Do You Want to Know a Secret? (35 page)

‘Oh, well, go on then, a glass of white wine.’

‘Glass of white for my friend Vicky here, and I’ll have my usual,’ he calls over to Nathaniel, who’s still deep in chat with Barbara.

Barbara’s here, brilliant, I think, as I introduce them. She’ll do her twenty-questions lark on him and screen him for me, won’t she? Course she will. So the three of us chat for a bit, and I swear I can physically
see
Barbara trying to get the measure of him. Our drinks arrive and I can’t help noticing that his is a double whiskey, on the rocks. Which he pretty much gulps back in one, then shakes the empty glass at Nathaniel as if to say, same again. And there’s just something about the smooth, practised way he does it, that half makes me think this is a regular occurrence.

On the plus side, though, he’s full of funny stories and anecdotes about the club, where it seems he’s such a regular they might as well have his name carved on the back of one of the bar stools there. Barbara starts quizzing him about what he does, which I take as my cue to nip to the Ladies. She joins me a few minutes later, shaking her head and giving a thumbs-down sign.

‘Attractive, if you’re into those middle-aged Frank Sinatra types, and I think he does like you, but take my advice and stay away, Vicky,’ is her verdict.

‘Give me one good reason,’ I say, suddenly all defensive. I mean, come on, the first bloke who’s shown a flicker of interest in me all night, and all of a sudden I’m in a position to be picky?

‘He’s a boozer. Look at him, alone, in a late-night drinking hole, knocking back doubles. Big trouble. Avoid, avoid, avoid.’

‘Barbara, no offence, but look at where your screening has got me so far. Nowhere.’

‘You know, I asked him what he did for a living and he said he’s a director ‘in-between gigs’. You know what that’s code for? It means he hasn’t worked in . . . like, for ever, because no producer worth their salt will touch him with a bargepole. Makes you wonder why, doesn’t it?’

‘It’s not that I don’t appreciate your advice, but on this occasion – now maybe it’s the loneliness talking but, just for tonight, I’m choosing to go my own sweet way. And he’s only had two drinks, what the big deal? I’ve seen you knock back five times that amount and you’ve seen me . . .’

‘Nathaniel says he’s in here alone, most nights, always the last to leave and always stocious by closing time. I’m telling you, Vicky, guys like that are fine, but only if you happen to love dating a project.’

As if to back up her point, she shoots me a loaded ‘told you so’ look when we rejoin him. It’s nowhere
near
closing time and yet he’s already lined
three
more doubles up in front of him. Which is unusual. Normally at closing time in this country, the rattle of the bar shutters coming down is a bit like the bull run in Pamplona; guys just seem to crawl out of the woodwork to get a last order in. But up until then, no one really panics and . . . you know,
lines them up
like this . . . at least, no one that I’ve ever seen outside of a Western movie.

‘OK, so he likes a drink,’ I mutter to her as we head back to our seats. ‘And, yes, maybe he likes to sit in clubs on his own. No man is perfect and, after all, it’s nothing that the right woman couldn’t work on and sand down, you know, gradually. Over time.’

‘Oh yeah, sure. Because men always change.’

Well you know what? Right now, I don’t care if Barbara doesn’t approve. Because, where has her seal of approval landed me? It’s OK for her, she’s doing her dream gig and there’s Nathaniel with his tongue practically hanging out of his mouth every time he looks at her. She doesn’t have to go home alone tonight, if she doesn’t want to. If Tim, no Tom, no Tim makes a move on me, I decide, slipping back up on to my bar stool, it’s game on. I just wish I could get his name straight in my head once and for all . . . TOM. That’s it, definitely Tom.

He doesn’t. Four a.m., and I’m actually yawning into
his
face, I’m that exhausted. Nathaniel’s closing up for the night, and even the indefatigable Barbara is starting to worry that she has to be up in a few hours’ time.

And I’ve lost count of how many drinks Tim, sorry TOM’s had, but the funny thing is, he’s not falling over, or in a coma, as I would be. No, he’s as cool and articulate as ever. It’s only as Barbara and I are putting coats on, grabbing bags and really, really,
really
going home this time that he makes a move.

He grabs my hand and pulls me to him, kinda roughly, but I like it.

‘So how about meeting up this weekend?’ he asks in the deep, gravelly voice.

I don’t even have to think about it. Not for a second. Decision made.

