My Single Friend (32 page)

‘Sorry, Lynette. It’s not that I wasn’t listening.’ Patently, I wasn’t listening. ‘It’s just—’

‘You’re up to your eyes, I know,’ she interrupts. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll catch you later.’

‘Definitely. You can tell me all about your new man. You’ve been very secretive about him.’

‘What?’ says Drew in mock horror. ‘Lynette’s got a new man? What about me? Will I have to go on dreaming?’

‘Drew Smith, what
are
you like!’ Lynette giggles and totters to the photocopier, flashing him a flirtatious glance. I dial Phil’s number for the third time, hoping the distraction might quell my nausea.

When I get home at ten-thirty at night, Henry is still up. The lights in the living room are dimmed and he’s at the piano, caressing the keys, as a melody melts through the room. He stops when I open the door. I’m so tired I almost forget to feel awkward.

‘I didn’t know you’d added Beyoncé to your repertoire.’

He smiles. ‘It’s Stravinsky.’

‘Close,’ I shrug. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Not bad. God, you’re late.’

‘The day from hell.’

‘At least it’s over.’

‘Tomorrow will be ten times worse.’

He pulls a face. ‘That doesn’t sound too optimistic. Anything I can help with?’

‘I don’t think so. I’ve got a bit of a crisis involving a client. Strike that: a great big crisis. The only thing that will get me through the next twenty-four hours is hard work, luck and perhaps the power of prayer.’

‘Is that standard in the PR industry?’

‘I’m starting to think it should be.’ He smiles. ‘Goodnight anyway.’ I turn to go back through the door.

‘Oh, Lucy?’ I turn around again. ‘When your crisis is over, do you fancy going for a drink?’

I raise an exhausted eyebrow. ‘Yeah,’ I nod. ‘That’d be nice.’

‘The night after tomorrow?’

‘Deal. At the very least I’ll want to drown my sorrows.’

When I get into my bedroom I lie on the bed with a nagging thought whirling through my mind. I pick up my phone and start texting Dominique.

Sorry 2 text so l8. U didn’t tell anyone about peach gear, did u?

I fire it off and go to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. When I return to my room, I pick up the phone. She hasn’t responded.

I am the luckiest woman alive, as jammy as a WI preserves and pickles contest.

The article in the
Gazette
turns out better than I, Roger, or anyone at
Peach Gear
could have hoped.

It’s fair, balanced and, as well as highlighting their swift, positive action, even praises their determination to make amends in the editorial comment – alongside the quote I’d sourced from the Ethical Trade Alliance and an interview with one of their people I’d managed to set up.

The media coverage in the next twenty-four hours follows the same tack, taking on board the conversations that Roger and I had with producers of TV and radio stations, and news editors of papers. One bulletin even compares
Peach Gear
with another high-street clothing store who didn’t act so responsibly. When I meet Phil McEwan for coffee – this time in a suitably trendy joint in the business district – I hold my head high.

‘Lucy, you did a really good rescue job,’ he tells me, stirring his cappuccino.

I smile, thoroughly relieved. ‘Thanks, Phil. I—’

‘That’s the message I gave Janine.’

I pause to read his expression. He looks uncomfortable.

‘Right,’ I say cautiously. ‘What’s Janine’s take on our performance?’

He unwraps a second cube of sugar slowly. ‘The board still believes that we’d never have been in this situation if the story hadn’t been leaked. They remain convinced it came from you.’

‘Why would I do that to one of my own clients?’ I blurt out furiously.

He picks up a spoon and stirs his cappuccino again. ‘I hear what you’re saying. I’m fighting your corner, Lucy, honestly. But the reporter from the
Gazette
knew virtually everything that you did. How do you explain that?’

I bite my lip. ‘Maybe someone overheard us talking at the café when I met you and Janine.’

Phil looks at me pityingly.

I gaze out of the window to conjure up another explanation. Sadly, I can’t.

