A Compromising Position by Carole Matthews
It continues to ring on the floor and I’m terrified. What if some sort of psychic poltergeist comes out of Cara’s phone, enters my brain through my ear and turns me into a jelly? What? It happens. ‘Ohshitshitshitshitshit . . .’
I chew my fingers a bit while its tinny mechanical tone continues to trill. ‘Cara!’ I shout tentatively, but I think she’s gone into the shower and it makes such a noise that Aliens could, indeed, land in the living room and she’d never notice. What am I saying?
This is ridiculous. I’m looking at an innocent mobile phone as if it’s about to exude Technicolor horror worms. I’ve spooked myself with Cara’s hocus pocus. I grab Cara’s phone and say: ‘Hello.’
I sound scared to death.
‘Hi,’ a very lovely and unpoltergeist-type voice says.
‘Hi,’ I say back.
‘Is that Cara’s phone?’ he says brightly.
‘Yes,’ I answer. ‘This is Emily.’ I think I can risk giving that much information to the universe.
‘Oh hi,’ he says again. ‘This is Adam. Adam Jackson. I work with Cara.’
‘Oh hi,’ I say and we’re sort of back at square one.
‘We’ve never met.’
‘No.’ I can confirm that much. Boy, this man is sharp.
‘So you’re Emily,’ Adam says.
‘Yes.’
‘Even though we’ve never met, I feel like we know each other,’ he continues. ‘Cara’s told me all about you.’
‘Oh good grief,’ I say. ‘None of it’s true. Except the good bits.’
Adam laughs and, far from sounding like a right dork, he has a very cute laugh. ‘Well, there were quite a few of those.’
‘Really?’ That doesn’t sound like my friend at all.
‘You know, Emily,’ he says, ‘she’s tried very hard to fight your corner.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘Cara’s a good friend.’
There’s an uncomfortable little pause and we’ve clearly exhausted our chit-chat quota.
‘I hope things work out for you,’ Adam says.
‘Thanks. I’m sure they will.’
‘Is Cara there?’ he asks.
‘Oh.’ Crumbs, I’d nearly forgotten why he’d phoned. There’s a lot of background noise and it sounds like Adam’s in a pub. This is a good sign if he’s calling Cara from a pub at the weekend – and then some sort of delayed thunderbolt hits me. Cara has actually done it! Her spell has worked! She has made contact with the universe! And Adam! The man himself is phoning her and she’s missing it because she got covered in flour in the process.
‘She’s in the shower,’ I stammer. ‘I’ll get her.’
‘Don’t disturb her,’ Adam says. ‘I’m just about to watch the football.’
‘England, Germany,’ I say. Old habits die hard.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Do you follow football?’
‘No,’ I admit. ‘Not really. It was just useful if I ever wanted a conversation with my ex-boyfriend.’
‘Declan,’ he says.
‘Yes. Declan.’ And I suddenly realise that Adam does indeed know everything about me.
‘Tell Cara I’ll catch up with her tomorrow at work.’
‘She’ll be sorry that she’s missed you.’ That, Ms Emily Miller, is the understatement of the year.
‘It’s been nice talking to you,’ Adam says.
‘It’s been nice talking to you too, Adam,’ I reply.
‘Maybe we can meet up sometime?’ he adds.
‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘That’d be great.’
‘Bye,’ Adam says.
‘Bye,’ I echo.
I hang up and all the hairs on the back of my neck are erect. When I tell Cara about this, her dreadlocks are going to straighten of their own volition. I think The Carpenters have a lot to answer for.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Declan stood and surveyed his new, improved and pared-down operation.
Alan, perched on his desk, licked his cigarette paper and went through the measured ritual of preparing a roll-up. ‘So? How’s it hanging?’
‘OK,’ Declan replied thoughtfully.
There were several more empty desks now than there had been. Two secretaries had gone, three accounts clerks and four Webmasters. So had the pile of brown cardboard boxes containing unrequired gadgets of varying natures.
