Do You Want to Know a Secret? Read online

  ME: (Mock mortified, yet slightly raging that Laura and Barbara aren’t around to overhear.) ‘Ah, you’re embarrassing me now. But don’t let that stop you, go on, keep going.’

  HIM: ‘I often think that until you came along, darling Vicky, my life was so empty and meaningless. I mean, all I ever did was flit around the world in my Lear jet, dating a string of vacuous supermodels, none of whom could hold a candle to you, even without your make-up, in that very fetching pink fleece thing you’re wearing now. I would divide my time between all fifteen of my properties dotted around the globe and think, ‘Where’s the right person for me? When will the fates ever bring us together?’ Little did I know that when I was invited to Dublin to accept the award for ‘best and most generous humanitarian who ever lived, ever’, that the woman of my dreams would be doing the PR for it. You, my darling, have made me the happiest man in the world. How long is it since I showered you with a token of my undying love?’

  ME: ‘Ehh . . . that would be . . . last Tuesday. The racehorse. No, hang on, that was the week before, oh, yeah, now I remember, this week it was the tickets to go first class on the Orient Express.’

  HIM: ‘Then how about we go jewellery shopping today, darling? And afterwards I absolutely insist that you go on the piss with Laura and Barbara while I play snooker with your delightful brothers. You know how I just can’t get enough of their company and their hilarious pranks. Oh dear me, is that the door? It must be the people from Architectural Digest to photograph the house for their feature on ‘the top ten most beautiful houses in the country’. No, you lie on, dearest, let me get it.’ (All of the above speech to be delivered in very sexy, non-doormat tones.)

  Well, if the secret to life is just ask, believe and receive, then I’ve already done two out of three. And the book is very clear that, just like ordering from a catalogue, once you’ve placed your actual order, then you only have to sit back, relax and wait for the miracle to happen, serene in the knowledge that it absolutely WILL. In fact, it’s all sounding so scarily easy that I go back to my tatty book just to check I got it right.

  Nope, there it is, in black and white:

  As for receiving, all that’s required is to feel absolutely positive that your bounty is on its way towards you. The more joyous you feel about the wonderful life that’s just about to begin for you, the faster it will manifest, winging its way towards you with the speed of light.

  How fab is this? I think, snuggling back under the duvet. All I need do is feel like I’m in love and Mr Wonderful, Mr Ah-Go-On-Let-Me-Cook-For-You should be here by the end of the week, by the sounds of it.

  And this time, I’m not budging, compromising or settling for anything less.

  Piece of cake, really.

  Chapter Six

  MONDAY MORNING AND I’m just on my way into the big pitching meeting, when my phone rings. Laura. Sounding an awful lot more harassed and stressed than normal, which, God love her, is really saying something.

  ‘I’m ringing to tell you never to have kids, do you hear me? If you feel an overriding need to reproduce, just borrow one of mine for a twenty-four-hour period, that’ll cure you.’

  ‘Oh, honey, what’s up? Anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Pure visual contraception, that’s what they are,’ she goes on, ignoring me and speaking in a scarily high-pitched voice. ‘My God, why don’t I just charge people?’

  OK, now she sounds really upset, which immediately worries me. Laura never, ever gets upset or emotional, at any time, ever. She’s the only person I know who even managed to sit through Princess Diana’s funeral without a tear-streaked face. Honestly.

  ‘What happened? Tell me everything.’

  ‘Have you time for this?’

  I don’t really, I’m literally on the steps of Best Advertising agency. (No, I’m not messing, that really is the name, it’s owned by someone called Best, which is kind of an advertiser’s dream, when you think about it.) But of course I can’t say that to her.

  ‘All the time in the world, babe. Are you OK? Do you need me to do anything?’

  ‘You could get a hit man after George Hastings, that’d be a start.’

  ‘Oh dear. Something to do with last night, maybe? How did it go?’

  From the back of my mind, I dimly remember her telling me something about Emily spending the night at her dad’s. Emily is child number two, devoted to her dad and, at the tender age of ELEVEN, already acting and behaving like a pre-teen Lindsay Lohan, only worse, if you could imagine.

