The Time of Our Lives (13 page)

The building, I’m told, is stunning, and I can’t wait. At least, I
couldn’t
wait, but, just as we’re walking through the hotel lobby, my phone springs into life. I
finally manage to answer it without injuring myself, someone else, or dropping it in the healthy option on the breakfast buffet.

It’s David. ‘Imogen – they’ve phoned me,’ he splutters. ‘The swines PHONED me.’

‘You mean the
Daily Sun
?’

‘Yes! YES!’

I frown, registering that his voice has the same tinny quality as earlier. ‘David, where
are
you?’

‘Fourth-floor gents lavs. It was the only place I could get some privacy. Imogen, what am I going to DO?’

‘Okay, don’t panic,’ I say, as if I’m not doing so myself. ‘What did they say, exactly?’

‘They said they know who it is, Imogen. They
know
. FOR THE LOVE OF PETER, PAUL AND MARY! I tried to play it cool, I tried to bluff it out . . . but I think they might not be
lying.’

‘Who is it, then? Did they tell you?’

‘No,’ he croaks.

‘Then they’re probably just calling your bluff. They must be. I’m
sure
they are,’ I say, in a supernova of wishful thinking.

‘Do you
really
think so? Oh, I hope so.’

I’m suddenly not only furious with Roy and the PR agency for failing to respond, but genuinely, overwhelmingly concerned. It’s been two days since I first tried to get hold of them
and the deathly, unprecedented silence can only mean something’s very wrong.

‘This could be the undoing of us, Imogen,’ David begins again, breathlessly. ‘All my hard work. Everything I’ve strived for. Oh, SPHERICAL OBJECTS!’

‘David, calm down!’ I snap, then bite my tongue. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . the point is, this is bad, yes. But, it’s
one
executive. We, as a
company, can’t be responsible for that. We simply have to take action. Announce an internal inquiry, promise to come down on him like a ton of bricks.’ I can feel a plan coming
together. ‘David, we’re going to be okay, so don’t be afraid of the
Daily Sun
. We just have to act like a responsible company and make sure heads roll.’

‘You mean sack someone, don’t you?’

‘I don’t know, I suppose so.’ I can’t actually believe I’m advocating making someone lose their job, but I’m struggling to see an alternative. ‘Look,
we’re getting ahead of ourselves. I bet it’s someone fairly junior, whatever the journalist said. Nobody senior would be stupid enough; in fact, the more I think about this, the more
convinced I am that we’ll be fine. As long as it’s not you, of course,’ I joke.

He doesn’t respond.

‘David?’ I sit on the sofa, waiting for him to speak. ‘David? Are you there?’

Meredith looks at her watch. Nicola mouths, ‘Are you ready?’

I shake my head apologetically.

‘David, why are you not saying anything? Please tell me you’re not saying anything because you’ve dropped your mobile in the urinal and not because . . . because . .
.’

‘Because what?’

‘Because . . . it’s you—’

He starts making a noise like he’s woken up from an anaesthetic while having his tonsils removed. ‘My phone isn’t in the toilet.’

My mouth opens, but I am completely devoid of thoughts about how to respond. It’s
him
. David. My boss and mentor is The First-Class Fondler.

‘Oh, David,’ I mumble, numbly. ‘Oh . . . David. Oh . . .
David
.’

‘If you say “Oh, David” one more time, Imogen, I may have to cry.’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say.’

‘It was a momentary indiscretion,’ he whimpers.

‘I thought it was a two-hour flight?’ I splutter.

‘Okay, it was a two-hour indiscretion. I’ve never been unfaithful to Carmel before. Well, not since . . . there was a woman in Johannesburg once, but she knows about that. And Cape
Town, but that was years ago.’ He’s beginning to ramble now.

‘Do you specialise in the Southern African sub-continent?’

He is silenced, and I remind myself that a) he’s my boss and b) whatever he’s done, he’s still been my greatest advocate at work in the last few years.

‘I’d come back from a terrible meeting – it had gone catastrophically badly. I was stressed out. And I found myself sitting next to an accountant who I swear looked like Nicole
Kidman. And I’ve always loved Nicole Kidman.’

‘But
why
, David?’ I urge.

‘It was ever since
Days of Thunder
.’

‘I mean,
why
did you get it on with this woman?’

