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Undaunted, he said, ‘S’pose. Listen, you busy Saturday?’
She misunderstood at first. ‘I don’t work weekends, and anyway…’
‘Nah, I meant you and me. Curry, pint. You know some good places for a curry I bet. What’s it short for, by the way? Ani’s not an Indian name?’
She stared at him for a minute, speechless. A voice cut in. ‘Anisha. Sorry, Ms Singh, I mean. I just wanted to say: no hard feelings?’
It was the bloody barrister, Adam Robins, sweeping his dark hair off his face. Mark shook his outstretched hand, seemingly unperturbed by the character assassination Robins had just carried out on him in court. Ani glared at him. How dare he be so handsome and so confident. ‘Mr Robins, is it? Maybe you could try not to be late in future? My time is valuable too, you know.’
Adam Robins blinked. His eyes were the exact shade of green Fruit Pastilles. ‘I’m sure it is—I know your hourly rates, after all.’
Mark’s eyes widened. ‘You’re saying she…’
‘For law.’ Ani turned her back on the barrister. To Mark she said briskly, ‘I’m leaving now. I have other clients.’
‘Can I get your email then? Personal, like.’
‘Sure. It’s ani@notinamillonyearspal.com. Do contact me for the next divorce you will almost inevitably have.’
As she stomped off, she heard Adam Robins make a small noise that could have been a laugh, and Mark asking, ‘Is that all lower case, you reckon?’ It was unprofessional, but she didn’t care. And that was why she was, at thirty-two, more single than a single LP—no B-side—and why when she saw her parents at the weekend she’d have to once again tell them that, no, she wasn’t seeing anyone, and no, she still didn’t want them to find her a nice boy, thanks all the same. Because how could you believe in love when you spent all day sweeping up the smashed remnants of it?
At least she had dinner tonight to take her mind off things. After all, if there was one person who was more terminally single than Ani, then that was Marnie.
* * *
Rosa.
Rosa was sitting at her desk again, running through her mental checklist. Eye make-up smears? Check, she’d stopped wearing it two weeks ago, after she’d interviewed a mid-list actress without realising she had massive smudges all down her cheeks like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins. Snot on face, dress, hair? Check, she’d taken to carrying around so many tissues that were she to fall out of an aeroplane she would probably survive without even minor bruising. Her floral dress, cardigan, and thick tights might have caused her fashion-forward boss to visibly wince that morning, but at least she looked respectable. Was she currently making loud gasping sob noises without even noticing? Check, unless she’d gone deaf at that frequency. All was fine, or at least as fine as it could be given her husband had left her two months before.
She looked at the copy on her screen. Star of TV cop drama ’Aving a Laugh Natasha Byrd lived up to her name at our brunch. Picking at a salad, she told me she eats only once a day and…
Crap. Like jungle drums, she knew when David was approaching. Rosa’s desk was right on the route to the main meeting room, and the editorial conference must have ended early—most days she hid in the loos at this time, waiting for him to get safely back to his desk. Only one thing for it. After grabbing her phone, she slid gently to her knees and ducked under the desk again. It was cosy down there, among the trailing leads and decades-old dust. It was fast becoming her new favourite place.
‘…So I think let’s go big on detox for Jan—more quinoa, more mung—what’s the newest grain, anyone?’
Ow! The castor of Rosa’s chair, pushed aside by unseen hands, rolled over her thumb. ‘Holy CRAP,’ she yelled, before she could stop herself.
Oh no. ‘Bloody hell, are you OK?’ She peered up to see Jason Connell, the new whizz-kid editor who’d been poached from clickbait site Listbuzz, along with her boss, Suzanne, who was in metal-look leggings and on a two-week Botox cycle.
‘What are you doing, Rosa?’ demanded Suzanne. ‘Aren’t you a bit old for hide-and-seek?’
But Rosa could only look at the third person in the group, in his skinny red jeans and clashing yellow T-shirt. The man she’d married five years ago, the man she’d intended to spend her life with. Who she’d never expected to see wearing red jeans, or packing up his collection of vinyl and moving out, or for that matter, sleeping with an intern. She’d advised him against the jeans, but he’d bought them anyway, and in retrospect that should have been a sign.
