Behaving Like Adults (21 page)

I watched his body language as he rambled on about his dull evening in the office and something didn't feel right. I looked at Issy. She was sharing an almond macaroon with Eden, glancing at her husband as he chattered, and smiling in a way that seemed truly peaceful. Hang on,
Issy
wisdom: liars are easy to spot because they suffocate you with detail. I was practically choking. But it wasn't only that. Was Saturday a working day in Japan? I felt a surge of triumph and dismay at once. Rach. Having an affair with a married man, she'd said,
who I knew
and she was the one who'd told me that Frank couldn't make it because of work. She'd said Claudia had told her. And she'd left my party early.

After I realised this, I felt jumpy – well, jump
ier
– it was like the creeping dread you get when you've postponed paperwork for four months and you stop being able to sleep. I couldn't believe it. Had Frank and Rachel even met? Now I thought about it, of course they had. At Issy's wedding. At a Christmas party organised by Rachel. They were two pretty selfish people, but at heart we're all selfish so I couldn't hold that against them. Being selfish does not make you a cheat. Anyway, I couldn't believe it of Frank. He
liked
his life. And, he knew that if he ever tried anything funny, Issy's legal team would ensure he ended up a pauper. I didn't want to believe it of Rachel.

Claudia hadn't noticed. She was too busy watching me. I took care to act breezy, I didn't want her to come up with any theories. I wanted to protect her, the truth would hurt too much. I felt the same way about my parents. I can stand a certain amount of pain, I
know
how much I can stand, but it's different when I inflict my pain on those I love. That's harder to bear. Thankfully, I was able to distract Claw with talk of the next Date Night, being filmed by London Local News. She and Issy were remarkably excited about it. Me, I couldn't have cared one way or the other.

Both Monday and Tuesday would be sucked up by planning meetings for the wretched thing. I was forced to postpone my self-defence class to Wednesday. I did do one
thing for myself though. I rang Stuart's PA, Camille, and I told her never to stay late with Stuart in the office. Judging from her cool response, she thought I'd spoken out of turn. I didn't think so. She'd been at my party, so we'd met each other socially. It was my duty to warn her. Rage simmered and spat and it was either a nuisance call to Camille, or the purchase of a sledgehammer from Sainsbury's Homebase, the smashing of Stuart's skull to a red and yellow fragmented pulp and the ruin of the carpet in his lobby.

I tell a lie. Not
all
of Monday and Tuesday were sucked up by planning meetings. A good third was sucked up by Nige and Claw feasting on the gossip of Friday night.

Camille. Nige worried about the name Camille. It sounded like camel. Claudia disagreed. It was an elegant name, the name of a French film star. What French film star? I meant generically, Nige, you idiot. Nige wanted to know if anyone had noticed that Rachel's number plate was E103 POO. Claw giggled. The fear of buying a car with the number plate POO – or come to that, CAK, or indeed, BUM – had dogged her since childhood. I'd fretted about it too, until I'd actually bought a car and found that, unless you annoy them, they give you a choice.

Ooh, said Nige, and wasn't Bo a sight with a face as long as a horse? Oh, said Claudia, that was normal. Bo was always in a grouch. ‘She was in a mood with Manjit,' I offered, having some inside information on this, ‘because on Thursday night she dreamed he cheated on her.' We all – even me – honked with laughter. Then, inevitably, talk turned to Nige's career. The ad was being shot on Thursday. Claw wanted to know if, when Nige had a love scene with a
lady
, he ever got ‘visibly excited' and if he did get a monster stiffy, what happened? Nige smirked. This was plainly a question he'd been asked a few times and therefore had a neat answer to. ‘Before we even kiss, I say to her, “I apologise if I do, and I apologise if I don't!”'

Then Issy arrived and put an end to merriment. Tuesday night did need a lot of organising. We had to remind
everyone who'd wanted to participate, and triple check that they were coming. ‘Elisabeth was well keen, when I last spoke to her,' said Nige. ‘She'd sell her soul to Chris Tarrant to get on cable.'

‘Hark at you,' remarked Claw.

Nige stuck his nose in the air. ‘Terrestrial. There's a world of difference. You were dealing with her though, Hol, weren't you? Didn't you have someone for her?'

I looked at my feet, ruffled my notebook. Plan B, find a man for Elisabeth who was so lip-smacking, Nick would be fish and chip paper. ‘Well,' I said reluctantly, ‘I'd prefer it if you rang her. But I have been thinking about Samson.'

