The Time of Our Lives (17 page)

A waitress carrying a mountain of expensive crockery marches past and studies us suspiciously, before a glass threatens to topple from its zenith and she is forced to push open the swing door
into the kitchen.

Meredith takes the opportunity to pop up her head and peer through the door’s porthole.

‘Ready,’ she hisses, holding up her arm. The arm flies down: ‘GO, GO, GO!’

‘Yes, all right, Private Benjami—’ But before Nicola can finish her sentence, Meredith has her by the elbow, I’m stumbling behind and we’re all in the kitchen,
squatting behind an oversized steel work surface.

All is relatively quiet on this side of the kitchen, in sharp contrast to events two workstations away, where three chefs are having a colourful disagreement over a batch of tempura. It is
volcanically hot in here and beads of sweat prickle my skin as I nudge Meredith.

‘You’re not meant to be overheating,’ I whisper.

She purses her lips. ‘There’ll be plenty of opportunities to rehydrate once we’re in that bar. All we need now is for that chef on the right to disappear for a minute and . .
.’ She gasps. ‘NOW!’

Before Nicola and I even get a chance to exchange an eye roll, Meredith is crawling on her hands and knees across the kitchen, displaying about as much stealth as you might expect from a woman
in the third trimester of pregnancy.

‘She’s a bloody lunatic,’ Nicola murmurs.

‘Yes, but she’s
our
bloody lunatic,’ I reply, and we head off after her.

The distance between the work surface and door to the sun deck feels like a mile, and traversing every inch of it in this position has the equivalent effect on my kneecaps as a claw hammer. But,
incredibly, we reach the door, sticky with sweat but undetected, bursting onto the far corner of the sun deck in a heap onto its boards.

It isn’t the grandest of entrances, but at least we’re in.

‘What happened to your shoe?’ Nicola asks.

I glance down and note that I appear to only be wearing one of them. ‘Oh, bugger. I’m not sure.’

Meredith looks at me incredulously. ‘Do you know how long it took me to find a pair of snakeskin sandals with that exact heel?’

‘I’m sorry! I’ll find it,’ I reply, although as I push open the door again, the kitchen is now buzzing. ‘Oh God . . .’

‘Do it later. We have another priority now – mingling.’ She grabs me by the arm and I follow, with a pronounced limp.

As the sun sets over the sea, the sky is a breathtaking swirl of oranges and reds, yet there’s nothing peaceful about the sun deck. The crowd has expanded since we tried to get in
legitimately, and a DJ rises above it on a massive podium at one end of the infinity pool as music thuds across the evening air.

Being among such a glamorous crowd is not an entirely positive experience. Having minutes ago convinced myself I looked tarty enough to make a living grinding my hips against a pole, I now feel
like I’m on my way to man the cake stand at a summer fête. I lower my neckline slightly.

Nicola offers to buy the first round, but returns from the bar three minutes later. ‘These are free,’ she whispers with wide eyes, as she hands them to us.

‘What?’

‘It’s a complimentary bar. For VIPs like ourselves, of course.’ She winks.

I take a sip and allow myself to be dazzled by my surroundings. For the first time since I left UK soil, I’m starting to believe that I’m
finally
getting the holiday I’d
hoped for.

My phone beeps. It’s a text from David:

My stomach plummets as I begin composing a reply:

The tone, I hope, is polite but confident, despite the fact that I’m feeling neither.

When Cosimo and I last spoke, he’d only managed to leave a message with the
Daily Sun
journalist, who had apparently been pulled off the story – temporarily – to work on
an exposé involving a senior politician and a 72-year-old masseuse from Burnley.

‘Maybe they’ll just go off the story,’ Cosimo said, dragging my confidence in his ability even closer to the gutter.

‘You’re not on that thing again, are you?’ Nicola asks.

I shove the phone in my bag. ‘It’s going away now,’ I promise.

