Greatest Love Story of All Time (40 page)

He squinted at his reflection and shrugged. ‘Whatever.’ He walked over to the west-facing wall. ‘How’s your mum getting on?’ he asked, looking out at the city.

‘Good. Well, up and down, but good. She seems to be realizing how bad she’s been. It’s amazing, seeing her revisit the last twenty years with different eyes.’

It was true. Last weekend Mum had come round to cook a roast while I was rewriting the voiceover for my documentary. After chiding me for trying to eat Yorkshire pudding while watching footage and tapping frantically at my laptop she had suddenly put
down her knife and fork and told me how sorry she was for absconding from her role as my mother. ‘I lost my grip on reality,’ she’d said.

‘I did always know that, Mum.’

‘But to think of how lost and lonely you must have felt … Michael leaving you, and the business with that other girl … Oh, Fran, it must have been terrible. I want to make up for it. I want to be your mother again.’

Of course we’d both cried.

‘I’m so glad,’ Dave said. There was real pleasure in his eyes. I loved Dave.

Then an almost imperceptible change flashed across his face. ‘How are you feeling about Michael?’ he asked tentatively. We’d spoken about it, of course, but only in the few snatched moments that we’d slumped in the back of taxis loaded with camera kit, or in the fluorescent glare of the news floor at three a.m. And the truth was, now that Dave had asked, I didn’t actually know.

‘I feel … I dunno. Numb. No, sad. Disappointed. But after I’d had it out with Alex and discovered how much shit Michael had stirred, I suppose it just got rid of any doubts.’

Dave was watching me closely. ‘And has he contacted you?’

‘Nope. Nothing.
Nada.
He’s probably found someone else to massage his ego,’ I said sadly. ‘I really thought I was going to marry him. When he got that
ring out, I thought that was it. Us. For ever. And now, seven weeks later, I’m thirty and single and I don’t even know what country he’s in.’ I lined up my bottle on the wall next to Dave’s so the shadows spilled on to the concrete under our feet. ‘But … I’m liking myself more now he’s gone.’

Dave nodded. ‘Fannybaws. I’m only going to say this once, cos God knows, I’ve thought about it enough. But here’s the truth. Watching you spending all your time trying to impress Michael – trying to be
good enough
for him – it broke my heart. Leonie told me you even agreed to leave your fuckin’
job
for him in Paris. She said you told him you’d spend less time with your mum, with us – fuckin’ hell, Fran, you even told him you’d ditch Gin Thursdays!’

I bit my lip. ‘Yeah. Sorry. Really shabby behaviour.’

He took my hand for a second and squeezed it. ‘No, I’m not making a row with you.’ I looked away, embarrassed. In the quiet moments as my taxi had slid through early-morning London I’d spent a lot of time trying to work out why I had been so willing, over the last few months, to change everything about myself. How I looked, what I did, who I hung out with, how much time I spent with my own
mother,
for crying out loud. I’d been happy to throw away every detail of myself to become someone that Michael would want to be with.

Michael, who had left me on my thirtieth birthday because I wasn’t giving him enough.

Dave ran a hand through his hair. He looked lovely today. ‘Fran, I’m just saying, or I’m trying to say … whoever you end up with, Fannybaws, you shouldn’t be changing a thing for them. Nothing. Don’t be with anyone if you can’t be you. Because you’re bang on just as you are. OK?’ He started fiddling very studiously with a loose thread on the hem of his T-shirt.

‘Erm, thanks. Appreciate it. You sentimental old gay.’ I gave his hand a quick squeeze to let him know how much it meant to me. Because it did.

‘Right, well, better get back for the viewing,’ he said, suddenly brisk.

I groaned inwardly. I was so tired of Dave’s yo-yo behaviour. One minute he was a lovely great big huggy bear, the next he was as abrupt as a full stop. It had been like this since before I went to Paris. ‘It’s only been ten minutes!’ I protested. ‘Stella won’t be there for at least another fifteen!’

Dave was off, though, his shoulder blades moving powerfully through the old faded stripes of his T-shirt. He had a nice big bear-like back, I thought, as it retreated from me. The kind of back that was good for throwing one’s arms around. Was this the back that was making Stefania so damn happy? I hoped not.

‘Oi, Dave!’ I yelled.

He stopped and turned. ‘Oi, Fran,’ he shouted back.

