Love to Hate You (12 page)

Quite a blessing, if you look at it that way.

I'm wearing a short little black number – a tight sheath dress with no sleeves and covered in lace which Vera has very kindly lent me. I try to pull down the hem, which inexorably retreats back up, even higher than before.

Of course it does, I'm nearly five foot seven and Vera is about five foot five! And you can see every bit of those extra inches on my naked legs.

They've even forced me to wear some very high-heeled black sandals which I bought years ago and have wisely never worn. I mean, there must be a reason I'd thrown them in the back of my wardrobe, right? I'm carrying a simple but very stylish little black bag, courtesy of Laura. It barely holds half the stuff I need, but what's the point of complaining now?

The other problems are the thick make-up and my curly hair. My hair's usually just wavy, but with this hairdo it's constantly falling into my eyes and making it hard for me to see. It's just not me.

I'm on the verge of collapsing in tears of desperation when I hear the intercom buzz, and a few moments later Vera calls me. “Come out, Prince Charming's here!”

“No chance of scaring him off?” I ask miserably.

“Sweetheart, I've already told you what I think: you should have never accepted this insane proposal. It serves you right, and now you have to face the music. So come out!” she shouts threateningly.

I give up and force myself out of the bathroom.

“He's coming up the stairs!” Laura informs me, and, in fact, a few moments later the door vibrates with a loud knock. My friends look at me, trying to give me courage.

“Ok, I'm coming,” I say, as I walk gloomily towards the door.

But it would have been much wiser not to, I think to myself, when I see Ian's face smiling at me in astonishment.

“Don't you dare say anything,” I warn him as I let him in.

He looks stunning. He's wearing a dinner jacket that looks as though it was made to measure and shiny black shoes – very expensive ones, I'm guessing – and his hair is as stylishly ruffled as usual.

“Lord, no! I won't say a word!” he replies, as he steps through the doorway, accompanied by a waft of cologne that tickles my nose.

Vera and Laura look like they're about to have a double heart attack. I can understand them, really. If I wasn't so used to seeing him and wasn't so immune to his charm, I'd probably react the same way.

“Hi!” they greet him, like a couple of star struck teenagers.

He greets them back, smiling and shaking their hands. I'll admit he knows how to make an impression, when he wants to.

I give Vera, who's blabbering something about how they helped me with the dress and the make-up, a nasty look.

“So it's you I have to thank. She looks beautiful, thank you. Just make sure you don't tell her,” he says, with a wink.

Yeah, keep laughing, why not, I think. I'm furious with myself for having agreed to participate in this farce.

“She's beautiful, but just a little bit grumpy,” Vera warns him, as though I wasn't even there.

Ian turns to observe my expression, saying “Oh, I'm perfectly used to that.”

Ok, you're crossing the line here.

“I'd like to remind you that I only agreed to tart myself up in this miserable way to do you a favour! So are we going or not?” I ask shirtily.

“Of course,” he says, unflappable as ever, as he offers me his arm.

I look at him, then at his arm and, ignoring both, say goodbye to the girls and walk out.

Moments later and we're outside in the street, his black Porsche parked right in front of us.

“If you please, Ma'am,” he says, opening the door for me.

I raise my eyes in annoyance and climb in, trying somehow to cover my legs, which are all too visible. These so-called sports cars are so bloody cramped! Ian pretends not to notice my discomfort, though, and starts the car. On the way to the party, neither of us dares say a word, but I notice that he sometimes observes me out of the corner of his eye and sniggers to himself.

Luckily, there's not too much traffic today in London, and after a twenty minute drive with the radio playing in the background we're at our destination.

“Right – show time,” Ian tells me as he gets out of the car. There's nothing for it but to follow him.

And this time, when he offers me his arm, I have to accept it and smile against my will.

We haven't even walked ten metres and we've already been photographed a dozen times. Great. Once inside the building, I sigh with relief.

“Relax,” Ian says, as he leads me towards the lounge bar. “Maybe a drink would help.”

