The Other Woman(4)

Seb has seen me through at least four career changes, and has been nothing short of overwhelmingly enthusiastic with each and every one, assuring me that I was ‘made for it’. Yet, as each phase came and went, and I’d be lamenting on the sofa at how useless I was, he’d convince me that I was never really cut out for it in the first place. But now, I’ve finally found my calling. It came a little later in life than I’d planned, but selling people is my thing. I know what I’m doing, and I’m good at it.

‘So, he’s an IT analytical analyst?’ Seb reiterated suspiciously, as we sat in Soho Square, sharing a sandwich and a salad bowl from M&S the following day. ‘Whatever that may mean.’

I nodded enthusiastically, but inside, I was asking myself the same question. I placed real people in real jobs: retail assistants in shops, secretaries in offices, dental assistants in surgeries. The IT sector is a whole new ball game, a monster of an industry, and one that we at Faulkner’s leave to the experts.

‘Well, he sounds a right laugh-a-minute,’ Seb said, desperately trying to keep a straight face. ‘What did he do? Enthral you with his megabytes?’

I laughed. ‘He doesn’t look like you’d expect.’

‘So, he doesn’t wear glasses and have a centre parting?’

I shook my head, smiling.

‘And his name isn’t Eugene?’

‘No,’ I mumbled, through a mouthful of bread and roast beef. ‘He’s tall and dark, with really good teeth.’

‘Oh, your mum will be pleased.’

I swiped his shoulder with my hand. ‘And he’s got a really sexy voice. All deep and mysterious. Like Matthew McConaughey, but without the Texan bit.’

Seb raised his eyebrows quizzically. ‘Which would make him nothing like McConaughey.’

I persisted. ‘You know what I mean. And big hands . . . really big hands, and nicely manicured nails.’

‘What the hell were you doing looking at his hands?’ asked Seb, spluttering out his still lemonade. ‘You were only with him for fifteen minutes, and you’ve already managed to check his cuticles out?’

I shrugged my shoulders petulantly. ‘I’m just saying that he obviously takes care of himself, and I like that in a man. It’s important.’

Seb tutted. ‘This all sounds very well, but on a scale of one to ten, how likely is it that you’re going to see him again?’

‘Honestly? A one or two. Firstly, he looked like the type to have a girlfriend, and secondly, I think he had his beer goggles on.’

‘Was he drunk or just merry?’

‘Hard to tell. It was someone’s leaving do, and I think he said something about coming from a pub in the City, so they’d obviously been going for a while. Adam looked okay, a bit dishevelled maybe, but then I don’t know what he normally looks like. One or two of his mates were definitely well on their way, though – they could barely stand up.’

‘Oh, I bet the Grosvenor loved having them there,’ Seb said, laughing.

‘I think they were asked to leave at the same time as I came away,’ I said, grimacing. ‘The well-heeled guests were starting to arrive, and the bar looked more like something on the Magaluf strip than Park Lane.’

‘It’s not looking good, kid,’ said Seb.

I wrinkled my nose. ‘No. I think the likelihood of hearing from him again is pretty slim.’

‘Did you give him the look?’ he asked.

‘What look?’

‘You know the one. Your take-me-to-bed-or-lose-me-forever face?’ He fluttered his eyelashes and licked his lips in the most unsexy way, like a dog after a chocolate-drop treat. He’d once been told by a potential suitor of mine that I had ‘bedroom eyes’ and ‘engorged lips’, and I’d not heard the last of it. ‘Well, did you?’

‘Oh, shut up!’

‘What were you wearing?’ he asked.

I screwed my face up. ‘My black pencil skirt with a white blouse. Why?’

‘He’ll call you.’ He smiled. ‘If you’d been wearing that tent of a dress that you bought in the Whistles sale then I’d say you’ve got no chance, but in the pencil skirt? Moderate to high.’

I laughed and threw a limp lettuce leaf at him. Every woman should have a Seb. He gives brutally honest advice, which on some days can send me off kilter and have me reassessing my whole life, but today I’m able to take it, happy to have him evaluate the situation because he’s always darn well right.

‘So, how are you going to play it when he calls?’ he asked, retrieving the stray leaf from his beard and tossing it onto the grass.

‘If he calls,’ I stressed, ‘I’ll play it like I always do. Coy and demure.’

Seb laughed and fell onto his back, tickling his ribs for added effect. ‘You are to coy and demure, what I am to machismo.’

I was tempted to empty the rest of the salad bowl onto his head as he lay writhing on the ground, but I knew it was likely to end up in a full-on food fight. I had a packed diary that afternoon, and wanted to spare my silk shirt the onslaught of a balsamic-dressing attack. So I gave him a playful nudge with the tip of my patent court shoe instead.

‘Call yourself a friend?’ I said haughtily, as I stood up to leave.