Greatest Love Story of All Time (18 page)

I thought about his question. What I
wanted
to say was ‘I am dating online because the love of my life wants a three-month break from me and I’m stalking his new girlfriend and going on these dates to keep my friends happy and make him jealous because no one else will have me. Will
you
love me, James, will you –
will you
?’ but instead I muttered something insipid, like ‘Well, I’m single because I’m not going out with someone.’

‘I exist so therefore I am,’ he said, nodding sagely.

‘Yes!’ I tittered, despairing. Why was I sitting here with this withered scrotum of a man? I swigged my gin and tried a mini belch in case that persuaded him to abandon the date.

He winced but remained.

‘I am a vegetarian, of course,’ he announced, an hour or so later.

‘Oh, right. I’m not. I eat meat with the blood dribbling down my chin. I love meat so much I have to eat it every few hours.’

Surely that would work.

James merely nodded slowly. ‘You don’t love yourself very much, do you?’

‘James, are you a philosophy lecturer or a crap psychology student?’ I asked irritably.

‘At last, the real Frances,’ he said. ‘Your vulnerability is beautiful.’

Right, that’s it
, I thought grimly.
As soon as this is over, I’m texting Michael back. Enough is enough.

At the end of the night, by which time I was wasted, I got up to shake his hand again. I felt weak with relief. But as I did, he grabbed my hand, yanked me over to him, hooked an arm round my neck and whispered roughly, ‘I have to kiss you. Right now. You are the essence of sex and pain.’

Stunned, I looked on in the third person as I wrapped my arms round this horrid spectacle of a man and snogged his face off.

Sent:
Sun, 14 Feb 2020 12:12:47

From: Eve O’Callaghan

To:
FRAN PRIVATE [[email protected]]

Subject:
VALENTINE’S DAY

Dear Frances,

I wanted to wish you a hAppy St Valentinesd ay. I did try to buy you some chocolate but I’m afraid I got rather sidetracked with some housework., and then I ate it.

Nicholas is spending St Valenintines’ day with bloody Luara & I am not happy between you and me Franny not happy. IT was nice to see you yestrerday please do come more often I have plenty of time on my hands at the moment speaking of which I need a manicure & maybe a pedcure.

I have called Nicholas three times today he hasn#t answered maybe you could give me a call and cheer me up./

Mum

Duke Ellington sat watching me beadily as I got ready for my day at the Brits. I opened my wardrobe and kept my eyes firmly to the right, avoiding the empty
space where Michael’s stuff had been. Clinging to the hope of rousing his jealousy, I’d somehow managed not to reply to his message and had not heard from him again. I presumed that, having got over his little moment of madness, he was now happily ensconced in Nellie’s four-poster. The thought made me want to eat doughnuts until I passed away. I missed every bone in his body.

What does one wear to report on a trendy music awards ceremony
? I wondered. I tried on a slouchy eighties jumper with my new spray-on jeans and spiky boots, but removed it hurriedly when it took me straight back to my date with James last week. At Warwick Avenue tube station he had snogged me manfully against a wall and then – I trembled to think about it – he had actually begun to bump and grind against me. Thank God my handbag had been stolen just then by a moped-mounted thief.

I went for a short striped dress and biker boots.

Ninety minutes later I was plunged into the madness of Earls Court on the biggest day in its calendar. Eddie-the-entertainment-correspondent’s job for the day was to vox-pop bands as they came offstage from their sound checks. And my job was to snag them. Eddie was More Senior Than Me, and since my promotion he’d spent the last two years making sure I knew this.

An achingly cool blonde girl wearing skinny jeans and a man’s shirt, eating a Mars bar (just because she
could), handed me my pass. ‘Don’t hassle anyone,’ she said, without meeting my eye. ‘They’re here to rehearse, not to chat. If I get any complaints, you guys are out. OK? Marcel, can you send Robbie Williams to the stage, please?’ she barked into her walkie-talkie.

‘Robbie Williams?’ I asked, amazed. ‘
Actual
Robbie Williams?’

She raised a haughty eyebrow. ‘Yes. Actual Robbie Williams. He’s picking up Outstanding Contribution. Do me a favour and leave him alone, yeah?’

It quickly became apparent that I had lost all of my celeb-badgering abilities since coming back to work. I was tongue-tied, shy and completely flat, watching hopelessly as act after act sped past me without so much as acknowledging my existence. Those who weren’t coked off their tits were too busy running to the toilet to get coked off their tits or flirting with the blonde bitch to pay any attention to me and my timid approaches.

