Sundays have always been my take it easy day. The one day when I’ll allow myself a lie-in, scooping up the papers to take out to brunch with the rest of the gang.
But today Josh and Lucy are taking Max to friends in the country, and Si is all loved up with Will, so there won’t be a brunch. Instead, Si has decided that Will is definitely more than a fling, and that therefore it is time to seek my approval, so Si has decided he will bring Will over for tea.
I did say that tea might be better at his house, particularly given that Si’s flat is so much nicer than mine, but they are going antiquing – ‘revoltingly coupley’, said Si, with glee I might add – and Si has decided they will come over on their way home.
I do not understand how, in the space of two weeks, Si has found someone with whom he can go antiquing. Isn’t that the prerogative of long-term couples? Of people who are used to one another, who know all of one another’s foibles?
But perhaps I shouldn’t be so surprised, because Si has always done this. He always decides, within minutes, that this time he has met the right one, and instantly attempts to create the intimacy, the level of comfort, that you don’t usually have for at least six months. And of course this always frightens them away. I hope this time it’s different. I hope that Will could turn out to be someone special, and I suspect that after this afternoon I’ll have a pretty clear idea of his intentions.
I clamber out of bed, pull on a pair of tracksuit bottoms, a baggy sweater and trainers, and shake my hair out on the way to the bathroom to get washed.
I know what Si’s expecting. He’ll be expecting Mr Kipling’s finest, but today I’m going to surprise him. I plan to put on a proper English tea. Not quite scones and cream, but certainly cucumber sandwiches.
And, oddly enough, I’m in the mood for baking. Not that I actually know how to, but, in his quest to turn me into something vaguely resembling a female, Si has bought me a few cookery books over the years, and before I leave I pull out a few and look at the recipes.
Chocolate sponge. Not too difficult. I list the ingredients, shove the piece of paper in my pocket, and walk up to Waitrose.
‘Oh my God!’ Si’s mouth is hanging open with shock, as Will and I stand in the doorway, watching him with amusement.
‘Catherine Warner, I do not believe this.’ Si’s frozen by the coffee table, on which are piled plates of dainty cucumber sandwiches, a teapot that rarely sees the light of day, and delicate bone china cups and saucers.
Si sniffs. ‘Something smells good too. What have you made?’
‘Shit!’ I run back into the kitchen just in time to stop the chocolate sponge from burning. Si follows me in.
‘Well?’ he whispers. ‘What d’you think? Do you like him?’
‘Si!’ I start laughing. ‘Give me a chance. I’ve just said hello to him.’
‘But what does your gut tell you?’
‘That I’m hungry.’
‘Oh, come on. Seriously.’
‘Si, I honestly have no idea. I know you think I’m a witch, but my powers only start working after twenty minutes, okay? Ask me again in twenty minutes.’ Si makes a face at me before dashing back into the living room to look after Will.
I bring the cake in, to find Si sitting on the sofa next to Will, holding hands and looking like a match made in heaven. They do look good together – Will has floppy blond hair and classic good looks, but, and I would never say this to Si at this stage because I’m not even sure why I think this, but I’m not sure Will is someone I would trust.
Not that there’s any reason for it. He was perfectly charming when we shook hands, but there’s something hard and cold behind his eyes, and I am pretty damn certain that Si’s going to come out of this one very hurt.
‘Tea?’ I start to pour for Will, who says, ‘Actually, do you have Earl Grey?’
‘You’re lucky she’s got PG Tips, her kitchen’s so badly stocked,’ laughs Si, while I apologize frantically for not having Earl Grey, suddenly feeling very inadequate at only being able to offer boring old breakfast tea.
‘Sandwich?’ I pass the plate to Si, who greedily shoves one in his mouth while putting another three on his plate, and then watch as Will takes one sandwich and puts it on his plate, which he then places on the floor.
Does this man think I have fleas?
‘So,’ I say, rubbing my hands together because suddenly there seems to be an awkward atmosphere, which is ridiculous given that Si is one of my best friends. ‘Did you find anything good today?’
‘I found a wonderful Victorian washstand,’ Will says. ‘So beautiful and he took a good offer, so a bit of a win for me.’
‘Si?’
‘Nah.’ Si shakes his head, as Will starts laughing.
‘He was trying to buy a huge Victorian dresser, but it was obviously repro.’
