The Time of Our Lives (21 page)

I hold my breath and shove in my hand, a process indescribable in its repugnance. I successfully fish out the phone and frantically begin dismantling it, removing the battery, then the sim card,
then shaking every bit of water out.

‘Oh . . . please!’ I say to no one in particular as I wipe it on my kaftan.

‘Everything all right in there?’ Harry knocks on the door.

I take a deep breath and, shoving my spare belongings into my bag, I unlock the door.

‘Yes!’ I hiss, pushing past him, not caring now if he’s a member of the press, the paparazzi or the bloody Mob.

‘What happened to your phone?’

‘I had such fun dropping it into the fruit salad yesterday, I thought I’d try it in here this time.’

He frowns. ‘Can I help? Maybe if you put it under the hand dryer . . .? What are you doing in here, anyway?’

I sniff. ‘I took a wrong turn. I was looking for the . . . oh, it doesn’t matter.’

‘Hey, while I’ve got you . . . are you around tonight?’ He smiles at me easily. ‘It’d be good to have a drink together if you are. It’d be nice to have more
of a chat. I find your job really interesting.’

That’s it. Fury bubbles upside in me. ‘Interesting? Tell me . . . why would a journalist find
my
boring old job interesting?’

He looks taken aback. Clearly, the last thing he’s expecting was for me to catch him in the act – actually talking about the Peebles story with his news desk.

‘I just . . . well, we don’t have to talk about—’

‘Let me stop you there.’ I interrupt with a surge of inner strength. ‘I am on
holiday
. If you people want to interview me, or find out anything you like about David
Hartnett and his . . . misdemeanour, then please do as everyone else has done and phone my PR company.’

‘I didn’t want to interview you,’ he replies.

‘Of course you didn’t,’ I snap. ‘You wanted to get a scoop – you wanted an “off the record” chat. Well, fine, here’s something very much ON the
record – keep away from me.’

He is momentarily silenced. ‘Fine. If that’s the way you’d like it,’ he says eventually.

‘I would.’ Then I gasp. ‘Shit! What time is it?’

‘Twenty past one—’ But he hasn’t even finished his sentence before I hurtle through the door to meet my fate. My first-ever radio broadcast, going out live across the
UK.

No pressure then.

I arrive at the hotel room as the landline is ringing and am inches from the handset when it stops.

‘
SORREEY!
’

I turn and glare at the toilet door. It’s one of those trendy frosted ones – beautiful to look at but, given that with the door closed you can still see the outline of the user, only
truly appropriate for use when you’re bunking in with very close family members or the visually impaired.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask Meredith, averting my eyes.

‘Dodgy stomach,’ she shouts through the door. ‘We came back early. Didn’t you see Nic? She went looking for you – we assumed you’d be on the sun
deck.’

‘I was on the beach. Look, are you going to be long? I’m expecting an important phone call . . . or maybe not, actually,’ I add, gazing at the phone hopefully. ‘Maybe
they’ve given up on me.’

It rings.

‘What did you say?’ Meredith shouts through.

‘I said this is an
important
. . . Look, it doesn’t matter – can you just be as quiet as possible?’

‘I didn’t catch that,’ Meredith replies, as I pick up the phone. ‘Hello?’

‘Is that Imogen Copeland?’

‘Yes,’ I squeak.

‘Donna Sollenberger from the
Afternoon
programme. I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’

‘Sorry – I was held up.’

‘Well, it’s okay, we’ve got you now. But we’re on air in about thirty seconds, so Jim Bryson will be with you then, okay?’

‘I . . . suppose so.’ Jim Bryson is the programme’s lead presenter and is known for being the journalistic equivalent of a Rottweiler. I take several deep breaths and tell
myself I can do this; I
can
muster up a masterful performance, no doubt about it.

‘Good luck,’ she says nonchalantly, and flicks a switch so I can hear the programme being broadcast.

I gasp. It wasn’t full sex! But before I can gather my thoughts, there’s a knock on the door. I consider leaving it, but it becomes more insistent as I catch
snippets of the programme in the background.