Nige laughed a dirty laugh. ‘I'll bet you have, darlin'! No, nice one. I'm happy to deal with her. And what about cute liddle Xak as her finale?'

He wrote down Samson as Elisabeth's first date and Xak as her last, and I felt peeved.

‘What are we going to do about Sam and Bernard, they're booked in for this week,' said Claudia.

‘We'll do a Wednesday nighter,' said Nige quickly, glancing at me.

I frowned. If there was an overlap, we'd have two date evenings, but it happened rarely. And it wasn't as if the filmed night was oversubscribed. ‘I don't see why—'

Nige interrupted. ‘Well, dearest, you must be blind because
we
can all see why. Sam and Bernard are uggers, and that's the plain, pimpley old truth. This agency is for beautiful people, that's our yoo ess pee. It's alright to make the odd exception, and I mean, odd, but not when we are being filmed. TV adds ten pounds to your weight – why else do you think I'm down to one doughnut a day – and Bernard is fat. Put him on TV, and he'll look like Marlon Brando. We can't have it, we'll get all sorts of mutants ringing up, and none of the sort of people we
want
to attract.'

This silenced me, and I remained quiet for the next twenty minutes as they plotted their showcase matches.
Two of the pairs from last week wanted to see each other again, said Claw, so that was easy – guaranteed good publicity. They were all high on sugar and the scent of fame, it felt to me as if the room was one big grin. I wrote down whatever they said, so as to look studious and give myself a valid excuse for not talking. Only I knew we were playing Russian roulette with people's lives. This bloody film night was going to be a glorious success, and I just felt sick at the thought of it.

We arrived early at Seb's, as Gwen and her cameraman wanted to do a ‘recce', which I believe is a term people use when they want to nose about and seem important.

Nige and Claw were done up like P Diddy and Hyacinth Bucket off to the Proms. Even Issy had made an effort, in a black Joseph trouser suit. I was reminded of an applicant we'd rejected because he'd written: ‘My ambition is to take a woman to Joseph and dress her from head to foot!' Weird. And the week before, I'd turned down a guy who'd scrawled on his form that he loved kittens but hated cats. What a nut. I hadn't told the others about him. I'd had quite enough of their liberalism.

I could tell Gwen disapproved of what
I
was wearing. Baggy jeans and a sweatshirt and trainers. You could tell she'd been gearing up for ten million viewers since the age of twelve. She was celebrity thin (I wanted to say ‘
please
eat' but knew she'd despise me for it), with a pixie haircut, well-toned calves (I guessed she ran four miles a day before her yoga class), thick expert make-up that would look immaculate on screen, and a mint-green gypsy top, perfect for TV with its simple neckline, medium hue and lack of fussiness, cute, not too serious, considering the fluffiness of the feature.

‘Have you got something smarter to wear for camera?' she said bluntly.

‘Yes!' cried Claudia, before I could say no. ‘You're so busy, Hol, I knew you'd forget. I brought this along for
you, just in case.' She displayed a crisply ironed, bubblegum-pink shirt between red varnished fingernails.
My
bubblegum-pink shirt, pinched over the weekend from the back of
my
wardrobe.

Gwen smiled, a credit to her orthodontist. ‘Fabby. We'll shoot you above the waist.'

I took the shirt from a gloating Claudia and thought, Please do. Preferably in the head.

The cameraman mooched from corner to corner with several tonnes of black bags and silver cases and spidery tripods, muttering about light. Gwen ran through her interview questions, all of which were predictable. She suggested I apply foundation and blusher, otherwise I'd look ‘ill'.

Meantime, Nige hovered, eventually blurting, ‘Sweets, if you don't feel up to it, Gwen is welcome to interview one of us.
Me
, for example. I am a company executive,' he added in his finest RP.

‘I'll be fine,' I said.

As my Girl Meets Boyites started to arrive, I felt a tweak of pride, despite everything. We
did
have some lovely people. They deserved to find love. I caught Nige nudging Claw as Sam crept in, and Claw glared at me when she spotted Bernard. I didn't know what they were so bothered about. Xak had arrived, a dead ringer for a baby angel, and there was Samson, as fresh faced and wholesome as a week in Devon. Martyn lowered the beauty count some, but his ordinariness was offset by the trendy shaven head and black arthouse specs.

