Girl on the Run Page 18

  ‘Whoever heard of a swing band accompanied by a bloody triangle!’ she huffs. ‘What next? A keyboard player on the spoons?’

  She paces round the office in her violet satin strapless number, attempting to fix her now-dishevelled fascinator, which has already been washed in the basin of the second-floor loos, after a discovery about wilted gerberas, revealed an hour ago in a call from the florist. Priya threw back her head in despair, causing the fascinator to fly off, straight into Matt’s Pot Noodle. It still smells faintly of reconstituted chicken and mushrooms but she’s determined to stick with it, having paid £19.99 for it.

  By the time I leave the office, it’s almost five, which means I only have an hour to get home, get glammed up, and get to the marquee at Knowsley Hall – so I can hopefully greet guests with a refinement that’d make Grace Kelly look like Amy Winehouse.

  I’m on the way home, battling against traffic, when the phone rings and Jess’s number flashes up. She’s coming to the ball tonight, along with most of the running club, though she’ll be on a different table. Adam persuaded his company to take a table and he and Jess will be wining and dining clients.

  ‘Hi, Cinders! Looking forward to the ball?’ I ask.

  ‘Cinders? You got that right.’ She doesn’t sound good.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh Abby, I don’t know how to tell you this.’

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘Jamie’s not well. He has so many spots I could do dot-to-dot on his back.’

  ‘Is he all right?’ I ask anxiously.

  ‘I think so. I suspect chicken pox because it’s been going round his class. I’ll take him to the doctor’s in the morning. In the meantime, I don’t want to leave him with a babysitter.’

  The penny drops. ‘You’re not coming.’

  ‘I’m really sorry. I’m sure it’s nothing but I don’t feel right about going out tonight – I want to keep an eye on him myself. You understand, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And Adam’s still going, obviously.’

  ‘Great!’ I reply, with more enthusiasm than I feel.

  I end the call as I pull up to my house and feel a rush of nerves, prompted, I admit, not just by the event itself. Knowing that Doctor Dishy would be sitting next to me on the table – a sheer coincidence, painstakingly engineered – I spent a lavish amount of time on my appearance, traipsing round shops in search of a killer outfit, getting highlights and even a spray tan.

  My dress was an unbelievable find: a floor-length vintage number that looks a bit Valentino-esque and that I discovered in a little shop in Chester. Just putting it on makes me feel fabulous, and by the time I’ve done my make-up and added new shoes and bag, I’m spilling over with anticipation.

  I’m ready to leave a record two minutes before the taxi’s due and, as I wait restlessly in the living room, I pick up a magazine article I ripped out at the hairdresser’s: Five Come-On Tips – Guaranteed!

  It’s by Gretchen F. Cassidy, an American relationship expert whose self-help guide, The Guy Whisperer, is available in hardback priced £12.99, according to the plug at the bottom of the article. I have my doubts about a technique for making someone fall in love with you that can be summarised in 650 words. But I need all the help I can get.

  More than 55 per cent of the impression we give is through our body language; less than 10 per cent from what we say, the article reads. Many women don’t find it easy to give outward signals – yet these figures show how important they are!

  Maybe this is the issue with Doctor Dishy. The only time I’ve made really obvious overtures towards him was when I was pissed in the pub on my birthday – and those signals were about as effective as a defunct level crossing. I need to do this with far more aplomb.

  The crux of Gretchen’s technique is called ‘The Triangle of Flirtation’, which I know sounds like somewhere ships get lost, but by now I’m hooked.

  Apparently, when we’re with people we don’t know – in a business situation, for example – we look from eye to eye and across the bridge of the nose. With friends, the look drops down and moves to a triangle shape – from eye to eye, then the mouth. When flirting, the triangle gets bigger, widening at the bottom – to include parts of the body.

  Effective flirting involves intense eye-to-eye contact, direct gazing into the mouth, and the widening of the flirtation triangle to the collarbone – or even lower down!

  My eyes ping open. I’m more than happy about the idea of gazing at Doctor Dishy’s nether regions, but I don’t know how he’d feel. Aside from the last bit, however, none of it sounds that difficult – even if flirting comes about as naturally to me as my tan.

