Greatest Love Story of All Time (36 page)

It was Clever Politics Thursday. Currently I was helping Alex and his team on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday afternoons, but unofficially I’d been beavering away at home, on the bus, in my breaks and during any downtime I had on my own news desk. There had even been one occasion on which I had taken work into the toilet with me in the aftermath of a prawn vindaloo. My schedule did not permit diarrhoea breaks.

Alex’s pathetic gratitude for even the tiniest of tasks was beginning to grate, though, and I was currently practising my please-calm-down speech in the
bathroom mirror. ‘There is no need for this sort of behaviour, Alex,’ I told my reflection sternly. ‘Leonie likes you
regardless
of how you treat me. You can’t send flowers to thank me for working till ten – I’ve been doing it for nearly five years!’

‘I wouldn’t bother, Fran,’ Stella Sanderson said, emerging from a toilet cubicle. ‘Alex is a man possessed at the moment. I can only imagine what your friend must be doing to him in bed.’

‘Stella! Sorry, I didn’t know you were there.’

‘Going over my script for tomorrow’s feature. I do my finest work in this toilet.’

I giggled. ‘Me too! I had a vindaloo on Sunday, right, so I was a bit you-know-what on Monday and I came in here and spent a good half an hour –’

Stella cut in: ‘No. I meant that I came in here for the peace. I put the lid down, Fran. I don’t work and defecate simultaneously. Although it surprises me in no way that you do.’ And out she strode.

I looked at myself in the mirror again. ‘Fuck’s sake,’ I muttered.

‘All right, Fannybaws?’ Dave said, as I walked out of the loo.

I brightened. ‘Dave! Hey. Where’ve you been all week?’

He shrugged. ‘Out. Working.’

I waited for him to expand, but he didn’t. I bit my lip. ‘You OK?’

‘Yep. You?’

‘Er, yes, fine. I just made a twat of myself with Stella, I admitted to coming in here and doing some work when I had the shits and …’ I trailed off. Dave wasn’t smiling.

‘Hugh was looking for you,’ he said, after a pause. His mobile went and he fished it out of his pocket, smiling briefly. ‘Gotta go.’

‘Oh, OK. See you later for Gin Thursday?’

‘Nope. Can’t. Have plans. Sorry.’

‘Oh. Right. Well, see you in a bit.’

I thought hard as I walked to Hugh’s office. What was going on with Dave? He’d eaten my head off last Thursday, then apologized, and he’d stormed off on Saturday when I’d found him in my yard. Now he was being weird again. What was his problem?
And why was he in Stefania’s shed?
a little voice asked. I brushed it off nervously and knocked on Hugh’s door.

‘COME IN,’ he screamed, in his usual welcoming manner. I scanned back quickly for any stupidity or laziness on my part over the last week or two but nothing came to mind.

‘I thought I told you I hated those bloody romper things, Fran,’ Hugh said, glaring at my perky little Topshop ensemble.

‘Well, I missed them. The corporate look didn’t work for me either.’

Hugh snorted derisively. ‘True. Now. First, shut the fuck up. Second, shut the fuck up. And third, I’d like you to make the film Michael Denby brought in.’

I opened my mouth in preparation for a loud scream. ‘SHUT THE FUCK UP!’ Hugh shouted, but he was smiling. ‘You weren’t my first choice – in fact, given recent behaviour, you were probably my last – but with the election I’m short on people who can do this sort of thing. I think you can do it but I want Dave Brennan to film it. Keep an eye on you.’ I nodded enthusiastically. ‘It’s all yours. Please do your research, come up with a script and get back to me in three weeks ready to go. Your filming period begins during the week before the election and at that point you will lose your position helping Alex’s team. I can’t guarantee that you’ll get it back come election night. Is this satisfactory?’

I did a brief mental calculation. Glamorous, exciting live election show versus ten-minute film about an ordinary person. For me it was a no-brainer. I nodded enthusiastically.

‘Excellent. I wasn’t giving you a fucking choice anyway.’ He smiled. ‘Stella will send you a full brief. She was going to do it but I needed her on the live election show.’

I bounded out of Hugh’s office, beaming. This was unbelievable! Never in a million years had I thought I’d get a gig like this! I ran over to my computer and wrote an IM to Nellie: You won’t believe it – my boss has given me the doc that your Michael brought in!! She pinged back: WONDERFUL, BABE! I bloody loved Nellie! I wrote: Would you like to join Gin Thursday tonight? It’s the final debrief before I meet
Michael in Paris this weekend! Dave can’t come but you know Stefania from Meditation and you’ll love my friend Leonie.

