My Single Friend (17 page)

When Tom and Rachel are out of earshot, I turn to Henry. ‘You’ve won a fan.’

‘I know.’ Henry widens his eyes in astonishment. ‘I don’t know how that happened.’

We are soon mingling among the guests and I detect a change in Henry. It might be slight, but it’s there all right. Instead of the nervy chap we dragged to the bar the other week, tonight’s Henry is distinctly self-assured. Not too much, though: he has the right balance of confidence and self-deprecation, of assertiveness and niceness. Deciding he’s not here to pick someone up has done wonders.

‘How’s Loverboy?’ says Dominique, as she marches over and slaps him playfully on the bum.

Henry shakes his head in amusement. ‘If that slap was the other way round, you could have me arrested for sexual assault.’

‘I’d never do that to you, Henry. You can smack my arse whenever the mood takes you. What are you doing here, anyway? I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.’

‘Paul had some urgent family business,’ I mutter. ‘He couldn’t make it at the last minute.’

‘Hope you’re going to make him pay for that.’

‘Oh, I’m certain it was genuine,’ I leap in, ‘and he was really apologetic.’

‘Good,’ she says. ‘Though, looking at Henry tonight, I think you’ve ended up with a better date anyway.’

Political correctness gets a lot of stick these days. But when you come across men like David Carruthers, you’re reminded why it was invented.

With facial hair like an Old English Sheepdog and a semipermanent dribble, Carruthers is the conspicuously wealthy owner of various manufacturing businesses – two of which Peaman-Brown represent. He is also the sleaziest man you could meet, someone who, given the choice, I wouldn’t sit within a mile of, never mind
next
to.

I hadn’t realized men like him existed until I attended a similar event a couple of years ago and spotted him groping the backside of Savilles’ Head of Finance.

She responded by spinning round and slapping him across the face in a move that could win her a part in
Kung Fu Panda
. Unfortunately, this only encouraged him. After twenty minutes of fighting him off, she gave up and left, leaving the other guests – male and female – appalled. Yet no one wanted to step in. Somehow, he got away with it. I don’t know how, but he did.

‘Lucky old me, next to the prettiest girl in the room,’ he slobbers, invading so much of my personal space someone should call NATO.

I smile uneasily and inch my chair closer to Henry’s.

‘Here – would you like a menu?’ I thrust the cardboard at Carruthers, hoping its presence between us will send him a clear message. Instead, he grabs it and discards it, before thrusting his elbows on the table and leaning towards me. When I find out who arranged this seating-plan I’m going to throttle them.

‘You’re one of those lovely PR girlies at Peaman-Brown, are you?’ He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes sweat from his beetrooty brow.

‘I work in PR, but have never classed myself as a “girlie”,’ I reply with a ball-breaking glare. I can’t help myself, despite him being one of our clients.

‘Are you a secretary?’ he asks.

‘Apart from Roger Peaman himself, I’m the most senior member of staff here.’

‘Hahahahahahhaha! We’ve got a feisty one here!’ He winks at Bob McIntyre, the boss of a shipping company, on his left. ‘Dontcha love ’em?’

I glance in desperation at Henry, who is seated on my right. But with Rachel, his one-woman fan club, to
his
right it’s clear he isn’t in a position to talk. Carruthers grabs a bottle of red wine and splashes it haphazardly into my glass, before starting on his own.

‘Come on, let’s get plastered,’ he snorts, nudging me in the ribs.

‘I don’t drink red,’ I say flatly.

‘What?’ he bellows. ‘You should. It’s been scientifically proven to give women stronger orgasms.’

‘Is that right?’ I say coldly, as Bob McIntyre shifts uncomfortably. He’s obviously toying with the idea of rescuing me, but hasn’t worked out how without making a scene.

‘Not that any woman needs to worry about that with me around. Hahahhahhahahha!’ He slaps his hand on the table, delighted at his own wit, as I inch even closer to Henry.

