The Time of Our Lives (7 page)

I glance at Nicola, who is green. ‘I’m sorry,’ she announces suddenly. ‘We need to go and check in now.’

‘Yes, we do,’ I reinforce. ‘We very much do. We need to go and get our friend, then go.’

‘Where are you staying?’ asks Mr Brayfield.

‘Madrid,’ Nicola replies.

But, having made themselves comfortable on a tartan blanket, they’re now too busy rummaging around in the backpack to hear.

‘Sure you don’t want to stay and have a picnic?’ offers Mrs Brayfield, as she picks damp pieces of paper napkin off some soggy breakfast buns clearly appropriated from a hotel
buffet.

‘Ah, we could have a chat about old times!’ Mr Brayfield adds, but Nicola is now backing away as though she is being threatened with a pump-action shotgun.

‘Thank you, but no,’ she says. ‘Enjoy the rest of your day.’

‘Oh, we will,’ Mr Brayfield assures us. ‘And be careful with the suncream. Muggins here missed a few bits last time – ouch!’ He grins, pointing downwards.

At which point Nicola looks like she might faint.

We finally get to our room around 5 p.m. I’m not sure why but, judging by the anxiety etched into the concierge’s forehead, it isn’t something that happens
often.

The room is a miracle of modern hospitality: an ambiently lit, orgasmically appointed homage to interior design. Silk curtains fall heavily on a carpet of intense depth and softness, while
state-of-the-art gadgets sit in subtle juxtaposition to a view of amaranthine loveliness across the sea.

I am running my fingers over the crisp white sheets of one of the two enormous twin beds, imagining how it will feel to sink into the whispering softness of its pillows, when Meredith bursts out
of the toilet.

‘There’s a LOO-ROLL LIGHT! Isn’t that
awesome
?’

‘What’s a loo-roll light?’

‘Well . . . it lights up your loo roll,’ she replies, an ask-a-sillyquestion response if ever I’ve heard one.

There’s no doubt about it – it couldn’t be more perfect. All I need now is to clean myself up and enjoy this properly.

As Meredith settles down with Spanish
Vogue
, I go to take a shower, a prospect I’ve never relished more as I peel off my Bolognese-coated T-shirt.

I reach out to turn the chrome tap, closing my eyes as I anticipate warm suds sweeping down my body. Instead, I am assaulted by water colder than the deep end of Tooting Bec Lido in January.
Shrieking, I leap out, and spend the next five minutes hopping about, turning blue and wrestling with the temperature knob as Meredith provides what she clearly believes to be helpful instructions,
formed solely on the basis of watching one episode of
DIY SOS
.

I reluctantly reach the conclusion that nothing I do is going to work, a fact I struggle to compute – that my five-star hotel, the likes of which I’m never likely to see the inside
of again, has failed to provide me with hot, running water.

I grab a dressing gown and tiptoe into the bedroom to discover cards next to the phone advertising the hotel’s ‘Whatever your whim’ service, which apparently caters for every
tiny request imaginable. I phone the number and explain that my only whim is for a shower. A simple, straightforward shower.

After apologising profusely, they send up a man. He proceeds to fiddle with the shower until, to the soundtrack of his frenzied cries, it sends water spewing all over him, our room and our
carpet of intense depth and softness.

So another man comes along and – apologising profusely – tells us we need to move rooms. At which point a woman appears and – apologising profusely – marches us to
another room on the floor above. She reassures me that I can keep hold of the dressing gown until I get there, as if I’d considered the alternative.

Meredith can’t resist a bit of a grumble, however, although that’s partly because she’s received a text from Nathan telling her he loves her and enquiring if she’s
massaging her perineum regularly.

But, all in all, I think we’re remarkably stoic – something that can partly be attributed to the profuse apologies, which are so relentless I’m not sure how many more I can
take.