  A beep from outside breaks my train of thought, so I fold up the article and stuff it in my clutch bag, deciding to study it in more detail on the way. As I close my door behind me, I have a feeling. It’s less a premonition than a determination.

  Tonight, Oliver, I’m going to make you mine.

  Chapter 43

  My taxi passes through sandstone gates and crawls along a sweeping driveway through the lush grounds of the estate.

  When I catch my first glimpse of our marquee, in the shadow of the magnificent Georgian mansion house, it sets off a wave of butterflies in my stomach as the responsibility of this evening hits me. Between the venue hire and the catering, the champagne and the band, putting on this ball hasn’t come cheap. And while I know we’ve covered our costs through the ticket sales, it’ll only have been worth it if we make a decent amount on the auction and raffle.

  When I’ve paid the taxi, I head for the marquee and I bump into the event co-ordinator at the entrance. She’s a short, slightly rounded brunette called Missy who’s jolly, super-efficient and has the kind of laugh that makes people wonder if there’s a fire drill.

  ‘Everything okay?’ I ask.

  ‘Everything’s fine!’ she beams.

  ‘Um . . . did the swing band find a replacement for their trumpet player?’

  ‘Yes, yes!’ she confirms.

  ‘And what about those gerberas? I heard there was a problem.’

  ‘No longer, my dear!’

  ‘And did you manage to put some little bottles of hair-spray in the Ladies’ toilets like I asked, only I know from experience what a nightmare it is if the fringe on your updo flops and—’

  ‘Abby . . . Abby,’ she replies, with a tone you’d use to reassure someone trying to escape their straitjacket. ‘Consider your job done. Leave it to us to co-ordinate tonight. Go and enjoy yourself.’

  It is against my nature to be anywhere other than at the door with a clipboard in hand. But when I spot the first guests pulling up outside, my heart skips a beat. ‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’

  ‘I am, darling.’ She spins me round, clearly desperate to get me out of her way. ‘Go and let your hair down.’

  I cautiously pick up a glass of orange and walk across the entrance area of the marquee to peek at the main room. Heidi is next to the stage in a floor-length scarlet gown that looks straight out of 1950s Hollywood. She spots me and walks over.

  ‘You look amazing,’ she says, her eyes scanning my dress.

  ‘I was thinking the same about you,’ I tell her.

  ‘Really? Well, we’d better not let anyone hear us. This conversation sounds like a real love-in.’

  I laugh. ‘Are you excited?’

  ‘Just a bit,’ she replies, sipping her champagne. ‘Terrified too. Though it’s nothing that a couple of glasses of this stuff won’t sort out.’

  At first the guests float in intermittently, but when the clock hits six-thirty, we can’t greet people quickly enough.

  I suddenly feel overwhelmed by the support. The great and the good of the city are here, with the sole exception of Mum, who’s tying up a deal in Shanghai, and still won’t accept I didn’t deliberately set this date for when she’s 6,000 miles away.

  The main room of the marquee is a credit to the girls, who ap
proached the decoration of the tables with creativity, style and – crucially, given this is a charity event – a grip on cost control that would dazzle Alan Sugar.

  They persuaded everyone from the florists to the calligraphers to work for free or at a discount. And from the glorious floral displays to the star-cloth on the ceiling, the place looks spectacular.

  ‘How’s it going, Abs?’ asks Priya, as her eyes dart round the room. ‘There must be something to do but I’m being told everything’s covered.’

  ‘I got the same message. Where’s whatsisname, anyway? Your date?’

  ‘Ian,’ she says solemnly. ‘He dumped me this afternoon. You’d think he could’ve held on for the ball, wouldn’t you? I only bought this fascinator because he liked it.’

  ‘Oh no. Priya, I’m really sorry,’ I frown. ‘You’d been together for weeks, too.’

  ‘More than a month.’ In Priya’s world this is the equivalent of their Ruby Wedding Anniversary.

  ‘Your handsome prince will come some day,’ says Matt. ‘Until then, I suggest you have a glass of champagne to make you feel better.’ He grabs two glasses from a passing waitress and hands one to each of us.

