‘Emily, it’s just an email.’ I shrugged. ‘It’s not as if we signed a contract. Just ignore it, although it seems a bit rude. Why notsend him a nice chatty reply? Nice to meet him but you don’t feel ready for a relationship at the moment.’
Emily looked blank. Gentle let-downs weren’t her style.
‘It’s very irritating,’ she said grumpily. ‘I wanted to meet the film guy again. I hope there hasn’t been a mix-up.’
I glanced at her sharply. She knew my feelings on fidelity.
‘What about Daniel?’
‘Not as a date,’ she blustered. ‘He has great contacts. You know for work. By the way, your mum phoned. You need to phone her back before eight o’clock.’
‘I’d better call her now then,’ I said looking at my watch, grabbing my wine glass and scurrying up the hall.
* * *
‘Have you spoken to your sister recently?’ Mum didn’t bother with any of that boring old ‘being polite’ preamble.
I tucked my glass of wine conveniently between my knees.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I said sarcastically. ‘I’m fine. How are you?’
‘Sorry, dear. When did you last speak to Kate?’
‘I saw her last night. Why?’
There was a pause before Mum spoke. ‘Did she seem all right to you?’
‘Fine. Possibly even more bossy than usual.’
‘I’m not sure she’s quite herself at the moment.’ Mum sounded distracted, as if she was thinking of something else. ‘I did try to talk to her, but she bit my head off. Can you give her a call? Make sure she’s OK.’
‘Sure, Mum. It could be that she’s just missing Greg.’
‘I don’t think so, darling. I don’t think it’s all that serious. She never mentions him.
‘Now, Olivia, darling, I need to talk to you about...’
The rest of the conversation was taken up by who was doing what at the Old Codgers match. It was agreed that I would doteas — as I did every year — which involved making copious amounts of sandwiches and buttering a scone mountain while Mum would be in charge of the evening barbecue. Apparently Dad was getting very excited about the forthcoming match and thanks to some sneaky recruiting had found some brilliant Aussie bowler. He was already counting his wickets.
Chapter Six
The reception at Organic PR is manned by Piranha One and Piranha Two. I don’t bother learning their names anymore as they are replaced by updated identikit models every couple of months. Whatever that job ad promises, it must be a pack of lies because they never last long. The necessary qualifications must include a rigid expression — or they’re paid in Botox treatments — a distant superior manner and the ability to wither plants at ten paces with one icy look.
Yet all of them have this unnerving ability to morph into a human being the minute they spot an important client or a board director. Forget asking them to order a courier — which I believe is part of a receptionist’s duties. From the twitch of their immaculate lips — so much Botox they don’t curl any more — you’d think that you’d asked them whether their Prada handbags came from Next.
As Emily and I crossed the hall to the lifts, carrying hot drinks we’d picked up from Starbucks next door, Piranha One lifted her head and said in clear, cutting tones, ‘Emily! Could you explain to your boyfriend that we are not here to pass on personal messages to staff? And remind him that our email is working perfectly.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I think you heard,’ and with that she turned back to her wordsearch hidden below the desk.
‘She is so bloody rude,’ Emily seethed. ‘How much longer has she got?’
‘Another six weeks of that one. Time’s nearly up for Piranha Two. What was she on about? I thought Daniel always phoned your mobile?’
‘Haven’t a clue. Probably got me muddled up with Emily Parr in Accounts.’
I’d just sat down at my desk, prised the lid off my hot chocolate and fired up my computer when a grumpy-faced Emily appeared in front of me.