‘Rosa?’ David was staring down at her. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine!’ She tried to summon every ounce of journalistic nous that might be left to her. ‘Um, it’s a new trend I’m testing. It’s called—head-desk-space.’
‘Head-desk-space?’ Suzanne’s over-plucked brows nearly met in the middle of her Botoxed forehead. She had no facial expressions left, so she had to inspire sheer terror through slight flares of her nostrils. It was a closely guarded secret—which meant everyone from the cleaner to the board members knew—that Suzanne had once been caught in flagrante with Bill McGregor, the married MD, in the old print rooms of the newspaper, and consequently could never be fired, despite being the personification of pure evil—the impressions on the evening edition had apparently left little to the imagination.
‘Yep. It’s a new meditation trend,’ said Rosa desperately. ‘You know, research shows mindfulness can boost performance at work by up to…um…forty-seven per cent.’
‘I like it,’ said the new editor. He loomed over Rosa—he must have been over six foot tall, and was built like a surfer, his wavy blond hair slightly too long and his tie slightly too loose for London. On a better day, when she wasn’t hiding under a desk being watched by her boss, his boss, and her soon-to-be ex-husband, Rosa might have found his Australian accent sexy. ‘It’s a good angle. Ways to work smarter, not harder. Can we do a feature?’
‘Sure!’ said Suzanne gamely. ‘Whatever you like, Jason. We’ll get right on it.’ But her nostrils said—I will kill you, Rosa. I will crush you like I crush fresh lemon for my morning detox. Rosa, however, could still only look at David. He gave her a quick glance—was that pity?—then turned and walked away. She’d been right. Those jeans really did make him look like a Christmas turkey.
Jason Connell was still watching her curiously. She tried to communicate with a smile that she was a slick, totally professional, valued member of staff—not easy when you were hiding under a desk. He hunkered down to her, and gently flicked her long dark plait. She gaped.
‘You had dust in it.’ Then he smiled—was that a wink?—and went back to his office.
Rosa resumed her seat. Only four hours and twenty-three minutes before she could leave the office, have a drink and, with any luck, obliterate the bit of her brain that would remember this encounter. And Marnie was back! Marnie was sure to have some advice about how to cope with working in the same office as your ex. After all, there was no dating situation on earth she hadn’t experienced.
Chapter 2 Pickled Eggs and Popcorn (#ulink_d8c9c537-14bb-5eac-a2c4-0c400644b638)
Helen
‘The reservation was like for seven?’ The waiter gave Helen a scowl as he took her to the table (not actually a table but an old school desk, this being a trendy London eatery).
‘I know, I’m just early.’ Twenty minutes early. Helen-time. She wanted to check it wasn’t too noisy or too busy, and that they had a good table, not too close to the door or loos. It had to be nice, since she was dragging Ani and Rosa out on a school night. And things with Marnie might be a little weird, after her disappearing act. She felt another flare of nerves in her stomach.
‘Because like I can’t hold the table?’
Helen looked around the empty place—it was a Tuesday night in January after all—and tacked on a conciliatory smile. ‘Of course. They won’t be long, I promise.’ The waiter sniffed. He had tattoos up both arms and one of a butterfly on his cheek.
She wondered who should sit where—if only it was acceptable to make out place cards for casual social occasions! But despite it all, Helen was excited. For months now she’d had a slight, a very very slight, third-wheel feeling. Rosa and Ani had met in uni, and even though they’d all been friends for years, Helen was always aware she was the newcomer. But Marnie—well, ever since day one of primary school, Marnie and Helen had come as something of a package deal. ‘Like those twins, where one is living inside the other and slowly eating it,’ as Marnie had once cheerfully put it. Before Marnie left, the four of them had been a tight-knit group, where no one ever got left out or felt alone. Maybe they could go back to that? Helen’s stomach dipped again. So many things had happened since then. It seemed unlikely.
Rosa was the second to arrive, unwinding her long scarf from her plait. ‘I couldn’t stay another second,’ she declared. ‘I swear, working with David, it’s like—’ She mimed a rope around her neck. ‘I’m going to have to change jobs. Go back to Puzzle Weekly or Knitting Times. Oh God. And today I actually had to fabricate a whole trend that helps you chill out at work.’
‘I’m sorry. Want some Rescue Remedy?’