  ‘I never did have any willpower,’ I shrug, taking a sip. I glance at the door and feel my stomach whirl. It’s Doctor Dishy. Looking dishier than I thought humanly possible.

  ‘What an amazing job you’ve done, Abby,’ grins Geraldine as I bump into her and Mau next to the cloakroom.

  ‘Thanks, but it wasn’t all down to me. The girls have done most of it. Besides, we’ve enjoyed it. Anyway, you’re looking absolutely gorgeous.’

  In fact, this hardly covers it. Put Geraldine on a red carpet now, and everybody else would look like they’re off to clean toilets.

  ‘It’s nice of you to say so,’ she says, looking down at her delicate lemon dress. ‘I wish Tom would notice though.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he does,’ I say, surprised at the comment.

  ‘Are you?’ She doesn’t sound convinced.

  ‘What she means is, there’s still no engagement ring,’ says Mau sympathetically.

  Geraldine flings an arm round her waist. ‘I think he’s more likely to ask you to marry him than me, Mau.’

  As they head into the marquee, I spin round and come face to face with Adam. Jess’s husband looks statesmanlike in his tux; as if he goes to events like this every other evening – which might not be far from the truth.

  ‘Abby, how are you?’ There must be something about the atmosphere tonight because even Adam seems less stiff than usual.

  ‘Hi, there. I’m great, thanks.’ I decide to kiss him on the cheek whether he likes it or not. ‘I hope Jamie’s okay?’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ he replies, slightly flustered from my kiss. ‘Jess is devastated not to be here.’

  ‘I’m devastated she’s not here. It’s all rather nerve-wracking.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about,’ he smiles. ‘It’s a super venue and everything looks under control. Let me introduce you to some people.’

  He turns to a stocky man with corned-beef cheeks. ‘This is Peter, our Managing Partner, and Debi, his wife.’

  Debi is heavily made-up, dripping in diamonds and has a tan the colour of a Chesterfield sofa.

  ‘This is the young lady responsible for tonight – the one I talked about on the way here,’ continues Adam.

  ‘Oh, wonderful!’ hoots Debi. ‘You’re running a marathon, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, a half—’

  ‘For your friend with leukaemia?’

  ‘Multiple scl—’

  ‘And you run an interior design company?’

  ‘Web des—’

  ‘Well done you!’ interrupts Peter with a bellow. ‘Lovely to see someone your age with a bit of get up and go.’

  ‘Peter was interested to hear the background of tonight’s event. So I’m sure you’ll get plenty of cash out of him tonight,’ Adam winks.

  Debi slaps him on the arm in a manner that’d be playful if she didn’t have a right hook capable of flattening Ricky Hatton. ‘Oh you are a one!’ she cackles, as they disappear into the marquee.

  Following Missy’s advice, the format of the evening is relatively relaxed. Once people have had a drink and a mingle, they’ll sit down to a five-course dinner and hopefully become sufficiently tanked-up to pledge tons of money. In the finest tradition of charity events, the auction will therefore be held after dinner.

  I tried to persuade Heidi to say a few words, but she insisted she wanted me to do it instead. She’s always been brilliant at presentations to a handful of people, but has never liked the idea of public speaking in front of a big audience. Add to that the subject-matter, and I can understand where she’s coming from.

  My plan is to keep it short: even though the fundraising is uppermost in my mind, we can’t shove it down people’s throats. The emphasis tonight is on fun; anything else would be counter-productive.

  ‘Looks like most of your guests are here,’ says Missy. ‘I’m going to get Ronny to do his bit, then we’re off.’

  Ronny is our announcer. He looks about a hundred and ten and is brilliant at his job: dressed impeccably in red tails and with a voice that’s rich, distinguished and capable of hitting the volumes of a Formula 1 dragster.

  ‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN . . .’ A hush descends. ‘WOULD YOU PLEASE BE SEATED FOR DINNER.’

  I know it’s odd not to have a table for my own company. It would have been the obvious thing to do: adhere to convention, wine and dine existing clients and tap up potential new ones.