‘We’ve managed to get rid of these.’ He picked up a silver plastic Waterproof Shower Companion CD Player. A snip at £170 and something no home should be without.
It was a deal that Derek Trotter would have been proud of, but Declan had finally managed to offload them – at knock-down prices, of course. Still, they’d gone and he’d got the money for them – that was the important thing. His head wasn’t exactly above water, but his eyes were some way above the main swell of waves and at least now he could see a way forward.
‘Cheekybits.com is doing great,’ Alan advised him. ‘Five million hits this week. No worries there.’
Alan was right. The Cheekybits.com site was proving very popular thanks to a reliable supply of exceedingly cheeky and sexy photographs supplied by Sebastian Atherton, who had turned out to be something of a life-saver. The porn equivalent to the Samaritans. As long as men continued to want to ogle a wide selection of women’s breasts then that should bring them in a steady stream of advertising revenue. He had even had requests to bring back the Saucy Santa. If only he could.
He’d also launched another site on the advice of the invaluable Alan – mylifeispants.com. It was a lifestyle site, manned by a perverse, sadistic ‘agony aunt’ who modelled herself on Anne Robinson. Every day she ‘counselled’ the droves of depressed people who emailed into the service threatening to throw themselves off bridges, buildings, in front of buses, over cliffs, to do just that. And, judging from the constant flow of traffic through the site, there were a lot of people whose lives did, indeed, seem to be pants. A huge number of them returned to the site time and time again, thus proving, thankfully, that not many of them took her advice; they were just life’s whingers.
Declan rubbed his hands across his eyes. His own life could currently be classed as pants too. He’d still not heard from Emily and he’d given up leaving messages for her on Cara’s answerphone. There was something intrinsically sad about begging into a machine. Emily never had her mobile turned on these days either, presumably to stop herself from being hounded by the press and her ex-boyfriend. The furore seemed to be dying down and, perhaps, when the status quo was resumed, she would find it in her heart to forgive him.
Cara had been marvellous. A real brick. Unlike himself, who had been a real prick. He didn’t know what he would have done without her. It was a shame that Amanda’s mother had turned up when she did; it had given Cara the heebie-jeebies. As soon as the old lady had disappeared again – appeased by Declan’s sincere-sounding promises to look after the potted plants – Cara had scuttled out of the Jacuzzi like a frightened rabbit and was back in her towel before he could say boo. Spending the evening, however brief, with Cara had been nice. She was very relaxing company in a slightly alternative way.
He felt that he ought to ring her, but he had so much to do. The first thing being trying to find alternative accommodation, otherwise he’d end up sleeping on his new, improved office floor. It would be a serious consideration if he’d had the forethought to have an executive shower installed. Adrian and Amanda would soon be returning home refreshed and revitalised from their sojourn to the other side of the world, and the last thing they would want to discover was someone sleeping in their bed. They would find out soon enough.
‘So,’ Alan said, breaking Declan’s reverie, ‘do you think you’re on the way back?’
It was one of the many lovely things about Alan; his conversation was as languorous as his cigarette rolling. You could leave an hour’s gap between sentences and Alan would never hassle you. Another lovely thing was that he’d been digging harder than anyone to help Declan get out of the shit. When he had something de
Somewhere behind his hair Alan raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s what friends are for.’
Declan felt his throat tighten, making any reply impossible. That’s what friends are for. It was something that he was only just beginning to appreciate.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Cara was amazed that she hadn’t pulled all of her hair out by now. Adam was late. Only three minutes late, admittedly. But that was one hundred and eighty seconds and she was aching to see him. He had phoned her. He had actually phoned her!
Unable to contain herself any longer she’d gone into the office early. They were working the evening shift together and, after tearing down all the posters of Emily once again, she’d been rearranging the relationship corner of her desk into a more auspicious alignment since 9.30 p.m. Cara smiled to herself. Adam. One whole night. No interruptions. It made her feel so happy she could have broken into a spontaneous chant.
