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Stand and sit up straight.
Don’t want to become hunchbacked old woman
He sat up a little straighter. Round shoulders were the curse of the comfort generation.
Smile while walking fast. Don’t want to be old and fierce-looking with furrowed brow
3. No carbs. (January only) Fresh fruit x 5 daily. Espec. red peppers and tomatoes—antioxidants
4. Read one Penguin Classic every 2 months
5. Keep legs and bikini line hair-free even in depths of winter—remember am doing it for self
6. Be better friend, however busy at work. Owe Sophie and Mark at least five dinners—prob. more
7. Sort out nuclear winter in window boxes and try and keep them alive for more than two months at a time. Replanting is cheating. Water might help. Think last batch of plants were dodgy. Water. Sun. Photosynthesis. How hard can it be?
8. a) Have great sex
b) Have sex more than once
c) Have sex more than once with the same person
d) That person must be someone you have never had sex with before
9. Pilates or yoga? Research difference
Research difference? Ben scoffed. He was sure one was just the new-fangled version of the one before. It was all a gimmick. New millennium women were exhausting.
10. Streamline wardrobe. Be ruthless. Do not need another pair of black trousers, probably ever.
11. Buy anti-wrinkle cream. Is it too late once wrinkles have started to appear? Ask EJ. She seems to have inside track on new products
12. Buy night repair cream—why do repairs have to take place at night? Is it like roadworks? But no one has to dig anything up, do they?
13. Find tennis coach. Am too old to still have a crap serve
14. Try whisky again. May have grown into it now.
Ben grimaced sympathetically. He’d never understood the allure of cough medicine with ice or water, and despite David’s repeated determination to make him a man, Southern Comfort was as close as he’d managed to get to the whole malt zone.
15. Exfoliate
Liver now feels like is trying to burrow its way out of my back cavity. Sure in desperation it has borrowed water from other vital organs. Can’t rehydrate fast enough and have officially run out of soap operas, Australian, American and otherwise, to watch on apparently numerous digital television channels that I pay for. Hangovers definitely getting worse.
EJ says we have passed physical peak. Wish I’d known when I was reaching the summit. Should’ve had more random sexual encounters. Anyway, who says I need man to rescue me? Am perfectly happy. Wonder how Paul is? Oh, no. Usual downward hangover spiral and selective memory kicking in. Always wouldn’t mind having boyfriend, however unsuitable, on days like today. And if alcohol is a depressant why did I feel so good last night? Lonely. No one has called. Not even Mum. Don’t know why I bother to have answer-machine and call-waiting.
Ben shook his head. If she had just got off her toned arse and headed down to the pub for a couple of Bloody Marys with a buddy or two she’d have been feeling a lot better, he was sure of it.
Must call Sophie and Mark and say thank you. Not now. Probably still in bed. Not sure will make it out of house today. Maybe should add atrophy to list of skills to perfect this year.
All out of empathy, he flicked forward a handful of pages.
Jan 16th
Bad day. 1—Caught myself counting faint lines on forehead in lift mirror at 7:00 a.m. before remembering CCTV memo. 2—Richard called twice about having lunch to discuss my progress—more like his progress. 3— Departmental drinks tonight—decision to have onions in salad at lunch was wrong one. 4—Monster spot brewing on lipline, with roots in central nervous system and fast-track link to tear ducts. Have drenched in tea-tree oil and now whole office smells like aromatherapy zone. Have despatched Mel to buy industrial strength cover-up and air-freshener.
Ben yawned. Just reading her life was exhausting, but no wonder Adrian Mole and Bridget Jones were world-famous. It was mundanely addictive stuff, and without thinking he’d conjured up a mental picture of a black-trousered, ageing, hyper-active hunchback in need of chill-out, pilates and serve lessons.
Hope that someone laughs at early attempt to be witty before I lose will to live or they notice spot. Definitely should not have attempted pre-emptory squeeze. Lip must not swell. Are there genuinely confident people out there or are they just better at bluffing than the rest of us?
Sam sat in the conference room and watched the bubbles in her mineral water lose their battle to cling to the bottom of the glass before forcing herself to concentrate by diligently taking copious notes. Doing her utmost to avoid Richard’s gaze, even though she could feel him observing her from the other side of the table, she channelled all her positive mental powers of retrieval to the other side of the Atlantic.
