In the minute and a half since she dropped this bombshell, I have been swinging violently from one emotion to another. While he’s perfectly harmless, I find Adam has all the charisma of an over-cooked root vegetable.
But I’m as saddened by this business as I am stunned. Not just for Adam’s sake, though I’d never wish this on him, but for Jess’s. If she thinks she’ll find happiness in the arms of some smooth-talking salesman, she’s mistaken. Yet I hesitate about sharing this view. Maybe she’s finally found someone more suited to her. With a bit more spark and personality and—
Oh, but she’s married! And has kids!
Little
kids. If Jess left Adam, it’d be even worse for them than it was for me when Mum left Dad, since at least I was a bit older.
‘Does Adam know?’ I ask.
‘God, no.’ She takes a slug of her wine. ‘The ridiculous thing is that, before this happened, I never questioned how much I felt for Adam. I don’t know how I got myself into this situation. And now, I can’t help wondering whether I did it on purpose. There must have been problems. Why would I have done it otherwise?’
‘This guy must have serious charm,’ I say.
She looks at her hands. ‘I suppose. I guess just being with him made me feel special and sexy and . . . alive. I can’t tell you what that feels like, Abby. I can’t tell you how good it feels. But how bloody awful too.’
She searches my expression, her eyes becoming tearful again. ‘You disapprove, don’t you? Because of your mum and dad.’
‘I only want the best for you. I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret.’
She looks at me intently. ‘But even you don’t think Adam and I are right for each other.’
I look up in shock. ‘Who, Adam? I think he’s great!’
‘Come off it, Abby. You think he’s stuffy and boring. It shows in your face every time you’re with him.’
‘That’s not true!’
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she sighs. ‘Why would I have become infatuated with another man if I hadn’t suspected you’d been right all along?’
‘But I’m not right,’ I argue illogically. ‘What I mean is, just because I’m not on Adam’s wavelength as much as I am on yours, doesn’t mean I don’t think he has some . . . excellent qualities.’
Jess looks at me, seeing through my euphemisms so clearly they could be double-glazed. ‘Even if Adam was the most boring person on earth, it wouldn’t matter, would it? I’ve betrayed him. Worse, this fling might be over, but I still can’t stop thinking about a man who isn’t my husband. Adam doesn’t deserve that. He’s too good.’
She collapses in a heap of tears, her face contorted with misery.
‘Oh Jess,’ I say, putting my hand on her back.
‘It’s not just him either,’ she sniffs. ‘I’ve betrayed someone else.’
‘Who?’ I frown, taking her words at face value – as if there’s a third party she hasn’t mentioned.
‘Myself,’ she mutters. ‘I’ve betrayed myself.’
We don’t discuss Jess’s confession in the days that follow. Not through lack of trying on my part, far from it. I repeatedly attempt to get her to open up about her infidelity, but all she’ll say is she’s pretending it never happened and getting on with life. Which I honestly hope she manages to pull off.
As for me, several matters are looking up at the moment: running, my love-life and work.
The Seaside Run was such a boost that I now look forward to the club sessions for a reason other than just Oliver. I’m starting to believe that I may actually complete this half-marathon – something that once seemed about as achievable as a Nobel Prize nomination.
That said, seeing Oliver three times a week is a fringe benefit to end all fringe benefits. I never thought it possible for him to become sweeter, cuter and more attractive, but that’s exactly what’s happened.
Plus, he’s always making eye-contact these days, almost brazenly so. Which I love. Yet at the same time, I can’t help wishing that, if things are really going to happen between us, they’d get a move on. Is that too much to ask?
I fleetingly considered the idea that he is stringing me along, but the concept of someone whose brand of sexiness is so gentle and low-key doing that is inconceivable. Oliver is simply a slow burn and, frustrating as that is, I know he’ll be worth it in the end.
The only downside to running club is that things remain a bit weird with Tom after our tiff. We still chat – but infrequently, and it’s not the same as it was. While part of me wants to broach the subject and say, ‘Let’s forget about that contract business, Tom. Friends?’ there’s another part that’s too much of a wimp to make a fuss.
