My Single Friend (28 page)

‘No, she won’t. I hardly think me not buying a two-pack of talc every six months is going to put Julie out of business.’

‘Don’t get me wrong – it’s nice to see you spending some money on yourself for a change.’

‘Well, you’d never guess. All I’ve done is come in here for some bits and bobs and it’s like being interrogated at Guantanamo Bay.’

‘Sorry. I was just surprised to see you here.’

‘Instead of chained to the kitchen sink, you mean?’ Without waiting for an answer, she goes off to pay for her goodies. They come to more than sixty pounds and she hands over her Barclaycard without hesitation. I have to stop myself from doing a double-take.

‘Have you had lunch?’ I ask as we head outside.

‘Not yet. I was going to grab something and eat it on the bus.’

‘Have you time for a sandwich? My treat,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve only got half an hour though.’

The café is busy but Mum and I manage to get a table next to the door. I take a bite of my chicken and pesto wrap while she stirs four packets of sweetener into her tea. Mum has always had a sweet tooth. If someone hadn’t invented Aspartame she’d be the size of an eight-berth motorhome by now.

‘Have you had your hair done?’ I ask, realizing that the new make-up isn’t the only thing different about her.

Her neck reddens. ‘Yeah. Trevor Sorbie himself came round to put my Nice ’n’ Easy on. Can you tell?’

Despite the sarcasm, it’s immediately obvious that Mum’s new highlights are
not
the result of a home kit. They’re too professional. But if she doesn’t want to confess, I’m not going to force her.

‘How did your date go on Saturday?’ She takes a bite of her sandwich.

‘Don’t ask,’ I tell her. She waits for me to elaborate. ‘I mean it, really don’t ask.’

She shrugs. ‘Shame you’re not having as much luck as Henry these days. Did I tell you our Dave saw him last week? He barely recognized him. But then, six months ago you’d never have guessed Henry’d be going out with some leggy blonde, would you?’

‘He was with a blonde?’ I didn’t even know there was a blonde on the scene. I assumed brunettes were his speciality.

Mum looks at me and pauses. ‘You’re not jealous, are you?’

‘Mother!’ I shriek.

‘Sorry. Calm down. I was only joking.’

‘Well, good. For the record, no, I am not jealous. Of course I’m not jealous.’

‘Fine. “Of course she’s not jealous”,’ she mimics.

I take another bite and look out of the window. ‘Is Denise still dragging you to salsa dancing, by the way?’ I ask.

She nods, refusing to give anything away by her expression. I find myself smirking.

‘That’s about three months you’ve been going now,’ I point out. ‘Not bad going, considering it’s “crap”. That
was
what you said, wasn’t it?’

She gives me another look – a warning one this time. ‘It’s
all right.
That’s as far as I’m prepared to go.’

‘I might come myself one night.’

‘Don’t you dare!’ she leaps in. ‘I mean it. I’m not having you turning up and taking the piss.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ I protest. ‘I’m genuinely interested, that’s all.’

‘Yeah? Well, stick to being genuinely interested somewhere else, if that’s okay.’

‘Fine,’ I mutter.

‘Oh, I meant to say,’ she says, deliberately changing the subject, ‘thanks for the anniversary card.’

‘No problem. I’m guessing Dave didn’t bother.’

‘Dave? Your bloody father didn’t bother, never mind your brother.’

I know this shouldn’t surprise me – Dad has always been like this. Mum used to get anniversary cards from him, but we knew that Nana Hilda bought them, a fact confirmed when they dried up the year she died. While I know plenty of men are the same, part of me can’t help feeling cross on her behalf.

‘Doesn’t it annoy you that Dad never buys you an anniversary card?’

‘I knew when I married him I wasn’t getting Omar Sharif,’ she says.

‘He should still send you a card,’ I grumble. ‘I’m going to tell him.’

She laughs. ‘Don’t waste your breath. It’s not a big deal anyway.’

‘But surely it—’

‘Look, if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years it’s that men never change. And if you attempt to change them, you’re on a hiding to nothing.’

‘I wish someone would tell Henry that. He’s unrecognizable these days.’

‘Yeah, well,’ she says, ‘he always has been a bit different, hasn’t he?’

I am starting to feel so frustrated about things between Henry and me that I decide it’s time to take action. Only as I come home and find the flat empty again, I acknowledge that it’s easier said than done. Throwing my keys on the hall table I wander through to the bathroom. With two empty bottles of conditioner lingering in the shower and toothpaste barnacles encrusted on the sink, it’s more neglected than usual. The same thought strikes me in the kitchen as I wipe away the crumbs under the toaster and begin to wash the coffee cups abandoned in the sink.

Then I realize the difference: Henry. Our division of labour used to be perfectly clear cut though we’d never officially designated jobs to each other: I’d cook dinner – because I enjoyed it – and he’d look after the housework – because I didn’t. He’s got better things to do these days than mop up after me.

I grab my mobile and dial Henry’s number. He answers straight away. ‘Hello, Lucy, how’s it going?’

‘Fine. Where are you?’

‘Driving. But it’s okay, I’m on the hands-free. What’s up?’

‘Will you be home tonight?’

‘Should be, but not until late. I’ve got a rugby match then I’ll probably go for a couple of drinks with the guys. Why do you ask? Is everything okay?’

‘Yeah. I just wondered . . .’ There’s a pause as I consider how to put this without turning it into a big deal.

‘What is it?’ Henry asks.

We might be living virtually separate lives these days but his instinctive ability to pick up on the nuances of my mood is as sharp as ever.

‘I feel as if I hardly see you,’ I confess. ‘We’ve been friends for so long I’d hate it if . . . you know, things changed between us. It’d be nice to spend some time with you again, that’s all.’