Jan 21st—Edinburgh
Freezing my tits off despite two fleeces and long sleeved T-shirt. Perfect skiing weather, only there’s no snow and no piste. If I ever have hen weekend it will be somewhere hot and will not involve being hungover in hiking boots. Sunshine is glorious. Wind-chill is positively Scandinavian. Thank God Sophie has opted for London-based traditional drinks, dinner and nightclub approach. Hope Gemma not having some sort of travellers reunion on Designers Guild sofa and has remembered to feed George.
Hard to share after months alone, and probably impossible to ever find someone totally compatible post-Soph. Can’t believe G caught me waxing legs in front of Dolly Parton documentary on Thursday night. Now probably thinks I am some bluegrass nut. And all because I couldn’t face Newsnight. Miss the anonymity. And do miss topless cup of coffee first thing, pre-shower. Maybe am secretly some sort of naturist? Will actively discourage that tendency.
Deal should close next week. Hope EJ is still up for skiing. Can’t believe she is still sleeping with NG after everything he’s put her through. But apparently sex is awesome.
Ben stopped skimming. This was the Holy Grail of diary snooping.
Fact he is so well known has got to be recipe for disaster…not to mention the takeover. Have had serious chat and she’s adamant he’s got more to lose than she has. Therefore she’s safe. She didn’t even buckle at the Hello! spread. Perfect home, perfect children, perfect wife. But you can’t just go shagging the other side. Even if he did make the first move, how could she ever prove it?
A surge of adrenaline powered up Ben’s hard drive as he began to scour his archives. NG… NG…
Can’t believe it’s been on and off for 5 months.
Ben counted back on his fingers to August/September and added the details to his search. Still nothing.
She insists monogamy is flawed. I just don’t want to see her get hurt. Of course if you never over-estimate a man then he’ll never let you down, but she deserves so much more, and it’s not like she needs to be checking in and out of hotels midweek, even if they are all five-star. She claims it’s all on her terms, but how can it be when he dictates where and when? She says this is the future. I am still hoping for more. Seems impossible that is now six years since my last, okay my only serious relationship ended. Wanted period of being single, but not necessarily a lifetime. And what if that was the best I—
A knock, followed by—what was that?—the doorbell?
As he crash-landed back in his world, Ben’s amusement at the fact their room was large enough to merit a bell was only momentary as he heard a key slice into the lock.
‘Coming…’
Momentarily forgetting the breakfast order, he wondered whether this could have been a set-up. The curse of a vivid imagination coupled with mild paranoia. One of the many side effects of being a true creative…along with lower than average salary, propensity towards messiness, predilection for alcohol and the inability to look truly smart even in a suit.
‘I’ll be with you in a second.’ Stuffing the diary under his pillows, Ben strode across the fitted carpet to answer the door.
Disappointingly there was no sign of any food. Instead, a woman power-dressed in a black suit, who looked as if she had been made up enthusiastically by Picasso using a trowel, was waiting patiently, hands clasped to display her freshly manicured nails.
‘I’m so sorry to bother you, sir…’
Ben loved the formality of hotels. Being a paying guest was a prostitution of sorts. Instant respect without having to earn it so long as you had a valid credit card number. Where else would a thirty-something producer for a mediocre television production company, dressed in his underwear, be addressed with such deference? Although somewhat disappointingly she had resisted the urge to bob a curtsey. It wasn’t until he felt her gaze wander to his midriff and back that Ben realised he was only wearing boxer shorts. A cursory glance due south confirmed that nothing was gaping and everything was exactly where it was supposed to be, albeit shrinking rapidly.
‘I can come back a little later if this is a bad time?’ This time she looked him squarely and unblinkingly in the eye, the directness of her stare more than a little unnerving.
‘Really, it’s no problem. What can I help you with?’ Ben folded his arms across his chest to remove the likelihood of his hands accidentally straying to his groin area for a morning scratch. It was either that or hands on hips, which would have looked even stranger and much camper, if not like a little teapot. He would have pulled on yesterday’s jeans if he’d been able to see them. Obviously they were hanging in a wardrobe for the first time in their life. There were advantages to having an interfering older sister, but this wasn’t one of them.
‘It really shouldn’t take a minute.’