Elisabeth swept in, and the room seemed to hold its breath. She was the kind of woman that men bought champagne for. I couldn't look her in the eye, and she was more than willing to avoid mine. I guessed Nick had told her about us. Still, she plainly didn't like him enough to miss her chance to get on telly. Jesus, the girl was wearing a
catsuit
. It exposed parts of the body that I would only ever show to another person by accident. Poor Nick.

Georgie strode in, fiercely glam but, as Nige sighed, ‘a bit Marbella'. He wasn't wrong. For a start, she'd parked her mobile phone in her cleavage. Millie followed, furtive, anxious – she had the air of a small squirrel that's just hidden its nuts and is paranoid a big squirrel will find them.

‘This is fabby,' said Gwen, smiling. I smiled back. Fabby was definitely her word. She was alright. I admire people who work hard, on principle, so I had to admire Gwen whether I wanted to or not.

‘I'll speak to you at the end of the night, Holly, and I'll speak to a few of your clients now, and then again later, after their dates.'

Her word arrangement made it clear she wasn't asking permission. ‘Fine,' I said. I couldn't be bothered to argue. ‘We'll just do our thing and let you do yours.'

I watched her beeline for Elisabeth.

‘You
will
be careful what you say to her,' said Nige, suddenly at my side.

I tutted. ‘Of course I will, I'm not a berk.'

Nige grinned. ‘Looking good so far. I'll bet the camera loves Stanton-Browne. She'll be presenting
Blue Peter
before we know it.' He nodded towards Sam and Bernard, who were propped against the bar, chatting. ‘Let's only hope she steers clear of Dastardly and Muttley.' He glanced at his watch. ‘Time to rock 'n' roll.' He squeezed my hand before trotting off to place everyone with their first dates. ‘Know what, Hol? We couldn't
pay
for advertising like this. I'm serious, that Gwen is worth her weight in gold.'

‘What, an ankle chain from Woolworths?'

‘I'm serious. When's this airing? Because we are going to be up to our necks in a lake of gorgeous singles. Gwen over there might look like a sniffy cow but she's going to double the size of our company.' He winked, like a pantomine dame, and said, ‘Brace yourself. Size matters – and we are on the brink of
big
.'

DID I TELL
you my mother's sister died of a heart attack aged forty-three? Aunt Rose's death shocked everyone – more so than normal, if there
is
a normal – and I think it was because she was such a vibrant person. Nick put it best. ‘She was right in the middle of life,' he said. Aunt Rose, a translator for the UN, was the opposite of my mother in many ways, loud, enthusiastic, energetic, fearless. But they were similar in their kindness and generosity. Aunt Rose cared, and the world could ill afford to lose her.

This was only two years ago, and a few months after the funeral, my mother rang to talk about Girl Meets Boy. She'd seen a little advert in her local paper and was terribly excited. We had a jolly chat about how well I was doing and she didn't mention her sister once. ‘Mum,' I said, because I couldn't put down the phone on silence. ‘You know, Nick and I think of Aunt Rose so often.'

Her response stunned me. ‘Of course, dear. It's very sad. She was a great sort of girl. But life is hard, and there's no use going around with a long face. That doesn't do anyone any good. We had her for forty-three happy years, and I'm thankful for that. Yes, it's hard for me, I'm her sister, but it's
far
harder for Uncle Barry, he's had to reconstruct his whole life. And we do have our memories. Uncle Barry showed me a poem he wrote which described Rosy to a T – why, it was as good as having her stand in front of you!'

Sometimes, my mother makes me feel so humble I want to cry. I thought about her attitude for a long time afterwards. I thought it was an admirable lesson in being
stoic and bearing your woes with a zipped mouth. I believed this for a while before I realised that there's a huge difference between acceptance and repression. Plainly, Claudia and Nige never thought any of this. Their whining after the London Local News night went gloriously wrong was apocalyptic.

Everything seemed to be going smoothly (a sign of impending disaster if there ever was one) until, oops, one of our new recruits turned out to be an angry ex-girlfriend of Samson and vented her rage at being paired with the rat, on camera. They'd dated for two years, she'd had a miscarriage, and he'd blamed her because she'd been drinking tea (two whole cups a day). When she'd cried about it, he'd hummed to himself, to block out the sound. Also on camera, Samson joked about this and called her a ‘bit of a sad cow'.