“I hope so, I'm extremely bloody nervous,” I admit unwillingly.

“That's normal – these people love to make other people feel uncomfortable.”

“What do you mean? You
are
'these people'!” I snap.

“I very much hope you're wrong,” he says, offering me a glass of white wine.

Before I've managed to take even a sip, however, I see a pack of girls rushing over in our direction like a herd of starving buffalo stampeding towards food.

Ian notices them out of the corner of his eye and promptly takes hold of my waist, trying to hide himself behind me. What am I, his human shield?

“Lord Langley!” I hear a coquettish voice saying.

“Ian!” says another, daring to show more familiarity.

“Good evening, ladies,” Ian greets them as if this were all totally normal, “may I introduce you to my friend Jennifer?”

The ride of the Valkyries suddenly grinds to a halt, and the bloodthirsty girls start looking me up and down. I hear someone whispering worriedly, “She's the one in the pictures.”

A gloomy silence falls over the group, and Ian makes his way through them, his hands still on my waist.

“If you'll excuse us, I'd like to introduce Jennifer to a few people,” he says inviting me to follow him with his eyes.

“That was easier than expected,” he whispers, when we're out of earshot.

I'm still a little dazed. “God, is it
always
like that?” I ask, embarrassed. No wonder this man's ego is so hypertrophic – he gets
literally
assaulted by pretty young things who would do
anything
to get their hands on him!

“Yes, pretty much,” sniggers Ian.

“I wouldn't like to be in your shoes. That was a rather frightening group of desperate young women—”

“They're not desperate. They're women with a goal,” says Ian. “Come on, let me introduce you to a few people.”

I spend the whole evening shaking hands and making small talk. If my mother could see me now, dressed like this and surrounded by so-called high society, she'd probably stop talking to me for good. I wouldn't blame her, to be honest,
I'd
probably stop talking to myself too.

I'm used to these people, of course – I meet them every day at work: they and their companies are my clients. All perfectly normal. Only, when I meet them it's usually in a situation where I'm in charge, and we only ever talk business, whereas all this hanging out and chatting about the weather makes me very uncomfortable. Everybody looks me up and down in a strange way. I'm used to being judged for my work, not for the way I look.

I can't deny, however, how easily Ian handles them. He's nice to everyone, always smiling but at the same time just inaccessible and distant enough. Give this lot an inch and they'll take a mile, I realise that.

“Here's someone I'm genuinely happy to see,” he says eventually, nodding to a blonde guy who's walking towards us. They greet each other warmly. “Jenny, this is the only mentally healthy person in here, my friend Jeremy,” Ian says happily.

“Jennifer, nice to meet you,” I introduce myself, smiling. Seeing Ian more relaxed makes me feel as though I can let my hair down a bit too.

Jeremy returns my smile and handshake. He's what some would call 'reassuring' – dark blonde hair and light-coloured eyes of a calming colour, if I had to describe him. Not like Ian's, which seem to bore right through you.

“My pleasure,” he says gallantly, before adding sarcastically “Are you having fun?”

“Oh, of course, very much,” I answer, tongue firmly in cheek.

Jeremy raises his eyes and stares at me for a long time. “Hmm, you're not at all what I was expecting.”

I hope that means something positive. “And you can tell that after hearing me speak once?” I tease. “God, I can usually tell with less than that,” he says, confirming my suspicions about the girls Ian usually hangs out with.

“You're right,” I comment, “it's better when St John's girls don't say anything,” and Jeremy bursts into a loud laugh – so loud that a couple of people turn to stare at us. Ian looks slightly miffed.

“You're in no position to complain, darling! It's you who chooses them,” I point out snottily. He lifts an eyebrow, the one he uses to give people an interrogative look, as though to scold or warn them.

“I'm sorry, Ian, but she's totally right,” Jeremy confirms. “But I'd say you've redeemed yourself completely tonight. Where did you find Jennifer?”

Ian's face is totally inexpressive when he answers. “Jenny's a tax consultant. She's a colleague of mine,” he explains, revealing only what's strictly necessary.

