Love @ First Site (18 page)

Twenty

I
t's 8 a.m. and, believe it or not, I'm sitting at my desk clattering away at my keyboard. For the simple reason that I want to make sure the report on Phit's visit to Sunshine House is as accurate and thought-provoking as it can possibly be on a television program that usually prides itself on sound bite vacuity.

Sunshine House and its special occupants deserve better, and I'm determined to give it to them--even if I have to lock antlers with Janice in the middle of the office.

After our chat in the kitchen, Ben had taken me back through to the communal lounge, where Stinky and Perky were all set up and chatting to a pleasant-looking woman in her early forties with short brown hair and the clear blue eyes of a young girl.

It was Anne, and we spent the next ten minutes huddled in a corner, talking about her work with the charity and the death of her daughter Sarah, also from leukemia.

Sarah was just six when she was diagnosed, and died in her mother's arms less than two years later. Anne told me that Sunshine House had stopped her from falling apart, and that she wanted to give something back by helping others like her. She came off as genuine and caring, with a wonderfully dry wit, and after watching her interacting with the children, cajoling them into being more confident around Phit after they'd performed and cuddling them with delight afterwards, I wanted to be her friend.

"I told you she was incredible," Ben whispered, seeing me standing to one side and watching Anne tickling a little girl named Jane as her parents looked on.

I nodded. "She is. Has she never tried to have any more children?"

He nodded. "Yes. Sarah died seven years ago, and Anne left it a couple of years before trying for another baby, but sadly nothing happened. I think she and her husband, Ralph, are now resigned to the fact that it probably won't."

"She's only forty-two," I replied, having established her age during our chat. "Surely she could go for IVF or something?"

"They haven't got the money. The NHS says she's too old for treatment, so she'd have to go private and it's an expensive business."

Especially when she works mostly voluntarily, I thought, feeling anger rising inside me at the injustice of it. "What does Ralph do for a living?"

"He's a security guard down at the local supermarket. He's very supportive and they seem to have a good marriage." Ben smiled. "They now pour all their energy and attention into their two West Highland terriers."

I had left Sunshine House determined not to let any of them down, both with the film on Phit and with Anne's makeover scheduled for next week. I know it's strange, but somehow helping out Sunshine House makes me feel as though I'm helping out Olivia as well. Just the sense of taking action is one I relish. This morning, I have already e-mailed Kevin, Trudi, and Camilla to ensure they make an extra-special effort with her hair, makeup, and clothes.

"She's a really special friend of mine," I write. A lie of course, but it feels good to say it.

An hour later, I check over the script for the Phit film and slump back in my chair, finally satisfied with it.

"Bloody hell, alert the media. Jess Monroe at her desk before lunch." It's the ever-sarcastic Janice, peering over my shoulder. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"I'm just finishing off the script for the Phit film," I reply with as much geniality as I can muster. "It went really well. It's going to make a great item."

"I'll be the judge of that," she says ominously, heading towards her lair.

T
hankfully, despite being the bitch queen from hell, Janice knows a good item when she sees one and has just given the go-ahead for the Phit film to run tomorrow. If she hadn't, I seriously would have contemplated resigning over it, such is my devotion to the cause at this point. Now all I have to do is pray that some major news event doesn't knock it off the schedule and conserve my energy for making sure Anne's makeover still goes ahead next week.

I can just see it now. Janice will say "But we've already done Phit visiting Sunshine House. That's quite enough publicity for the charity" and I will reply "Yes, but this is about rewarding a woman who selflessly gives her time free of charge to help sick children."

Then Janice will hit back: "Admirable, I'm sure, but this is a ratings-driven TV show, not some charitable rewards scheme for do-gooders." And I will fly across the office and punch her teeth out. OK, so I made that last bit up.

After grabbing a quick sandwich with Tab in the canteen, I return to my computer to put the finishing touches to the script for tomorrow's makeover, a trucker called Barry whose wife is threatening to leave him if he doesn't shave off an unruly beard and wave good-bye to his greasy ponytail.

Wrinkling my nose, I stare at the photograph of him in his grease-smeared lumberjack shirt and black . . . at least, I
think
they're black . . . jeans, and wonder whether a damn good scrub in the bath might do the trick. I shudder to think what Kevin's reaction is going to be when he claps eyes on him.

The script is fine, littered with the usual job-related cliches such as "Barry doesn't have any truck with fancy clothes, but his wife Jill is steering him towards a new image." Pulitzer Prize-winning stuff.

A new e-mail suddenly pops into my in-box and I glance at it for a couple of seconds, vaguely familiar with the address but unable to remember who it is. Double clicking on it, my eyes scroll quickly to the bottom for a name, and I freeze with shock.