‘FRAN!’ Eddie yelled, as Calvin Harris walked past me and disappeared into the green room, from which we were strictly banned. ‘We’ve only got two interviews in the can and they’re shit. What’s
wrong
with you?’ He stormed off for a fag and Sean-the-mediocre-entertainment-cameraman-who-should-have-been-working-at-MTV looked at me with pity.

‘I’m shit, aren’t I?’ I said to him.

‘Yep’ he said briefly.

I sat down, my head in my hands. I felt stupid, fat and ugly. I didn’t have the confidence even to
look
at anyone here, let alone chat to them with a big TV voice. Maybe I should text Michael back.

‘Everything OK?’ said a rather plummy voice above my head. I looked up and saw a face I had definitely not banked on seeing today. Standing above me, ten different passes hanging round his neck, was the preposterously attractive man from Meditation. ‘You look suicidal.’ He smiled.

You’re not far off
, I thought, as I got up. ‘I’m meant to be getting musos to vox pop,’ I said. ‘It’s going very badly. I’ve only got one of JLS and a backing minger.’

Preposterously Attractive Man laughed. He had thick dark hair, the same suntan he’d been sporting two weeks in a row at Meditation and the relaxed demeanour of someone who knows that he’s extremely attractive. ‘One of them even told me I looked like a lesbian,’ I muttered, glaring down at my offending biker boots.

The man laughed. ‘Charlie Swift,’ he said, grabbing my hand. ‘I missed you at Meditation last week.’

‘I was on a shit date,’ I said, taken aback. Why did he even care who I was? ‘My name’s Fran. I work for ITN. What about you?’

‘I’m a DJ. I do the drive-time shift on Love FM for the pennies but really I’m a club DJ,’ he breezed. ‘Just got back from a stint in the Caribbean, in fact.’

‘Right,’ I said. I wasn’t sure how to respond so blurted, ‘Weather must be nice out there this time of year!’

Charlie touched my arm briefly. ‘Actually, I’ve been wondering who you are –’ He stopped as Eddie and Sean stomped back from their fag break. ‘Hi, guys,’ he said.

‘Oh,
hi
, Charlie! How’s stuff?’ said Eddie, switching on his showbiz voice. Gross.

‘Stuff is good. I’ve just bumped into Fran who I meditate with.’ Eddie’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Right,’ Charlie said, getting out his mobile phone. ‘Let’s fix you up some interviews.’ And, within minutes, there was Lily Allen, all tumbling curls and angular fringe. I shook her hand, speechless. Next came Dizzee Rascal. I couldn’t believe my eyes. How come I’d been working on the entertainment desk for years and never even got close to people like this? Charlie laughed and put his arm round me. ‘Fran’s my clever journalist friend,’ he told Florence Welch. I nearly passed out with pride and Eddie looked sick with envy. Straight though he was, he looked, from where I was standing, like he wanted to bum Charlie.

Charlie’s trump card was a short interview with actual real-life Robbie Williams as he left his sound check. I stared throughout Eddie’s interview as if I was in the presence of God.

Under the megawatt beam of Charlie’s brilliant
smile I forgot completely that I was a heartbroken thirty-year-old spinster with alcoholic tendencies and a dangerous stalking habit.

I hope you’ve been keeping busy today, said a text from Leonie. And I hope you’re still on for Gin Thursday this week. I’m having withdrawal symptoms!

Fuckloads of gossip, I reported back. Met Robbie Williams. Yes we’re on for GT. X

As I handed over my pass to a security man at the exit I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘I hope I’ll be seeing you later on, young lady,’ said Charlie.

‘Me?’

He laughed. ‘Yes, you!’

‘But I can’t … I’m not invited and, besides, I look like a dyke,’ I said, going red.

He roared with laughter. ‘But you’ve been making me laugh all afternoon. I can’t get through tonight without my new favourite lesbian by my side,’ he said, as he walked me over to a makeshift reception area. ‘And there’s plenty of time for you to go home and transform yourself.’

This whole thing was plain weird. Why was he even talking to me? I looked awful and, apart from the odd gaffe about my outfit, I wasn’t aware of having said anything remotely interesting.

Charlie seemed to read my mind. ‘Of course I want to see you again. You’re a breath of fresh air! Most of the people I come across in my work have
their heads up their own arses. It was just nice to hang out with someone who didn’t give a shit.’

‘Was it that obvious?’ I said, as we walked out.