  But, after careful consideration, I could see some highly persuasive arguments for not having one. I can do my networking after the dinner. I’ve got too many clients to fit on one table and wouldn’t want any to not feel special. Plus, not having a ‘top table’ gives a pleasingly equitable air to the whole event. There’s also the small issue about me not being able to sit next to Oliver if I hadn’t insisted on joining the running-club table. Can’t imagine which has been the deciding factor.

  ‘Nice place.’

  My eyes flick to Tom at the opposite side of the table and he’s smiling. He’s so glamorous in his tuxedo that just looking at him makes my head swim.

  ‘I’m glad you think so,’ I reply. ‘We put in a lot of work.’

  ‘It shows.’ He hesitates for a second. ‘So, Abby Rogers . . . are you speaking to me yet?’

  ‘Why on earth wouldn’t you be speaking?’ Geraldine appears at his side and sits down. ‘I hope he hasn’t been misbehaving, Abby?’

  ‘Tom’s joking.’ My neck reddens, but I compose myself. ‘Of course we’re speaking.’

  His face breaks into an expansive smile. ‘Glad to hear it.’

  ‘I’ve poisoned your starter, of course,’ I add.

  He laughs. ‘I wondered why the waitresses kept trying to foist a vegetarian option on me.’

  ‘Cyanide mushrooms,’ I reply. ‘They’re a speciality.’

  I sense a presence next to me and look up to see Oliver, holding my gaze as he sits. My pulse quickens and I look away.

  Then I get a flashback to the article I read in the taxi. Come on, Abby. What would Gretchen F. Cassidy do in this situation?

  ‘How are you?’ he smiles.

  ‘Oh, well, I . . .’ I pause and then pull myself together. There’s only one way forward with Oliver now: to be so full-on seductive that my feelings could only be clearer if I sat on his lap in a pair of nipple tassels.

  ‘I’m fine.’ I say this in the most sultry voice I can muster as I focus my gaze at his right eye, concentrating on the black recesses of his pupil as it dilates. ‘Thank you,’ I murmur, before swiftly and subtly switching my focus to his left.

  ‘And you?’ I hone in on his mouth, narrowing my eyes to create such a smouldering effect that the smoke alarms almost go off.

  When he doesn’t answer, I look up again.

  ‘Er . . . very well. So – will
you raise much money tonight?’

  I’m about to answer this when I remember Gretchen’s words. Intense contact from eye to eye: that’s the key!

  ‘I hope so,’ I breathe, parting my lips sensually as I gaze – intensely, as instructed – in his right eye. ‘I think so,’ I add, flipping rapidly to his left. ‘At least . . . that’s the plan!’ Now I shift to his mouth as it strikes me that it’s unbelievably difficult to concentrate on this, as well as thinking about what to say at the same time. Again he doesn’t answer. I blink and narrow my eyes. ‘Did you say something?’ I ask anxiously.

  He looks oddly perplexed. ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’ Starting to have my doubts about this tactic, I scrutinise my cutlery, twisting my napkin in frustration.

  Tom and Geraldine are sharing a joke at the other side of the table and I’m struck by their impossible charisma as a couple, how mutual adoration permeates every part of them.

  I return to Oliver with renewed determination.

  ‘So . . .’ I resume staring into his right eye, so closely I can see my own reflection perfectly – and note that my mascara needs touching up. ‘Have you been to Knowsley Hall before?’

  ‘Once or twice. It’s beautiful.’ He pauses and looks at me, suddenly courageous. ‘Not as beautiful as you though.’

  Without warning, I am unable to breathe. Not as beautiful as me? AS ME?!

  Then I remember I haven’t switched eyes; in fact, I’ve glared at his left for so long he must think I aspire to be an optician. I move to the right. ‘Thanks,’ I whimper, my heart racing round my chest.

  I force myself to continue the flicking, determined not to be so overwhelmed by the ‘beautiful’ comment that I blow Gretchen F. Cassidy’s theory and go completely to pieces. As she says: subtlety is the enemy of a masterful flirt.

  So I abandon anything approaching subtlety and flick, flap, flip away until my eyes have covered so much ground you’d think I was taking part in a search-party.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’ Oliver asks, picking up the menu and breaking the spell. ‘Rump of lamb. Sounds wonderful.’