Year of Being Single (10 page)

Imogen couldn’t wait to see her. It had been at least six months. She’d heard on the grapevine that Marcia had been looking for a co-agent, but hadn’t considered it while she blundered into her laughable new ‘career’. Now, it was just what she wanted.

Imogen headed up to the office, treading carefully on the narrow, royal-blue carpeted stairs, which still smelled like furniture polish and old curtains. Heating whacked up to oblivion was belting out of Marcia’s open door. The enormous sash windows were wide open and papers on Marcia’s huge antique desk were ruffling in the stiff March breeze. There was some music playing – ‘Tubular Bells’? – and there was Marcia, over by the filing cabinet, wearing some sort of woolly, hot pink sarong wrapped round her body like cling film, with her arms and legs stuck out of it, surprised. A huge pair of sunglasses on top of her head pushed two parts of her wiry black hair into horns.

‘Darling!’ Marcia stepped forward and embraced Imogen in a giant hug. Over her pink shoulder, Imogen could see a man in the corner of the room, sitting in a brown leather chair. He had the open-mouthed, vacant glare of an American gangster. ‘That’s Tarquin,’ said Marcia, releasing Imogen from the hug. ‘I’m marketing him as the UK’s Tony Soprano. Hoping to get him into ’Enders. Say hi to Imogen, Tarquin.’

‘Hello there, Imogen,’ said Tarquin, standing up. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance.’ Tarquin had proper Queen’s English received pronunciation, with cut-glass vowels. He sounded terribly posh. It didn’t match his look at all. Marcia must have sensed Imogen’s surprise. She started to chuckle, her encased pink bottom jiggling as though desperate to be set free.

‘Oh, he’s a terrific actor, aren’t you, Tarquin? Give Imogen your best cockney.’

Tarquin cocked his head on one side, ground his eyebrows into a knot and curled his lips into a snarl. ‘All right, Ma?’

‘Very good,’ said Imogen.

‘They’re looking for a new landlord for the Queen Vic,’ said Marcia. ‘I reckon Tarqs will have it in the bag.’ Marcia suddenly grabbed her Dictaphone from the desk. ‘Please call Derango’s tomorrow and arrange canapés for three. Capish. Manyana,’ she muttered into it. Imogen smiled. ‘There’ll be plenty more where that came from. Actors, I mean. If you’re in?’

‘Of course, I’m in!’ said Imogen.

‘Fabbo. Can you come in Monday? I’ll get a desk all set up for you? You happy in the eaves, darling?’ she said pointing to a corner of the cramped office that had a desk crammed under a sloping roof.

‘More than happy,’ said Imogen.

‘Got potentials you can poach?’

‘Absolutely.’

Marcia walked over to a laptop on a shelf and started tapping frantically away on the keyboard, like Jerry Lee Lewis. ‘Well, duckie, see you Monday then,’ she said. And that was that: Imogen was an agent again.

Imogen decided to walk into Chinatown and get herself an early bird dim sum dinner to celebrate. This was going to be great. A boutique agency. Working with Marcia, in a team of two, where she would have so much more control…
This
was the change she needed. Not moonlighting in telly with a horrible boss. What had she been thinking, leaving the business?

She was walking along Grafton Street. Before she’d decided to swear off men, she’d have had her radar up, looking to see who was looking at her, sussing out the rich and available from the not so rich and available, enjoying the stares and returning them tenfold. Not any more. These days she let them look but she didn’t return the favour.

She was an attractive woman. Not anything close to beautiful, but she made the best of herself. Her hair was as straight and shiny as she could make it. Her skin was kept in tip-top condition. She bought expensive cosmetics. All that made up for her slightly roman nose. Her slightly square chin. Both from her dad, she suspected, from the grainy black and white photos she’d seen of him, at age twenty, lounging in a deck chair in Hyde Park, with shorts and flip-flops on. She did have dazzling eyes though. She got those from Mum. Emerald green and able to fell a man at thirty paces. She used to utilise them whenever she could. Now she was happy not to bother.

She received a few whistles, an idiot in a high-vis jacket blocked her path and waved a sandwich in front of her face and a good-looking guy in a smart navy suit looked her up and down. She gave him a withering look. Sod off. Who needed men? She certainly didn’t. She’d loved her year of being single, so far.

