‘Dan.’ The blonde-haired woman is now standing at our table. She’s stylish, wearing a pencil skirt and a blouse that shows off her figure. ‘I’ve been calling you.’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he says to her, scratching his hand.
‘Looks like you’ve been distracted.’ She stares at me.
‘Anyway, I’d better go.’ I fight hard not to show my disappointment as I gather my script and jacket. ‘I’ll see you around,’ I say, heading out of the cafe as soon as I’ve paid my bill.
I walk back to work, deciding to take my time and stop by at the newsagent’s for some chocolate. Are they together? She looked older than him. All the decent guys are taken, aren’t they? Oh, why did she have to turn up? He was so, well, solovely. We didn’t even have a chance to exchange numbers. Although I guess if he has a girlfriend… I unwrap my chocolate bar and take a big bite.
Green & Noel is located in the basement of Rachel’s private home; my small office looks out on to her back garden, which is filled with plants in large pots, a children’s climbing frame, and often a plump ginger cat too. It’s pretty higgledy-piggledy, but somehow it works. Tess, the receptionist, lives in the corridor. I stomp past her desk. ‘What’s up with you?’ she calls.
‘Nothing.’
In my office, I drop my bag under the desk and plonk myself down in front of my computer. I press my head into my hands, unable even to think about tackling my overflowing in-tray or finish checking the royalty statements. I get the script out of my bag, before Tess transfers a call to me. ‘Oh hello, it’s John Turner,’ he says. ‘I was wondering if you’d received my script,The Man with Hollow Eyes?’
Dan has an open and innocent face, yet he must know the effect he has on women. I sigh. And he asks questions! Lizzie and I were complaining just the other day that men so often don’t ask you a thing, it’s all me, me, and how about some more me?
‘Hello?’ a voice says.
‘Yes, thanks, Mr Turner, we’ll get back to you shortly.’
After I hang up, my mobile rings and for a second my heart lifts before I realiseit would be impossible for Dan to call unless he has a unique gift for guessing mobile numbers. ‘I’m sorry, Jan,’ Lizzie says. ‘I crashed out and the next thing I know, it’s two o’clock. I hope you didn’t hang around for me?’
I’m about to tell her about my lunch when Tess shouts, ‘Jan, visitor!’
Surprised, I head out of my office only to see Dan leaning against the photocopying machine. Tess gets up, pretends to be busy filing.
‘You left quickly,’ he says, as I try to wipe the smile off my face.
‘You had company.’
He steps towards me. ‘Well, you left this behind.’ He hands me a piece of paper with his mobile number scribbled on it, along with a note:‘Meet me this Saturday, front entrance of the Royal Festival Hall, 4 p.m.’
‘Hang on a minute, wasn’t she…? Don’t you have… a girlfriend?’
Tess slams the drawer, catching her finger.
Aware we have an audience, Dan whispers into my ear, ‘She’s a work colleague and way too bossy for me.’ He walks away, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Until Saturday,’ he says.
‘Ooh lá lá!’Tess says when he’s gone. ‘Where did you findhim?’
If this office were big enough I’d be doing cartwheels and somersaults down the corridor. Instead I do a little dance round her desk, waving the piece of paper in the air as if it’s my winning lottery ticket.
9
2014
Spud and I sit on the tube as it rattles its way towards Green Park. I make a mental list of the things I need to do when I get to work. I glance at my watch; 8.28. Our meeting starts at nine. Ward has returned from his trip visiting a selection of our country offices. I stop when I see Daniel Gregory’s name at the top of an article in the sports section of my next-door neighbour’s newspaper. I hear his voice inside my head, saying,‘One day, January, you’re going to see my name out there in bold’.I must be staring since the man touches the corner of the page, saying, ‘Ready?’
It’s two minutes before nine. Lucie and I are waiting for Ward in the boardroom. Spud is downstairs, tied to the leg of my chair (and furious about it) and Lucie and I are praying that Graham isn’t going to be late. A spreadsheet of prices, property and contact names is already fired up on the monitor screen. As we continue waiting I glance at Ward’s slick silver laptop and find myself missing Jeremy again. I picture him in this room, standing over his ancient computer. ‘Just waiting for it to warm up,’ he says, rubbing his chubby hands together, dressed in his blue shirt, silver cufflinks and sleeveless fleece jacket.
‘We’ll come back in half an hour, shall we?’ I tease.
‘Who was last on this bloody machine?’ He’s stabbing the buttons in vain.
‘Scroll down,’ I tell him, ‘minimise everything.’
‘Minimise? I don’t want tominimise!’ He punches another key.
