Chapter 23.
W e’re in our daily stand-up meeting when Kelley says she can’t make the awards do she’s been scheduled to attend on Friday night due to childcare issues, and would anyone like to take her place? The room shifts uncomfortably. Eyes avert, arms cross and uncross. Each year, KLI sponsors the Business Person of the Year category at a local business awards, an event which most of us have attended at least once. But it’s the kind of do you endure rather than enjoy, because of the inevitable small talk and clapping for an infernal number of awards for so long your palms start to burn, and then shouting to be heard above the over-enthusiastic DJ. It isn’t anyone’s idea of a decent Friday night, except maybe someone newly discharged from a long stay in hospital. I usually enjoy a chance to network, but I’ve found in general it’s much better done over breakfast, because of the pastries and strong coffee and a definite end point at which everyone can legitimately leg it.
But with the prospect of promotion ever-present in my mind, I stick up my hand and say, ‘Love to,’ to which Kelley smiles frostily, because she knows no other way.
‘You’ll be presenting the award,’ she reminds me. ‘Touch base with them today, introduce yourself.’
‘Absolutely,’ I say brightly, making a note to do so. On the other side of the room, Parveen forms an L with her thumb and index finger, then raises it slowly to her forehead.
I do actually have another more enticing reason for volunteering to take Kelley’s place. Ash’s company is sponsoring the Green Business of the Year award, and sure enough, when I mention it to him, he reckons he can wangle a ticket. I remind him it’s black tie, then spend the rest of the morning fantasising about seeing him in it.
For all her jibing, Parveen’s going too, and our HR guy, and Kelley’s assistant. We share a table with the business development team from a local hotel, who seem up for a laugh. For an awards do on a budget, the room actually looks pretty nice – lots of crisp white table linen and creamy floral centrepieces and grey-shirted waiting staff gliding smoothly around with platters and bottles.
Parveen raises her eyebrows as I reach our table. ‘Wow.’
‘Is that a compliment?’
‘Yes, obviously. You look amazing.’
‘So do you.’ Parveen’s wearing a long-sleeved dress in sequin-studded blue chiffon, which is arguably much more elegant than the dress I’ve picked out.
It’s the same one I wore years ago, on my trip to London to see Jamie that first summer. Tiny, black, bold. I stood in front of the mirror for an inordinate amount of time before leaving the house earlier, feeling the dress’s ruched fabric between my thumb and index finger, remembering the day Lara took me shopping and insisted I splash out all that money on it. Even now, I don’t think I’d spend so much on a dress. But back then, I hadn’t cared.
‘Is it too much?’ I ask Parveen, sitting down quickly.
Parveen smiles, grabbing a bottle of white wine from a cooler. She fills my glass. ‘Not to be a bad feminist, but we both know you’re wearing that dress for Mr Heartwell’s benefit. And, trust me – he is going to love it.’
I whack her playfully with my clutch bag. ‘You’re wrong, actually. And can you stop calling him that? You make him sound like a geography teacher.’
She sets the bottle back in the cooler. ‘Quite jealous right now. Everyone’s got a crush on Ash. I bet he looks hot in black tie, too. When Maz wears it he just looks like a slightly awkward member of a chamber orchestra.’
I smile, on the verge of reminding her it’s still early days with me and Ash. That, objectively speaking, we have barely got started. But somehow, I already know that would be a lie.
I catch his eye about ten minutes later as he arrives at his table, greeting colleagues. We exchange a smile, and thirty seconds or so later, meet in the middle of the room. The awards aren’t yet underway, and everyone’s still milling around. I know that’s what I’m meant to be doing, too – networking and making contacts and paying compliments. But all hope on that front is lost, because the man standing in front of me is far too much of a distraction.
‘Black tie suits you,’ I murmur into his ear, as we air-kiss.
‘And you. You look incredible. I’ve missed you.’
I smile. ‘Since yesterday?’