Will looks smug, and I wonder what gives him the right to patronize Si in this way, because it certainly does appear to be patronizing, even though Si doesn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps simply chooses to ignore it.
‘Will knows far more than I do,’ Si says finally, deferring to his new partner. ‘About antiques, that is. Not much else.’ Si gives Will an affectionate squeeze, but this last comment doesn’t seem to go down all that well with Will.
‘So, Will. What do you do, then?’ Now I really hate asking that question. Not because I’m not interested in what people do, but because it really does epitomize small talk, which I loathe and detest because it is all so meaningless. Very occasionally you will ask that question to discover that the askee has a fascinating job, and you, the asker, can then fall into a deep discussion with them for hours. But more often than not they’ll say something like, ‘I work in computer programming’ or ’I’m a lawyer’, and you quickly have to think of more questions that you don’t really want to know the answers to, except you don’t want to appear rude. ‘Oh?’ you ask, feigning interest. ‘What sort of law? What sort of computer programs?’
‘He works in PR,’ Si says impatiently. ‘Remember? I told you.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’ I try to think of the next question. ‘Who do you work for?’
‘I’m the Head of Press at Select FM.’
‘Really? How interesting!’ I strive for enthusiasm, trying to catch Si’s eye to make a slight face, but Si’s too busy gazing at Will in rapt adoration.
‘It’s actually a huge responsibility, but I enjoy it.’
‘How long have you been there?’ Jesus, this is like pulling teeth.
‘I joined two years ago as a Senior Press Officer, and when the Head of Press left I was the obvious choice.’
‘Right. Select is incredibly popular,’ I say, remembering all the features I’ve read recently about their new image. ‘You do a wonderful PR job. How many people are on your team?’
‘We’ve got four people working across the group, all of whom report directly to me.’
‘He’s very important,’ Si says, pride shining out of every pore. ‘Aren’t you?’
Will shrugs, too full of his own self-importance to give an answer.
Si leans forward and helps himself to more sandwiches.
‘Have some,’ I encourage Will, because if they don’t go I’ll be eating cucumber bloody sandwiches for the next week.
‘I’m fine,’ Will says disdainfully, still not having touched the sandwich on his plate.
‘Oh God,’ Si groans. ‘I’ll have to make a confession now. I’m sorry, Cath, but we went out for a huge lunch. That’s why Will can’t eat anything.’
Right, I want to say, and why can’t Will speak for himself, but I know Si’s just trying to protect him.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, ‘not a problem,’ although if this lunch were so huge, how come Si can still manage to stuff himself?
‘You know,’ I look at Will, suddenly interested, ‘I know someone who works for Select.’ Si looks thrilled: if I have a friend there he can find out everything he wants to know in one easy phone call. ‘Alison Bailey?’
‘Of course I know Alison,’ Will says. ‘How do you know her?’
‘God, I’ve known her for years. We used to work together at an ad agency before she switched sides and moved into sales. She’s pretty senior now, isn’t she?’
Will lets out a short barking laugh. ‘She’s the Deputy Sales Director. So not that senior.’
I wish I could tell you that it got better. It didn’t. It got worse. Even Si started to look vaguely uncomfortable and took the first opportunity he could to whisk me into the kitchen.
‘You just hate him, don’t you?’
I sigh and look at my lovely friend, wishing I could like Will, wishing, at the very least, I could lie about it, but I just can’t. But nor can I be entirely honest.
‘He seems very nice.’ I grit my teeth.
‘Oh, come on, sweets. You can do better than that. Be honest. Tell me what you really, really think?’
‘Really really?’
‘Really really.’
‘Even if you might not like what I have to say?’
‘If I can’t rely on my best friend to tell me the truth, who can I rely on?’
‘Okay.’ I take a deep breath. ‘It’s just that he seems a bit arrogant.’ I pause, checking that Si’s okay with this. ‘And you know that arrogance doesn’t go down particularly well with me.’
‘He’s not usually like that,’ Si whispers quickly, watching the door to make sure Will doesn’t surprise us both by coming in. ‘I swear, Cath. I haven’t seen him like this before.’
‘So you mean even you think he’s a bit of a wanker today, then?’ I say, smiling.
‘I didn’t say that. I just meant that he’s normally very laid-back.’
‘And you know that because you know him so well.’
