Chapter 14
‘Iam going to complain.’ Pim stormed out of the BBC building, her heels clicking aggressively against the pavement.
I had to half-jog to keep up, which wasn’t ideal given my questionable choice of shoes – a pair of newly broken-in (or almost broken-in) Doc Martens I had treated myself to when I realised my usual Vans and slip-ons hardly suited the London climate.
‘What now?’ I asked, attempting to balance a takeaway coffee in one hand and the leash of Gerald in the other. He barked like a prince but acted like the court jester.
‘The call sheet, Evie! The bloody call sheet!’ she seethed, waving a crumpled piece of paper in my face.
‘They spelt my name as Pimm. Like the drink. As if I am some sort of novelty alcoholic beverage rather than a serious actress.’ She rolled her r’s on actress, which hardly helped her cause in my opinion.
‘Well,’ I started, unable to help myself, ‘you are refreshing on a hot day.’
Pim shot me a look that could curdle milk. ‘Don’t.’
I rolled my lips together nervously. ‘I’m sure it was just a typo.’
‘A typo that completely undermines my entire existence. This is a national broadcaster. They wouldn’t call Olivia Colman Olive Colman, would they?’
‘Maybe if she was starring in a very specific cooking show.’
‘Evie.’ Her eyes thinned.
‘Right. Not the time.’
Before I could attempt any more damage control, Gerald – who had the strength of a small bear despite looking like an overgrown teddy – suddenly yanked the leash from my hand and took off down the pavement, his tiny legs moving at lightning speed.
‘Gerald, NO!’ I shrieked as Pim growled aloud, her hands rising like Evita in damnation at the way her day was going. I was the one being flung around the BBC office entrance.
Suddenly, Gerald spotted his target, a pigeon pecking the ground in blissful ignorance, and the prized pup barrelled towards it, only to completely miss and instead – in strikingly ironic fashion – barrel into the legs of a very well-dressed man stepping around the corner with a cup of takeaway coffee.
Everything happened in slow motion.
One moment the man was upright, dignified, clearly important. The next he was flailing, his long coat billowing around him like a disgruntled bat, coffee spilled all down his front. He landed in a completely ungraceful heap on the pavement.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ he snapped, propping himself up on his elbows and brushing at his soiled coat, his voice rich with disgust. I recognised him with horror as I battled to keep Gerald within my grasp. It was Michael Holland.
‘I am so sorry…’ I began, but Gerald tugged me away, forcing me to give a strangled cry of ‘Stop! No! Gerald.’
Michael Holland lifted his head, fixing me and now Pim with a look that was both affronted and incredulous. ‘Honestly! You’re a danger to society, Pim Hardcastle.’
Pim, still in full fury over the BBC’s inability to spell her name, folded her arms with a suddenly amused smile. Had this encounter really just brightened her day? ‘Well, maybe watch where you’re going next time.’
‘Excuse me?’ Michael threw his cup away and began to push himself up from the damp ground.
I was still chasing after Gerald, who was gleefully zigzagging between BBC workers who were gathering around the mess he had just created, while he remained adorably ignorant of the chaos he’d just caused.
‘You heard me,’ Pim continued, brushing imaginary lint from her coat and not bothering to assist Michael, though she was less than a foot from him. ‘If you were paying proper attention, maybe you wouldn’t have been completely taken down by a ten-kilo ball of fluff.’
Michael’s nostrils flared. ‘I was paying attention. I was minding my own business until your rat in a fur coat launched an attack on my legs!’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Pim gasped, scandalised. ‘Did you just call Gerald a rat?’
‘A rat would be better than what you’ve called it? Gerald? Ridiculous.’
‘He’s a Chow Chow, you imbecile.’
I tuned them out, pissed off now that Pim had failed to notice that I was still desperately trying to maintain control of the little rat, dog even. He had just decided to dart across the pavement towards a delivery cyclist. ‘Gerald, STOP—’
As I ran, my phone buzzed in my bag.
One buzz. Then two.
I wrapped the leash around my wrist and tugged until Gerald gave way, finally allowing me to scoop him up, hair plastered to my face in the sudden sweat that effort had caused, and I fished out my phone from my bag. Breathlessly I answered without checking the screen.
‘Hello?’ I failed to keep the annoyance out of my voice.
At first, all I heard was a sharp intake of breath.
‘Can I help you? Who is this?’
‘Evie—’ Megan’s voice was unsteady, thick with emotion, but entirely recognisable to me. ‘He’s gone.’
My stomach dropped. ‘Wait… what? Who’s gone?’
