The Time of Our Lives (29 page)

The next I heard from him was at exactly twelve minutes past midnight. The text that sealed my fate. The text containing words that I, Imogen Copeland, proud former school swot and workaholic
never, ever thought I’d see: ‘
YOU
’
RE
FIRED
.’

The door opens and Meredith strolls in, back from breakfast. She’s looking lovely and tanned now, simultaneously glamorous and maternal.

‘What happened to you?’

I can tell from her expression that I look as though I’ve just crawled out of a municipal tip.

‘I’ve just done the walk of shame,’ I reply, numbly.

‘YAAAAYYYY!’

‘And I’ve been sacked,’ I add.

She frowns. ‘Oh, what a bugger. Why?’

‘Because I screwed up,’ I reply, slouching onto the bed. ‘I’ve screwed up everything. Absolutely everything . . .’

‘Yeah, but at least you’ve
screwed
!’ she whoops. She sits down next to me and holds both of my hands. ‘Imogen, you’ve had SEX! This is the best news
I’ve had all week. I’m proud of you,’ she adds, as if I’ve just got my 25-metre front-crawl badge.

I look at her, bewildered. ‘How can you be proud of me? It’s terrible! I feel awful.’

‘About your job?’

‘Obviously that, but I feel very, very weird about last night, too.’

‘Why? You shouldn’t. Sex is a perfectly natural, perfectly human thing, Imogen.’

I sneer. ‘It’s overrated. Seriously, what’s it got going for it?’

She thinks for a second, before offering: ‘Orgasms can cure hiccups.
Fact
.’ I glare at her blankly. ‘That’s only one benefit, obviously. Wasn’t it good? Oh
God, that’s such a bummer when that happens. I’d hoped it’d blow your mind the first time after . . . you know.’

I look despondently out of the window. ‘It did blow my mind.’ She says nothing. ‘It blew my mind, it blew my bloody everything. I didn’t know what hit me.’

‘So, what’s the problem?’

‘The problem is—’

My phone rings and I answer it immediately. Only it isn’t David, it’s Roy – apparently back at work.

‘Imogen, what on earth’s happened? I got back from Euro Disney this morning to discover David’s in hiding, we’re all over the press, the office is in uproar and
I’ve been promoted into your job.’

‘What?’

‘Oh, don’t worry – there’s no way I’m taking it. At the moment, I can’t think of anything worse.’

Which, sadly, isn’t much of a comfort.

For the first time all holiday, my phone isn’t ringing. Nobody at work wants me. Nobody in the media wants me. Even my bloody mother doesn’t seem to want me.

In a bid to distract myself from dark thoughts, I spend an hour and a half twiddling with my phone attempting to solve my 3G problem, manage (miraculously) to succeed, and only then realise how
little I want to make contact with the outside world anyway.

‘Let’s go for a wander along Las Ramblas again,’ Nicola suggests decisively, clapping her hands. ‘You need to take your mind off things. And off that bloody
phone.’

I’m about to inform her that I’m only Googling whether orgasms really can cure hiccups (they can, according to supersexpert.com), when a text arrives on her own phone.

I pull a pot–kettle face that she decides to ignore, scrutinising the message with a frown instead.

‘Everything all right?’ I ask.

She looks up and shakes her head. ‘Fine . . . it’s nothing. Just the issue we were talking about the other night.’

‘Your parents and Jess?’

She nods. ‘You got me thinking about how daft the whole situation is. So I casually mentioned Jess’s name in a text to my mum to see how she’d respond.’

‘And?’

‘She totally ignored it.’ She shakes her head. ‘Not a big deal in itself, I suppose. So, how about Las Ramblas?’

The prospect of returning to where my necklace was stolen fills me with unease. But I don’t want to stay here while Harry’s still around; lying on the beach would be too passive to
take my mind off anything; and Las Ramblas at least has the benefit of proximity. So I drag on shorts and a T-shirt, trowel concealer over my black eye, and head out with my friends.

It is a disconcerting experience on every level.

The thought that I might bump into Harry has me in such a state of agitation I’m virtually twitching. Just thinking about last night makes me feel exposed, confused and, frankly, shocked.
The pornographic flashbacks that persist in gate-crashing my head feature a woman very unlike me. And although there is no prospect of ever seeing Harry again after tomorrow, I do feel fairly awful
about how upset he looked when it became clear that I wasn’t going to suggest we breakfast on scrambled eggs and another shag for dessert.