‘Love to.’ And no need for phone numbers scribbled on shirts this time, I think, a bit smugly. ‘Here, let me give you my card.’

Chapter Twenty-Three

I SHOULD HAVE
guessed that something was seriously amiss when the scariest woman on the planet, aka Laura’s mother, calls me in work the next day.

‘Vicky, is that you?’ she says imperiously. Even though I answer the office phone clearly saying, ‘Hello, Vicky Harper speaking.’ Contrary old cow.

‘Mrs Lennox-Coyningham speaking. I’m afraid there’s a slight problem here and I’m going to have to ask for your help. No choice in the matter, I’m afraid.’

Shit, I think, racking my brains, what’s the old battleaxe on about? Today’s Laura’s big day in court, well, traffic court, but who cares, it’s still court and Mrs L-C is supposed to be babysitting . . . oh no, I think as a slow, sickening feeling creeps from the pit of my stomach . . . oh no,
please
, please don’t let this be happening . . . please . . . not today . . .

‘You see, Laura left me in charge of the children
while
she went off to the district court this morning,’ and I’m not kidding, even the way she emphasizes the word ‘district’ court makes it sound like an insult. ‘Leaving me here at her house for the day. Alone. With the children. All of them. No play dates arranged for the older ones, nothing.’

‘Yes, Mrs Lennox-Coyningham?’ I say in a dear-Jaysus-please-don’t-let-this-call-be-about-what-I-think-it’s-going-to-be-about tone.

‘But the thing is, with all the screaming and general hysteria in this house, I’ve come down with one of my dreadful migraines, and I really have to go home now and lie in a nice dark room. So if you could possibly help out, Vicky, and get over here right away, I’d be most grateful.’

She says this in a tone that’s not expecting any argument, and I nearly drop the phone in pure disbelief.

‘But . . . Mrs Lennox-Coyningham, I’m in work! I mean, I can’t . . . I’d love to help out, of course, but the thing is, we’re snowed under here and it just isn’t possible for me to drop everything and . . .’

‘Vicky, I really wouldn’t ask, only this is an emergency. I tried your chum Barbara, who seems to be at a perpetual loose end to me, but for the first time I can remember in decades, she actually has some sort of job, and is in rehearsals it seems, or at least so she tells me.’

‘But, no offence or anything, but I’m the world’s
most
useless babysitter, isn’t there someone, anyone else you could ask? An agency?
Any
one?’

‘Believe me, if Laura only had a reputable child-minder I shouldn’t dream of having to trouble you, but this is an emergency. And my migraines can take
days
to recover from.’

Just as she hangs up, my mobile goes. Laura, sounding about fifty times more stressed than normal, which God love her, is really saying something.

‘Vicky? Oh thank God, what am I going to do? I’m on my way into court with my client and Mum just called to say she can’t babysit for me . . . I think I’m actually having palpitations . . . my chest is constricted and I can’t breathe . . .’

‘Shhh, shhh, calm down, hon, I’m a step ahead of you, your mum just phoned here and explained. It’s OK, I can go over.’

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Paris and Nicole looking at me as if to say, ‘Eh, no you can’t, we’ve our backs to the wall here.’ But I hold firm. What else can I do? I’ve no choice.

‘Oh Vicky, I really hate imposing on you, when you’re so busy, but I really don’t know who else to turn to . . .’ She breaks off here, and I’m almost sure I can hear her getting a bit choked. ‘I’m literally on my way into the courtroom now and there’s no turning back. And if you know how much it broke my heart to leave the kids this
morning
. Oh shit, what the hell is
wrong
with me? For the last few years, all I’ve dreamt about, all that’s sustained me is going back to the Bar and now here I am . . . and I just want to be with my babies. Julia was up coughing half the night and it nearly killed me to leave her . . . bloody hell, will you just listen to me? I’ve just turned into one of those pathetic clinging mums . . .’

‘Honey, it’s absolutely fine and there’s no need to panic,’ I interrupt her, doing a fair impression of someone who sounds calm, although I’m far, very far, from feeling it. ‘I’m on my way over to your house now and don’t worry, of course I’ll stay there till your case is finished.’