He looks at me in a way he usually saves for dark corners in bars, the suspended seconds before we kiss. ‘Yeah, actually. It’s getting more and more difficult to be apart from you.’
Trying not to think too hard about getting to undress him at some point tonight, I tell him I’m presenting an award on behalf of Kelley, necessitating impeccable behaviour all evening.
‘What – no kissing on the dance floor?’
‘None.’
‘Or sneaking off to the loos?’
‘Only if you want to get me sacked.’
He moves a step closer, murmurs, ‘Really? That’s a shame.’
I feel the tick of desire deep in my belly.
‘All this actually reminds me of the first night I met you.’
I smile, feel the heat of his palm at my back. ‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. I couldn’t take my eyes off you that night. And neither could anyone else. They all wanted to be close to you. They always do.’
I present the award on behalf of Kelley, which all goes smoothly until its recipient – the owner of an all-female recruitment consultancy – whips out cue cards to deliver an acceptance speech better suited to the Oscars than a regional business awards. I miss the opportunity to leave the stage, so end up standing awkwardly next to her while she rambles on, not knowing whether to nod enthusiastically at every minor juncture of her story, or stare detachedly towards the back of the room like I’m her personal security detail.
Afterwards, the DJ gets going, and everyone starts moving towards the dance floor. I can see Ash getting to his feet, drink in hand, hopefully to come and find me. I’m no Shakira obviously, because no-one is, but I’ve necked the requisite amount of wine now to believe that maybe a quick dance with my – date? Boyfriend? – might not be the worst idea in the world. I’m sure we can keep it clean. No grinding or twerking. We’re not animals.
But as Ash approaches, my phone starts to ring. I groan internally when I see my mother’s number. She only ever calls this late at night when she’s having a crisis, or needs a favour.
‘Mum?’ I struggle to hear her over the music.
But it is a male voice on the other end of the line. ‘Mother... taxi... address.’
‘Sorry? What? Hang on.’
I find the nearest door, push it open. The music fades to a thump as I step into the hush of the corridor. ‘Hello?’ I repeat, terrified it’s the police, praying the whole drama with Bev hasn’t somehow resurfaced.
‘I have your mother in my taxi. She’s very... She’s had a lot to drink, and she can’t remember her address. She said your name, told me you’d know. I’m borrowing her phone.’
I lean against the wall next to me and sigh heavily. This isn’t the first time this has happened. I give him Mum’s address. ‘I’m so sorry. Will you tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can?’
‘Will do.’ He rings off, sounding slightly irritated that picking up a middle-aged woman has turned out to be more of a ball-ache than a group of steaming teenagers clutching post-club kebabs.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and jump.
‘Sorry.’ Ash looks worried. ‘I saw you come out. Everything okay?’
‘It’s my mother. Mum. She’s... Well, she’s had a bit too much to drink, I think.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘Er, yes. I think so. But I should probably go and check on her.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘I want to. I’ll come.’
I just look at him for a couple of moments, determined to refuse. There is no way I’m inflicting my mother in this state on someone I really, really like.
Then again. If Ash is anything at all to do with Jamie, then maybe it would be a good idea to bring the two of them face to face. Won’t there be some glimmer of recognition, from one of them at least? Some clue that in fact I’m not going crazy?
‘Well,’ I say. ‘If you’re really sure. My mother is... Well, she’s quite unique.’
‘That’s okay. Most parents have their quirks.’
I smile. He’s being sweet, but ‘quirky’ doesn’t really capture the years of lacklustre parenting, the succession of appalling men, the police, the restraining order. My mother is what happens when quirky self-destructs.
Outside, as we’re waiting in the darkness of the car park for our cab, Ash rests a hand on my back. At one point, he rubs the spot between my shoulder blades in a slow figure-of-eight motion, and despite the warmth of the gesture, I feel myself freeze.
‘You okay?’ he asks. ‘Cold?’
‘Fine,’ I manage to mumble. But inside, I’m thinking, Jamie used to do that. Just there, just like that.