Greatest Love Story of All Time (8 page)

So far, so good. Leonie and Michael had been laughing in an easy, non-sexual way when I’d arrived late after a bit of a work emergency. He glanced up as I sprinted in and there it was: the smile that was just for me. The smile that made me want to swing from the trees screeching and thumping my chest.

‘So sorry to be late,’ I said as I kissed him. I felt so proud! This was my actual boyfriend! Who ran me a bath every morning, who cooked complicated meals and who slept like a curled-up prawn!

‘No worries. Leonie was telling me about Knut.
Apparently he only likes back-door sex,’ Michael reported, with one eyebrow slightly raised.

Leonie nodded sadly. ‘It’s chronic, Fran. My arse is beginning to suffer. What should I do?’

I burst out laughing. ‘Wow. I’m sorry, do you two already know each other?’

Leonie batted me off. ‘Fran, if Michael’s living with you he might as well know the truth about me. I’d hate him to have a nasty shock later on.’

I blanched. Michael had been staying with me since he’d come back to London but nothing had been said yet about him moving in. Naturally, I wanted him to stay for ever: I wanted us to have a checked tablecloth and pots of lavender and the same bath towels, but I hadn’t dared bring it up in case he got frightened and went off to rent a black ’n’ chrome bachelor pad in London Bridge.

Somehow sensing my panic, he put his arm round me and whispered, ‘If you’ve got room for a lodger I’d love to stay,’ into my hair.

Man. My life was perfect.

At that moment Dave and Freya arrived, Dave marching up to Michael with one of his paws outstretched and a roll-up hanging out of his mouth. ‘All right, fella?’ he said, in an unusually masculine manner.

Michael stood up and grasped his hand. ‘Dave. Hi, mate. Drink?’ Off they went, chatting gruffly about Derby’s relegation.

I looked at Freya. ‘Why are men so weird? What’s with this mate and fella and football?’

She smiled politely.

Leonie rolled her eyes. ‘It’s to do with erections and testosterone. But anyway, hi, Freya!’ she said brightly.

Leonie, I knew, felt as awkward around Freya as I did. Freya smiled calmly and offered Leonie a smooth peachy cheek, then did the same to me.

‘Mmm, you smell nice!’ I told her. ‘I have a bubble bath that smells just like your perfume!’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ she said levelly.

Dammit. ‘Yes! Deffo! It was a very expensive bubble bath …’

Freya merely smiled. ‘I’ll go and help David with the drinks,’ she murmured, ‘and meet Michael. I’ve heard quite a lot about him.’ And with that she slid off elegantly, all healthy freckles and paraben-free shampoo.

Leonie and I watched her in silence. After a few seconds, Leonie turned back to me and we sat down. ‘Feel like a buffoon?’

‘Yep. Always.’ I smiled.

‘Anyway, Michael! I like what I see, Fran. Do you think he’s right for you?’

I was a little taken aback. ‘Does that mean you think he’s not?’

‘Don’t be a dick. How would I know? I’m asking
you.
’

‘Sorry. I’m just paranoid. Well, yes, I do think he’s right for me. And the amazing thing is, Leonie, that I think I’m right for him. I just can’t believe it – he wants to see me all the time! It’s a frigging miracle!’

Leonie smiled indulgently. ‘Well, I thought as much. You’ve missed two Gin Thursdays in a row and I’ve hardly heard from you.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s just so new and exciting, and I … I just love him, Leonie. It’s hopeless. I’m like this great moronic smile on legs. Hugh thinks I’m on magic mushrooms …’ I trailed off, blushing.

Leonie got up from the other side of the table and came round to hug me. ‘I bloody love you, Franny. I’m so happy for you! Of course you’re allowed to miss Gin Thursday – he’s only just got here.’

‘I love you too,’ I said fiercely, into her fur coat. It smelt of Chanel No. 19 and digestive biscuits. We picked up the glasses and moved Gin Thursday back inside the pub until further notice.

Two hours later, Dave and I were arm-wrestling for the last crisp in the packet while Leonie whupped Michael’s arse on the fruit machine. Stefania was on her fifth tomato juice, talking animatedly to Freya, Michael’s sister Jenny and his friend Alex. Jenny’s husband Dmitri was outside yelling into his BlackBerry, as he had been doing most of the night.

