Gemma Townley - When in Rome...

“Georgie, that is a further ten minutes that I will be adding to the clock tonight. Will you please sit down and do some work? And no more personal calls today.”

Fine. If I can’t make calls, there’s always e-mail. I’ve got to tell Mike I’m not coming round tonight. Short and to the point.

GEORGIE BEAUCHAMP: Hi Mike. Afraid I can’t come round later after all—lots going on at work. Have put the disk in the post; you should get it tomorrow. Georgie.

I turn back to the Pensions questionnaire. I can’t believe I’ve still got this stupid thing to do. Is it really important in the big scale of things? I actually think we should have an amnesty from normal work and have a day off or something to celebrate the company not being torn apart by that nasty HG company.

Ping!Ooh, it’s an e-mail. Maybe it’s David? No, it’s Mike.

MIKE MARSHALL: You’re putting it in the post? Georgie, do you realize how important this is? Put in on a fucking bike, at least. In fact, sod that—I’ll come and pick it up myself. Where are your offices? M

Mike come and pick it up? I don’t think so—Nigel would go ballistic, and anyway, I don’t want to see him. Sending it on a bike is possible, but that would mean going back down to the post room and then convincing reception that sending a bike to Big Base Records is a genuine business necessity. And somehow I don’t think they’ll fall for it. Not to mention the fact that I am too embarrassed to talk to anyone in reception since they witnessed me hanging on to Guy’s arm earlier.

I hit Reply.

GEORGIE BEAUCHAMP: Sorry, the post has already left. You’ll get it tomorrow though, and I put it in a padded envelope. G

Well, it’s half true. The envelope was definitely padded.

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I don’t get home until eight. I seem to be turning into someone who works late on a regular basis. The thing is, once I started looking at the Pensions questionnaire properly, I realized that actually a lot of it needed changing. I mean, there were questions like “Pensions Bulletin has recently undergone a design revamp. Would you say, on balance, that you prefer the current illustrative design, or the previous photograph-led design?”

Investment Analysismagazine has a whole team of designers working on it, but Pensions Bulletin is just a two-page newsletter, so that question had to be taken out completely, along with all the questions on individual writers and columns. By the time I had a questionnaire that actually seemed to refer to Pensions Bulletin it was nearly seven-thirty. Even Nigel looked like he wanted to go home, but he stayed as long as I did. And then, as we were walking out, he said,

“Thanks for your work on the merger situation. It has been resolved, as I believe Guy has already informed you. I believe that in the circumstances it would be beneficial for the organization if the subject and events surrounding it were not mentioned again.” And that was that.

I look around the kitchen for something to eat. With all these impromptu dinner invitations and trips to Rome I haven’t done any shopping for ages and all I can find is toast. Still, it’s something. I was hoping to see David tonight, but he’s working late.

I put on the television and sit with a cup of tea and hot buttered toast watching “EastEnders.”

Pat’s looking a bit worse for wear, but I can really sympathize. I mean, life can be quite exhausting sometimes.

Just as the credits start to roll, the phone rings. I lean over to see the caller ID, half hoping it’s David, but it’s Candy. I could leave it to ring, I think. I mean, I could easily be out. And I really don’t have the energy to talk to Candy. But then again she is David’s friend. And I don’t want to be rude.

“Hello?”

“Georgie?” Who else does she think it’s going to be?

“Yes. Candy?”

“Oh thank God you’re in.”

“Candy, are you okay?”

She sounds dreadful, like she’s been crying.

“Oh yes, oh, everything’s fine. Just, you know, ringing to see how you are.”

“Oh I’m fine. Really fine.”

“How’s everything with David?”

“Oh, fine. We’re fine,” I say wearily, unable to think of anything else to say. Then I hear a muffled sob.

“Candy, what’s wrong?”

She sniffs. “Nothing.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Georgie, remember when you said that Mike was calling you and stuff, and that you thought he wanted you back? You didn’t mean it, did you? I mean, he wasn’t really asking you out and stuff, was he?”

I pause. On the one hand, I would still love to tell Candy just how much Mike wanted me back.

She was always so dismissing of our relationship, so convinced that Mike would leave me, and I want to be able to tell her that the only reason he left me was because he didn’t feel good enough. But on the other hand, I can’t risk it. Candy might get it into her head to tell David and that could be disastrous. No, I’m going to have to swallow my pride and pretend that I totally misread the Mike thing. For the second time.

“No, not really. We just saw each other once and, well, nothing really. No, nothing going on there.”

“Oh I’m so relieved. I was so worried.”

“Worried? Candy, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about.”

“What, you’re worried about David? Look Candy, I love David. I would never do anything to hurt him, you know that.” I blush as I speak. Wouldn’t do anything apart from going on holiday with his worst enemy. Stealing disks from his coat pocket. You know, nothingreally bad.

“It’s not David I’m worried about either,” Candy says, sniffing again.

“Surely you’re not worried about Mike?” It suddenly occurs to me that Candy must know about the whole David–Mike thing. Didn’t Mike say that Candy was the one who had told David how well Mike’s business was doing? Maybe David has also confided in her?

“So what’s the matter then?”

“I’m worried about me. Me and Mike.”

Candy and Mike. What on earth is she talking about?

“Candy, what are you talking about?” I say sharply. Honestly, I’ve been dealing with dodgy mergers and jealous boyfriends, and all Candy is worried about is her friendship with Mike!

“Georgie, don’t you know that Mike’s the father of my baby?” Candy says very softly.

“Sorry, Candy, I think I missed that. I thought you said that Mike is the father of your baby . . .”

Candy is silent for a while. “We’re getting married just as soon as we can,” she continues slowly. “He’s going to meet my parents and everything. Only he’s been acting oddly for the past few weeks and hasn’t come home quite a few nights, and I think he might be having an affair.”

Mike and Candy. I feel like I’ve been winded. Mike and Candy. How? When?

“Candy, what do you mean? Are you serious? Is this your idea of a joke, because if so it really isn’t funny.”

“I’m not joking.” Candy is hardly audible.

“But . . . how long? I mean how long have you two . . .”

“Two years.”

Two years. So that means . . . But that’s impossible. That’s when Mike left me for the . . . Oh my God. Candy is the stick insect.

“You . . . you . . .” I am at a loss for words. I am beyond words. All those times she’d told me to leave him, to give him up, she’d wanted him for herself.

“How could you do that to me? I thought you were my friend.”

I’m having problems remembering to breathe in and out. All this time I thought Mike left me for some bimbo, and it was Candy. Candy whose shoulder I used to cry on—or lean on anyway.