(A coffee maybe? Stiff G&T? I suppose a quick session back at mine would be out of the question?)
‘Oh, work, unfortunately,’ I say, hoisting myself back down to earth. ‘And you?’
‘Yeah, work,’ says Laurence.
‘What kind of…?’
‘Bar manager. I manage a bar in Clerkenwell,’ he says, hands in pockets. ‘My dad’s gutted I’m not a lawyer or a doctor or a fucking philosopher come to think of that but you know me.’
‘I know you.’
‘Never one to do as I’m told.’
We shuffle from foot to foot grinning inanely and not knowing quite what to do with ourselves.
‘So God, I mean, how come I’ve never seen you around here before?’ I say, wanting to keep him here, not wanting this to end. ‘Where are you living?’
‘Not here. I mean, here for now, but not usually. I’m staying at a mate’s. And you? You live with Gina of course, for which you clearly deserve a medal.’
‘She’s alright, is Marshall,’ I laugh. ‘You’ve just got to be strict. We live on Linton Street. You come out of that dry cleaners and turn first right. Bit of a party house as you can imagine…’
‘So I’m told,’ says Laurence. ‘So how is work in the big bad world of publishing? Still tragedy correspondent?’
‘Tragedy correspondent?’
‘Yeah, Gina said you earn a living hearing other people’s sob stories.’
‘Cheeky cow!’
He backtracks with a smile.
‘In a good way.’
‘It’s “triumph over tragedy”, get it right. Even if they’ve been taken in by a polyamorous cult, had all their limbs amputated and all their family have been massacred by a crazed gunman, there’s always a positive angle. And if there isn’t, we just make one up.’
‘Like?’
‘Like he didn’t like his family anyway. Or his legs come to think of it.’
Laurence laughs. I find my face reddening with pleasure.
‘I forgot how funny you are.’ He studies me. ‘And quite how foxy.’
It’s a good job we both see a bus trundling towards us at that point, otherwise I might have had to react to that statement and it would definitely, have been idiotic.
‘Well, this is me,’ Laurence says, taking his wallet out of his pocket. ‘But here, here’s my card.’
‘And here’s mine,’ I say, hastily rummaging in my bag and handing over my fuscia pink business card with Believe It!’s slogan emblazoned all over it: From the touching to the twisted, every single week! Classy.
‘Thanks, um…’ As Laurence reads the card I see his eyebrows flicker and inwardly cringe. He says, ‘Just ring the bar, I’m usually there. Well, I come and go.’
Like a cat. An elusive cat.
He gives me a kiss on the cheek ‘Bye,’ he says.
‘Yeah, bye,’ I say dumbly.
Then he runs across the road, and I keep watching him. He’s almost jogging now, his rucksack over one shoulder, his jacket riding up. Cute arse. Gorgeous arse. Round and perfectly formed and slightly uplifted and filling out those jeans like an arse should. He still makes the blood rush to my nether regions. He still makes my head surge with indecent thoughts.
It’s 8.30 a.m., barely an hour since I got up, and I am walking to work in broad daylight, wondering how the hell we buggered that one up.
‘When I said my vows, “In sickness and in health”, little did I know how far that would be tested. But when I saw Howard in hospital bandaged and bloodied, his face unrecognisable from the burns, there was no doubt in my mind that he was still my Howard. Freddie was born three weeks after the bomb and it’s been so hard. But even now, I look at both my boys and all I see is that they are the spitting image of each other.’
Dee, 32, London
I stride into the atrium of Giant Publishing with, miraculously, fourteen minutes to spare. 9.16 and already the place looks like Piccadilly Circus only shinier.
I get into a lift with two people: one is Justine Lamb, the Editorial Director, head to toe in cream cashmere. The other is Brian Worsnop, owner of the lowest hairline in trichological history, currently devouring a Ginster’s Scotch Egg, very noisily.
He beams at me, revealing bits of sausage meat between his dentures.
‘Super night last Friday wasn’t it? You looked a little merry, to say the least, I particularly liked your…’
‘Yes, OK, Brian.’ I smile, tight-lipped. Justine Lamb does not need to know about my drunken impressions of Blanche Jewell, our MD, complete with a pair of enormous false teeth.
I landed my job as writer on Believe It! magazine in 2003, as soon as I got back from what turned out to be a pretty traumatic year travelling. It was the least glamorous title in Giant Publishing’s portfolio and was edited by Judith Hogg, a pigeon-chested tumour of a woman who couldn’t feel empathy if her life depended on it. However, it was a proper job in journalism and with stories like ‘I lost my nose but still sniffed out love’ it was hard not to see the funny side. The relentless interviewing of people with such shit lives meant you couldn’t help but think your own was maybe not that bad. It was the perfect distraction from a broken heart, too. A heart broken by Laurence Cane.
Bing! The lift door opens and I stride out, into a pool of morning sun which drenches the office in an orange-pink glow.
‘Morning Tess.’
‘Morning Jocelyn.’
Jocelyn, our receptionist, is from Perth in Australia. She has a shocking-red bob that swings around her face when she walks or even moves (mainly due to a sort of wave effect brought on by her sheer size) and a bottom as wide as her homeland.
I feel I can say this and not sound fattist because Jocelyn is far from embarrassed about her body. In fact she accentuates her ‘womanly curves’ with sleeveless, bingo-wing-revealing tops in lurid prints and tight, white, cellulite-enhancing trousers.
‘May I say Tessa, you look fintistic today,’ she trills, biting into a ham and cheese croissant. ‘Off on a date tonight by any chance, met someone nice on the Internet again?’
Ever since I made the grave mistake of telling Jocelyn I had a date with a guy from Match.com, she has asked me this question on average twice a week.
‘No, not tonight, Jocelyn,’ I say, hanging up my coat. ‘I’ve gone off men from the Internet anyway, all they ever seem to be into is skydiving and bungee jumping if their photos are anything to go by.’
‘Quite right too,’ says Jocelyn. ‘I’ve never been one for adrenaline sports myself.’
Back at my desk, I hear Anne-Marie busily relaying the latest in the saga of Vegan Boyfriend to someone on the phone. ‘He won’t even kiss me if I’ve eaten a bacon sandwich, you know,’ she’s saying proudly, pop-sock-clad feet up on the desk. ‘That’s how committed he is.’
I give her a little wave, she gives me one back. I turn on my computer and see the little red light is flashing on my phone.
‘You have