Jane Green - Bookends

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.