It's from Simon, the man I last saw as he hightailed it out through the kitchens, leaving me the bill and a heavily dented ego.

Hi there,

Bloody cheek. Blase as you like.

I'd like to think you'd remember me for my wit and personality, but I suspect it will be because I abandoned you halfway through our first date. I can only apologize profusely and hope you forgive me.

I thought about e-mailing you the next day to try to explain, but it's a complicated story and I felt the impersonal nature of computers wouldn't be appropriate. So I stalled, then days became weeks, and after that I felt I had left it too late and that you'd probably moved on anyway.

Anyway, my complicated story has now become a little less so and I was wondering whether you would give me the chance to give you an explanation face-to-face? It's just that I really enjoyed your company, although I know my strange behavior didn't back this up!

So, any chance of us meeting up again? I fully understand if the answer is no, but as I said earlier, all I can do is apologize for what happened and promise to give you a full explanation if you feel like hearing it.

If you say yes, I promise to stay put for the entire date and buy copious amounts of champagne to make up for my ungentlemanly behavior!

Yours hopefully,

Simon

"Well, fuck me sideways," I mutter aloud.

"I beg your pardon?" Tab is giving me a stunned look from across the desk.

"Guess who I've just had an e-mail from?"

"Orlando Bloom?"

I shake my head and pull an "I wish" face. "No, you'll never guess."

"Well, why bloody ask me then?" Tab raises her eyes heavenward.

"Simon."

"Simon?" She looks puzzled.

"The bloke who did a runner through the kitchens, remember?"

She widens her eyes. "
Really?
Cheeky sod, what did he want?"

I stare at his e-mail again and scroll up and down, just to make sure. Dating on the Internet certainly presents some interesting twists. "He wants to meet me to explain why he left in such a hurry."

Tab makes a loud scoffing noise. "Well, I hope you're going to press delete and not even bother replying. Can you believe the sheer nerve of it?"

I purse my lips for a few moments, deep in thought. "It might be worth going along, just for the hell of it."

"Hell is the right word," mutters Tab down the side of her computer screen. "Have you completely lost your mind?"

"I really fancied him though." I pout. "And I don't feel that way about many people."

"You said Donald Rumsfeld had sexy eyes the other day. Are you going to go on a date with him, too?" she hisses. "If you want my advice, don't touch this Simon bloke with a bargepole. He sounds bad news to me."

We leave it at that, and Tab returns to making work-related phone calls, while I alternate between daydreaming about Simon and tinkering with my ideas list for the next forward-planning meeting. Every time Tab ventures away from her desk, I make a furtive call to one of the gang to gauge their reaction to the unexploded hand grenade sitting in my in-box. Defuse or detonate? That is the question.

"Ooooh, definitely detonate," opines Richard. "Mount his cannon, rattle his balls, and fire, baby, fire! Then leave him empty and impotent to rust in a corner." He loves a theme, does Richard.

"Vot is thees detoooonate?" says Lars.

"Set off . . . activate," I explain. "Basically, Lars, I'm asking whether you think I should ignore the e-mail or go and meet him."

"Ah. In that case, you must leave vell enough alone."

It takes me several attempts to reach Madeleine on her mobile, and when I do she's panting loudly.

"Oh God, what have I interrupted?" I wince, fearing the worst.

She laughs. "I'd like to tell you I'm halfway through the shag of my life, but sadly it's nothing more than a particularly arduous dance routine." After a few seconds, her breathing starts to sound more controlled. "So, what's happening?"

"Remember my first Internet date . . . the one who legged it without even saying good-bye? Well, he's e-mailed me and wants to meet up to explain."

"Isn't he the one you really fancied?"

"Yep."

"Then go for it," she says matter-of-factly. "Sod the explanation. Just have a laugh and sleep with him, or you'll die wondering."

So there we have it. A straw poll of my friends has come up with two "shag hims" and two "leave well enough alones."

Which leaves me with the deciding vote. What
is
a girl to do?

Twenty-One

O
ne minute I'm queuing in isolated splendor in Starbucks, the next I'm hemmed in by buggies of every color, size, and designer name, each housing a cooing baby extending its hand towards the cake counter.

"Blimey, where did they all come from?" I say to the assistant as she hands me a cafe latte.

"It's the same every morning," she says wearily. "They drop their older kids at school, then all come here with the preschool ones to meet up for a gabfest."

On the one hand, I want to run screaming from the endless chatter about little Tommy's sleep patterns, eating habits, and bowel movements. On the other, in many ways, it's the ideal, innocuous environment for my meeting with Simon.

Yes, yes, I
know
I probably shouldn't have responded to his e-mail. If I had an ounce of pride, I should have simply ignored it and got on with my life. But I succumbed.

