The Time of Our Lives (4 page)

And it was. We were never members of the popular, pretty – and spectacularly bitchy – clique at school (most of whom are working on the checkout at Poundland these days). Despite
repeated efforts with Nic’s mum’s false tan, we were plain and unassuming, the type of girls people nobody really fancied and (until my breasts grew . . . and grew) hardly even noticed.
Nicola was the one whose shoulder I cried on when, aged thirteen, a pack of Tampax fell out of my bag and cascaded across the school canteen; and again, when James Dickinson nearly burst his
appendix laughing at the Valentine’s card I’d taken three weeks of inner turmoil to muster the courage to send; and indeed, in 2007, when I fell into the black hole that opened up when
Roberto wasn’t there any more. I’ve done a lot of crying on Nicola’s shoulder, there’s no doubt about it.

‘Why don’t you do something really crazy and turn off your phone?’ she suggests.

‘That’s a step too far. I’ve disabled my email and Internet settings, but I’ve got to keep the phone on, and not just for work emergencies. I’d never relax with
Florence on the other side of the continent. I need to know that if anything goes wrong, I can be easily reached.’

‘Nothing will go wrong.’

‘Well,
I’m
severely tempted to turn off my phone,’ Meredith breaks in, glaring at hers. ‘Nathan is driving me up the wall. He’s already phoned three times
this morning to check I’m doing my pelvic-floor exercises. Oh, and of course to bring up, again, the fact that I’m going away in “my condition”. I hate that term.
You’d think I was a used car, not a 28-year-old woman.’

‘He’s not happy about this trip, then?’ Nicola asks.

Meredith shakes her head. ‘He hasn’t said that but it’s fairly clear that’s the case. I know he’s only worried, but even his books say that it’s fine to fly
at this stage in pregnancy. Besides, it’s not like we had a choice – it was the holiday company, not us, who chose the dates.’

I’d never have had Nathan down as an obsessive future parent. He’s a DJ by trade and former wild-child by disposition yet, these days, he seems more concerned with memorising Gina
Ford’s newborn routines than any of the dubious escapades he regularly got up to a couple of years ago.

‘He’s just concerned and excited about being a dad, Meredith. It’s nice that he’s so interested,’ I point out.

‘Lots of men aren’t,’ Nicola adds.

Meredith grunts and changes the subject. ‘Are you going to turn off that phone or not?’

‘I can’t. And it’s a moot point anyway, because everyone’s promised not to phone, unless it’s a real emergency.’

‘Even your mother?’

I nod. ‘Even my m—’

My phone interrupts me. It’s my mother.

‘
So
sorry to phone so soon after you’ve left.’ Her enunciation is near perfect, despite growing up with a debilitating childhood lisp for which she received regular
hidings from her authoritarian father. She eventually got rid of it using a self-help book and an hour of tongue exercises every night, something she says taught her that anything is possible in
life if you put your mind to it.

‘I know I said I’d keep calls to a minimum, but your father’s taken Florence and Spud for a walk so I wanted to check on a few things. First is the itinerary for this week.
Tomorrow we’re taking Florence to
Princess Wishes
at the Arena. On Tuesday we’re going shopping for dresses. On Wednesday she’s coming with me to get a pedicure.
On—’

‘What?’

‘Shopping,’ she repeats.

‘No – the one after that.’

‘Oh, the pedicure. Well, obviously it’ll be
me
having that, but they won’t mind letting her have a go. She’ll love it.’

‘I don’t doubt that, but she’s only four. What next, a full leg wax?’

‘I thought you said it was up to me where to take her?’ she points out.

I hesitate. ‘Yes. Yes, I did. Take her where you like. I . . . trust you.’ Which is true if we’re simply talking about my daughter’s general wellbeing and safety; whether
I trust her not to return Florence dressed like one of those children on
Big Fat Gypsy Weddings
is another matter. She was exactly the same when I was little: obsessed with cultivating my
inner-girliness – losing battle that that was.

My mother is PA to the boss of a private bank that manages the money of ‘ultra high-net-worth individuals’ (‘rich buggers’ to you and me), but I get the impression she
runs the place, a bit like the way Rasputin did Tsarist Russia. This, her job for the last fifteen years, represents the least glamorous of her professions since she ran away from home aged
sixteen. The only thing not on her CV is ‘Bond Girl’, although she apparently did once serve falafel to Roger Moore during a brief stint as a restaurant hostess in Abu Dhabi.

