Coconuts and Wonderbras (3 page)

    ‘I’m a little shook up,’ I say finally.

That’s the understatement of this year. God, did I sound flirtatious? He smiles, and I feel my knees go weak.

    ‘Would you like me to escort you back?’ God, how does he manage to make it sound like an indecent proposal?

If you mean back to your place, I’m game. After all, a cupcake and an overused Orlando is all that awaits me at mine. I decide to go with the flow. Mother would like him very much. What am I thinking now? Mother will never meet him. It is Toby I am to marry, providing he says yes when I propose, of course. I nod and meekly follow and find myself desperately wishing I was three times slimmer, twice as tall and at least twenty times prettier. His voice is so deep and manly. He must be overdosing on testosterone. Every time he speaks it feels like a caress. There is a throaty sound to his voice and he has eyes only for me. Silly me, I must pull myself together. How stupid to think for one minute that this perfect specimen of a man came here alone. There is probably an equally perfect female specimen somewhere in the building and they probably go together like jelly and blancmange at a party. Trust me to think of food at a time like this. We seem to descend the stairs in record time. Blimey that was quick. He opens the door and we are back within the bosom of the heaving throng. Christmas music blares at me and I hesitate for a second, wanting to stay a little bit longer in his company. He does not move but waits patiently for me to go ahead of him. He holds out his hand and I take it with my sweaty one. His hand is cool and soft, and I savour the moment.

    ‘It was nice to meet you…’ he begins when another man equally posh and full of muscle but not as handsome approaches.

    ‘Hey, Ace, same again? I’m getting another round.’

Ace? What an odd name. I can’t even imagine what that is short for.

    ‘I’ll be with you in a sec, Harry,’ he replies while looking at me.

    ‘I’m Libby,’ I say quickly in case he disappears in a puff of smoke. I debate whether I should slip him my phone number. I don’t imagine it would occur to him to slip me one, his phone number that is. Although I would be happy with whatever he wants to slip me. Goodness, what is wrong with me? It’s as though I have swallowed a love drug.

    ‘Nice to meet you, for the second time,’ he smiles. ‘I’m…’

    ‘Ace,’ I say, tasting his name on my lips.

He smiles, and I nearly say
I’ll do whatever.
God, does he have this effect on every woman he meets?

    ‘So, what do you do Libby?’

I’ll do whatever.

    ‘I’m a literary agent for a publisher,’ I shout above the music.

    ‘You’re Libby Holmes?’ he says in astonishment.

Blimey, I am more famous than I thought. Maybe there is another Libby Holmes. It is not possible that he can know of me.

    ‘Mmm,’ I say, wondering if I should commit myself.

    ‘You work for Randal and Hobson right?’

Heavens, I actually am famous. Maybe I should ask for a pay rise.

    ‘Sorry, I’m confusing you,’ he smiles and lays his hand on my arm in such an over familiar way that I blush immediately and feel my legs turn to jelly.

    ‘I’ve just signed with Randal and Hobson. I do believe you’re my agent.’

I must have misheard him surely. I never have luck like this. There is so much noise that I am tempted to ask if he wants to go somewhere quieter. After all, there doesn’t seem to be a blancmange in sight. I can’t believe he is available. At that moment a very flushed Issy pushes between us.

    ‘Well I never, a celebrity in our midst I see,’ she says loudly, handing me my glass.

She obviously doesn’t mean me. Ace looks slightly embarrassed but flattered at the same time. God, don’t tell me, I just pulled the new Brad Pitt. Just as well I started the diet if I am to become the new Angelina Jolie.

    ‘So, what is a top journalist and world hero doing in this part of the country?’ yells an ever bold Issy.

I smile apologetically at him. Maybe now is a good time to invite him back for coffee. Get him away from the fans and all that. I wish I had tidied the cottage before leaving.

    ‘I was stationed here some time ago. I’ve been meeting up with some old friends and getting to know my new agent.’ He smiles at me.

Stationed? What is he, a soldier or something? I raise my eyebrows at Issy as the penny drops.

    ‘Why didn’t you say you were representing Alex Bryant?’ quips Issy excitedly. ‘Were you keeping it a secret or something? You never said a word earlier.’

Because, I’m sodding not, that’s why. How dare he deceive me into thinking his name was Ace. I can’t believe this. I really can’t. How could this gorgeous, lovely man be that awful Alex Bryant?

    ‘You’re Alex Bryant, the journalist? The stuck-up arse who thinks he can criticise and slaughter other people’s work without even discussing it with them first?’ I shout.