Thanks, babe, but can’t. Stefania invited me at Meditation last night but then she called me earlier to cancel.

I sat back, surprised. Really? Stefania’s a regular at Gin Thursday. You sure?

Yeah, babe, she had something on.

Stefania had
what
on? Stefania never had anything on except a pot of hippie stew.

A few seconds later I was grinning again. This was it! My big break! A project that combined all of the things I loved – politics, characters, real life – which might be watched by literally millions!
And
I’d be in Paris with Michael in three days. Things were looking up.

Where was Dave? I needed to tell him! I scanned the news floor and eventually located a mop of messy hair retreating into the staffroom. Bounding up from my desk, I saw Hugh watching me from the door of his office with a face of amused despair. I blew him a kiss and he grimaced, retreating back to his cave.

‘DAVE! GUESS WHAT!’ He was sitting eating a Müller Fruit Corner. I smiled. How nineties and how typically Dave.

He looked up briefly from his yoghurt. ‘DAVE! HUGH’S ASKED ME TO DIRECT THE
DOCUMENTARY THAT NELLIE’S BOYFRIEND BROUGHT IN!’ I jumped up and down on the spot.

Dave sat back in his chair and put another spoonful of yoghurt into his mouth. His face was strangely inscrutable. ‘That’s great, Fannybaws,’ he said carefully. And then something – who knew what? – changed inside him and his face cracked into a broad smile. ‘Actually, no, that’s
really
fuckin’ great. Well done, you little trouper!’ He jumped up and hugged me. I smiled into his jumper, enjoying his smell. I’d always loved Dave’s smell. Probably a bit too much fag smoke but there was a lovely whiff of soap and spice and cloves and cologne about him. Sort of like a smoky Christmas stocking. ‘Well fuckin’ done,’ he said, into the top of my head.

I pulled away. ‘Guess what else? You’re filming it!’ I threw myself back into a hug, butting his chest as I went. He jumped. ‘Oof, sorry,’ I said, from his armpit.

He smiled down at me. ‘’S OK, you mad fiend. So when do you start planning it?’

‘Today! I’m so excited! Dave, I want it to be
beautiful
. I’ve already got all of these ideas and I’m so glad you’re doing it because you’re amazing!’

His eyes flashed with pleasure. ‘Clever girl. And about time Hugh gave you a break too. I’m really proud of you, Franny.’

I beamed back at him. ‘Are you sure you aren’t free
for a quick celebratory apple juice tonight?’ I said, as I switched on the kettle.

‘Yep, quite sure. I’m busy. Sorry, love.’

I got a cup out of the dishwasher. Before I had time to think about it or stop myself I swung round. ‘Are you meeting Stefania tonight?’

Dave looked surprised. ‘Eh?’

I started to blush. ‘Are you seeing Stefania tonight? She cancelled Gin Thursday too and I … I want to know.’

He was flustered now, and not completely innocent either. ‘I’m not sure it’s any of your business,’ he said gently. ‘Enjoy your cuppa. And well done on the doc. We’ll do a great job of it.’ And with that he got up and walked out of the staffroom leaving his nineties yoghurt only half eaten on the table.

A heavy feeling of unease settled in my stomach. I didn’t want Dave to be meeting Stefania behind my back. I got up and trotted off after him. ‘Um, Dave.’

He stopped and sighed. ‘Fannybaws.’

‘I didn’t mean to pry. And I know it’s none of my business. I just thought you and her, recently you’ve been as thick as thieves.’

Dave raised an eyebrow, nonplussed.

‘But of course you’ve got Freya, and it’s nothing to do with me, so I’m sorry. Er, yep. That’s it. None of my business.’

He was peering across the news floor with a very
complicated expression on his face. After a few seconds he looked back at me and said something that nearly sent me into cardiac arrest. ‘Freya left me actually. We’re not together.’

I blanched. ‘Oh, my
God
 … Dave, I’m so sorry! I … 
Why?
’

He shook his head and walked off. This time I didn’t follow him.

‘Could Dave and Stefania be having an affair?’ I asked Duke Ellington. He looked keenly at me and miaowed. ‘That’s no help. One miaow for yes, two for no.’

My cat hopped into my suitcase.

‘Out. OUT!’ He ignored me. ‘Bloody animal.’ I tried my best to arrange my new Paris outfits around him and considered the evidence.

1. Dave was single. (This I could hardly believe. Dave and Freya had been together since
   for ever.
   How in the name of Jehovah had it gone wrong?)
   
