My Single Friend (31 page)

I never dreamed anyone would find them – until one Tuesday night when I was in my room and I heard Dave and his mates laughing downstairs. I walked down tentatively and froze. They were reading a note Simone and I had written that day, in which she asked if I’d let Jake put his hand up my top. My response was unequivocal.

Definitely. But he’d find more of a handful on a Bernard Matthews turkey
.

As six hysterical boys – including Jake himself – turned and looked at me, the author of this mortifying confession, I almost collapsed with shame. Brimming with tears and fury, I decided a low-key discussion was the best way of tackling Dave about it.

‘I HATE YOU, DAVE, YOU HORRIBLE LITTLE SHIT!’ I yelled and pushed past them as fast as I could.

My face burning with tears, I raced to the door and was almost outside when a sharp pain tore through my arm. Without stopping, I glanced down and realized I’d sliced my skin against the frame. Blood was seeping through the fabric of my school shirt but I didn’t care. I needed to get to Henry.

His house was five times the size of ours and the first time I went there I remember feeling as if it was a parallel universe.

It wasn’t only the books that made it different from our place, though their collection would rival that of the British Library. It was also the souvenirs of his parents’ politically-active student days, the framed
Private Eye
covers, the joss sticks, the ethnic knick-knacks. This was the house of a sophisticated, educated family and, despite the peeling paintwork and damp in the bathroom, I was in awe.

When Henry answered the door that evening it was a second before he registered my distress. ‘Lucy – what happened?’

‘Can I come in?’ I muttered.

His mum was working late and his dad was in the garden tending to his hellebores, something capable of distracting him for several days. Henry ushered me to his bedroom where Leftfield was on his CD-player, pushed a pile of textbooks off his bed, and urged me to tell him, between tears, what was going on.

Repeating what had happened ought to have been embarrassing. Henry was a boy, like Dave’s friends – so why wasn’t my immature bosom as mortifying in front of him? I don’t know. I only knew what his response would be.

‘If they can’t recognize a great line in self-deprecating humour, they’re denser than I thought,’ he said, crossing his arms.

‘They’re pretty dense,’ I sniffed gratefully.

‘There,’ he smiled. ‘They’re not worth giving a second thought to.’

I nodded unconvincingly. Then burst into tears again.

‘Oh Lucy.’ He looked troubled.

Then the most amazing thing happened. Henry stood up and grabbed his coat.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

‘Over there. To your place.’ His eyes were blazing. I’d never seen him like that before. I was impressed. What I wasn’t, though, was stupid. Henry was fourteen years old. Dave and his cronies were two years older – and there were six of them. Confronting them was tremendously valiant, but we both knew he didn’t stand a chance.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I whispered.

‘It’s not ridiculous. I’ve never seen you so upset.’

When I looked into his eyes, I saw how sincere he was. How he was prepared, against monstrous odds, to challenge six kids who were older, harder, and dangerously thicker.

I eventually persuaded him that I’d prefer to sit and talk. But I can’t pretend that, privately, I wasn’t as pleased about his reaction as I was surprised. And nor was it to be the only surprise of the evening.

As Henry and I talked, my troubles washed away. It was only when I went to go to the bathroom that I winced in pain.

‘What’s up?’ Henry asked.

‘Oh, nothing,’ I said, peeling away my cardigan. The cut looked worse than it was: it wasn’t deep, but
appeared
as though my arm had been lunch for a half-starved Rottweiler.

‘It doesn’t look like nothing.’

‘I ran out of the house so quickly I scraped my arm on the doorframe,’ I told him. ‘It wasn’t the dignified exit I was hoping for.’

‘Let’s have a look,’ he said, gently rolling up my shirt-sleeve. ‘Stay here a minute.’ He disappeared downstairs and returned with a First Aid kit and a bowl of water.

Henry bathed the cut as I sat and gazed out of the window. The damp cotton wool melted into my skin and I submitted to its comforting warmth, closing my eyes as the events of the evening drifted out of my consciousness.

Then I felt something other than the cotton wool on my skin and opened my eyes. Henry’s lips brushed against the bruises, so soft and gentle, his tenderness made my heart swell. He stopped and looked away self-consciously. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s okay,’ I whispered – and it was. Tears of happiness pricked into my eyes and I felt a wave of love, proper love, for Henry.

Then I blew it.

I don’t know what possessed me to do it, because it’s clear that Henry’s kiss was an innocent gesture solely intended to soothe my injury. It should have been left at that. Instead, I leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.

It wasn’t a proper snog – I was yet to have my first of those with James Feathergill on a school trip to Alton Towers. This was like a kiss you see in old films, where both protagonists keep their lips firmly shut, without a hint of tongue.

I realized halfway through how wrong it was. How inappropriate and ridiculous. I pulled away.

‘I’m sorry.’ I held the back of my hand against my mouth.

‘It’s okay,’ he mumbled. But it wasn’t – I could tell.

It was months before things were back to normal, well after Dave’s apology and his assurance that Jake Roberts was ‘a bit of a dick anyway’. Months before Henry and I could look each other in the eye without me dissolving into a wreck of insecurity and remorse.

But things
did
get back to normal. It took a while, but they did.

Given that fourteen years have passed before Henry’s lips touched mine again, I’m certain that things will get back to normal again. Sooner or later.

A few days later on a glorious June morning, I switch on the radio as I drive to work and Dolly Parton is singing ‘Nine to Five’. I only know the chorus but my vocal cords take the clobbering of their life. By the time I’ve reached the city centre, slapping my thigh at the traffic-lights, I am so fired up I’m almost line-dancing in my seat.

It’s an important week – on Thursday, I’ll be implementing the
Peach Gear
plan. It’ll be the challenge of my career but one to which I’m determined to rise.
This
is the week I prove my worth to Roger.

