A Very Accidental Love Story (27 page)

‘I’m worried it might all be too much too soon, for Jake, not to mention Lily,’ she wisely counselled. ‘Better to meet him alone, just the two of you, and break it to him then.’

‘Easier said than bleeding done. Then what?’

‘Then just see how he feels about the whole thing and take it from there. If he agrees to see Lily, then and only then, I think would be the right time to tell her. At the very least, you’re protecting her from being let down. Remember, we don’t know if he’s going to want to be a part of her life yet. Far better at this stage just to play it safe, don’t you think?’

Four in the afternoon and Helen, Lily and I are just streaming with the crowds coming out of the multiplex cinema, with Lily singing at the top of her voice then, as usual, demanding ice cream, when my mobile rings. The office of course, screaming at me to get in, that there’s an emergency with next week’s Culture section that needs troubleshooting.

Rats, so much for precious Sunday afternoon Mummy-time. Reluctantly, I drop Lily and Helen back home, then race on into work. And on the way, with my resolve still solid, I call Jake and arrange to see him for dinner later on tonight. He already left a few messages for me yesterday evening which to my shame I never got back to; couldn’t. Needed time to plot and plan out what the hell to say to him.

‘You know I’d love to,’ he says. ‘But I’ve got a night class at eight. Unless I pick you up at work beforehand and we have a quick bite to eat then? Would that work for you? I’m already starving.’

I tell him that’s fine, thinking that it’s not really; I’d far rather have the whole evening to talk to him when he didn’t have to rush off, but it’s at least better than nothing. He agrees to call into the office for me and that’s that. The stage is set.

Three long hours later and I’m still with Marc from Culture, hammering out the final layout for the following week’s magazine and having one of my bickering sessions with him over what gets the final cover. As usual, it goes along the following lines:

Him
; has to be some band that have played fewer than twenty gigs in their whole life but who are now not only a massive YouTube phenomenon but who are about to play their debut gig at the Oxegen festival and need all the press promotion they can get. Otherwise they’ll end up gigging in a remote field in County Meath, surrounded by a few indifferent cattle, while half a dozen mud-drenched revellers drunkenly look on. Assuming they’re lucky and get even that much of a turn out, that is.

Me;
over my dead body, no one’s ever heard of that shower, barring they’ve spent the past two years on the lunatic fringes of the internet. They’re way too obscure, and anyway, who wants to read a magazine cover story about a band that’s largely unknown outside of their own living room? The cover needs to go to either a big Oscar-winning movie that’s opening or else our national theatre’s touring production that’s about to open on the West End. Which, unlike Marc’s bloody no-name band, chances are more than a handful of the cognoscenti might, perish the thought, actually want to see.

Next thing, Rachel’s stand-in sticks her head round my door and curtly informs me that there’s someone here to see me. (This one’s name is Ursula by the way, and she’s an honours journalism graduate whose style secret appears to be heavy black eyeliner and a complete and utter refusal to smile.)

The door is already half open and next thing, standing there, all six feet two of him, is Jake. Grinning cheekily and bless him, carrying a gorgeous bunch of Stargazer lilies, my favourites. Half of me lights up, genuinely delighted to see him, but the other half of me starts to get a bit shifty, knowing what’s ahead. And dreading it.

But here he is, standing large as life in front of me. No getting out of it now.

‘Hey,’ he says, filling up the doorway with the sheer hulking size of him. Looking handsome, in a crumpled, laid-back way and wearing a light blue shirt the exact colour of his eyes.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt …’

‘Oh that’s quite alright,’ says Marc, taking him in from top to bottom and back up again, like he’s sizing him up for a new suit. In fact he’s staring at Jake so intently that an utterly disconnected thought flashes through my head; bloody hell, never knew Jake would be Marc’s type. Knew he was gay alright, (the hair being the key giveaway; no straight man would dream of wearing it quite that bouffy for starters) but I’d have sworn he was in a long-term relationship with Sean from Advertising on the QT. So anyway I introduce him to Jake, who’s still standing patiently at the office door, bouquet of flowers in hand, and suddenly Marc’s French architect-style glasses nearly steam up.

‘Oh
right,
’ he says, recognition lighting him up as he puts two and two together and gets four million. ‘
That’s
who you are. Yes, of course, I’ve heard all about you, Jake.’

