The Time of Our Lives (33 page)

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t mind doing this for me?’ I ask, tentatively.

‘Of course not. I wouldn’t be doing much – just putting you in touch with some contacts. No promises though, honestly. At the end of the day, it’s up to you to come up
with something sufficiently newsworthy to end up in the paper. I can’t do that bit.’

I nod. ‘I understand.’

‘Why don’t you think about it overnight?’ he suggests.

‘As long as you mean it, I’ll get on to my boss first thing in the morning.’

He holds my gaze and my insides turn to marshmallows again. ‘Of course I mean it.’

For a moment I think he’s going to kiss me. I feel almost – almost – sure he’s thinking about it too, from the way he’s looking at me: silently, expressively. Yet
he doesn’t move. He doesn’t do anything except allow this pressure-cooker moment to build until it becomes too much to bear.

‘I’d better go,’ I announce, standing up.

The second I’m on my feet, I regret it. I hesitate and turn back, wondering if I could just do the deed myself – lean down and kiss him. I was intimately acquainted with this
man’s inner thighs only a day ago, so the fact that I’m not grown up enough to do this is ridiculous. So I decide I’m going to do it.

I AM!

The problem is, my surge of confidence coincides with
him
standing up . . . and kissing me politely on the cheek. I have no other option but to slink away.

‘Imogen, wait.’

‘What is it?’

He puts his hand in his pocket and looks strangely apprehensive. ‘I’ve . . . I’ve got something for you.’

‘What is it?’

He swallows. He withdraws his hand from his pocket and pulls something out. As he unfolds his fingers, my knees slacken.

He’s holding my necklace.

‘I don’t understand,’ I stammer, clutching it between my fingers as I prop myself clumsily on the nearest bar stool.

‘When you stumbled and fell, I hadn’t even realised we’d lost you. I just carried on running,’ he explains. ‘I was only focused on chasing that boy.’

‘Nicola said you’d gone off for the tour with the rest of the group. She thought Delfina insisted.’

‘Hmm, she tried to and that’s what initially held me back. I was about to catch up with you just as you fell over. Sorry I didn’t stop – I had no idea you’d hurt
yourself so badly. I thought you’d want me to keep going.’

‘So you caught up with him?’

‘Eventually, although he didn’t know it. I was completely lost by the time he stopped running – obviously convinced he’d managed to shake us. We ended up in a maze of
back streets, and I caught up with him as he was about to enter this doorway. It must have been miles from where we’d started by then. It was only when he had a key in the door that I tapped
him on the shoulder.’

My eyes widen. ‘What did he say?’

‘Nothing – he tried to smack me in the jaw instead.’

‘Oh God, are you all right?’ Then I remember about him practising judo and almost feel sorry for the boy.

‘I’m fine, although he was pretty determined.’

‘You didn’t kill him, did you?’

‘No!’ He laughs. ‘I managed to pin him down long enough to have a conversation with him. He tried to deny the whole thing at first and say you’d got the wrong person, but
it was obvious he was lying. He was hysterical that I’d found where he lived.’

‘So what happened?’

‘I said I was going to tell the police where he was – and give them his address – unless he gave me back the necklace. In which case I’d leave him alone.’

‘So he gave it to you?’

He shrugs awkwardly. ‘It wasn’t quite that simple. He said his aunt had it and was in the process of selling it. I got the impression they thought it was worth quite a
lot.’

I look down at the necklace. I’ve never thought of it in terms of its monetary value – that has never been relevant. But I have no doubt that they were right.

‘I was in two minds about whether to just go to the police, but they’ve been so uninterested that I became convinced, rightly or wrongly, that I’d have more of a chance of
getting it back my own way,’ he continues.

‘Which was?’

‘I arranged to meet him tonight. I said that both he and his aunt would have to explain themselves to the law unless he kept his side of the bargain. I didn’t know whether or not he
was going to come, which was why I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want you to get your hopes up.’

‘That’s where you were tonight?’

‘I was due to meet him at eight. He turned up half an hour late, saying his aunt still had the necklace and couldn’t get there until later. I thought it’d never happen but she
finally turned up at eleven, and only then after I’d started dialling the police station’s number. The whole thing was a charade, but at least I got it back.’

