and more paracetamol. He sat down next to me, started flipping channels.
I gave him a sideways look.
‘Don’t you mind missing the party?’
‘Put it this way. The welcome cocktail was something called “Bitches Brew”.’
‘Ooh, do you think it was made from real bitches?’
‘Hard to tell.’
‘Cast your mind back. Did it taste of Georgina Race?’
Ben swatted my head with the TV guide. ‘Caroline said when she left you looked like an orphaned marmoset on a Monday morning. I thought, oh shit, I know that look, and then my conscience wouldn’t let me stay out.’
‘Orphaned marmoset!’ I laughed, feeling inordinately touched at his affection.
I settled back into my half of the sofa and we started bickering happily over what to watch, agreeing on The Breakfast Club.
‘You are her. In a nutshell,’ Ben said, after a few minutes, indicating Ally Sheedy, peering out from under the fur on her parka hood.
‘Compulsive liar basket case? You’re the geek in a jock’s body. You’re Anthony Michael Hall trapped inside Emilio Estevez.’
‘Urgh, what a thought.’ Ben paused. ‘At least you don’t think I’m the jock. Do you know what a girl in halls called me, last year? Bland Ben. Blen.’
‘What? Why?’
‘She said I was …’ I saw a slight colour rise in Ben’s face ‘… she said I was “standard issue tailor’s dummy” and “pleasant” and got on with everyone and that I was blah. BLEN. Being condemned as boring is the worst thing, isn’t it? If someone calls you an arsehole you can work on being less of one. If a boring person tries to be interesting … they’re probably just being more boring.’
‘Utter cow!’ I cried. ‘I bet you, no, I promise you, she was rejected by some lad who looked like you at school and is taking it out on you. There’s nothing wrong with being nice.’
‘Nice,’ Ben smiled, yet winced.
‘Kind, then. Thoughtful. Not a twat. Puts people at their ease. Popular. You are not bland. She doesn’t know you well enough to know you’re not up yourself about your looks. I think she was mistaking decent for dull.’
I realised I’d said more than intended and kept my gaze on the television.
‘Thanks,’ he said, sounding gratified, perhaps even faintly surprised.
Ben opened a packet of Hula Hoops, turned the bag towards me in offering. I took one whiff, jumped off the sofa and ran upstairs to the bathroom, trying to stifle the heaving before the bowl was in sight. After I’d brushed my teeth three times, I returned to the living room, pale and wan.
‘At least your lungs sound strong,’ Ben said. ‘Silver linings.’
‘Stomach lining, mostly,’ I said, and he put a hand over his mouth, the crisps back down on the coffee table and one thumb up.
Half an hour later, despite only Volvic passing my lips, the nausea returned. I didn’t have time to get upstairs and bolted through Derek’s room and to his en suite, trying not to look at anything that might be lying around. I held my hair out the way and heaved, my body aching from the effort when I’d finished, pulling the handle and slumping against the china cool of the bowl. I dragged myself over to the sink and rinsed my mouth. There was a soft knock at the door and Ben put his head round.
‘Better?’
Beyond vanity, I nodded. On the verge of tears in my pathetic physical state, regressing to childhood, I whimpered: ‘I don’t want to be sick any more, Ben. I’m so tired.’
‘I know.’
‘I want my mum,’ I added, barely kidding.
‘What would your mum do?’ he asked, not rhetorically.
I lifted and flapped my arms, helplessly. ‘Give me a cuddle? Make me hot lemon squash.’
‘You’ll have to make do with me and Berocca, then.’
Ben came in and put his arms around me. It felt nice to be supported by someone stronger and healthier, as if I might absorb some of it by osmosis. I leaned my head on his shirt. We stood there for a moment. I let him take my weight, completely, forgetting to be self-conscious.
‘You make a nice mum,’ I mumbled.
‘I always hoped one day the woman of my dreams would say those words to me,’ he said, ruffling my vomity hair. I would’ve poked him in the ribs in reprisal, but I lacked the motor skills.
32
The greatest fiction in courtroom dramas is not the number of times lawyers shout ‘Objection!’ or the pacing up and down with direct, emotive appeals to the jury. It’s the whip-crack pace of the dialogue. Forget those flourishes in summing up that turn a case on a sixpence: real court cases are exercises in mind-numbing pedantry, as facts are picked over in necessary but toothcomb detail.
The prosecution lawyer in the cosmetic surgery case has spent the last half hour going over the minutiae of anaesthesia procedures with an embattled nurse. I’ve got a throbbing headache and a conviction never to book in for body contouring. There are some court cases that have moved so majestically slowly I’ve been convinced they’ll never end, and I’ll be briefing my successor before I retire. The judge announces that we’ll break early so he can consider the latest written submissions. Aha. He wants to flick through a trashy celebrity weekly too.
In the press room, I open my laptop and check my email. Amid messages from colleagues with unpromising subject lines like ‘FWD: NSFW: This really made me laugh!!!!!!?????????!!!!’ I see one from Ben Morgan.
My heart goes thump.
Then I have a stern word with myself, open it.
‘Hi! Did you have an OK time on Saturday? Sorry for Simon being … Simon. Ben.’
I reread this several times, then type:
‘Hello! It was very enjoyable, thanks for inviting me. How did you get my email address?’
A reply arrives inside a minute with ‘I hope you’re not an investigative reporter’ in the subject line. The message reads ‘… it’s under all your stories in the paper.’
I laugh out loud, and reply: ‘DOH. Simon’s amusing …!’
Ben responds: ‘We weren’t trying to set you up, I apologise if it looked that way. A few other people dropped out and we only realised it might be misinterpreted when it was too late.’
From the conversation I overheard, I feel sure that if this is true it applies only to Ben, not Olivia. It doesn’t sound like