I read somewhere that wrongly-convicted Death Row prisoners have a higher than average chance of developing alcohol-related problems following their release. After today I can see why. Okay, my troubles aren’t quite in their league, but, after being falsely accused of spilling the beans about
Peach Gear
, I race to the pub so fast I come dangerously close to beating Flo-Jo’s world record in the 100 metres sprint.

‘You’re eager,’ Henry says, as we turn the corner. ‘They’re not going to run out of booze, you know.’

‘I’ve had a stressful few days. I’m not prepared to take the chance.’

At least something good has come from this week: my stiff upper lip has paid off and Henry and I are behaving almost as we used to. It’d be like old times – if he was dressed like Ned Flanders from
The Simpsons
and I were a stone and a half lighter, that is.

‘I’m guessing from the bumper pack of bean-sprouts in the fridge that you’re back on your diet,’ he says, as if reading my thoughts.

‘Yes, but not any old diet. This time I am supplementing it with a super-duper herbal diet pill to boost my metabolism. I’m surprised I don’t look like Paris Hilton already.’

He smiles and shakes his head.

‘I’ve also started almost constant secret buttock squeezes to strengthen my gluteus maximus muscle,’ I inform him.

‘Really? Doesn’t that get tedious, doing them almost constantly?’

‘Not at all. It’s multi-tasking. From now on, if I take a call from a journalist without simultaneously working out my bum, I’ll be falling short.’

‘Won’t that make it hard to concentrate?’

‘I don’t think so. Though I almost crashed into a taxi this evening as I reached two hundred and twenty squeezes.’

‘How many?’ His eyes widen.

‘The traffic was bad,’ I explain, and we both burst out laughing.

Our local pub is a funny old establishment: a once-impressive building whose ornate grandeur is now a little faded, it’s frequented by an eclectic mix of regulars – ageing bohemians, young professionals, the check-out girls from the local supermarket and members of the Liverpool Philosophy Association.

Henry goes to the bar and I dive into a recently-vacated space. He returns with our drinks and squeezes in next to me. As his arm touches mine, a flicker of electricity runs through my veins and I do my best to conceal my reaction.

So everything’s not quite back to normal. Our banter’s returned. Our conversations are as jocular as ever. But, if I’m honest, my feelings for Henry – my growing feelings – aren’t just platonic. Not any more.

The challenge of having an attractive, athletic, stylish, charismatic bloke round the house is too much. Even if it is only Henry. I have succumbed to my hormones. Or pheromones. Or whatever it is that’s making me contemplate his six-pack so much.

A question keeps popping up, over and over again. What should I do about it? Do I try to make Henry fancy me, like when I go out on a date? Do I flirt with him? Come on to him? Tell him I want to get inside his Levis?

I’ve considered all of the above, but the problem is twofold: first, I remain afraid of losing the friendship we’ve had for almost twenty years. Second, and more practically, I haven’t the guts to act, particularly after his reaction on the Caribbean Monkfish Stew evening. I am, it appears, a wimp.
And
a hypocrite. I’ve been telling Henry that a faint heart never won a fair maiden, but it turns out that I’m as spineless as an over-anxious roundworm.

Perhaps I’m being harsh on myself. It’s easy to be brazen with someone when, if it goes wrong, you never have to see him again. It’s significantly harder when you share a roof: you can’t go from full-on seduction attempt one minute to discussing your damp-proof course the next.

‘You are not going to believe who I saw at the bar,’ Henry tells me, taking a sip of his pint.

‘Who?’

‘Andy Smith.’

‘The bloke who presents
Newsnight
?’

‘No, that kid we used to go to school with.’

‘Oh God . . . not the one who –’

‘– stole my trousers at Colomendy,’ he finishes.

‘Little horror,’ I tut. ‘I don’t think I’d recognize him.’

‘He has a swanky suit and expensive haircut but it was definitely him – I’m sure of it.’

‘Did you say anything?’

‘Like what? “Have you stolen anybody’s trousers recently?”’

I shrug. ‘It’s a fair question.’

He smiles and takes a mouthful of his beer. ‘Anyway, I’ve got some good news for you. I’ve signed us up for the quiz.’