I clutch the necklace between my fingers before lifting it up and, with trembling fingers, returning it to its rightful place around my neck. ‘Harry, I don’t know what to say.
I’m so grateful.’

An easy smile appears on his lips. ‘I’m glad.’

Suddenly, all I can hear above the clink of glasses as the barman cleans up is my pulse, thundering in my ears. There seems to be nothing else to do but walk back to him, take his face in my
hands and press my lips against his. And that is what is running through my head as I push myself tentatively off the stool and take a small step forwards.

It’s as I become aware of his hand reaching for mine that the barman clears his throat, loudly. We both look up, startled, as he says something to Harry in Spanish.

‘He’d like to close,’ Harry tells me.

‘Of course!’ I grab my bag. ‘Of course.’ I smooth down my dress and smile awkwardly as we head out to the lobby towards the lift.

Harry’s arm is brushing against mine as we walk side by side, firing electricity through me as we wait for the lift and step into it when it arrives. I press the button for the sixth
floor.

He hesitates and looks at me, taking in the significance of this gesture. I might as well have said: ‘No sex for you tonight, m’laddo!’ Yet, what do I say? ‘Whoops, my
mistake . . . let’s go to your place and get naked!’

I touch the necklace and curse myself. What the hell do I want? Perhaps the answer is to be
persuaded
. I want Harry to make it impossible for me to resist, to take this decision out of my
hands.

The six flights up to my floor are, in turn, both excruciatingly slow and way too fast.

As the lift door opens, I’m aware that somebody needs to say something.

‘I’ll see you in the morning, shall I?’ It’s him. ‘Let me know if you want me to put you in touch with those journalists.’

‘I will.’ I hesitate, then step out and force a smile. The lift doors start to close. The movement sends me into a panic and I respond by shoving my foot between them, which has a
similar effect on my outside metatarsal as a walnut cracker would. ‘Um . . . Harry?’

‘Yes?’

‘Thanks,’ is the only thing I can manage. ‘For . . . just about everything.’

When my eyes flutter open the next morning, I feel hung over but curiously well rested. I reach up to my throat and idly roll the delicate chain of my necklace between my
fingertips, refamiliarising myself with the feel of it against my skin.

My phone beeps and I reach over to it to find a text from Harry:

I sit up and compose a response, grinning spontaneously.

Then I remember the just-good-friends squeeze and bin it instantly.

I pull up David’s number and am about to dial it, when the phone rings and ‘MUM’ flashes up. I cut her off and quickly dial David’s number instead,
surprised when he actually answers.

‘My life is in tatters!’ he cries, through a self-pitying snivel.

‘Hello, David. It’s Imogen.’

‘I know.’ If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he sounds relieved to hear from me. ‘What the Bill Barnacles do I do, Imogen? My children won’t talk to me. My
wife won’t talk to me. And the board of Getreide want me to Skype them tomorrow to explain myself. But how
can
I explain myself? There IS no explanation except I was drunk, stupid and
as randy as two Jack Russells in a Swedish sauna.
What am I going to say?
’

The sustained whine in his voice prompts me to sit up straighter. ‘Are you asking me that in a professional capacity?’ I ask curtly.

‘I’m asking you in
any
capacity!’

‘Only, you did sack me . . .’

He sighs theatrically. ‘I know.’

‘And told me you’d started proceedings against me, to boot me out.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘When I spoke to Roy, he said he’d been offered my job.’

‘Oh, he’s exaggerating. Look, you know what I always say, Imogen – “Go big, or go home.” Well, I can’t flaming well go home. And look where going big has got
me.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Am I still fired, David, or not? That is a fairly fundamental question.’

‘Imogen, I’m . . .
sorry
,’ he wheezes. ‘I was angry. And you did make a Horlicks of things.’

‘Yes, I did,’ I concede. ‘But do I really need to point out we wouldn’t have been in this mess in the first place if—’

‘PLEASE DON’T FINISH THAT SENTENCE!’ he yelps. ‘I know whose fault this is. I know I’ve only got myself to blame.’

