We can spend a happy afternoon sharing stories about queuing up for butter vouchers. Or better yet, I can tell her that she looks a bit familiar, then ask her does the phrase “Can I have two curry chips and a batter burger with a tin of Fanta to go?” mean anything to her.’
‘Very droll. Oh and don’t forget Ruth O’Connell, you remember Ruth? Pinched face, permanently disappointed look about her?’
‘The Northern editor, yeah I remember her. Looks at men like she’s either going to kiss them or kneecap them.’
I half smile. But then, Jake has this innate knack of immediately paring people right down to their basic, elemental truth.
‘Anyway, the woman is capable of ferreting a juicy story out of a large lump of lard. So just be on your guard round her, that’s all I’m saying.’
Course that’s the least of my worries, but I say no more. And then my stomach does a flip worthy of the Cirque du Soleil even just thinking about how much else could go wrong. It’s like a whole kaleidoscope of worries about this whole shagging weekend is now unfolding, almost sickening me.
Now you know me, I’ve planned out as much as it’s possible to without actually handing out a scheduled timetable to Jake. The Saturday is an afternoon get-together, followed by a posh nosh-up that night with speeches, the whole works. But then the Sunday morning is ‘free time’. Or decoded, four or five hours for the lads to arse around a golf course and talk shop. So, Sunday morning it is, then.
I’ve thought it all through; I have a plan. I’m going to take Jake out for a walk over the grounds after breakfast and when we find a nice, peaceful spot, miles from any distractions or unwanted interruptions, I’ll tell him then. Everything, the whole works.
Sunday morning it is, for better or for worse.
‘Eloise, listen,’ Jake cuts across my stream of worrying, taking me out of my own head and back to our phone call. ‘Stop your fretting, would you? We’ve been over this time and again. You’ve prepped me inside and out and we can do no more. I know who everyone is and I’ve enough titbits about the lot of them to last me if we were all going off on a luxury cruise liner for three long months, never mind just for one lousy weekend. I know what to say and more importantly, what not to say. So will you just relax, for Christ’s sake? The point has come where you’re going to have to relinquish control and learn to trust me.’
Relinquish, I think absently. Must be his new word for the day.
‘I do trust you. You just have no idea what you’re letting yourself in for, that’s all. Oh and one more thing …’
‘Ah here, what now?’
‘Robbie Turner …’
‘Yeah, yeah, political guy, I’ll know him by the shock of white hair, you’ve already drilled it into me …’
‘If I could just finish my sentence – I was going to say his wife is Adele and she’s lovely, very warm and friendly.’
‘Safe for me to be myself around, in other words. That what you mean?’
‘Be warned though, she’s no fan of mine. Blames me hugely for the fact that she and her kids rarely see Robbie, because the hours he has to work are so mental.’
‘Ah, Eloise. You mean you never cut the guy a bit of slack?’
‘Believe me, I’ve been trying to, but you don’t realise what being a foreign editor involves. The sheer number of man hours you’ve got to put in and then you’ve got to factor in the time difference if you’re covering a breaking story from Washington.’
‘Don’t worry, I get it. Because the whole world will come to an end if you’re not all chained to your desks for at least eighteen hours a day.’
‘I’m just saying, Adele’s no fan of mine, so be warned.’
‘Eloise, short of you sending me mailshots of everyone with their CV attached, we can’t prepare for this weekend any more thoroughly that we already have done. Now would you ever just relax and switch off, for God’s sake? Isn’t it supposed to be an enjoyable two-day break? Isn’t it all meant to be a bit of fun? Can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it after a week of exams.’
‘Fun? Did you just use the word fun in connection with the directors’ weekend? Because let me tell you, this is all about stress and tears and sweat and hair loss. Fun doesn’t even begin to come into it.’
‘All I’m saying is, will you just for once chill out a bit?’
‘I am. I mean I’m trying to. I mean, yes, I will.’
‘And another thing.’
‘What?’
‘Given that it’s supposed to be a casual country house get-together …’
‘Casual? There are internent camps out there more casual than one of these bloody weekends, let me tell you.’
‘I wasn’t finished,’ he says, calmly overriding me, the way he always seems to be able to. ‘As a matter of fact, it’s about you.’
‘What about me?’
‘Remember when I was going for my job interview and you took me out shopping? Made me buy clothes I’d never buy in a million years? And I hated wearing them, but then they got me the job and now I’m so used to going around in non-sports-related gear …’
‘… And not wearing trainers all day every day, thank God.’
‘By now it’s almost become second nature to me to dress all, you know, middle-class. Whereas you, on the other hand …’
‘You have a problem with how I dress?’ I splutter, as the sudden bile of indignation surges through me. ‘Excuse me, my suits are all either from Reiss or else Karen Millen and I do actually own a pair of Louboutins, I’ll have you know.’
‘Ehh, let me hazard a wild guess. All in black?’
‘Well, yeah.’ I mean the soles of my fancy shoes may be scarlet red, but sure enough, okay, everything else is black.
‘Thought so,’ he teases. ‘Sounds like you alright.’
‘What’s wrong with black? It’s for the office and it’s practical. Editorial.’
‘Nothing wrong with it. I’m just sick looking at you dressed like you’re going to the funeral of an elderly relative that you didn’t particularly like and who left you next to nothing in their will. For god’s sake, this is supposed to be a relaxed weekend in the country, that’s all I’m saying,’ Jake goes on, reasonably. ‘So would it kill you just this once to wear a pair of jeans and a few casual tops instead? In actual colours too? You’d look good in colours.’
Jeans, I think, miles away. Haven’t shoehorned myself into a pair of jeans since I was in college.
‘Look,’ he goes on, undeterred by my silence. ‘You took me shopping with you once, and now it’s my turn to repay the favour. You free now?’
‘Jake,
