You Had Me at Merlot Page 2

  ‘Nope, George is hitched now. But even if he wasn’t, although I’d be willing to have a summer fling if he wanted one, I don’t think either Laurie or I are going to be getting married off the back of one holiday.’

  ‘There’s something about holidays though – being in a new place and not having to do dishes—’

  ‘And drinking carafe after carafe of wine,’ added Marie.

  ‘—it just puts you in the mood for romance. Brian proposed to me after five too many Bahama Mamas in Barbados.’

  ‘Ellie proposed to me at the bottom of Snowdon,’ said Emma.

  ‘At the bottom?’

  ‘We couldn’t be bothered to climb it, when it came down to it. But we were still on holiday. My friend Claudia’s taking Nick to New Zealand next week; they’re bound to come back engaged.’

  ‘But these are all established relationships. I have no plans to walk down the aisle any time soon.’ Jasmine and Marie exchanged raised eyebrows, which irked me even more. I know myself better than they know me, and why did they think I could only be happy if I was like them? I wasn’t single because no one loved me, nor because I surely must give out too many desperate vibes, nor because I won’t find a man unless I stop looking, and no (Dad), not because I’m a lesbian. It’s because I like my life, I like being able to come home to my own flat and be by myself and learn dance routines, and I’ve chosen to be single. And I was getting pretty fed up with having to justify myself to everyone. Of course, that little speech didn’t come out as planned, and instead I grumbled like a sullen teenager: ‘I’m not swapping my life for anyone else’s idea of my Mr Perfect. So there.’

  ‘I’m just glad I don’t have to go on singles’ holidays any more,’ sighed Jasmine.

  ‘It’s not that we have to, we want to.’ Laurie grinned, opening the brochure to a page with a large photograph of a girl riding on the back of a Vespa, sunglasses reflecting the Italian sunshine. ‘How could you not want to go here?’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Sometimes it’s nice to go on holidays without kids and couples all over the place.’

  ‘Talking about kids’ holidays,’ said Jasmine, ‘does anyone know where I can buy good, organic travel nappies? As you might have seen on Facebook, Max used his potty for the first time last night, and it was just the most adorable thing ever, but we’re going …’

  I’m a horrible friend, but I faded out. I looked beyond the ladies to the baroque white architecture of the Old Royal Naval College and wondered if I’d ever fancy going back to university. Or joining the navy. Then I thought about the YouTube clip of the cat dressed as a shark, rolling around someone’s house on a Roomba. That is the most adorable thing ever, surely? I just don’t think a child weeing into a bowl compares.

  The week before my holiday, work seemed even busier than usual, if that were possible. There were a million loose ends I wanted to tie up, and a million more ‘little things’ people wanted me to do for them before I left. I hated saying I couldn’t do something, so I always said yes. But tears tickled the backs of my eyes sometimes. Not coping wasn’t an option.

  I’m one of three marketing managers at a PR agency in the City, and I’d been at work since seven fifteen that Thursday morning. By two thirty I needed to stretch my legs, having only gone as far as the loos and the coffee machine since I arrived. I decided to go and wander about by Donna.

  Donna is our managing director, and kind of my idol, though I’ve never said more than a ‘Hello’ and a ‘Yes, I love working here’ and an ‘Actually, it’s Elle’ to her. But she’s a woman – the only woman – near the top of the company, and one day I want to be up there near her, so I need to make myself known.

  I smoothed my hair, grabbed a ringbinder (no idea what was inside) and headed downstairs to her floor with a plan to pass her office.

  Here’s how I was hoping it would go:

  I stride past Donna’s office, confident and professional, and she looks up.

  ‘Elle?’

  ‘Oh hi,’ I say, going in. ‘How’s your daughter?’

  ‘She’s great, thanks for asking. I’ve been meaning to run something by you. You’re in this for the long haul, right?’

  ‘Absolutely, I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘That’s fantastic. You have such an admirable work ethic. I’ve noticed the extra hours you put in, the passion you show for the company, your drive to achieve results. Oh, and everyone absolutely loves you. There’s a position opening up that you’d be perfect for. It’s very high up and important, and you’d have your own office and a company credit card and a six-figure salary, and people will add you to their LinkedIn accounts.’