Issy cringes. The music stops and I feel all eyes on me.

    ‘Don’t do anything rash,’ hisses Issy.

What on earth does she mean? So this is Alex Bryant, the Alex Bryant with the huge penis. Don’t think about that. Too late and before I can stop myself, my eyes are lowered to his crotch where I can just make out a small bulge.

    ‘Do you want to be a bit more specific in your accusations,’ he responds, his tone hardening.

Well, as long as it only his tone that is hardening. I pull my eyes away and blush.

    ‘Is Toby Mitchell specific enough for you? Toby Mitchell, my fiancé to be more specific,’ I spit angrily.

Issy attempts to manoeuvre me towards the door.

    ‘Ah, that Toby,’ he says nonchalantly, taking a swig of the beer that Harry has just handed him. ‘I didn’t realise you were intimately connected.’

    ‘Nor did I,’ says a shocked Issy. ‘Engaged? Shit, you only went to the loo.’

    ‘Hello ladies, can I get you both a drink?’ asks Harry.

    ‘This is my agent, Libby,’ smiles Alex Bryant.

Issy looks at me expectantly. I roll my eyes. She surely isn’t expecting me to introduce her.

    ‘Oh, thank you,’ replies Issy. ‘I’ll have…’

    ‘No thank you,’ I snap giving Issy a piercing look.

I really didn’t believe I could fume any more.

    ‘Toby is an excellent writer,’ I persist turning back to Bryant.

    ‘Bollocks. You’re getting carried away now,’ chips in Issy.

    ‘We’ll have to agree to differ on that one,’ he says, seemingly disinterested.

    ‘Absolutely,’ agrees Issy. Honestly, she is supposed to be my friend.

    ‘I would never work with you, never. Anyone who offends Toby offends me. Never insult an alligator until you've crossed the river,’ I snap.

    ‘Jesus, what did you do, swallow the
Guinness Book of Quotes
?’ quips Issy.

I ignore her and march out of the pub. What was I thinking? I should have known someone like him was too good to be true. I've got a good mind to go back to Madam Zigana to demand a refund.

Chapter Three

    ‘You have to help me,’ I cry down the phone, while frantically searching for tissues. Such was my dedication to Rosemary Conley, that when I went to Tesco I was so focused on cottage cheese and tuna that I clean forgot the basic essentials needed for wiping one’s arse and nose. How did I get to this point? I don’t mean out of tissues and loo rolls. How did I get to be single, fat and alone at twenty-nine? Well, not strictly alone of course, if you count Toby. That’s my whole point, can I count Toby? I don’t know what came over me last night, being so forgiving to him and yet so unforgiving with Alex Bryant. Still, Bryant did make me look something of a fool. If he thinks I am representing him, he can think again.

    ‘I thought you were wearing that thing you bought at Jigsaw,’ replies Issy.

    ‘Thing?’ I object. ‘I paid fifty quid for that
thing
, and now it won’t go over my sodding hips. What am I going to do? I haven’t got time to buy something new, and I haven’t even done my hair yet. What am I going to do? I can’t go.’

    ‘Not go to Hobnobs party, are you mad?’

I do wish Issy wouldn’t call it Hobnobs. It always makes me think of food. This is terrible. Whenever I get stressed I want to eat, and so far I have consumed three tangerines and two apples and trust me, they just do not work the same way as a Yorkie bar. I find myself staring longingly at the freshly iced anniversary cake I’d made for my neighbour. No, I must not, what on earth am I thinking? I exhale and bite into a carrot.

    ‘What about that black shirty wots-it-thing that you wore for your parents thingy? You know, what I call an all-rounder.’

Christ, was that English? I fly upstairs and scramble through my wardrobe punctuating the air with ‘bollocks’ and ‘balls’. Finally, I pull out the black shirty wots-it-thing. Actually, it’s not too bad. I check the clock. I had whipped myself up into such a state of panic that I am now exhausted. Two hours to go.

    ‘Calm down and get ready, slowly. I’ll see you later,’ says Issy mildly.

