The Time of Our Lives (11 page)

I laugh. ‘Horrendous?’

She looks at me, failing to join in. ‘All I hear from other mothers is sleepless nights, stretch marks and urinary incontinence. Sounds fairly horrendous to me.’

‘All a small price to pay,’ I reassure her.

She rolls her eyes and looks entirely unconvinced.

A waiter dressed like a Wimbledon finalist appears at our side clutching a small, round tray. ‘Anything more to drink, ladies?’

‘Yes, keep supplying sangrias until this woman becomes so inebriated that she loses her phone,’ Meredith instructs. He looks perplexed.

‘I think we’re okay for now,’ Nicola reassures him.

Meredith shakes her head. ‘You’re being very restrained considering you’re allowed as much booze as you want – unlike me, who can’t touch a drop.’

I suddenly wonder if I am being a bit over the top about this work issue. The
Daily Sun
hasn’t phoned back. Surely, if they were serious about the story, they’d have been on
this nonstop, but when I spoke to Laura half an hour ago, they hadn’t been in touch today. Maybe they’ve lost interest. Or been put off the scent. Then there’s always the
possibility, heaven forbid, that I’m being neurotic . . .

I sit up to take a sip of sangria and notice that Harry has company. The woman standing above him is holding a clipboard. She has a pretty, heart-shaped face and defiant eyes that hint at a
feisty streak, a combination that makes her both beautiful and interesting. Her hair has that dark, glossy swish unique to women of Mediterranean origin, while her heavenly curves appear to have
been poured into her slick, white pencil dress.

It’s clear from her body language that she’s attracted to him – the liberal use of laughter, the tossing back of hair, the tilt of her perfect chin. Then she does something
I’d never have the balls to do: clicks her fingers at a waiter. I didn’t know people did that in real life. He arrives seconds later with a bottle of champagne and a glass for Harry,
which he at least has the good grace to look embarrassed about accepting.

It’s as Harry engages the waiter in conversation that I register the effect he has on men and women alike. They linger on his every word, are generous with their smiles and obviously,
quite simply, enjoy being around him.

I pull down the straw hat I grabbed hastily from Debenhams last Tuesday lunchtime and try not to look.

‘Isn’t that the guy you crashed into at Heathrow?’ Nicola asks, propping herself up on her elbows as she lowers her sunglasses.

‘It IS!’ Meredith hoots. ‘Did you know he was here?’ She turns to Nic.

Nicola shakes her head. I say nothing. Then they both look at me.

‘Did
you
know he was here?’ Meredith demands.

‘He was at the police station.’ I shrug, nonchalantly. ‘We walked back together.’

They exchange glances. ‘And you chose
not
to mention this?’

‘What’s the big deal?’ I open the first page of
The Book Thief
. ‘
Here is a small fact
. . .’

‘So what did you find out? Spill the beans!’ Meredith demands.

‘Nothing much. He’s from Aberdeen, lives in London.’

‘Is he loaded? I’ll bet he is – lots of people here are. Oh, Imogen, I bet he’s a billionaire playboy like Christian Grey. He’d be perfect for you!’

‘Because he’s like Christian Grey? I haven’t had sex for five years, Meredith. I think a butt plug on my first go might be a little ambitious.’ I open my book.
‘
Here is a small fact
. . .’

‘He has the air of a millionaire about him. I can spot it a mile off.’

‘He said he was more used to a £39 Travelodge than here,’ I point out. ‘That’s a direct quote.’

‘Haven’t you ever read a Mills and Boon?’ Meredith continues, unconcerned. ‘At the beginning, the heroines are convinced that the hero is a taxi driver, then they turn
out to be running a multi-million pound empire and appear in
Tatler
every other month. Why don’t you go and have a chat with him?’

I lower my book momentarily. ‘I’m not going to do that.’

‘Why wouldn’t you?’

‘More to the point, why
would
I?’ I retort.

‘Because he’s
GORGEOUS
,’ Meredith splutters.

I humour her in the only language she comprehends. ‘He’s not my type.’

‘Imogen, you haven’t had a type for nearly five years,’ Nicola pipes up.

I frown at her. ‘Don’t
you
join in.’ Trying to bully me into getting a man is normally Meredith’s domain; Nicola has always understood.