A large black car was half blocking the pavement. A grey-haired man, late fifties, early sixties, was standing in front of a cashpoint machine in a grey suit, getting some money out. There was a half-person width gap between him and the car. Idiot, she thought. She could have gone out into the road and walked around the car, but she couldn’t be bothered, on principle. And the road was teeming with people and bikes and traffic.

‘Bad form,’ said Imogen, as she turned her back to him and squeezed between him and the car. She flattened her bag against her flat stomach. Her bottom brushed his. Ugh. She didn’t particularly enjoy bumping bums with strangers. Not even at nights in salsa clubs.

‘Apologies,’ said a low, distinctly American voice. It didn’t come from the man standing at the cashpoint; it came from the half-open, tinted window in front of her. Imogen stopped and peered in. A whiff of expensive leather upholstery went up her nose. It was the first thing she noticed. She was attuned to luxury; the leather was a very expensive-looking soft honey beige. The second thing she noticed was a man leaning confidentially against the honey leather. Dark suit and royal blue tie. Salt and pepper hair. Large nose. Twinkling blue eyes that over-rode it. Dazzling,
sexy
eyes, in fact. Overall effect: bloody handsome.

At the sight of Imogen’s face, he grinned. She restrained a grin at the sight of his, although other parts of her body were simultaneously breaking into smiles.

‘Tosser,’ she said. And she averted her eyes and strode forward, releasing her body from the unwelcome compress of the older man’s bum.

As she reached the boot of the car (it was a quite a long car – very flash), the man’s voice came through the window again. Louder this time.

‘I’m Richard. Pleased to meet you.’

She stopped, turned and stuck her head back through the window. It had now been wound down almost to the bottom.

‘You’re a Dick?’

‘Ha,
you’re
quick. No, I’m Richard.’

‘Dick,’ said Imogen, choosing to ignore him. ‘There’s quite a few famous dicks. Dick Turpin… Dick Emery… Dick for Brains,’ she said. ‘Actually, I couldn’t care less what your name is. You shouldn’t park here. You’re causing an obstruction.’

He grinned again, and shrugged. Nice tie, she thought. He really was very well groomed and smart. His shirt so white, his suit so immaculate. He would have been just her type, before the Man Ban. ‘London’s rammed today,’ he said. ‘There’s nowhere to park. I just took my chance. I won’t be here long.’

‘I hope that’s true.’ She gave him her best withering look. ‘Then you can bugger off back to America. I’m sure New York is desperate to have you back.’

‘How do you know I’m from New York?’

‘I know the type.’

‘Oh, really?’ He raised his eyebrows and gave a slow smile.

‘Yeah, really. Right, well
I’m
buggering off now. See you.’ But it was hard to tear her eyes off his. They were amused, mocking, enticing. Above that big old nose. It was a strange but highly sexy juxtaposition. She felt rooted to the spot. She didn’t want to go.

‘Have dinner with me.’

‘Do what?’

‘Dinner. I heard there’s a joint called Nobu. I’d like to go.’

‘Oh, I’ve already been, thanks. Loads of times.’

‘Come again? With me?’

How bloody forward! Typical American. What a cheek. Still. Despite the pact with Frankie and Grace,
despite
the fact she was supposed to be single for a year – and had been enjoying it – she was tempted. She loved the food at Nobu, this man looked hot and sexy and she was celebrating a new job, wasn’t she? A few months ago she would have jumped at the chance of this irresistible combination. A few months ago even just
one
of these things would have had her jumping up and down and saying ‘yes’.

Resist, resist, she told herself sternly. Just say no. You’re off men. They’re useless, hopeless wastes of space. The road to nowhere. The road to ruin. Damn. If only they weren’t. If only there was still the slightest glimmer of hope that one, just one of them, would be perfect. What if
this
man was
that
man? What if she let him go and he was someone worth hanging on to?

There wouldn’t be any
harm
in going for dinner with him, would there? It was just a little dinner. And a girl’s got to eat. She’d gone out with men on less of a pretext: because the guy had Gucci shoes; because she’d stalked the bloke on LinkedIn then hung around the pub in the city nearest his work for an hour, until he’d come in; because it was a Tuesday… Okay, no pretexts at all; she’d just wanted to date them. Yet, none of those guys had worked out well at all. They never did. Actually, maybe this man could serve as a
reinforcement
of her new ideology, a final underlining of what she now believed…

Damn him and his sexy big nose and sexy blue eyes!

