* * *
Things on the Luscious Lips launch were starting to get hectic. Emily was still in the office at six thirty, which was unheard of, and her shoulders were so tense her neck had almost disappeared.
Across the room her face was turning redder and redder as she carried on a conversation on the phone. I got a ‘God-give-me-patience’ eye roll before she slammed down the phone and hurled a pen at the wall opposite.
Shrugging on my coat — a flak jacket might have been safer — I wandered over.
‘You OK?’ I asked briskly, as she tossed papers into her file tray.
‘What does it look like? You have no idea. You wouldn’t believe the hoops we’re jumping through to please “darling” Miranda.’
Served her right. Although it was still nothing compared to my afternoon. An hour-long phone call placating my client, a doppelganger for Jabba the Hutt, when a planning application didn’t go his way. His company had just seen several million go down the Swanee.
She looked appealingly at me. If she was looking for sympathy, she’d come to the wrong place.
‘I suppose you could say it serves me right,’ her voice softened. ‘I’m sorry, Olivia. I should have told you that we were using the dress idea.’
Normally I would have said something conciliatory like, ‘Don’t worry about it.’ But an ear-bashing from Jabba had left a full-blown disco beat pounding in my head. All I wanted was to get home.
‘I’m leaving,’ I said wearily. ‘Now.’ Just talking to her was taking too much effort.
‘I’ve said I’m sorry,’ she said in a lost little voice. ‘Please don’t be mad at me.’
It was just like being back in the playground.
‘Emily, at this moment I couldn’t care. I just want to go home. Swallow half a dozen Anadin and wallow in a bath. Coming?’
Casting a look of loathing at the piles of papers spread across her desk, she scooped them all up and dumped them in her pending tray. Then, leaning down, she gathered up a selection of files from the floor and shoved them in, too. I watched horrified, hands twitching. Talk about disorganised — no wonder she was stressed.
‘I shouldn’t but... I can speak to Miranda’s agent in the morning. You wouldn’t believe the stuff Miranda wants. Do you know—’
‘I’m going, now.’
‘All right. All right.’ Suddenly she looked at her watch. ‘Shit, I forgot. Daniel’s coming. He phoned earlier. He’s got a meeting first thing so he’s staying over tonight.’ She pulled a face. ‘I could do without it. I’m not cooking.’
Cooking? Emily! That would be the day. She liked being taken to restaurants and was very old-fashioned when it came to splitting the bill.
‘He’ll have to make do with a takeaway. I’ve got a bit of a headache. Not that I need to worry on that score.’ She snorted. ‘I can’t remember the last time we had sex.’
And she thought she had problems. I wasn’t sure my body still knew what sex was.
* * *
I tuned her out as we left the building. Every other word was Miranda.
Tottenham Court Road was heavy going, thick with bus queues and dawdling tourists blocking the crowded pavements. I wound ruthlessly in and around the throng of people and Emily had to jog to keep up with me, which was deliberate. If she was concentrating on breathing she’d have to stop talking.
I was halted mid-stride by a sudden, sharp tug on my jacket as Emily grabbed my arm and pointed to the other side of the busy road.
‘What?’ I snapped. All I wanted to do was get home.
Her mouth was moving but the words were incoherent. The wall of red double-decker buses made it difficult to see what she was pointing to.
‘Did you see him?’ she exclaimed.
‘Who?’ I asked impatiently. It was impossible to pick out anyone with so many pedestrians waltzing between the bumpers of the stationary traffic.
Emily was always spotting famous people. Last month it had been Elton John in Starbucks, wearing a fluorescent jacket and hobnail boots. She wouldn’t believe it wasn’t him until he left the coffee shop, put on his hard hat and walked onto the building site next door.
