10
You Can’t Hurry Love
I slept badly that night. My head was full of Jessica, Simon and, bizarrely, Nick. I had hated seeing Simon fawning over Jessica, but my encounter with Nick had produced one unexpected benefit: Simon had been seriously irked by his presence. He kept asking faux-innocent questions about him on the tube ride home, which I’d nonchalantly brushed off. He apologised for not inviting me back to his hotel bar, citing an early start the next morning, and instead suggested we meet for dinner.
My goodwill towards Nick lasted only as long as it took me to turn on my phone the next day. At 8.37 a.m., as I was trying to squeeze out a bit of toothpaste from an almost empty tube, he was leaving me a voicemail about how we needed to talk about Hands Down. God, couldn’t the man let me have breakfast before pestering me about that stupid band? I don’t know what he’d been playing at last night – but in the cold light of day, I could safely say he hadn’t been flirting.
I got to the office an hour or so later and went over the layouts Rob had left for me on Friday. He’d joined the magazine at the same time as me, starting as an assistant in the Art Department. Now he was art editor and the department was just him. He was a gentle giant who never swore or raised his voice. He quietly got on with sorting out the look of the magazine by himself, issue after issue, never complaining. I found him by the kitchen, but before I could tell him how happy I was with his new layouts, he sailed past me, his tall frame even more hunched than usual.
‘It’s a war zone in there,’ he muttered, nodding towards Gavin and Lucy behind him. He sloped back towards his desk, while I went to investigate what the gruesome twosome were getting so worked up about.
They appeared to be having an animated conversation about getting stuck in a lift. Lucy was illustrating the drama by waving a teaspoon in the air and feigning a bout of mild hysteria, while Gavin was nodding and nervously running his hand over his shaved head. I didn’t blame him. Lifts are scary enough without worrying about getting stuck in one.
‘We’ve got a great idea to pitch to you, Zoë,’ said Lucy, brandishing the teaspoon in my direction.
‘It was my idea,’ interjected Gavin.
‘Was not!’ said Lucy, shaking her head, which made her pink plait sway from shoulder to shoulder.
‘Okay,’ I said, in my best United Nations negotiator voice, ‘Conference room in five minutes.’
‘Conference room’ was Lucy and Gavin angling their chairs towards my desk. The actual conference room was used as a stationery cupboard slash unofficial sick-bay, pressed into service when someone’s hangover required them to lie down with a ream of A4 for a pillow – personally, I preferred to use a folded-up jacket.
This conference was going remarkably well. The idea they were pitching was a new feature called ‘Stuck In A Lift With...’
Gavin was explaining how it would work. ‘We ask confessional questions, like what’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told, or who’s your secret crush.’
‘Yeah,’ said Lucy. ‘And the lift is hurtling to the ground so you’re moments from death and these are the last things you’ll ever say – it’ll be fun!’
I wasn’t sure ‘death-by-lift’ and ‘fun’ belonged in the same sentence, but I still liked the idea.
Gavin held up a finger as if he was about to announce world peace. ‘Or maybe it could be a plane that’s about to crash.’
Lucy nodded enthusiastically and they both looked at me expectantly.
‘It’d be easier and cheaper to photograph in a lift,’ I said, and I even felt a bit miffed at my sudden metamorphosis into a killjoy.
‘Yeah, you’re right, Zo,’ said Gavin. ‘And anyway, “Stuck In A Lift” is catchier.’
‘Short and snappy,’ said Lucy. ‘That’s why my original idea was so good.’
‘Youridea?’ said Gavin.
‘Let’s just say you both came up with it,’ I said hastily, not wanting to get dragged into it again. ‘Let’s move on to who we’d like to feature.’
I opened my notepad and poised my pencil before it dawned on me: ‘Jonny Delaney’s crappy boy band!’
Gavin’s jaw dropped, and Lucy dipped her head and stared at me over imaginary glasses. Anyone would think I’d suggested cutting their baby in half.
‘Hear me out,’ I pleaded. ‘I need a back-up plan in case we get held over a barrel to put Hands Down in the magazine – this way it’ll be tongue-in-cheek.’
‘I ’spose that makes sense,’ said Gavin.
‘Yeah,’ said Lucy.
I felt a bit bad for deflating everyone’s enthusiasm, but they weren’t the ones fighting a publisher and a pushyPRman. Nor did they need to count sheep to sleep soundly, whereas the woolly fuckers kept me up all night bleating scary sales figures.
When I got home that evening, Simon was waiting outside my flat.