Stefania was on excellent form. Since arriving she had called the barman an ‘ignorant rectum’, she had
forced Alex to spend a week being vegan, and she had told Michael that even though I’d moved into my flat three years ago I still hadn’t remembered to buy a washing line so I hung my knickers from the tree in our yard every summer. ‘She’s amazing,’ Jenny breathed as Stefania barked at Alex about the mortal dangers of meat. I liked Jenny already. She was so easy and straightforward and, better still, she looked just like Michael in a girly sort of way. She was six months pregnant and radiated happiness. I imagined us meeting for lunch once we were sisters-in-law: she’d tell me how ugly and stupid Michael’s previous girlfriends had been and how I was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

I was less sure about Alex. He was of the fashionable Oxbridge brigade, the type who lived in large flats in East London decorated with dark mahogany furniture and portraits of Victorian industrialists. He had a sharp, pointy head and a rather unsettling way of looking at you for a few seconds before answering your question. Worse still, it turned out that he also worked for ITN. Only he worked in the Special Building for Clever People in Millbank and he had my dream job: politics producer. It was exactly as Michael had warned me: I felt extremely stupid in his vicinity.

Much to my amusement, Alex seemed to be rather smitten with Leonie who, perhaps sensing my discomfort around him, was ignoring him. (‘Michael’s friend is a bit of a cockhead,’ she’d muttered when
we’d been at the bar earlier. ‘He quoted T. S. Eliot at me just now and told me he only smoked cigars.’)

Dave smashed my forearm down on the table, laughing at my furious face. ‘Fine, have the bloody crisp, you monstrous human being,’ I said darkly, watching Leonie and Michael out of the corner of my eye. I’d never seen Leonie not flirt with a man before and felt weak with relief at the complete lack of chemistry between them.

‘Do you not trust them?’ said Dave, catching my eye.

‘Sorry?’

‘C’mon, Fran, I can see what you’re thinking. Do you not trust them?’ he repeated.

‘No, I do, I just … Well, you know how men go mad for Leonie. You can’t blame me for being a bit scared. Doesn’t Freya ever get suspicious about you and her?’

Dave laughed briefly. ‘Nope. I can honestly say Leonie doesn’t trouble her at all.’

That was what I wanted. A relationship free of fear, just like Dave and Freya’s. I looked at Michael and Leonie again and started to grin, knowing deep down that that was exactly what I had. Michael had wanted to be with me all the time: in the two and a half weeks since he’d returned he had put me before his friends, his family and even his new colleagues. I felt like a princess for the first time in my life.
No fear!

But Fear gave me a little kick in the gonads when, a
few seconds later, a perfectly manicured hand was placed limply over mine and I heard Mum’s voice say, ‘Good evening, Frances,’ with suspicious precision. Precision in Mum’s voice normally meant she was drunk.

I looked up: she was drunk. Even though her hands were reasonably still her eyes betrayed her: they had the bleary film I’d come to recognise as trouble at an early age. She was wearing one of her power suits in starchy peach and was shrouded in some sort of gigantic fur coat that made Leonie’s vintage number look like a dirty old stoat. Harrods and Harvey Nicks bags hung from her arms and her hair was a rock-hard halo of Thatcheresque perfection. My heart sank. ‘Hello, Mum!’ I said brightly, as Dave got up to take her coat.

A loud cackle came to us from the fruit machine. Leonie yelled ‘Take that, you fucker!’ and Michael groaned loudly.

Mum stiffened. ‘Leonie’s language really is disgusting,’ she said, with a shudder. Her eyes narrowed as Michael shook hands with Leonie to end the game. ‘Is that Michael? Why is he not here with you?’

Dave went to get Mum a drink. ‘Mrs O’Callaghan!’ Michael arrived at the table, looking so incredibly handsome and lovely and eager that I nearly wept. I had the most perfect boyfriend in the world.

Even Mum, after God knew how many glasses of champagne at the opera, couldn’t fail to be impressed. ‘Well, now. You must be Michael. Fran has spoken
about little else,’ she said grandly, offering him her hand as if she were Queen Victoria.

‘Mum …’ I said, my cheeks staining red.

‘Shush, Frances,’ she said. ‘You have every right to be proud of this young man. I hear you’re a political journalist,’ she said to Michael, with a beady stare.

‘Yes. I’m still finding my feet at the
Independent
but it’s mostly what I’m used to – hanging round Westminster badgering politicians, same old same old,’ he said easily, as if he was working in a launderette. I swelled with pride.

‘Well, I have to say I’m a bit disappointed not to have seen your name in the paper since you started,’ she said, a little sniffily.

Mum disapproved of any paper other than the
Telegraph
; I was touched that she’d been buying the
Independent.
Although she was probably doing so to show off about Michael to her neighbours.

Michael smiled. ‘A lot of what I do is editing other people’s work so my name often doesn’t make it into the finished article.’