‘Dave, are you seeing Stefania?’ He looked round, as if I was asking someone else. ‘Yes, you. Are you seeing
Stefania?’ I walked towards him, draining the dregs of my now-warm fake lager. Dave smiled privately.

‘Bloody hell, you are, aren’t you?’ A brief clutch of something unidentifiable, but not particularly lovely, grabbed my stomach.

He raised an eyebrow and shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. ‘How would you feel if I was, Fannybaws?’ he asked.

I noticed that his twinkly eyes were a lot more visible now that he’d shorn off a load of mad hair.

I didn’t say anything.

His phone started ringing and he answered it, smiling. ‘Hey, hey!’ He disappeared through the exit.

‘Fine,’ I said, after he’d left. ‘Yeah, I’d feel great about it. There would not be a problem at all. Not even a tiny one. I’d be really happy for you both.’

When I got back to the edit, Danny was sipping his warm champagne on his own. Stella had not arrived and Dave was nowhere to be seen. ‘Oh, that guy, the one who works on the live show, was looking for you, Fran.’

‘Which one?’

‘The skinny fucker. Posh bloke. Glasses. Bit of a twat.’

‘Alex. Actually, he’s all right. What did he want?’

‘Dunno. He had a butcher’s at this film, though – looked well impressed. Went off to meet his bird.’

I wandered out to Reception on the off-chance and struck gold. ‘Franny!’ Leonie screamed. She was
jumping up and down, holding Alex’s hand, a manic grin stretched across her face.

‘I’ve missed you so much!’ I gasped, as we hugged. ‘Bloody work! We have some SERIOUS catching up to do. What’s going on?’

Leonie could barely speak she was so excited. ‘PENGUIN!’ she yelled. Alex was laughing. Bless Alex. He was so happy, these days. He waited for her to explain. I was baffled, and a stream of nonsense came out again. ‘PENGUIN!’ was the only word that made any sense.

‘You’ve bought one?’ I ventured. ‘Adopted one?’

‘THEY’RE PUBLISHING MY FUCKING BOOK!’ she yelled, grabbing my hair in two clumps and jumping up and down.

‘Ow!’ I had to jump up and down with her so that my hair wouldn’t be ripped out. And then I grasped what she was saying. ‘Oh, my God!’ She nodded madly – still jumping – and emitted a series of hoots.

The security guard was watching us with a raised eyebrow, and Alex clapped his hands like a young girl. I grabbed Leonie and hugged her. We jumped up and down some more until a bony assault from our left announced that Alex had joined us and we were now a three-way bouncy ball. Squeaks and roars and whoops abounded.

‘THIS IS THE BEST NEWS EVER!’ I shouted, extricating myself eventually.

‘Isn’t it?’ Alex cried. His glasses had slid round to offer enhanced vision to his left ear and in his excitement he seemed not to have noticed. Leonie moved them back on to his nose, which she kissed briefly.

‘Oh, you guys,’ I said, suddenly emotional. ‘This is totally awesome. I’m so happy. When are we celebrating?’

‘Er, right now?’ Leonie said. ‘How long till you finish? Surely if Alex’s mad hours are over you’re in the clear too.’

‘Nearly. I’m just waiting for sign-off from Stella. But you two go. I’ll join you in a bit!’ I hugged Leonie again. ‘I’m so fucking proud of you, my clever sex-pert friend!’ I stood back and surveyed her, all five foot nine of my wonderful, beautiful, talented childhood chum, clad in a beautiful full-skirted dress from the 1950s: she had finally got the career and aristocratic boyfriend I’d always imagined her to have. I felt like a proud mother at the nativity play. I loved her with every part of my body.

‘I have to go to the loo before we leave,’ Alex cried, and skipped off.

We smiled indulgently. ‘He really loves you, doesn’t he?’ I chuckled.

‘He doesn’t fail to amaze me, Fran. I always thought he was such a penis and he’s just … he’s just wonderful! He’s so humble. And so open. He always wants to know about me and my day – I have to practically wrestle him to make him talk about his.’

‘It was kind of the opposite with Michael and me,’ I said.

Leonie looked sharply at me. ‘Well done, Fran.’

I glanced back at her, confused.

‘Well done for saying that sort of thing out loud. It’s true, of course, but it’s important you acknowledge it. I’m proud of you.’

‘Well, there’s no pretending otherwise, is there?’ She shook her head. ‘Did you always think that about him?’ I asked.

