantastic. Quick as you can, then . . . yes. Oh, just I’m having a bit of a problem with an unwanted visitor and I know you’ll sort it out for me. No, I’ll stay on the line till you get here.’

Then I turn back to Eager Eddie, who’s looking at me, pole-axed.

‘It’s my brother on the phone,’ I say, as coolly as I can, and I’m only hoping he hasn’t clocked that my hands are trembling. ‘On his way to . . . emm . . . rugby training. He’ll be here in no time, so if I were you, I’d take this opportunity to leave. Now.’

I look as him as evenly as I can, and after staring him
down
for what seems like an age, he eventually nods and makes to go.

Thank God, I’m thinking, thank God, thank God . . .

He’s just at the door, and I still have the phone clutched to my chest, when he turns back again. ‘You know something, Vicky? I think you really have a problem, you know that? You’re a pathetic person, and if you ask me, you really need help.’

I don’t answer, let him get the last word in if he wants, I really don’t care, I just want him gone. And a second later, he is. I take the precaution of locking the door before I go back to the call.

‘Mother of Divine Mercy, are you OK? What was all that about?’

‘Sorry about that, Laura. I just . . . I came back to the office and . . .’ I tell her, in glorious Technicolor. And she’s amazing and, typical her, starts listing off all these legal test-cases and precedents about harassment that show how the law is there to protect me from headers like this one. And about how I could easily take action if I wanted, and that barring orders were practically invented for the Eager Eddies of this world.

‘You know what, hon?’ I say, wearily slumping down at my desk. ‘I’m just glad he’s gone. Sorry for casting you as a rugby-playing brother, best I could think of under pressure.’

‘All right, dearest. Although I did smirk at the
thought
of either of your beloved brothers wearing rugby kits on their way to training.’

I don’t blame her one bit for that either: my middle brother’s idea of exercise is to pick up a snooker cue, while the youngest one’s idea of an intensive workout is prising the lid off a tin of Carlsberg. And the thought of either of them coming to my rescue almost makes me smile a bit, too, the joke in our house used to be that, if anything happened to me, they’d step over my rotting corpse just to get at my car keys.

‘Sure you’re all right? You’re very welcome to come over here, you know.’

Oh dear God, spare me. No offence, but after a shaky experience like this, a pleasant soirée chez Laura with all the kids there would have me reaching for the horse tranquillizers.

‘Thanks so much, but I’ve a bit more to do here, and then I really just fancy an early night. Another time, maybe?’

‘Like when they’re all at college? Don’t worry, dearest, I understand.’ And I can almost hear the lop-sided smile. ‘Actually I was ringing you with some other news, which I couldn’t tell you earlier, because of little ears. But I think it’s safe to speak now as the baby’s gone down and the others are probably all out rioting on street corners, most likely.’