‘White wine, madam?’ asks a waiter.

‘Please,’ I nod, taking a large sip as soon as he’s filled my glass.

I’m about to get up and excuse myself to go to the ladies, when everyone is asked to take their seats, if they haven’t already.

‘Greeeaat! Just what everyone needs,’ Carruthers scoffs. ‘Five hours of speeches from a load of boring businessmen. We need to make our own entertainment,’ he adds, leaning towards me and winking again.

I shift my chair so violently I almost cause a four-person pile-up involving Henry, Rachel and the two guests to her right. ‘Sorry,’ I whisper, but Rachel doesn’t look as if she minds.

The awards are longer and duller than previous years. That at least means Carruthers doesn’t have the opportunity to open his mouth much – except to make juvenile comments about ‘women on top’ when any of the award-winners are female.

As the night wears on, my thoughts drift to Paul’s message. At first I’d taken it at face value, that something important had come up. Now I’m starting to wonder. Has he gone off me because I was crap at walking up mountains? He obviously didn’t believe I’d done Snowdon last month. Or, worse, perhaps he thought my injury wasn’t as bad as I said. Maybe he’s got me down as a hypochondriac. Hang on a minute: what a
cheek
! Who’s he to make judgements about my injuries? He’s not a qualified medic. I feel a flash of indignation, before reminding myself that my foot couldn’t have been healthier if it belonged to an Olympic sprinter.

A thought strikes me.
I should text him.
To say something subtle and easygoing – but caring at the same time, in case the emergency is as important as I told everyone.

I slip out my phone and start texting.

Hope everything’s ok. Shame u couldn’t come – is a gr8 nite!

I switch it on to silent and place the phone next to my side plate, flashing Roger a look as if I’m expecting a crucial call from
The Times
newsdesk. Clearly, the only thing on his mind is his award nomination, as it barely registers.

I wait patiently for a response, drifting in and out of a daze between awards. But an hour later, I am forced to accept: Paul is not going to respond.

The awards drag so much I’m almost catatonic by the time that the ‘Best PR, Marketing or Advertising Agency’ is about to be announced. I glance in Roger’s direction to give him a supportive thumbs-up. Except his seat is empty.

‘Where’s Roger?’ I mouth.

The woman to his right, a retail park chief executive, gives a bewildered shrug. Whispers are exchanged across the table. People start to look agitated. The strongest theory is that Roger stepped outside to take a phone call a couple of minutes ago, but hasn’t been seen since.

‘Choosing the winner of Best PR, Marketing or Advertising Agency was a particularly difficult task for our judges,’ says the presenter, a cheerful, prematurely-balding building society executive. ‘The competition in this sector has become stiff in recent years, with an aggressive rate of new business start-ups making it a particularly buoyant – but demanding – industry.’

‘What if we win?’ I hiss to no one in particular. ‘Who’ll collect the award?’

‘Looks like that’ll be you! Hahahhhhha!’ laughs Carruthers, tucking into a plate piled high with booty from the cheeseboard.

‘But I can’t.’ My stomach goes into freefall. ‘I hate speeches. I can’t do them. I just can’t.’

‘The agency chosen demonstrated all the factors critical to success in this sector: impressive profit growth, a good spread of customers from different sectors and a high level of creative expertise that ensures every one of its clients is promoted to the full.’

I spin round, seeking help. My mouth is suddenly so dry it feels as if I’ve been gargling with sand.

‘Don’t worry,’ whispers Henry, sensing my panic, ‘there are twenty agencies up for this award.’

‘And the winner is . . .’

The presenter opens his gold envelope and I bite my fist so hard I almost take a chunk out.

‘Relax, Lucy,’ continues Henry. ‘You probably won’t—’

‘Peaman-Brown PR!’

A spotlight swirls across the room as 600 guests begin a lacklustre but somehow still deafening applause. I squint as the light shines in my eyes and hold my hand over my forehead. Every guest on the table is looking at me.