I shoot him a look that’s primly intended to convey, ‘Ahem, hello, wrong end of the stick here mate,’ but it’s no use. Received office wisdom round here is that Jake and I are an item and I know of old that the best way to let any story die down is purely to ignore it and let it just die a quiet death in its own good time. Adding useless denials is nothing more than fuel to the fire and tends to only prolong things round here.

‘Right then,’ says Marc, gathering up his manbag and laptop, ‘well, that’s me off then. See you in the morning Eloise.
Great
to finally meet you, Jake. Better get going, I’ve a movie screening to catch tonight.’

‘Anything decent?’

‘
Transformers 4.
’ This, by the way, said in the exact same tone as someone in revolutionary France on their way to the guillotine.

‘You have my sympathies,’ I half smile at him, knowing that having to sit through a kids movie would be anathema to someone with Marc’s more elitist cultural leanings.

He rolls his eyes up at me and on his way out throws back, ‘I’ll have the cover mock-ups for you by about ten tonight.’

‘No rush. It’s a Sunday night.’

A look so shocked from Marc that I have to resist the sudden urge to smile.

‘I’m sorry … Did you just say “no rush”? Did I really hear that right?’

‘Come on Marc, you’ve earned some breathing space. Enjoy a bit of time off after your movie and we can take this up again tomorrow.’

A stunned, dazed look from him and just like that, he’s gone, leaving Jake and me alone.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’

‘For you,’ he says, thrusting the flowers over.

‘Jake, they’re lovely, thank you.’

‘Come on then, I just got paid this week and I’m treating you to dinner at the poshest restaurant we can find.’

Twenty minutes later we’re sitting at a cosy little table for two in Ciao Bella, a gorgeous Italian bistro only about a ten-minute stroll from the office. Popular with the T. Rexes, but as it’s a Sunday, I reckon I’m safe enough from them. The place is quiet tonight, which couldn’t suit me better. Privacy for what I’m about to say, I reckon = really good idea. We order and while we’re waiting I think … Just bloody well do it now. Go for it. Get it over with.

But somehow, I just can’t. Just silently sit looking at him, thinking how in hell do I ever begin?

A tension knot inconveniently forms in the pit of my stomach and suddenly I’m finding it difficult to breathe.

‘Good to see you taking a bit of time out to eat a proper nosh,’ he smiles across the table at me, eyes twinkling, giving me his big, open, trusting smile.

Silence from me. And now I’m aware of the background music playing; Marilyn Monroe singing
My Heart Belongs to Daddy
. A sign, surely?

‘You know, I really worry about all the crappy food you eat? Sometimes I think you’re on the John the Baptist diet – you’d live off grass shoots and the odd fistful of herbs if you could – the odd Big Mac meal, now Missy, would do you no harm at all.’

I nod absently. Still skirting around it, formulating in my head how best to approach this. Feeling like a child caught up in a complex lie.

Guess what Jake, you’re a dad … And I never told you … And by the way, I’ve been lying to you basically since the first time I met you …
Ehh … no, probably not.

‘… Plus it’s always lovely to have an actual dinner with you,’ he grins across the candlelit table at me, ‘not just try and get you to wolf down a sandwich in between meetings.’

Still no reaction from me. Our food has arrived by now and as Jake horses hungrily into a deluxe-size cannelloni chatting easily away, I play with a house salad, pretending to eat. Doesn’t take long though for him to cop there’s something up with me and, as ever, is straight in for the kill.

‘Eloise?’

‘Hmmm?’

‘What have I just been talking about?’

‘Emm …’

‘I knew it. Knew you were miles away.’

‘Sorry, I’m just a bit …’

‘Here’s me warbling on about my big exams next week and ordinarily by now you’d be messing round with your iPad and producing study timetables, but instead you’re just staring into space, totally tuned out. Are you OK?’

‘Sorry Jake,’ I say, regrouping, snapping out of it. ‘Didn’t mean to be rude. Your exams, that’s important. Sorry, tell me more.’

‘Never mind the fecking exams for a minute.’

‘No, go on, tell me.’

‘Some other time,’ he says, shoving his plate aside and looking at me keenly with his cloud-blue eyes unflinching. ‘Right now, I’d really like to know what exactly is going on with you. You’re not yourself at all tonight and you hardly said two words to me on the walk over here. So come on, what’s bothering you?’

