‘Because at first you were so worried about the job I felt treacherous for not despising him. After that . . . well, you know my views on getting together with someone else. What I said after Brendan still holds. My judgement with regards to men is abysmal. I didn’t even want to go there again.’
‘Is it out of the question that you could just sleep with Zach, enjoy the next three weeks and leave it at that? Are you worried about what people will think at work?’
‘OfcourseI’m worried about that.’
‘But it’s nobody’s business.’
‘We both know that’s just not true,’ I say. ‘Besides, I just can’t do no-strings sex. My brain doesn’t work like that. As soon I get physical with someone, my imagination starts leaping forward to something deeper and more significant.’
‘I think a lot of women do that,’ she sighs. ‘Certainly of our generation.’
‘Yeah, well look where that got me.’
She’s silent for a moment as we both look across the room and watch as a nurse unhooks a woman from her IV and tells her she’s free to go.
‘Okay, I get it,’ she shrugs.
‘Do you?’
She nods. ‘But for the record, you shouldn’t give a toss about what people at work think.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Fuck ’em. People might gossip but you’re too good at your job for it to matter. My only concern reallyisn’tabout your reputation, Lisa.’ She glances over and looks at me, flattening her smile. ‘It’s about your heart.’
Chapter 36
The look on Daisy’s face has the same combination of pride, expectation and hope as a child when they’re about to show you a picture they’ve just coloured in. It can only mean one thing. She thinks she’s onto a winner.
‘This show pushessomany buttons in terms of what audiences want these days,’ she explains excitedly. ‘Number one. Pets. I mean, who doesn’t love an animal show?’
‘Absolutely,’ I agree.
‘Number two. The environment. This concept speaks to anyone concerned about climate change, specifically recycling.’
‘Sounds promising . . .’
‘And three . . . it’s original. Completely and utterly original.’
‘Go on . . .’
‘It’s called,Love . . . and Stuff.’
‘Intriguing title.’ I feel a frisson of hope that she could finally be onto something.
‘And it’s a taxidermy competition!’ she declares.
A piece of my sandwich gets lodged at the back of my mouth and I start to splutter. ‘Sorry . . . carry on,’ I say, tapping my chest. ‘Just a piece of cress.’
‘The idea is that each week you have three recently bereaved contestants,’ she continues, excitedly. ‘They’ve all lost a beloved pet, whether a budgie, a cat or a chinchilla. Each of them has to demonstrate excellence in the art, starting with the removal of skin from carcass, through to the moulding of a perfectly formed mannequin and ending with the final, mounted creation.’
I look down at my egg and cress sandwich, which has become oddly unappetising.
‘Contestants are judged not merely on their creative skills but also their ability to create a touching and unique tribute for their wall or mantelpiece.’
‘So the “recycling” element of it comes in because they’re recycling . . . what, their dog?’
‘Exactly! Well,repurposing, really. Look, the studio has provided some examples . . .’
