Venus Envy (6 page)

‘I don’t want to wait for the wine waiter,’ he said icily - it was amazing how his voice could go from balmy to freezing in the blink of an eye - ‘so bring me champagne first, then that white Bordeaux, number

567.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said the waiter, in magnificently haughty tones, to tell us that it wasn’t.

I loved it. First we were bunking off Hamilton Kane ‘and now we were giving orders to waiters! Waiters, who terrify me only a little less than shop assistants. The ones who seem magically to know you’ve got no money when you’re trying to have a quiet window shop in Prada, who come up to you and go, ‘May I be of assistance, madam?’ and ‘What exactly were you lodking for, madam?’ or the killer, ‘What price range did you have in mind?’ until they’ve totally spoiled your pipe dream and you have to slink out of the shop, pretending to be fascinated by your shoes.

‘I can’t be shown up by the likes of him when I’m out with such a pretty girl as yourself,’ Seamus Mahon said to me with a gorgeous grin.

And my heart didn’t flutter at all. It sounded like he was flirting, but he couldn’t really be flirting. Because he was married to Dolores. And he was out here with

me.

I’d learned my lesson. I’m a terrible one for the daydreams on the first dates, not that this was a date. You know how drowning people get those past life reviews? Well, I get future life reviews. It happens every time I meet a new man. I’ve married, him,

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decided on the number and names of the children and picked the house before he’s shaken hands.

Sometimes I’ve also divorced him. I can’t even get things to work out in my own daydreams.

A future life review involving Dolores and a tragic bus accident was hovering around the front of my consciousness, but I batted it away with a mighty effort.

A different waiter materialised smoothly with two chilled splits of champagne.

‘Good luck to you, Alex Wilde, and the horse you rode in on,’ Seamus said. ‘Welcome to the team.’

‘Thank you.’ I smiled and tried to look brisk, d la Jenny Robins. ‘Why don’t you tell me about it, Mr Mahon? All I know so far is how busy you get.’

‘For the last time, my name’s Seamus - if we’re not in the office. Famous Seamus,’ he grinned engagingly. ‘I’m a pretty big shot around these parts, kiddo.’

‘So I gathered.’ God, his smile really was devastating. I couldn’t help it, little tendrils of lust were crawling all over my tummy.

‘If you don’t want to talk sweet nothings,’ Seamus said, sighing and handing me a huge piece of warm bread, which he first slathered in herb butter, ‘I suppose I’d better fill you in on the set-up around our way. They first poached me for Hamilton Kane from Goldman Sachs in New York., .’

And he was off. Courses came and went, delicious wine - I wasn’t used to anything better than supermarket plonk you could clean your ovens with - was daintily sipped, and then gulped as my resolutions to drink lightly and eat like a little bird, in the manner of Dolores, Kate Moss and suchlike, went south, and still Seamus was talking. His luscious eyes shone with enthusiasm as he described this major deal, that hostile takeover, all of which he had been instrumental to. ‘I

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shouldn’t mention this,’ or ‘If I have to be honest,’ he’d say, but then he’d have to tell me anyway.

My hunger pangs were melting but so was my stomach. Oh God, what a man, I thought, he’s probably the most successful bloke in the whole City.

‘Do you know Tony Meadows at Barings?’ I butted in. Couldn’t resist mentioning Gail’s boyfriend. Just to check.

He looked slightly put out at the interruption, but then gave me a blistering smile. ‘Never heard of him,’ Seamus said flatly. ‘Your man’s probably some junior sales grunt. I know all the big shots there.’

Junior sales grunt! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! I thought triumphantly. I was thrilled to be at Hamilton Kane now. Thank God I hadn’t quit, I thought. One for Tom Drummond! Now I would get to be in the wake of a man like Seamus! It was better than working for a rock star.

‘Do you have any nice single friends?’ I blurted out. Then wished I’d swallowed my own tongue. Why couldn’t I just say nice things like, ‘Please pass the Evian’ ?

Seamus leaned forward as he waved his platinum American Express card for the waiter. ‘Now why would I want to be introducing a beautiful girl like you to that shower?’ he asked with a slow wink.

This was totally disconcerting, I thought, as my heart started to hammer in the most unbusinesslike

way.

‘Well, you’re certainly very successful … Seamus. Your life sounds great,’ I stammered.

