The Last Time I Saw You (14 page)

“So are you,” I say, uncertain.

And then he leans down and kisses me, our lips meeting for a few seconds before I pull away, almost pushing him backward. It’s just in the nick of time.

“I’m alwayth lothing my keyth,” says a familiar voice from the other side of the door.

“William—” I say, but he’s already opened it and started down the stairs, pushing past James and Charlotte without so much as a backward glance.

Charlotte stares after William, wide-eyed, as James looks at me in disbelief. “I’m going to bed,” I say, refusing to meet his eye, and disappear to my room as fast as I my shaking legs will carry me.

I stare at myself in the mirror, my fingers raised to my lips, tracing the pressure of our kiss. What was I doing? What stopped me from pushing him away before his lips reached mine? Guilt floods through me—has some awful,
rogue part of my personality gone AWOL and decided it’s time to wreak revenge on Sally? I stare at my reflection a second longer, almost as though I’m watching a stranger.

It’s then the truth dawns, a truth that might be worse. It wasn’t revenge, it was something much simpler and yet so much more complex. Slowly, stealthily, feelings have sprung up, like weeds left to rampage their way around an untended garden. I’ve missed him, I realize, thought about him more than I’ve admitted to myself. A flash of Trixie springs up, that suspicious scowl she shot in my direction when he wasn’t looking: how awful to think that I am the girl she thought I was, the one I hated too—the stupid, conniving girl, foolish enough to try and inveigle her way into Sally’s place.

I can’t bear the thought that William might have seen what I’ve denied before I saw it myself. What if he thinks I threw myself at him, luring him back here to seduce him? Of course good manners would dictate that he’d never tell me so, but secretly he’ll think I’m a predatory vulture, picking at the carcass of his marriage, my concern for him and Madeline no more than a strategy.

I fall into a feverish sleep, punctuated by the sound of glasses clinking down the hall, Charlotte’s lisping falsetto tinkling away. It’s worse when it switches to a pregnant sort of silence. The front door clunks shut at two-thirty, waking me up, and I notice the red light on my phone blinking away.
Please accept my sincere apologies for my appalling behavior. Best, William.
I read it three times, hoping it will sound less pained, less awful. I can’t bear the thought that he might be lying there feeling every bit as guilty as me. Once I feel strong enough I’ll text him back something
equally polite, and then stage an emotional lockdown until the scorching embarrassment cools. A wave of pain sweeps across me. Now I’ve truly lost him; now, when I finally know that losing him is not what I want. It’s my rightful punishment.

CHAPTER TEN

James has already left for work when I drag myself up, hopelessly late, having hit snooze at least three times. When I get to the office Charlotte’s already at her desk, as perfect and groomed as someone who’s had twelve hours of dreamless sleep. She gives me a big, imaginary smile of welcome.

“There’s a latte waiting for you on your dethk,” she says loudly. “I hope it won’t have gone cold!”

Mary looks up, her eyes swiveling toward the wall clock, silently racking up the ten minutes I’ve missed in her mental ledger.

“Thanks,” I say, terse.

“Maybe we could grab a thandwich later, talk about the Flynn campaign going forward?”

Is this just a ruse to get me alone, or is she trying to muscle in on it?

“Yup, sure, fine,” I say, not yet out of my coat.

Mary struts down the office toward me. She’s wearing a gigantic gold cuff that clanks as she walks, like she’s a particularly glamorous jailor.

“Yes, let’s have a catch-up on that today,” she says, gaze boring into me. “I’d like to hear where you’re up to.” Panic sweeps across me as I think how little progress I’ve made—bleating that he won’t return my calls is hardly a defense.

Just then Mungo strolls in, a panama hat perched on his head at a jaunty angle, utterly unconcerned about the clock that’s hovering above his head.

“Morning Mimi, cool jewels,” he says.

“Why thank you!” she says, jiggling her laden wrist at him, and giving that girlish smile. She looks back at me. “In fact,” she adds, coldly, “there’s no time like the present.”

She turns abruptly, and I scuttle after her, trying desperately to order my thoughts. When we get into her office she shuts the door, settles into the sofa, and simply looks at me, a vaguely bored expression on her face.

“Well it’s early days . . .” I start. “And we haven’t completely worked out the brief for production yet.” On and on I ramble, waffling on about platforms and demographic reach, Mary’s expression completely inscrutable. Eventually she raises a perfectly manicured hand.

“Enough.” I must seem so ragged and unprofessional, my excuses paper thin. She came across me in the loos last night as I was pulling on my disappointing dress and I stupidly told her where I was going. Looking at her face now I feel like she can see every single lump and bump, inside and out.

“Mary, I know I messed it up that night. It was a stupid thing to say, and it didn’t sound at all like how I meant it.
He’s just not returning my calls. I think he might be back in LA . . .”

“He’s not. Me and Charlotte took him for dinner on Monday.”

I try desperately to keep my face neutral, hoping my eyes won’t fill up. It’s over before it begun, snatched away without me even having had the chance to try.

“How . . . how was he?” I say, wondering how quickly I can thank her for the opportunity and make a dignified exit.

