The Time of Our Lives (8 page)

My hand hesitates over the page as I contemplate my next words. He’s never going to read them, so what does it matter?

I swallow back a lump in my throat and fold away the letter. Then I glide between my beautiful sheets, desperate to submit myself to slumber.

‘GNNGH–herrr–GNNGHHH–herrr . . .!’

My eyes ping open as Meredith’s snores reverberate around the bedroom with such force that the cocktail shaker vibrates.

I close them again and try to block out the sound.

‘GNNGH–herrr–GNNGHHH–herrr . . .’

I get out of bed, pad over and gently nudge her until she makes a few gerbil-like noises before stopping.

I get back into bed. I close my eyes. A minute passes.

Tension drifts away from me as I descend into a rapid, deep and blissful sleep.

‘G N N G H – h e r r r – G N N G H H H – h e r r r GNNGH–herrr–GNNGHHH–herrr . . .’

It suddenly feels like it’s going to be a long night.

I finally stumble into sleep some time after 5 a.m., having spent most of the night attempting to block out Meredith’s snores by lagging my ears with two torn-up panty
liners.

In the process, my mind drifts to the issue of the
Daily Sun
and those unreturned phone calls. Having relaxed about it while I was tipping red wine down my throat, by the early hours of
the morning I have whipped myself into a mild panic.

What if they’ve found out about the merger and want to run a story about it before anyone’s ready?

The irony of my failure to drift off while lying in the world’s most comfortable bed is not lost on me. In fact, it irritates the hell out of me. Which only keeps me awake longer. Worse, I
know full well that neither Roy, the PR agency nor a phone call from a journalist qualifies as matters that should be vexing me so badly. The most that should tax my overworked brain on this
holiday is deciding between a Cosmopolitan or a sangria.

I wake up just after ten, having missed the hotel breakfast. Meredith is still asleep and, for the first time in ten hours, not emitting the sort of snores you’d expect from an 18-stone
truck-driver after a binge-drinking competition. I am briefly contemplating attempting to go back to sleep when my phone rings.

ROY!

I sit bolt upright and maniacally scrabble around my bedside table until I find something phone-shaped. I start jabbing at buttons, desperate to finally make contact, at which point I am
assaulted by a pyrotechnical array of activity: the curtains fly open, then close; the television bursts into a medley of flamenco music; Meredith’s bedside light flashes on and off.

She leaps up in wild-eyed bewilderment, her hands to her bird’s nest head. ‘Answer the bloody phone!’

I glance at my hand and register that I’m holding a remote control that seems so omnipotent, I’m half wondering if I’ve inadvertently launched a missile somewhere in the
mid-Atlantic.

I chuck it onto the quilt before locating my phone under the bed and hitting ‘Answer’.

‘Ms Imogen! Copeland! I mean . . . Imogen!’

Groggily, I wipe my eyes and clear my throat. ‘Oh, Laura.’

‘That reporter’s been on the phone again,’ she says breathlessly. ‘He left a message first thing. No one got back to him yesterday from the PR company.’

My blood runs cold. ‘What about Roy?’

‘He said not. I’m so sorry to be bothering you with this – I feel awful. It’s just that they said that the story’s going in tomorrow, at least they think so, and
they need a quote from us.’

‘Right. And it’s about Teeny Pops?’

‘He didn’t mention them.’

‘What did he say it was about, then?’

‘I don’t know quite how to put this. It’s . . . kind of X-rated.’ I check my ears for residue from the panty liners, but they remain disturbingly clear. ‘What did
you say? X-rated? In what way?’

She swallows. I can hear the mortification in her voice as she speaks. ‘I’ll read to you my verbatim note of what he said.’ She clears her throat. ‘“We’re
running a story that’s been picked up by one of our agencies about a senior Peebles executive being thrown off a flight from Stuttgart after getting frisky in first class with the woman next
to him, another executive.”’

‘“Getting frisky”? Tell me they mean he was doing aerobics.’

‘“Fellow passengers reported witnessing the executives drink copious amounts of champagne in the first-class lounge two hours before the flight. Then, on the plane, laugh and flirt
hysterically before reclining their seats to the lie-flat position and disappearing under their complimentary blankets.”’

‘How do you “flirt hysterically”?’

