My Single Friend (10 page)

I’ve never considered myself an expert on fashion, beauty and hair care, but relative to Henry I’m Stella McCartney, Max Factor and Vidal Sassoon all rolled into one. I certainly know enough to help improve his appearance. And, seeing as I can’t count the number of times he’s helped me with things he’s good at,
Project Henry
is his payback.

I’m not saying I’d have flunked school without him. I was a bright enough child and, more importantly, determined to grow up and get a good job.

When I was five, I announced that I was going to be a physiotherapist. I didn’t know what a physiotherapist did, except that there was a glam one in a repeat I’d seen of
The Young Doctors
. Over the years, I aspired to be a television news producer, an architect, a barrister, a property developer and a cardiac-surgeon – though the latter was a fleeting ambition, given that I’ve never been able to look at a piece of offal without feeling queasy.

The problem was, the only people I’d encountered with jobs like these were on the television. Dad ran three market stalls selling a variety of ‘genuine Italian leather goods’ – imported from a back street in Taiwan – and Mum was a cleaner. While I have nothing but respect for my parents, I never wanted to follow in their footsteps – and I didn’t exactly have a steady stream of people giving me practical advice on exams. With one notable exception.

Whenever I think about how Henry’s changed my life for the better, I think about GCSE maths. I should explain that I haven’t got what you’d call a mathematical mind. I am to the Pythagorean Theorem what a hippopotamus is to ice dancing: not a natural.

Basically, I hated maths: I didn’t
get
it. No matter how hard I tried, none of it made sense. At every lesson, I’d follow the first five minutes, then find myself lost, befuddled and entirely unable to pick up the thread – until the evening, when Henry would explain all.

Despite having his own GCSEs to worry about (though he never worried), Henry spent weeks tutoring me in the run-up to the maths exam. He found the equations easy, but for me, getting to grips with them felt like climbing Mount Kilimanjaro with nothing by way of equipment but a small brolly.

I remember the night before that exam vividly: Henry knocked on the door at about five-thirty as I was finishing my Findus crispy pancakes, beans and chips. That’s what I had every night, apart from on Saturdays when Dad would get us a Chinese banquet from the chip shop. Knowing what I now know about dietary fibre, I’m surprised I wasn’t constipated until the age of twenty-three.

‘Hello, Henry, love,’ Mum said, as she opened the door. ‘Go through to the living room. She’s stopped revising to have her tea.’

‘Thanks, Mrs Tyler. How’s she getting on?’ asked Henry.

‘Oh, giving Stephen Hawking a run for his money, I’m sure,’ quipped Mum.

I looked up from my plate and there he was, laden with books. ‘Fancy some last-minute revision?’ he smiled.

‘It’s too late, Henry. I’m doomed. I’m not cut out for maths.’

‘Don’t be such a pessimist. Besides, if you want to get into university, you’ll need a C at least.’

‘Impossible.’

‘Not impossible at all,’ he beamed. ‘You’re nearly there. If we get in another couple of hours tonight, you’ll do it.’

We headed to my bedroom and spent four hours going over the principles of trigonometry. The really amazing thing about Henry was not just that he was a whiz at these things; he was also a brilliant teacher – far better than the doddery Mr Carter, who spent as much time picking his beard as he did on long multiplication. Henry was patient and kind, clear and concise. He made everything make sense.

I went to bed with a feeling I’d almost describe as confidence.

Then I woke up a bag of nerves.

I recall filing into the exam room in silence, quivering in terror. It was one thing being able to understand things while I was with Henry; quite another on the day.

As I solemnly placed my bag at the front of the exam room, realization struck: I faced a lifetime of crap jobs. University was a pipe dream. There was only one possible outcome: I was going to fail.
OH GOD, I WAS GOING TO FAIL!

As I took out my pencil case, I spotted the note – slipped in without me noticing – and opened it up.

Pull yourself together, Lucy: you will not fail. If I’m wrong I’ll run naked down Church Street with my dad’s pants on my head.