“Oh, you know Flynn, full of beans. Charlotte felt a little understretched so I’ve created a new role for her alongside her main job. Creative director of Talent Relations.”

Vintage Mary—if one of her shiny stars shows any sign of jumping ship she throws money and status at them like confetti: I can just imagine Charlotte’s downcast eyes as she expressed her “dithappointment” at not winning the pitch.

“Will she be running my campaign or hers?” I say, trying to keep the petulance out of my voice. It’s so utterly humiliating that I’ve been bombarding him with messages when the conversation’s moved on without me.

“You will be running your campaign. We made that very clear to Flynn.”

A complicated kind of relief floods through me. I’m glad I haven’t been thrown off the job wholesale, but if I’m still part of it, why did they have to cut me out? Even if they’d told me the dinner was happening, but not invited me, it would have felt better than this. Mary’s studying me, waiting for my reaction. I get hold of myself: I can’t lose this job. She wouldn’t sack me, I don’t think, but I’ve watched what happens when people fall out of favor, the wind-chill factor
growing ever greater until they admit defeat and fall on their swords.

“Fantastic. I just want to get stuck in.”

“Come on, Livvy, we all know the truth,” says Mary, looking amused. “There’s very little to do here. It’s a vanity project, a mutual backscratching exercise. Your main function is to fan the flames of Flynn’s ego.”

“Really?” I say, crushed. “But . . .” I pause, not wanting to contradict her. “I want to try and make it work. It’s a great cause.”

“Obviously,” she says, witheringly. “It’s hardly like my heart’s desire is for African women to die in penury, but that’s why we’ve got Oxfam. He’ll raise a few quid, waste most of it paying some airhead hanger-on to administer it, and feel a toasty glow of self-satisfaction. But if we can keep him onside, who knows what could come out of it? Film campaigns, work on all those international brands he promotes. There’s a huge opportunity here.”

I try not to look utterly gutted, even though I feel like a child who’s spotted Mom extracting their milk tooth from underneath the pillow. Maybe I would have agreed with her when she first announced it, but, until Flynn’s radio silence, I’d bought it hook, line, and sinker, not least because of her passionate declarations. It felt like it had been meant to land in my lap at the exact moment I needed a sense of meaning.

“So what do you need me to do?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound sullen.

“Become a willing slave.” She giggles. “There’s no need to look so navy-knickered Livvy, I just mean that you need to keep in constant contact with him, make him feel involved every step of the way.”

“But you said . . . I mean, I’ll mainly be finalizing scripts and briefing the agency. And anyway, that’s if he returns my calls.”

“He will now,” she says confidently. Paranoia rages through me like a forest fire. What have they said to him to convince him that I’m up to the job? If he doesn’t want me on it, I don’t want to do it, but looking at Mary’s steely expression, I know that a graceful exit is not on offer.

“Great.”

“Go and write it with him. You know what those illiterate thesps are like, always aching to screw around with the words on the page. We can get him involved on the casting, picking a director. Make him feel indispensable. You never know, it might be fun!”

“I’ll call him now.”

“Are you all right with that? Do you foresee any problems?”

“No, no. It’s fine,” I say, starting to stand up.

She brushes my hand with her long, painted fingers, pulling me back down onto the sofa.

“How was last night?” I try to smile, not trusting myself to speak. I can see her next meeting standing impatiently at the door, a cockatoo-haired Swedish director brandishing a couple of mood boards.

“You just take a minute,” she says, smiling kindly. I take a couple of deep breaths, sitting there until I feel like I’ve collected myself.

“Thank you,” I say, again readying myself to leave.

“Go well,” she says, watching me. “It sounds like a cliché, but time can heal the most unhealable things.”

She’s like a good witch, or maybe a goodish witch, the way she seems to read the undertow in the slightest thing.
Just for one, insane, second I want to pour out everything about last night, ask her what I should do, but then I come back to my senses. I hold the door open for the visibly irritated Swede, and she gives me one of her funny, conspiratorial little eye rolls at the ludicrousness of his hair.

Once I’m sat back down at my desk I decide I’ve got to reply to William. I hate the idea of him beating himself up about it.
Please don’t worry
, I write,
you’ve got nothing to apologize for. We’d both had too much to drink. Take care, Livvy.
I look at it a second, then change it to
Olivia
, in case he thinks I’m being overfamiliar, then change it back because my logic seems so ridiculous.

I look over to Charlotte who’s on the phone, waiting for the other person to finish speaking, her eyes narrowed as she computes what they’re saying, body hunched over it like she’s waiting to pounce. I hope she won’t hurt him, I think, even though an awful part of me hopes she does, just so I’m vindicated; I wish I was a nicer person.

Next stop Flynn Gerrard. I don’t have the slightest expectation that he’ll answer his phone, but he picks up on the second ring.

“Berrington, Olivia,” he says. “What a pleasant surprise. I’ve been meaning to call you.”

“Hi!” I say, trying to sound sunny and upbeat and professional. “I was just calling you with an update.”

“Update away. Actually, hold on a sec. How are you? What’s happening in Olivia-land?”

