The Love Resort (42 page)

‘Well, I’m wearing a grey suit so wouldn’t it make sense for us to match?’

‘Yes, maybe, but I don’t own a grey suit. It’s a pity you didn’t think of that earlier.’

‘Holly Miller, I’m not your enemy. I’m on your side. Let me have a look.’ He proceeded to flick through my clothes. He was trying so hard and didn’t deserve my wrath.

I sat on the bed in a sulk while Joe worked his way through my wardrobe. I could tell by the way his back was hunched that he was worried about making the right choice. I couldn’t see his face but I could picture the look on it. His brows would be furrowed the way they did when he was concentrating, and his lips would be pursed together tightly. He was so beautiful when he was engrossed. Just as I was about to kiss him and apologise for my earlier outburst, the buzzer interrupted. I answered the intercom to my boss Francesca, and my friend and work colleague, Freddie. I waited at the door for them to climb the stairs. Within seconds and like a slightly out-of-breath fanfare, they arrived.

‘You poor lamb,’ Francesca cried, hugging me. I experienced another blast of nausea as I inhaled her generous perfume. She was such a maternal boss; it was all I could do to stop myself from crying. I chastised myself, I’m not a big cry-baby and I hate tears.

‘We’ve come to help with the outfit,’ Freddie said, giving me a kiss on the cheek and one of his famous ladykiller smiles. I stood, frozen in my dressing gown, as they pushed passed me and made their way to my bedroom.

I watched Francesca, Freddie and Joe discuss what I should wear. I stood back, nervously chewing my bottom lip. I felt invisible. Finally they decided on a navy-blue shift dress and jacket; the most conservative items in my wardrobe. For some irrational reason, the outfit made me feel even more sick. I went to the bathroom and threw up, praying no one would notice. That would have involved fuss I wasn’t equipped to deal with. Now all I had to do was dress, leave my flat, and go to court. Then it would be over. I tried to be confident, after all it wasn’t even a proper court, but I was still worried. I was in the right, I knew that, but it didn’t help that there could be another outcome, however unlikely, and that outcome could ruin my life.

It came down to two men. Joe, the man I loved, and George, my oldest friend. Not a love triangle; actually, it was anything but a love triangle. Two men and two things happened to kick off everything. I realised I was in love with Joe, then George, my oldest friend who had been out of touch and in New York for the last five years, returned home. How did those two events manage to get me in court? Well...it’s a bit of a long story.

At the time, I was twenty-nine and on the fast track to being thirty. I felt that my life was settled; not boring, but tranquil. Every morning I woke, despite the frequent hangovers or lack of sleep, I woke smiling. Always. I had a job I loved, great friends and a new man in my life. I was even looking forward to being thirty. What I discovered was that I had ‘sorted out the lumps in the cushions’, as my mother would say.

The lumps in question were my twenties. I had some bad relationships, a few drunken encounters with equally drunken and unsuitable men, I lost my best friend, George, to New York, and I had had some disastrous jobs. But that was behind me. I was a woman of the new millennium and I was enjoying what that meant. Obviously there were day-to-day problems in my existence, but that was par for the course. The fact remained that I was deliriously happy most of the time.

Perhaps that’s why it went wrong. I had enjoyed selfish happiness for long enough, and now someone wanted to take that away. If fate was always in control of people’s lives, then fate decided to slam on the brakes, and take my life in a more downhill direction.

I was no longer as happy as I was. Two men in my life, one good, one bad. That was how it all started and that is why I am about to go to court.

Chapter Two

I realised that I was in love with Joe McClaren the moment we had our first row. That row will be stored in the chronicles of our relationship along with our first meeting, our first kiss, and our first time. The row was important because it consolidated my feelings; it opened my slightly closed eyes.

All the signs were there, only I probably hadn’t recognised them as such. Knowing what I know now, I am sure they were. Big neon, flashing lights telling me that I was in love. Once I had identified my feelings, or accepted them perhaps, I knew I had never felt like that before. I was tipsy the whole time but also a little bit vulnerable. There wasn’t a more specific way for me to describe it, which is why people say you just
know
when you’ve met the right person. You do know, but you don’t always know why. I was different, I had more energy. I smiled more, I laughed, I was nice. More than nice, I was wonderful.