Adam, three minutes and thirty seconds late, came wandering across the office. He, by contrast, didn’t look quite so thrilled at the prospect of working the night-shift. Nothing ever happened – they all knew that. Generally, it was a complete waste of time. But the office had always been run like this and, just because it was totally unnecessary, the management saw no reason to change it. Cara normally spent the night reading self-help tomes and the guys she worked with normally spent the night surfing the net to see who could find the most dubious sites.
‘Hey,’ Adam said, throwing his coat over the back of his chair.
‘Hi,’ Cara replied. She was beginning to feel ridiculously shy in his presence and it was irritating her. It was also irritating her that Adam was completely oblivious to this change in her demeanour towards him.
He sat down and stretched at his desk. ‘I called you yesterday,’ he said.
Cara grinned stupidly. ‘Emily told me.’
‘She sounds nice,’ Adam said. ‘We chatted away like old friends.’
A dark cloud crossed behind Cara’s eyes. Emily hadn’t told her that bit.
‘We’ll all have to go out for a drink sometime.’
‘Mmm,’ Cara said crisply. ‘I’m not sure that Emily would be very good company at the moment. She’s just fallen totally and utterly in love with some hunk and talks about nothing else.’
‘That’s nice,’ Adam said. ‘She deserves something good to happen for once.’
‘Yes,’ Cara said. ‘She’s very happy.’ It wouldn’t be helpful for Adam to know that she was as miserable and sour as last week’s milk because she hadn’t even managed to get her dreamboat’s name, let alone his phone number.
‘What did you want me for?’ Adam asked.
Cara looked puzzled. ‘You rang me.’
‘I was returning your call. You’d tried to ring me on Saturday night, but I was out. Your number was logged on 1471.’
‘Oh,’ Cara said. Oh, fiddlesticks!
‘Was it about work?’ Adam said.
‘Yes,’ Cara said. ‘Work. It was about work.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘Yes. Work,’ Cara said again just to be sure. ‘It was about work.’
Adam nodded.
‘So,’ she trilled brightly, ‘where did you get to on Saturday? Did you have a hot date?’
‘As a matter of fact I did,’ Adam said, sounding almost as surprised as Cara looked. He searched in his pockets for some change. ‘Do you fancy some coffee?’
‘Yes,’ Cara said, glad that she had actually retained the power of speech. ‘Strong. Black.’
Adam got up and sauntered over to the coffee machine. As she watched him walk away from her Cara sagged into her seat. This was beyond terrible. The object of her affections was pursuing another woman despite being under the force of the universe to head in Cara’s direction. What had gone wrong? She had been so convinced that the spell would work. This was getting to the point where she might have to consider investing in a psychic counsellor.
The phone rang. Cara picked it up. ‘Hampstead Observer. News desk.’ Her face blanched as she listened to the message. ‘Right,’ she said, scribbling notes on the pad in front of her. ‘Thanks for that.’
Adam appeared with coffee as she hung up. ‘We’ve no time for that,’ she said, snatching up her bag. ‘Get your coat.’
‘What’s happened?’ Adam asked while he did as instructed. He slung his coat over his shoulder and checked for his car keys.
‘It’s not good,’ she said with a distressed shake of her head. ‘Not good at all.’
‘Tell me on the way,’ Adam replied.
And, grim-faced, they both headed out of the office.
Chapter Fifty-Five
I’ve got the house all to myself. An entire evening where I can relax without having to chant, meditate or entreat the universe to do something or another whilst pretending to mean it. Great. And what am I doing with it? Watching Watercolour Challenge.
A group of four disparate and faintly bemused artists are trying to paint Mont Orqueil Castle whilst sitting in the full force of the ninety-mile-an-hour breeze on the flat expanse of Gorey Sands in Jersey. And what a performance they’re making of it, struggling gamely in the face of adversity. As well as the gale, it’s pissing down with rain and they’re all huddled on the beach under umbrellas doing their best to hang onto their canvases. Hannah Gordon is valiantly trying to inject some sort of tension into the fact that they only have four windswept hours left in which to fill up their paper with an original masterpiece. Four hours! I could redecorate Cara’s lounge in that time, let alone knock out a watercolour. Dear me! Hardly the cutting edge of television, is it? Even worse, it’s a repeat. I can’t believe anyone would want to watch it all over again. I thought Channel 4 was supposed to be all sex and swearing after 9.00 p.m. Perhaps Hannah Gordon will get her kit off in a minute. But no. I am actually watching paint dry. My life cannot get any more exciting than this.