‘Now who’s being catty? Anyway, more to the point, how well do you know Alison Bailey?’
‘Do you mean do I know her well enough to ring her up and get her to dish the dirt on your friend Will?’
Si idly traces a finger along the kitchen table and looks at the floor. ‘Maybe,’ he finally concedes.
‘Okay,’ I say, as his face lights up and he gives me a big kiss. ‘I’ll ring her when you’ve gone.’
‘Find out everything,’ Si says. ‘And I mean everything.’
‘Cath? Christ, I haven’t spoken to you for ages. How are you?’
‘I’m really well. How are you?’
‘Oh, you know, same old Alison, same old life.’
There’s an awkward silence, because, much as I like Alison, we both know that I wouldn’t be phoning just for a chat, because we hardly ever see one another these days, and there has to be a point. I now have a choice: I can either beat around the bush and ask about her family, her job, whether she has a man in her life, or I can come straight to the point.
I come straight to the point.
‘I’ll tell you why I’m ringing,’ I start. ‘I’ve just had your Head of Press over for tea, and I wondered what you thought of him.’
There’s a silence. Then: ‘You’ve had Will Saunders to your flat for tea?’
‘Umm. Yes. Why?’
Another silence. Then: ‘He’s a cunt.’
And I have to tell you, I nearly drop the phone. Not just because of the abruptness of her response, but the ‘c’ word is not one I employ in everyday conversations. In fact, I can’t even remember the last time I heard it, let alone used it.
And Alison is possibly one of the straightest people I know. She’s so bloody sensible she makes Mary Whitehouse look rebellious.
‘You are joking,’ I venture, still shocked at her language.
‘Nope,’ she says. ‘And I can’t believe you entertained him in your house. God, you should have told me. I would have come round and put arsenic in the sandwiches.’
‘Why do you hate him so much?’
‘How long have you got? I’ll tell you this, though. When Will Saunders chooses, he can be the most charming man you’ve ever met. I suppose he charmed you senseless?’
‘Well, no, actually, I thought he was slightly arrogant, to put it mildly.’
‘He’s an egocentric, self-obsessed, nasty piece of work.’
I let out a long whistle. ‘You really have a problem with him, don’t you?’
‘Every single person here has a problem with him. This place is run by a guy who adores him, which is the only reason he got the job. Two of the girls on his team are really good friends of mine, and he’s a bullying bastard. One of them had to take three weeks off work due to nervous exhaustion.’
‘Why don’t they just tell him to piss off?’
‘You can’t. I’ve seen first-hand what he does. First of all he pretends to be your best friend, and then boom. Suddenly he’s phoning you at home, every night, screaming at you, telling you you’ve fucked up, patronizing you, saying that you’re the worst publicist they’ve ever had.’
She’s on a roll, so I let her speak.
‘Then,’ she continues, ‘the phone calls start coming in every day. He repeatedly put Caroline down in front of her colleagues.’
‘Caroline?’
‘My friend who almost had a breakdown because of him. He made her life a misery, and she’s an amazingly strong woman, but he gradually wore her down. That’s what he does. He’s a total misogynist, hates women and hates anyone who threatens him in any way. Caroline wouldn’t take shit from anybody, but after that campaign she wouldn’t say boo to a goose. She became terrified of her phone ringing at home, and actually became ill through stress. I hate the fucker. What on earth was he doing at your flat?’
‘He seems to have got involved with a friend of mine,’ I say, not wanting to name names.
‘Well, whoever it is, tell him to watch out. He’s a deeply unpleasant character. Two-faced, deceitful and horrifically insecure. Also a compulsive liar. And an enormous snob, which is surprising, really, given that his family haven’t got a pot to piss in, but I suppose that explains it.’
‘Er, you like him, then?’
She sighs. ‘I would tell your friend that he’s not a person to be friends with, let alone have a relationship with.’
‘God, Alison. I’m glad I called you. Now I just have to figure out a way to tell him.’
‘It’s my pleasure. Forewarned is forearmed, I always say.’
But how do I tell him? I’ve barely put the phone down when Si calls.
‘Well?’ he says. ‘Have you phoned her?’
‘Where’s Will?’ I stall for enough time to think of an excuse.
‘Gone home,’ he says. ‘I dropped him off on the way back from yours.’