On the work front, I’m so busy I can barely think straight. But I won a couple of small clients recently and Egor’s satisfied about my level of growth. Between that and the loyalty of current customers (Diggles are now more like a benevolent uncle, more than a client), the message from him is clear: Don’t take your foot off the gas, Abby – but you’re doing okay.
I’ll have more time on my hands when the black-tie event is over, of course, because despite Heidi and Priya having done much of the organisation themselves, I’ve still found myself sucked into helping more times than I can afford. We all have.
There’ve been florists to chase up, seating plans to construct, a swing band to pin down, caterers to liaise with, champagne suppliers to contact. All supposedly in between the day job. It’s been so relentless that on the day of the ball itself, at the end of October, I feel as if I’ve been swept into a whirlwind for the last month and spat out only now.
I’d anticipated going home early to spend a couple of hours tarting myself up. Instead I’m caught up in a plethora of work issues, then sucked into Priya’s nervous breakdown over the news that the trumpet player has oral thrush and has been instructed by his GP to play the triangle.
‘Whoever heard of a swing band accompanied by a bloody triangle!’ she huffs. ‘What next? A keyboard player on the spoons?’
She paces round the office in her violet satin strapless number, attempting to fix her now-dishevelled fascinator, which has already been washed in the basin of the second-floor loos, after a discovery about wilted gerberas, revealed an hour ago in a call from the florist. Priya threw back her head in despair, causing the fascinator to fly off, straight into Matt’s Pot Noodle. It still smells faintly of reconstituted chicken and mushrooms but she’s determined to stick with it, having paid £19.99 for it.
By the time I leave the office, it’s almost five, which means I only have an hour to get home, get glammed up, and get to the marquee at Knowsley Hall – so I can hopefully greet guests with a refinement that’d make Grace Kelly look like Amy Winehouse.
I’m on the way home, battling against traffic, when the phone rings and Jess’s number flashes up. She’s coming to the ball tonight, along with most of the running club, though she’ll be on a different table. Adam persuaded his company to take a table and he and Jess will be wining and dining clients.
‘Hi, Cinders! Looking forward to the ball?’ I ask.
‘Cinders? You got that right.’ She doesn’t sound good.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh Abby, I don’t know how to tell you this.’
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Jamie’s not well. He has so many spots I could do dot-to-dot on his back.’
‘Is he all right?’ I ask anxiously.
‘I think so. I suspect chicken pox because it’s been going round his class. I’ll take him to the doctor’s in the morning. In the meantime, I don’t want to leave him with a babysitter.’
The penny drops. ‘You’re not coming.’
‘I’m really sorry. I’m sure it’s nothing but I don’t feel right about going out tonight – I want to keep an eye on him myself. You understand, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘And Adam’s still going, obviously.’
‘Great!’ I reply, with more enthusiasm than I feel.
I end the call as I pull up to my house and feel a rush of nerves, prompted, I admit, not just by the event itself. Knowing that Doctor Dishy would be sitting next to me on the table – a sheer coincidence, painstakingly engineered – I spent a lavish amount of time on my appearance, traipsing round shops in search of a killer outfit, getting highlights and even a spray tan.
My dress was an unbelievable find: a floor-length vintage number that looks a bit Valentino-esque and that I discovered in a little shop in Chester. Just putting it on makes me feel fabulous, and by the time I’ve done my make-up and added new shoes and bag, I’m spilling over with anticipation.
I’m ready to leave a record two minutes before the taxi’s due and, as I wait restlessly in the living room, I pick up a magazine article I ripped out at the hairdresser’s:
Five Come-On Tips – Guaranteed!
It’s by Gretchen F. Cassidy, an American relationship expert whose self-help guide,
The Guy Whisperer
, is available in hardback priced £12.99, according to the plug at the bottom of the article. I have my doubts about a technique for making someone fall in love with you that can be summarised in 650 words. But I need all the help I can get.
More than 55 per cent of the impression we give is through our body language; less than 10 per cent from what we say
, the article reads.
Many women don’t find it easy to give outward signals – yet these figures show how important they are!
Maybe this is the issue with Doctor Dishy. The only time I’ve made
really
obvious overtures towards him was when I was pissed in the pub on my birthday – and those signals were about as effective as a defunct level crossing. I need to do this with far more aplomb.
