‘No, not great,’ I snap. ‘Besides all the final touches for my wedding, I have to close the books on this quarter’s budgets, write a presentation to the executive committee, oversee the production of
By the time I finish my list there’s more than a passing resemblance between my face and Barbara Cartland’s wardrobe.
‘OK. OK, I get the picture. Calm down, pink’s not your colour,’ says Fi. She puts her hand on my shoulder. ‘I have some capacity at the moment. I’ll help.’
‘You will?’
‘Sure.’ She sounds nonchalant and not at all like the life-saver she undoubtedly is. I want to kiss her. I settle for something more conventional.
‘Thank you.’
‘No problem.’
Fi and I make a great team. She takes charge of arranging the party: decides the theme, arranges caterers and alcohol. She finalizes the guest list, which extends beyond staff, to include the press, minor celebs and competition winners; she sends all the invites. Fi works around the clock for two weeks. I am really impressed by her commitment and friendship. Whenever I see her, she’s awash with project plans, inventories, rosters and registers. She is nearly continuously on the phone trying to drum up guests, PR interest, entertainers and glassware or she is sending e-mails, faxes and couriers to cajole, influence or sweet-talk whoever into doing whatever.
This leaves me free to tackle all my other tasks. It’s imperative I leave work in shipshape condition. I really don’t want to have to be making long-distance calls throughout my honeymoon. I work like a madwoman. Long hours and high levels of concentration cause my head to ache, eyes sting and temples bulge. By the time it gets round to the thirteenth I have emptied my in-tray and signed off all the projects that are imperative. The only thing left to do, in the week between the party and the wedding, is close the books on this quarter’s budgets. Then after the honeymoon I can come back to—
Well, to whatever is in my in-tray.
‘All done!’ I send my last e-mail of the day with a flourish of satisfaction.
‘Oh good. I was worried that Cinders wasn’t coming to the ball,’ says Fi. She’s scrabbling under her desk trying to retrieve a kitten-heel shoe. We are both high on the spirit of having achieved what was demanded of us. Despite the unreasonable nature of the demands.
‘What, and miss your party? Not for the world.’
She’s dressed in a white sequined Moschino number. Very ice maiden meets LA debutante. I couldn’t have chosen better myself. She’s obviously taken great care and spent her dowry.
‘Are you getting changed?’ she nags.
‘I haven’t thought about it.’ Fi pulls a face. ‘OK, OK, I’ll look through my filing cabinet. There’s bound to be something to wear in there.’ I know she’s worked hard and wants everyone to appreciate her effort by making an effort.
Fi has plumped for a theme of black and white. She said this was largely to do with the invitations being sent out so late in the day; the guests are mostly media luvvies, and a dress code stipulating one or other of these colours won’t cause any problems. Despite the brief, I emerge from the loos, fifteen minutes later, with freshly applied lipstick and a scarlet Johanna Hehir dress. It’s clingy, flowery and feminine. I believe in the importance of an entrance.
I follow the noise of laughter and clinking glasses and the heady perfume of fat waxy lilies up to the roof terrace where we are holding the jamboree. The lift parts and my first impression is top. Waiters, dressed in Paul Smith, carry trays of champagne. There are dozens of lanterns and fairy lights everywhere and whilst it’s still too light and warm for them to be anything more than decorative, they are certainly that. There are sculptures of huge chess pieces scattered about. I’m not sure what their original purpose was intended to be but they are being used as giant ashtrays and bar stools. There are luxurious, white, faux-fur rugs hanging on the walls. The food looks exquisite; it also follows the theme of black and white – piles of scrumptious-looking caviar followed by attractive miniature summer puddings, made entirely with blackberries and served with heavy dollops of double cream. Fi has done the correct thing by serving small amounts of delicious-looking food. It barely matters what it tastes like, as most of the guests would rather polish the shoes of the entire British army than consume unanticipated calories. Still, the media luvvies look the part; as my mother would prosaically say, ‘They scrub up well.’ The room is awash with every label in the alphabet, from Armani to Versace.
The effect is magical.
I help myself to a glass of champagne and look for someone useful to talk to. Fi prevents this by hurtling towards me.
‘OhmygodOhmygod,’ she screams.
‘What? Have I lipstick on my teeth?’ I ask, rubbing my teeth with my finger. As I do so I notice there’s soap stuck in my engagement ring; I take it off and start to gouge it out with my fingernail. Something is certainly upsetting Fi. She looks as though she is hyperventilating.
‘I am so sorry. I can’t think how it happened. We used mail merge. His name must have been on the wrong list,’ she gabbles.
‘Whose name?’ I ask. But Fi can’t answer because she’s staring at something behind me. She looks like a rabbit terrified and trapped in the headlights of an oncoming truck. I turn.
I’m the rabbit.
‘Darren? Darren?’ I can hardly believe it is him. For months I’ve been trying to convince myself that seeing Darren again would be the worst thing that could possibly happen to me, but now I’m actually facing him, I have to admit it feels like the best. The crowds around us dwindle and there’s just the two of us. Which is a nightmare because my tongue is cleaving to the roof of my mouth and I can’t think of anything at all suitable to say. I slip my ring in my pocket.
He’s breathtaking. He’s everything I’ve been imagining and remembering for the last six months, but more.
I’m expecting an onslaught of anger and recriminations and try to head them off by putting us on a polite and formal note immediately.
‘Are you here for the party?’ Then I shoot myself. Or at least that would be a suitable penalty for such a banal conversation starter but I don’t have a gun handy.
‘I suppose I am,’ he says, half grinning and wincing at the same time. My La Perla hiccups.
‘Good, good. I’m so pleased.’ I like this sentence more. It is at once honest and straightforward. Honesty and the ability to be straightforward are things I know Darren admires. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ I rush to clarify. ‘Not that I invited you.’ That sounds awful. ‘I mean. I didn’t send out the invites.’ He looks confused. ‘Well, it’s not your sort of thing, is it?’ My voice finally falters and then draws to a halt. I suspect we are both relieved.
We stand awkwardly watching other people enjoy themselves, until eventually Darren asks, ‘Will Trixxie be coming along?’
I’m crushed. He’s here for Trixxie. Not me.
Not that he could be here for me. Not after I’ve ignored him for six months.
Nor should I want him to be. I’m engaged to Josh and I don’t do casual sex any more. I try to tell myself that my jealousy is a lazy hangover from my other life.
‘I don’t know. I don’t think even Fi knows who she’s invited, judging by the look of confusion on her face when she saw you. If Trixxie is coming she’ll be late,’ I add sulkily. He’s grinning. No sign of disappointment that Trixxie may not appear. Maybe he just thought of her because I was behaving like an incompetent. I add, ‘It’s quite a select gathering.’
‘I’m touched.’
In case he thinks I am, I clarify, ‘And your name got on the list by mistake. A fault with mail-merging the wrong list.’
‘Ha,’ he guffaws. He actually throws his head back and laughs out loud. As ever, I’m not sure if he’s laughing at me or with me. But I don’t care. I just like hearing his laughter. It cheers me. It is definitely the most exhilarating sound I’ve ever heard.
