The Time of Our Lives (14 page)

‘Not after this!’

I frown. ‘Look, can I make a suggestion? I have a major PR problem with the
Daily Sun
at the moment and I need someone to deal with it for me. Why don’t you take this on as a
freelance job?’ It strikes me as the perfect solution. It’d be helping Madeleine
and
Peebles. ‘All isn’t lost, and we need someone of your calibre.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t!’ she says theatrically, and I’m pretty sure I can hear the chink of glass bottle on teacup. ‘I’m in mourning for my career. I’m too
stressed, I’m too tired, I’m too . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Sorry, I’ve just thought of how you
can
help,’ she says, perking up. ‘It’s the ideal solution.’

‘Which is?’

‘We’ll get Peterhouse Deevy to deal with it for you. I
adore
Mike Peterhouse. Gorgeous brown eyes and a smile like Donny Osmond. And maybe, just maybe, if I can hand over some
of my old clients to them, they’ll think about giving me a job.’

‘Hmm. I’m not sure,’ I say.

‘I’d really prefer to deal with just you. Wouldn’t you consider it Madeleine?’

‘Imogen, it’s out of the question. Peterhouse Deevy are your answer. I promise you. They’re one of the top ten PR companies in London!’

‘I know, but I was talking to one of their former clients at a networking event last month and they described them as lacklustre. She said she felt they were trading on their past
reputation, without putting in a great deal of effort today.’ I could remember her words almost verbatim, as I’d been quietly congratulating myself on being with Ace. Oh, the irony.

‘Imogen, don’t listen to gossip. This is perfect. Besides, you’re not exactly overflowing with options at the moment, are you?’

The business centre is so slick I’m convinced someone could feasibly run Microsoft from here.

It’s a vast, semicircular room, with state-of-the-art computers lining the curved window above the sea. Despite boasting more technology than the command deck of the Starship Enterprise,
absolutely nobody is in here, which I’m very glad about. If I’m going to consider taking on Peterhouse Deevy – because Madeleine’s right about my options being limited
– it will mean briefing them about David’s indiscretion, something I’d rather not make any more public than it already is.

I fire up a computer, torn between gratitude and unease about Madeleine’s suggestion that we go with her recommended PR agency. It’s obviously nice of her to propose an alternative,
although the fact that we’ve got to go with someone new and unfamiliar during the biggest publicity crisis in our history is not good news. There’s no doubt that Peterhouse Deevy are a
big, respectable company – I’m just hoping that what that woman told me at the networking event was off the mark.

I’m about to log on to Skype when a text arrives from Mum:

I take a deep breath and check the webcam is on as I connect to my mum’s account.

We’ve used Skype a lot since Florence came along. Or, if the truth be told, we have since Mum discovered that Roberto’s mother was doing it once a week – to talk to her in
Italian in a bid to make her bilingual (which hasn’t been overly successful, judging by Florence’s glazed expression).

When she finally appears on the screen, it’s in a state of profound disequilibrium.

‘I can’t live with this,’ she sighs, blowing hair away from her eyes in one long breath.

‘Mum, what is it?’

‘His
bottom
,’ she says with a sigh.

I frown. ‘What?’

‘Imogen, I have never smelled anything like it. Your father and I were attempting to watch
Driving Miss Daisy
last night as he dragged himself along the floor creating the stench of
a flatulent camel. It’s not natural, Imogen. Can dogs get cancer of the bottom?’

‘Mum, it’s not cancer, it’s—’

‘I don’t think the air quality in this house will ever recover. I’ve been Shake n’ Vac-ing all morning, and it’s still making my eyes stream. Imogen, you need to
see this.’

‘But, Mum—’ I’m trying to tell her that this is nothing that a routine trip to the vet and sturdy pair of latex gloves can’t fix.

‘I can’t work out if it’s normal or not,’ she continues, before picking up the laptop and carrying it shakily across the living room floor as she pursues Spud.

‘Mum, I don’t . . . this isn’t necessary . . . it isn’t . . .’

But she’s a woman possessed, hunting him down like something in
The Hunger Games
. She finally gets him to stand still with the aid of a chew bar and, as Spud blithely chomps his way
through it, oblivious, she lifts his tail and positions the webcam to provide such an amplified view of the problem it could get me put on some sort of register.

