Do You Want to Know a Secret? (40 page)

Feeling a little bit stronger, I park the car, and just as I’m heading into the main door downstairs that leads to my office, James, our lovely, elderly doorman, stops me in my tracks.

‘Eh, Vicky love? Just to let you know you’ve a visitor upstairs. The two young ones you have working for you have left, and I wasn’t sure what to do, but your man seemed happy enough to hang on for you.’

‘Oh, thanks, James, thanks so much,’ I say, my mood suddenly gone from irritated despair to euphoric elation in a nano-second.

It’s him, it just has to be, I think, pressing the lift-call button. Of course it is! Come on, come on . . . No, the lift’s too slow, so I race up the stairs instead. How could I even have thought Daniel, my lovely wonderful
Daniel
, would ever stay in a snot with me over such a stupid misunderstanding? I think, racing faster. Wait till you see, I’ll fall into his arms now, we’ll end up having a great old laugh about the whole situation, and it’ll be just like putting the clock back to last night, when everything was wonderful between us. I finally get to the top of the stairs, out of breath and cursing my unfitness and . . . there he is.

Except it’s not Daniel at all.

Eager Eddie is sitting outside the office, carrying a bunch of roses so big it’s like he might fall over.

‘Vicky . . .’ he says, rising as soon as he sees me. ‘I just wanted to say that . . .’

‘You need to leave.’ I cut him off, all of my anger and irritation now flooding back to me. ‘Now. No discussion, no explanation, I want you gone.’

‘I just had to tell you that I felt really bad about the way we left things between us . . .’

‘Did you just say between
us
? Eddie, how can I stress this to you, there is no
us
. Never was, never will be. I’m giving you five seconds to get out of here, and then I’m calling security.’

My voice is hoarse and cracked with anger and impatience and sheer exhaustion. And I know I’m pushing it a bit when I refer to poor doddery James downstairs as ‘security’, but it’s the best I can come up with off the top of my head.

Eddie just looks at me, nodding and weighing up whether I’m for real or not, so I glare right back at him, not budging. After what feels like an eternity, but is probably only a few seconds, I eventually say, ‘Right then, that’s it, I’m getting help.’ I stride purposefully off towards the stairwell, but he’s hot on my heels, grabbing my arm roughly and twisting me towards him. OK, now I’m actually starting to get intimidated, and am trying to wrench myself from his grip when the lift door suddenly glides open.

And out steps Daniel.

‘What’s going on?’ he asks, taking in the scene in a glance.

I really do not believe this.

Suddenly, it’s like everything’s happening in a sickening slow motion.

‘Vicky, really I need to speak to you,’ Eddie splutters at me, with a face like an outraged sprout. ‘I didn’t come all this way to be thrown out.’

‘I asked a question,’ Daniel repeats, slowly, his voice cutting like ice. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I need you to leave right now,’ I snarl at Eddie, out of nowhere finding the strength to wrench my arm back from him.

‘Better ask this bitch here,’ head case Eddie practically roars at me, threateningly, intimidatingly, almost violently, as he flings the flowers on the floor and
marches
off down the stairs. ‘You’re nothing but a bitch, do you hear me? Stupid pathetic bitch! And you have the nerve to call yourself my girlfriend?’ And he’s gone. Finally.

I can’t hold the tears back any more, I’m just so relieved to see Daniel. There’s a long, awkward silence as we just look at each other, him taking in the whole scene. Red roses strewn all over the floor, me standing there trembling, on the verge of tears.

‘I’m so glad you’re here . . .’ I eventually begin, realizing I’d better be the first to talk.

But there’s something wrong. He’s just looking at me, with such a weird, hurt expression that it’s breaking my heart.

‘I don’t get it,’ is all he says, simply. ‘You’re still seeing that guy, too? So how many of us do you have on the go, Vicky? Do I have to take a number and wait in line?’

‘Daniel, you have to listen to me . . .’

‘Why couldn’t you just have been honest with me and said you’re seeing other guys? Lies and deceit, two things I just can’t handle.’

‘Daniel, please, you’re not even giving me a
chance
. . .!’

‘You know, I can take anything as long as people are straight with me, and you couldn’t even do that much.’

‘Daniel!’

