But not now. There’s a sea change in the air, I can practically feel it. It starts with Adele Turner, Robbie’s wife, normally so stand-offish and cool with me, who comes up and actually physically hugs me, nearly knocking the air out of my lungs, it’s that tight and heartfelt. She thanks me over and over for letting Robbie off to get to their daughter’s Confirmation, says it made the whole day for them and that she was so grateful to me. Asks if it’s true that I personally covered for Robbie that day, which I brush aside and instead deflect the chat onto how the Confirmation went instead.
Then Jenny Wilson from accounts – again, no fan of mine ever since I had to cut her back to a three-day week during the last staff culling – comes over, all full of smiles and chat. Warm and friendly as you like, she tells me that she’d heard what I’d done for poor Rachel, who also happens to be her best friend; that she’d been to visit her at home only recently, and that she’s doing a whole lot better now.
‘That was really considerate of you, Eloise,’ she tells me, her eyes shining with sincerity. ‘You didn’t have to, and not many other bosses would have been so compassionate. Rachel was very touched, I can tell you. As we all were when the news got out.’
I of course modestly brush it aside.
But deep down I am secretly chuffed beyond words.
Ordinarily at these mind-bendingly boring functions, I’m either shoehorned into a corner with one of the T. Rexes who’ll bore me to sobs about his golf handicap, or else I’m left standing all alone on the sidelines with no one to talk to, cradling a drink, watching everyone else having a good time and feeling nothing but hate-vibes pulsating towards me. Oh, and checking my iPhone every few minutes, to at least make it look like I’m not particularly bothered that no one’s bothered with me.
Not now though. Somehow, for the first time in my life, I find myself right at the very epicentre of a big group of co-workers, all chatting and yabbering away to me, including me in their in-jokes, making me feel like I really do belong. And I love it, it’s intoxicating and wonderful and to my great shame, I’d never really realised before just how great my colleagues really are. Never got to really know them, as people.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Seth Coleman’s skeletal outline, with a tall, beautiful modely one on his arm. So out-of-his league stunning in fact, Sarah from advertising whispers to me that she must be a hired high-class escort paid to be with him for the weekend. And we both giggle into our drinks, enjoying a genuine moment of girlie bonding, something completely new and utterly lovely for me.
Can’t tell you the warm, comforting feeling that genuinely belonging gives to me. I’ve missed out on so much these past few years, I think. Missed all the camaraderie, the messing, joshing each other along in the office, anything to make the long days go that bit faster. How much more pleasant would my life have been, I wonder, had I only taken the time and trouble to get to really know these people sooner?
Dave, the night editor, almost brings a tear to my eye when he muscles down into a seat beside me, and warmly says, ‘You know something? I never really knew how sound you were before. And I want to say sorry if I’ve ever misjudged you, Eloise. I used to think that everything you ever said or did was calculated to intimidate. But what can I say? I completely and totally had the wrong idea of you, couldn’t have been more wrong about you, in fact. And I’m not the only one round here either.’
I shoot him a look of deep gratitude, then as much as to say, ‘you’re one of us now’, he lightens up a bit and says, ‘right then, it’s your round Elliot, now up off your lazy arse and mine’s a gin and tonic.’
‘Sure, I was on my way to the bar anyway,’ I smile back at him, touched that he thought enough of me to give me a gentle slagging. Because no one’s ever done that at work before,
ever
. ‘But can I just say one thing before I go? Thing is Dave, I really think that I’m the one who should be apologising to you.’
‘How do you mean?’ he asks, looking me straight in the eye.
‘All those late nights with me nearly sweating blood down in the print room? Come on, Dave, how you managed to not shove one of my bare limbs into the presses is a shining testament to your eternal good nature.’
And he rolls his eyes jokingly and grins at me and just like that, years of tension, angst, blood, sweat and tears just melt away.
Best of all, I see Jake out of the corner of my eye, stuck in a conversation with, ahem, Lady Hume, but every now and then throwing sideways glances over at me, just checking on me. And I meet his warm, soft gaze and he gives me a wink and I think, for the moment at least, it doesn’t get any better than this.
Turns out I’m dead right. It doesn’t.
It gets worse. Far, far worse.