‘Vicky Harper, I’ll be indebted to you until the day I die and that’s a promise. OK. I’ve left enough food in the fridge for the whole day, and there’s veggie burgers in the freezer if Emily gets stroppy about not eating. Now Julia seemed all right when I left her this morning, but there’s a thermometer in the medicine cabinet if you want to take her temperature. And the Calpol is there, too, just in case. OK, I need to switch my phone off in court, but I’ll call when we get a recess . . .’

‘Laura, stop panicking, I can cope. Now relax, go in there and win.’

It’s absolutely fine, I think, driving over to Laura’s, still a bit shell-shocked, but then, you gotta do what you
gotta
do. Don’t you? Course you do. A couple of deep, soothing breaths later and I’m almost calm. I mean, come on, it’s only babysitting, not rocket science. If I’m able to run a successful company, not to mention get an outdoor show off the ground without any prior experience whatsoever, then taking care of four kids for one day should be a doddle, comparatively speaking. Yes, OK, so I had to postpone two meetings till tomorrow, but I did take my laptop with me and can easily get loads done from Laura’s front room while the kids are all engaged in healthy outdoor activities and while the baby peacefully slumbers.

In fact, I’d say I might even get
more
than normal done, given that I won’t have to deal with the office phone ringing every two minutes. Paris and Nicole were absolutely brilliant, practically shoving me out the door with reassurances that they’d take care of everything, and that if there was the slightest problem, they’d call me. Today in court is a huge deal for Laura and I have to be there for her, simple as that.

Besides, wait till you see, the kids will probably just play happily in the garden with their . . . emm . . . swingballs or emm . . . spacehoppers . . . or whatever the latest fad in toys is, then come in knackered, then crash out in front of the TV.

To be honest, I really don’t see what all the big fuss about child-minding is, really. Yes, OK, I have to be there
to
supervise, but apart from that, what else can there possibly be to it?

11.00 a.m
.

The minute the hall door is opened, Mrs L-C is out of there like hot snot, practically leaving a trail of dust in her wake. Not even a thank you, nothing. She just calls after me, ‘They’ve all had breakfast, Vicky, but I’ve no idea what you can do about lunch. I can’t think straight with one of my heads.’ Into her Mercedes and gone.

It’s a lovely hot summer’s day, so I’m vaguely surprised to see George Junior and Jake glued to the TV, but then I figure as long as they’re being quiet, who am I to argue? Emily is up in her room with some pal of hers who’s wearing a belly top and who has a pierced navel. She’s introduced to me as Tiffany-Amber and as the pair of them seem happy enough in their own company, I leave them to it. Baby Julia’s dozing away in her little Moses basket up in Laura’s room, so all quiet on the Western Front, then. I make myself a coffee, plonk the baby walkie-talkie monitor yoke, or whatever you call it, down beside me and switch on my laptop, feeling very Mary Poppins altogether.

11.05 a.m
.

Oh dear God, I’m so stressed I’d ring my own mother to beg her to give me a dig-out, only she and my dad
are
in the bloody Algarve golfing with their pals. Baby Julia is in my arms screaming so loudly that I’m afraid the neighbours will actually call social services. I thump on Emily’s door to see if she’ll help me, but it’s locked, and the little madam just shouts back, ‘Either feed her or change her and then she’ll shut up.’ Brilliant.

Then just as I’m trying to figure out how to take off a nappy (there are these ridiculous sticky labels on the side, for God’s sake, so I’m rooting around Laura’s dressing table for nail scissors to cut the bloody thing off), the Third Gulf War erupts from the TV room downstairs, with Jake and George Junior fighting each other over what programme to watch next. I snip the nappy off Baby Julia, miraculously managing to avoid puncturing the poor child with the nail scissors, then leave her lying on Laura’s immaculately made bed and screech downstairs, something along the lines of: ‘George? Do not call your brother a puke-hole! Now find a TV show you can both agree on or else I’m unplugging it and you can both play outside in the sunshine and fresh air!’

No effect on the row whatsoever. In fact, if anything, the fighting gets worse, and I’d swear I can hear the kind of language you only get on football terraces as they continue to tear lumps out of each other.

11.10 a.m
.

Oh no, I don’t believe this. In the space of thirty seconds
while
I was out of the room, Baby Julia’s gone and weed all over Laura’s crisp, clean sheets. I can hear my mobile ringing and ringing downstairs, and it could be work and I can’t get near it. Meanwhile the screaming match downstairs continues unabated, and this time, my repeated threat of kicking them both outside to play elicits sneering laughter.