  She’s not quite a kid, not nearly an adult.

  A kid-ult, if they’ve even invented such a term yet.

  ‘Oh, your average night in hell. I went to collect her on my school run this morning, punctually on the dot of seven thirty and the hall door was opened by Miss Human Botox.’

  Laura’s nickname for George’s live-in girlfriend. She’s one of those permanent student types who goes round dressed like an eco warrior, has hair down to her bum, and who I don’t think has ever been single once in her entire life.

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Human Botox tells me that she and Emily, who have now bonded in a frighteningly huge way, are taking a trip with George during the summer, all happy families together. So, I do my best to stay cool and I say, oh really, may I ask where to? Euro Disney, I’m casually told. Oh really, I say, deliberately keeping my tone measured, and who will be financing this little jaunt? Then she umms and aahs and calls George Hastings, who comes to the door still in his dressing gown, with the hair looking like he’d slept in a tree and I just know by his general laid-back demeanour that he’d been having early morning relations with that floozie.’

  Laura, by the way, never says ‘sex’, always ‘relations’. I think coming from a political dynasty must make you a bit prudish like that.

  ‘So I calmly pointed out to Emily that Daddy really shouldn’t make promises he can’t keep, which only sets her off wailing, to the backing track of the other three screeching in the car. At which point I ask George Hastings how he can even suggest offering such a huge treat to one child, nothing for the others, and all the while being months behind on his child-maintenance payments? He says Miss Human Botox has kindly agreed to pay for half of the trip, I can only presume out of her student grant. In fact, I’ve a good mind to report her to the university authorities, that’d soften her cough.’

  ‘But why do you think she’s even doing this?’

  ‘One of two possible motives. Either the misguided idiot is trying to parade her parenting skills in front of her boyfriend, or else in some warped way, she’s trying to undermine me.’

  ‘Either way, she’s a stupid cow. May she fail every exam she ever sits and end up working behind a tea urn in the college canteen to finance her heroin habit,’ I say loyally.

  ‘Bless you for that delightfully charitable thought. Anyway, I flash her my falsest smile and say what wonderful news it is to hear that she has access to taxpayer’s money. Then I remind George Hastings that school fees, mortgages and grocery bills are, in fact, not luxury items, and that if he doesn’t find some way of coughing up, I have no difficulty hauling him into court and suing him for being in arrears. And that’s not an idle threat, Vicky; I’d kill to get back inside a courtroom, even if it’s only the family law court. He’d think he was hit by a stealth missile.’

  ‘Good girl,’ I say staunchly. ‘Serve the bastard right.’

  ‘So then, of course, back in the car I have to deal with Emily, who keeps up her wailing the whole way to school, telling me how mean I am, that I’ve ruined her summer holiday, and that she infinitely prefers Miss Human Botox to me. So, of course the boys want to know what’s going on and Emily tells them all about how she was invited to Euro Disney and that I’m refusing to let her go. Then of course I get a full, disco-extended version from the boys of “why is she invited and we’re not?” followed by a chorus of “you’re so mean and we never get to do anything fun”, and honestly, Vicky, by now
I’m at boiling point. It’s not even eight a.m. on a Monday morning, I still have a whole week to get through, and I really believe I could have a breakdown. I’m hanging on for dear life here, but every single passing day is just becoming more and more of a struggle. Listen to me and tell me the honest truth; do I sound like I’m having an anxiety attack?’

  ‘No,’ I say, as firmly as I can. ‘You’re wonderful and strong, and you’re a fabulous parent, and when your kids are grown up they’ll look at you in awe, because you managed to bring up four, pretty much single-handedly and with sod-all money to speak of. What you’re doing is incredible. I couldn’t admire you more, I mean that so sincerely.’

  ‘No, Vicky, I’m doing all the things separated parents are never supposed to do, misdirecting all my anger at the kids when the person I really want to see dying a slow, painful death is George Hastings. I just hate this so much. I hate that I shouted back at them in the car. I hate that all their friends have fabulous things that mine will never have because I can’t afford them. And most of all, I hate it that bloody George Hastings gets to play fun daddy all the time, while I have to be the tough disciplinarian.’