My parents met in their early thirties when my dad, who’s an engineer, was working for a company in the Middle East. They only moved back to Liverpool, his home city, after they had me, an
event my mother describes charmingly as the worst experience of her life – I was born nine weeks early and weighed the equivalent of two of the ubiquitous bags of sugar. The fact that Mum was
convinced she was going to lose me could be one of the reasons why she barely leaves me alone today.

She and Dad have one of those she-wears-the-trousers relationships and it seems to suit them both because, more than twenty years later, they’re still together. That’s despite the
fact Dad is a
Guardian
-reading, bespectacled liberal, and in all honesty you wouldn’t automatically put them together.

I look up and note with panic that there is a surge of interest in the breakfast bar. Meredith’s plate is piled high with croissants, crudités and Marmite – a psychopathic
combination even accounting for the fact that she’s pregnant – and she’s been joined by several others tucking into the dwindling supplies. My stomach growls like a werewolf
during a full moon.

‘I’d better go, Mum. Thanks again for looking after Florence for me, it really is appreciated. Can I phone you when we get to Barcelona so I can speak to her?’

‘Before you go, have you got that special bag with you?’

I hesitate. ‘Yes,’ I lie.

Unfortunately, my voice always rises an octave when I’m not telling the truth – an oral version of Pinocchio’s nose. This does not escape my mother’s notice.

‘You haven’t brought it, have you?’

It’s been years since my mother has been to Barcelona and, following some Internet research, she’s concluded that there is now a grave pickpocketing problem there.

You would never believe that someone so worldly wise could be this neurotic about her daughter, but Mum still treats me like I’ve barely learned to tie my own shoelaces. As a result, she
purchased on my behalf a bag that looks like the sort of thing Securicor would use to transport gold bullion. Its proportions are preposterous – I tried carrying it briefly, and decided
I’d have returned home in traction had I persevered.

I will, reluctantly, admit that there’s an inkling of truth behind the pickpocketing stories. After the holiday had been arranged, I read an article about tried-and-tested tricks used by
street robbers. In one, a woman on the metro stands up to announce that she has just been pick-pocketed, and suggests that everyone checks their wallets. At which point, all the men pat the pocket
they keep those wallets in, and this gives her accomplices a clear indication of their whereabouts. In another con, fake bird-poo is squirted on an unsuspecting tourist’s shoulder before
someone leaps to their aid to wipe it off – and help themselves to the contents of their handbag.

Even in the light of this dazzling array of anecdotes, of which the Internet is awash, I still wouldn’t bring the bag. It’s so big and so ugly that even if you’d told me if I
was destined to be marooned on a desert island and my only possible chance of escape was using it as a makeshift kayak, I’d prefer to take my chances with the breaststroke.

I clear my throat and deliberately lower my voice before answering her. ‘Of course I have.’ It comes out like Barry White on steroids.

‘What about the Acidophilus I gave you? You know, to cope with digesting the shellfish.’

‘Yes, I’ve taken lots of those,’ I reply, meaning none. My mum loves health supplements. It’s never occurred to her that the human body could possibly function without
the existence of Holland & Barrett.

Nicola returns to her seat with a plate full of rye bread, cheese and other goodies, the sight of which makes me feel as though I’ll fall into a coma if I don’t eat.

‘Mum, I have to go.’

‘But I haven’t mentioned the glucosamine sulphate!’

‘Flight’s being called. Speak soon! Love you!’ I press ‘End’.

‘Haven’t you got some nosh yet?’ Meredith asks. ‘We’re going to have to go to the gate soon. You’d better get in there quick.’

I race to the brunch bar, and a cloud of wanton gluttony descends on me. It’s not merely that I’m hungry and that before me is an array of goodies that could rival one of Henry
VIII’s feasts. It’s that it’s
free
.

I tell myself not to be such a pleb about this, but then I reason that I
am
on holiday and therefore, hungry or not, I’m allowed to pile up my plate.