A flunky duly materialised with the bill and bowed

low as he took the card away on a silver salver. Seamus waited until he’d gone, then looked quizzically across at me.

‘Money doesn’t buy you happiness,’ he said s.lowly.

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honest truth, Alex, my marriage is terrible.’

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‘S-sorry?’ I stammered. I wasn’t sure I had heard it right.

Seamus sighed again. His dark eyes flickered over me, hardly taking in the neat burgundy dress or well brushed hair. I’d come to some arrangement with my appearance now. I wasn’t the Wild Woman of Borneo, but then again, the Long-Lash Volumiser mascara and Very Cherry lipstick had also gone the way of all flesh. Who’s got the time? I did pass depressing numbers of Keisha-like super females, the investment banker warrior queens with their Dior suits and professionally applied cosmetics, sometimes also with a baby str,pped to their backs in a smart papoose, but those women lived on another planet from me. They were all part of the big World Conspiracy to make me feel small and inadequate, as they rushed past conquering three worlds before breakfast and then going home to their male-model husbands on the dot of five thirty.

Seamus was having to make do with me and my slapped-on concealer under the eyes.

‘I shouldn’t have said anything,’ he murmured. ‘A trouble shared is a trouble doubled. Now why should I

be burdening you, Alex Wilde, with my problems?’ His problems!

‘I envy you, and that’s the truth. A gorgeous young girl like you, out with all her suitors each night of the week, breaking hearts all over the place…’ His voice trailed to silence as he scribbled a signature on the gargantuan bill.

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‘Oh no. It’s not like that at all,’ I babbled. He’d got it the wrong way round - didn’t he know that I was the one whose heart was permanently parked in the repair garage?

‘You don’t need to be pretending to be lonely just to keep me company,’ Seamus said kindly. There was a misty look in his eyes. Like the Andrex puppy if someone kicked it very hard.

‘Er …’ I began, but he cut me off.

‘Now, I shouldn’t have said anything. Very unprofessional, but you’ve such an open face,’ Seamus whispered as he led me from the restaurant. ‘I feel I can trust you. Isn’t that the most stupid thing you ever heard?’

His driver held the door open for me, tipping his cap a little in salute. I felt like Demi Moore. I gazed eagerly at Seamus to see if he wanted to unbend any more, but he leaned forward curtly.

‘Back to the office. And hurry up, I’ve got a three o’clock.’

He looked straight ahead as the car purred through the streets. I was lost in admiration, what a guy: he could be so brave, just switching it off like that.

When we got back, Seamus walked straight over to his office to meet up with some bowing Japanese bankers. I watched out of the corner of my eye as he inclined his neck very properly and said something nice in Japanese. The two men exchanged glances. They were clearly as impressed as I wa.

‘Have a nice lunch, Alexandra?’ Jenny Robins asked

as I dawdled back to my desk.

‘Ummm,’ I said happily.

‘Good. Then you’ll be full of energy for these,’ she said, dumping a huge pile of filing in front of me.

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Bloody Jenny kept me out of Seamus’s way for the rest of the day. No sooner had I finished the bloody filing than it was down to the copier room with me. When I resurfaced from that, coughing out dust mites and bleeding paper cuts from every finger, I saw the lovely Seamus hanging around outside his door. Was he sending furtive looks in my direction?

I caught myself. Just because he was sad and lonely, didn’t mean he wanted me.

But what about all that ‘gorgeous,’ and ‘pretty’

stuff? my optimistic side asked hopefully.

Forget it, snarled Cynicism and Realism. He’s just

being polite. You are a coffee-making machine, a photocopying slave, a filing flunky. And he is a big rich

lrince with a poet’s eyes. In your dreams, sister. Cynicism and Realism won hands down. Although Optimism nearly came back with a late equaliser, when Seamus stopped at my desk at six o’clock.

‘Can I give you a lift home, at all, Alex?’ he asked charmingly.

‘Sorry, Mr Mahon,’ Jenny bustled in, before I could

jump at the chance, ‘Alexandra hasn’t finished her spreadsheets, she’s going to be a good while yet.’

‘Ah, of course, Jenny,’ said Seamus, all businesslike.

I was out of my mind if I thought he might be interested in me! He was a nice attentive boss because that’s the sort of guy he clearly was.

I slunk home feeling very mixed up. So no change

there, then.