‘Yes please.’ Rosa opened her mouth and Helen squeezed in a few drops from the yellow bottle.
‘Berocca?’
‘Go on then.’
Helen rooted around in the massive handbag she always carried. Ani called it the Doombag, because it contained solutions for everything that could possibly go wrong in life, short of full-scale nuclear war. Ani herself arrived just then, shouting into her phone. ‘Tell them the offer is derisory. Yes, that actual word. D-e- Can’t you just look it up?’ She waved over to them. ‘I have to go. Just get it sorted, will you?’
Rosa put a guilty hand over her fizzing orange drink. ‘It’s, um, a new cocktail?’
Ani raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t think caffeine is a good idea for you right now, judging by the manic texts I’ve been getting all day. How’s the fake trend?’
‘Booming,’ said Rosa glumly. ‘How was court?’
Ani took off her jacket, revealing a cream silk shirt and tweed skirt, and fluffed out her neat bob. ‘Well, we lost, and the opposing barrister was really hot—’
‘Ooh, was he?’
‘—yeah, so obviously I was really rude to him and basically called him a twat—’
‘Of course.’
‘—and then my sleazy client hit on me.’
‘Ew.’
‘Worse—I realised it was the first time anyone’s asked me out in months.’ She looked round. ‘No Marnie then?’
‘It’s only twenty past,’ said Rosa, checking her watch.
‘Will she show?’
‘Of course. She texted earlier.’ Helen wished she felt as confident as she sounded.
‘I bet she’s got a lovely tan,’ said Rosa, stabbing at the retro pickled eggs the waiter had just brought. ‘Maybe I’ll move to South America too. Leave behind horrible cold London and my horrible boss and horrible David. Marnie’s probably picked up some gorgeous Brazilian beach dude.’
‘Or dudess,’ Ani reminded them. ‘Remember that Dutch girl she went out with?’
‘Oh yeah.’ Rosa sighed. ‘God, I am such a dating novice.’
The waiter was eyeballing the empty place. ‘Are you expecting the rest of your party soon?’
‘Very soon. We’ll be happy to move if you fill up.’ Ani was pleasant and assertive—Helen resolved to copy her in future. ‘So Marnie’s been in South America all this time?’
Helen shrugged. ‘I think so. It was Argentina last I heard.’ Soooo gorgeous, the food is to die for, the kids are beautiful… Marnie’s life was like a travelogue, beamed out via Facebook and Twitter. Nothing ever went wrong. Every day was hashtag-blessed. But communication had been sporadic for a while now—Marnie too busy having the time of her life to get in touch, most likely.
Ani was looking at the menu. ‘Well, should we order? Oh, surprise, surprise, pulled pork. Tell me this, is there any un-pulled pork in the whole of London right now?’
Helen was starting to feel anxious, checking the time, when she realised—like the night bus you wait for so long you slip into a sort of hallucinatory state—Marnie was there.
* * *
There was something about Marnie. A shimmer in the air around her. Even though Rosa was sad and Helen was worried and Ani was tired, all three of them looked up as she came in, and one by one they smiled.
She was thin, was Helen’s first thought. Thin, and incredibly pale given she’d been travelling, and she’d cut her strawberry-blonde-copper-ginger hair into a short crop. It would have made someone else look like a dinner lady, but on Marnie it was cute, child-like yet sexy. She was wearing a vast cape, which again came out more catwalk trend than ‘Little Red Riding Hood: the London Years’, and a short dress the colour of sunshine. Her big green eyes flicked over them, faltered. ‘Guys, I’m late—I’m not used to the tube…’
Helen was on her feet, gathering her up. ‘Never mind. You’re here!’ Marnie smelled like she always did, of exotic spices and airport lounges. For a moment, Helen felt the name hover between them. Would Marnie mention Ed? God, she hoped not.
Marnie’s arms met behind Helen’s back, and she pulled away, staring. ‘Oh my God! Look at you!’
Helen blushed. ‘Oh. Yeah.’
‘How come you didn’t tell me?’
Helen didn’t say: Er, maybe because I haven’t heard from you in months. She said, ‘Oh, it’s no big deal. I just joined a gym and stuff.’
‘Um, hello, you must have lost, what—three stone?’