‘Oh, I don’t know!’ he howls. ‘I was stupid. She was sexy. We got through three bottles of champagne and, before I knew it, we were under the complimentary blanket. Her
top had gone the way of Shergar and she was experimenting with the recline button.’

I’m glad he can’t see me wincing.

‘The
thought
of the kids finding out about this! Michael will be distraught,’ he continues.

This is another reason to help David: his teenage son and daughter, God help them. Not that that brings me any closer to a solution.

‘Okay, David, you’re going to have to leave this with me. Just give me the journalist’s number and I’ll sort it.’

‘Will you, Imogen?’

‘Yes,’ I reply, hastily. ‘One way or another, I’ll sort it.’

Our PR company is DEAD. When I finally get hold of them, I intend to tell them exactly that. But I haven’t got hold of them so, instead, I send Meredith and Nicola on
their way and sit in the bar, making a series of phone calls, determined that, one way or another, I will not be ignored.

I am half convinced that the pure fury I’m radiating down the phone is one of the reasons that eventually, miraculously, I get through to Roy.

‘Where
are
you? Oh my God, I’m so relieved to have got hold of you,’ I say, suddenly feeling guilty about my last text. ‘Roy, you’ve got SO much to
do!’

‘What? Eh?’ His voice is drowned out by an almighty cacophony of screaming, which is very different from our usual office soundtrack, even after the half-day budget meetings.

‘DAD! Come on . . . it’s GO-INNNG!’

‘Really sorry, Imogen, I can’t stop and talk,’ Roy tells me.

‘Roy. You CAN stop. You MUST stop. Please, Roy, just STOP.’

‘I can’t,’ he replies, as the screams get louder and are joined by a strange clanking sound.

‘Didn’t you get my messages?’ I demand.

‘Messages? No, Janine hits the roof if I keep my phone on while we’re away. I only turned it on to check the cricket.’

‘What do you mean? Where are you?’

‘I’m on the Tower of Terror.’

‘What?’

‘I’m in Euro Disney.’

‘What the hell are you doing there? You’re meant to be deputising for me!’

‘Well, I know, but Janine’s brother’s kids got severe gastroenteritis and, rather than their entire family holiday going to waste, they gave it to us. I know the timing
wasn’t ideal, but I went to David to ask if he’d mind. The last thing I wanted to do was let you down, but David said that we haven’t got much on at the moment – apart from
some top-secret thing that you personally are working on. So he said it’s fine and—
WAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!
’

At which point my eardrums come close to shattering, and the line goes dead.

Which is marvellous. Just
marvellous
.

I take a seat in the lobby again and try to make sense of my muddled mess of thoughts. At which point, a gargantuan limousine pulls up outside as the concierge bursts into life
to open the door.

Meatloaf and Yellow Bikini Lady emerge in a billowing cloud of cigar smoke, like the dry ice in a Kate Bush video.

Another besuited staff member sprints over to attend to them. ‘Mr Venedictov! How is your stay so far?’

Mr Venedictov manages a lackadaisical grunt before heading in the direction of the pool deck.

This strikes me as a very good idea. If I’ve got a major PR crisis to tackle from just under a thousand miles away, I might as well do it while basking in sunshine. So I grab my
belongings, follow him outside and find a sun lounger, before ordering a cranberry and orange juice and spreading out the series of notes I’ve made this morning.

I probably don’t need to spell out the fact that nobody else is doing this – every other guest is sunbathing, reading, relaxing . . . activities that are all within my grasp if only
I can box off this issue and then try to forget about it.

With a tightening chest, I pull up the PR agency’s number on my phone. I go to press ‘Call’ at the exact moment that the handset rings and ‘Mum’ flashes up on the
screen. I let out a spontaneous groan.

‘
So
sorry to phone, Imogen. Bit of an emergency,’ she announces wearily, sounding very unlike someone about to put out an SOS call.

‘Oh, dear. What happened?’

‘It’s Spud. There’s something wrong with him. Very wrong.’

My eyes widen. ‘Don’t tell me he’s been run over?’

‘It’s impossible to explain on the phone, Imogen. I need to
show
you,’ she replies ominously. ‘Why don’t we do Skype?’

‘Mum, I’m worried now,’ I say. ‘What’s happened to my dog?’

‘This is a visual matter, Imogen – you need to
see
it. It’s a full-scale, multi-sensory issue, if the truth be told . . .’

I sigh as inaudibly as possible. ‘Give me ten minutes, and I’ll find the business centre here so that we can Skype. Is Florence around, too?’