‘So can I have my job back? I might have a plan that could make it worth your while,’ I add cryptically.

‘I didn’t really start the proceedings,’ he whimpers. ‘HR wouldn’t be interested in anything right now except my flight, that woman and her bosoms.’

‘I don’t think I’ve got long left with this company, Imogen,’ he continues. ‘I’m thinking of resigning.’

‘Don’t do that just yet, David,’ I reply, sitting on the edge of the bed as I start to explain what I have up my sleeve.

The morning is chaotic but productive. I’m never off the phone, but at least this time I feel like we’re getting somewhere. It’s a whirlwind of talks between
board members, David, Charles and the team at Getreide, all of which requires 300 per cent of my attention. And, for once, I’m proud to say I manage to avoid Mum’s constant attempts to
distract me with her nonsense.

The business centre becomes the command hub for me and Harry. He’s a revelation: calm, supportive, the voice of reason when all are flapping like lost homing pigeons. And almost as
determined as I am to make sure I get this right.

The prospect of speaking to the journalist from
The Economic Times
makes me feel like I’m about to share a Jacuzzi with a shoal of hungry piranha. After my previous experiences with
the media, I’m just waiting to be tripped up. Equally, I’m aware that I have little to lose at this stage.

I persuade Harry to go down for lunch while I dial the number, dread in the pit of my stomach, feeling too self-conscious to conduct the interview with him there.

As it turns out, the experience is rather different from what I was expecting.

‘So tell me,’ Montgomery Smith, the journalist, begins in a voice is so plummy his tonsils could have their own personal set of bell-ringers. ‘This assignment of Harry’s
– it sounds like hell!’

I laugh nervously. ‘From what I can see it’s involved a lot of hard investigation . . . into the mini-bar.’

He guffaws. ‘And if I know Harry, he’ll have women throwing themselves at him. Lucky sod. Some men were born with sex appeal. In my case, it was just jaundice.’ He hesitates.
‘You and he
are
just friends, aren’t you? That’s what he told me.’

‘Er . . . yes.’

‘Not that you’ve got anything to worry about. Decent chap by all accounts.’

‘I was getting that impression.’

‘Anyway, we need to get down to business. Peebles. That boss of yours has got himself into a pickle, hasn’t he?’

I hesitate, wondering if we’re ‘on the record’ yet. I try to conjure up a politician’s answer, but decide that’s only going to get me into more trouble. ‘You
could say that.’

‘Well, that’s not really the angle we go big on at
The Economic Times
. We’ll have to mention it, of course, but I’m more interested in his share price than private
life – not that he kept things all that private, of course!’ he hoots. ‘The only way that would change was if he was given the boot, or some such thing.’

My lungs inflate at the idea. ‘There’s no suggestion of that at the moment. I do have a half-decent business story for you, though, if you’d like it?’

‘I’m all ears!’

As I emerge from the hotel into dazzling sunlight and approach Harry’s table, I realise he’s ordered me some lunch. The sky is a blistering, cobalt blue but he
looks unfeasibly cool in his sunglasses and one of those effortlessly hip T-shirts. His tanned legs provide the best view in the place and I get a peculiar pang of pride that I’ve run my
fingertips along them.

He glances up as I sit down. ‘Is this for me?’ I ask.

‘I took the liberty. It’s only just arrived.’

I arrange a napkin on my lap as a text arrives on his phone. He glances at it and rolls his eyes.

‘Everything okay?’ I ask.

He grins. ‘I told my mum I’d take her out for a celebratory dinner on my first evening back in Aberdeen and she’s responded by saying she’s got a prior engagement. Which,
I can only presume, means she’s going to bingo.’

I laugh.

‘How did the interview go?’ he asks.

I pick up my fork. ‘I take nothing for granted these days but . . . okay, I think. Thank you so much. Again.’

‘I didn’t do anything,’ he insists, tearing a piece of bread.

With the knowledge that there are now less than twenty-four hours left of this holiday, I am overcome by the need to say something to him about matters that go beyond my press campaign.