‘And you
never
get to see what I’m up to,’ I said loudly, in Michael’s defence. ‘I’m a total gofer by comparison!’

Michael and Alex laughed – Alex perhaps a touch too much – but Dave interrupted: ‘Not true, Fran. And I’ve heard a little rumour that your job description’s about to change anyway.’

I swung towards him, surprised. ‘How?’

Dave grinned. ‘I shouldn’t tell you,’ he said.

‘But you will,’ Leonie commanded.

Dave batted her away. ‘Well. Hugh pulled me in earlier, wanting to know what I thought of your performance in Kosovo. And I told him you’d been a fucking legend, Fran, and how much you’d impressed me.’

I felt my face flush with gratitude and pride. Freya smiled prettily, watching me with interest. ‘And he said – if it doesn’t work out you can’t hold me responsible – that he was going to make you a proper specialist producer for ents and culture. Frances O’Callaghan, specialist producer!’

I stared at him open-mouthed. I tried to talk but nothing came out. And then, eventually: ‘OH, JESUS! SHITTING BOLLOCKING – OH, MY GOD!’ I launched myself at him and sent the remainder of his pint flying. ‘Thank you thank you thank you,’ I cried, into his sideburn.

Dave pushed me away. ‘Oi, off. And go and buy me another drink, you mad beast.’ He looked delighted. Dave was so kind; Freya was a lucky woman.

As she glided calmly to the toilet I saw her smirk. It was almost imperceptible but I knew it was there. Disgust at me and my swearing and my poxy little career.
Well, sod her
, I thought, smarting. And Alex, who had watched with a raised eyebrow. They could be as superior and grown-up as they wanted. I had Michael Slater and a very exciting promotion.

‘This calls for champagne,’ Mum said loudly. She looked pointedly at Michael, a section of hairsprayed quiff falling into her eye. I felt simultaneously embarrassed and appalled. Mum was not this person.

Michael sprang up. ‘Quite right, Mrs O’Callaghan,’ he said brightly. ‘You’ve got a very special daughter!’ Everyone, except Alex, smiled. ‘Don’t worry about him,’ Michael said, when I joined him at the bar. ‘He can be a right wanker. Ignore!’

I felt safe and warm and loved. ‘OK,’ I said, beaming up at him.

Another hour later, Mum was absolutely steaming and I was in hell. I sat rigidly next to Michael with a sickening tension headache pounding at my temples. Mum had already told Michael about my ‘shabby’ father leaving her when I was thirteen and was now slurring on about the affair she’d been having ever since, with all of its attendant petty dramas. Leonie and Dave had seen this often enough, but for this to be Michael’s introduction to my family was crucifyingly awful.

‘His wife, Laura, is one of the most poisonous women you could ever hope to meet,’ she whispered conspiratorially. ‘And the way she keeps their house is disgusting. I’ve only been there once but I saw all I needed to see. There was a
multipack of crisps
in their downstairs cloakroom,’ she told him, with a shudder.

Michael’s lips twitched as he shook his head politely. ‘Disgusting,’ he said, with just the right level of
affected horror. I squeezed his hand under the table.

‘It’s time to get you into a taxi, Mum,’ I said eventually. Seeing her like this was too sad. I wanted to enjoy the last hour of Gin Thursday with Michael’s and my friends, who were giggling about something at the other end of the table – probably Knut’s fixation with anal sex. Stefania had finally given in and had a glass of wine. Now she was red-cheeked and shrieking with laughter at whatever Leonie was saying. She was really quite pretty, I thought, as she fell sideways on to Dave mid-laughter. On the rare occasions that Stefania actually drank, she always flirted with Dave. Freya looked on calmly; she had seen it all before. Alex was staring at Leonie with guarded eyes but she was ignoring him. Jenny and Dmitri had gone home.

Mum stood up, then sat down again. ‘Dear me, Fran,’ she said, ‘that wine hasn’t done me any good at all. And, you saw me, I only had two glasses.’ As Michael got up to fetch her coat her eyes beseeched me not to take her to task on the bottle of champagne she’d probably downed at the opera. Or the gin and tonics she’d probably had at Harvey Nicks. Guilt and shame hovered wetly in her eyes.

‘’Bye, Eve,’ Leonie said, coming over to kiss Mum’s cheek.

‘Ah, Leonie, goodbye,’ Mum said, trying to sound grand again. ‘You’ve heard about Fran’s promotion?’

‘Yep. She was always destined for big things,’ she said enthusiastically.

‘So, too, were you, dear,’ Mum said shrewishly to her. I froze.