A Passionate Love Affair with a Total Stranger (16 page)

It did. There was a control panel, complete with a message from ‘Cyber Love Assistants HQ'.

Sam, I've had an email from William Thomas saying he's not happy about the emails you've sent on his behalf to someone called Shelley. Far too intimate and personal apparently. Can you call me tomorrow, please. Regards, Steve Sampson

I snatched my hand back from Sam's computer. There was a clamouring in my head as I tried to process what I was seeing.
Sam
had written William's emails? Sam was a ghost-writer just like me? And of all the people in the universe he could be writing for … he was writing for
William
?

No! Sam was a bread-munching womanizing rotter, with the romantic capabilities of a chicken Kiev! There was no way! William had pulled me apart! Sam would
never
be capable of that!

I decided I must be hallucinating. Apart from anything else, Cyber Love Assistants was an American company. If they'd opened up for business in the UK, I'd have known.

At a loss, I clicked back to the previous page and stared at Shelley's picture again. Above the photo there was a button saying ‘messages'. Too bewildered to remember about things like other people's privacy I clicked on through and gasped, for there it was: the entire chain of correspondence between Shelley and William.

I like you just a bit too much for some bird from the bloody Internet,
William had written last Friday.
There's something about you.

Then, at the end of the chain, I saw something that floored me.

Five days ago I'd messaged William on Shelley's behalf to finalize the date and explain why no further contact would be possible before they met. Here, in Sam Bowes's drafts folder, was a response he'd never sent. I read it with a hand clamped firmly over my mouth as if to prevent myself shouting.

Dear Shelley,

This is the strangest email you'll ever receive, probably. I begin it with an apology as the contents may be upsetting or offensive to you. Please be aware that this is absolutely not my wish.

My name is Sam and I am a dating ghost-writer. A company called Cyber Love Assistants pays me to write messages on behalf of clients who for whatever reason can't do it themselves. William, who you've been writing to, is one of their clients and it's me who's been writing his messages. It turns out that he's alarmed by how personal our exchange has become and I don't blame him. I would never normally enter into correspondence like this on behalf of someone else.

But I found myself unable to stop. I don't know what it is about you but I've been absolutely hooked on our exchange. I realize that it is incredibly unprofessional to break anonymity and contact you like this – particularly using the dating service – but having thought about it long and hard I decided I had no choice.

Shelley, given that it's me you've been talking to, I wondered if there was any way you'd consider

FUCK NO BALLS SHIT COCK

The email ended and with it any hope I had of pretending this wasn't happening.

Sam, my flatmate, had written William's emails.
Sam
had got under my skin so badly that I'd turned into a lovestruck fool and tried – in a hideously embarrassing, immoral way – to intervene on the date. Furthermore it appeared that the exchange had made Sam go as mad as I had: we must have been in Polpo for exactly the same reason.

I put my head in my hands. What did this mean? Had I actually fallen in love with Sam? PLEASE, GOD, NO!

I tried to think about it calmly. I imagined Sam standing in front of me right now. He'd be wearing silly trendy clothes and he'd have the boldness and confidence that only the very attractive among us naturally possess. He would probably be munching a Nutella sandwich and apologizing, with a slightly frightened look on his face, for getting messed up on drugs and snogging my little sister.

No. I was not in love with Sam. If I was sure of anything, it was that. Absolutely, categorically no way.

But he's William!
my head yelled.

I shut my eyes. This was a mess.

I had known within minutes of meeting Sam that I would never be interested in him, regardless of his looks. He was amusing, sweet and talented at acting, but he also embodied the type of man that left me cold: he was slovenly and childish and he organized his existence around sex, food and sport.

Yet the fact that he had written such honest, brave emails – which, I couldn't deny, had given me a hefty dose of self-awareness – made things very confusing.

But then:
No no
NO!
I thought.
He just writes a good email! There's nothing there!

My bipolar thoughts were interrupted by the front door banging.

‘Night, then,' I heard Katy say. She sounded quite awkward and a few seconds later I heard her brogues scurrying past my door
en route
to her attic bedroom. Somewhere among the scattergun thoughts in my head I registered relief that she was going to bed alone. Which was lucky,
because if he had slept with her I would have ended his life.