I let out a giggle as I turned it over.

Shit
, it continued.
You won’t muck it up will you?! xx

I caught Henry’s eye on the other side of the room and he winked. I shook my head and tried not to smile.

Fortunately for him, he was right. In fact, by some miracle, I got a B. So the world was spared the sight of Henry, his dad’s pants and more flesh than should ever be exposed to the so-called British summer. I can’t help thinking it was a victory all round.

Normally I don’t mind Monday mornings, but this one’s a challenge even for me. The weather is atrocious as I battle the crowds to work; desperately cold with a howling wind intent on forcing my mascara to relocate to my chin. I push through the doors of Peaman-Brown’s offices and plonk down in my seat.

‘Heavy weekend?’ asks Drew.

My colleague at the desk opposite is wearing a slick Italian suit and pale tie. The sharp scent of his male grooming products assaulted me at twenty-five yards this morning.

‘No, why?’ I start combing my hair but it is like trying to groom a pan scourer.

He leans back in his chair and studies my appearance. ‘You look a bit . . . peaky.’

‘Not at all,’ I reply indignantly. ‘I feel perfectly . . . perky.’

‘Only showing friendly concern. Maybe it’s just your hair.’ He goes back to his paper.

‘What’s wrong with my hair?’ I reply, then curse myself. I know my hair looks like crap, but that’s my business.

‘Nothing’s wrong with it.’

‘Good.’

‘Nothing’s wrong with it
exactly
. It just looks dry.’

‘Dry,’ I repeat flatly.

‘Hmmm. Oh, what do I know about these things? Maybe you haven’t washed it.’

‘I’ve washed it,’ I reply firmly.

I take my packed lunch box out of my bag and decide to discontinue the conversation in favour of more important matters. Like my diet.

Now I have a date with Paul on Friday, I have resumed it with absolute commitment. My inconsistency with the
Nootrient Calculator
has got me nowhere. In fact, it’s got me worse than nowhere – I’ve put on a pound and a half. Not a huge amount, but given I’m aiming to drop two dress sizes by Friday, it’s a pound and a half I can do without.

I have weighed and measured every item of food in my Tupperware box and calculated the
nootrient
value of everything in sight. There is not a grain of rice unaccounted for. So if I don’t eat anything that hasn’t come from the box by teatime, I’ll have only consumed a saintly six and a half points. I haven’t eaten so little since I had gastro-enteritis last year. God, I feel better already.

‘Have you got the
Journal
?’ I ask Drew, looking round for the local morning paper. ‘They’re using the interview I set up with Philip La Salle today.’

‘Must have been a quiet news day.’ He throws the paper on my desk.

‘Wow – it’s made page one. They’ll be thrilled. I wonder if their Marketing Manager’s seen it?’

‘Are you sleeping with Graham Klein?’

‘No, Drew, I am not sleeping with the News Editor of the
Journal
, or anyone else at the
Journal
for that matter.’

‘It never ceases to amaze me what you persuade them to print.’

I decide to do the mature thing and ignore him. Then I change my mind.

‘Several journalists better qualified to judge considered the interview not to be rubbish. Otherwise they wouldn’t have put it on page one.’

‘That’s what I’m talking about. No offence, Lucy, but I’m surprised that interview made more than a single column.’

‘Even if it was only worthy of a single column –
and I don’t think it is
– that would simply be proof that we’re good at what we do.’

‘We all get lucky sometimes,’ he smiles knowingly.

I grit my teeth. ‘Have you had any
luck
in getting coverage for Ernst Sumner yet?’

I immediately regret bringing this up, conscious that I’ve allowed our spiky banter to get out of hand. While Ernst Sumner isn’t a big client, their dissatisfaction with Drew as their account manager – and therefore Peaman-Brown as a whole – is serious. I heard on the grapevine that they think he’s as effective as a claustrophobic lift boy and are close to firing us. Raising it was a cheap shot.

