Dog Handling (26 page)

“Liz. God, how are you? It’s been a while.” Will arrived panting at Liv’s side as she picked up the dumbells and swung them about in as Jane Fonda a way as possible.

“Yes, it has.” She didn’t smile, just watched her biceps intently in the mirror and shuddered at the thought of having to kiss Will again. Which wasn’t even slightly part of the plan, but if she was going to have to have a date with him, as
was
the plan, then he might come over all presumptuous and lunge at her.

“You’re looking great.” He was just standing there with his tongue practically hanging out and his hair all plastered to his head after his fifty push-ups.

“You’re a bit out of breath.” Liv smiled patronisingly at him and then had to raise her fragrant, newly laundered, intensely feminine lilac towel to her face to hide her sniggers. This was so disgracefully easy that she wondered why she even had to bother to use Will for Ben Bait. Couldn’t she just turn up on one of Ben’s archaeological digs somewhere wearing a push-up bra and cycling shorts and skip this Will part of Dave’s plan?

“Yeah, well, I, erm, actually, I was going to call you. Yeah, I mean I was going to ask Charlie for your number and then I was going to call you because, well, you’re looking really well and I wondered if perhaps . . .” Liv turned to him and raised an eyebrow that said go-ahead-you-worm-I-dare-you-after-all-these-weeks.

“. . . we could have dinner.”

“Like last time when you fucked me and then never called me?” Liv got down on all fours and did a few stretches that served no other purpose than to expose huge, gaping amounts of cleavage.

“Oh, Liz, I can explain. Actually, I’d just got back from Bosnia, as you know, and I think I was suffering a bit from post-traumatic stress disorder. You know it’s really terrible.” He did a hangdog big-eyed thing and Liv nearly vomited.

“Yeah, actually, I had it myself after I’d slept with you.” She pretended it was a joke and smiled as she said it just so he didn’t get too offended and bash her over the head with a boxing glove.

“Ha ha . . . that’s, erm, really a great one. Not just a pretty face, eh, Liz? I love a woman with a sense of humour.”

“You’d have to.” Liv climbed to her feet and pulled herself up tall just so she was looking down on him by about an inch. “Oh, and by the way, Will, it’s Liv.”

When Liv arrived back from her surfing lesson she picked up the post from her box. Mostly junk asking her to eat more pizza at lower prices and a couple of bills for Laura. There was also a letter for Liv Elliot, Managing Director of Greta’s Grundies. Liv sniggered and tossed the bunch of mail into her basket. Alex was getting too big for the boardroom again. Considering they didn’t have one. Liv flicked on her answerphone. You never knew.

“You have zero messages.”

Yes, of course you know. You always bloody well know. She made a contemptuous growling noise and went for her shower. At least her surfing had been good this morning. She was definitely improving. Certainly Justin seemed to think so. He’d led her out to the Bronte Express and let her surf in on her own. No matter that the waves were flatter than pancakes and that she spent more time under her surfboard than on top of it, she was getting better. And as she ran up the beach
Baywatch
style with her boogie board under her arm, her legs no longer wobbled in such an environmentally unfriendly way as they had a few weeks ago. Always a bonus.

Liv had her Just Right out on the deck. She also covered her shoulders and put on a sun hat so she didn’t end up like Brigitte Bardot. Then she opened the letter from Alex. Except it wasn’t from Alex; it was from Amelia. On perfect silver-embossed letterhead at the top of the hand-rolled rose petal–encrusted notepaper.

Dearest Liv,

I just wanted you to know that after chatting to Alex at some length about your business plans I’d be delighted to accept the role of the face and body of Greta’s Grundies. I love your product and am very much looking forward to the launch. Can’t wait.

With warmest wishes,
Amelia Fraser

Liv read the note several times before she fully understood what it said. She also had to check it against some of Alex’s writing to make sure it wasn’t a hoax. No wonder she’d been so shifty at the weekend, Liv thought. Feeling guilty and running me baths and making me stand on my head and telling me I looked dishabille. She’d invited Amelia into their business and not said a word to Liv.

“I don’t want her onboard. The last thing in the world that I need right now is to spend my working day in the company of Perfect Amelia!” Liv yelled into Alex’s mobile. “We don’t need her.”