I open the door tentatively, the phone glued to my ear. ‘
Servicio de habitaciones
. . . room service,’ declares a waiter. Before I can protest, he pushes
through a hostess trolley, complete with silver-service tray. What the hell has Meredith been ordering?

My stomach goes into freefall as I realise I’m now on air. I need to get rid of this waiter. Only, he won’t move. He just stands there, waiting for his tip. I
frantically survey the room for spare change, flinging items around the room until, in desperation, I locate a 10 cents coin and thrust it in his palm.

My mouth goes dry and my lip starts to wobble. The waiter is immobile, glaring at the tip like I’ve just put a snotty tissue in his hand. But all I can concentrate on is
that that was
not
one of Charles’s predicted questions. Even with my media briefing now floating around a Catalan sewerage system, I know that much.

I usher the waiter out of the room, almost engaging a size-six espadrille against his arse as he refuses to move with any speed, then I start talking. I barely process what I’m saying, but
I am at least talking.

‘Um . . . well, like you said, the internal inquiry will happen shortly so we will have to discuss this matter with . . . with the . . . individual in question then. I wouldn’t like
to pre-empt that.’

‘I see. And—’

‘Can I clarify something, though,’ I add, knowing that if I don’t correct this now, I may never get the chance. ‘They didn’t have . . . sexual intercourse.’
The thermostat on my cheeks is turned up several degrees as I say the words. ‘Not . . . you know,
completely
.’

‘Not completely?’

‘No.’

‘So there was no sex? The police got this wrong?’

‘No, I’m not saying that . . . there was some, you know . . .’

My mind is suddenly blank. There is a deafening silence on the line as he waits for me to continue. I open my mouth but nothing comes out of it.

‘
IMOGEN!
’ Meredith suddenly hollers, shattering the quiet. Oh God, I need to keep talking!

‘There was some, um . . .
funny business
,’ I begin, as if my broadcast training was delivered by Benny Hill.

‘Funny. Business?’ Bryson says the two words as if he’s got something stuck in his teeth.

For some reason, dabbing sweat from my forehead, I feel as if my only option is to expand on the description. ‘He got to . . . well, he got to third base.’ I wince.

‘
IMOGEN, CAN YOU PASS ME SOME LOO ROLL?
’

I sprint to the bathroom cupboard, rifling around in it until I locate the toilet paper.

‘I . . . see,’ says Bryson uncertainly. ‘For those of us unfamiliar with American baseball terms, perhaps you could expand?’

I bite my fist. ‘What . . .
really
?’

‘Well, what else have you come on here for?’ he asks snarkily.

‘
IMOGEN . . . ARE YOU THERE? IMOGEN? I’M STUCK ON THE BOG HERE – DO ME A FAVOUR, WON’T YOU?
’

‘I . . . I’m here to be as open and honest as possible.’

I grab the loo roll and race out into the main room, chucking it over the top of the cubicle.

‘Well, perhaps you could explain then.’

I feel like saying: ‘
How
can you never have heard of the term “third base”? Where have you been all your life?’ But I don’t. In fact, I don’t say
anything. I
can’t
say anything. I can only mouth silently into the phone for a few seconds, before the unbearable silence is broken by the flush of the toilet.

It sounds as if we’re standing at the base of Niagara Falls during a tropical cyclone. Loud. Gushing. Relentless. I frenziedly spin around the room, desperate to escape the thunderous
noise.

‘Boobs!’ I splutter in desperation, just as there’s a knock on the door and it opens. It’s the cleaning lady. She trundles in with a vacuum cleaner the size of a Sinclair
C5. I attempt to wave her out. ‘He . . . he . . . copped a feel, that’s all,’ I splutter, as she shrugs her shoulders, bewildered. ‘That’s all it means.’

Did I really just say that? Really?
Live on air?