‘“A series of loud and inappropriate noises was heard to come from their direction and, when questioned by an air hostess, it was discovered that the female executive had at some
point during the course of events become topless.”’

‘This has got to be a joke.’

‘“They were both asked to refrain, but seemed to consider the whole thing to be extremely funny, until the plane landed and they were arrested and charged with being drunk and
disorderly and indecent exposure offences.” Then the reporter asked if he could have a comment. So, without putting too fine a point on it . . . can we?’

‘Shit a brick.’

‘Wow. I’m not sure what they’ll make of that.’

‘That’s not my comment!’

‘God, of course. So sorry.’ My head spins as I contemplate the consequences of a front-page story like that. We’d be the laughing stock of the industry. All our nice,
reassuring adverts featuring wholesome families with 2.4 children would be mocked mercilessly. And with plenty of time left for Getreide to put the brakes on the merger, who would blame them for
wanting to disassociate themselves from a company whose reputation has become suddenly and dramatically sleaze-ridden?

‘I need to think about this,’ I mutter, hyperventilating. ‘I need to look into this. I need to find out if this is true. What am I saying? It
can’t
be true. It
sounds like a load of nonsense. What on earth made them think it was anyone to do with Peebles?’

‘One of the passengers heard him bragging that he was a big cheese in this company.’

‘Did this journalist have the name of whoever he thinks was involved?’

‘I don’t think so because he asked us for it. He said we’d be doing him a big favour, although I don’t know why he thought we’d be inclined to do him any favours.
You don’t think it was Gaz Silverman, do you?’ Gaz Silverman is our deputy accounts director, though I have no idea why Laura would think it was him.

‘I honestly don’t know,’ I reply. ‘Is Roy not in the office yet?’

‘Well, I’ve just noticed that his coat’s here, so he must be in a meeting.’

‘At least he’s in the building then. Please try and track him down, Laura. And the PR agency. Let’s both of us get on to them.’

‘Okay, Ms—boss.’

I’m about to insist she calls me Imogen when I realise ‘boss’ doesn’t sound too bad at all.

I know I should be enjoying our day trip to Las Ramblas; it’s my sort of place: a majestic, tree-lined pedestrian avenue that’s abundantly atmospheric and flanked
with bustling shops and restaurants.

It’s one of Barcelona’s biggest tourist attractions and visiting was one of my top priorities. So why is it currently playing second fiddle to my preoccupation with work? That, and
the fact that my new flip-flops appear to have an integrated cheese grater between the toes.

‘Imogen, why do you look so worried?’ Nicola asks, linking my arm with hers as an intense sun beats down on our shoulders.

‘I don’t,’ I protest. ‘I mean, I’m not worried.’ I pause. ‘Okay, maybe I am. I can’t deny I’ll feel happier when I’ve got hold of Roy
or the PR agency. Unless I hear from them soon I’m going to have to tell David what’s going on, a prospect I am not relishing. I can’t understand why neither of them are returning
my calls.’

‘Isn’t that someone else’s problem while you’re on holiday?’ Meredith asks. She’s in Daisy Duke cut-offs and from behind she doesn’t even look pregnant,
a phenomenon I’ve noticed is particularly unsettling for those with aspirations to chat her up.

‘You’d think so—’ I am halted mid-sentence by a hot, damp sensation that splashes onto my shoulder with an ominous plop. I do a double take, realising to my horror that a
bird has ‘done its business’ on me. Though a description of such benign modesty hardly suffices – whatever creature emptied its bowels as it passed overhead has clearly been
feasting on the same grub as King Kong. ‘Oh, noooo!’ I shriek as the offending pulp trickles down my arm with all the resistance of a Cornetto in front of a three-bar fire.

Meredith’s eyes grow to three times their usual size. ‘What the
hell
is that?’

‘What does it look like?’ Nicola mutters as she roots around in her bag for a tissue. But someone beats her to it.

‘
Déjeme ayudarle
.’ The voice is gruff but barely audible, even if I could speak Spanish. Its origin is a tall, craggy-jowled man with eyebrows that could remove rust
from a haddock trawler. To my alarm, he begins wiping my shoulder with a tea towel, attempting to get rid of the debris.

I smile awkwardly, not wishing to appear ungrateful, but uncomfortable with physical contact from a complete stranger.