  Her voice is cracking with emotion, and now I’m really worried. This is unheard-of. Laura’s always the one who holds the rest of us together, she’s never the one to break, ever.

  ‘Where are you now? I’ll drop everything and come over.’

  What the hell, I can reschedule the pitch meeting if I have to.

  They’ll understand. They’ve no choice.

  ‘Bless you for offering, but no thank you, dearest. I know it’s a big day for you, and really, even just talking about this is helping me considerably. I can hardly ring Barbara, because she’s probably still not home from wherever she was last night. Just tell me when you need to hang up.’

  ‘I’ve ages yet,’ I lie. ‘Go on, keep talking.’

  ‘So, anyway, the saga continues. I drop the three of them at the school gates, still screaming at me and at each other, and I can see all the yummy mummies in their Range Rovers with their immaculate blow-dries looking pityingly at me while they hand over packed lunches made by nannies to children who actually hug them goodbye. Mine just run out of the car and disappear into the throng, as if they can’t get away from me fast enough. So I pull the car out, still furious and muttering phrases to myself about how much sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have ungrateful children, and then it strikes me that Baby Julia’s being quieter than normal. So I turn around and there she is, in her booster seat, the remains of her Coco Pops breakfast still congealed around the edge of her mouth, clinging to her teddy with silent tears rolling down her fat little cheeks. I ask her what’s the matter, and even though she can’t understand, her face lights up, just at the rowing and shouting being over and at my paying her some attention for a change. Then she gives me a smile so big I can see all five of her teeth, and in her little baby voice she says, “Mama.”’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘I know. I pulled the car over, got in beside her and hugged the child so tightly, I thought she was going to break. And I howled, I howled to the four walls.’

  ‘Oh, honey,’ is all I can say. Poor Laura. I mean, every time she tells me a story like this, I silently vow never to moan EVER again.

  ‘So my question is this,’ she goes on, and I know by her voice she’s struggling to sound composed. ‘Are you honestly telling me that anyone could possibly want to read about this demented life?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say firmly, ‘they would. And it’s not a demented life, it’s a real life.’

  ‘This morning, a lifeline was thrown at me by an infant who can barely speak. And do you know what I said back to the child? I said, “I’m keeping you at home with me until you’re forty, and up until then, every man you’ll meet will be related to you.” She’s my little consolation prize sent from God, and I’m not having my angel growing up either resenting me like the others or, worse, throwing her life away at twenty-one on another bloody worthless George Hastings, like I did. Not exactly yummy mummy stuff, now is it?’

  ‘Speaking purely from a PR perspective, I can tell you the yummy mummy has had her day. It’s all about the slummy mummy now, babe.’

  ‘Oh, thank God for that. I couldn’t bear to read about another new mum, lovingly supported by her adoring husband, back in her size ten jeans two weeks after giving birth, and contemplating an affair with a sexy, single dad she meets on the school run. Could that be any more different from the life I’m living?’

  ‘Just write the way you talk, and we’re home and dry. Trust me on this.’

  ‘Well, then, I suppose this is the final rung in my descent from noted young barrister to dancing bear,’ she sighs. ‘Right then. If only for reasons of catharsis, I’ll write out something and send it to you from my new email address: “Laura at bottom of the barrel dot net”.’

  There’s a tiny pause and I just know she’s doing her lop-sided smile thing. This is a big improvement, this is great progress from the state she was in at the start of the call. She sounds cooler, calmer, more like herself. My God, she even went for a gag.

  I make all the soothing, supportive, clucking noises I can, and just as we’re saying our goodbyes and I’m heading in for my meeting, it flashes through my mind . . . is there anything in my dog-eared law of attraction book that might offer her a granule of comfort right now?

  No. If I was to tell her that somehow, she attracted all this into her life, she’d probably never speak to me again, and I don’t think I’d even blame her. Although I am pretty certain there’s a reason for everything she’s going through right now.