‘Oh excellent. I’m good at quizzes, if I do say so myself.’

Henry says nothing.

‘What?’ I ask. ‘That game of Trivial Pursuit at Christmas was an aberration. I wasn’t well.’

‘You had a verucca.’

‘Yes,’ I concede, ‘but it was a very bad one.’

I stockpile a couple of glasses of wine before the quiz starts, certain I’ll perform better if relaxed. Henry looks sceptical.

‘Let me get this straight,’ he says. ‘You’re saying you’re only at the top of your game when half-pissed?’

‘It’s the same with pool,’ I assure him, taking a large gulp. ‘I can’t hit anything unless I’m completely cross-eyed.’

The quiz master gives us a five-minute warning and I’m about to go to the loo when a shadow is cast on our table and I look up. It’s Drew.

I’m about to say hello, but Henry speaks first.

‘Hello, Andy. It is Andy, isn’t it? Andy Smith?’

I frown at Henry. So does Drew. ‘
Andy
?’ I repeat.

‘I haven’t got it wrong, have I?’ asks Henry. ‘Attended Calder Bank High School until about 1994?’

‘This isn’t Andy,’ I tell him. I look up and notice that Drew’s neck has turned a peculiar shade of red, a bit like a rancid sangria.

‘And
you
are?’ Drew glares at Henry.

‘Henry Fox. You stole my trousers at Colomendy. Not that I’ll hold it against you,’ he laughs. ‘It was a long time ago. What are you up to these days?’

I sit, agog, unable to shut my mouth.

‘Hang on a minute,’ I interrupt. ‘Drew:
you’re
Andy Smith? Is this true?’

‘I haven’t called myself Andy for years,’ he says sulkily.

‘Do you know each other?’ asks Henry. ‘I mean, apart from when we all went to school?’

‘We work together,’ I tell him, meaningfully. ‘This, Henry, is Drew Smith.’

A look of realization flashes across Henry’s face. ‘Drew. Right . . . I’ve heard a lot about you.’

‘All good, I’m sure. So you’re Henry Fox? I remember you. You were a freaky kid – I hope you don’t mind me saying so.’ He laughs, to create some ambiguity about whether this is good-natured joshing, as opposed to odious venom.

Henry doesn’t rise to it.

‘Did you realize you and I went to school together, Drew?’ I ask. ‘Why on earth didn’t you say anything?’

‘It’s hardly important.’

‘Maybe not,’ I say slowly, ‘but it’s odd that—’

‘I see you’re doing the pub quiz,’ he interrupts.

‘Yes,’ I tell him.

‘Better watch out,’ he grins. ‘My team’s a force to be reckoned with.’

‘How very modest of you, Drew.’

‘Only telling it how it is. I’ve been on the winning team of the north-west heats of Pub Quiz of the Year –’

‘– for the last three years. I know,’ I say.

When Drew or Andy or whoever he is disappears back to his table, where he’s sitting with three others, I turn to Henry.

‘I can’t
believe
I never recognized him,’ I say, still stunned. ‘I’ve worked with the guy for two years and it’s never struck me that Drew Smith and Andy Smith were the same person.’

‘I suppose he was eleven when you last saw him. Why do you think he never said anything?’ asks Henry.

‘Because Drew Smith likes to give the impression he was brought up with a silver spoon in his mouth. The idea that he’d attended a school like ours wouldn’t fit with his image.’

‘How sad.’ Henry pulls a face. ‘As if it matters.’

I take a swig of my wine. ‘Anyway, that’s not my priority tonight.’

‘Oh. What is?’

‘Trouncing him and his mates in the pub quiz. Come on, it’s about to start.’

It becomes apparent that I would only excel at the pub quiz if they had a specialist round entitled ‘The greatest hits of Girls Aloud – 2002 to 2010’. Sadly, they don’t. They only have one question about Girls Aloud – and everyone else in the pub knows the lyrics to ‘Something Kinda Oooh’ anyway.