‘
Gracias! Gracias!
’ I announce, nodding in that British way we reserve for pronouncing languages we know we’re crap at.

I am about to direct the girls away when an array of recently learned facts click into place, and I freeze.

I can’t believe I fell for this.
IT’S THE BIRD-POO DUPE!

I quickly scrutinise the ‘poo’ again, and from its consistency and colossal volume deduce that there’s absolutely no way it’s real. And am I seriously expected to believe
some bloke would happen to be strolling along Las Ramblas with a tea towel at the ready, prepared to leap to the rescue of recently shat-on maidens?

As these thoughts flood my brain, I open my bag and register that my purse is gone. I glare at the man.

He freezes and glares back, the eyebrows twitching nervously. He knows that I know.

‘I’d like my purse back, please,’ I hear myself saying.

‘
Que?
’

‘I said I’d like my purse back.’

He shrugs and puts on a flimsy display of bewilderment as Nicola starts spluttering. ‘Imogen! What makes you think he’s got your purse?’

‘Oh, he’s got it,’ I reply, coming over all Cagney and Lacey.

‘Are you sure?’ Meredith scrunches up her nose as she looks at me.

‘I’ve read all about this,’ I snarl, refusing to break eye contact. ‘This is a tried and tested trick, isn’t it?’

The man shakes his head and backs away.

‘You’ve messed with the wrong tourist. Give me my purse back.
Now
.’

‘Imogen, you’re being hasty,’ Nicola protests.

At which point, the guy turns on his heel and attempts to make his getaway. But I’m too fast for him – before he’s taken four steps, a queasy wash of adrenalin races through me
and I leap through the air like a novice long-jumper, landing on him in a demented piggy-back. He attempts to push me off, but I squeeze my legs around his waist and tug at his neck, grappling him
to the ground. We are a violent jumble of legs and arms as he attempts to wrestle me away but, despite his size, I manage to grip on, hard.

‘
POLICIA! POLICIA!
’ I bellow, as he finally pushes me off and I land on my backside on the pavement. Miraculously, two police officers appear almost instantly. But the man
doesn’t get up and run away.

‘Officers, arrest this man,’ I chuff, as I brush myself down and step aside so they can spring into action. Except they don’t spring: they barely even twitch. On the contrary,
they actually help him up and allow him to straighten his clothes while he delivers a frenzied rant in Spanish that appears to be directed at me.

When he’s finished they turn to me. ‘Why did you assault this man?’ one asks, in a robust Spanish accent.

‘
This
man robbed
me
,’ I reply, open mouthed at his audacity.

The two police officers frown simultaneously before putting my allegation to him. It prompts a series of wild gesticulations that make it a wonder he doesn’t dislocate something. I
don’t precisely know what he’s saying, but when he starts whirling his hand around his head then jabbing his finger at me, it’s clear I’m not coming out overly well from the
description.

I feel I need to speak up for myself. ‘He put fake bird . . .
doodoo
. . . on my shoulder, and used it as a diversion to pinch my purse.’

The officer looks at me sternly. ‘Doo-doo?’

I squirm. ‘You know. Poo.’

He looks at me blankly, at which point I am forced to perform an elaborate game of Charades that involves simulating how a large bird might look while excreting its lunch midflight.
There’s no dignity involved, but I think I make my point.

‘You believe this man covered you in shit?’ the policeman asks, poetically.

‘
Fake
shit,’ I clarify.

‘
Señora
—’

‘
Señorita.
’ I correct him, indignantly.

‘
Señorita
, I do not believe you are right.’

‘I
am
right. My purse is gone! This is one of the oldest tricks in the book, according to . . . Google! This is egg white – you can instantly see that,’ I say, dipping
my finger in the offending substance. ‘This is how confident I am,’ I add, poised to lick my finger.

‘DON’T!’ Nicola shrieks. ‘Imogen, that does not look like something you’d use to make a meringue.’

I hesitate and sniff it instead.

A horrible realisation occurs to me: she might be right. It smells distinctly natural, and not in a good way. The implications of this seize me as the police officer addresses me again.

‘
Señora
—
ita
. . . Eduardo is one of the most respected café owners in Las Ramblas. He saw what happened and stepped out to help you.’