Rebound (14 page)

I ring him straight away.

‘My admirer?’

‘Hello, my darling, and you’re welcome, looking after your pooch was a pleasure.’

‘I’m sorry, Michael, of course, thank you. I’m really grateful, I know I can always count on you.’

‘No need to exaggerate,’ Michael laughs. ‘Yes, your neighbourly admirer, what’s his name, Tom?’

A wave of anxiety comes over me.

‘Where did you see him? Did he approach you?’

‘Anna, darling, relax, I bumped into him in front of your house when I was coming back with Wispa, it was all very innocuous.’ He pauses and his tone changes. ‘Is he your Heath
stranger?’

‘No! No, he absolutely is not.’ I catch myself raising my voice.

‘OK . . .’ he says hesitantly.

‘He really isn’t, believe me.’ I don’t feel like telling him about Tom’s mad wife.

‘Oh well, just to warn you, he probably thinks I’m your boyfriend.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He saw this gorgeous guy at your place cooking for you the other night, right? And now he sees him walking your dog . . .’

I can’t help but laugh at Michael’s reasoning. I thank him again, tell him I’m seeing a prospective dog walker tonight and will let him know how it goes.

It actually wouldn’t be such a bad thing if Tom thought Michael was my boyfriend, I think as we end the conversation.

I continue working a bit longer, then dash home to meet the new dog walker. In my mind I’ve already given her the job.

Chiara rings my doorbell at 7.30 p.m. on the dot, as arranged. She has gorgeous red hair and a freckled, open face. Her handshake is strong; so is her Italian accent. I like her straight away.
Wispa seems to like her too; she runs to greet her with her toy bone between her teeth. She only gives her favourite toy to the chosen few and I’m impressed by the immediate effect Chiara has
on her. Chiara spends a few minutes playing with Wispa, then we settle at the kitchen table and she shows me her information leaflet, insurance and references, all neatly laminated. It turns out
she’s cheaper than Nicole. We chat about dogs for a while, then our conversation drifts towards the Heath and the most recent attack. There hasn’t been much about it on the news since
it happened; we both hope the police will catch the culprit soon and restore tranquillity to the Heath. In the meantime, Chiara tells me, she carries a pepper spray when she walks the dogs there.
She gets the job, of course, I give her the house keys and we arrange that she’ll pick Wispa up every day at around 1 p.m. till the end of the week. She mentions she’ll be away next
week for a few days, but I say it’s fine, we’ll worry about it then. I’m happy I’ve found such a good person so quickly and to have the dog-walking problem sorted, at least
for this week.

The next day is a blur of memos and meetings. I don’t get as much done as I’d hoped and I stress about having to leave early to drop the car off at the garage.
Bloody nuisance, I think, all I need on a day like this is having to schlep all the way to some obscure part of Tottenham. The last meeting of the day drags on and I know I’ll miss the
closing time of 6 p.m. As soon as I leave the meeting I text Ray to let him know I’ll be late and he texts me back, saying no worries, they’ll wait for me. Thankfully, the traffic is
light and I get to the garage, with the help of my GPS, only ten minutes after closing time. The first thing I see on its forecourt is my car, that is, Ray’s car which looks exactly like
mine, except for the damage to the front bumper. As I park, Ray comes out of the office and I’m struck by how handsome he is. Another guy follows him, equally good-looking, long-legged and
broad-shouldered, and with the same charming smile. When we shake hands, I’m beginning to suspect they might be brothers. We inspect the damage and Daniel, Ray’s lookalike, tells me the
car will be ready by Thursday evening. I leave my car keys with him, hoping it’s not some elaborate set-up to steal my car, and ask him for the number of a local cab company. Ray won’t
hear of it, and insists he’ll drive me home.

‘This is the least I can do. In fact,’ he pauses as if a wonderful thought has suddenly occurred to him, ‘please allow me to buy you a drink as a way of apology. I know the
whole thing’s inconvenienced you a lot.’

I must say, his smile is irresistible. I’ve had a tough day at work and I need to have some fun, I decide, and say yes. Somehow I know an evening with Ray will be fun. Soon we’re on
our way to Hackney’s best-kept secret, the Nightjar.

‘In fact, it’s not a secret any more,’ Ray tells me, ‘it’s officially the third best bar in the world, according to
Drinks International
’s annual list.
People from all over the world flock to it now.’