If he’d been furiously angry about it, I probably could
have
handled it, but he isn’t. He’s cool and controlled, and is just looking at me, shaking his head in sad disappointment. And that’s what’s worse than anything.

A split second later he’s gone.

Still numb from the whole miserable day, I somehow make my way to Laura’s for tea, sympathy and a shoulder to cry on. The kids are all with George Hastings for the night; unbelievable I know, but out of nowhere he’s suddenly decided to start acting like father of the year. Laura answers the door, looking jaw-droppingly stunning in a . . . wait for it . . . brand new outfit.

‘Bought it with my column money,’ she says, incorrectly interpreting my face-like-a-beaten-tambourine expression. But then Laura’s famous for never spending a bean on herself, ever; whenever there’s spare cash it invariably goes on the kids. ‘Well, aren’t I allowed a treat once in a while?’

‘Ehh . . . yeah . . . yeah, of course,’ I say, automatically following her into her spotless kitchen, where she pours me a very welcome glass of white wine.

‘You look like you could use this, dearest. Now, sit down there and spill,’ she says, gently, bless her. And out it all comes tumbling, with the same play-by-play of emotions normally reserved for world cup finals. Laura, as ever, is cool, unflappable and, typical lawyer, plays devil’s advocate.

‘You’ve got to put yourself into Daniel’s shoes,’ she says, taking a demure sip from her glass of vino. ‘Imagine how you’d feel if the boot was on the other foot. Suppose you were the one to have this fabulous romantic night with him, then, a few hours later, accidentally discover that he was out with someone else on the same day? Then when you go to his office to clear it all up, there’s some other bird there, causing a hysterical scene with him and flinging flowers all over the place? How would you like it?’

‘Not a bit,’ is all I can mutter, numbly. ‘It’s just killing me that I never even got a chance to explain. Every time I try to call, he doesn’t answer. And now he’s out there, thinking the worst of me, and . . .’

I’m interrupted by the doorbell ringing, and I look at Laura in surprise. Up she gets to answer it, and a second later is leading Desmond Lawlor into the kitchen.

Oh dear God, she’s going on a date. Tonight’s her date, and I’ve been so caught up in my own emotional mini-drama that I forgot, and now here I am playing gooseberry and generally ruining the mood for her with my whingey moroseness.

I am such a crap friend.

I do my best to sound upbeat, chirpy and bright as we chit-chat with Desmond about the charity do they’re off to tonight.

As soon as I’ve stayed long enough to be polite, but
not
so long as to outstay my welcome, nor to taint the place with the overwhelming whiff of ‘loser’ which must be practically reeking from my pores at this stage, I’m out of there.

And about a half-hour later, I’m back. Back in the freezing, dark, empty, lonely building-site that I call home. The scene of the crime. Remembering last night, as if it was a dream. Like I could forget.

I try his phone one last time. He doesn’t answer, so I collapse on to one of my mother’s patio seats, flinging the phone as far away from me as I can.

So how long did that happiness last, I wonder? Barely twelve hours, by my calculation.

Serves me right for dreaming.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

BUT THE SHOW
must go on. Somehow Wednesday, the big opening night, comes around. I’m not quite sure how I managed to drag myself through the last couple of days, but now here we are, in the Iveagh Gardens, ready to rock and roll.

Numbness and hard work to the exclusion of all else, there you go, that’s the Vicky Harper remedy for dealing with heartache. And with every day, whaddya know, it does actually fade a bit. Or at least, that is, it will. I have to go back into Best’s next week to view the edited commercial, which Sophie’s insisting I sit in on. I’m looking forward to it about as much as I would to root-canal work, but I made this mess, attracted it even, and now, somehow, I’m just going to have to deal with the consequences, aren’t I? Besides, given the way this awful, never-ending week has played out, chances are Daniel will be avoiding me just as much as he has been
since
Monday. Oh God, I still wince at the memory. And what have I got to look forward to? SIX more commercials to be shot over the next few weeks, all of which are to be directed by bloody Tom and his useless, big, alcoholicky mouth.

Barbara reckons I over-attracted. ‘Huh?’ was my bewildered answer. Tried too hard, she explained, focused on too many guys at the same time with . . . disastrous consequences. In her defence, she did take full responsibility for being the architect of the multi-dating strategy, and has kindly said we’ll rethink, revise and re-launch me back on the singles scene the minute the show is over, behind her, and she gets her life back again. After the show, after this weekend.

