Greatest Love Story of All Time (13 page)

‘I’m not,’ I said tersely. I started to hammer out a report on Tiger Woods’s latest indiscretion. This was not good at all. Mum needed security and peace, not a starring role in a national sex scandal. And I needed a soft re-entry to my workplace: I did not need Michael’s fucking best friend sitting next to me and taking my job.

I should have stayed in bed.

It was Saturday night. I’d been back at work for a week and I was sitting in Stefania’s rocking chair while she cooked what appeared to be a pan of stewed testicles. She was burning sandalwood oil by her bed and the shed smelt heavenly.

‘You look very nice,’ Stefania said, as she stirred in a rotten old tree root.

I was touched. ‘Thanks, Stefania. I don’t feel nice but one has to do one’s best.’

Armed with my Nellie dossier as a guide I had hit the Westfield shopping centre that afternoon, loading up on sexy tailored outfits and expensive shoes and stopping off in Toni and Guy to get my hair highlighted and properly conditioned. It now sat in an uncharacteristically neat, shiny bob and incorporated a media-style fringe. (I’d even toyed with buying clear-lensed glasses but had slapped my face sharply at that point.)

Financially I was ruined but I was enjoying a temporary reprieve from the pain of heartbreak. Project Glam Fran was go! By the time I’d finished with myself I’d be a match for Nellie sodding Daniels any day. I would engineer a ‘coincidental’ meeting with Michael and he would draw in his breath at my glamour. His
glance would linger on my well-turned ankle and exquisite high-heeled shoes and he would throw himself at my feet, begging my forgiveness.

Stefania started to ladle the testicles on to two plates but I declined. ‘Vhy not?’ she asked irritably. ‘You look like a toothpick. Eat zees. Is very, very good for you.’

I gazed at the testicles in dismay.

‘Zey are not bollocks, Fran. I am a vegetarian,’ she said, with a slight smirk.

‘I didn’t think they were,’ I said brightly, picking up the fork.

‘Bollocks,’ she said, through a mouthful of bollocks.

‘Sorry, Stefania. And sorry, generally, that you’ve been having to look after me. I know you have a life of your own and I don’t want you to ever feel duty-bound,’ I said. ‘Heartbroken people are awful. I’m sorry.’

‘Ees OK. I care about you,’ she mumbled.

‘Why?’ I really meant it. Why was I worth caring about at the moment? I divided my time between crying and stalking; even Duke Ellington had stopped pretending to hate me and now actually
did
hate me.

‘Because you are like my stupid child,’ she said simply. ‘I vant to punch you many times but I also vant you to be happy. You are good to me.’

This surprised me. I knew I was probably paying for her gas and electricity and maybe even her water – but was that being good to her?

I must get her drunk
, I thought,
and try to find out what her real story is.
But there was a time and a place and it would need to be a careful attack: I’d been trying for five years to work out where she had come from and how she had ended up in the shed. I wasn’t going to stumble on the answer halfway down a bottle of Malbec.

‘Well, I actually came round to ask you another favour,’ I said shiftily. ‘But I think you might like it. I, er, wondered how you’d feel about running a meditation class for me?’

She put down her fork, excitement patently visible. ‘Vhat? But vhere? I cannot afford to hire room,’ she said.

‘That’s taken care of. All you have to do is turn up, guide ten uptight bitches from the media through an hour’s basic meditation and then you’re done.’

‘Zat is it?’

‘Well … I suppose I’d also like you to make some treats for them too … maybe some vegan canapés and some raw-chocolate fudge?’

Her cheeks coloured faintly.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll pay you. And I’ll buy the ingredients. It won’t cost you a cent.’

She reddened further, horribly embarrassed. This was the first conversation we’d ever had about money.

We discussed the details, Stefania becoming increasingly enthusiastic and me increasingly panicked. Of the many stupid things I’d done in my life, this was definitely the crowning glory.

‘But one sing, Franny, vhy are you doing this? I do not understand. Vhat is ze reason, please?’

Ah. ‘Well, the stress of the last few weeks has all but killed me, Stefania, and I’ve decided that perhaps I might benefit from a more alternative lifestyle. I couldn’t find a meditation class that felt right and I … I thought I’d set one up. For people like me. Media twats.’ I was becoming an exceptional liar.