Initially my warm glow of newfound popularity lasts the whole way through afternoon tea and right up to when we all merrily and a bit drunkenly head up the massive stone staircase to our respective rooms, to get dressed for dinner. I’ve only had two and a bit glasses of champagne, but barely got to eat a single scrap, I was that busy chatting and laughing. The net result of which is that I’m now a bit tipsy and giddy, on a total high from how unbelievably well the whole shindig is going so far.
Ever the gentleman, Jake allocates me full bathroom rights first while I get changed and liberally apply yet more slap to my sunburnt face as we natter away through the half-open door.
‘You’re playing a complete blinder, you do know that,’ I shout out to him proudly, shoehorning myself out of my jeans and into a long, bugle-beaded, slinky, silver cocktail dress that Jake insisted on buying me the other night. I naturally baulked at this, as it was a Louise Kennedy that even on sale still cost a bleeding packet, but he insisted. Said it looked well on me and besides, it was payback for the suit I bought him, what seems like another lifetime ago now. I tentatively step into it, clinging to the towel rack with one hand for support, I’m that tipsy, then yank up the gossamer-fine straps, zip it up my back as far as I can by myself and step back to check it out in a full-length mirror conveniently placed by the bathtub.
Not half bad, I can’t help thinking, twirling this way and that, straining to get a better view. Now believe me, I’m no Cameron Diaz, but there’s just something sexy and magical about the way the dress clings and shimmers, even in awful bathroom flourescent light. If I don’t exactly look a million dollars, then for tonight at least, I certainly feel it.
The dark circles under my eyes, I notice, have slowly started to fade a bit from being out in the sun with Lily so much lately, and there’s a colour in my cheeks now that was never there before. Most likely down to the fact that Jake’s getting pretty good at ramming food down my throat, combined with the fact that I’m sleeping a lot more soundly these days. Normally I go around looking not unlike Morticia Addams I’m that white and pasty, but not now. There’s an unmistakable glow there that was absent before and there’s only one thing I can put it down to. It’s feeling like I’m not alone any more.
It’s not me
contra mundum
any more and it doesn’t need to be, ever again. Because I’ve got buddies now, real pals. Some of whom, to my shame, have been under my nose for the longest time, including practically everyone that I work with.
‘What about that Shania one, Lady Up-Your-Arse or whatever she calls herself though?’ Jake chats away through the bathroom door. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever come across anyone quite like her.’
‘Explain?’ I call back at him, while practically screwed up against the vanity mirror above the sink trying to lash on actual make-up. Harder than it sounds when you’re someone who rarely bothers with the stuff. No time, I always think, not to mention very little point. No sooner do I put it on than it’s sweated off me after approximately one hour of being even near the vicinity of the
Post.
‘Well, it’s weird. While she’s talking away to you and seemingly interested in pursuing a half-normal conversation, the whole time she’s got her mobile out and is on Twitter. Non-stop.’
I roll my eyes to heaven.
‘Yeah, sounds right. Seen her do it a thousand times. She tweets like she’s running a director’s commentary on her own life. TMI syndrome I call it.’
‘Which is?’
‘Too Much Information. People who feel the need to tweet what they had for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Very annoying I’d imagine, if you happen to be following her.’
‘Bit of a fake, isn’t she?’
I smile to myself, while picking up wet towels and hanging them out to dry. Funny thing about Jake, he has the innate knack of being able to spot a phoney faster than Kim or Aggie can spot mildew.
‘And another thing, what’s the story with that guy Marc, your culture editor?’ Jake chats on companionably through the bathroom door. ‘Has to be gay, doesn’t he?’
‘Getting married at the end of the month,’ I shout back, lashing on more bronzing powder than you’d normally see on an X-Factor finalist, just to be on the safe side. ‘A civil partnership with a guy who works in advertising at the
Post.
And what’s more, not only did he tell me all about it this afternoon, but he actually invited me to the wedding too, I couldn’t believe it.’
‘Why wouldn’t he?’
‘Well, I’ve known him years and in all that time, I just automatically assumed he never really liked me. He and I do nothing only snipe at each other.’
