Wishful Thinking (41 page)

‘She – she might be out of range,' I floundered. ‘On the Underground . . . or in some place really noisy where she can't hear it ring.'

‘I'll keep trying. Thanks, Cookie. May see you.'

He hung up, and I was left facing Lin, whose panic was bordering on hysteria.

‘I can't see him!' she repeated, over and over again. ‘He thinks all my men are useless, and he's right – he's right – and I can't stand the
humiliation
. I
can't
.'

‘What about Catriona?' I said. Wholesome, squeaky-clean Catriona, who probably suffered from the wind off the loch, at least after too much haggis. ‘You're supposed to take her to Harrods.'

‘Oh
no
 . . .'

In the end, Lin put off thinking about it (she had over a week left for putting off, after all) and Georgie and I squabbled regularly over which of us would draw the short straw and have to tell Andy the true story, and which would draw the
other
short straw and have to spend the day trailing round after Catriona in the bridal departments of Knightsbridge. Normally, that would have been right up Georgie's street, but she said she could tell Catriona wasn't her type (‘Or mine,' I interjected) and anyway, she had lost interest in shopping. She was struggling valiantly to remain herself, or the self she used to be, but when she forgot to struggle a weary listlessness took over, and the emptiness of her soul showed in her eyes. She and Cal had barely spoken since the break-up. He seemed much as usual, on the surface, only rather tight-lipped, and somehow older. The brash, flirtatious manner had gone; he didn't joke or laugh any more. On the one occasion I'd seen him in the pub he kept his distance, absorbed in conversation with a colleague, drinking steadily but without enthusiasm. He said hello, but that was all.

‘They aren't happy,' Lin said. ‘But then, they can't be, can they? There isn't any way to work it out. Why is life like this?'

I thought of saying: At least things can't get worse – but didn't. Experience had taught me that was asking for trouble.

Things got worse anyway.

They frequently do.

I don't care what the scientists say, there is definitely such a thing as Luck. After all, according to modern thinking, everything happens
somewhere
, so Luck must happen somewhere too, and as far as I can tell, somewhere is here. Forget all those probability laws and Uncertainty Principles: Luck is alive and well and living in Central London. You must have noticed how some people attract good luck (or bad), a trend that can last throughout their lives. My sister, for instance, has always been lucky: even her brief spells of bad luck worked out well in the end. And there's an old schoolfriend of mine who invariably had it easy, romping through love and marriage and job fulfilment like a puppy, with never a hiccup on the way. Conversely, another one tottered from catastrophe to disaster, with unwanted pregnancies, sexual harassment in the office, dud boyfriend after dud boyfriend.

Mostly, however, luck goes in waves. Some enterprising physicist could probably calculate a pattern, relating it to such factors as environment, genetics, the state of the economy and whether or not Jupiter is in the ascendant this month. Georgie, Lin and I were obviously going through a trough of the bad stuff, crossing our fingers that sooner or later we'd get our chance to surf the crest again. Well . . . when I say
again
 . . . Georgie and Lin had had their moments of surfing, but my life had generally hovered somewhere in between, without too much of either good luck or bad. (Nigel's departure had been bad at the time, but I had few regrets now, so that didn't count.) But things were changing. I was no longer the dumpy, frumpy girl who played safe because I had no option. Now, I felt voluptuous and adventurous, and I dared to hope that life might offer me something more.

The problem with that is, more what?

So we come to the weekend. Leaving Georgie and Lin to their troubles, I went to a dinner party in Hampstead.

My hostess was one of those people riding the good luck curve. She was a friend of my sister's who'd always been kind to me because, I felt, ‘it must be so difficult for poor fat Emma Jane, trying to compete with someone like Sophie'. She never actually said it, but I could see the thought processes behind her smile. Pre-Nigel, she used to invite me to dinner every six months or so, usually seating me beside a single man so undesirable that even the most desperate woman wouldn't touch him with the proverbial barge pole. She herself had a trust fund, a job in television, a barrister husband and two daughters, Lucia and Clemenza, named after operas (or possibly high-profile Mafiosi). Her name was Laura. She was slim and dark, not exactly pretty but so well groomed it came to the same thing. Nigel had met her once, and loathed her (he had his good points). I wanted to loathe her, but I couldn't. She had so many admirable qualities I wasn't comfortable with loathing, and had to settle for feeling vaguely guilty because I didn't like her very much.