  ‘Donna, how nice of you to think of me! I’d love to!’

  Here’s what actually happened:

  I walked past her office five times; eventually Donna got up and closed the door. I had a mild panic attack that she’d think I was useless if I had enough time on my hands to be wandering about all day, and decided to put in an extra couple of hours before home-time this evening.

  Ah well, I’ll try the same routine tomorrow.

  The rest of the day flew by in the usual blur of conference calls, marketing plans, PowerPoints and problems until my stomach let out a large growl and I glanced at the clock in the corner of my screen, which read 19:25. I looked up and there was no one else on my floor. No one at all.

  Turning my chair, I used my feet to drag it and myself to the window, where I leant my forehead against the glass and gazed down at the street below. Colleagues and suited strangers spilled out of the bars and restaurants, enjoying the warm evening air that I couldn’t feel now the sun had dropped below the building opposite, and the lack of life made the air-con seem all the colder.

  Why did I try so much, when those people seemed to be actually having all the fun?

  I decided I’d leave early for a change, and treat myself to dinner out, somewhere in the last of the sun. I rolled my chair back to my desk and went to shut down my computer when an email came through from Donna. I replied instantly, unashamedly hoping for brownie points, and then sat back and waited.

  I waited fifteen minutes, just in case a message pinged back, commending me for still being at my desk, but nothing. And then the cleaner switched out the light and I was forgotten, invisible.

  For a moment I just sat there, staring at the pod after pod of empty desks, which looked eerily dead in only the shaded light from outside the tinted windows. I was important to this company, wasn’t I? I was needed, an asset. I was one of their best workers. Maybe they didn’t always notice when I was here, but I was sure they’d notice next week when I wasn’t here. Wouldn’t they?

  Fine, I’d bloody go home then. I’d be back in less than twelve hours anyway.

  The following day I was indeed back at work, my last day before my holiday, and I was slouched in the boardroom with fifteen other people, waiting for a meeting to begin.

  I wondered how soon this meeting could be finished with, so I could get back to the never-ending to-do list upstairs.

  Then I wondered if Dan from Accounts knew how much he looked like Anneka Rice.

  Damn it, my new work shirt was gaping open at the boobs again.

  As the clock ticked around to ten past the time the meeting was supposed to start, I let out a ginormous sigh with an accidental audible ‘Uuurrrggghhhhhhh.’

  ‘Bet you can’t wait to get out of here and start your holiday,’ murmured Kath, one of my executives, who was sitting next to me, polishing off her third tepid coffee.

  ‘There’s just something so annoying about us all waiting for one person when we’re all busy. Who are we even waiting for?’

  ‘Chill out, think of all the gelato you’ll be eating this time next week.’

  My team knew I was going to Italy, but no more than that. I really didn’t need them on my case about my single status too. Or, worse, asking me when I got back if I’d met anyone ‘nice’. ‘Will you be okay while I’m gone? Are you happy wi
th everything that needs to be done on the Lush Hair account?’

  ‘Of course, just go and have fun and stop being such a worry-arse.’

  The door opened and in strode Donna, and immediately I pulled myself up, tugged my shirt closed and nearly toppled off my chair trying to look like the most professional person in the room. There was something about Donna which always made me feel I should be on my best behaviour.

  ‘Morning all, let’s begin,’ she said, no nonsense. The meeting started and I tried my hardest to look interested, confident, to ask insightful questions, which I only fudged once when I said, ‘And did you want the full title, Prime Minister Boris Johnson?’

  ‘No, Ellen,’ said Donna, ‘let’s go with Mayor Boris Johnson.’

  ‘That’s what I meant – ha ha ha, silly me – oh, and it’s Elle, just so …’ My voice was swallowed up by Dan starting his Excel presentation.

  Kath leaned over to me. ‘Don’t worry, I get them mixed up all the time. Just remember this: Mayor Mayor blondie hair.’