‘Why wouldn’t he like you? Jeez, did you see yourself this afternoon? You were totally surrounded by people everywhere you went. And they didn’t seem to just be rubbernecking you or sucking up to you because you’re their boss, they genuinely seemed to be having a laugh with you.’
‘You think? Really?’
I mean, I think so too, but it’s great to be able to get a second opinion from someone who was there, observing from the sidelines.
‘Are you kidding me? You were like Miss Congeniality downstairs, they were buzzing round you like wasps round a jam jar. Everyone wanted to chat to you, myself included. Only trying to get away from your woman I was stuck with, was next to impossible. Jeez, she’s something else isn’t she? Shania – Lady Up-Your-Bum, I mean. Kinda reminded me of Cruella de Vil’s granny.’
‘Oh Jake,’ I say guiltily, ‘I’m so sorry for not rescuing you … I was just so busy chatting, I kept on trying to get to you, but then someone always seemed to waylay me.’
‘No worries at all,’ he says kindly. ‘It was great to see you having such a good time.’
‘Well, thank you. I only hope you weren’t bored stupid.’
‘Not a bit of it. Have to say though Eloise,’ he chats on easily, ‘the whole shindig was a helluva lot better than you’d let me to expect. From what you’d told me, I was dreading the whole thing, kept thinking that I’d been in correctional facilities that sounded more relaxed. But I have to say it was – well, I haven’t seen you look as alive as you did down there, not once, in all the time I’ve known you. It was great to see, it really was.’
I stop in my tracks, deeply touched at this. What a total sweetheart, I find myself thinking, pausing for a second and pulling back from the mirror, where I’d been trying to put on eyeliner straight. Not many guys who’d have the patience to put up with a work do like this. Not
any
, as far as I know.
A random thought; should I go ahead and tell him right now? I’m certainly drunk enough and it sort of feels like the right time … But I swat it aside. Not before the big dinner tonight. Stick with the plan, Eloise. Tomorrow. After breakfast. Outside, in the gardens, where there’s no distractions. Just be patient, wait till then. You’re about to tell him potentially life-altering news, so it’s worth picking the right moment, isn’t it? Besides, I’ve already waited this long and we’re having such a lovely time …
Then I step out of the bathroom in all my silvery finery, to an appreciative wolf-whistle from Jake, which I immediately swat away, red-faced. He’s lying up against a mound of pillows on the bed now, shoes kicked off, stretched out like a sunbather, the picture of chilled-out relaxation.
Looking decidedly sexy too, I find myself thinking, right out of left field.
Jeez, where’d that come from?
Oh who am I kidding, I’ve been thinking it all afternoon. Just like every other straight, single woman at this do.
Still though, note to self; no more booze, strictly water for me from here on in.
Must be a hell of a lot drunker than I thought.
‘You look gorgeous,’ he says softly, eyeing me up and down in a way that I haven’t been looked at in years. Decades, even.
‘Come off it,’ I giggle back at him, I’m sure blushing hotly. ‘It’s not me, it’s the dress. Besides, you’re used to seeing me going around in my black widow’s weeds.’
‘No, you look really terrific,’ he repeats slowly, stretching his arms behind his head and looking at me so admiringly that now it’s starting to disconcert me a bit. I’m not used to it. Men either see me as asexual or else just treat me exactly as they would another guy.
‘Have to hand it to you,’ Jake goes on lazily, ‘I never realised you’d such a great body going on under all those identical black power suits.’
‘Jake?!’
‘Look at yourself, would you? You’ve a fantastic figure. It’s just that no one ever tells you. I’ve always thought that you don’t get complimented enough, all you ever seem to get is bucketloads of shite thrown all over you. So take it from me, tonight you’re any man’s fantasy come true, just a pity that the only person who can’t see it is you. And to me, you’re the sexiest, loveliest, most gorgeous woman here.’
I’m flushing right to the back of my molars now and suddenly after all of our messing and chat and banter, there’s an awkward silence, where we both look at each other, sensing that our friendship is about to cross a major line here.
But onto what?
There’s a silence now, all our easy chitchat has suddenly stopped. And now it’s like even the air in the room isn’t moving.
‘Your dress is unzipped,’ he eventually murmurs, pointing to the back of it.
‘Oh rats, yeah, I couldn’t reach,’ I mumble, staring at him stupidly.