Either way, Bryson clearly wishes he hadn’t asked. ‘I . . . um . . . perhaps we could move on to the ramifications of this incident.’ I frantically push the cleaning lady out
of the door and she finally backs off, disgruntlement etched on her forehead. ‘Peebles shareholders aren’t likely to be impressed, are they, Ms Copeland?’ he continues, as I shut
the door and focus on the question.

To say they won’t be impressed is putting it mildly. And that’s without them even knowing the half of it.

‘Well, the actions of one individual don’t necessarily reflect that of the company as a whole,’ I reply.

‘But surely if the person in question is senior, it reflects extremely poorly on the judgment of those in charge of the company?’

I take a deep breath and summon some inner strength. I cannot allow my sole contribution to defending the company’s honour be blurting out the word ‘boobs’ on national
radio.

‘Peebles is one of Britain’s most successful businesses, a real UK success story,’ I say firmly, straightening my back. ‘It’s done tremendously well throughout a
recession, when everyone else in this sector has really struggled. We’ve given an enormous amount to charity and—’

‘Thank you, Ms Copeland. That’s all we have time for.’

At which point, I hear a click, and the producer comes back on the phone. ‘That was great, cheers,’ she says breezily.

Given that my heart appears to want to leap out of my mouth and go for a swim in the Med right now, the contrast between her demeanour and mine couldn’t be greater.

I put down the phone and lie on the bed as I fumble my mobile back together. It springs into life immediately.

It’s a text from Mum:

‘Sorry, I didn’t realise you were on the phone,’ says Meredith, drying her hands as she emerges from the bathroom and examining the feast she’s ordered
from room service. ‘Anyone interesting?’

‘You could say that,’ I reply, before burying my head in a pillow and yearning for a quick, painless death.

It quickly becomes apparently that ‘half a lipstick’ actually means a fragment so microscopic you couldn’t complete a makeover on a budgie with it. I set
about persuading Mum that Florence’s mishap does not constitute a full-scale medical emergency, that airlifting her to hospital will not be necessary, and that if she really meant the
‘So sorry to bother you’ bit in the text, then perhaps she might consider simply . . . not.

I don’t actually say the last bit; I just think it, though her telepathic powers clearly start picking up on something.

‘You don’t sound very relaxed considering you’re on holiday,’ she notes.

‘No,’ I reply dully.

‘I never used to get stressed when I was a young woman,’ she continues. ‘If I was feeling like things were getting on top of me, I’d simply visit the masseur, twice or
three times a week sometimes. The sheik used to pay for them for all the girls. All he wanted in return was a nice smile and a pleasant word. Well, mainly.’

‘Can I speak to Florence?’

Mum hands the phone to my daughter.

‘Hi, Mummy.’

Hearing her voice somehow makes everything vastly better. ‘Hello, sweetheart!’ I gush. ‘Gosh, I miss you. Lots and lots. I
love
you!’

‘I’m busy,’ she replies.

‘Oh,’ I say, wondering when my four-year-old’s schedule became too tight to fit me in. ‘Well, what are you up to?’

‘Trying on Grandma’s high heels. She’s going to buy me some of my own. And I’ve decided what I want to be when I grow up.’

‘Oh, what’s that?’ I ask, hoping she’s going to say astrophysicist.

‘A princess.’ She announces it in an I-can’t-believe-I-hadn’t-thought-of-this-earlier! voice.

‘Oh,’ I reply flatly. ‘Well, the only way to become a princess would be to marry a prince. And it’d be far better to do a really exciting job you’d got all by
yourself – by being clever and working hard. Don’t you think?’

She doesn’t even ponder this for a second. ‘Not really.’

I frown. ‘But what if you fall in love with someone who
isn’t
a prince? You couldn’t still then marry someone else, even if he was a prince.’

‘I would,’ she replies defiantly. ‘Princes are the handsomest.’

I grit my teeth. ‘Being handsome isn’t everything, Florence.’

‘No. They’re rich too,’ she replies.

I decide to move on. ‘So, how did you end up eating Grandma’s lipstick?’

‘I don’t know. It tasted of cherries at first. Then it didn’t taste nice. Mummy?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you know yet if you can take me to school on my first day?’