There’s only one large dinner plate left and, as I reach to pick it up, a bony hand gets there first. Its owner is an anatomical skeleton dressed head to toe in Prada; a woman so skinny
that she’d surely need three weeks to make her way through one of these platefuls. She pouts. I narrow my eyes. But she’s obviously used to this sort of stand-off so, wimp that I am, I
back off. I’m then left with the choice of looking like an insufferable greedy guts and
asking
for a big plate, or settling for an infuriatingly modest one.

I sniff and opt for the latter.

I start with a croissant. Which looks lovely, so I have two. Then I spot some little madeleine-type things and add those, then a dollop of honey. If I was sensible, I’d stop there. But
there’s something in my Irish-Liverpool ancestry that means I’m genetically programmed to behave like the best I’m used to is half a rancid potato, so I add a little coconut cake
and a pot of jam. Then I realise I have two handily empty pockets and so add two more pots – they’re so cute! – leaving plate-space free for a couple more items.

By now I’m in almost a hypnotic state, as if having an out-of-body experience as my hand frenziedly reaches out and grabs item after item. It’s only when I’ve paused for breath
that I realise I’ve created a culinary version of Buckaroo on my plate – it’s piled so high, it’s now difficult to move without the entire thing collapsing. I’m still
considering my options when I note that my neighbour, the skeleton, has allowed herself to go wild with three slices of melon, which sit in solitary confinement on her oversized plate.

I decide it is time to return to my seat. I do so as carefully as I can, holding my breath, with the stealth of a tightrope walker, baby-step by baby-step, glancing cautiously from my plate to
my destination . . . as an announcement is made: ‘British Airways would like to apologise for a delay to flight BA—’

At which point my ears fail me. ‘Was that ours?’ I holler to Nicola, increasing my speed. At least, I attempt to: instead, a human-shaped brick wall suddenly appears from nowhere,
upending my pastry goodies and spilling lavish amounts of Bucks Fizz down my front.

‘Oh God!’ I shriek, temporarily immobile as a wave of embarrassment overcomes me and I glare, crimson-faced, at the food I’ve firebombed over the pristine carpet. I then become
hyper-aware that the tapping of keyboards has ceased and dozens of eyes are now peering over their laptops at the source of the commotion.

‘Let me help,’ a male voice says, its owner grabbing my plate and piling debris back onto it.

When he’s finished, he reaches for a new plate and hands it to me. ‘You may have to start again.’

I open my mouth to reply but nothing comes out.

His features are more sexy than classically handsome, with midnight blue eyes and shamelessly full lips: when he smiles, they produce a kind of half-smirk, an unsettling look that gives the
clear impression that he’s probably slept with far more women than is good for anyone.

I know, simply know, that by the time I’ve returned to my seat, Meredith will have spotted him, given him the once-over, and be working out how she can chat him up: although I doubt even
she’d cheat on Nathan in current circumstances, she’s not let the small matter of pregnancy stop a bit of harmless flirting. And he’s exactly her type: big, broad, slightly
unshaven and, in her demented head, the sort of bloke you
just know
will be a fantastic shag – a quote I’ve heard more times than I can tell you over the years.

‘That’ll teach us both to look where we’re going,’ he adds, reaching to grab some napkins. It’s only then that I realise my Buck’s Fizz is all over his shirt
too. He begins mopping it up, before handing a napkin to me.

‘Us
both
?’ I ask, wiping my T-shirt. ‘I thought I was, to be honest.’ I say this politely, sweetly almost. But I’ve taken enough management-course
assertiveness modules to know that it must be said.

He pauses and looks at me, smirking again, which really gets up my nose. ‘Well, let’s not worry about it. Just one of those things.’

I go to reply, but his expression stops me in my tracks. It strikes me that he probably thinks I did this on purpose, because I fancy him, like Meg Ryan in a 1990s romcom. I suddenly want to get
out of there. ‘I’d better go. Thanks for the napkin,’ I add, to show there are no hard feelings, except as I wave said napkin in front of his nose, I manage to drop it.

So I bend over to pick it up, at which point the two pots of jam in my pockets plop onto the floor, next to a smattering of chocolate muffin. He picks them up and adds them to my plate with
another hint of a smile.

There is an awkward silence and, as ever (despite the obviously useless assertiveness modules), I am engulfed by the hideous need to fill it. ‘I collect jam jars,’ I announce, as if
such a hobby would be any less embarrassing than having the appetite of a ravenous water buffalo.