I could hear Sam shuffling around in the sitting room below me and tried to imagine him lurching as he turned the sofa into a bed. Did I have feelings for this drunk, pill-popping man?

No
, came the instinctive response. It was pleasingly firm.
No, I don't. I never have done and I never will do. The emails can stay in cyberworld where they belong. They're nothing more than a fantasy! And I promised myself, no more fantasy. Ever again.

And there it was. The answer. No more fantasy, ever again. Love and the Internet were too messy, period. I was getting out.

Satisfied, I rolled over and slept until my alarm clock went off thirty minutes later. Then, exhausted but hopeful at the prospect of a fresh start, I crept out of Katy's house into a cold, dripping street where I flagged down a taxi and fled for the airport. It was only a matter of hours until I could be back at my desk, ready to inject some order and control into my life.

I glanced over at Margot's desk. It was nine thirty-two a.m. and she still wasn't there. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, trying to manage the vague sense of foreboding that was brewing inside me. I didn't want to delay The Conversation any longer. I wanted Margot to be listening to the speech I'd planned on the plane. And then I wanted her to give me my bloody job back. And, ideally, to stop wearing skirts that showed off her muff. But small steps.

I'd been at my desk just an hour but already I was feeling better. My inbox had been organized and prioritized and I was working steadily through the surplus that I'd been unable to address in the past few days. I was ready to take control again. Once I'd dealt with Margot, nothing could stop me. ‘Raaaaaarrr,' I whispered to encourage myself. ‘Raaaarrr!'

I glanced out of the window at the long, snaking driveway but there was still no sign of her. In spite of my frustration at Margot's absence I felt a growing sense of peace. It was a really beautiful autumn morning and a soft, low light played with the yellow leaves still clinging to the sycamores. Last night's painful events were locked away in a filing cabinet until further notice.

I buzzed through to Cassie. ‘Have you heard from Margot?'

‘She's out at BBC Radio Scotland,' Cassie replied. ‘Remember?'

‘Er, no?'

Cassie got up from her desk and came through. ‘She told me she'd email you … They called asking for an interview so she's doing it. She should be on air in about ten minutes … Perhaps the email got lost.' There was a pause. ‘She didn't email you, did she?' Cassie said.

I couldn't help but smile. Cassie was not only an awesome PA but she disliked Margot as much as I did. ‘Right,' I said briskly. ‘I'll call her now. In the meantime, can you tell John that Margot is about to do an interview for the BBC without my knowledge or consent?'

‘Little slag,' John shouted, a few minutes later. ‘She didn't even tell
me
!'

‘I've been trying to get hold of her. Her phone's off but I've got a number for the breakfast-show producer, Chris.'

‘What do they want her to talk about? Fuck, Lambert, she
must not
be seen to be promoting Simitol! We could end up having to withdraw the bloody product from the market before it's even launched!'

‘I know. Look, I have to go.'

‘Don't let her shaft us,' John said. He sounded very nervous.

Finally, on my fifth call, I got through to Chris the producer. Margot came on sounding extremely irritated. ‘We're on air in two minutes,' she said officiously. ‘It'll have to be quick.'

‘I'll take as long as I need,' I said in a steely voice. ‘We
are not at liberty to do
any
media interviews until the launch next Friday. I need to know exactly what they –'

‘You went to London,' Margot butted in curtly. ‘What was I supposed to do? They needed a breakfast interview and, as your deputy, I had no option but to step in.'

‘You had a million other options, such as calling me, or asking Cassie to get hold of me, or even talking to John. I won't tolerate any more of this sort of behaviour,' I added stoutly. She gasped but I held firm, surprising even myself.
No more fucking around. This is
MY
job!
‘For now, though, Margot, I need to know exactly what's going on at Radio Scotland.'

‘I'm sorry, but I have to go and do this interview,' she said tightly. ‘Perhaps you'd forgotten, during your jaunt to London, that we're in the middle of a really critical time right now.'