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously. In fact’ – I take a slug of my cocktail and feel a heady rush of impulsiveness as I hand my phone over to her – ‘you look after it.’

‘Are you sure?’

I nod. ‘I’m . . . sure. Listen out for it, though, won’t you? I don’t like being totally inaccessible when I’m this far from Florence.’

‘Done,’ she says, as her gaze drifts upwards. ‘Oh God . . .’

I follow her look across the deck and to some dancers on a podium. When we walked in (okay,
fell
in), there were four lithe women on it, wearing sequin handkerchiefs and strappy heels,
swirling their hips around as if in complete control of invisible hula hoops. Now, however, they have been joined by Meredith.

The one thing you can say about her J-Lo-style choreography is that she moves with surprisingly agility given that she has a girth like Henry VIII’s right now. A small crowd gathers,
joining in tentatively, as if trying to work out whether the krumping pregnant lady represents some hip new trend in upscale entertainment.

Nicola and I stand shiftily at the back of the crowd as a smattering of others start to clap, and one or two even begin to cheer. When Nicola begins wiggling her hips, I know the only thing left
to do is for me to join in.

I’ve barely managed to shuffle into place when things take an unseemly turn for the worse.

Nicola spots the bouncer first, pushing his way through the crowd until he’s standing before Meredith, eyeing her like it’s a bomb rather than a baby under her swing top.

She’s oblivious to him as he’s almost at her feet, but then she does a double take that nearly makes her head fall off. Before she can argue, she’s led down the steps onto
terra firma.

As the bouncer ignores her loud protestations and leads her towards us, I feel as though my heart is about to burst out of my chest. I have never been one of life’s rebels – the
closest I ever got to teenage insurgence involved a two-minute experiment behind the school bike sheds with a nicotine patch.

The bouncer is in the process of bundling us all through the glass doors – not something you can be a part of while retaining any dignity – when a voice rings out.

‘Wait!’

We all stop and look round. It’s Harry. He’s wearing his glasses. Clipboard Barbie is behind him.

‘They’re with us,’ he announces.

Clipboard Barbie glares at him indignantly. He turns to her and, as they lock eyes, he has this remarkable look that’s part sheepish, part sexy – and 100 per cent effective.

‘Would you mind?’ He shrugs. ‘They’re good friends of mine. I’d really appreciate it.’

She unclenches her teeth and visibly melts before turning to the bouncer and firing a few words of Spanish at him, at which point Meredith, Nicola and I are released from his grip.

‘You’re a gem. Much appreciated,’ Harry says with a smile as she totters away, glancing back once.

My friends are beside themselves, gushing thanks like a pair of defective taps until he actually looks uncomfortable.

‘Seriously, don’t worry about it. I couldn’t watch a group of fellow Brits be thrown out of somewhere with a free bar.’

We follow him back to the party as my friends both link arms with me.

Meredith leans in to whisper in my ear: ‘He. Is.
Gorgeous
.’

I open my mouth to respond, and suddenly find her very difficult to argue with.

You know those moments in
Scooby Doo
where Shaggy and the other meddling kids are all together, then he turns around to discover they’ve disappeared? That’s
exactly what happens to me, only I know they haven’t fallen through a trap door, and hopefully I look slightly better than Shaggy, even with one shoe. Although, believe me, trying to balance
on one foot at the exact height of the other to mask this problem is not easy.

Harry either doesn’t notice, is polite enough not to point it out, or is distracted by my cleavage, which wouldn’t be hard in this top.

Whatever the case, my friends have disappeared with negligible subtlety. They didn’t even make excuses, simply grinned and proclaimed ‘We’re leaving you two to it.’ Which
raises one question: to
what
exactly are they leaving us? The thought makes me horribly nervous. Obviously, there’s only one solution to that.

‘Finished that already? Let me get you another,’ says Harry as I drain my cocktail. He reaches to a passing waiter to take another from his tray. It’s only then that I realise
that I haven’t eaten a proper meal since breakfast, not unless you count a handful of posh spiced nuts and the chocolate the maid left on my pillow last night.