Which bring me to my next question: and then what? Back to trawling clubs, pubs and bars again? So I can be fixed up with: a) more obsessive head cases; b) guys obsessed with their exes; or c) alcoholics? And all the while ruining any chance I might have had with the one that I really, genuinely did fall for?

Not a tempting proposition, really, when you think about it. And what are the odds that I’ll walk into some night spot, meet someone remotely acceptable, who’ll be single and available and not a mental case or a booze hound, who’ll call when he actually says he will, whose light will be ‘on’, who everyone will like, and who I’ll eventually, years down the line, end up happily married to?

Oh for f**k’s sake. I’ve more chance of all six of my numbers coming up in Saturday night’s Lotto draw.

And no word from Daniel. Not a single thing. Nothing.

It’s almost showtime and Paris, Nicole and I have been here at the Iveagh Gardens pretty much since sunrise this morning, with the usual list of stuff that can’t be tackled till the last minute. The weather just couldn’t be more perfect, mild and still after a fabulously rare sunny day, and more of the same forecast for our next two shows. But tonight’s the night, tonight’s the big one. I’ve invited five of the hottest agents in town, along with just about every casting director you can name. And what’s more
they all show
. It’s just gone seven thirty now, thirty minutes till curtain up, and the seats are almost full to bulging. I’ve never seen anything like it; the atmosphere is just electric. Paris had this inspired brainwave of enclosing coloured fairy wings with the invitations, the kind you buy for kids in Marks & Spencer, and some fashionistas here are actually wearing them, adding to the whole, wonderful, festive party atmosphere.

I spend the last half-hour to curtain frantically nipping out front then backstage, although everything seems to be running even more smoothly than I could ever have hoped for. I even get to give Barbara a good-luck hug backstage, where I find her near the outdoor
loos
, sucking on a cigarette, and paler than I’ve ever seen her looking in her life. I think she’s too nervous even to be narky, so I leave her to it, and run back to front of house, where Laura is just arriving with the three older kids and . . . Desmond.

‘How’s our girl holding up?’ she asks me, as we all hug and air-kiss.

‘Grade one rattiness,’ I say, far from calm myself. ‘Which means she’s probably on the verge of throwing up, but if she gives half the performance she turned in at the dress rehearsal, I reckon we’re home and dry.’

‘That’s wonderful, dearest, but I was, in fact, asking about you.’

‘Oh . . . me? Oh, sure, I’m absolutely fine!’ I over-compensate in front of all the others. ‘Nervous about the show, you know, of course, obviously, but . . . so far so good!’

She looks at me keenly and nods curtly, girl-code for: ‘I’ll speak to you later, in private, when we’ve time to chat properly.’

‘Now all of you thank Vicky for the tickets,’ she says sternly to the kids.

‘Yeah . . . ehhh . . . thanks very much,’ they all mutter in unison, but then chances are they’d all far rather be at
Pirates of the Caribbean
or whatever blockbuster is showing at the multiplex.

‘Yes, you are kind,’ says Desmond in that kindly
fatherly
way he has. ‘A cultural excursion for the whole family is just the ticket, really.’

Oh my God, this must be getting serious. He just said ‘the whole family’ without batting an eyelid.

My own family are here too, in force, messer brothers, smug married sisters-in-law, even my Auntie Maisie, who, judging by the flushed look of her, I think might just have had a gin and tonic too many before they all got here.

‘Why have you not got us sitting beside celebrities, Vicky love?’ she hisses at me. ‘I’d only kill to meet your man that reads the
Nine O’Clock News
. Look, he’s sitting over there all on his own, ah go on, why can’t you introduce me?’

I make my excuses and get the hell out of there to run around backstage. Five to eight.

‘Ready or not, here we go,’ says Serena, as I wish her luck.

‘Whatever tonight’s outcome,’ she says, in that cool, even way she has, ‘I want you to know it’s been a pleasure working with you, Vicky. You deliver on your promises, nothing is a problem for you, and you keep well out of my hair. You can count on me to come work with you any time. And believe me, there aren’t too many producers I’d say that to.’ Now I know she’s most likely only being polite, but it’s possibly the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day. All week, in fact.