‘Bloody hell, Mother,’ I mutter, turning to shield my eyes . . . as I come face to face with quite another vision.

Harry is mesmerised as he stands in the doorway, staring at the screen, drained of the ability to speak. I spin back, praying the picture has disappeared, to be confronted by the continuing
sight of my pooch’s bum in glorious, gargantuan techicolour.

‘This is not what it looks like,’ I mumble, my face blanching as I examine the screen. Except, it is. It’s a giant, inflated view of a dog’s arsehole. Simple as that.

I start hammering keys to try to shut it down as he walks towards me, but am rewarded solely with one of those twirling icons that denote the computer’s frozen. I make a split-second,
desperate decision to try to shield the screen from view, so cross my arms and plonk myself over the keyboard. It protests with a loud, angry beep.

‘I stumbled on this website,’ I blurt out, wondering whether lying actually is the better option here. ‘I’m trying to get rid of it so I can do some work.’

‘No problem,’ he says, taking his sunglasses off his head and placing them on the desk. ‘What was it?’

‘I’m not sure. I really have no idea. It looked dodgy, that’s for sure.’

He’s about to speak again when a voice comes loud and clear through the computer’s speakers. ‘Imogen! You’re not looking! He’s in a perfect position here. Hurry up
so you can get a good look.’

Thinking on my feet, I hoot, ‘OOH, look at that!’ as I point out of the window. As Harry turns to look, I hit the button on the monitor, killing the power. Then I sit, breathlessly,
on the edge of the desk, as his eyes return to me.

‘What am I looking at?’

‘Oh, didn’t you see that bird?’ I say casually. ‘It was amazing.’

‘Really?’

‘Hmmmm.’

‘What was it like?’

‘I’m not sure what species, but I guess it was a type of . . . of’ – I’m no ornithologist, but I scan my brain to try to think of a bird, any bird, that might find
its natural habitat around a Mediterranean beach – ‘owl.’

He looks at me as though I’m completely demented.

‘An . . . owl?’

‘Maybe I’m mistaken,’ I say hastily. As a thought suddenly strikes me.

In the midst of this mortifying moment, I find my blood pounding through my veins for another reason. My face is flushed. And I’m feeling something I haven’t felt for a long, long
time.

I can’t. I surely can’t.

Do I
fancy
this man?

‘Do you need this room in private, Imogen?’

I freeze at his use of my name, at the effect the overfamiliarity has on me.

‘I do, to be honest.’

It might be true, but so is something else that I’m only now recognising: I don’t want him to go. I want him to stay. I actually want to be around this man.

‘Not a problem, I can come back later.’ He starts backing away.

‘Oh . . . you don’t need to. I mean, it’s hardly fair. This is a public part of the hotel. I couldn’t keep it to myself.’

‘I’d only popped in to send an email that’s too long to write on my phone. I can come back later – it’s no big deal.’

Then he smiles a devastating smile – one that reduces my insides to marshmallow – and disappears out of the door. Leaving me with only my mother, the dog’s backside and a long,
difficult call to a PR company to think about.

I spend the next half hour pacing around the business centre on the phone to Cosimo Usborne, the account manager assigned to us by Peterhouse Deevy.

He is twenty-two, has worked in PR for less than a year, and his other clients include Grill-O-Bloo, a company that makes oven cleaners; and Smoovie, who make smoothies. Presumably for people
with speech disorders.

‘You’re in good hands,’ he assures me fervantly. ‘I’ve got
loads
of experience in this sort of thing. I’m carving out a speciality in foodstuffs.
I’ve done two launches since March, and the clients were delighted. I got Grill-O-Bloo in
Take A Break.’

‘Yes, but this is a crisis-management job. You understand that, don’t you? It’s completely different from promotional work. We need someone to liaise with this journalist and
minimise the negative messages surrounding Peebles. Keep our name out of it if at all possible. Are you sure you’ll be okay?’

‘There is nothing I don’t know about handling publicity for popular snacks,’ he announces huffily. ‘I was born to do this. It’s my vocation.’

‘Yes, but it’s not the same as putting out a press release.’ I’m starting to feel – and sound – quite desperate. ‘We’ve got a crisis on our hands
here. This is very serious.’

‘You can rely on me.’