‘I was just getting up anyway…’ To his relief, Ben spotted a bathrobe and belted it round him to reduce his increasing feeling of semi-nakedness. But now, with his underwear still on underneath, he might have appeared more decent but he felt like a cross between Hugh Hefner and Lily Savage.
She was still hesitating on the threshold.
‘Really. Come in.’ Taking a step to one side, and with a hospitable sweep of his arm, he finally persuaded her to enter the room and, shoulders back, she strode past him to the bedroom.
Retreating to the sitting room, Ben pulled back a curtain, flooding the room with light. It had been dark when they’d arrived, but now a patchwork of power stretched out below, the long green rectangle of Central Park a perfect contrast to the density of towers midtown that made the New York skyline one of the most distinctive in the world.
The sky was a perfect high-pressure blue, and as the sun reflected off cars and windows, with glimpses of handkerchief-sized stars and stripes blowing in the crosstown breeze over twenty floors below, it was as if the city was twinkling. Surveying the scene, he was overtaken by a sense of pride. He loved London—its quirkiness, its history, its architecture—but the British just couldn’t do skyscrapers. Canary Wharf wasn’t in the same league.
‘I’ve just got to check a couple of drawers.’
‘No problem.’
‘The previous guest thinks she may have left something behind…’
‘Really?’ Ben silenced himself. Each word on the subject only deepened his deception. Picking up the New York Times he forced himself to sit down and act natural. He was an oxy-moron in action. Maybe just a moron. And he might as well have been holding the Times upside down for all the information he was gleaning.
Ben watched and listened over the top of the paper, half expecting the book to fling itself into open view from its inadequate hiding place. But on Tuesday he’d be back in London—or he could hand it in to Reception later. It was a win-win situation.
Sam stared at the Post-It in the centre of her desk. Melanie’s curvy writing filled the primrose-yellow. There had to be a logical explanation. But if she didn’t have it and neither did the hotel…
Her chest was tight. Only a diary. Only a diary. Only a diary… It wasn’t working. If anything, hysteria was tiptoeing a little closer. If she’d wanted to expose her soul to an audience she’d have been a talk-show host, not a lawyer. Yet now someone had the fast-track to her unencrypted inner sanctum and, worst of all, it wasn’t only her privacy that had been invaded.
Sam shook her head vehemently and deliberately. She needed a calming influence. There was only one person for the job. She might have moved out in October to start a joint life with Mark in their little house on the Fulham prairie, but thankfully she was still at the end of the phone.
Sophie eyeballed the phone, daring it to ring. She’d only popped out for stamps, and she’d left return messages for Sam everywhere. Something was up. She couldn’t remember the last time Sam had called her at home in the afternoon. All part of the not-needing-anyone-for-anything charade that she seemed to have successfully perpetuated with everyone who hadn’t met her before she’d finally split up with Paul.
Double-checking she had all the photos and samples she needed for her meeting, Sophie made herself another coffee. As the kettle boiled she stared critically into the mirror, pawing at imperfections only she could see before standing back to allow a more soft-focus view and grimacing to tighten the skin of her neck in an attempt to exercise the muscles responsible for keeping her chin in place.
As Mark swept in to the sitting room, pinstriped from head to toe, newspaper tucked under his arm, a bunch of flowers wrapped in the usual pastel paper from the flower stall outside the tube station, Sophie gave her hair a quick flick and hoped he hadn’t noticed her moment of gurning madness. She was never going to stop men in the street with her looks, but she’d always been attractive enough. And happy enough. It was just—well, what with all the planning for the wedding she couldn’t help becoming a little more self-absorbed and self-conscious…
‘Hello, you. Happy weekend. Smells gorgeous in here.’ Mark presented Sophie with the bouquet and planted an enthusiastic kiss on her cheek before striding over to the oven and peering in. ‘Mmm. Cottage pie. My favourite. You are clever. Lucky me. But only a small dish…’ He looked up. ‘So does this mean you’re abandoning me again this evening?’
‘Only for a few hours. And only for another woman.’
‘Excellent.’
Sophie smiled. Mark’s fantasies were as original as his taste in suits.
‘She’s just inherited four floors of Artex and woodchip in Richmond and needs serious help.’
‘Sounds expensive.’