‘Who do you work for, Imogen? Each time I look in your direction you’re on your phone. I was starting to wonder if it was surgically attached.’ Every so often when he says
something – just small talk like this – it sounds flirtatious. But it strikes me that it’s possible this might not be deliberate.

‘I work for a big-food production company, Peebles. I’m their UK marketing director. Well,
acting
UK marketing director.’

‘Sounds important. Do you enjoy it?’

‘Most of the time I absolutely love it, although it can be full on. I’m not one of those superwoman working mothers who can keep a dozen plates spinning at once.’

‘I’m sure you’re being hard on yourself. I’ll bet your plates are perfectly intact.’

‘Believe me, my plates are cracking up. A bit like me.’

He laughs a big, natural laugh, the sound of which warms my belly. I feel suddenly and dramatically good about myself. I want to make him do it again.

‘What do
you
do for a living?’

‘I’m a journalist,’ he replies.

‘Oh . . .’ So that
was
him on the search engine. Harry Pfeiffer – journalist.

‘Do you still live in Liverpool?’ he asks.

‘You recognised the accent then?’

‘Of course.’

‘No, I’ve lived in London for years.’

‘Oh, whereabouts? I’m in Putney.’

I feel a smile creeping to my lips, happier about this than I should be. ‘Not far from me. I’m in Wandsworth.’

‘Nice.’ His smile prompts a flush of heat to creep around my neck.

‘You wouldn’t say that if you saw my flat.’ I wonder tipsily what it would be like to be friends with him, to replay this conversation in years to come. (‘You were such a
flirt!’ ‘You were the one who invited me to your flat!’ ‘It was not an invitation!’ ‘Yeah, right!’)

‘Well, I would’ve loved to see your flat, but London and I are parting ways very soon.’

My fantasy disintegrates. ‘Really?’

‘I’m moving home to Aberdeen to be with my mum. In fact, I’m flying directly there after this trip.’

‘Oh . . . how come?’ I hope the dismay isn’t showing on my face as much as it’s revealed by my voice.

‘It’s a bit complicated.’ He sighs a little. ‘I left home when I was twenty-two and made a promise to her that I’d be back in ten years. She brought up me and my
sister single-handedly after my dad left, so I always told myself I’d stick to it. Of course, when I was twenty-two I felt like that day would never come. Only now it’s here.’

‘Wow. And she’s holding you to your word?’

‘Well, she used to remind me every time I saw her. Now I’ve actually handed in my notice on the flat and am due to move there in less than a week, she’s gone quiet. Basically,
she feels guilty. But I don’t want her to. Aberdeen’s great – and I owe this to her. Besides, she needs me right now, put it that way,’ he says.

‘What about your sister?’

‘She lives in Australia. They come back to visit once a year, but that’s it.’

I take this in. ‘It’s incredibly . . . noble of you.’

‘Not really,’ he replies with a laugh. ‘“Noble” isn’t a word I’ve ever thought about applying to myself, to be honest.’

As the night progresses, there are moments when I’m so nervous that I actually want this to be over. I think constantly about making an excuse and heading back to my room to get my breath
back, to go back to the world to which I’m used. But then he laughs at something I say, or asks questions about my job – detailed, genuinely interested questions – and everything
changes. I start to feel amazing around this man: witty, warm, interesting and – at those moments when he allows his smile to linger just a little too long – attractive.

There are few quiet corners of the party, but we manage to find one – an enclave of soft sofas and twinkling candlelight overlooking the sea. And we talk.
Really
talk. About the
Barcelona sights I’m still determined to see; about Florence; about his reading material (it’s the second time he’s read
The Book Thief
); about where else he’s been
in the world that he loves. I even get some things off my chest about the PR hell I’ve been dumped in – and discover that he’s a fantastic listener.