‘No, actually, I didn’t. I knew from the start that you saw him as some sort of god but I didn’t realize that was because he
made
you feel like that. I thought you were just a bit mad and carried away.’

‘Well, I was that, too.’

‘Perhaps. But it was him, Franny. He was toxic. God, the stuff Alex has told me … Michael needs to sort himself out and stop using other people to do the job for him. Poor Alex took a right beating over the years. No wonder he comes across as such a wazzock the first time you meet him!’

I giggled. ‘He’s definitely one of the good guys, Leonie. I’m so pleased for you! I’ve really loved working with him these last few months. Who’d have thought it, eh?’ I paused, looking out of the huge glass swing doors at the busy pavement outside. ‘How funny that it should have worked out like this. You and Alex all loved up, me and Michael totally incommunicado. Not what I saw when I imagined the future.’

Leonie nodded sympathetically.

‘I’m seeing more and more how much Michael fucked with my head. He was really … really subversive, y’know? I dunno how he did it – he just somehow got under my skin and made me feel like he was the best thing that could possibly have happened to me.’

‘Well, he’s history. You’re free to meet the man of your dreams now, Franny.’

‘Yeah.’ I thought for a few moments and started giggling. ‘And you know what, Leonie? Here’s a little something for your book. Michael used to yell, “FINGER IN BOTTOM!” just before he came.’

As Alex bounded over, puppy-like, from the Gents, Leonie and I clutched our stomachs and howled like werewolves.

Hey Fran!

Long time no see! We’ve missed you … Did you meet someone through our website? If so tell us all about it by clicking here! In the meantime you’ve got no less than THIRTY-FOUR unread messages! Stop by and check them out sometime soon …

Team Cupid

‘Let’s get this fucking thing started,’ Hugh barked.

I shot a look of pure fear in Stella’s direction but she smiled. ‘He’ll love it,’ she whispered, as Hugh settled himself on the viewing sofa. Dave nodded his agreement and gave me a cheesy thumbs-up. He sprawled next to Hugh.

Finally, it was time for Hugh to watch the film. It was signed off and awaiting transmission, but the only thing that really mattered to me was whether or not he liked it. I was quaking in my boots and had spent some time in the toilet this morning quite without the need for a prawn vindaloo the night before.

The music started – I’d chosen a delicately humorous Mozart Piano Concerto for the opening
sequence – and I steeled myself for condemnation and scorn.

Michael Denby, Nellie’s rich and, it turned out, highly influential fiancé, had come to us with a simple idea for something that no one else could possibly have gained access to. Michael was the PR for an old, distinguished and largely unheard-of company who supplied key staff to Downing Street and other Whitehall buildings. To become a member of their team it appeared you had to belong to a different era in which people spoke with efficient 1940s accents and had strong command of skills such as silver-polishing and chutney-bottling.

One of their longest-serving clients, a lovely, soft-spoken woman called Esther Bonningham, was the chief housekeeper at 10 Downing Street. She had been due to retire and leave at the same time as Gordon Brown, if he lost the general election. And, of course, he had. Michael had, somehow, gained access for a tiny crew of director and cameraman to follow Esther in her last few weeks at Number Ten. The idea was two-pronged: on the one hand it was a glimpse behind the scenes during the biggest election in decades, and on the other it was a simple character portrait of an unassuming woman who ran the most important house in Britain.

I’d been with Esther during the chaos of the week leading up to the election, then right through the purgatorial weekend when the country had stood still,
waiting for a government to be formed. I’d been with her in the still of the morning when she’d stood at the window with her clipboard, thinking back over her forty-five years of service in the house, and then later on when it was all systems go and she was presiding over the boiling of
perfect
eggs for the Browns down in the Great Kitchen. The beauty of it was that the Browns had passed through the back of shot a few times but they had merely been off-stage characters. This was Esther’s story.

How I’d managed to get through it without making some massive blunder – without breaking anything or swearing or getting arrested – was a source of great wonder to both Dave and myself.

Hugh stared at the screen, silent, as the final scene played. While Gordon and Sarah Brown had left 10 Downing Street holding their children’s hands on 11 May, a far more moving scene was taking place at the staff entrance. Esther was handing her uniform, carefully folded, to a security guard and removing the ID lanyard from her neck for the last time. She took one final glance around the silent, abandoned hallway, then smoothed her skirt, picked up her bag and left.