My last bulletin went really well. The afternoon presenter, Pippa Honeywell, was setting a competition and chatted to me about some of the prizes. They were eclectic, as always: a trip to the local owl sanctuary, a case of peach schnapps, a ticket to see this year’s panto at Wimbledon Theatre. It was a giggle and cheered me up; my job always did. As I drove home, I tried to think positively again. Jeff was gone; he was no longer my concern and neither was Gabby. And thank god I had my friends Sam and Peony; they had really stepped up since everything had happened. I owed them a lot. They’d met Gabby loads, over the years and had liked her, but their loyalty to me was fierce and they hadn’t seen her since her betrayal. None of us had. My focus now was Freya – who I must ring tomorrow, actually. I needed to know the exact times for her graduation – and my own future. I decided I would definitely go speed dating tonight – to not let Sam down, mainly – and I had to go with what Peony said: treat it as just a laugh, just a giggle, don’t take it too seriously. I could do that. There was no ninety-nine percent chance of anything. Except me having a good laugh. And my hangover had completely evaporated now, which was helping.
As I got out of my car, Will was coming out of his house and locking the front door. He worked odd hours, I knew – he’d told me when he looked round my house. He was a consultant paediatrician at St Martin’s Hospital, in central London.
‘Hello. I’ve got a meeting,’ he said simply. He looked nice; he had a very smart suit on. He always looked smart for work. I’d seen him out of my kitchen window loads of times last week, getting into his car with his files and his briefcase.
‘Oh, right.’ I was embarrassed, so embarrassed. I’d planned to go round and apologise, but now I’d been caught unawares, seeing him again, I felt stupid and unprepared. Oh, the shame of it. The last time he’d clapped eyes on me, I’d looked far from smart. Staggering into one’s house, half cut and with only one shoe on is never a good look. ‘I’m so sorry about last night,’ I said. ‘I’m absolutely mortified.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said, smiling and looking far from cross. ‘It was funny.’
‘Was it? I thought it was just excruciatingly embarrassing. I’m so sorry,’ I repeated.
‘It’s fine. Honestly. Forget about it. We’ve all been there.’
‘I don’t think we’ve all quite been there, have we?’ I quipped, motioning at the ground.
‘Well, no,’ he said, ‘but most people have been daft and drunk, at one time or another.’
‘I was definitely both of those.’ I smiled at him. He smiled back. He thought it was okay; he thought I was okay. I knew he had a good sense of humour, after the whole Save the Whale thing, but I hadn’t known if it would extend to drunk neighbours in distress.
‘So, how’s the decorating going?’
‘I haven’t started yet,’ I said. I hadn’t. I’d spent the last week unpacking, faffing around and watching telly. Besides, I wasn’t sure I was competent enough to do it. I knew I’d end up with paint everywhere and make a right hash of it. Jeff and I had always hired someone in. In fact, I was probably going to do the same in this house – it would save an awful lot of swearing.
‘Do you want me to help you? Tomorrow maybe? After work? I get home early on a Tuesday.’
I was so surprised. ‘Really? Would you? That’s awfully kind of you.’ Blimey, that was nice of him. I could hardly say no, could I? … Despite the fact it would be a lot simpler just to get some professional painters and decorators in. Despite the fact I could just tell him I’d be doing that and he’d just happily retract his offer… And nothing to do with the fact a tiny, teensy part of me thought it would be nice to spend some time with him, which I immediately told myself sternly off for. One: I was starting a whole new chapter of my life, in my new house; the last thing I wanted was some sort of torrid fling with my next door neighbour. And two: it would be a horrible cliché to get even so much as a crush on him – I’d had enough of horrible clichés, what with my husband running off with my best friend…
‘Half five?’ he suggested, looking at his watch. ‘Is this the time you usually get home?’
‘Yes, it is,’ I replied. ‘Half five would be fab. Thank you. That would be really great. Thank you very much indeed.’ Okay, now I was sounding like a bumbling idiot. You will not get an inappropriate crush on this man, I told myself. You will not get an appropriate crush on this man – however good looking he is. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’
Okay, time to shut up and go in.
‘Great,’ he said. ‘Well, see you then.’
‘Yes, bye. Thanks, Will. Have a nice time.’ And I thumped my own head with my hand once I’d got inside my front door. Have a nice time? He was going to work.
‘I won’t be a minute. I’m in a frazz, as usual.’
I was in Sam’s kitchen. The contents of her bag appeared to be scattered across her kitchen table: tissues, lipsticks, purse, nail file, powder compact, make-up brushes and something that looked like one of those Fitbit heart monitors. In the middle was an opened bottle of fizzy pink plonk with a huge half-full wine glass next to it. She took a large swig.
‘I know you’re driving, but do you want a sneaky half a glass?’
‘Oh god, no thanks, Sam. There’s no way I’m drinking after last night.’
‘Sure? Cup of tea?’
‘I don’t think we have time, do we?’
Sam wasn’t ready and I’d been five minutes late as it was.
‘Probably not,’ she said, rifling through a drawer and pulling out random five pound notes to stuff in her purse. ‘Here,’ she said, picking up and thrusting the glass in my hand. ‘Go on, have a quick sip. It’ll calm your nerves.’
‘I’m not nervous.’ Dread might be a better word. But I took a large sip anyway.
‘Hair of the dog. Never hurts.’ Sam grabbed a sheer black t-shirt from the side and threw it over her balcony bra and impossibly sculpted abs.
‘You look amazing,’ I said.
‘Thanks,’ said Sam, attempting to see her reflection in the door of the microwave. ‘You don’t think the sheerness is a bit much? I’m trying to distract from my face.’
‘What’s wrong with your face?’
‘Nothing a large syringe of Botox and a week in the Bahamas wouldn’t cure.’
‘Honestly, Sam, you look fabulous.’ For all her zealous calorie-counting and burpees and Power Yoga DVDs, my dear friend had her insecurities, like the rest of us.
‘Thanks,’ she said, sounding unconvinced. ‘And look at you!’ she continued. ‘You’ll be beating them off with a stick!’
I looked down at my black pencil skirt and black suede courts. I’d tried to make an effort tonight despite my mixed feelings about the evening. I’d put on my slinkiest cream blouse (with diamante buttons) and my most flattering skirt, and had taken ages with my make-up. My usual three-minute pre-work slap on probably wouldn’t cut it tonight – I’d used all the players in my make-up arsenal, including a new brow pencil I was experimenting with. I was risking a slightly grumpy-looking Scouse Brow but I think it had worked okay. Sam hadn’t said anything, anyway.
‘You don’t think