Stefania held up a cup of oolong tea and toasted me. ‘You have a deal. Zis is
dubious
! Cheers!’

‘Fabulous.’ I chinked her cup. ‘Hey, Stefania, you don’t fancy going to a party at Boujis tonight, do you?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘I vould rather eat my own solid vaste,’ she replied. ‘Vhat are you up to?’

‘Oh, nothing. Just a friend invited me. It sounded cool.’

She wasn’t convinced. ‘How are you feeling about Michael, Frances?’ she said eventually.

‘As before.’

‘Vell, zat is not true for a start. You have been out of bed for more zan a week and you are looking less like a peasant’s goat. Perhaps it is time to start ze dating.’

‘I don’t want to date. Now or ever. I’ve said I’ll do it, Stefania, but you can’t expect me to begin straight away. It’s just madness. I’d only end up crying through the whole date.’

She munched her testicles, nodding. ‘I understand,
Fran. But if you vill not do it for yourself, can you do it for me?’

I tried not to lose my temper. ‘But why? You still haven’t given me a decent explanation why you want me to do this. It just seems like a completely mental idea.’

Stefania nodded again. ‘I know, but there is logical. I promise. I vant you to find love, Frances, real love. Not ze love you had for Michael,’ she continued, as I tried to butt in. ‘A deeper love.’

‘And you think I’m going to find that by dating? Stefania, I
have
a deep love. I love Michael and I want him back. I want to get him back from this Nellie bitch and that is that.’

Stefania pushed back her chair and took our plates over to her tiny sink. She looked distraught. ‘Fine. Zen call him. Call him now and make ze arrangement to see him.’

‘I can’t. You deleted his number from my phone.’

‘Vell, zen, get it from Jenny. Or email him. Go. Now.’

I didn’t move. This didn’t feel right at all. Stefania looked round at me. ‘Vhy are you not doing zis?’ Her eyes were flashing.

‘Because it’s making you upset, Stefania. Or angry. And I don’t want that.’

Stefania shook her head.

‘Stefania, I just don’t understand why this is so important to you, but if it really is, I’ll do it. I’ll go on
eight bloody dates. But date number eight is going to be Michael. I’m going to get him back. And don’t expect me to put any effort into the others. OK?’

She smiled. ‘Good. Zat is better. And I vill allow you to see Michael for the eighth date. Vhy not? So how vill you find ze ozzer men?’

‘Well, if I want to get this out of the way quickly there’s only one way, isn’t there? I’ll have to get them off the bloomin’ Internet.’

Stefania giggled. ‘I vas hoping zis was ze way you vould attack ze problem. I hear zat ze Internet is ze perfect place to find love. Let us start immediately!’

And so, rather bewildered, I let Stefania into my flat and fired up my laptop for her. ‘FRANCES!’ she shouted, as I opened a bottle of wine. ‘You have been stalking ze Nellie Daniels. Vhy are you doing zis? Frances, you do not even know zat zey are togezzer!’

I ran into the sitting room, hoping against hope that there weren’t any photos of Nellie up. If Stefania recognized her at Meditation on Wednesday I’d be sunk. Fortunately it was just an article I’d been reading about her and the Savile Row tailor for whom she did PR. It had left me feeling awed and depressed by her knowledge of luxury brands and heritage. Was there
anything
this bitch didn’t know about?

‘I vill do your dating page, Frances,’ Stefania announced, when I had set her up with a browser. ‘Ve vill do ze site vhere you recommend your friend, OK?’

‘Fine by me,’ I said. The less I had to do with this, the better.

She got to work.

‘Promise me you von’t call Michael until his three-month thing is over,’ she said later, as she got up to leave.

I crossed my fingers behind my back. ‘Promise.’

Stefania grabbed my arm and hauled it round in front of me. ‘Horrible girl,’ she muttered.

‘OK, OK. I promise. You have my word. I won’t contact Michael. I
promise
.’

As she walked out of the door, Stefania put a hand on my cheek and smiled the most kindly smile I’d ever seen. ‘Good girl. You vill sank me for zis one day.’

A few minutes later I texted Leonie: Fancy going to a party at Boujis later?