Still I can’t answer him. Bloody hell, this is exactly how Lily acts when she’s in trouble. Just stays stony silent so I have to try and drag it all out of her.

‘Eloise, you’re really starting to worry me now. Is there something going on?’ He’s looking directly at me now, worry clouding over him.

No avoiding this.

‘Someone or something bothering you in work? Come on, you know you can tell me. You can always talk to me. Or let me guess, are the walls in here bugged by the T. Rexes at the
Post
?’

He’s looking straight at me now in that unflinching way he has; oddly disconcerting when you’re on the other end of it.

‘Jake, I … Well the truth is, there
is
something I want to talk to you about.’

‘Whatever it is, it’s okay. You can tell me anything, you know that.’

‘Can I, Jake?’

‘Of course you can.’

Shit, what’s keeping the bloody glass of wine I ordered? Need alcohol to get me through this. Very badly.

‘Well … you know how you and I have an unspoken agreement never to talk about our private lives?’

‘Well, yeah …’

‘The thing is …’ I break off again uselessly.

A silence and I swear I can physically feel his eyes burning into mine.

‘Eloise? Were you … I mean, are you …?’

‘What I’m trying to say is …’

‘Eloise, are you married? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?’

Now he looks bewildered and a bit hurt.

‘No! Where’d you get that idea from?’

‘Separated? Living with a guy that you don’t want to know about me?’

‘None of the above, you’ve totally got hold of the wrong end of the stick. It’s just that …’

‘Well, well, well. Look who we have here. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world.’

Shit and double shit.

I do not buggery well believe this.

Like a lingering bad smell that just won’t go away, Seth Coleman is standing right beside us, as ever, looking like a forty-year-old choirboy whose mammy continues to dress him for work. But that’s not what makes a cold clutch of terror grab at my chest. Right behind him, smiling benignly in that patrician way he has and taking in the whole scene – me, Jake, the bunch of flowers, the candlelight, the works – is none other than Sir Gavin Hume.

‘Ahh, Madame Editrix, there you are,’ he smiles kindly as I leap to my feet and rush to shake his hand.

Oh holy fuck.
What in the name of arse is Sir Gavin doing with Seth? And here of all places, when I so badly needed to be alone with Jake?, What the hell is going on between this pair that I don’t know about?

‘Hello there,’ I try to say calmly, composing myself. ‘Can’t believe you’re both meeting outside of work – and on a Sunday too! Everything okay?’

My intention is for that to sound innocuous and breezy but it comes out so strangulated, I’m practically singing soprano.

‘Oh, Seth and I just had one or two bits and pieces to discuss,’ he says lightly. ‘Nothing whatsoever for you to worry about, Madame Editrix. You two seem to be, well, otherwise occupied as it is.’

Now, whenever anyone tells me not to worry, my shoulders will, on cue, instantly seize up and my heart will start palpitating. But when it’s the chairman of the board saying that to me, then believe me, I’m
this
close to needing emergency services.

‘We’re just having a quiet dinner
à deux,
as it happens,’ Seth smoothly informs me, just a hint of a gloat in his snivelly voice.

‘Indeed,’ says Sir Gavin, patting his portly, overhanging stomach. ‘And in fact if we don’t order soon by the way Seth, I’m in danger of passing out with hunger.’

Right, that’s it, my mind shoots up a gear to overdrive now
. They’re having a quiet dinner?
Just the two of them? Unheard of! So who asked who, is what I immediately want to know. I stand there with a frozen smile practically hard-wired onto my mouth, thinking all the while, Jaysus help Seth if he even thinks about writing this off as a company expense and if I find out, that’s all I have to say.

‘Emm … would you like to join us?’ I ask desperately.

‘Wouldn’t dream of intruding on your romantic evening. No you enjoy your meal and we’ll just have our little chat privately.’

‘Well, enjoy,’ I manage to say weakly, hoping it came out politely, but afraid my subtext is all too apparent. I hope you enjoy it, Sir Gavin, but may Seth Coleman choke on an asparagus tip and end up in an overcrowded emergency room surrounded by screeching kids with saucepans stuck on their heads. Serves him right for doing whatever he’s doing behind my back. But mark my words, I’ll find out precisely what’s going on, even if it bloody kills me in the process.