I was also terrified, scared of losing that happiness. Even though it’s good, it’s bad, but you have to take the bad with the good and the bad didn’t even feel bad because I certainly wasn’t miserable, just a bit vulnerable and I could cope with that. I could, because although it was confusing, it was amazing.

Over three months ago, in August, I met Joe at a party thrown by a mutual client. They were celebrating a successful publicity campaign; Joe’s company were the designers, my company provided the PR. I had never met Joe before.

I don’t like parties, I never have. Parties are too full of anonymous people and I liked my social life to be familiar. If I am standing in a room I like to know the room, I don’t like to look out on a sea of strangers and hope that one of those strangers might be interesting. I’m a bit of a bitch when it comes to new people; with men—unless I am going to fall in love with them or at least have sex with them—I can’t be bothered. Usually I judge women really quickly. However, that is part of my job, and normally I manage to put on a façade and be civil when duty calls. I can boast, unhappily, that I have gone to every type of party; from the corporate, dull ones, to film premieres where, naturally, I was ignored by celebrities. Parties are part of my professional life, but not a part of my personal lifestyle.

Certainly I wasn’t enjoying myself on this particular evening. The party was in a cavernous bar, somewhere which was trendy once, but was definitely passé. The invitation—a white card embossed in gold—declared an evening to ‘celebrate success!’ Although the sentiment was nice, the reality was quite different.

Approximately one hundred people were crammed into the dark cave, that wasn’t big enough for half that number. The decor was minimal, but that was fine because there wasn’t room for much. Most of the people there were company staff; it was a personal finance organisation. They were all wearing suits. I felt distinctly odd as I was not wearing a suit, but a pair of black Joseph trousers, high-heeled boots and a black cashmere polo neck. More like an undertaker than a PR director.

The evening started with sparkling wine. The waiters were trying their best to distribute the drinks, but were unable to penetrate the human wall that had formed, so they stood around the perimeter of the room, shoulder to shoulder; all that was missing were the riot shields.

‘Champagne madam,’ a bespectacled youth offered. It was an indication of the complete unfashionable nature of the whole proceedings that the waiters weren’t rude. I took a glass of ‘champagne’, sipped and wrinkled my nose. I know I am a dreadful snob, but when your taste buds are prompted by your brain, which has been informed by a horribly polite waiter, to expect champagne, they are bound to be disappointed when they discover it is in fact slightly warm, slightly sweet, sparkling wine.

There was no way I could talk to people even if I wanted to, everyone was practically touching each other, and I have a problem with strangers invading my space. The music was blaring and my head throbbed. I couldn’t see my client anywhere, and the attempts I made to ask anyone about her extracted blank looks. Just as I was about to consider my options the microphone screeched. The sound grated through my body, as the taste of the wine had earlier. A rather plump woman wearing a navy-blue suit stood smiling behind it. I groaned and picked off another glass of sparkling wine. I had positioned myself as close to the drinks as possible deciding it preferable to the ‘mob’. The speeches were about to start.

I have a problem with a certain type of employer. The kind that makes a load of money off the back of its hard working employees, then decides to reward them with a party like that one. I found it demeaning to their dedication and hard work. I think I might be a bit of a socialist in that way. Although I have to say, as I studied the sweaty, smiling faces sipping wine, they didn’t look exactly demeaned. I think I was the only person there who wasn’t enjoying myself.

I should explain why I am being so horrible about the evening. Yes, it was too crowded that night, yes the wine was sweet and warm, and yes the speeches were bound to be boring. But there was more to it. I was the senior account director at Francesca Williams PR. I had worked there for a few years and apart from my boss and owner, Francesca, I was the most senior member of staff. Therefore, I was totally annoyed when I was told that I had to attend the party in person instead of sending one of my team. I head a group of eight: Freddie my account director and deputy, two account managers, two senior account executives, two account executives, and a personal assistant. But, I was the chosen one and had come to this party because the client demanded it. I would much rather have been at home painting my toenails, or unblocking drains.