“I have not invited Amelia Fraser to join our company, okay? Whatever she’s said is her own idea. I promise, sweetheart. But having her as our spokesmodel isn’t such a bad idea. Think about it. In fact, it could be the difference between a small-time company and an international player. Remember, Sophia Loren is her godmother.”

Liv put the phone down and felt all meagre again. Why did she only have snotty nouveau riche godmothers who weren’t icons of the twentieth century? Anyway, Alex was probably taking the whole thing too seriously. International player. The face of Greta’s Grundies. Spokesmodel. For heaven’s sake it wasn’t as though it were the house of bloody Lancôme or Christian Dior, was it? But Alex was probably right. Amelia could secure them more column inches than Hugh Grant’s blow job. If only it wasn’t Amelia, Liv thought as she crossed off a few people from the party guest list. She didn’t want her work and her revenge life to be all mixed up like this. Still there was the party. Liv consoled herself by drawing up a list that didn’t include anyone who wore hipsters and was just beginning to draw up a for and against list for inviting her parents when the phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Liv?” asked the voice. Not Ben, surely.

“Yes?” Liv sucked her pen hard and got a mouthful of Biro sludge.

“It’s Tim.”

“Tim who?” she asked absentmindedly, and then nearly swallowed the Biro whole.

“Erm, Tim Evans.” Holy-stuff-and-ohmygod-and-how-hysterical-because-she-never-but-never-thought-that-the-day-would-come-when-she-not-only-wouldn’t-fall-off-her-chair-if-Tim-called-but-not-to-even-recognise-his-voice-and-well-ohmygod.

“Tim. I’m sorry. Of course. Hi,” Liv said without the use of her tongue, which she was busy dabbing with a tissue to remove the Biro ink.

“So how are you?” Tim attempted valiantly even though it was clear that she was doing very nicely without him, thanks, despite her present navy-blue-ink plight.

“Yeah, fine, thanks.”

It was weird hearing his voice after all this time. And it had been ages. No phone calls, no letters, no anything except the communiqué via Alex’s old hairdresser about the girl he’d been spotted with in Sainsbury’s. And he sounded odd. Slightly nasally and his voice in no way sounded sexy or heart-stopping or made her knickers melt. And he didn’t sound anywhere near as drippingly wonderful as Ben did. If she was allowed to think that and still keep up her vendetta against Ben. “And are you well, too?”

“Yeah. I’m great. Thanks.” Scintillating. Why ever hadn’t they got married?

“So?”

“The thing is that, well, I’ve been wondering what to do with my airline tickets from the, erm . . . honeymoon for a while and I thought that I needed a break and the only place that’s really sunny this time of year is Australia, so I’m coming out there for a couple of weeks and wondered if maybe we shouldn’t get together. Have a beer or something. What do you think?”

“Sorry?” Liv had been cutting split ends off her hair with a potato peeler.

“We could catch up maybe. Now that we’re on the other side, as it were. Now that we’ve moved on.”

“Sure. Call me when you arrive. That’d be nice.”

“Okay then, well, erm . . . see you in a couple of weeks then. Bye.”

Did time really heal all wounds? Or had she just become a weird emotionless freak?

“I’m telling you I’m sure she’d didn’t suspect that you had sex with Ben.” Alex was actually on her hands and knees for a very different professional reason than the usual one. She was folding 500 G-strings and stuffing them into leopard print envelopes that no fashion editor or department store buyer could fail to miss when they landed on her desk.

“But what if we’re working together and somehow she finds out? I mean she must have noticed that both Ben and I were missing from the party at Mardi Gras. And why the sudden interest in my business if not to spy on me?”

“You’re just being paranoid. Anyway, so what if she does know? It’s over between you and Ben, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s well and truly done. I just think that we should be prepared. I get the feeling I shouldn’t mess with Amelia. Especially not as the future of our business and our ability to put our children through private schools depends solely on her support.” Liv lifted her leg in the air and inspected her toenails.

“Well, I’m telling you she doesn’t know or she’d have taken action. She’s not a slouch. Which is how she’s managed to score this
Vogue
photographer to do our catalogue next week. So just give up the ghost. Has Will the Weasel called yet?”

“Last night. He wanted to take me to dinner, but I told him he had to come to the pub tomorrow night instead. Are you quite sure all the guys will be there?”

“Positive. I asked Rob and he said there’s some huge rugby game on.”

