The Time of Our Lives (19 page)

I screamed. A proper, throat-splitting squawk, capable of breaking the shaving mirror.

I pulled myself together and ventured to the chemist to buy four more tests, before downing two litres of water and taking them all, one after the other.

I don’t know how long I stood in the bathroom, staring at them as they lay in a fan on the loo cistern.

‘Hello!’ The door slammed and I scooped them up in a panic. ‘Imogen?’

I didn’t answer, so Roberto tried to open the bathroom door and, finding it locked, gave three sharp knocks. ‘Is everything all right,
amore mio
?’

‘Yeesss!’ I croaked.

He didn’t buy it. ‘What’s the matter?’ I didn’t answer. ‘Imogen, seriously, you’re worrying me.’

Tentatively, I opened the door.

He told me afterwards that my skin had been candlewax white, colourless from shock, as I produced five pregnancy tests from behind my back like I was doing a card trick.

He walked in silently and perched on the edge of the bath while I flung them into the bin and washed my hands.

‘Imogen . . . does this mean . . .?’

I turned off the tap and dried my hands, barely able to bring myself to turn around. When I did, I simply nodded as tears pushed their way into my eyes.

Roberto’s views on this issue had been crystal clear, views I’d said I agreed with. Technically, we were both responsible; we instantly knew that. Just as we knew when it had
happened: a few weeks earlier, when my Pill had run out and I was waiting for a repeat prescription. In the heat of the moment we’d ignored the risks and resorted to a contraception method as
old as sex itself: you know, the one that involves jumping off the train before it’s reached its final destination. The one all the magazines tell you doesn’t really work, a fact
that’s sometimes too inconvenient to believe.

Well, it turned out
Cosmo
was right. Roberto’s sperm had reached its destination, alighted, and had made itself at home in the waiting room drinking a nice cappuccino, unbeknownst
to both of us.

While we were both technically at fault, I blamed myself. I’d been the one who’d grabbed his backside and pushed him inside me, overcome with desire. There was really only one thing
to say. ‘I’m so sorry.’

His eyes fluttered closed as he pulled me into his arms and squeezed me tight.

At that moment, I felt things would never be the same between us again. And I was right.

Harry is in my bed. The heat of his hands penetrates my bare skin as he kisses and caresses me, lavishing attention on every inch of my pulsating body.

That I’m vaguely aware this is a dream does nothing to slow my racing heart. It’s the closest I’ve had to sex, either in slumber or in reality, for so long my endorphins
can’t know what’s hit them. His kisses tingle on the skin behind my ear, before I pull him in front of me and look into his eyes. Lust shimmers in his pupils.

‘You’re beautiful, Imogen,’ he whispers, smoothing hair away from my face. ‘I want you like I’ve never wanted anyone before.’

‘Me?’ I laugh coquettishly.

‘Yes, you.’ He kisses me again.

‘But why me? You don’t only want me for my body, do you?’ I purr, gazing down at myself. It’s a magnificent sight. I have the slenderest of thighs and flattest of
stomachs, both so firm they wouldn’t wobble at the seismic peak of an earthquake. Even more impressive are my breasts: so small, pert and delightfully manageable I could get a job modelling
training bras. Oh God, I love them! And so, apparently, does he.

‘I want your body, I want your brain, I want every little bit of you,’ he murmurs, and begins devouring every inch of my skin as I writhe in the 400-thread-count sheets, noting how I
suddenly appear to have been upgraded to a room with a plunge pool.

I gaze at the ceiling as he peels off my knickers, smiles seductively, and parts my legs. I gasp as he disappears between my thighs, carnal waves rising inside me. Then he says something.
It’s kind of muffled, so I prop myself up on my elbows. ‘Sorry to interrupt, when you’re . . . you know’ – I nod in his direction – ‘but did you say
something?’

He pauses and looks up. ‘I’m a journalist,’ he repeats, before plunging down to re-acquaint himself with my leisure areas.

I flop down and try to get back in the zone. But this isn’t a mere passion killer, it’s a mass murderer. I push up on my elbows again and cough politely. ‘Ahem . . . one other
thing, if you don’t mind?’ He pops up his head and grins. ‘When you say you’re a journalist, could you clarify who it is you work for?’