‘And your good mate owns it,’ I say.

‘How did you know?’ he laughs, the deep-chested laugh of someone who enjoys life. It’s contagious and I find myself laughing, too.

Indeed, Nightjar doesn’t disappoint. And Ray’s company is a delightful combination of wit, charm and subtle flirting. After a Shrubbler, a Jungle Bird and a London Mule, accompanied
by excellent tapas, the conversation flows with wonderful ease.

‘So, Ray, tell me, what do you do for a living?’

‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.’

‘You’re a drug dealer.’ It slips out before I think.

He laughs, not offended by my terrible joke. ‘And I have a car to match it. So do you, as a matter of fact. You dealing as well?’

I apologize for my silly remark.

‘OK, I won’t keep you guessing.’ He pauses for effect. ‘I’m a hairdresser.’

‘Wow,’ I say lamely as I try to hide my surprise. This is not what I’ve been expecting. He laughs, seeing my reaction.

‘I have my own salon.’

He tells me about his humble beginnings twenty years ago when he took over a newsagent shop in then run-down Islington and gradually built up his business, eventually buying a shop next door to
expand it. Now the salon is thriving and last year he released his own exclusive haircare range. As I listen to him I can see his pride and passion about his job, and I’m impressed. It turns
out Ray speaks fluent French, which he picked up in Paris as a teenager. And this is where he cut his stylist’s teeth, or should I say scissors, working as an apprentice in the best Parisian
salons.

‘But I’m not exactly Raymond Bessone,’ he says with a mock French accent and goes on to explain when I don’t get the joke, ‘Bessone was a big guy in the sixties,
had his salon in London, totally OTT, complete with champagne fountains, Diana Dors hairdos and an awful faux French accent.’

Mr Bessone aside, his true inspiration is Oribe, yet another name I’ve never heard of.

‘I’ll tell you about him some other time,’ says Ray, ‘because now I want to hear all about you.’

Reluctantly at first, I tell him about my career in television, starting with the early years as a junior producer at a local TV station. His interest in what I say is so genuine that I get into
my story, weaving in some juicy anecdotes from the past. When I look at my watch it is nearly 11 p.m. and I jump up suddenly, thinking of Wispa.

‘I’m so sorry, Ray, I have to go and walk my dog, otherwise she’ll shred the whole house.’

Wispa would never shred anything, but I add it for effect because I don’t want to appear dog crazy. He understands, of course, and it turns out he has a Miniature Schnauzer called
Roller.

Ray stops the car in front of my house, gets out and walks me to the door.

‘Thank you for the lovely evening.’

‘No, thank you,’ he says, ‘I really enjoyed it. Perhaps we can repeat it some time.’

He leans over and kisses me gently on the cheek. What a true gentleman. The moment breaks when Wispa starts barking and scratching the door from the inside and I have to let her out. As an
overexcited Wispa greets us with her toy bone in her mouth I watch Ray play-acting a tug of war with her. A man who is so sweet to my dog must be a good man, I decide. The way to a woman’s
heart is through her chocolate Labrador, obviously. Eventually he drives off in his black BMW and I realize I haven’t thought about the Dior Man even once this evening. Thank you, Ray.

Two days of meetings with production facilities in town are a complete waste of time, made even more frustrating by the knowledge that the backlog of work in the office is
growing. But I’m just following Cadenca Global’s orders, or rather a ‘solution’ proposed by our architect of change, as they like to be called. The solution in this case is
outsourcing of production, hence my trek around the Soho production facilities. But being in Soho has its pluses and when Bell texts me on Thursday morning that she’s back and bursting to
tell me her Vancouver story, I suggest we meet at our usual chinwag place, Dim T in Charlotte Street. My meeting finishes early and I sit for a while in Soho Square, watching the media types
bustling around, busy on their phones, oblivious to their surroundings. I used to be one of them, I think, but not any more. Yes, I’m still part of the media crowd, but more and more I find
myself on the outside, looking in, aware that there is life beyond the corporate bubble. Midlife crisis? Apparently it hits women around the age of forty-four, so I still have a good few years to
go, but I scan my life for obvious signs of it. Splashing out on an expensive car. Tick. Taking vitamin supplements. Tick. Buying organic. Tick. Considering going on a spa holiday. Tick. Having at
least three direct debits for charitable causes. Tick. Looking up old boyfriends on Facebook. Occasional tick. Having sex with a stranger on the Heath. I hesitate, then put an imaginary question
mark next to it. I stroll along Rathbone Place and arrive at Dim T before Bell. Turning up for appointments early. Tick.