‘I phoned her,’ I say. ‘And she’s not there. I left a message, but I’ll call you as soon as I hear from her.’
‘Okay.’ His voice is filled with disappointment. ‘I suppose I’ll just have to wait.’ We say goodbye, and I thank God that Si didn’t ask me any more questions about what I thought, whether I might change my mind, whether I thought they would make a good couple.
I flick through the TV guide to check the evening’s viewing, then put the kettle on before realizing I’ve run out of milk. I head towards the door but turn back, because, typical English summer, there’s now a chill in the evening air, and a T-shirt isn’t enough to keep me warm.
I walk out to the corner shop, and just as I’ve picked up the milk I hear my name.
‘Cath? Hi!’
I turn around to see James the Estate Agent standing there, beaming at me, and I almost start to laugh. He is wearing exactly what I would have expected him to wear, exactly what I pictured him in the first time we met, except the sweater isn’t chunky and cableknit, but a fine grey lambswool.
‘Oh, hi, James. How are you?’ I’m amazed that my voice sounds so normal, because I had forgotten how attractive this man is, how unsettling I find it to be around someone who might make me feel things I didn’t think I could feel any more.
‘Fine,’ he says, at which point I sneak a glance at his shopping basket and note that it contains a packet of fresh pasta, one lemon, a packet of Parmesan cheese, one can of Coke and some salad stuff. One can of Coke? Interesting. Not that I’m interested, it’s just that James didn’t strike me as the sort of bloke who would be single, and, unless my powers of deduction have deserted me, I’d say the Coke proves he’s having dinner alone.
‘Supper,’ he says, gesturing to the basket with a smile and running his fingers through his hair in what can only be described as a distinctly endearing manner, because even though he doesn’t appear to be shy, something about this gesture says he is, and I like him all the more for it.
‘I can see,’ I say, smiling back. ‘I thought all you estate agents would have cupboards full of Marks & Sparks ready-made gourmet food.’
‘You’ve forgotten I’m not really an estate agent,’ he grins, resting the basket down on the floor in front of his mountain boots, which, I note, are covered with splashes of multicoloured paint. ‘The struggling artist deep down still feels guilty about spending that much money on food,’ he says with a shrug and an apologetic smile.
‘I know Lucy lives locally, but I didn’t know you did as well,’ he continues. ‘Whereabouts are you?’
‘St James’s Mansions?’ It comes out with a question mark, but of course James knows exactly where it is.
‘I sold a flat there last month, so I know it quite well. You know what’s fantastic about those flats? Most of them still have the original mouldings, and the ceiling heights are fantastic.’
I start to laugh and James stops abruptly.
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry. It’s just that you sound so like an estate agent.’
He groans. ‘Oh God. Thank you for pointing it out. If I ever do it again, a swift sharp kick should shut me up.’
We stand chatting in the middle of the tiny corner shop, as people squeeze past us, murmuring excuse me, trying to sort out their Sunday night suppers, and I realize that, even though this isn’t exactly a social situation, I’m enjoying myself.
There’s something incredibly down-to-earth about James. Even if it weren’t for the accent, you would know he wasn’t from London. He doesn’t have that edge, that streetsmart nous, that the other local agents have.
He looks like he’d be completely at home in a pair of old green wellies on a farm, so it’s no surprise when he admits, during the conversation, that his real home is in fact a farm in Wiltshire.
After a while James looks at his watch, and I actually feel disappointed that he’s going to leave, because although there are occasions when I love nothing more than curling up on a sofa and slobbing in front of the television, tonight isn’t one of them.
Si’s obviously not the best person to talk to right now, given that the only subject on which he’s prepared to speak is Will, and Lucy and Josh still aren’t back from their country excursion. I even sat at home earlier this evening, flicking through my phone book, over and over again, desperately trying to find someone I wanted to speak to, but there just wasn’t anyone.
And yet I’m really quite enjoying this chat with James. He’s interesting and, as I said before, a genuinely nice guy, not to mention frighteningly gorgeous. Did I say that? I can’t have done. Ignore that.
‘Do you want to go for a coffee or something?’ James suddenly says, ‘it’s just that it seems crazy to stand here in everyone’s way.’
‘Sure,’ I find myself saying. ‘Great.’