‘I can assure you that I have forgotten
nothing
,' I replied. ‘Now kindly stop talking in that pissy tone and tell me what the interview is about.'

I listened for a few seconds, then interrupted. ‘No. Out of the question. The interview's pulled. You can't answer questions like that. You work in brand comms, Margot. You
know
that's out of the question.'

‘What? The interview starts in thirty seconds – I simply cannot and will not –'

‘You will. I am the director of communications and I am telling you
right now
to stand down. Conducting this interview would be a complete breach of protocol. It flies in the face of just about every regulation we're bound by.'

I put the phone down and breathed out. My hands were shaking and my heart was pounding. As I swung my
chair round to face my desk, someone started clapping slowly. ‘And she's back,' John said, from my doorway. He strode in, beaming at me in a way that still roasted my loins just a little bit. Rather than taking a chair, he sat on my desk, right in front of me.

‘Yes. Lambert's back,' I confirmed, trying not to grin.

No more fantasizing over unsuitable men
, I reminded myself. I cut short the half-grin and turned back to my screen as if to dismiss him. Unfortunately my mouse was right next to John's bottom so I was a bit stuck.

‘How's that leg?' he asked, eyes pinned to my thigh.

‘Painful.' I used a pen to get my mouse back and opened a document.

John was undeterred. ‘Would a massage help? Or some
reiki
. I'm a
reiki
master in my spare time. I could bewitch your leg.'

I tried hard to control my smile. John still knew how to work me. ‘No, John, I do not want you to perform
reiki
on my leg.'

‘Could I maybe just run my hand along it, then? Solely for medical-research purposes.'

I felt the old urge to play the outraged schoolmistress and marvelled at how quickly it had come back now that I knew William was not real. But I had to resist any sort of flirting.
No more fantasy
. ‘I don't think you'd enjoy my leg, John,' I said neutrally. ‘It's full of metal pins.'

‘Brilliant!' He jumped off the desk and crouched, placing his hand firmly on my ankle. ‘Where are they?'

‘John! What are you doing?!' I said, less forcefully. He was a nightmare. And I wasn't much better.

His large hand ran slowly up my shin, fingers feeling
gently around the bones. ‘Blimey, Lambert, you've got a full-on toolkit in here.' His hand kept moving up but after a stern look from me he stopped at my knee.

‘Off,' I said, quietly.

John stood up, feigning hurt. ‘You're wearing stockings,' he remarked, as he walked back over to the doorway. ‘Delightfully Victorian and sexy, Lambert. Makes up for the bionic leg. Keep it up.'

‘I'll let you know how it goes with Margot after I've spoken to her,' I told him. I wanted him out of my office before I started enjoying his company too much.

‘Margot's a pain in the arse,' John said. ‘You can deal with her, no problem. Power-crazy little seahorse. She did well to hold the fort when you –'

‘
What
did you just call her?' I asked, starting to laugh.

‘Er, a power-crazy little seahorse. Oh, Lambert, don't go all boring and politically correct on me now. The girl looks like a seahorse! You know it!'

I couldn't stop laughing. I laughed and laughed and laughed, eventually leaning back in my chair and closing my eyes. The pain and disappointment of the last twenty-four hours evaporated as John beamed at me, delighted.

‘Seahorse!' I howled, tears now coming out of my eyes. ‘I call her that too!'

‘A seahorse with dwarf-dating proclivities,' he chipped in.

At that I lost it completely, and only really stopped when Margot arrived in my office forty minutes later in a thick black cloud of rage. ‘We need to talk,' she said, striding in and slamming the door behind her. She looked as if someone had inserted an unsolicited NASA rocket up her bottom. ‘How dare you pull the interview just before –'

‘You're quite right we need to talk,' I said. ‘How dare
you
agree to a totally inappropriate and unauthorized interview at a time like this?'

Margot looked almost crazed. ‘What do you expect me to do when you piss off to London to fanny around with John's cronies?' she spat back.

‘Margot,' I said, sitting back in my chair, ‘John asked me to meet Arthur Holford because he's talking about bringing us nearly a billion dollars in investment but he wants to know how strong our public profile is first. I wouldn't call that fannying around, would you? How about we discuss the real issue at hand?'

