in Sex and the City, darling. But I am sensitive enough to see something’s up. Care to share?’
‘I’m totally stuck for ideas to pitch for Saffron’s wedding,’ I sigh. ‘And, worse than that, Hester’s pitching too and she’s bound to have something incredible up her sleeve.’ I take another swig.
‘Bollocks,’ says Gideon.
‘Bollocks indeed.’
Even after chomping through an entire bar of Dairy Milk and watching two Doris Day movies I remained uninspired. I stared at my blank sketch pad until I’d gone cross-eyed before giving up and going to find Gideon. I’ve got the wedding planner’s version of writer’s block and since it’s a truth universally acknowledged that a girl who cannot be cheered up by chocolate must be in want of alcohol, I’ve dragged him out and left a message inviting Faye to join us.
‘When’s the pitch?’ asks Gideon.
‘Friday. I can’t possibly compete with Hester’s extravagant ideas.’
‘Maybe that’s the problem?’ says Gideon thoughtfully. ‘Competing, I mean. You’re not Hester Dunnaway so do something totally different. Be understated and elegant. Classy not tacky. You’ve got bags of style, darling. Not everyone wants Cinderella carriages, thrones and a hundred white doves.’
‘They were flamingos, not doves,’ I say. ‘But you’re right, Gids.’ This is where I’ve been going wrong! I’ve been trying too hard to think like Hester and come up with ideas that would make Jordan’s weddings look understated, when I should have been exploring my own ideas. ‘Gideon, you’re brilliant.’
‘It has been said,’ he says with an immodest shrug.
‘Now you’ve sorted Hester, maybe you could give me some help with my mother? She’s convinced that now I’m over thirty I am destined to be well and truly left on the shelf; alone and forever childless.’
‘Darling, brilliant as I am, I can’t perform miracles!’ laughs Gideon.
‘There you are!’ Faye weaves her way through the tables and beams at us both. ‘It was hell on the tube.’
‘Sorry,’ I say as we hug. ‘I should have met you somewhere more central.’
‘Don’t be daft.’ Faye unwinds a beautiful Hermès scarf and slips out of her velvet coat. ‘This makes a great change. There are only so many themed gastro pubs a girl can take.’
‘Robyn likes it here too.’ Gideon grins. ‘Especially the bar staff!’
‘Gideon!’ I slosh him on the arm.
‘Oh!’ Faye’s eyes widen. ‘Is this where that Aussie barman works?’
‘Sure is,’ nods Gideon. ‘Mr Surf God himself.’
‘Where?’ Faye spins round to check the bar so quickly that she probably gives herself whiplash. ‘That blond guy serving? He’s the one that Robyn—’
‘Hello, guys? I am here, you know!’ I interrupt, waving a hand in front of my friends. ‘He’s called Bradley. And he’s just a friend.’
‘A friend she shags!’ says Gideon, so good at stirring he could double as a teaspoon.
Faye’s bottom jaw is almost on the table. ‘You never told me that!’
‘Some things are private,’ I say, fixing Gideon with a look that in a just world ought to lay him out on the floor. ‘And some people spend too much time spying on their tenants.’
‘Sorry,’ says Gideon, not looking anything of the sort. ‘But how could I ignore something that gorgeous wandering down the stairs?’
Note to self: when Perfect Day is floated on the stock-market, buy a very secluded house, miles away from anyone.
‘He’s lush, Robs,’ says Faye, settling next to me on a stool. ‘Good for you.’ She looks again towards the bar where Bradley is pulling a pint, his tanned forearms strong and corded with muscle. ‘And how was it?’
‘Mind your own business, Faye Harvey!’
‘Sorry,’ says Faye. ‘I’m a sad old married woman who doesn’t get out much. I have to get my excitement vicariously.’ She sneaks a look over her shoulder and winks at me. ‘And that is seriously exciting.’
‘Divine, isn’t he?’ sighs Gideon.
Bradley, sensing that he’s being talked about, catches my eye, beams a big white-toothed Aussie smile and waves. I wave back.
‘He really is just a friend,’ I say. ‘He’s been away for a couple of months too. There isn’t anything going on.’
‘Well, you’re mad not to pursue that,’ says Faye, fanning herself with a bar mat. ‘He’s like something out of Neighbours, and I don’t mean Harold!’
Maybe I should explain myself before you decide that I’m some old slapper who regularly pulls Aussie barmen and drags them home for wild sex. As if. I can probably count my sexual partners on one hand and still have spare finger; not cool these days I know, but that’s just the way I am. Before a man sees my wobbly bits I normally like to know more than his name.
Normally.
But the night I met Bradley was the exception to the rule. To be fair, the circumstances were unusual. It was about five months after Pat and I broke up, and although I was still desperately sad I was past the constant weeping stage.
Or so I’d thought.
I’d had a long day. Mother had been in a vile mood after a row with her latest sugar grandpa, a bridesmaid’s dress had been lost in the post and my computer had crashed, losing most of my files. As I’d dragged myself up the steps from the tube station and wandered down the high street, I’d wanted nothing more than to collapse onto my sofa with a big glass of wine and a trashy magazine. With this aim in mind I’d popped into the corner shop and picked up Scorching! I’d been expecting to see nothing more than the vacuous smiles of the boy band member and his new glamour model wife when a headline leapt from the glossy page and walloped me right between the eyes.
PATRICK MCNICOLAS: BRITAIN’S SEXIEST COMIC INVITES US TO HIS THAMESIDE LOVE NEST
Although I knew this was the psychological equivalent of picking a scab, I couldn’t help flicking through the magazine, gobbling up every purple paragraph and feasting on the glossy pictures of his new apartment. Pat looked so handsome and was obviously incredibly happy, lounging on big squishy sofas with Jo in his arms and clinking champagne glasses with her in a giant hot tub. ‘I’ve never been so in love!’ he bragged. ‘All we need now are the children and our joy will be complete. This is the happiest I’ve ever been.’
Thanks a million, Pat, I’d thought, shoving the magazine back onto the shelf. To have two years of my life dismissed so easily sliced through me like a hot knife through butter. And it wasn’t as though I’d said ‘no’ to the children part, was it? I’d just said ‘not yet’, not while I set up the business. Pat just hadn’t loved me enough to listen.
Blinking