She didn’t have to tell anyone.

‘You know there are actually two Nobus?’

‘Yes. Park Lane and Mayfair. I’m thinking Park Lane.’

‘I was on my way to have dim sum, actually,’ she said. Good. Excellent.
Go
for dinner with him, but on your terms. Take control. ‘That’s what I fancy.’ It wasn’t the only thing.

‘I can do dim sum.’

God, that accent was intoxicating, thought Imogen. She’d had a couple of Americans. A Texan living in London who she’d dated for two weeks – it had all ended when he suggested a three way, with a blow-up doll – and a super arty Californian art dealer, who she’d thought would be super interesting, but had turned out to be super dull. He never ate after 6p.m. and didn’t drink alcohol. She’d been taken in by that accent before and it had never worked out. She feared she remained a sucker for it.

‘On the other hand,’ she pretended to hesitate, ‘I could just as easily go home to a ready meal for one and a date with
MasterChef
.’

‘I have no idea what either of those things are,’ said Richard, laughing. And what a laugh. Sexiest laugh she’d ever heard. ‘Look, we’ll go for dim sum. I’ll get Nigel to phone ahead.’ Nigel, the man at the cashpoint, was now back in the driver’s seat and twiddling with the radio.

‘You don’t
book
dim sum,’ said Imogen. ‘You just turn up.’

‘Whatever,’ said the most gorgeous man on earth. ‘Hop in.’

He swung open the door, took off his seat belt and eased along the back seat to the far side. An action that made her focus on his thighs. Lord, they looked firm under his suit trousers. She could see his shoes, too. Black and just the right kind of shiny. Shoes maketh the man, everyone knew that. She had dumped a man or two for bad taste in shoes. Had once actually fled a bar before approaching her date because his roosted position on a stool had exposed a pair of perforated lemon suede loafers.

This American’s shoes were nice. She bet he had very expensive socks, too, and that his feet never smelled. Oh bugger it,
no one needed to know
. And it would be rude not to, really, now he had moved across to make room for her.

She got in before she changed her mind. Nigel was suddenly at the door and shut it for her. The car smelt wonderful. That leather, and an expensive-smelling New York male cologne. Wow. She was like a fly in a very luxurious honey trap.

She had a moment of panic. She was safe, wasn’t she? Nigel was here. He looked a bit like her next-door neighbour, Mr Roper, the one who mowed his lawn at ten o’clock at night in the summer. He didn’t look like the sort of man who would suddenly and dramatically lock all the doors, wind up all the windows and speed off to some deserted industrial estate somewhere, whilst Richard’s face turned black as night and his lips twisted into a maniacal grin as he reached for a knife from the side car door pocket… She was safe; she was sure of it. Somehow.

The doors didn’t lock and they moved slowly off into the London afternoon traffic. Nigel sang softly along to Bruce Springsteen, on the radio. Richard smiled at her, his eyes all blue and sultry. She now felt panic of a different kind. What the hell was she doing? She was reverting to type again, wasn’t she? This was exactly the type of man she was supposed to be avoiding! Rich, powerful, impossibly groomed, charming, persuasive. The type of man she’d swerved when she’d lowered her sights to Dave Holgate. She was supposed to be avoiding
all
men, and had been, quite successfully, up until all of three minutes ago. What was she thinking, getting into a handsome stranger’s car?

She had form for it. Being reckless. There was the life insurance guy who’d come into her office for a meeting with her boss and left with an afternoon rummage; the ridiculously rich guy she’d met by email and slept with on a houseboat after a night at the opera; the blind date she’d jumped on the Orient Express with… The only men she wasn’t reckless with were actors. She
never
dated actors. Not after The Blip.

She was always reckless with
this
sort of guy. Get a grip, she thought. This wasn’t
Mr Big
! There weren’t balloons in the back of the car! She wasn’t going to have an on-off relationship with this man for ten years and end up married to him and living in an amazing apartment overlooking Central Park.

As the car was now in stationary traffic, she reached for the handle. She feared not for her life, but for her sanity. She didn’t want to be doing this, after all.

‘I’m not a serial killer, honest,’ said Richard. ‘I work for Universal Re.’ He reached into the silky inside pocket of his jacket, and handed her a card.

She glanced briefly at it then passed it back to him. ‘
American Psycho
worked for a swanky bank. You could still be a serial killer.’

‘Pierce and Pierce.’