  I’d decided to take a quick trip down to the Devon seaside to visit my parents and eat a cream tea before my Tuesday-morning flight to Italy. Although the holiday was only for ten days, last year I got into trouble for not taking all of my holiday allowance, so I took two full weeks this time. I was already on edge, thinking they’d realise they got on fine without me, didn’t need me at all and I’d be fired before I could say arrivederci.

  So, late at night on the Friday, when I finally left the office, I leapt on the train to Exeter where my mum picked me up and drove me home, putting me to snoozeville in my teenage bedroom, complete with purple walls, a blow-up chair and a big faded poster of Craig McLachlan that I won’t let her take down.

  I woke up to seagulls thumping on the roof, squawking loudly about the appalling lack of chips at six in the morning, and our cat, Breakaway, standing all four heavy paws on my stomach as if to say You see how much my feet sink into you? LOSE WEIGHT.

  Mum was already up, because whereas I can’t start my day without a handful of crisps and checking my work emails before I’ve taken off my PJs, she can’t start the day without a walk along the seafront. I had a cheeky dip into a tube of Pringles and scuttled off to join her.

  The sea was calm, but a cool breeze was hanging out with the clouds that had scattered themselves over the pink skies.

  ‘Cold, isn’t it?’ I yawned, curling my arm around Mum’s.

  ‘These clouds’ll blow away by lunchtime, I’m sure. It never rains down here, in the Fiji of England. I expect it’ll be lovely and warm in Italy, won’t it?’

  ‘I hope so. My aim is to leave Laurie to it and just lie back in the sunshine with some vino, and eat every scrap of Italiano food that passes by.’

  ‘It sounds blissful. I love Italy; I could eat antipasti for every meal of the day.’

  ‘Then you should! Yolo, Mum.’

  ‘Yellow?’

  ‘Yolo. It means “you only live once”.’

  ‘So if I was at a funeral I’d say, “Well … yolo”?’

  ‘Probably not – it’s more of live-for-the-moment saying. Not a ha-ha-you’re-dead saying. It’s what us hashtag-cool-kids say.’

  ‘Are you drunk now?’

  ‘No, hashtagging is … never mind. Yes, antipasto is delizioso.’

  ‘Did you know my first holiday with a boy was to Italy?’

  ‘Urgh, a boy that wasn’t Dad?’

  Mum threw her head back and laughed. Is there anything better in the world than someone laughing? Seeing that spontaneous burst of joy take over their face, and knowing that it’s the most wonderfully infectious disease in the world? ‘I’m afraid so! He took me there with the intention of proposing to me at the Trevi Fountain, but just as he was about to do it I looked down at my strawberry gelato and realised I loved that more than I loved him, and that was the end of that.’

  ‘Blimey, Mum, you heart-breaker.’

  ‘We’d only been together a couple of months. I think his mummy was just wanting him to find a bride.’

  ‘You’ve never been to Tuscany, have you? With or without potential dads from the past?’

  ‘No, but it looks absolutely beautiful. One day I’d like to go for a month or two, and just paint pictures and—’

  ‘Eat antipasti?’

  ‘Eat antipasti.’

  ‘I wish you could come on this holiday with me.’

  ‘I’m not sure a singles’ holiday’s quite up my street. Plus it would be a bit mean to your dad.’

  ‘It’s not up my street either.’

  We stopped to lean over the railing and watch the rolling waves, the wind blowing our hair about. Half-asleep dog walkers and early-risers with metal detectors were the only others out at this time.

  Mum put her arm around me and I shuffled closer. ‘Just don’t be closed off, sweetheart. There’s more to life than work.’

  ‘Antipasti?’

  ‘You know what I mean. It won’t do you any harm to experience some of the other lovely things in life. Hashtag yolo.’

  Late that afternoon Mum was making a cake, so I was poised at the breakfast bar with a spoon ready to eat the raw mixture. I watched her tip a pan full of melted butter and golden syrup in with the flour, sugar and eggs, and then furiously beat them together while I leant in closer and closer.

  Sweet, warm, spicy smells filled the kitchen and I couldn’t resist any longer, plopping my finger straight into the batter and causing her to gently thwack my hand with her wooden spoon.