I accepted her dinner party invitations for all the wrong reasons. The food was wonderful, her husband Roger was lavish with the drink, and, bar the undesirable singles, they knew lots of interesting people. I never really enjoyed myself, mind you – I felt too fat and boring – but I kept going back, hoping that
this
time it would be more fun. Sophie had clearly told Laura about my split from Nigel – had probably asked her to invite me over – and yet again I went, trusting to my new image to make it worthwhile.

(In my secret heart, I couldn't help wondering . . . it was a Hampstead party . . . Roger was in the Law, like Helen Aucham . . . perhaps . . . perhaps . . .)

And yes, Todd Jarman was there. With Helen. I saw him the moment I came in, his face averted in profile, with its hook nose and light-fitting jaw. Even though I had been half hoping for, half fearing, the possibility of this meeting, a rush of confused thoughts flooded through me. He was terribly attractive – why hadn't I noticed that from the start? – and I'd been fantasising about him, like a schoolgirl with a crush, not just about sex but about a
relationship
, and here he was with his long-term girlfriend (she was chatting to the host), and of course he had never given me a thought outside the sphere of work. I felt a blush of shame creeping over me, and suddenly I wasn't voluptuous any more, just a bit less fat, and the flame-coloured dress which I'd given another outing made me look tarty and vulgar. Laura obviously thought so – she greeted my décolletage with faintly raised eyebrows – and presented me to Todd with the hesitant manner of someone who has had a bright idea and is now regretting it.

‘As you're both in the same field, I thought . . .'

‘We know each other,' I said, emboldened by Todd's smile.

Laura looked relieved, and said she would see about drinks. As she moved away Todd said: ‘That's quite a dress you're almost wearing.'

Damn. The blush returned with a vengeance; I could feel my face burn. ‘I don't usually . . . It was Georgie. She came with me – she chose it.' Cravenly, I passed the buck.

‘Georgie?'

‘Georgina Cavari – publicity.'

‘Oh, yes, I know. Goes in for cleavage herself, doesn't she? But yours is much more impressive.'

Damn, damn. Now even my tits were blushing. ‘It's not my sort of thing,' I said. ‘I shouldn't have let her talk me into it. But Georgie always says you should make the most of your assets.'

‘Your main asset is your personality,' he said. (I wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not: he might mean I was so physically unattractive personality was all I could depend on.) ‘But don't apologise for the dress. It looks terrific, if a little extreme for a Hampstead dinner party.'

Worse and worse. I didn't simply look tarty, I looked out of place. Like an Essex girl who insists on wearing her skimpiest garments to a christening in November. I determined to be self-effacing, but it was a virtual impossibility when there was so much exposed flesh to efface.

Helen drifted over, glanced at me with vague non-recognition, and began to talk to Todd in what I thought was a proprietorial way. It might have been my increasing paranoia, but I was sure she too eyed my bosom with disapproval.

‘This is Emma Cook,' Todd said. ‘You remember? My editor.'

Helen did a double-take, and looked me over rather more thoroughly. She didn't raise her eyebrows as Laura had done – too much Botox – but her expression, such as it was, conveyed surprise, disdain, and, most unbearable of all, amusement. Dear me, it said, what have we here?

What she said out loud was: ‘Hello . . . Didn't you come to the house once?'

‘Mm.'

‘She's been incredibly helpful,' Todd said, perjuring his immortal soul and resuscitating my confidence in one short phrase.

‘Really?' What Helen lacked in facial expression, she made up for in tone of voice. It unnerved me how much polite contempt could be infused into a single word. ‘I seem to recall your telling me something rather different at the time.' And to me: ‘Of course, you looked a bit more . . .
casual
then. Still, you could hardly go to work in a dress like that.'