Only, now, she bites her lip, hesitating. ‘Well, I can’t help it. I agree with Meredith. It’s
time
, Imogen. Don’t you think?’

‘Look, I’m just here for a relaxing holiday,’ I say, feeling the need to defend myself. ‘My first in as long as I can remember. Yet between the robbery, work and almost
freezing to death in my shower, it’s been about as relaxing as having my toenails surgically removed. The last thing I want now is to add “Chasing a bloke” to that list.
That’s not what I came here for.’

‘We just think you need to, you know . . .
move on
,’ Meredith says.

‘I hate that phrase,’ I reply.

‘I know, but I happen to think it’s true.’

‘He’s not my type,’ I repeat, clearly losing the argument.

Nicola hesitates. ‘You mean he’s not Roberto.’

I glare at her. ‘Well, no, he’s not. He’s just some bloke I bumped into in a police station.’

I don’t even bother to mention the small matter that he’d never be interested in me and my M&S shorts in a million years.

‘You need to stop comparing people to Roberto,’ Nicola continues. I must admit, this is starting to irritate me a little now. ‘It’s not healthy, Imogen.’

‘What sort of idiot goes looking for a holiday romance? It’s pointless and it’s tacky,’ I argue, at the exact moment I realise Meredith is slinking to the bar to chat up
one of The Wankers.

Meredith has guaranteed no snoring tonight, a claim so bold I wonder how she can make it.

‘
Pineapple?
’ I repeat, as a waiter produces a plate piled so high you’d think he was serving the Man From Del Monte.

We’ve dined on tapas again and, before we head out to sample Barcelona’s nightlife, Meredith is experimenting with ways to open up her airways naturally, that she read about on the
Internet. ‘I’d usually have a Pot Noodle over a piece of fruit any day, but this is my sixth portion today,’ she announces, thrusting a piece into her mouth.

‘That isn’t a portion, that’s half the export trade of South East Asia,’ I point out.

‘It has an enzyme that suppresses unwanted goings-on in your nasal passages,’ she continues, not sounding overly scientific. ‘You wait. You’ll have the best sleep of your
life tonight.’

After dinner, we try out several establishments before ending up in a lively bar playing jazz funk to an eclectic crowd. For a brief few hours, as we perch on bar stools, reminiscing and
shrieking with laughter, I feel a pang of nostalgia for the days when life was always like this; when holidays – even the awful ones – involved unshackling myself entirely from work and
responsibility, something I seem entirely unable to do these days.

As Meredith and Nicola excuse themselves and head to the Ladies’, I’m about to order the next round of drinks when I become aware of someone standing next to me.

I look round and am confronted by a short, sweating man who, if it wasn’t for the polyester suit, would bear an uncanny resemblance to Barney Rubble. He’s a good fifteen years older
than anyone else in here and is attempting, I think, to dance – his moves could easily be mistaken for the onset of a gastrointestinal emergency.

‘Hello!’ He grins, planting his elbow on the bar. At this point I feel slightly alarmed. Because while it’s a possibility that the movement is to stop him falling over –
such is his level of intoxication – I’m concerned that he might have what my mother refers to as . . .
ideas
.

‘Hello,’ I reply uneasily, scanning the room for my friends.

‘You’re English, aren’t you?’ As he edges closer, I get a waft of stale perspiration so potent I’m momentarily convinced I will black out.

‘Um, yes,’ I mumble, shifting away.

‘
MOI AUSSI!
’ he announces energetically, as if this coincidence is akin to discovering we were born in adjacent hospital beds.

I smile politely but say nothing, praying he will go away. Instead, he inches closer, so close that I can see each strand of hair protruding from his nostrils and the pools of sweat gathered in
the wild tufts of his eyebrows.

‘How about a dance?’ he demands, grabbing me by the hand and forcing me to slip off my stool.

‘Er, no – thank you,’ I insist, disentangling myself. ‘I’m here with my friends. And I don’t dance.’

‘Oh, go
on
,’ he blusters. ‘Let’s face it . . . you and I aren’t going to pull anyone else in here, are we?’

I open my mouth. ‘What?’

‘All these young whippersnappers . . . might as well accept that none of them is going to be interested in anyone our age.’

‘I . . . I’m twenty-nine,’ I protest.

He steps back, tips back his head and scrutinises me as if he’s determining the freshness of a side of salmon. ‘Really?’

