to her like that,’ I say.
‘What’s the problem?’ Zoe asks, girlish eyes wide.
‘Ripping pages out of my lists. If you want to play dirty, we’ll play dirty. You’ve been warned. And you –’ he wheels round to jab a finger at me ‘– better watch out too.’
‘Why? What have I done?’
He stalks off, smoothing his rusty flyaway hair with one hand, the other jammed in his pocket, seeking out his fags.
Zoe adjusts her bag on her shoulder. I hadn’t noticed how appealingly shabby and insufficiently smart it is – a student-market-looking thing in sludgy colours, covered in little mirrors and tassels. It reminds me how new she is to all of this. She’ll probably get her first briefcase from her parents this Christmas. She’s smiling, a little too contentedly.
‘How’d you do it?’
‘I pulled the pages out of mine and swapped our lists over when he was busy looking at that leggy barrister who got her robe caught on a door handle.’
We look at each other and start laughing.
‘The fight back starts here,’ Zoe says.
I’ve always put up with Gretton as an unfortunate fact of life, but Zoe’s showing significantly more resourcefulness. Perhaps if I’d had this kind of energy ten years ago, I’d be in a very different place right now.
I put my hand out and she shakes it. ‘You should be very proud of your first week.’
‘Drink?’ Zoe asks.
‘Ah, no. Next time. I’ve got this meet-up with my friends.’
‘The female friend,’ she nods.
For a moment, I struggle to remember my untruth, and stare blankly.
‘Have a nice time,’ Zoe says, though I have a feeling her smirk says she’s rumbled me.
I walk away silently saying to myself: and you are learning Italian, and you are learning Italian.
‘You look nice,’ Caroline says as I pick my way to our meeting point by Piccadilly Gardens, taking in my shirtdress and my higher-than-usual heels. ‘All for my benefit, is it?’
‘You look nice too,’ I say, defensively.
‘I always look this nice for work.’
‘Show off.’
I hoped to convey ‘professional and together.’ And, OK, maybe a little bit hot. So far it’s earned: ‘Ahoy hoy, soliciting under the Street Offences Act, 1959? Court 7!’ from Gretton.
I asked Caroline to come in a fit of pre-match nerves when I realised I wanted support in facing Ben and this scary bloke. And maybe, possibly, it occurred to me that four was a better number for one-on-one conversations. I knew Caroline would relish the opportunity to do some hands-off, safe-distance admiring of Ben.
‘Graeme didn’t mind you coming, did he?’ I ask, as we set off, me trying to keep lock step with Caroline’s long stride. ‘Sorry you had to rearrange your evening.’
‘Yep, you’ve ruined our annual trip to the cinema. I rule out anything with submarines and he rules out anything with Meryl Streep and we stand in the foyer arguing until Gray buys me off with Revels.’
‘Sorry …’
‘Joking. It was cancelled anyway. He fobbed me off with some bullshit about spreadsheets so he can sit in picking his feet. Who are we meeting again? Apart from Ben?’
‘His friend, Simon.’
She raises an eyebrow.
‘What is this, matchmaking?’
‘Don’t be stupid. That’s not Ben’s kind of thing.’
‘Errr …’
‘What?’ I ask, nervily.
‘You haven’t seen Ben for ten years, his thing could’ve changed completely.’
18
Ben nominated a fashionable bar in the city centre that I haven’t got round to visiting yet, rather giving lie to the idea that I can show him where to go out. It’s all poured, polished concrete surfaces, with dramatic under-lighting, tropical flower displays and chairs that are so low-slung you end up talking to a collection of windpipes and kneecaps.
As we enter I see Ben at a table in the far corner, chatting to a tall, blond-haired, mid-thirties man whose expansive body language implies that all the world’s a chat show and he’s the host. The would-be Michael Parkinson gives us both a languid up-and-down full airport body scan as we reach their table.
‘Hi … Ben, you remember Caroline?’ I say.
‘Of course,’ Ben smiles. ‘How are you? Simon, this is Rachel, who works for the paper.’
Ben stands up, still in his work clothes, an artfully rumpled (as opposed to the crushed it’d be on a lesser mortal) cornflower blue shirt and dark navy suit trousers, jacket with bright lining slung over seat next to him. Part of me, the part of me that Caroline rightly points out has failed to notice a decade has elapsed, wants to whoop with excitement and throw my arms around him. It’s you! It’s me! I know I have to stop. This is nothing. This is a drink with an old face from university days. He leans in to peck Caroline on the cheek and naturally she goes gooey. Ben and I nod in acknowledgement towards each other, communicating that we did the kissing thing the other day and neither of us fancy a repeat.
Simon unpacks his collection of rangy limbs and rises to his feet also.
‘Delighted. What’re you having, ladies?’
‘Uh, no, it’s OK, I’ll go, what are you drinking?’ I say, realising as I do that resistance is futile: alpha male Simon’s never going to allow it. I am far more used to beery betas.
‘No. What are you having?’ he repeats, firmly.
‘Vodka tonic,’ Caroline says to Simon, sweetly undermining me.
He turns expectantly.
‘G&T? Thanks.’
‘How are you, Ben? Rachel says you’re married, and a solicitor?’ Caroline asks.
‘Yeah, family. My wife’s in litigation.’
‘You studied English at uni, didn’t you?’ Caroline asks.
‘Yep. I did the wrong degree,’ Ben says, bluntly. ‘Good for almost nothing.’
This hurts. Not because I have huge pride about my qualifications.