‘Yes. And it was delightful. Let’s get you a wristband for tonight. How many?’

‘Well, two, I suppose … if it’s OK for me to bring a friend,’ I said, somewhat dazed.

Charlie was back a minute later with two complicated wristbands and Brit Award passes on shiny silver lanyards. ‘See you later, lesbo,’ he said casually, kissing my cheek. He lingered there a fraction longer than necessary, then smiled at me. ‘Yves Saint Laurent,’ he said. ‘You smell lovely.’

And off he walked.

As I watched his back retreat into Earls Court my phone started ringing. ‘Er, how do you fancy going to the Brit Awards tonight?’ I asked Leonie.

After a rather crazed leg-shaving session and a tumultuous throwing on and off of a million outfits, I emerged into Camden Road in one of my new micro tunic dresses with massive cage heels and far too much makeup. I got into the taxi that contained a sleek, vintage-dressed, red-lipsticked Leonie. She stared at me in some surprise. ‘Fran, you’ve turned into a transvestite. Are you all right?’

‘Thanks, Leonie. Yes, I’m fine. Not much going on for me at the moment – losing my boyfriend, getting
shoved out of a job by his best mate … Oh, and did I mention that my self-confidence is at an all-time low and you’ve just made it worse? Yes, all things considered, I’m great.’

‘Oh, Fran, stop it. Tonight will be fine. If you can’t cope, we’ll go home. Or, at least, I’ll put you in a taxi. I’m not missing this for the world.’ She squeezed my hand.

I wanted to jump on her and hug her tightly but her belted red dress was spread carefully across the taxi seat and I didn’t dare. Instead I smiled at her and squeezed back. ‘How’s it going with Alex, anyway?’ she asked.

I rolled my eyes. ‘Hideous. He keeps going off to have secret phone calls, blatantly with Michael. It’s killing me.’

Leonie winced. ‘So you currently hate him, correct?’

‘Correct. He’s always bloody sniffing round my work offering to “help”,’ I said, shuddering. Leonie just shook her head.

Charlie spotted me almost as soon as I arrived. ‘Looking good, little lesbian.’ He chuckled. ‘Let’s do the red carpet together, yah?’ I shivered as he put his hand on the small of my back and walked me past the photographers. They shouted his name and papped crazily.

‘Are you actually famous, then?’ I asked, turning my back on them.

‘Turn round, you fool!’ He laughed. ‘Yes, reasonably.’

I kept my back turned.

‘Fran, have you invited me here as your wingman?’ Leonie asked, staring suspiciously at Charlie when he went to sign a housewife’s autograph book.

‘Wingman? Leonie, I’ve just lost my boyfriend! I’ve got as much interest in pulling as I have in fucking crochet.’

‘Liar,’ she whispered.

I wasn’t having this. ‘Do you honestly think I give a shit about him or any other man in the world? Because, let me tell you, I don’t. He’s absolutely nothing to me.’ My whisper had got a little loud.

‘Charming,’ said Charlie, behind me. ‘Why don’t you two make friends and meet me down the front?’ he said, gliding off to the flash of camera bulbs.

‘Well done, Fran,’ Leonie said tightly.

She and I stood glowering at each other like we had done as small children. She’d always won. ‘Come on,’ I said grudgingly. ‘I’m sorry I shouted. But I didn’t invite you here as my wingman. I’m not interested in Charlie and I wanted you to come so we could have fun. OK?’

‘You’re a cock, Fran.’ She smiled, following me into the main hall.

It was an incredible sight. Acres of candlelit tables stretched away in front of us, all containing faces that we’d spent years perving at in magazines and on the TV. Music boomed fatly over the chink of champagne glasses and the buzz of excitable conversation.
Slightly overwhelmed, I grabbed Leonie’s arm and hung on to her as she wove minxily through the tables to the front, where Charlie was waiting. He’d got us into a small roped-off bit just to the side of the stage. ‘How did you
do
this?’ I asked, thrilled.

‘My station is this year’s main sponsor,’ he shouted. ‘And I’m the face of the station. Tonight, Frances, your wish is my command!’

The ceremony passed in an increasingly drunken blur. Leonie and I shamed ourselves quite comprehensively by screaming our heads off, dancing like apes and reaching out to try to grab Robbie Williams like the teenagers at the front of the audience. Charlie, miraculously unfazed by our regression, stood very close to me all evening. He whispered gossip into my ear about the acts and presenters and, although I tried not to, I couldn’t help enjoying it.