Bell walks in five minutes later and I know straight away her trip to Vancouver wasn’t a waste of time. She has the glow of someone who’s had a great holiday and lots of sex. We
order our usual dim sum and sake.

‘Well?’ I say to Bell, who’s just sitting in front of me, grinning. She reaches into her bag and puts a maple-leaf-shaped bottle on the table.

‘Canadian maple syrup, for you,’ she says.

‘That’s very sweet.’ I study the hideous thing with faked interest.

‘Yes, very.’

I look at her and we both burst out laughing.

‘Well, it was fantastic.’ She waits for the waitress to deliver our sake carafe and cups. ‘From the moment I landed till the moment I took off.’

‘Would you care to elaborate?’

Oh yes, she would. She tells me about Candice, who is very much like herself, into healthy, active lifestyle, running, surfing, cycling. She’s athletic, smart and gorgeous. And she’s
amazing in bed.

‘Four orgasms in an hour. Each,’ she says and I’m impressed.

‘So, when are you going to Moscow, Idaho?’

‘No,’ Bell grins at me, ‘she’s coming over here. In a couple of weeks.’

‘Wow, it’s serious then.’

‘I think it is.’

We drink to that and delve into our first basket of dim sum. Bell shows me some pictures of Candice on her iPhone and I must admit she is very pretty, in the all-American way. Big smile, blue
eyes in a tanned face, slim, muscular body.

‘And no strings attached?’ I ask. ‘No ex-husband, children, psycho-girlfriend stalking her?’

‘Nope. She’d been single for quite a while. Honestly, Anna, I can’t believe my luck.’

‘She’s the lucky one.’

Bell beams at me and I’m glad she’s happy.

‘Anything exciting happened here while I was gone?’

I tell her about the attack on the Heath, my new dog walker and the trip to Norfolk to see Kate.

‘And I’ve met someone,’ I throw in casually.

She puts her chopsticks down, waiting for me to continue.

‘He’s quite handsome, charming . . . and he’s a hairdresser.’ A giggle I’ve been suppressing comes out and Bell, after a moment of surprised silence, joins in.

‘He has his own salon in Islington. And he’s definitely straight –’ I briefly hesitate – ‘I think. We only met once and nothing happened, but I like him.
He’s so . . . different, so refreshing . . .’

‘Well,’ Bell raises her sake cup, ‘if having a boyfriend who can do your hair is good enough for the Australian ex-prime minister, it should be good enough for my Anna,
too.’ We drink a toast, one of many this evening.

‘Is he married? Any children?’

‘You know, I have no idea. It hasn’t even occurred to me to ask him . . . Wow, I’m becoming a little bit socially challenged.’

‘Self-centred, more like.’

I know it’s probably true, but it doesn’t even sound like a criticism when it comes from Bell. It’s more of an objective statement and she’s usually right.

Bell and I part in front of Dim T and, as usual, she goes off to catch the 73 and I hail a cab. I realize I’ve forgotten to pick up my car, which was supposed to be ready by this evening.
There’s been no message from Daniel or Ray, so I assume there’s been a delay and make a mental note to ring the garage tomorrow morning. But as I get out of the cab in my street I
notice my car, parked in its usual spot right in front of my house. I take a good look at it and the rear bumper looks like new. Then I notice something on the windscreen. It’s a single red
rose stuck behind the wiper. What a sweet man. When I open the front door to my house I find my car keys on the floor. He must’ve put them through my letter box. Not only sweet, but
thoughtful.

As soon as I come into the office Claire tells me I’ve been summoned to the executive floor. I’m to go to Julian’s office straight away. I have no time to
speculate on what kind of disaster awaits me. As Julian welcomes me, the smell of his aftershave envelops me like a cloud. He leads me to his leather sofa and offers me coffee, which I gratefully
accept. He tells me how much he values me as his ‘right hand’ as he calls me, and I begin to suspect the worst. He’s getting rid of me, I think, and my heart rate increases. Bad
news like this usually strikes when you least expect it. I impatiently listen to him praising me, waiting for the inevitable ‘but’ and ‘regretfully’. But the bad news never
comes. In fact, Julian wants to enlist my help, or, to put it plainly, wants me to become his scout.