The crux of Gretchen’s technique is called ‘The Triangle of Flirtation’, which I know sounds like somewhere ships get lost, but by now I’m hooked.
Apparently, when we’re with people we don’t know – in a business situation, for example – we look from eye to eye and across the bridge of the nose. With friends, the look drops down and moves to a triangle shape – from eye to eye, then the mouth. When flirting, the triangle gets bigger, widening at the bottom – to include parts of the body.
Effective flirting involves intense eye-to-eye contact, direct gazing into the mouth, and the widening of the flirtation triangle to the collarbone – or even lower down!
My eyes ping open. I’m more than happy about the idea of gazing at Doctor Dishy’s nether regions, but I don’t know how he’d feel. Aside from the last bit, however, none of it sounds
that
difficult – even if flirting comes about as naturally to me as my tan.
A beep from outside breaks my train of thought, so I fold up the article and stuff it in my clutch bag, deciding to study it in more detail on the way. As I close my door behind me, I have a feeling. It’s less a premonition than a
determination
.
Tonight, Oliver, I’m going to make you mine.
My taxi passes through sandstone gates and crawls along a sweeping driveway through the lush grounds of the estate.
When I catch my first glimpse of our marquee, in the shadow of the magnificent Georgian mansion house, it sets off a wave of butterflies in my stomach as the responsibility of this evening hits me. Between the venue hire and the catering, the champagne and the band, putting on this ball hasn’t come cheap. And while I know we’ve covered our costs through the ticket sales, it’ll only have been worth it if we make a decent amount on the auction and raffle.
When I’ve paid the taxi, I head for the marquee and I bump into the event co-ordinator at the entrance. She’s a short, slightly rounded brunette called Missy who’s jolly, super-efficient and has the kind of laugh that makes people wonder if there’s a fire drill.
‘Everything okay?’ I ask.
‘Everything’s fine!’ she beams.
‘Um . . . did the swing band find a replacement for their trumpet player?’
‘Yes, yes!’ she confirms.
‘And what about those gerberas? I heard there was a problem.’
‘No longer, my dear!’
‘And did you manage to put some little bottles of hair-spray in the Ladies’ toilets like I asked, only I know from experience what a nightmare it is if the fringe on your updo flops and—’
‘Abby . . . Abby,’ she replies, with a tone you’d use to reassure someone trying to escape their straitjacket. ‘Consider your job done. Leave it to us to co-ordinate tonight. Go and enjoy yourself.’
It is against my nature to be anywhere other than at the door with a clipboard in hand. But when I spot the first guests pulling up outside, my heart skips a beat. ‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’
‘I am, darling.’ She spins me round, clearly desperate to get me out of her way. ‘Go and let your hair down.’
I cautiously pick up a glass of orange and walk across the entrance area of the marquee to peek at the main room. Heidi is next to the stage in a floor-length scarlet gown that looks straight out of 1950s Hollywood. She spots me and walks over.
‘You look amazing,’ she says, her eyes scanning my dress.
‘I was thinking the same about you,’ I tell her.
‘Really? Well, we’d better not let anyone hear us. This conversation sounds like a real love-in.’
I laugh. ‘Are you excited?’
‘Just a bit,’ she replies, sipping her champagne. ‘Terrified too. Though it’s nothing that a couple of glasses of this stuff won’t sort out.’
At first the guests float in intermittently, but when the clock hits six-thirty, we can’t greet people quickly enough.
I suddenly feel overwhelmed by the support. The great and the good of the city are here, with the sole exception of Mum, who’s tying up a deal in Shanghai, and still won’t accept I didn’t deliberately set this date for when she’s 6,000 miles away.
The main room of the marquee is a credit to the girls, who approached the decoration of the tables with creativity, style and – crucially, given this is a charity event – a grip on cost control that would dazzle Alan Sugar.
They persuaded everyone from the florists to the calligraphers to work for free or at a discount. And from the glorious floral displays to the star-cloth on the ceiling, the place looks spectacular.
‘How’s it going, Abs?’ asks Priya, as her eyes dart round the room. ‘There must be something to do but I’m being told everything’s covered.’