I feel like a saddo saying this, but I can’t help myself. I cringe as soon as my sentence is over.

‘I know what you’re saying and I agree,’ he replies. ‘We’ve hardly seen each other lately – and we should do something to change it.’

‘Good,’ I say, comforted by his response.

‘This is all your own doing, you know,’ he tells me. ‘I’d still be sat at home on my own if you hadn’t devised
Project Henry
.’

‘Yeah,’ I chuckle.

‘When do you want to do something?’

‘How about Friday?’ I suggest excitedly. ‘I could cook, like the old days, then we could slob out in front of the television and talk rubbish like we used to and—’

‘Friday could be difficult,’ he interrupts.

‘Oh, right. You’ve got a date.’

‘Not a date exactly. Though I am going out with someone.’

‘Sounds like a date to me.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Anyone I know?’

‘Hey, Lucy, stop quizzing me about my love-life,’ he laughs. ‘How about Saturday instead?’

‘I’ll have to check my diary.’ Who am I trying to kid? My Saturday nights couldn’t be less action-packed if I’d spent them in a padded cell. ‘Though I’m pretty sure I’m not doing anything,’ I add, before he changes his mind.

‘Great. Saturday night it is, then. I’ll look forward to it.’

Every organization needs a good PR woman. But there are times when they need us more than others. For one of my biggest clients –
Peach Gear
, a fashion chain for twelve- to sixteen-year-olds – it’s one of those times. With knobs on.

I knew it as soon as I saw the expression on the face of Janine Nixon, their Chief Executive, at the start of my meeting with her and her Marketing Director, Phil McEwan. The venue they chose is JD’s dockside café, an establishment famed for its bacon sandwiches but not, judging by the peeling wallpaper, its interior design.

I take a sip of tea and am surprised to discover it tastes better here than in the coffee shop next to the office. What they lack here in baristas, they make up for in value – nothing on the menu costs more than it did in 1972.

Still, it’s the last place you’d expect to find Janine and Phil. My
Peach Gear
meetings have always, until now, taken place in their swanky fourteenth-floor boardroom, where I’ve sipped Italian coffee from Villeroy & Boch cups and admired the view.

It can only mean one thing.

‘We’re in a spot of trouble,’ says Janine, wiping off the egg yolk she’s picked up on the sleeve of her Armani suit.

‘Whatever it is, I’m your woman,’ I reply confidently. I am hoping to impress Janine, whom I have only met once before. Until now, she’s always left Phil to handle media matters. ‘I’ve dealt with all manner of crisis situations in my years with Peaman-Brown.’

She takes a deep breath. ‘This is certainly a crisis situation.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Well, we’ll go through the issues involved, draw up a plan, and you can count on me to implement it.’

Janine looks happier already. I smile. ‘So – what’s the problem?’

Phil and Janine exchange looks.

As I know, Phil says,
Peach Gear
has a long-standing and very public commitment to ethical trading.

At least, they
thought
they had a commitment to ethical trading. Three days ago, they discovered that a supplier had been hand-finishing sequinned vests, not in a strictly-regulated factory in Delhi like they thought, but a back street in Bangalore. Worse, they’ve been using children aged eleven, which is illegal, immoral and reprehensible by most standards. The team at
Peach Gear
are devastated, they tell me.

‘So you had no inkling of this?’ I ask the question as if this is part of the process, but I want to suss out whether they
really
knew nothing. While crisis management is often a dirty job, I won’t defend the indefensible.

Janine looks me in the eyes. ‘We knew nothing. You’re right to ask, but we knew nothing.’

I study her expression. She doesn’t look away.

‘Okay,’ I say finally, turning over a page of my notepad. ‘That helps.’

She leans back, grateful. ‘If it also helps, I can tell you what we’ve done since we found out.’

‘Fill me in.’

Janine explains that they’ve contacted the Ethical Trade Alliance, whose representatives will travel to Bangalore with a contingent of senior
Peach Gear
staff next week. They’ll do everything they can to fix things: namely, work with those involved to get the children into school – and make sure the work is carried out by the staff it was intended for.

‘Although we’ve done everything right,’ continues Phil, ‘our worry is that it won’t be presented like that if the press gets hold of it.’

‘Does something make you think they will?’

Phil runs a nervous hand through his hair. ‘A report is due to be read out in the House of Commons next month about this issue – and we’re named in it. That’s how we found out about it.’

‘If it’s discussed in the Commons it will definitely be picked up by the media,’ I tell them. ‘What we need to do therefore is announce it ourselves.
Before
the report comes out. That way, we retain control of the message – as much as we can, anyway. Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can do.’

An hour later I am back in the office writing my strategy. I’ve spoken to the Ethical Trade Alliance myself and, if there was any lingering doubt that
Peach Gear
were genuinely in the dark about what their supplier was up to, that’s quickly dispelled. According to their press office, they wished every company acted so responsibly.

Determined that handling a major issue like this is what I need to show Roger my worth, I pop in to see him when I’ve finished. I hand over one of only four copies of the confidential document – the others are for Janine, Phil and myself. It’s short but, I hope, impressive; I even get Little Lynette to bind each one in a cover so they look the part.

‘You okay?’ asks Dominique when I bump into her in the corridor.

‘Handling a crisis for one of my favourite clients.’

‘Who?’

I look around to check that no one can hear. ‘
Peach Gear
,’ I whisper, and fill her in as quickly as I can.

Roger flicks through my strategy document and looks worried. ‘Here was I thinking this account only involved getting blouses into the fashion pages.’

I don’t say anything. Getting anything on the fashion pages is clearly a damn sight harder than Roger appreciates.

‘What are your recommendations?’ he asks.