James grins, and we both head to the checkout, where we’re given the evil eye by the bloke behind the counter for blocking his precious aisle for the last fifteen minutes, and we escape outside, laughing.
‘La Brioche?’ we both say at exactly the same time, and we head off up West End Lane.
‘You know,’ James says, as we walk along, ‘if we’d bumped into one another in six weeks’ time, we’d be going to the bookshop for a coffee.’
‘Not at this time,’ I say, pointing at his watch. ‘We’d be closed by seven.’
‘But you’ll have events, won’t you? Book readings? Local authors coming in for drinks? Maybe even book clubs?’
‘We haven’t really thought in detail about things like that yet, but yes, you’re absolutely right, that’s exactly what we need to be doing.’
‘Word’s got round, you know,’ James says, holding the door of the café open for me. ‘A lot of the local shopkeepers know what the building’s being used for, God knows how.’
‘And what’s the reaction?’
James shrugs. ‘Most people think it’s a brilliant idea, but there are always a few who put a dampener on things. Really they’re the people who have been trying to get hold of that building for years, and I think they’re just pissed off that they never got a shot at it.’
‘I can kind of understand that,’ I muse. ‘It is a great building.’
‘So how is Lucy? Oh.’ The waitress is standing by the table, waiting to take our order. James looks at me. ‘Cappuccino?’
I nod. ‘Incredibly excited but also pretty apprehensive. Jesus, even I’m apprehensive. I don’t seem to have slept for weeks. Look at these bags,’ I laugh, lowering my head to show off the shadows, but James shakes his head as if he can’t see anything.
‘You look fine,’ he says.
‘I don’t, but thanks. All I’ve been doing is lying in bed planning the colour of the walls, going through the sanding of the floorboards. All night every night I’ve basically redecorated the shop from top to bottom. I wake up every morning feeling like I’ve done a hard day’s work!’
‘Or had a hard day’s night,’ he smiles. ‘No wonder you’re exhausted.’
I laugh before continuing: ‘Exhausted but happy. It was the best thing I’ve ever done, handing in my notice. Even if it doesn’t work, although God knows I hope it does, I’ll never be able to look back and regret not having done it.’
James’s face lights up. ‘I know exactly what you mean. I’ve always thought that the one thing I would hate most in life would be to reach the age of seventy, look back over my life, and think if only.
‘We have to fulfil our dreams, and I think you’re incredibly lucky having a dream in the first place, and then being able to fulfil it.’
‘So if your dream is to be an artist,’ I say, trying to steer the conversation away from me, ‘how come you’re still an estate agent at the ripe old age of… how old are you anyway?’
James laughs. ‘Thirty-six.’ I practically fall off the chair. ‘I know, I know.’ He rolls his eyes and tries not to look exasperated as he says what he must say to everyone who accuses him of the same thing: ‘I look ten years younger,’ and then he laughs. ‘But I’ve got it all worked out. Why do you think I’m not spending fortunes at M & S? I’m stashing every penny away so that when I’m forty I can chuck it all in and spend the rest of my days painting.’
I’m impressed. Impressed by his passion and commitment. By his ability to set out a plan that will actually work for him. By his confidence in everything turning out fine.
‘I’d love to see your work,’ I say.
‘Would you really?’ Suddenly he seems shy.
‘I really would. I’m assuming you still paint.’
‘God, all the time. My only extravagance these last few years has been the studio, because I couldn’t live without my painting.’
How extravagant can a studio be? I know what his studio must be like. A tiny room splattered in paint and covered with canvases, smelling of turpentine and linseed oil; an easel propped up in the middle of the room, old coffee cups gathering mould, planted around like traffic cones.
I can see it all now, but actually I would like to see it. I’m sort of fascinated by this estate agent with an artistic side. I know very little about art, but I’d like to know whether his dream is a viable one, whether he has the talent to make it, although it doesn’t sound like he cares, he just wants to pursue his passion.
‘Why don’t you come over some time? Maybe you’ll even persuade me to cook.’ He smiles, then looks slightly worried. ‘Only if you want to. You’re probably very busy.’
You know, if those words came from anyone else, I’d think I was being asked out on a date, but I know, quite categorically, that this isn’t the case. I am definitely not his type. Which is quite a relief, really, because at least it means I don’t have to worry about anything. He’s just an interesting man with an interesting hobby. And I did say I wanted to meet some new people…