If it makes you judge me any less harshly, I
did
leave him to stew for several days before replying though.

I suppose curiosity got the better of me, and I wanted to know exactly why he'd done a bunk all those months ago and never been in touch since.

"So just ask him that via e-mail," replied Tab tersely, when I tried to explain why I was going to meet up with him.

She's absolutely right, of course. I could easily have done that and avoided the effort and potential humiliation of meeting with him. A notable advantage of Internet romance. But to be honest, there's another, more fundamental reason why I wanted to clap eyes on him again.

"I want to see if I still fancy him as much," I confessed sheepishly.

Tab made a loud scoffing noise. "That's the big difference between you and me," she said. "I could never fancy someone who had done that to me."

And I could never fancy Will, I thought, but decided against saying so.

So here I am, in the heart of Nappy Valley, South West London, waiting for the only man out of several dates to have rung my bell, so to speak. My feelings are a weird mix of anticipation--the memory of that delicious kiss still lingers in the back of my mind--and fury, that he played me for the fool and now thinks he can worm his way back into my good graces.

"Hello, Jess."

It's him, looking every bit as attractive as the last time I saw him, if not more so. My insides lurch slightly, though I'm not sure whether it's lust, nerves, or the slightly indigestible blueberry muffin I have just scoffed with indecent haste.

He's wearing a blue pinstripe suit, with crisp white shirt and salmon pink tie, and his hair is slightly longer than I remember.

"Can I get you another?" He points to my half-empty mug and I shake my head, fighting the urge to shift into normal pleasantness. I'm not prepared to give him an inch until I've heard his explanation.

Returning a couple of minutes later with a mug of tea, he squeezes himself into the seat opposite me, hindered by a double buggy parked behind. I notice several of the mothers are glancing coquettishly in his direction, but he seems oblivious.

"So, how have you been?" he says, as if we're long-term mutual acquaintances at some polite social gathering.

"Um, I've been absolutely fine, thanks. How have
you
been?"

He frowns slightly, as if taken aback by my slight frostiness. "Busy. I've been abroad quite a lot since I last saw you."

"Ah, I see." Silence again.

"Talking of which . . ." He looks uncomfortable and glances behind him at the buggy pressed against his chair. "The last time I saw you . . ."

"You mean when you ran out through the kitchens and left me with the bill?" I've found my tongue again.

"Yes, sorry about that." He looks sheepish.

"I'm afraid that's not going to do it," I say briskly, taking a mouthful of coffee.

"I can explain."

"OK, then, let's hear it." I fold my arms defensively and lean back against my chair.

"Well, it's like this . . ." He falters.

"You're married," I say, unable to resist butting in.

He looks surprised. "You know?"

So there it is. An immediate admission to what I had suspected all along. I suppose I had been harboring some small hope that there might be another feasible explanation, but now I know for certain that's not the case I'm not entirely sure what to do. So he was a cad after all, pure and simple.

"Doesn't take a genius to work it out, does it?" I say bitterly.

"No, I suppose not," he mumbles. "But I'm not married,
married
, if you know what I mean."

I roll my eyes. "Don't tell me. It was one of those Mick Jagger-style ceremonies with sacrificial chickens, a dodgy vicar, and lost documentation."

He smiles slightly. "No, I mean I'm officially separated, as I
was
when I had lunch with you."

"Really." I deliberately keep my voice flat. "So why the hasty exit then?"

"Someone came into the restaurant who's a close friend of my wife, and if she saw us, I knew she'd tell her."

I look him straight in the eye. "Why would it matter if, as you say, you were separated?"

He shrugs apologetically. "Because even though we're divorcing, I didn't want to rub her nose in the fact that I was dating again so soon. I don't hate her, I just don't want to be married to her anymore."

We stop talking for a few moments, an oasis of uneasy silence in the midst of chattering mothers and shrieking children. My head is spinning. True, what he did was appallingly rude, but at the same time . . .

"The decree nisi came through this week," he says eventually, as if it was an item of garden furniture he'd ordered from the Internet. "So in another six weeks, we'll be officially divorced."

"Congratulations." I glance around the cafe, feigning disinterest.

"I can show you the documentation if you like?" He gestures towards his briefcase on an adjacent chair.

"No thanks." I sniff and look at my watch. It's 9:15 a.m.

Perhaps assuming I'm about to up and leave, he cuts to the chase. "Look, I understand that you must be really pissed off with me . . ." He pauses, as if waiting for me to object, but I say nothing. "But I was wondering if you would consider letting me take you out for lunch . . . properly this time."

I raise my eyebrows. "You're joking, right?" But inside, I'm secretly thrilled that the ball has landed back in my court.

