‘All right. Yes, then. Let’s do it. But it’ll have to be next week. I’ve got to leave soon. I’m organising an event.’
As if her ears are burning, another message from Commandant Denise Dandy pings on WhatsApp.
SUCH a shame you didn’t manage to sell out ?. Only one ticket left too! So near and yet so far @lisadarling!!! Was therereallynobody else you could work your charms on? If it helps, I could authorise 50p off the price of the last ticket and make it £19.50. Could be an incentive?
I blow out my cheeks, slam the phone on my desk and realise Zach is still here.
‘I’m sorry, you’re really going tohaveto leave me to this. I’m unavailable this evening, unless you’re prepared to buy a ticket for the Roebury School PTA cheese and wine,’ I mutter, turning back to my presentation.
‘Sure. Why not?’
I look up at him as if he’s lost his senses. ‘What?’
He shrugs. ‘I drink wine. And who doesn’t like cheese? Come on,Darling.’
I purse my lips. ‘It’sLisa. Like you said. First-name terms.’
‘I know, but Darling really is a great name. Surely people call you only by that all the time?’
‘Not if they want to keep their solar plexus intact,’ I say, saving my document. ‘It was a throwaway comment,Russo. I was not being serious. The event is in a sports hall. In my children’s school. It’s to raise money for a new sensory garden, though God knows why anyone needs one of those . . .’
‘Sounds like a hell of a night. How much is a ticket?’
I’m about to send him on his way when I hesitate. I cross my arms. ‘Eighty-five pounds.’
His eyebrows rise. ‘Per person?’
‘Yep.’
‘And what would I get for that?’
‘Three pieces of cheese from Aldi, eight half measures of wine and the company of a load of strangers you have nothing in common with and are never likely to meet again.’
He flashes me a smile. ‘I’m sold.’
Then he takes out his wallet and begins counting out nine 10-pound notes and stands up as he plants them on my desk. ‘Keep the change. Sounds like a good cause. Text me the details and I’ll meet you there.’
Chapter 14
We only get access to the school sports hall from 6pm because a Year 10 basketball competition is taking place immediately beforehand. This means that a crack team of parents has just one hour to transform the entire sweaty cesspit into ‘an intimate and atmospheric space.’ Those are the words of Denise Dandy, as part of the lengthy instructions she left on the WhatsApp group, like a turd on my doorstep, before disappearing to Paris.
I shouldn’t rise to this. But, given that she’ll be scrutinising any photos posted at the first opportunity, I am determined to make the place look like The Ivy. A bit of dim lighting should help; she doesn’t need to know about the lingering whiff of old trainers and armpits. Still, an hour, it turns out, is not a lot of time for such a transformation.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ says Jeff, taking off his coat and placing it on the back of a chair as he looks me up and down. ‘Love the outfit.’
‘First thing I threw on,’ I say, which is true, albeit this is a staple: wide-leg trousers from Sézane, white pumps and a satin shirt.
‘Oh,as if.’
‘Okay, you got me,’ I say. ‘I went for a full body massage this afternoon, had my hair and nails done, then I spent a looong time browsing my walk-in wardrobe to curate my outfit . . .’
‘Well, youlooklike it and that’s all that counts. Anyway, that’s enough compliments. We’ve got cheese to organise. What can I do?’
Jeff and I first met through our respective 10-year-olds, when they were much younger. His daughter has been one of Jacob’s best friends ever since his first week at juniors, when he came home and told me, ‘Bella has two dads and three cocker spaniels.’ I’m not sure which he’d considered the most impressive. I get on well with most of the parents around here, but Jeff is one of the few I’d consider a true friend, someone I’d go out of my way to spend time with even if we hadn’t been thrown together at the school gates.
He is an accountant, but that’s about the only boring thing about him, no disrespect to accountants. He is one of those rare men who turn more heads in their late forties than in their twenties, though even Jeff admits – proudly – that looking as good as him requires a lot of effort. He works out religiously, owns more cashmere jumpers than anyone I know and has an edgy haircut and immaculate goatee that he models on David Beckham.
‘The beer needs to be brought in,’ I suggest. ‘Unless you’d prefer to do the table centrepieces?’