‘We have to get this place tidied up,’ Gail announced

with authority.

‘Why?’ Bronwen demanded, lifting her head from

her copy of the Face.

‘Look at it!’ Gail screeched. ‘This is no way for Snowy to see us!’

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and crumpled Bounty wrappers from last night’s Chocolate Run - a major feature of flat life, we went on the Chocolate Run most evenings, stocking up from the shop across the road. If God wanted us to be thin, he wouldn’t have put a newsagent’s across the road, would he? Mr Patel had a fine selection of Fuse bars and Bountys, Fruit and Nut and Twixes and anything else your heart could desire. The Chocolate Runner often took an agonising ten or so minutes deciding which ones to have. Keisha would say ‘Whatever,’ when asked for her preference,.and then would always want what I chose.

‘You said two packets of Buttons.’

‘Well, I don’t want them. I want your Topic.’ ‘Well,.you liked Buttons last time.’

‘Well, you never asked me if I wanted a Topic.’ And so forth until I had surrendered the Topic. She could be bloody annoying, could Keisha. And she would never lower herself to do the Chocolate Run. Last time, I had come out of the shower, hair sopping, wrapped only in a towel, to find Keisha, fully dressed, sitting on the sofa pouting that I wouldn’t go out on the Run.

‘I’m naked, I’m soaking and I’m barefoot.’

‘Well, put some shoes on and get dressed,’ said Keisha rea.sonably, ‘or use a dressing gown, no one’s going to care.’

‘You’re dressed!’ I spluttered.

‘Oh, I don’t know, AI,’ Keisha said snottily, settling back into the sofa with a world-weary air. ‘Sometimes you’re really selfish. And lazy,’ she added firmly, before I could say another word.

However, fair’s fair. Keisha’s room was the only part of the flat. that didn’t look like a bus had recently passed through it. As well as the wrappers, our

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drawing room boasted three KFC buckets (empty), six wine-glasses (empty) and four Happy Meal containers (full, because Bronwen had dreamed up some chemical scheme for feeding all London’s homeless children and then forgotten about it when she passed out).

Previously, I hate to admit, I would have been at the fries in those Iqappy Meals, but now I had Seamus to think of. He wasn’t going to be interested, but it wouldn’t hurt to look nice. Just in case.

‘Who cares about Snowy?’ said Bronwen, but her heart wasn’t really in it. ‘Two words,’ said Gail heavily. ‘Reading. Festival.’ Bronwen was out of that chair faster than I ran out of the office doors each evening. I levered myself up to llelp her, and even Keisha consented to fetch the Hoover. It was bad enough that we were all here slaving for Olivia White, but it would be worse to have her laughing up at me in her superior way. Bin liners were produced and kitchen sprays dug out from where they’d been gathering dust. With all of us blitzing the problem, it didn’t in all honesty take that long, but we’d never normally do anything like that together. Not unless we were giving a party, and specially gorgeous men were coming round. Then we got as houseproud as Monica in Friends, screaming at each other over the coffee stains and the dried spaghetti strands stuck to the table legs.

It’s actually much better to go to parties at some other poor bastard’s house. That way you can spill the wine and be sick and play that trick with the fountain of champagne glasses which always goes wrong, with total impunity. Not to mention, if you ever get really hammered and cop off with some ginger-haired Chris Evans lookalike, you can get silently up in the morning and tiptoe away. Not like letting them back to your own place, when they invariably lie sprawled across your bed like the Living Dead, refusing to noti.ce all

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your gentle coughs and hints about breakfast and the time and suchlike.

I’d heard this from mates mostly. Things like that never happened to me at parties, because even the Chris Evans lookalikes weren’t desperate enough to go for me. And also because I didn’t really like the idea. Sex with no strings attached is one of those things that’s great in theory, but I’d really rather leave to other people because it might make me sick. Like hang-gliding.

‘You know, A1, you’re really frigid,’ Keisha used to tell me, returned from one of her evenings out on the prowl. She said she used to enjoy what she called ‘a little poke’, just for curiosity’s sake. But Keisha was always leaving her rock star/movie star/media mogul/ sporting legend with a broken heart and a big dent in his bank” balance. I thought she had a commitment problem. She was looking for something too, not that she’d admit it.

‘You are. You always want to fall in love and ride off into the sunset,’ Bronwen agreed.