‘The
Daily Sun
, of course. This is my little thank-you for helping me with my enquiries. This story is going to make my career.’

My jaw drops. ‘You don’t mean . . . you’re not working on the story about Peebles? Is this why you were asking so many questions last night—’

My voice trails off as dark thoughts assault my brain and I see that the smile I once thought devastatingly gorgeous has developed a sinister, demented quality, his eyes seeming to boggle like
those old film posters advertising
The Shining
.

He is poised to dive down again, but I have other ideas.

I lift up my leg and welly him hard on the chin, then watch with cartoon eyes as he soars across the room, crashes through the window and plunges twelve floors down until he explodes into the
sea.

Then I wake up. Or rather, I spring up panting like I’ve been left in a car on a hot day with the windows closed. My brain is throbbing as I glance around the room. I haven’t been
upgraded, there is no plunge pool and the window is mercifully intact.

But the question remains of why I dreamt that Harry is a
Daily Sun
journalist. I replay the events of last night and recall in hazy detail our conversation veering not just once, but
several times, to my job, to David, to my PR crisis. I have a hideous feeling that I basically told him everything . . . and he was only too happy to listen intently.

I look over at Meredith, who is sleeping silently for the first time in about eight hours, just as my phone rings. I answer it immediately, mercifully without incident.

‘Imogen Copeland,’ I manage.

‘Charles Blackman here.’

I have never met an army colonel, but decide that Charles Blackman sounds exactly as I’d expect one to be: brusque, efficient, domineering and slightly intimidating. All of which make me
feel as though we’re in significantly better hands than with Cosimo, who was about as domineering as Peppa Pig.

However, my newfound happiness turns out to be shortlived.

‘Do you have any news?’ I leap out of bed and tug on a dressing gown as I head into the bathroom. The contrast between my businesslike manner and my hair, which looks like something
you’d feed to a Shetland pony, is acute.

‘I’ve spoken to the
Daily Sun
,’ he announces. ‘It’s all under control. I’ve drafted a response from a company spokesperson, which I’ll be
emailing now.’

I swallow. ‘They’re running the story then, for definite?’

‘No getting out of that, I’m afraid. What is unclear is whether they’ll be naming David.’

‘Does the journalist know it’s him?’

‘I think so, but he hasn’t got enough hard proof to get their lawyers off his back. They’re trying their level best to get that proof and, from what I can tell, the paper is
throwing serious resources at this story. Don’t be surprised if they phone you again to try and get it out of you. Or, indeed, if you’re approached by a stringer out there.’

‘A stringer?’

‘A freelance journalist.’

‘You mean
in person
? They’d try to track me down out
here
?’

‘You’re the one contact they’ve managed to speak to from inside the company. They’d much rather deal with you direct than a PR like me.’ His voice hardens.
‘Why? Have you had any approaches from a journalist while you’ve been there?’

‘Yes. No. I mean, I don’t think so. Not about this, anyway.’

‘Let’s hope it stays that way. They’re tricky buggers, sometimes.’

Nausea swells in my stomach. ‘Are they?’

‘We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed, keep our heads down, and manage the situation.’

‘I think David was rather hoping the story wouldn’t appear at all.’

‘Not an option, at this stage. This is now about damage limitation. Which is why I’m trying to get hold of the . . . ahem, lady in question. If she talks, we’ve had
it.’

‘I understand,’ I reply, although I’m not sure David will. ‘Well, hopefully the story will appear tomorrow, we’ll take the temporary pain and embarrassment, then
all move on with our lives the day after,’ I say optimistically.

‘Hmm, it won’t be quite that simple. I’ve had a call from
News Morning
.’

My heart sinks to my stomach.
News Morning
is Britain’s hardest-hitting radio programme. ‘Please tell me it was about our new flavour of Teeny Pops.’

‘They’re on to the story too, and they want a spokesperson to appear on the show.’

‘I take it you said no?’

‘Of course not. The story’s out there – it would be disastrous to look like we’re hiding under a stone now.’

‘But I’d
like
to hide under a stone,’ I whimper.

‘Not an option.’

‘Oh, poor David . . . I mean, he’s in such a state already, going on the radio would be a nightmare for him.’