The speeches started. I had three glasses of wine to alleviate the monotony, and by the third my tastebuds seemed to have adequately recovered. First, a man in a grey suit, pulled out a giant pie-chart and began talking about company performance. Apparently he wasn’t really a boring suit; he was a comedian because the throng of people were bellowing with laughter. Quite a feat as they didn’t appear to have much room to breathe. I shuddered to think how on earth they had managed to expand their lungs to that degree. I moved closer to the drinks waiters; I knew whose side I was on.

After the grey man finished to rapturous applause, the plump navy woman returned. Her speech was reminiscent of the worst Oscar acceptance speech: long, dull, fatuous. At one point I am sure I saw her sob.

Thankfully the formalities ceased and the music blared again. I took another drink, well, I had nothing else to do, smiled at a few of the pressing mob who were brave enough to smile at me. I vowed to speak to Francesca the following day about getting a better class of client.

I spotted a gap near a bar. It wasn’t a drinks bar, more of a ledge really, but I homed in on my prize: peanuts. Oh how the mob were missing out. If they knew there were four bowls of peanuts nestling behind the wall of waiters, they would have been where I was.

I put down my glass of wine on the ledge and picked up a handful of peanuts. My tastebuds were delighted with me.

Just as I had put a third fistful into my mouth, I turned slightly to my right and noticed a guy observing me. My first impression was that he was sexy. He had light-brown hair, cropped short, and was wearing a black V-neck top, with a small tuft of chest hair protruding, as if it belonged to the jumper. I couldn’t see the colour of his eyes, but he had two, and his smile was lopsided but definitely interesting. I stared at him; he stared back. I tried to swallow my peanuts so I could say something witty, but they seemed glued to my tongue. The man was tall, much taller than me; it was then I noticed he was also wearing black. We matched. He wasn’t the best-looking man in the world, but there was definitely something incredibly attractive about him.

‘I have never in my life seen someone eat so many peanuts at once,’ he said. Embarrassment flashed briefly across my eyes. Then I choked.

I really choked; my whole body shook. My face turned puce, although I couldn’t see that, but I could feel it. My eyes began to water. The man, the man who had caused this distress, stepped towards me and slapped my back, rather too hard. Unable to protest, I just coughed and coughed, until at last I regained control.

As I felt what I hoped was my face resuming its normal colour, I wiped my eyes. Still, I had no energy to speak.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked, looking slightly mortified. I nodded. All my witty repertoire gone, I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

‘Do you smoke?’ he asked.

I don’t smoke. I gave up smoking when I turned twenty-nine because I was worried about getting a cat-bum mouth, and other unsightly wrinkles. I only relapsed when I was inebriated.

‘Only when I’m drunk,’ I replied.

‘Are you drunk?’ he asked, his mouth curling at the corners, ever so slightly. His voice washed through me. It was melodic. Which made no sense, because I had already identified his accent—slightly Essex. My eardrums were as happy as my taste-buds.

I pulled myself back to his question. Was I drunk? No, not really. After all I drink for a living. But, even if I wasn’t, I could be. I drained my glass in one large, quite unladylike gulp.

‘I am now,’ I replied, flirtily, as my man handed me a cigarette.

We started talking and it was so easy. I discovered all about his job in design; I told him all about mine. His name was Joe McClaren, an incredibly sexy name. He was from Essex, but lived in north London. I told him a brief history of myself and proceeded to drink another four glasses of wine. I think he matched me glass for glass, although I noticed that he shuddered every time he took a sip. He smoked four cigarettes—one per glass—I smoked only the one. We stood away from the mob; we laughed. He called me ‘posh’, and was clearly mocking me. That proved to be a huge turn on.

Finally it was announced that the party was over, they switched off the lights, which made me giggle and say to Joe, ‘my father will be waiting outside to take me home’. He didn’t quite get my school disco meaning and asked me why my father was picking me up. I explained it to him and he laughed. Actually he was embarrassed, but that was because he told me that it took him longer to get my ‘posh jokes’.