  I just haven’t a clue what it is.

  At least, not yet.

  Chapter Seven

  NOW, I’VE ACTUALLY done some work with Best Advertising before and I love visiting their office. It’s just the coolest place you could imagine; I honestly think if I worked here, I’d never throw a sickie, ever. It’s an old malt house, completely refurbished but with a lot of the old, original features still intact. Exposed brick on the inside, frosted-glass brick staircases, you know, the sort of building architects must lie awake at night salivating over.

  Anyway, two things you should know about Best’s: a) I often think they must have a policy in their HR department that to work here you must be under thirty, hot and with a smokin’ body, guys included, and b) the company motto seems to be ‘at all costs, have a good time’. They often have these mad theme days going on, like champagne Thursday (I remember nearly falling out of here after one late meeting, but then two drinks on an empty tummy does that to me) and Fridays where everyone comes in wearing Hawaiian shirts and keeps saying ‘aloha’ to you down the phone, that kind of thing.

  I’m half-afraid to ever bring Paris and Nicole here with me; they might start getting ideas.

  ‘Vicky Harper here to see Amanda Smith, brand consultant,’ I say to the very smiley, very blonde, cute-looking guy behind the desk.

  ‘Take a seat and I’ll let her know you’re here,’ he beams. I’m just about to plonk down on a very luxurious-looking leather sofa when he says, ‘Hey, would you like a mocha kiss?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘It’s just that today is Choca-Mocha Monday and I can highly recommend their kisses. They’re a new account and they keep giving us freebies by the truck-load. Here, you HAVE to try them. Utterly divine.’ With that, he tosses me over a bright red, heart-shaped bag stuffed full with lovely, shiny, individually wrapped kisses.

  Free chocolate handed to you first thing on a Monday morning? Bloody hell, I might apply for a job here myself.

  A few minutes later, Amanda comes click-clacking down the glass brick staircase, waving a giant-sized, lipstick-shaped pack of mocha kisses at me. You’d love Amanda, she’s bubbly and she’s a howl and she’s always full of hilarious stories about rubbish dates she’s been on, and no kidding, every time I see her, the hair is a different colour. Today it’s bright blonde, but with
jet black streaks going through it, from front to back.

  ‘Hey, gorgeous, I bring the best PMS treatment in the whole world,’ she squeals at me as we air-kiss at reception.

  ‘Freebies, loving it,’ I say, gratefully taking the bag of kisses from her. ‘And loving the hair too, by the way. Miles nicer than the time you had it purple.’

  ‘You don’t think it makes me look like a badger on NatureWatch, do you? The girls upstairs are giving me a rotten time. They say I look like an endangered species.’

  ‘No, totally fab.’

  I’m not just being nice; it’s the God’s honest truth. Plus she’s got a stunning black-and-white Marni dress on, which I know cost a fortune because I looked at it in Harvey Nicks and nearly had to have a lie-down when I saw the price tag. She looks like a goddess in it, far better than I would have, but then Amanda’s one of those people who, if they wore a bin liner, would make Kate Moss want to rip it off their back in a fit of jealousy.

  I think it must be yet another Best company policy – at all times, staff are required to dress like they just stepped off a catwalk in Milan – which makes me: a) doubly delighted I’m wearing my really good white linen trouser suit from Zara today, and b) overwhelmingly grateful for the minor miracle that I actually remembered to pick it up from the dry cleaners. Actually, come to think of it, it’s maybe the only disadvantage of working for a company like this: the sheer number of man-hours I’d lose worrying over what to wear the next day. It would probably kill me.

  ‘Ooooh, Vicky, I love, love, love that you’re pitching for this,’ Amanda says, squeezing my arm as we both troop up the glass staircase.

  ‘Well, I love, love, love hearing that.’

  ‘No really, everyone here still raves about the fashionista launch you did for us. Most amazing night ever. Well, except the guy I ended up with at the after-show party turned out to be bisexual, but that was hardly your fault, and apart from that, it was just totally, like, out there.’