‘Lucy,’ Henry murmurs, ‘I think you’re going to have to go up.’

‘No way,’ I reply numbly. ‘I can’t move.’

This is no exaggeration. Despite nine pairs of eyes imploring me to stand and walk to the stage, my legs couldn’t be less inclined to service me if I’d had an epidural.

As the applause dies down, there’s a bewildered hush across the room. The only sound that can be heard is my heartbeat, which thunders in my ears like I’ve spent the weekend next to the speakers at a hardcore dance festival.

‘Er . . . Peaman-Brown, are you out there?’ laughs the presenter nervously. The audience titters.

‘Come on, girlie! I thought you were the most senior person here!’ Carruthers guffaws, spraying semi-chewed Stilton and Digestive biscuit.

‘Lucy, you’re going to have to do this,’ Henry tells me. I look at him in desperation. He smiles supportively. ‘You’ll be
fine
.’

‘Can’t you go?’ I whimper.

He pauses. ‘Do you want me to?’

I am about to say yes. I know Henry will do it for me, without a shadow of a doubt.

Then I realize how ridiculous that would be: my flatmate collecting a gong on behalf of
my
company, a company he has nothing to do with. I owe it to myself, to Peaman-Brown, and to my mentor, Roger Peaman himself, to do this. Despite the fact that I could happily kick him for disappearing.

‘Don’t worry, I’m going.’ I rise to my feet.

The spotlight swirls and lands on me decisively. Music belts out in what’s clearly the sound engineer’s attempt to whip up the audience again. Sure enough, they start clapping.

I stumble forwards, my high heels wobbling as I clatter between tables. I reach the stage and begin to negotiate the four steps up to the podium as if conducting a high-wire act. Miraculously, I reach the top in one piece, snatch the award from the presenter, kiss him on the cheek and scuttle behind the lectern, which I grip for dear life in an attempt to halt my cardiac-fit style trembling. I can hear my teeth chattering and pray that the mike won’t pick it up.

I gaze across the sea of expectant faces and vow that I
will not
freeze. I
cannot
freeze. I can’t let my company, Roger, or indeed myself down.

Yet have I ever stood before such a terrifying sight? I don’t think so.

‘Would you like to say a few words, Miss . . .?’ asks the presenter, clearly wishing I’d get on with it.

‘Um, yes.’ I clear my throat.

I try to think of something to say. Something strong, memorable, witty – something that will make everyone in the room want to hire Peaman-Brown immediately. Yet I can’t think of anything. God Almighty, why can’t I think of anything?

Then I get a surge of inspiration: I’ll do that old trick and imagine everyone in the room naked.
Yes!

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. When I open them,
everyone
is starkers – every last one. It’s not a pretty sight. In fact, it’s a bloody awful sight. But it works . . .
it really works!

‘This is a huge honour for a company such as ours,’ I tell the audience, surprising myself at how convincing I sound. ‘We’ve achieved a great deal of success in recent years – winning some of the best clients in the region and recruiting the most talented staff. This prestigious award is recognition of the immense hard work carried out by a brilliant team of people.’

This is going quite well.

I ponder my next sentence and smile at a woman in the front row. Like the others, she is completely nude, and has such pendulous boobs you’d think she’d spent the last seventy years breastfeeding.

‘There is, however, another person who should be accepting this award. Someone who wasn’t able to come up here tonight – and has instead rather landed me in it.’

The audience chuckles, to my relief and satisfaction. A man a few tables to the left who’s had too much to drink continues laughing after everyone else. I’d find it intimidating if he was wearing anything more than a dickie bow and Mr Men socks.

‘The person who should be here is the driving force behind Peaman-Brown’s success. A man who’s great to work with and a truly inspirational boss . . .’

I’m building to the crescendo of announcing Roger’s name, when the guy with the Mr Men socks uncrosses his legs, leaving me with an unpleasant eyeful of his tackle.

‘My Managing Director . . .’