‘Four,’ said Ani. ‘She looks amazing, doesn’t she? Hey, it’s great to see you.’ Ani was on her feet now too, embracing the other side of Marnie, and Rosa draped herself over them, so the four women were enmeshed in a kind of eight-armed hug monster.
Marnie squeezed Ani: ‘God, you look like a grown-up, I love the suit,’ then kissed Rosa’s wan cheek: ‘Sweetie, I’m so sorry about David. I want to hear everything.’ Soon they were sitting down, and the waiter, suddenly happy and smiling after the application of Marnie’s magic smile and her warm, ‘Hi! How’s your day been?’ was bringing extra pickled eggs and sneaking them popcorn in little tin buckets.
‘Pulled pork,’ said Marnie, looked at the menu. ‘What’s that? Sounds like what they used to put in the ‘mystery meat’ sandwiches at primary school. I’m not paying £17.99 for school dinners, they can do one.’
The others burst out laughing. ‘Marnie,’ said Ani, raising her jam-jar cocktail. ‘London has missed you.’
* * *
It was almost as if Marnie had never been away, Helen thought, trying to manoeuvre her head-sized burger into her mouth. As if she hadn’t just left two years ago, without even saying goodbye, only surfacing to email from various exotic locales. Everyone was carefully not mentioning it, though Helen was dying to ask: Why did you go? Why didn’t you tell me? But then, she was keen to keep the conversation away from the events of two years ago. They’d just been listening to the sorry tale of Rosa and David’s breakup, retold for Marnie’s benefit.
‘…I’d no idea anything was even wrong. I just thought he was a bit stressed at work…’
‘Ah love, that must have been horrible.’
‘And this girl had started as an intern. Daisy. You know the sort, all cute and helpless and, um…twenty.’
(Cute and helpless was Marnie’s thing, and Helen had time to realise this, quickly panic, and then relax in relief. Marnie was not twenty, not even close.)
‘Ooooh, tell me he didn’t…’
‘It came up on his phone. He was too stupid to turn off the messaging…’
‘Oh my God, the utter dick.’
‘And I asked him and he said they were in love, and he was moving in with her—I mean, Jesus, she lives with four other students in some fleapit…’
‘I can’t believe it!’
‘And Mum and Dad, you know what they’re like, they think they’re so lefty and hip, then suddenly Mum’s crying on the phone to the rabbi and Dad’s down the synagogue with David’s uncle trying to sort it all out—they’re not even practising, it’s ridiculous…’
By the end of the story Marnie’s eyes were jewel-bright with tears, and Rosa was half crying, half laughing. ‘At least I kept the flat. And at least I never have to listen to his stupid Bob Dylan B-sides ever again. I guess, if I’m honest, I should have known he wasn’t happy. I mean, I actually had to beg him to have sex with me instead of watching Robson Green’s Extreme Fishing. But now I’m thirty-two, and I’m single again, and I have no idea what to do. How do you date? I don’t even know. You’re the dating expert—help me!’
Marnie swirled her glass of ‘Brigitte Bardot’s Knickers’ (it being against the law to have non-ironic cocktail names in London), a concoction of Campari, gin, and Fanta, and looked at Ani and Helen. ‘Hmmm. What about you two, any romance?’
When Marnie wasn’t there, Ani was too pessimistic to discuss her love life, Helen just didn’t date (because: reasons), and Rosa had been happily married until a few months ago. So at the question, a silence fell over them. Helen cleared her throat. ‘Ani got asked out by her client,’ she said.
Ani rolled her eyes. ‘Mr “I had sex with my kids’ auntie under the Christmas tree”, yeah, great. If I’m lucky he still has his Santa suit. Otherwise, no, still nothing that sticks. Mum and Dad are starting to despair of me, I think.’
‘And you, Helz?’
She went for an ironic shrug and ended up spattering chipotle mayonnaise on her chin. ‘Do Dr Derek Shepherd and Walter White, crack dealer, count as men? Because I’ve been spending a lot of time with them.’
‘No, box sets do not count.’
Helen squirmed. Marnie couldn’t know the real reason Helen hadn’t dated in two years. ‘Ach, it’s such a lot of hassle and heartache—tell her about your last date, Ani.’
‘The one where he took out his contacts and said, “You could be anyone now!”, then his cat bit me on the foot? I still have the scar.’
‘Not him, the other one.’