‘Alex.’
The noise of the street faded into the background as Gerald nipped at my fingers with his long, scratchy tongue.
‘What do you mean, gone?’ The world had seemingly frozen as I suddenly thought all the worst things: Alex is dead. Megan’s a widow. Alfie’s without a father. Oh, God. I felt sick.
‘I mean, gone, Evie. As in, left. He’s left me.’
I stopped and breathed. Relief flooding me, followed quickly by a horror that I was relieved in the first place. ‘Wait – what? When? Why?’
‘I don’t – I don’t know. He just—’ She sniffed loudly, gasping in between sobs. ‘He packed a bag and said he couldn’t do it any more and now he’s just gone.’ Her words were followed by a wail that was utterly unlike anything Megan ever did.
My head spun. Megan and Alex had been together for years, since they were teenagers.
Sure, they bickered, and Megan sometimes called him ‘an idiot in a nice coat’, but they loved each other.
They had had a child together and spent anniversaries holidaying in Mexico, drinking margaritas on beaches and turning their phones onto airplane mode during sex.
Didn’t they?
‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘Did he say anything? At all?’
‘I—’ She made a small, broken noise. ‘I don’t even know what I’m saying. I just – I thought maybe you could come over.’
‘Of course,’ I said instantly; she didn’t even need to ask. I was already walking back towards Pim. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I—’
A loud ‘Oh, grow up, you pretentious git’ rang out from behind me.
I looked up just in time to see Pim and Michael still locked in a furious standoff, entirely oblivious to the fact that someone – a man in a dark coat, phone held high – was recording them from the street in front of the office.
A small party of BBC employees returning from various lunch breaks hovered in the corners, their phones out too, all held high in an act that was definitely recording.
My stomach twisted.
‘Megan, I’ll call you back. I’m coming to you,’ I said quickly, then hung up before she could respond, the guilt returning, but I knew what I had to do right now and it wasn’t bolting for the Tube.
By the time I reached Pim’s side, hurriedly whispering, ‘We need to go,’ she was mid-sentence. ‘—which clearly explains your desperate need to police other people’s pets, considering you have the personality of a wet sock.’
Michael let out a short, cold laugh, crossing his arms over the brown stain across his white shirt. ‘You do realise that the only reason people tolerate you is because you say things loudly and with an affected accent, right? No one actually cares what you have to say.’
Pim recoiled as if he’d slapped her and, by the way her hand was flexing at her side, I could sense she was planning to slap him.
My gut lurched. ‘Okay, that’s enough,’ I said, stepping between them before Pim could either a) throttle Michael or b) eviscerate him with a single sentence – or another sentence, given I had probably missed a few verbal rallies.
Glancing at the phone crowd, I wondered how soon it would be before I saw it all online anyway.
‘That’s enough,’ I said steadily, though Gerald barked for good measure as I handed him to Pim, hoping to use him as an emotional support dog and keep her hands for something other than throttling Michael Holland in the street. ‘I think it best we leave.’
Turning back to Michael, I noted he had taken a step back and was now straightening his coat with a tight-lipped expression. ‘I wish I could say it was a pleasure,’ he muttered, ‘but it never is.’ Brushing past us, he walked into the BBC building without another glance.
Pim let out a sound of pure indignation, squeezing Gerald to her chest. ‘That man—’
‘We have a bigger problem,’ I cut in, my voice urgent. I nodded towards one of the men still standing a few feet away, who quickly lowered his phone and stuffed it into his pocket, turning and walking off with a little too much nonchalance.
Pim frowned. ‘Who was that?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted, ‘but he was filming you two.’
Her expression flickered, uncertainty replacing her outrage. ‘Filming us?’
‘Yes. And I think—’ My stomach twisted. ‘I think he wasn’t the only one.’
Pim’s face paled.
Gerald, oblivious to the potential PR disaster unfolding, chose that moment to lick Pim’s made-up face affectionately, his tongue lolling in triumph.
‘Oh, fantastic timing, Gerald,’ Pim muttered, shaking her head. ‘Perfection.’
I rubbed my temples, heart still racing from Megan’s call. Between Pim’s potentially viral argument and my best friend’s world falling apart, I had no idea which crisis to deal with first.
‘Right,’ I exhaled. ‘I think I need to get you back to the hotel.’
‘I think I need a lawyer.’ Pim blinked and lowered Gerald to the ground – the little dick stayed still and well-behaved for her.
And with that, we turned on our heels and marched away, Gerald happily trotting at our side, completely unaware of the shitstorm he’d just unleashed.