We finally settle in our new room with a working shower, and it is every bit as exquisite as I’d hoped. The result is that I am now bathed, relaxed, swaddled in a robe so fluffy you could
wear it while husky-sledging across an Alaskan glacier, and intending to spend a few blissful minutes on the balcony reading before I get ready for dinner.

‘
Here is a small fact
. . .’

My phone rings. I pick it up and glance at its screen, noting the words ‘Private number’.

If I were a better woman, I’d leave it, confident in the knowledge that 99 per cent of calls from an anonymous number are from somebody to whom you don’t want to speak. But it rings
and rings until I do what I always do – huff demonstratively, then answer.

‘Hello, Imogen Copeland.’

‘Hello, Ms Copeland. I’m SO sorry to bother you. It’s Laura Greenwood here.’

Laura, our new office administrator, is a sweet but smart Geordie in her early twenties who is so vastly overqualified for the job I literally blush when I ask her to order new pencils.

‘You really don’t have to call me “Ms Copeland”, you know.’ I think of Laura as the sort of woman who, a few years ago, I’d have been drinking with in a
student union bar, yet she addresses me like I’m about to send her to sit outside the head teacher’s office.

‘Sorry,’ she replies.

‘It’s fine! Look, Laura, I’m actually away on holiday at the moment,’ I tell her.

‘I know. I’m so, so sorry. But Diana told me that there was no alternative to phoning you.’

Diana, David’s secretary, is a strikingly attractive divorcée in her mid-forties with an MA in Business Studies, and a PhD in calling the management wankers. She despises her job
and is incapable of engaging in conversation with David, our esteemed leader, without rolling her eyes theatrically. I suspect he’s secretly terrified of her, which is probably why
she’s still there – I don’t think Stalin would have had the balls to sack her.

‘Did she not tell you that Roy’s deputising for me?’

‘She did. Well, I already knew. The problem is, he’s nowhere to be found.’

It’s been brilliant having Roy as a deputy, partly because I’ve known him for ever. Despite the fact that his gentle personality means he has a tendency to blend into the background,
he’s actually good fun. Unlike me, he seems to have the balance of work–family life exactly right, judging by the fact that he’s been happily married since the age of twenty-one
and has more pictures of his three kids around his desk than I have Post-it notes (and that’s A LOT).

I worried when I first got this job – given that he’s six years older than I am and has worked at Peebles for longer than I have – that he had every right to resent my luck.
But he’s been great to work with and, although I fretted about leaving him in charge while I was away, I know that is about my inability to let go rather than his competence.

‘Is he in a meeting?’ I ask.

‘I’ve no idea where he is, but this is urgent. So he said anyway.’

‘So who said?’

‘The journalist from the
Daily Sun
.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know how to tell you this, but . . . they’re working on a front-page story about us.’

My heart skips a beat. The last thing I did before I left was to authorise a press release from our PR agency about a new breakfast cereal we’re launching, aimed at the teenage market. I
hadn’t thought it overly newsworthy, so the idea that they might be considering it for the front is unbelievable.

‘The
Daily Sun
? As in, one of the UK’s biggest newspapers? Are you sure?’

‘That’s what the journalist said. I sent him to Ace Communications, obviously,’ she says eagerly.

‘Oh, that should be that then,’ I reply. ‘Julia, our account manager, will be on the case already. She’s very good. All you need to do now is fill Roy in when he gets
back from his meeting.’

‘The problem is, Ms Cope—Imogen . . . he phoned back to say that there was no answer at Ace and that he wanted to speak to someone urgently. And there just isn’t anyone. No one
at all. I’m so sorry.’

‘This
is
about the press release we sent out on Friday, isn’t it?’

‘Oh . . . I actually didn’t ask that. Oh God, I should’ve found out . . .’

‘Laura, it doesn’t matter. Roy’s been briefed to handle any matters like this in my absence. All it needs is for him to get on the PR company’s case and make sure Julia
follows up the call.’