‘Yes!’ I growl, as Meredith and Nicola arrive at my side.

‘Sorr-ee!’ he cringes, backing away. ‘I always thought I was good with ages, too.’

We don’t stay long after that.

‘How bad
was
he, exactly? I didn’t get a proper look,’ Meredith says as we attempt to flag down a taxi. ‘I only ask because I’d never discount a man just for
being ugly. Ugly men try harder and are more grateful.’

‘He was a slimeball,’ I reply. ‘Do I look middle aged?’

‘No,’ Nicola insists. There’s an ominous silence.

‘Although, you probably don’t dress with the same . . .
joie de vivre
you once did.’ This is Meredith’s best attempt at diplomacy.

‘Which is understandable, because you’ve got other priorities,’ Nicola adds, hastily. ‘Besides, you still look lovely. End of story.’

‘I can’t believe that
he’s
the best I could do,’ I say, dejectedly.

‘He’s not!’ Meredith protests. ‘He was just some pissed-up letch in a bar. You already know we think you could do better because we’ve
attempted
to set you
up with dozens of men, all of whom were a significant improvement on him.’

To be fair, this is true. And while I’ve only ever been out with one, once, to get them (temporarily) off my back – a good-looking but self-important cookery writer from one of
Meredith’s magazines – I trust them enough to know that the others wouldn’t have been hideous either.

‘I should stress that I don’t actually
want
to pull while I’m here. I just hate the thought that, if I did, that’s the standard I should expect.’

Nicola and Meredith dutifully continue to protest but, by the time we reach the hotel and I’m back in our room, I’ve ceased to care about how unfabulous I look. Largely because
I’m utterly exhausted. And praying that Meredith’s efforts with the pineapple might have worked.

As I crash into bed and open my book, Meredith has already plunged into a deep and, to my amazement, silent sleep.

‘
Here is a small fact
. . .’

I roll over, idly reaching for my necklace, then freezing as one issue I’d managed to push to the back of my mind for a few hours swamps my thoughts.

Oh God, Imogen. How could you have lost your necklace?

Roberto gave me the necklace on one of the most unexpectedly romantic days of my life. ‘Unexpectedly’, because it was only three months after we’d met and the
day until that point had been nothing less than disastrous.

It wasn’t just the plumbing emergency I’d woken up to; the bank card that had been swallowed four hours earlier; or the fact that my mother had announced she was coming to stay for a
week. We’d also been viewing our dream flat, a small but perfectly formed pad near Hampstead Heath. Our appointment was at ten thirty and we’d taken a picnic to eat in the park later.
I’d assumed the area was beyond our budget, until an estate agent with whom I’d ingratiated myself (‘Call me Julie’) tipped me off that the flat was coming on the
market.

It was tiny; I can’t deny it – I’ve been in more spacious rooms while trying on jeans in Monsoon. But we fell in love with it. It was directly above one of those chic,
quintessentially London cafés, the kind that serves artichoke teas, hangs dried chillies from the ceiling and has a sous-chef called Ollivander. I stood in the tiny bedroom, clutching
Roberto’s hand as I breathed in the scent of designer coffee wafting through the windows, and knew that this was The One.

I’d expected to have serious competition. But Call Me Julie said it was ours if we wanted, and that she could have the paperwork done within the hour.

So we sat in the chic little café, our heads swollen with dreams as we awaited her call. Only she didn’t call. Call Me Julie texted instead, clearly unable to summon sufficient
levels of bottle to talk to us personally.

I was fuming so hard as we walked across the heath that ducks were diving for cover. ‘That flat had our name on it. Only now someone else has got it. Someone else is going to be living in
our
flat!’

‘Imogen.’ Roberto gently took me by the arm and spun me round. He put his hand behind my neck and I relaxed into his kiss. Even now, thinking of his kisses, the soft pillows of his
lips sinking into mine, warms my belly like hot chocolate on a cold day.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he breathed into my hair.

‘But it does. I could see us coming home after a hard day at work and snuggling up on the sofa in that gorgeous living room.’

‘That very
small
living room.’

I opened my mouth to protest.

‘And don’t say “bijou”,’ he added. I managed a smile as he ran his fingertips across the skin of my jaw, lifting up my chin. ‘There will be other living
rooms. You don’t need that one to snuggle up to me.’