‘What did you get up to last night?’ I ask Meredith.

‘I went to a party at the other end of the beach with Salvatore. It was fab.’

I raise an eyebrow.

‘Nothing
happened
. Although I didn’t get in until 3.30.’ She grins. ‘I’ve still got it!’

I turn to Nicola. ‘Has your migraine gone?’

‘Just about. It wasn’t my worst. They sometimes last for days,’ she replies. ‘But thanks for asking, especially when you’ve clearly got other things to worry
about.’ At first I think she’s talking about sleeping with Harry. ‘I don’t think your boss can fire you, just like that. And certainly not by text,’ she continues.
‘I went on a management course recently and you’ve got to jump through hoops before you can legally sack someone. Of course, if you’re determined someone needs to be given the
boot, there are ways and means . . .’ She glances at me uneasily. ‘The point is, I don’t think it’s cut and dried. It’d have to be gross misconduct.’

‘He says it is,’ I tell her.

‘Oh, well,
he
might think so. I’m not convinced what you did was that bad. Not . . . really.’ We arrive at the mouth of the huge avenue that is Las Ramblas and she
decides to quit while she’s ahead.

It’s as busy as last time, with energy and atmosphere spilling from every corner. We meander through the crowd in the direction of a market recommended by the guidebooks and I clutch my
bag tightly, a reflex action that’s ironic given that I have nothing of much value this time: a cheap travel purse containing a couple of notes, a phone that’s resolutely not ringing
and no necklace.

‘Let’s put a photo on Facebook,’ Nicola suggests, gathering us into a tight group. She stretches out her arm, instructs us to smile and takes the photo – before examining
it with the kind of expression you’d reserve for a red-wine enthusiast vomiting on your cream carpet.

‘I can’t put that on Facebook. Imogen, you look as if you’ve . . .’ Her voice trails off.

‘Lost my job?’ I offer. ‘Or been mugged? Or slept with someone I shouldn’t?’

Nicola frowns. ‘You’ve got every right to be upset about your necklace and the job. But not the fling, Imogen. You were totally entitled to that. Overdue it, in fact.’

‘And he really likes you!’ Meredith pipes up. ‘That
never
happens with people you meet on holiday. Normally, they’re either not interested in anything beyond a
one-off shag, or so ropey you want a partial lobotomy to obliterate the memory of them. Harry is
gorgeous
. I hope you’re going to arrange to see him back in London.’

‘If you must know, he’s moving to Aberdeen as soon as this trip is over,’ I mutter. ‘He’s not even flying back to London. And that’s the only good thing I can
say about this – the fact that I’ll never see him again.’

Before that sentence leaves my mouth, I actually believe it. Only as the words linger in the air, my stomach surges with disappointment. A heavy silence sits between the three of us.

‘Come on, let’s do your photo again,’ I suggest brightly. ‘I promise I’ll smile enough to convince all your Facebook friends we’re having a whale of a
time.’

We get into position and I’m grinning like I’m about to have several molars extracted when I hear a familiar Spanish voice. I glance up to see the beautiful, ill-fated Delfina firing
instructions at her group, which includes Harry. A wave of light-headedness grips me.

‘Oh, Imogen, you’ve done it again!’ Nicola protests, thrusting the photo in front of me. I’d have to admit I look like a sumo wrestler has just rollerbladed over my
toe.

‘Sorry, I—’

‘Hello, Imogen.’

Harry’s luminous eyes can hardly hold my gaze. The obvious chinks in his confidence don’t suit him at all.

‘Hi,’ I mumble.

He forces a smile. ‘Have you got a minute?’

My friends slip away instantly, refusing to give me any choice. And so I find myself face to face with the man who has profoundly shaken my world in the last twenty-four hours, watching him bite
his lip in a way that’s entirely disconcerting as it draws my eyes to his mouth and assaults me with a full-sensory memory of what kissing it tasted like. ‘About last night.’

I’m torn between wanting the ground to swallow me up, and a raging desire to know what he wants to say about last night. But these thoughts are fleeting. Because as I stand, listening
intently, something in the dim periphery of my line of sight grabs my attention and yanks my attention violently away from him.

‘Oh my God.’ The words snake out of my mouth in a whisper. ‘OH. MY. GOD.’

‘What is it?’