Thank God she is coming. Every year we get to invite one guest, and this year Issy is mine. Toby gets an automatic invite as a local reporter. I get the best of both worlds. I let out a long breath, flop onto the couch and plug in the heated rollers. There is a loud
crack
, a blue spark and the little red power light goes out. I begin to sob and dab at my tears with a reindeer tea towel. It isn’t mine you understand. That is I didn’t buy it. I wouldn’t be seen dead with a reindeer tea towel. Mother bought it when she went to Eastbourne with the WI and palmed it off onto me. Ten minutes later with red-rimmed eyes, I pop the kettle on and grab a cupcake scoffing the whole thing in one go. Well, that’s the diet buggered. Still, I wasn’t really starting it properly until after the party. It has been impossible to start the diet this week. I can start seriously dieting tomorrow once the Hobnobs party is over. I grab some kitchen towel and find myself staring at the cooker. For goodness sake, what am I thinking of? I can’t gas myself for Christ’s sake. Sylvia Plath, I certainly am not. Her death might have been somewhat macabre, romantic enough for a film, but mine would just be plain macabre and wouldn’t even make the local paper. I sigh and decide that gas would be very unfair on the cat. Not that I have a cat of course, but there is a stray that comes in sometimes and it would be just awful to gas the poor thing. No, I can’t do that, most certainly not. Besides, things aren’t
that
bad are they? So, all thoughts of suicide put to one side I attempt to make myself look as glamorous as possible. It doesn’t help, of course, that I have wild crazy hair and red swollen eyes, and feel ancient. I grab another cupcake, as I really need a sugar rush, and trundle upstairs to dress my ample frame. Well, my even more ample frame now that I have eaten the cupcake. I will soon be shopping for clothes in ‘Big Girls Only’. I want to weep.

***

Toby is pacing up and down outside the hotel when I pull up in the taxi. He is wearing a big, heavy coat, but I spy his bow tie and feel my knees go all wobbly. There is something about a bow tie, don’t you think? Well, it certainly does something to my loins. Not just the bow tie, obviously. It has to be wrapped around someone’s throat. Of course, in my case, the preferable someone has to be Toby. I picture his starched white shirt and feel myself go all weak. It will, of course, be a new shirt. Toby is very fussy about shirts. They always have to be crisp and expertly ironed. In fact, he is so fussy about his clothes that I very much doubt he will let me get up close and personal tonight just in case my lipstick should land on his shirt. Did I mention that Toby is ultra-pernickety when it comes to his appearance? I probably didn’t. It drives me mad some days. He never dresses casually. Issy once joked that he puts on a tie to take a dump. He even wears his suit to take me to the cinema, I mean, how embarrassing is that? But tonight, he really does look gorgeous. His hair is freshly washed and his deep green eyes twinkle at me from under their heavy lids. I almost wish we didn’t have to go in and could just go back to his place, or my place come to that. Actually come to think of it any place would do. God, how powerful is a bow tie. He is smiling at me, and I feel sure that everything that took place last night outside the sex shop was perfectly innocent.

    ‘I’m not late am I?’ I ask, knowing full well that we are both early.

He appraises me and then says we should go inside in a tone that sounds like he is not happy. Obviously, the smile I thought I saw must have been wind or something because he certainly doesn’t have it now. I follow miserably feeling pathetic, all sexual longing driven from my loins. It doesn’t help that my new corset is cracking my ribs with my every breath. Honestly, all the trouble I went to and he can’t even tell me that I look nice.

    ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask.

    ‘Nothing, I just thought you were going to wear that new dress.’

Oh dear. Best not to tell him it doesn’t quite fit. An usher requests our invitations and, with a sinking stomach, I remember mine is still stuck to the fridge door. I fumble busily in my handbag in the vain hope he will wave us through. Toby fidgets as people bustle past us.

    ‘Now what’s wrong?’ he asks irritably.

I am saved from answering by my boss, Jamie. A nice guy, thirty-something and a queer of course. He stands camp as Christmas and throws one arm around Toby. Toby hates gays. I mean, seriously. He is as homophobic as they come and Jamie knows it and is outrageously flamboyant whenever Toby is around.

    ‘Toby, darling, you look gorgeous. Libby sweetie, why are you fumbling around?’

I open my mouth to explain.

    ‘Come on, darlings, let’s go in and get a drink. I could murder a champagne cocktail.’

He takes my arm and leads me into the functions room without a murmur from the usher or Toby. What a great entrance, gliding in without showing the invitation. Except of course, I am so busy looking around at everybody that I don’t notice the step and trip, falling flat onto my face. Toby gasps and Jamie laughs while helping me up. Why is it that everyone else helps me up except Toby? He shakes his head despairingly, and I fight back my tears. Why does everything go wrong when I am with him? I feel like a thousand eyes are on me and excuse myself to find the loo to tidy myself up. God, how embarrassing was that. I give myself a quick face check, spray some Rive Gauche onto my neck and brush my hair before walking out of the loo and would you believe it, straight into Alex Bryant. Is this déjà vu or does Alex Bryant spent a lot of time loitering outside women’s loos?