The Other Woman(3)

‘Is that a yes or no?’ it said again, a little closer now. Mr Peroni had manoeuvred himself so that he was now my next-door neighbour but one. What an odd expression that is, I thought to myself, oblivious to the fact that he was now standing right beside me. Can you also have a next-door neighbour but two, and three, I wondered?

‘How many have you had?’ He laughed, as I continued to look at him blankly, though not without acknowledging that he was taller when he was close up.

‘I’m sorry, I thought I heard someone call my name,’ I replied.

‘I’m Adam,’ he offered.

‘Oh. Emily,’ I said, thrusting out my hand, which had instantly become clammy. ‘I’m Emily.’

‘I know, it’s written in rather large letters across your chest.’

I looked down and felt myself flush. ‘Aha, so much for playing hard to get, eh?’

He tilted his head to one side, a naughty twinkle in his eye. ‘Who said we were playing?’

I had no idea whether we were or weren’t. Flirting has never been my strong suit. I wouldn’t know where to start, so if it was a game he was after, he was playing on his own.

‘So, what’s the deal with the name badge?’ Mr Peroni, aka Adam, asked, as coquettishly as a man can.

‘I’m a member of an elite conference,’ I said, far more boldly than I felt.

‘Is that so?’ He smiled.

I nodded. ‘I’ll have you know I’m the cream of the crop in my industry. One of the highest-ranking performers in the field.’

‘Wow.’ He smirked. ‘So, you’re part of the Toilet Roll Sellers seminar? I saw the board for it when I walked in.’

I suppressed a smile. ‘Actually, it’s a secret meeting of MI5 agents,’ I whispered, looking around conspiratorially.

‘And that’s why they wrote your name all over your chest, is it? To make sure nobody finds out who you are.’

I tried to keep a straight face, but the corners of my mouth were curling upwards. ‘This is my undercover name,’ I said, tapping the cheap plastic. ‘My conference pseudonym.’

‘I see, Agent Emily,’ he said, rolling up his sleeve and talking into his watch. ‘So, is the gentleman at three o’clock also an agent?’ He waited for me to catch up, but I didn’t even know which way to look. I was twisting myself in every direction, haplessly trying to find three o’clock on my internal compass. He laughed as he caught hold of my shoulders and turned me to face Ivor, who was gesticulating wildly to a male colleague, whilst looking longingly at a female dressed in tight leather trousers behind him. She was happily unaware that his eyes were drinking her in. I shuddered involuntarily.

‘Negative,’ I replied, one hand to my ear. ‘He is neither an agent nor a gentleman.’

Adam laughed, as I warmed to the theme. ‘Can we class him as the enemy?’

‘Affirmative. Take him down if you wish.’

He squinted, in an effort to read the perpetrator’s name badge. ‘Ivor?’ he questioned.

I nodded.

‘Ivor Biggun?’ He looked at me, waiting for a reaction. It took me a while, a long while in fact, to get it, but until I did, he just stood there, staring at me.





2

I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend. I hadn’t even known I’d wanted one until Adam showed up. Pippa, my flatmate, and I were blissfully content, going to work, coming home, eating our tea on trays, then gorging ourselves on chocolate whilst watching back-to-back episodes of Prison Break. It’s heaven on earth for those few short hours, but the next morning, I’d get on the scales and damn my nine pounds of winter weight gain. It’s the same every year – and not helped by the fact that I never go to the gym that I pay seventy-two pounds a month for. I can no longer fit into the size-twelve jeans I wore last summer, but instead of buying myself a size fourteen, I’d rather scour the shops to find a more generous size-twelve pair that I can pour myself into. I’d spent the entire summer ‘in denial’, and was still kidding myself that the promised Indian summer would be sure to see my motivation return.

I’ll go out every once in a while, particularly around payday, but nights out aren’t what they used to be. Maybe it’s because I’m getting older, or everyone else is getting younger, but I see little benefit in standing in a crowded pub and having to elbow your way to the bar every time you want a drink. Pippa’s dragged me kicking and screaming to a few gigs, though not, unfortunately, at the O2. She favours underground caverns, where bands, most of whom she seems to have slept with, thrash about the stage and encourage their audience to do the same. I’m the one standing alone at the back, with hidden earphones blasting out Musical Theatre’s Greatest Hits.

Thank God for Seb, my best friend and a male version of me. I’d have married him years ago if I thought there was a single hair on his body that I could have turned straight, but, alas, I must make do with evenings locked in a soundproof karaoke booth, each of us competing for the best lines in Les Misérables. We met during what he refers to as my ‘hairdressing period’. Discontented with secretarial work, I’d booked myself on to a night course for hair and beauty. Obviously, I had visions of becoming a female Nicky Clarke, with a trendy salon in the middle of Mayfair, and celebrity clients having to book months in advance. Instead, I spent three months sweeping up other people’s hair, and developing eczema on my hands from the caustic shampoo. I used to have these half-baked ideas, and rush off to start making them happen, but I was forever deluded by grandeur. Like the time I enrolled on a home-making course at my local college. It was never my intention to learn how to make a pretty cushion or spend hours rubbing five layers of eggshell off an old chest of drawers. No, I was going to be the new Kelly Hoppen, and bypass all the graft and groundwork that learning a new skill entails. I was heading straight for New York, where I would be immediately commissioned to design a vast loft space for Chandler from Friends. Needless to say, the cushion never got finished and all the wallpaper samples and fabric swatches I’d acquired never saw the light of day again.