‘As a matter of fact, I’m confident of securing a page one picture for them next week,’ he says, as the vein in the side of his neck twitches.

‘Good,’ I reply genuinely, hoping this closes the subject. Since when did I become the sort of person to gloat about another’s failures? Even if they are Drew’s.

‘I’ve been doing a lot of background work with them,’ he continues, his neck reddening. ‘In fact, I’m about to—’

‘Hey, Lucy.’ My boss, Roger Peaman, bounds towards his office on the other side of the room. He is fifty-seven but has the energy of a two-million-watt light bulb. ‘Checked your emails recently?’

‘No, why?’

‘Have a look at the one Barry Dixon from Hattons sent. I’ve forwarded it. He’s so pleased with your press launch he wants to extend our contract. You’re a star!’

‘That’s brilliant,’ I grin. I spin round to my computer and catch a glimpse of Drew’s expression. He looks momentarily crushed; this is the sort of conversation I doubt he’s ever had with Roger. I try to think of something nice to say, but Little Lynette appears at the side of my desk with the mail before I have a chance.

‘Thanks, Lynette,’ I say, taking my letters. ‘How are you?’

‘Ooh, fab,’ she says. ‘I’m getting a new car so I’m all excited. Drew, you’re into cars, aren’t you?’

He brightens. ‘Love ’em. What I don’t know about cars isn’t worth knowing. What are you getting?’

She scrunches up her face as if rummaging in the back of her mind. ‘It’ll come to me,’ she says hazily. ‘It’s blue . . . with four doors . . . or maybe two . . .’

‘No idea of the make and model?’ His eyes are drawn to her cleavage.

‘Got it!’ She clicks her fingers. ‘It’s an Alberto V05.’

Drew smiles. ‘Fantastic vehicle, Lynette – an excellent choice. Sporty, sexy and highly charged. Rather like me.’

‘Ooh, you mucky bugger!’ she squeals and skips away. I fear for the future of this company sometimes.

Dominique and I are in meetings for most of the day, but finally catch up late in the afternoon.

‘How’s Loverboy after this weekend?’ she asks.

‘I think he feels like you and I would if we’d tried to absorb the entire curriculum for a Chemistry A-level in one weekend.’

Dominique shrugs. ‘That’s how I prepared for all my A-levels.’

‘He’s overloaded with information, but that can only be a good thing. Some of it’s got to sink in.’

‘Absolutely. Besides, I’ve got a good feeling about this. Henry looks amazing.’

‘He certainly looks better.’

‘Come on, Lucy. I know you two have been friends for ever, but you must be able to see it.’

‘Hmmm, I suppose so. It’s weird thinking of Henry as some sort of . . .’

‘Stud?’

I wince. ‘Henry’s never going to be a stud. At least, I hope not.’

‘Don’t be so sure,’ she grins. ‘Anyway, that isn’t the only thing I came over to tell you.’

‘Oh?’

‘Guess who’s been appointed as the official PR firm for one of the biggest property companies in the country?’

My eyes widen. ‘Not us?’

‘What do you mean,
not us
?’ she whoops. ‘Of course us! I told you we had it in the bag, didn’t I? They tried to phone you ten minutes ago to let you know, but you were in with Roger so the call came to me.’

Dominique and I spend five minutes jumping up and down and hugging each other. When we finally stop, Drew has his coat on.

‘Congratulations, ladies,’ he smiles insincerely.

‘Thank you, Drew,’ I reply. ‘It’s a great win for the company.’

‘Well deserved, I’m sure. Anyway, I’m off to a meeting. Oh, and Lucy – you’d better phone Joe at the
Gazette
. I meant to tell you he rang this morning.’

‘Right. What’s it about?’

‘The same thing he phoned for on Friday – the quote they need from Abrams Smith. He was pissed off you hadn’t returned his calls and said if you don’t get back to him in five minutes they’re running a negative piece – with a “no comment”.’

‘What? But he never left any messages! There’s no way I’d ignore something like that over the weekend.’