‘Ms Co—Imogen, I don’t think you understand. I even got Graham to try and track him down on the office CCTV, but he spotted nothing except a potentially hazardous fire hydrant
on the fourth floor.’

‘Well, I presume he’ll be back soon,’ I reply, getting a little exasperated.

She takes a deep breath, clearly unconvinced. ‘I’ll keep trying him on his mobile then, shall I?’

‘I’d appreciate that. Thanks, Laura.’

‘No problem at all. I won’t rest till I’ve found him.’

‘And . . . oh, it doesn’t matter—’

‘Anything at all.’

‘Well, could you phone the journalist back and reassure him we’ll be happy to help? It’s a straightforward press release. I’m sure all they want is some freebies for a
taste test.’

‘Consider it done,’ she says, as I open my book, realize it’s time to get ready for dinner, and close it yet again.

That night we banquet on tapas at a buzzy little beach bar. A warm breeze dances through the air, and couples stroll along the boardwalk arm in arm.

I love this sort of food. It’s not just that picking at tiny plates lulls you into the completely false idea that you’re eating modestly; there’s also something deliciously
unpretentious about it. Not that I mind the opposite now and then – on our last night we’re booked in, as part of our prize, to the hotel’s Michelin-starred restaurant, where
I’ll expect as much pretentiousness as possible, thanks very much.

Meredith spends the evening flirting with our waiter, but manages to resist his thinly veiled invitation for a ‘walk’ along the shore, while Nicola rolls her eyes extravagantly.
After hearing nothing back from Laura and leaving my own (unreturned) messages for both the PR agency and Roy, the only thing for me to resist is the wine. And I can’t, as my large,
consecutive gulps make plain to everyone.

‘Is something the matter, Imogen?’ Nicola asks.

‘Oh, nothing. Well, work stuff,’ I reply, tapping my fingers on the tablecloth.

Meredith frowns. ‘That’s so wrong. You’re on holiday!’

‘I know,’ I reply. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Not that that tends to stop me.’

‘In which case, the wine is probably a good idea. I suggest you carry on.’ Nicola smiles, sympathetically.

I do as instructed, so much so that, as we weave our way back to the hotel, I’m overcome by a desire to hit my bed. Thankfully I’m not the only one.

‘Pregnancy is
exhausting
,’ Meredith declares, as she links arms with me.

‘It is the way
you
do it,’ I point out.

‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Meredith,’ Nicola says. ‘There are rabbits on heat that don’t manage to pull as fast as you. And when you’re heavily pregnant,
too. Amazing.’

Meredith shrugs. ‘I thought I was remarkably restrained. Did you see that waiter’s bum?’

‘Wasn’t he a bit young?’ Nicola asks.

‘Yep.’ Meredith grins. ‘Anyway, I know you were worried I’d spend every night wanting to talk, Imogen, but I’m absolutely shattered. I’ll be dead to the world
before you’ve even finished brushing your teeth.’

We get into the hotel room and I quickly perform my ablutions, emerging to see that Meredith’s prediction was accurate. She’s lying fast asleep on her back with her mouth wide open,
so I gently remove her flip-flops, pull the sheet over her and roll her onto her side. She’s not the type to read the pregnancy manuals that warn against lying on your back, but I pored over
them so enthusiastically when I was expecting Florence I could’ve passed a degree in obstetrics.

I pull on my pyjamas and am about to climb into bed when I spot a notepad and pen on the desk. Addressing a sudden urge to put them to use, I pick them up before returning to sink into bed.

‘Amore mio
. . .’

It was Roberto who first used the Italian for ‘My darling’, in a text exchange we had soon after we moved in together:

Somehow, despite previously considering pet names the preserve of half-wits and the stars of 1970s sitcoms, it stuck.

I don’t write to Roberto regularly but, sometimes, usually when I’m drunk, the need engulfs me. I know it’s stupid – it’s not as though it makes me feel any better
about what happened. And I try not to think about the fact that I never actually send them.