2. Dave and Stefania had been caught looking strangely close at Gin Thursday.
   
3. Stefania had been entertaining Dave in her shed which did
   not
   contain a massage table.
   
4. I’d spotted Stefania doing the Walk of Shame twice.
   
5. She was generally behaving weirdly. Talking gushingly about love and also wearing
   makeup. Neither of these things were in any way normal.
   
6. Dave was behaving weirdly too. He was blowing hot and cold quicker than my shower.
   
7. If he wasn’t meeting Stefania tonight then why didn’t he deny it? Instead he’d told me to mind my own business. Which was guilty-person’s speak for yes.
   

I called Leonie. ‘Do you think it’s weird that Dave and Stefania both cancelled at the last minute?’

‘No’ she replied immediately, laughing.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Er … I just said no, I don’t think it’s weird. They’re both obviously just busy.’

‘But you said “no” really quickly. Why?’

‘Fran, you’re being mental! Dave and Stefania? Please! Look, have an amazing, amazing time in Paris this weekend, OK? You
have
to keep me posted. Regular texts. Only take him back if he begs for mercy.’

I smiled. ‘OK. Promise.’

‘Where are you meeting him?’

A delicious warm fuzzy feeling spread across my stomach. ‘I don’t know! It’s a surprise. He just told me I have to be at St Pancras at eight thirty on Saturday morning. I’m to pick up the tickets and await further instructions!’

Leonie chuckled drily. ‘Jolly good. Well, I’ll leave
you to your packing. Good luck, my darling! Love you!’

As I upended my suitcase to eject Duke Ellington, I opened a Dave and Stefania file in my head. I wasn’t done with it yet. ‘I’m going to get to the bottom of this,’ I told my angry cat.

Date eight: Michael

A man with twinkling dark eyes helped me off the train with a gloved hand. ‘
Merci!
’ I breathed excitedly, surveying the scene around me. The Gare du Nord was packed. It was everything I’d imagined: massive, chaotic and exciting. There were glamorous women with neckerchiefs and sunglasses, men in suits scuttling along with briefcases, the smell of coffee and pastry and chocolate, and luscious sexy Frenchyspeak spilling down from elegant platform speakers. Thousands of voices filled the cavernous arches and sun spilled through the old leaded windows.
Mon dieu!
I was here at last!

I beamed at the nice gloved man who’d been serving me in First all the way from St Pancras. He smiled indulgently. ‘
Bonne chance, Mademoiselle
.’ (Every time he’d arrived with more coffee I’d given him a nervous earful about Michael.) He handed me my suitcase – which looked rather shabby among the Louis Vuitton luggage that was descending from the train – but
nothing
was going to trouble me today. I was in the world’s most romantic city, fresh as a daisy after an
unexpected trip in First Class, only a matter of hours from seeing Michael Slater. I’d chosen my outfit carefully – tight jeans, smart boots and a seventies floral blouse that showed just the right amount of collar bone – casual but well groomed. My hair had begun to grow out of its bob and I’d pinned my fringe to one side in the way that I imagined
une Parisienne
would do. My
heels clicked steadily along the platform with my suitcase trundling obediently behind me. I felt fabulous.

I stopped at a Presse newsstand on the main concourse for an impulse purchase of
Le Monde
. I wanted as many souvenirs of this weekend as I could find and I rather liked the idea of Fran
avec
French newspaper.

A few seconds later I handed it back to the man at the stand, red-faced. I had forgotten to bring any euros. ‘Erm,
pardonnez-moi
,’ I muttered, and scurried off.

After a quick tussle with a cash machine I was free, standing in the sun on the rue de Dunkerque under the awesome edifice of the Gare du Nord. I texted Michael: I’m here! Standing outside Gare du Nord. What next?

While I waited for his response I walked off to find a French Snack, filling my brain with Paris. Even here, smack bang in the middle of Tourist Central, it felt magnificent. I ran into a little bakery crammed between a bookshop and a rip-off tourist store and
bought a coffee and a brioche, just because I felt that this was what one should do. I paid nine euros. I left, a little outraged, but amused. Only the French could pull off a stunt that audacious.

Munching the buttery pastry I felt quite overwhelmed and it took everything I had not to start dancing on the spot. In fact, had my phone not been ringing, I probably would have. It was Leonie. ‘OH, MY GOD!’ I screamed, by way of answer. No reply came, just a lot of hissing. ‘Leonie, I can’t hear you,’ I shouted. ‘I’ll call you later when I’ve got an update!’