Charles snorts. ‘We can’t possibly put David on the radio. At the moment, there’s still a chance nobody will find out he’s at the heart of the story. Putting him on
News Morning
would be like throwing him to the lions.’

I flop down onto the bed. ‘Who are you putting on then?’

He chortles.

‘Why are you making that noise?’ I ask.

‘Sorry. Did you really want me to answer that question?’

‘Yes,’ I manage.

‘It’ll have to be you, of course.’

Today we are visiting the magnificent, world-renowned Park Güell. Or rather, we’re supposed to be visiting the magnificent, world-renowned Park Güell. But
having been instructed by Charles to stay near a landline because
News Morning
wants to talk to me in advance of the programme tomorrow, I’m again stuck here at the hotel while the
others go off and enjoy themselves.

‘Imogen, this is so unlike you,’ Nicola says, as we head out of the restaurant after breakfast. ‘You’ve read that guidebook from start to finish. I thought you’d be
the first to want to explore the city.’

‘Believe me, this is not how I imagined this holiday,’ I mumble, grabbing an extra pastry for later when my sugar cravings take hold, as they always do when I’m stressed.
‘I haven’t had a week at work this horrendous since I started . . . and I’m not even there.’

Nicola frowns and tries to change the subject. ‘Any news about your necklace?’ She realises her error as soon as the words are out of her mouth.

‘There’s been a stony silence about that. Oh, this is so depressing!’ I wail, taking a massive bite out of the pastry.

‘On the plus side, you can relax about my shoe,’ Meredith tells me, reaching into her beach bag and pulling out a snakeskin heel. ‘I grabbed one of the waiters earlier and he
was more than happy to go looking for me.’

As I look up guiltily to thank Meredith – I had completely forgotten about her shoe – I see Harry on the phone at the far end of the lobby. When he spots me, he stops talking, and I
experience a rush that’s very different from last night.

This isn’t desire. This is danger. He might as well be covered in flashing red lights.

‘What’s the matter?’ Nicola asks.

Harry narrows his eyes, ends his call and starts walking towards us as panic ripples through me. I need to get out of here. But it turns out that moving with any speed when you’ve stuffed
three-quarters of a pastry into your cheeks isn’t a good idea. Rather than darting off like a gazelle, I am brought to a devastating halt by a choking fit that forces me to bend forwards,
then back, then forwards again. With bulging eyes, the blood vessels in my cheeks pulsating, I try to dislodge the offending blobs of pastry from my windpipe. I succeed only in catapulting crumbs
across an unfeasibly wide radius.

It’s only as I’m a florid shade of magenta that something hits me, literally – the thump on my back is delivered with the force of a battering ram attempting to break through
the door of a fortified citadel. ‘Don’t worry! I can do the Heinrich manoeuvre!’ shrieks Meredith and, although I note hazily that she hasn’t got the term quite right,
certainly delivers it like a psychopathic Nazi. It’s only as she has her arms tightly around my ribcage, bump pressed into my back that by some miracle of godly intervention I manage to stop
choking.

‘Works every time!’ she says with a grin, as I woozily check for dislodged pieces of cartilage in my spine.

‘Are you okay?’ Nicola asks me, as Harry stops in front of us.

‘I was about to ask the same.’ He sounds concerned, but I refuse to be taken in while so much is unclear. ‘Why don’t you come and take a seat?’

‘I’m fine,’ I reply, still feeling an urgent need to get away from him. I turn to the girls. ‘I need to speak to you both. Bye!’

I fling a wonky smile at Harry before grabbing my friends by their elbows and striding to the lift. I push the call button, cross my arms and wait for it to arrive with spontaneously tapping
fingertips.

Nicola leans over. ‘What are we doing?’ she whispers.

‘Just get in the lift with me,’ I reply through clenched teeth.

‘But we’re going to Park Güell, aren’t we?’ Meredith asks.

Unable to suppress an urge to see if Harry has gone, I glance behind me. He is still there, immobile and looking a bit perplexed. He starts walking towards us as I slam my hand on the button
again.

When the lift arrives, with Harry still approaching, we fall into it and I press the button for our floor. It refuses to spring into life, so I repeat the exercise. Then again and again,
augmenting speed and force until I’m mildly berserk, sweat beading on my brow.