My mobile rings. I reluctantly silence Dolly and put on my hands-free.

‘Lucy, it’s Phil McEwan.’ He doesn’t sound happy, but that’s only to be expected, given the week ahead.

‘Hi, Phil. What can I do for you?’

‘It’s out, Lucy. It’s already out.’ He sounds as if he’s referring to an escaped tiger.

‘What’s out?’

‘The news about the vest tops!’ he hisses. ‘The
scandal
about the vest tops, as the reporter I spoke to described it. What else do you think I’d be phoning about at seven-fifteen in the morning?’

‘Okay,’ I reply slowly, hoping to appear a bastion of levelheadedness, despite my hyperactive heart. ‘Who’s onto it?’

‘I had a call from the
Gazette
. They’re printing the story tomorrow. They know everything. Everything, that is, that was in
your
strategy document.’

I pause, taking in the implications of his statement, the tone of his voice. ‘W-what?’

‘That’s right, Lucy. Your strategy document. The reporter virtually quoted it word for word.’

‘I . . . but they can’t have . . .’ I pull over and attempt to compose myself. ‘It was confidential. Nobody saw it.’

‘Nobody did in
our
organization. Which leaves yours.’

‘Phil,’ I say insistently, ‘it can’t have come from within Peaman-Brown. Other than me, the only person who went near that report was the boss, and he’s hardly going to stitch up one of his biggest clients and leak it to the press.’

I did, of course, tell Dominique about the issue, but I’m not bringing that up. There’s no way she’s behind this, and mentioning her name would raise doubts when there are none.

‘I’ve always enjoyed working with you, Lucy, but Janine’s reaction this morning . . .’ It’s as if he’s not hearing me. ‘I’ve never seen her like this. I’ve no choice.’

‘What do you mean? You’re not firing me?’

‘I’ve been instructed to set up a meeting with Webster Black this morning.’

‘You
are
firing me.’

‘I’m afraid so. Look, I’ve got to go. We’ve some fire-fighting on our hands before the
Gazette
’s deadline.’ The line goes dead.

I stare ahead, dumbstruck, as a splat lands in front of my eyes. It’s so large I wonder for a second whether an incontinent ostrich has emptied its bowels on my windscreen.

‘Thanks,’ I mutter to the seagull responsible. ‘Thanks a lot.’

I dread breaking the news to Roger but he’s reasonably understanding.

‘There’s only one way to handle this and that’s to be pragmatic.’ He paces round his office. ‘Get on the phone to the marketing guy – what’s he called?’

‘Phil.’

‘Yeah, Phil. And persuade him to let you handle this.’

‘That’s easier said than—’

‘
You’re
the one who knows the issue and the company inside out. Otherwise, by the time they get Webster Black up to speed, the papers will be all over the story and it’ll be too late. If they let us manage their press over the next forty-eight hours, they’ll be more likely to emerge with a positive result. Once the drama’s over, we can dissect what went wrong – but not before. Let’s deal with it first.’

‘Okay. I don’t know what his reaction will be, but I’ll try my best.’

‘In the meantime, I’ll get on the phone to – what’s he called, the Chief Exec?’

‘Janine.’

‘Oh yeah, Janine, and try to smooth things over.’

‘You know it wasn’t me who leaked the story, don’t you, Roger?’

He frowns. ‘It doesn’t make sense that you’d leak it. Only someone with a death wish would deliberately create bad press for their own client. Besides that, I trust you.’

I take a deep breath. ‘Thank you, Roger. I wish they would.’

My boss and I spend the day on the phone and in meetings with the client and a reporter from the
Gazette
.

Mercifully, Roger manages to persuade Janine Nixon to stick with us until the crisis is over when, he promises, there will be a full enquiry. Heads will roll, he assures her. I’m hoping he doesn’t mean mine.

As for the story, sadly there’s no way we can prevent its publication by the
Gazette
– why should they hold back, with a clear public interest argument?

The objective is to make sure that two things are clear in the article: first, that
Peach Gear
knew nothing about the situation when they started working with the company in question. Secondly, as soon as they found out, they contacted the Ethical Trade Alliance (who, mercifully, have agreed to supply me with a glowing quote to use in my press release) and are now working with them to help the children involved. In short, they did everything right.

That won’t be that, of course. Tomorrow’s
Gazette
story will just be the start of a frenzy of media activity, local and national. Just thinking about it makes me want to lie down in a darkened room and not come out until a week on Wednesday.

‘Looks like you’re having a busy day,’ remarks Drew. He takes a bottle of cologne from his desk drawer and sprays himself liberally enough to repel flies in the Congo.

‘Yes,’ I grunt, picking up my phone again.

‘Anything I can help with?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Only I’ve got a bit of time on my hands before my meeting with Ernst Sumner. They’re pretty happy with us at the moment. Have you seen the piece I got in the business pages?’

Drew holds up the paper proudly. So he finally got his story about Ernst Sumner published. It’s only taken about six months. I have to hand it to him though – it’s a decent-sized piece for a subject that’s as compelling as a set of lawnmower instructions.

‘Well done,’ I say.

He smiles. ‘If you ever want any tips . . .’

‘Drew, I’ve got work to do.’

‘Oh yes. Heard you had a crisis on your plate.’

I dial half of Phil McEwan’s mobile number for his twelfth update of the day but am again interrupted – this time by Little Lynette.

‘Do you think I’m too young for Botox, Lucy?’ She drops three letters on my desk.

‘How old are you?’ I ask distractedly.

‘Twenty-three.’

‘No.’ I look up at her horrified face. ‘I mean, yes. Yes, of course you’re too young.’

‘Only I was reading about how it was good to have it as a preventative . . . oh God, you’re busy!’ A look of understanding hits her face.