"No, I'm serious. I really liked your company, and it was just unfortunate that someone I knew came in and ruined it all. It was just bad timing then, that's all. It wouldn't matter now."

"Wouldn't matter to
you
, you mean," I say. "I, however, take exception to dating people who have lied to me." Though after all, who's to say that if I was in his situation, I wouldn't have done the same thing?

He studies my face a few moments, as if assessing whether I'm half-joking or not, then realizes I'm not. "Oh come
on
," he scoffs, "everyone tells lies in the early stages of dating. And don't tell me you haven't done it, because I won't believe you."

"Yes," I admit, "but there are the little white lies that everyone tells, like pretending to be a natural blonde or saying you earn more than you do, and then there are whopping great porkers, like pretending to be single when in fact you're
married."

He's about to answer, but at this precise, awkward point, a little boy smeared in chocolate comes and stands at our table, poking his discolored tongue out at us. He's really rather unattractive, with a dribble of yellow mucus falling from one nostril and a chocolate-covered hand lurking dangerously close to my cream Puffa jacket, but we both feel compelled to smile indulgently in his direction. Particularly as his mother is looking straight at us.

"Come along, Tybalt, leave those nice people alone," she says brightly.

As he wanders off, we both raise our eyebrows and snigger discreetly.

"Fucking hell, with a name like that, he's either going to be prime minister or a serial killer. There's no middle ground on that one," mutters Simon with a grin.

I smile back and, not for the first time in our short meeting, realize that I do still find him attractive. The problem is, can I trust him?

Trust him? Who cares?
It's Madeleine, dressed in red Lycra and horns and whispering into my right ear.
Just shag him and worry about all the other crap later. You only live once, so go for it.

Trust him? Of course not!
It's Tab, in angelic white, whispering on my left shoulder.
If he deceived you once, believe me, he'll do it again.
You only live once, so protect yourself from hurt.

"Anyway . . ." Simon's voice breaks into my meanderings. "Where were we?"

I rally my thoughts and focus on the question, though admittedly I feel notably less hostile towards him than prior to Tybalt coming out of the blue.

"You were married," I reply matter-of-factly, "and soon you won't be."

"Ah yes." He leans forward almost imperceptibly, but I notice every millimeter. "So on that basis, how do you feel about starting again with another date, and pretending the first one didn't happen?"

I dip a teaspoon in my cappuccino, scoop up a large blob of foam, then shamelessly and ponderously lick it off just inches from his face. "I'll have to think about it."

He waits a few seconds, his eyes never leaving my mouth. The memory of our drunken lunchtime kiss pops into my head again, and I feel my neck flushing with desire.

But this time, he eventually leans away from me and glances at his watch. "Time's up," he grins. "So how about it?"

I smile slowly. "Ha, ha, ha. I mean I need
proper
time to think about it. Like a few days."

He looks surprised. "What's to think about? We either find each other attractive, or we don't. And I find you very, very attractive indeed." His eyes are undressing me and my insides switch from pre-rinse to spin cycle.

Madeleine. Tab. Madeleine. Tab. Madeleine. Madeleine. Madeleine. Bugger, I have all the willpower of Rosie O'Donnell in a cake shop.

"OK then. But just
one
date and we'll see how it goes." I rummage in my handbag for my electronic organizer. I have only just learned how to switch it on, let alone store my painfully vacant social calendar. But he doesn't know that.

Tap tap tap. "I could do lunch next Tuesday," I say officiously, not wishing to look too available.

"Can't do lunches at all," he replies with lightning speed. "Remember Gordon Gekko and 'Lunch is for wimps?' Well, the advertising industry embraced it in the eighties and still haven't let go. It'll have to be dinner, I'm afraid."

Dinner. Otherwise known as the danger zone, an alcohol-fueled, open-ended arrangement that always ends in leers or tears. Or both.

"What about Saturday or Sunday lunch?" I say optimistically, not wishing to look too much of a pushover.

He shakes his head. "Sorry, no can do. Tied up this weekend, and next I'm off to New York for a seminar." He runs his forefinger along the top of my hand, prompting my nerve endings to explode. "And I'd like to see you as soon as is humanly possible."

"Understandable. I
am
irresistible." I laugh.

"Oh, and by the way, this time everything is on me."

I raise an eyebrow. "I trust you implicitly, of course, but if you go to the loo, can you leave the cash up front?"

He gives me a fantastic, heart-stopping grin. Oh, fuck it. See that wind outside? My caution has just hitched a ride on it. "OK, how about this Friday night then?"

"Great." He claps his hands, then rubs them together. "Let's do it!"

As I find him so bloody attractive, I have a sneaking suspicion we probably will.