I am still pining for The Hunk from the wine bar and Cara has lost patience with me – a process that doesn’t take very long. I should be using this free evening to contemplate my life, make strategy plans for my future survival and generally get my act together. It’s just that my brain has entered this frozen state of suspended animation, and no matter what I do to try to persuade it to think, it just won’t play ball. I think I’m in shock.
I hear a car pull up outside and, gratefully, I turn off the enthusiastic artists and go and peep out of the curtain. Call me paranoid, but I still have an abject fear of the hordes of journalists descending again when they get bored with Jeffrey Archer. It is Declan’s BMW and I can’t even begin to tell you how I feel when the headlights fade and the car door swings silently open and I see Declan himself standing there. I’m so stunned that I go and open the front door, without giving a thought to the fact that I don’t want anything to do with him any more.
Declan comes up the path and his whole demeanour says tired and weary, but his eyes brighten when he finally looks up and sees me waiting.
‘What are you doing here?’ I say.
‘I came to see you,’ Declan answers, his shoulders slumped.
‘You’d better come in,’ I say because I can’t summon up the necessary energy to tell him to get lost and I stand aside while he goes in. The realisation that I’m spending my life watching paint dry has obviously weakened my resolve.
He follows me into the lounge and sits down. Declan looks quieter and sadder than I have ever seen him. He leans forward in the chair, twisting his hands together.
‘Where’s Cara?’ he says.
‘Out,’ I answer. ‘Working.’
‘Oh.’ Declan wrings his hands some more and does a good impression of looking tortured. ‘How are things?’ he asks.
‘Terrible,’ I say.
‘Good.’
I haven’t even the strength to give voice to my inner sigh. ‘Do you want tea?’ I offer.
‘Haven’t you got anything stronger?’
‘You’re driving,’ I say. ‘A BMW.’ I’m sure he thinks more of that car than he does of me. He certainly never treats it as badly.
‘It’s all I have left, Emily,’ he says. ‘A useless status symbol. An emblem of an empire that no longer exists.’
‘Sell it and give me half,’ I suggest. ‘That emblem would pay my rent.’
I disappear into the kitchen to make tea before I’m tempted to punch Declan. One of us is not living in the real world, and it’s definitely not me. I’d never realised before how well suited Declan would be to Cara – both of them are on entirely different planets to the rest of us.
Declan plods after me to the kitchen, transferring his bottom from the armchair to the stool at the end of the worktop.
‘I haven’t come to tell you that things are bad,’ he says encouragingly. ‘Quite the opposite. I think the business has turned the corner.’ Declan perks up considerably when he starts talking on his favourite, and the much safer, subject of work. ‘We’ve got some great new sites. You should look at them.’
‘Funnily enough, I try to stay clear of the Internet,’ I say. ‘Both as an invaluable tool and appearing on it.’
‘I can understand that,’ he says, slightly chastened.
‘Declan,’ I say, wishing Tetley’s produced arsenic tea bags, ‘is there any point in this visit other than to piss me off totally?’
My heart-breakingly handsome boyfriend crosses the kitchen and comes to stand behind me. He reaches out his hand, but then thinks better about touching me. It could be the way I fold my arms across my chest. I think he’s actually quite lucky that I haven’t taken up a lethal karate stance.
‘I miss you, Emily,’ he says. He moves closer so that I feel his breath on my neck. ‘I want to hear you moan like you used to.’
‘That can be arranged,’ I say, inching away from his warm breath. ‘I hate the way you used to leave your socks lying on the bedroom floor. And you always used to leave the loo seat up and—’