  ‘Mmmm, Mum, you should be a professional cake baker. A caker.’

  ‘I think the Food Standards Agency might have a problem with all the sticky fingers that keep going into my bakes.’

  I grinned and prodded my finger back in and out, quick as lightning. ‘It’s your own fault for making such yummy things.’

  ‘This is a very easy cake.’ She shook in some ginger powder. ‘Do you want the recipe to take back with you?’

  ‘I don’t really ever have time to bake.’

  ‘Maybe you should try leaving the office at a normal time at least once a week. I feel like we only ever speak when you’re making the commute home in the middle of the night.’

  ‘It’s not the middle of the night.’ I stuck the spoon in this time. The mixture was so delicious; all buttery and smooth. ‘I never stay past nine. Besides, when I’m marketing director I’ll probably just swan in and out when I please, and won’t have to do any work at all.’ Actually, that wasn’t true. My boss, the current marketing director, was always busy, always tired-looking. ‘Maybe when I’m CEO.’

  To my utter heartbreak, Mum poured the mixture into the cake tin and I watched it being led away to its oven of death. Then she started making buttercream icing. Score! Spoon and I were poised.

  ‘How is everything with your job? Is it all going well?’ Mum looked at me closely.

  ‘Yeah, it’s brilliant. I really like my position, I really like the company …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But nothing.’ Mum shuffled about with the scales while she waited. ‘It’s just … I’m kind of ready for them to give me a bloomin’ promotion already!’ I chuckled and stole a blob of icing.

  ‘You do seem to give them an awful lot of blood, sweat and tears.’

  ‘Yeah, and it’s tiring, but my manager does seem to be pretty happy with me so it’s all helping the goal in the end.’

  ‘The goal to run the world?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Okay. Well, as long as you’re happy. Remember they don’t own you. You’re always on about not wanting a boyfriend to mess up your “you” time, so don’t let a job either.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’ We both knew that was going in one ear and straight out the other. ‘How’s everything with you? How’s the abbey?’ Mum volunteered several times a week at a National Trust property.

  She lit up. ‘It’s just marvellous. I’m outdoors all day, with the trees and plants. A school group came in last week and
all the little children were giving the ducks individual names; it was the sweetest thing.’

  ‘That sounds so nice. Not regretting retirement yet, then?’

  ‘Not even a tiny bit. I get to organise my own time, go where I want when I want, have cream teas left, right and centre, and bake a cake in the middle of the day. How jealous are you?’

  ‘Feel free to come up to London and bake cakes in the middle of the day at my house.’

  ‘Will you come home from work early?’

  ‘Will you leave me some bowl to lick?’

  ‘Deal.’

  At that point, Dad ambled in, Breakaway in his arms, both nosing about for a snack. ‘What are you two hatching?’

  ‘Mum’s coming up to London to be my personal chef.’

  ‘Why don’t you just come and live back down here, then she can be chef to both of us?’ Dad was always trying to lure me back from the grip of London. He regularly sent me links to stories on the BBC News website about crime in the capital, or Tube strikes, or even weather forecasts when it looked bad.

  I tried to give him and Breakaway a hug, but the cat leapt from his arms and legged it under the table. Dad slung an arm around me and poked a finger into the mixing bowl. ‘Mmm. What shall we have for dinner?’

  Mum dusted off her hands. ‘Elle, you decide. What would you like?’

  ‘Would you like fish and chips?’ asked Dad with hope.

  ‘Would you like fish and chips, Dad?’

  ‘I would quite like fish and chips. I’ll pay.’

  ‘Crikey!’ said Mum, whipping off her apron. ‘Quick, Elle!’

  Mum and I did a frantic dash about the house, grabbing handbags, shoes, glasses, the cat, putting the cat back down, turning the oven down low. It wasn’t often Dad’s wallet opened and the moths were allowed to fly out, so we had to grab this opportunity before it snapped shut again for another hundred years.

  Monday came too quickly, and though I was excited about Italy I was always sad to leave home. I bid farewell to Craig McLachlan and took my weekend bag downstairs. Mum and Dad waited by the door, Breakaway blocking it with a scowl.