‘Here’s hoping.’ Sophie walked over to her husband-to-be. His five-thirty shadow was giving him an atypically rugged appeal that she really quite liked. ‘It’s just an informal meeting—a chance for me to introduce myself and give her a few knee-jerk ideas—but at least this way I’ve still got the weekend to myself, and if she likes my recommendations it’s potentially my biggest project yet. Apparently her husband’s loaded.’
‘And hopefully devastatingly unattractive.’
‘Hideous, I believe. Anyway, there must be a good four hours of crucial sport for you to watch on cable until I get back.’
‘Well, they’re repeating the one-day cricket from India…’ Sophie pulled a face. She couldn’t understand the point of a sport in which the quick version took a whole day to play. ‘…plus there’ll be the weekend football and rugby previews, and of course essential tractor-pulling on Eurosport. But first I was planning on getting out of my uniform and having a little rest.’ Mark filled a pint glass with water from the mixer tap, liberally showering himself in the process.
‘Poor you. Have you had a horrible day?’
‘Not too bad, but it’s Friday so of course there was a large lunch to contend with.’
She should have known. His breath was far too minty for this time of the afternoon.
Mark grabbed at his love handles with a contradictory combination of pride and disgust. ‘These must be worth a fortune. Pure sirloin, frîtes and Fleurie.’ He gulped down his water, wiping his mouth on his forearm in the manner of a true nine-year-old. ‘What time are you off, then?’
‘Ought to be out of here in less than an hour, and I still have to change.’
‘Don’t go changing…’
It was one of their standard lines, and one that had proved very lucrative for both Billy Joel and Barry White, but it still made her smile.
Wrapping his arms around her curves, Mark pulled his fiancée in for a kiss. ‘Don’t suppose you want a quick lie-down too?’
Minutes later the phone rang, but Sophie didn’t hear it.
Chapter Three
Ben sat himself down in a leather armchair identical to the one he had just vacated a few blocks east and, arranging the expanding collection of shopping bags at his feet, exchanged an empathetic smile with the men sitting on either side of him.
He’d done almost all his clothes-shopping in a couple of stores on Lexington straight after lunch, and yet this was their third branch of Banana Republic in two hours. Ali assured him this was their flagship, the mother ship, the Mecca, the ultimate collection, and until they opened a branch in London he’d just have to be patient. Reaching for the GQ magazine that he was using as a disguise, he settled into his seat and selected one of the most recent entries.
Wednesday March 21st
Furious. Richard turned up at hotel this morning all smiles for final meetings. Not even a call or e-mail first. Wanker. He claims he is relationship-building. Yadda-yadda-yadda. If he’s waiting for me to screw up it’s not going to happen.
Must keep calm. Home tomorrow. And, small consolation, did pick up killer DKNY trouser suit yesterday. Simple lines. Classic cut. Great fabric. Always feel unassailable in NYC. Energy levels infectious and people no ruder than in London. Need green card. Or American firm to sponsor me. Or American husband—note: George Clooney has previously shown a healthy degree of interest in English girls.
Nick still periodically chasing EJ. Am proud to report she is resisting and has no shortage of alternative offers. Own daily routine feeling bit flat by comparison. Busy enough socially, but is increasingly girlie nights and am often sole singleton at dinner parties, expected to entertain with tales of the City so they can relive their dating days vicariously. Less random new people. Need new project. Most exciting thing to happen to me last week was new series of Friends on E4. And never have time to watch whole series. Know I will end up buying DVD and filing it, unopened, along with others. Scene change would be good. And it’s not like I’m going to give it all up and make jam.
Ben shook his head. These pseudo-feminists were their own worst enemies, believing they could eat men for breakfast when all they really wanted was a man to make it for them.
Sometimes I think I’d like to spend more time outside.
Personal trainer? Landscape gardener?
Landscape gardener? He was supposed to be the creative one, yet in his regular life and career crises he only ever came up with the traditional bar owner/teacher/doctor options.
Or at least do something that feels more tangible. I have good job. Good salary. Qualifications. Prospects. But sometimes wonder if I am too sensible—own worst enemy—but then maybe grass is always greener in a landscaped garden. But haven’t met any guys with longterm potential since I’ve been at 3L. Not that this is all about a man. Far from it.