I was viewing my dating profile with great unease. Apart from the fact that it looked very much as if it had been written by a woman of unknown (but not British) origin, there was a whiff of madness about it that only Stefania could have injected. She had seemed to relish the process, starting up a search as soon as my profile had gone live. ‘Zis one! Look! He is divinity!’ she yelled, pointing to a toothy man called Hilary. Eventually I’d had to throw her out because she’d added seventy-six men to my favourites folder, all of whom were so bad I’d sooner have slept with a woman.

Leonie replied: Er, no. It’s nearly midnight. Are you drunk?

No, just heard there was a wicked party on. Don’t worry, I texted.

This had better not have anything to do with Nellie Daniels, she replied.

I was going to have to go underground with my Daniels hunt. There were people who wanted to shaft me at every turn.

All right Fran

If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put you between F and CK. Mail me.

Hi Frances

I’m a selfish, fucked-up waste of space who likes a bit of rough sex every now and then.

If this sounds like your sort of thing then bell me on 07065 333891.

Cheers

Peter

Hi babes, you don’t ever do girl on girl do you? If not, try it … ; -)

Hi Fran.

I am Andrew. I am man. You are woman. Interesting woman, by
the look of things. With even more interesting friends. Who did your write-up? Can I go on a date with her?! However if she’s unavailable I’d definitely be interested in a date with you. Do you like beer? If so, let’s meet up and have one (each).

Andrew X

Hi Fran, er, surprise! Fancy seeing you here … (!) Look love could you keep this quiet please? I won’t say anything to anyone at ITN if you do the same for me! Thanks hun, see you soon, E x

‘STEFANIA!’ I yelled, striding out into the yard. I blinked in the unexpected winter sun as Duke Ellington sprinted up the tree that overhung Stefania’s shed. I rapped on her door. ‘STEFANIA! COME OUT! Surrender yourself, woman. You are in a world of trouble.’

Silence.

I was sure she was there.

Duke Ellington glowered fiercely at me from the bare branches of the tree. ‘Count yourself lucky that you’ll never have to Internet date,’ I told him. He crouched on the branch, preparing an assault, and I moved away. He’d never launched himself at my head yet but I wouldn’t have put it past him.

Stefania’s shed door was flung open. ‘FRANCEES!’ she screeched, even though I was only a few feet away.

‘Don’t you shout at me, Stefania. You just wait until you see what’s been arriving in my dating inbox. You’ll be getting down on your hands and knees begging forgiveness.’

She rubbed her hands with glee and cackled. ‘Ha-
ha
! Is all part of ze plan! Show me your inbox!’

Inside, Stefania held her sides and wept with laughter while I made lunch. ‘Franny, thees is vonderful!’ she gasped. ‘Vhich one vill you pick?’

‘None of them!’ I replied, flopping down next to her with two plates of cold falafel and salad. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘They’re organic,’ I said tiredly.

‘Francees. Now, listen to Stefania. I looked after you, I took your bullsheet day after day and I never complain, no? All I ask of you is zat you go on zese eight dates. Zat is all. It is not too much to ask.’

‘I still don’t understand it, Stefania. But I’ve given you my word so I’ll do it, OK? I just hope you can explain to me what the hell this was all about one day.’

‘I can explain now. I vant you to be happy. Is zat simple.’

I put down my falafel and smiled at her. ‘Thank you. You mad, weird woman.’

She batted me away, clearly embarrassed. ‘Peess off. Now, vhich one are you going on a date viz? I like ze sound of Andrew. I sink you go on a date viz Andrew. He makes funny joke about Stefania. Yes. I vill email him now.’

‘Get off,’ I yelled, reaching for the laptop just a little
too late. Nimble little bugger that she was, Stefania sprinted off with it and locked herself into the bathroom, laughing evilly. A few minutes later I heard her shouting, ‘I set you up on date viz Andrew now! You go on Thursday, do you understand?’

‘I HATE YOU,’ I yelled, grinning. Andrew it was, then. God knew who else she emailed: it was a full fifteen minutes before she re-emerged from the bathroom.

While she sent poorly spelt messages on my behalf, I put the remaining falafel back in the fridge. There was a picture on the door of me and Michael sitting on Brighton beach in the rain, eating each other’s ice cream and laughing like toddlers. As I stared at it, I imagined him sitting on Brighton beach in the brilliant sunshine with Nellie Perfect Daniels and felt my stomach churn. The jealousy was almost overwhelming.