‘Look, why don’t I come over to the salon at lunchtime and I’ll bring your favourite paninis and those Belgian chocolates you love from the deli. My treat.’
I’d already had my first salary cheque so I was feeling flush.
There was a long pause, then…‘I, er, won’t be there.’
‘Why, where are you?’
I was baffled. I was sure he’d said he was at the salon in one of his calls–the one before he said…Oh no.
‘I’m at your flat…’ he answered awkwardly. One of my heartstrings pinged. How sweet was he? I was so lucky to have such a caring, sweet friend–even if he did veer towards the hysterical in times of stress. But my flat was only fifteen minutes from the salon, so surely he’d make it back in plenty of time for lunch? Unless…
‘…and I’ll need to wait here for the joiner. You never liked that front door anyway, did you?’
Once again, my mind drifted back to New Year’s Eve when I had bemoaned the lack of excitement and adventure in my life. A few weeks later? My boss flashing her baps at me first thing in the morning wasn’t the craziest thing to happen in my day. I was beginning to think excitement and adventure were overrated.
A strangled yelp came from the other end of the phone, followed by a clearly discernible, ‘What is going on here, young man?’
It was the unmistakable sound of Mrs Naismith on the warpath. The mental image of five foot two inches of septuagenarian, topped with hair the same colour as her varicose veins, giving Stu a stern dressing down, almost made the destruction of the door worthwhile. I could hear him blustering out excuses but she was having none of it. Since the day I had arrived from Norfolk she’d appointed herself as a cross between my guardian and a neighbourhood watch service. She kept an eye on my flat (most of the time!), stopped in for regular chats and frequently cooked for two, leaving half outside my door for when I came home. She was an absolute gem–one that was about to serve time for threatening behaviour, going by the bollocking she was giving Stu.
I hung up, leaving Stu to face the wrath, just as Conn came in clutching a large sheaf of papers packed into a clear file. I tried unsuccessfully not to blush.
‘There you are!’
‘Yes, Zara is, er, busy next door, so I thought I’d work in here for a while.’
At least I think that’s what I said. It was difficult to hear over the noise of the butterflies in my stomach and the whooshing in my head.
He put the file in front of me.
‘This is the debriefing document for the date last night. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that we need to know every detail so that we can do effective analysis and comparisons.’
How about comparing my…
‘Are you okay, Leni? You seem a bit…pale.’
Right on cue, my face flushed bright red. ‘No, I’m, er…er…’
Inarticulate?
It was difficult to tell who was the most uncomfortable, but I was putting my money on me.
‘Right then,’ he answered with an understanding nod, although I’ve absolutely no idea what he understood–other than the apparent fact that his mother had hired the most moronic PA since time began. He came around to my side of the desk and half-sat, half-leaned, in exactly the same position as I’d imagined him before. If my body was a thermometer, the mercury would have shot out of the top like a burst pipe.
‘Can you do something for me?’ he asked.
Note to tongue: please re-enter gob.
‘Can you send flowers, mmm, I think orchids would be best, to Annabella Churchill, with a note saying, “Thank you for a wonderful time last night. Eternally yours, Conn.”’
My pencil scribbled away on my pad, the shaking making it look like it was written by me in my geriatric years.
‘And can you also arrange some for Courtney Caven and Penelope Smith; here are their address details.’
His Eau de Hubba Hubba had now permeated my entire space and was making me giddy.
‘Of course. What note would you like with those ones?’ He was such a gentleman–so sweet, so chivalrous.
‘The same.’
Such a player.
So while I was putting myself in potentially life-threatening peril (it was the hormones, they were making me a bit hysterical), he was having it off with three–count them–three other women.
Focus, Leni, focus. This was work, not the problem page of Cosmo, and the last ten minutes had thrown up tasks that needed to be addressed. I called the florist, organised the blooms, then clicked on to amazon.co.uk and ordered How to Make Him Notice You–a single girl’s guide to standing out from the crowd.
The file Conn had left on my desk was next. After three hours, six coffees and the loss of my will to live, I finally completed twenty-two A4 pages recounting practically every minute and detail of my night with Harry. I would have gone home for a lie down, only I didn’t want to get in the way of the joiner.
Instead I called Trish.
‘Fancy lunch today?’
‘Can’t–I’m working an extra shift covering Wacky Women.’
It was one of my favourite shows–a panel format of five celebrity females discussing the day’s top stories and celebrity gossip, headed by Kim Black, a fifty-something actress/comedian who got more outspoken and outrageous with every passing year.
‘And besides, I wouldn’t miss this, even for you–Kim has had a boob job and the producer is going mental because she needs a whole new wardrobe. They’ve come to blows once already, and now she’s screaming in her dressing room that if her lawyer isn’t here within the next thirty minutes she’s not going on. Oh, and she’s asked me to get her a cattle prod from the props room, so I’m thinking this isn’t going to end well. God, I love TV. Phone Stu, I’m sure he’ll be hard up for someone to have lunch with too.’
Trish was like a scud missile to the ego every time. The door opened behind me so I hung up quickly.
‘Finished?’ Conn asked with a smile. Thud. Thud. Thud. Sorry, heart overruling head and all significant motor skills.
‘Uhuhhh.’ Including vocal cords.
‘Great–I’ll just take the file away then.’
‘Uhuhhh.’
‘Thanks, Leni. We’ll start looking for number two.’
I was going to repeat my reply, but I’m guessing that it was fairly predictable.
‘And Leni, you do remember that this is all strictly confidential and that you signed an agreement that it cannot be discussed outside the organisation?’
I did. And I’d never, ever, breach company security by divulging classified information to unauthorised sources.
Never.
Ever.
At least, not during working hours.
Goldie Gilmartin closed off the interview with Jeremy Sinclair, the MP for Cornwall and Devon, a rather rotund, flush-faced human personification of a walrus who was making a public apology to his wife after being caught by a Sunday tabloid snorting cocaine