“Wow, someone with a working brain. An unusual choice for you,” Jeremy comments, observing us with some interest.

The only pleasant moment of the evening is interrupted by the appearance of a blonde girl whose extremely revealing skin tight red dress and vertiginously high heels mean that she instantly becomes the centre of attention. She's exactly the type you can't help noticing.

“Finally, there you are!” she says to Ian, sounding annoyed, as she leans over to kiss his cheek. He doesn't pull back, but he's suddenly as glacial as a block of ice.

“I've been looking for you for an hour, Ian. Really, couldn't you have picked me up?” she says, sounding very full of herself. Obviously this is a girl who is used to getting her own way.

He gives her a sour smile. “Like I told you, I'm not on my own tonight. By the way, Katie, this is my friend Jennifer. Jenny, this is Katherine.”

Katie and I give each other a look that says a thousand words. The words being that we immediately hate each other and neither of us is going to pretend otherwise.

“It's a pleasure,” I lie, without even offering my hand. Katie doesn't seem to care, though, and continues attacking Ian as if I didn't even exist.

“You
could
make up for it by asking me to dance,” she suggests, gesturing to the dance floor.

“Sorry, I can't”, he says, though it's perfectly clear he's not sorry at all. “I want to introduce Jenny to some more people, and I promised her we'd dance together later.”

Under all the make-up, Katie's face visibly contracts. Obviously, this is not how she was expecting the evening to go.

“Fine. Come on Jeremy, since your friend is too busy, it's your lucky night. Let's dance,” she orders, as though she were his boss, and so saying, drags the poor guy off, while he waves us a resigned goodbye. Another poor soul who wasn't allowed to express his opinion.

“Wow—” I say looking in their direction. “Is she the one you were talking about? The one who's making your life difficult?”

I hope it is. I couldn't handle another one like that.

“It's her alright,” he confirms thoughtfully.

“She seems… determined,” I comment, out loud. That's the euphemism of the evening. “And I doubt my being here will put her off. She's not like the others.”

“Yes, we're going to have to put on a bit more of a show for her,” he agrees, rubbing his jaw.

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, let's dance,” he says, suddenly dragging me over to the dance floor. And since I'm very lucky, they only play slow numbers here.

“Do we have to? The last time I danced to something like this I was about fifteen. There must be a reason it's been so long, don't you think?” I beg him.

But Ian doesn't seem to hear my protests and pulls me close to him. I suddenly feel as though the whole room is staring at me.

“You're holding me too tight,” I say, trying to pull away. “You need to let me breathe.”

I can only pull back a few millimetres, though – he won't let me go any further. Nearby, Katie and Jeremy are dancing, and her irritated gaze never leaves us.

Then Ian whispers in my ear, “Right – time for the
coup de grâce
.”

“What do you mean?” I ask immediately, but instead of receiving an answer, I see his inscrutable face coming closer and closer to mine. I hope he's not about to—

But suddenly, his mouth is on mine and for a moment I'm totally petrified.

But this is just a fake kiss, I repeat to myself. It's not a real kiss, it's not a real kiss, it's not a real kiss—

But it does need to be credible, I suppose.

So when Ian opens his mouth slightly, I do the same. And when he squeezes me in his arms, I let him.

And anyway, what other choice do I have, here, in a hall full of people who've been watching us since the moment we arrived?

The real problem is that I feel my knees going, and my heart is beating like mad. And that's without even mentioning that I want to open my mouth even more… God, this is grotesque!

Another moment and then I'll pull back, I think, my confidence returning.

And when I feel Ian's tongue touching mine I do pull away, as though burned. Ok, enough is enough. I look at him, confused, and see that he looks pretty shaken too.

Fine, at least I'm not the only one. The next few moments are quite embarrassing.

“I'd say that's probably enough,” he says, his cheeks reddish.

“Absolutely,” I agree, my own face burning. Not far from us, Katie has almost passed out in horror, and she's not the only one.