I don’t want to undermine him. Equally, I don’t want the company where I’ve built my career to implode because David can’t handle himself after a bottle of fizz. Or
three. ‘Have you . . . have you got someone senior supporting you on this one?’

‘Of course! Our account director, Ben, is always on hand.’

‘Can I speak to him?’

‘He’s at his place in the Grenadines.’

‘Ohhhhhhhh . . .’ Now I’m whimpering. I can’t help it.

‘Ginny . . . can I call you Ginny? I think that’s short for Imogen, isn’t it? Look, please leave it with me. I’ll speak to the journalist, see what they’ve got on
the story and take it from there. I’m confident I’ve got something that’ll put him off the scent.’

‘Really?’ I leap on this nugget of hope.

‘One of the techniques I learned on my PR course was to knock a potential bad story off the front page with a good one.’

‘And you’ve got a good one?’

‘Grill-O-Bloo are launching a new pan scourer that’s so effective I’m hoping to get a quote from NASA endorsing it.
Prima
won’t be happy, but I’ll give it to
the
Daily Sun
as an exclusive.’

When I finally put down the phone, I have never felt less relaxed in my entire life: less than the hour before I did my driving test; less than the minute before my A levels;
less than the time I bungee jumped when Roberto and I were on holiday in the Dordogne.

At which point, a fundamental issue hits me. This
cannot
go on, not while I’m supposed to be on the holiday of my life.

I close my eyes, take some deep, yogic breaths and try to think positively. Peterhouse Deevy is an experienced, established company whose reputation at stake – albeit not as much as ours
– if things go wrong. Maybe it’s just the control freak in me that’s worried about Cosimo? I need something to take my mind off this.

I drum my fingers on the desk, trying to think of something, anything, that isn’t work. Two words pop into my head.

Harry Pfeiffer.

It’s an appealing name I think, a name that’s solid but exotic at the same time. I hesitate before slinking to the door and opening it briefly to check the coast is clear. Then I
dive back to the computer and type in his name. There’s a Harry Pfeiffer, miner; Harry Pfeiffer, High Court judge; Harry Pfeiffer, ballet dancer; and Harry Pfeiffer, journalist.

I click on ‘Images’ to scan through and see if I can see
my
Harry Pfeiffer, but am confronted by row upon row of mug shots, promotional images and one piece of abstract art by
Harry Pfeiffer, artist, that looks like something vomited up by a hyperglycaemic cat.

I’m on page four of the search engine’s results and about to give up when one face leaps out at me. It’s
him
.

It’s an official portrait, although for what, I don’t know. But the sight of his face, bespectacled and beautiful, does odd things to my insides. I click on the image as a sentence
escapes from my mouth: ‘Well, hello, Harry.’

‘Hello, Imogen.’

I gasp like a vacuum cleaner stuck on the surface of a cushion, before leaping at the computer and reaching round to pull out the plug. The computer fizzles and dies.

I would quite like to do the same myself.

‘I left my glasses here.’ He walks to the computer next to mine, and the sunglasses hiding at the side.

‘Silly you,’ I splutter, in a similar way to which I addressed Florence when she was two.

He laughs, apparently unconcerned. ‘Yep. Silly me.’

The sun deck is quiet again when I next go outside. It seems everyone has followed Meredith and Nicola’s lead and gone sightseeing. I try not to seethe too much at my
confinement to the hotel, aware that there are worse maximum-security units. Besides, at least I can try to get a bit of a tan.

If I was thinking straight, I would remember that tanning is one of the most pointless exercises invented, and one to which I should
never
succumb given that UV rays have a similar effect
on my skin as a wire brush and Cillit Bang. I have one of those ‘English Rose’ complexions, which basically means it’s as pasty as a tray of uncooked sausage rolls and all it
takes to fire up my prickly heat is a flimsy display of sunshine breaking through the clouds.

You’d think I’d learn. But, every holiday, I fall into the same trap and compare my pale blue legs with everyone else’s bronzed beauties, convincing myself I’d benefit
from some rays.

The worst instance of this I ever experienced was when Roberto and I spent ten days in his aunt’s farmhouse in Tuscany. Fed up of remaining as white as a sheet with my factor 50 (which had
the consistency of lard and smelled slightly less appealing), I’d misjudged the effect that dropping down a factor or two might have and ended up with legs on which you could’ve
barbequed kebabs.