“I hope Will doesn’t manhandle me. He has cellulite on his elbows, you know.” Liv closed her eyes in fear. But in the name of redressing the injustices done to women everywhere, well, herself and Laura Train Wreck anyway, Liv knew that it was her duty to well and truly shaft Ben Parker. And if Will got squashed underfoot on the way then that was something he should have thought about earlier, too. Was there a Nobel Prize for Justice Meted Out? she wondered.

The photographer Amelia had persuaded to snap her for the Greta’s Grundies catalogue generally liked to mutilate his models in the name of starting new trends—shave off their eyebrows, dye their hair red, and paint them green, the usual stuff—but naturally he loved Amelia just as she was.

“You’re such a beautiful woman without makeup that you’re practically a freak anyway,” he told her. Or so she’d related casually to Alex and Liv in this morning’s board meeting.
Bored meeting
more like, as all it seemed to consist of were how-much-my-hairdresser-loves-running-his-fingers-through-my-silky-tresses anecdotes and how many times she and Ben had had sex last night and how she was going to have to have the dining table French-polished again after a particularly ecstatic moment involving a jar of raspberry jam. Like I want to know, thanks. Liv tapped her pen loudly on the table and thought of England.

Not that either of the girls had much time to do any thinking at all recently. Whole days seemed to be eaten up with the organisation for the launch party and the need to get Greta’s Grundies up and running in time. Not only was Liv constantly deluged with calls from fashion editors asking if they could bring a friend and had she any more samples she could send them, but Liv also had to organise the whole Amelia shoot. Which, unfortunately, meant she had to spend more time than was desirable (i.e., a minute) with Amelia. And the more time Liv spent with her the more appalling she became and Liv really did begin to feel a bit sorry for Ben, given that he had elected to spend the rest of his life with this monster.

“The photographer’s coming round at seven tomorrow morning, so if you could come and just kind of make tea for the crew and sort out invoices and stuff that’d be really helpful,” Amelia had said on Liv’s answerphone. Liv had stomped her feet a bit, then stopped because Alex was starting to look a bit hassled and Liv didn’t want to add to her burden and the whole “whoops, I’m having another man’s baby” dilemma she was facing.

“What on earth am I going to say to Charlie?” asked Alex. It was the day of the shoot and she and Liv were standing behind the glare of tungsten lighting holding up reflective trampoline things to give Amelia even more luminosity and cheekbone than nature had blessed her with.

“You’re sure that you’re going to stay with Rob? I mean it’s all going to work out?” Liv asked, not wanting Alex to end up homeless and Prada-less if Rob was just going to tell her to bugger off the minute it looked like it might be getting serious. And it was Liv’s home at stake, too. Where on earth would they live if Charlie chucked Alex out on her ear?

“Rob and I are in this together. It’s fantastic. And you know I can always move in with Rob and I know Charlie likes you and wouldn’t mind letting you stay at the beach house. I mean he lets Laura stay. It’s no skin off his nose.” Alex tried to reassure Liv, “I mean it’s not like I’m going to be able to hide it for much longer, is it?”

“True. Why not tell him tonight then?” Liv’s arm was beginning to ache; she waved it around a bit to whip up her circulation.

“Oy, hold still. She’ll end up with dark lines and a moustache!” the photographer yelled.

Liv was tempted to waft her arms around like Don Quixote but didn’t like the look of the photographer’s winkle pickers. Besides, she kept having to remind herself, this was not Amelia, Inc., that she was doing it for. It was Alex and Liv Get Rich. If the pictures were fantastic, then it was definitely better for business. If not for Liv’s ego.

“Okay, now that the Polaroid’s done. Take off your top, Milly, and we’ll get Stella to dust a bit of blusher between your boobs. Gorgeous.” Everyone on the set turned and admired Amelia’s embonpoint chest. Liv put the kettle on.

“Now for the real thing.” The photographer called everyone back to position and turned up the radio. So not only did Liv have nothing better to do than watch Amelia be desirable and desired, but she couldn’t even bitch about it because the radio was so loud that Alex couldn’t hear her.

“It’s not much fun, you know, doing little comparisons in my head. Her tits. My tits. Her flat stomach. Mine. Not,” Liv said later as she and Alex picked up all the empty canisters of film from the floor of Amelia’s apartment. “Poor Ben, no wonder he never called me again, given what he was used to.”