‘That’s him.’ I nod as a figure cuts through the crowd, exactly as he did the last time. ‘The boy who stole my necklace.’

Harry focuses on him. ‘The one with the dark hair and blue T-shirt?’

I nod, fixed to the spot, incapable of removing my eyes from him as my head swells anew with thoughts about the possible destiny of my necklace. Has he sold it? Has he still got it? Has
he—

‘Why don’t we go and have a chat with him?’ It’s an audacious suggestion, yet Harry looks and sounds so unfeasibly relaxed, it takes a moment to work out that he’s
serious.

As my heart lashes against my ribcage, a deluge of emotions sweeps through me – alarm, fear, foreboding. But then the clouds in my head suddenly clear and I experience something else
entirely. I’m not sure if it’s quite courage – it’s closer to sheer, bloody-minded
defiance
.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I think perhaps we should.’ With Harry by my side, as we advance towards the boy I seem to grow three inches taller.

The youth is clearly on the lookout for his next target, subtly assessing who in the crowd has let down their guard. The irony that he has failed to notice
us
as we approach from behind
is as terrifying as it is delicious.

Harry and I exchange glances and, despite my chest feeling as though it might explode, I reach out and tap him on the shoulder.

The boy turns round. Our eyes meet and I confirm instantly that it’s him. Suddenly, every ounce of fear slips away from me. ‘You stole my necklace,’ I say calmly.

His mouth opens in feigned indignation as he glances at Harry. ‘
Que?
’ He shrugs innocently.

I am about to repeat the accusation when he suddenly springs round and, before I have time to let out my breath, is darting through the crowds away from us.

‘Shit!’

‘’Arry, we need to go,’ says Delfina, grabbing Harry by the arm.

Before I can fully digest the situation, I’ve abandoned Harry and am going after the boy, as Harry is dragged away by Delfina.

I’ve never been a natural sprinter; I don’t think anyone over a D cup ever is. Once I hit the age of thirteen, centrifugal forces put me at the same disadvantage in cross-country
races as someone pushing a wheelbarrow full of builders’ rubble. But that doesn’t stop me now. With adrenalin searing through me, I race after him, pushing through the crowd. My eyes
focus on my target as I dart between two elderly ladies, spring around a Vespa parked on the pavement and, as I leap over a dog tied to a bollard, feel so like I’m in a movie scene that I
half expect someone to ride out of a blazing building on a motorbike and scoop me up to ride pillion.

Considering I’m dripping with sweat and wearing espadrilles, I don’t do badly. My vigilante efforts might even be impressive if only my adversary wasn’t quite so agile.

I’ve been on his trail for at least a minute, maybe more, when I realise that there’s someone I recognise ahead of us.

‘Mr Brayfield! STOP HIM!’ I shriek as my geography teacher and his wife stop talking and look in my direction. ‘HE STOLE MY NECKLACE!’

Mr Brayfield’s mouth gapes.

‘GET HIM, BRYAN!’ thunders Mrs B as her husband panics, pulls himself together, then thrusts out one of his crutches in the path of my adversary. He stumbles ahead and falls to the
floor. Hope surges through me as I realise something I’d started to doubt: I’ve got him. I’VE ACTUALLY GOT HIM!

He glances back and we both know he’s within my reach.

Then Fate intervenes.

It’s the initial wallop on my left cheek that stops me first, followed by a series of frenzied flaps that feel like a Gremlin break-dancing on my scalp. It takes a second to work out that
the creature hitting me is, in fact, a pigeon, something that becomes clear only when I’m forced to snort violently to dislodge a feather stuck up my nose. No matter how vehemently I attempt
to bat it away, it persists with a whirling dervish of berserk wing slaps, until I am only finally rid of it by pulling off a convincing under-arm volley with my handbag.

To my astonishment, this pantomime has momentarily stunned my target and everyone else into inaction. He snaps out of his daze and turns to sprint away just as I realise I need to do something
drastic, magnificent. So I leap.

With my arms outstretched, I glide through the air, confident that justice will be mine. My adversary, however, is faster than Usain Bolt on the Japanese bullet train and consequently, I can
only see empty pavement approaching. I can see it and, determined not to end up with my second black eye of the holiday, I reach out to break my fall. Sadly, I do not break my fall.

I simply break my arm.

‘Some VIP holiday this is,’ I mutter as I sit in a cubicle, legs dangling off the side of the bed.