Margot's face was a complicated mixture of rage, frustration and shock.
She'd forgotten she works for Charley Lambert, Scottish Amazon
, I thought bravely. I battened down the hatches and sharpened my spear. ‘Which is that you seem to be struggling to accept the hierarchy here. I really do appreciate what you did while I was away – it was brilliant work – but if you continue to operate behind my back, to conceal information from me and to attempt to control processes that are my direct responsibility, then I will have no option but to take formal action against you.'

She stared at me with undisguised hatred. ‘You wouldn't,' she whispered.

‘You're quite wrong, Margot. I absolutely would. So, you can cancel whichever of my projects you were planning to run yourself and spend this afternoon handing my job over to me – properly – or I can call Carly and get a formal warning under way. What's it to be?'

I took a deep breath.
Go, Lambert!
John walked through the office, grinning cheekily at me through the glass wall.

Margot turned on her heel. ‘Very well. I'll start now,' she muttered, striding out in her microskirt. I was reasonably sure she added ‘slag' as she slammed the door.

As I collected myself, Cassie walked into my office with a pile of newspapers. ‘Er, press clippings for today, highlighted.' She giggled. ‘And well done,' she added, in a stage whisper.

‘Can you get me a superfood salad for lunch?' I asked. ‘And don't buy me any junk again, even if I ask for it. I need a sharp brain, Cassie. Starting this afternoon. We're going to get this place sorted.'

‘No problem,' she said. Her voice dropped to the stage whisper again: ‘Well done for putting Margot back into her box!' she hissed. ‘She's a witch! She told me yesterday that I looked really common in my trouser suit!'

I gasped but Cassie waved me off. ‘From someone whose vagina is on display most days I didn't feel too upset.'

For the third time today I lost myself laughing. Things were on the up.

Later on, as I sifted through paperwork, picking through a salad, my phone buzzed. ‘It's a man looking for his piglet,' Cassie said.

I grinned. ‘Put him through!'

‘Dad?'

‘Hello, Piglet.'

I knew immediately something was wrong. ‘Dad? Are you OK?'

He sighed. ‘Yes, Charlotte my dear … but I fear my mother is not so well.'

I sat up, worried. Granny Helen was
never
ill. ‘What's happened?'

‘She … she had a bit of a stroke, Charley. We've been at the hospital the last twenty-four hours and she's much better now. But not …' Dad's voice caught. ‘Just not quite herself.'

‘Oh, Dad … Will she improve?'

‘She might. But at her age the outlook's not great,' he said sadly.

I blanched, trying to imagine my spirited little matriarch of a grandmother being weak and ill. My earliest memories of Granny Helen were of her shouting orders from her throne and slamming the floor with her stick. Regardless of her age and physical strength, she had always been the head of our family.

‘Are you OK, Dad?' I asked again gently. He sounded lost.

‘Well, I'm quite shocked. I don't like seeing my mother in that state, Charlotte. But I have my fingers crossed that she'll improve.' He didn't sound convinced at all. ‘Anyway, afternoon surgery's starting shortly and I have patients to see. Could you call Vanessa and Katy, Charlotte? I … don't have the heart to tell them.'

‘Of course. Would you like me to come home tonight? Cook you some dinner? Go and see her in hospital?'

‘No, no, we need to keep things as quiet as possible … I'll call tomorrow.
Au revoir
,' he said sadly.

‘Um,
au revoir
,' I echoed.

No!
I thought, dismayed. Granny Helen wasn't nearly old enough for this! And Dad loved his eccentric mother. However busy it was at the surgery, he'd still insist on
having a full hour off at lunchtime so he could take her for her daily walk: in winter they had tea at the coffee house; in summer they sat by the fountain, chatting away while Malcolm padded around, sniffing out exciting things in the grass. They were proper friends.

Come on, Granny Helen
, I thought, swallowing.

Ness was very upset, but in a typically undramatic, unselfish way. She made me promise to call her when I finished work, for an account of my night ruining William and Shelley's date.