“Um, well, I went to a very posh dinner last night. The head of the British Army had a lot to say for himself.”

“Did you dazzle them? Bet you did.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You’re modest, I already know that about you.”

Oh God, I hate the way he tries to steamroll me into flirting with him. And anyway, while I can see he’s ludicrously handsome, I don’t actually fancy him—it’s like admiring a work of art rather than a visceral pull on my heart.

“So, let me tell you where I’m at. Though I’m sure Mary and Charlotte will have already briefed you.”

My eyes unconsciously move toward Charlotte, who’s off the phone now and trying, and failing, to look like she’s not straining to hear. I recycle my spiel about the research I’ve done on demographics and reach, then tentatively mention the script. Mary might be able to pull him into her slipstream, but I’m not sure I’ve got the same powers of persuasion.

“I’m sure you won’t have time, but if you did? You’re so passionate about it.”

“It’s my baby, Olivia, and it’s the one baby that’s not an eleven-hour flight away. Certainly keeps me awake.”

“I know. So to be able to harness that passion, and really mold the script out of it . . .”

“I do like to have a wee scribble when I can.” Bingo. “You know, we’re the ones who understand the words from the inside out.” He pretends to mull it over, lasting approximately two seconds. “Can you get yourself out to Pinewood on Monday?”

“Of course.”

“Then I think we’ve got ourselves a date.”

I go and tell Mary, who seems suitably reassured, then ready myself to do battle with Charlotte. I think it’s going to take more than a slick of MAC lipstick in dangerous red, but unfortunately that’s all the ammunition I’ve got.

“How do you feel about thushi?” asks Charlotte, as we step out onto the street.

Hmm, how do I feel about sushi? I feel like Madeline does—that it’s slimy and suspicious—and also that Charlotte would be advised to stick to lunch options she can actually pronounce, but I can’t be bothered to negotiate, and before I know it we’re stuck in a hole in the wall somewhere off Goodge Street, surrounded by hordes of Japanese businessmen shouting at each other across the tiny Formica tables.

“What do you like?” she asks, scanning the menu with that frightening focus she brings to all endeavors. This is the moment to fess up to my total raw-fish ignorance, but it feels desperately important I don’t concede anything—instead I stab wildly at the tiny, repellent pictures on the menu like I’m playing a deranged game of pescatarian bingo.

“Wow, you mutht be really hungry, I’ll get the waiter.”

Now I’m going to have to eat the world’s remaining fish stock just to save face.

“Tho,” says Charlotte, once the waiter’s left, “tell me all about your converthation with Flynn.”

Is she literally going to pretend that last night didn’t happen? I scrabble around, trying to work out the best plan of attack. I could come over all 1950s-Dad and ask her what her intentions are, but it’ll look distinctly weird, and I’m also worried about the speed at which her robot brain computes information: if she somehow worked out how complicated my uncomplicated relationship with James really is, I’ll be left living on a knife edge. The thought of her whispering it to him in some cozy postcoital moment, fake concern masking the poison, is too much to bear.

“Yeah, it’s going well,” I say, bright smile plastered across my face, rattling through the contents of the call.

“Tho you’re going to write the thcript
with
him?” she says, a doubting look on her face. Did they not agree this strategy when they went out for their stupid, cozy dinner?

“Well, sort of, that’s what Mary asked me to do. I think it’ll be more about making him feel he’s involved.”

“I wish you the betht of luck,” she says, in a tone that makes me very much doubt she does. “And ath you know, my new role meanth I’m there to back you up every thtep of the way.”

“Yeah, thanks for that,” I say, leaden. Then we simply stare at each other for a few seconds.

“Can we talk about what’th been happening?” she says, and I nod, not trusting myself to speak. “I want you to know that I do really like James,” she continues, her voice as flat and robotic as it was when she was ordering a tuna roll. “The thituation is obviouthly really complicated and the latht thing, the very latht thing, I want to do is compromithe our working relationship.”

“Me too,” I agree. What else can I say? I’m staring at the hideous, fiery green slime that surrounds my so-called lunch, terrified my face will give me away. I wish that I was a big enough person to wish that it would work out, instead I just want it to go away, melt into the ether like it never existed, or explode horribly so the debris settles into an approximation of how life was three months ago. I glance at my phone, arranged at the top of my bag so the screen’s visible: no message. “You guys just need to work it out.”

“Exactly,” agrees Charlotte, signaling for the bill, task successfully completed. “Life’s never thimple. Thertainly not for your friend,” she adds, watching me carefully.

“No.” I can’t bear that she’s got access to me, a spyhole into my life. I look at her hand wrapped around the bill, diamond twinkling like the northern lights. “Let me find my card.”

“My treat.” A treat’s one word for it. “You can get it next time.”

Next time? Oh joy.

I stand, shivering, outside Northfields tube, waiting for Jules’s red Nissan Micra to turn the corner, hoping there’s no such thing as the Ealing strangler. Eventually she pulls up, tooting its tinny horn, shoving baby paraphernalia off the passenger seat and apologizing. Then she sees my face.