‘Work clothes are always a bit of a bore, aren't they?' I said, summoning up a false smile. ‘I've always thought it must be pretty difficult for lawyers, having to stand up in court in a Batman cloak with a knitted sheep on your head.'

Helen looked startled – as if she had just been savaged by a hamster. She was wearing spaghetti straps and showing a lot of clavicle and sternum, with very little flesh on the top. My assurance had see-sawed back up again, and I felt a rare flicker of superiority. Maybe I wouldn't need the T-Rex after all. Then Todd grabbed her elbow, propelling her away with one of those ‘I want you to meet So-and-so' lines, and I was left alone, slowly deflating again. Right on cue, Laura returned with the latest undesirable singleton. He had long, droopy hair, prematurely receding, and the sort of face that started broad at the brow and shrank out of existence towards the chin. Given five hundred years and a magic ring, you felt he would look exactly like Gollum. (Possibly even sooner.) My God, I thought, thirty looming, and already the only available men are going bald.

‘This is Enoch,' said Laura. ‘Enoch – Emma Jane.'

Enoch
? What were his parents thinking of?

‘Emma Jane's in publishing. Enoch's a microbiologist.'

I said nothing. I felt like a major example of macrobiology.

When Laura had moved on, Enoch struggled to make conversation and I struggled back. It was one of those guilt-trip sessions where you stay talking to the weediest man in the room because you're sorry for him and he's probably a nice chap underneath, and no man (or woman) is an island, and there but for the grace of God, and so on. It wasn't his fault his hair was receding (though he could have cut it shorter) and he had the face of a renegade hobbit. He was obviously very clever: I could tell by the way he kept stammering. I nudged him towards his specialist subject and he became far more relaxed, happily spouting microbes. Glancing round furtively for Todd, I saw he wasn't watching me.

At dinner, Enoch was seated next to me; Todd was down the other end with Laura. Her husband was on my left, at the head – or foot – of the table. I'm never sure which is which, or how you tell the difference – or if it matters. Perhaps there's some sort of mystic Feng Shui going on here. Apparently, in a bedroom you shouldn't have the foot of the bed turned towards the door, because that's how you'd be carried out if you were dead. So if you're seated at dinner facing the door, does that mean you're going to be the first to sprint to the loo because the prawns are off?

Enough of this waffle. If anyone can tell me which end of the table is which, and why – or whether – it's significant, please write care of Ransome Harber.

Back to Laura's seating plan. The worst feature of it was Helen Aucham. She was opposite me.

I thought of my fantasy dinner party, when Helen hadn't been there (a last-minute brief?), and Todd and I had been sitting side by side, and had talked privately all through the meal like something out of an old coffee ad. Fate had played me a cruel trick, bringing us together only to thrust us apart. But then, she always was a sadistic bitch. Fate, I mean.

Helen endeavoured to monopolise Roger (our host), talking about mutual friends in the legal profession and similar matters. My one satisfaction was how often he turned to me with a murmured apology for the lawyerly small talk, even snatching the odd moment to tell me how good I looked. I still couldn't get used to the compliments – I found them embarrassing and somehow false, perhaps because I didn't feel like a sex bomb inside – but I didn't show it. When Helen took a break to eat (she didn't do much of that) he asked me how things were going in the literary world.

‘Words, words, words,' I quoted. It was my stock answer, and I swear I'd used it before with Roger, but this time he laughed. Helen looked piqued. So I'm a lump, am I? I thought viciously. Ha! The lumps have it. And they did, holding Roger's attention more and more as the wine sank in several bottles.

Occasionally, I looked Todd's way, hoping our eyes would meet, or at least catch, but it was a large dinner party, twelve people, and he was too far away. Opportunity was slipping between my fingers, and there was nothing I could do about it. But the opportunity had only existed in my imagination, I reminded myself. The Scarlet Woman dress might get me attention, some of it unwanted, but it had never got me anything more. No one falls in love with a sex goddess: just lust. Roger was now so drunk he showed a tendency to lean over me and breathe down my neck. Enoch had started, rather unexpectedly, to hold forth on his first love, though this turned out to be tropical diseases. Helen looked dauntingly sober.