‘Yes, yes, I’ll put her on when you Skype us. At the moment, all I’m concerned with is Spud. This dog needs help. And so do the rest of us, frankly.’

I end the call and head into the lobby, passing models, businessmen and a sheikh with an entourage bigger than the Red Army during the Battle of Kursk. It strikes me that I’ll never feel
anything but out of place here, although obviously the black eye doesn’t help.

A sign next to the lift tells me that the business centre is on the second floor, so I press the button and am poised to step in when my phone rings again. This time, it isn’t my
mother’s number. It is Madeleine Bowers.
The
Madeline Bowers. My PR hell is
over
! I abandon the lift and answer the phone.

‘Imogen Copeland,’ I simper, hearing the relief in my voice.

‘Imogen, sweetie,’ Madeleine drawls.

It’s difficult to describe how pleased I am to hear her voice, except to say that I suppress an urge to cartwheel across the lobby, flick-flack onto the pool deck and finish with a reverse
dive into the infinity pool.

Madeleine is a director of Ace Communications, a PR giant who has been in the business for at least thirty years. She’s one of those women whose oversized personality and sheer presence
silences people simply by walking into a room. Although perhaps that’s just her dress sense – nobody rocks a peacockfeather-trimmed trilby and gingham ra-ra skirt quite like she
does.

On a day-to-day level it’s always been Julia, a junior account executive, with whom I’ve dealt, and I’d been impressed with her until she decided to disappear off the face of
the earth.

Still, in Madeleine, the PR company has brought out the biggest of their big guns. Although I suppose when you’ve got the
Daily Sun
threatening ruination, nothing short of her
phenomenal power will do.

‘I had a message you rang,’ she continues. I can picture her in her vast office, clicking her fingers to summon her army of PR lackeys, poised to spring into action.

‘I did. Thank you
so
much for phoning back. You’ve probably worked out from my messages that we’ve got a major crisis on our hands. I’ve got the phone number of
the journalist who’s on our trail and, well . . . Madeleine, I’m just so grateful that you’re now on the case. I was hoping you’d assign someone senior to this but never
dreamt—’

‘Imogen, let me stop you there. Please.’ It’s then that I realise she doesn’t sound quite the powerhouse I’d come to know. Au contraire. She sounds as though
she’s had the weepy bits in
Marley And Me
on repeat all morning. ‘You’ve obviously not heard that at Ace Communications, we have some issues of our own.’

‘Oh,’ I say. I have no idea why I feel chastised, but I do.

‘Imogen . . . I don’t know what I’m going to do!’ she bleats, before exploding into an asthmatic splutter.

‘Madeleine, what’s the matter?’ I ask, as if we’re both fifteen and she’s about to tell me she’s been dumped by a sixth former for not having big enough
boobs.

‘We’ve gone bust!’ she howls.

‘What?’

‘It’s so unfair, this is all Adrian’s fault,’ she wails. ‘He was supposed to be in charge of all the financial do-dahs. That wasn’t
my
job. But he
buried his head in the sand and went on spending. You wouldn’t believe where we’ve taken our big clients in the last year. Wimbledon . . . Royal Ascot . . . we even took our top-paying
clients to Monte Carlo for a weekend.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, but you must have experienced this – Peebles were one of our biggest. Didn’t Julia take you anywhere nice?’

‘We did Starbucks in Charing Cross once, bu—’

‘Oh, it’s all irrelevant!’ she interrupts. ‘Now it’s all gone, gone in a puff of smoke.’

‘Are you telling me that the company is
completely
no more?’

‘It’s as dead as a dodo. A dodo that’s been run over by an articulated lorry, fallen off a cliff and then been cremated.’

‘I don’t mean to be insensitive but . . . does this mean we have
no
PR representation?’

‘Oh, Imogen, it’s okay for you,’ she continues, as if she hasn’t heard me. ‘You’re young, at the height of your career, so full of spunk it’s almost
coming out of your nose. Me, I’m a washed-up old PR in her mid-f—orties.’

I raise an eyebrow.

‘If you could see me now, Imogen. I’m sitting here in my dressing gown, weeping, watching Jeremy Kyle and drinking oolong tea spiked with Gordon’s. I don’t know what
I’m going to do!’

‘I’m really sorry, Madeleine, but I’m sure you’ll find something. You’re an absolute legend in this business.’