Claudia Carroll 3 Book Bundle. Claudia Carroll

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СКАЧАТЬ opening or else our national theatre’s touring production that’s about to open on the West End. Which, unlike Marc’s bloody no-name band, chances are more than a handful of the cognoscenti might, perish the thought, actually want to see.

      Next thing, Rachel’s stand-in sticks her head round my door and curtly informs me that there’s someone here to see me. (This one’s name is Ursula by the way, and she’s an honours journalism graduate whose style secret appears to be heavy black eyeliner and a complete and utter refusal to smile.)

      The door is already half open and next thing, standing there, all six feet two of him, is Jake. Grinning cheekily and bless him, carrying a gorgeous bunch of Stargazer lilies, my favourites. Half of me lights up, genuinely delighted to see him, but the other half of me starts to get a bit shifty, knowing what’s ahead. And dreading it.

      But here he is, standing large as life in front of me. No getting out of it now.

      ‘Hey,’ he says, filling up the doorway with the sheer hulking size of him. Looking handsome, in a crumpled, laid-back way and wearing a light blue shirt the exact colour of his eyes.

      ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt …’

      ‘Oh that’s quite alright,’ says Marc, taking him in from top to bottom and back up again, like he’s sizing him up for a new suit. In fact he’s staring at Jake so intently that an utterly disconnected thought flashes through my head; bloody hell, never knew Jake would be Marc’s type. Knew he was gay alright, (the hair being the key giveaway; no straight man would dream of wearing it quite that bouffy for starters) but I’d have sworn he was in a long-term relationship with Sean from Advertising on the QT. So anyway I introduce him to Jake, who’s still standing patiently at the office door, bouquet of flowers in hand, and suddenly Marc’s French architect-style glasses nearly steam up.

      ‘Oh right,’ he says, recognition lighting him up as he puts two and two together and gets four million. ‘That’s who you are. Yes, of course, I’ve heard all about you, Jake.’

      I shoot him a look that’s primly intended to convey, ‘Ahem, hello, wrong end of the stick here mate,’ but it’s no use. Received office wisdom round here is that Jake and I are an item and I know of old that the best way to let any story die down is purely to ignore it and let it just die a quiet death in its own good time. Adding useless denials is nothing more than fuel to the fire and tends to only prolong things round here.

      ‘Right then,’ says Marc, gathering up his manbag and laptop, ‘well, that’s me off then. See you in the morning Eloise. Great to finally meet you, Jake. Better get going, I’ve a movie screening to catch tonight.’

      ‘Anything decent?’

      ‘Transformers 4.’ This, by the way, said in the exact same tone as someone in revolutionary France on their way to the guillotine.

      ‘You have my sympathies,’ I half smile at him, knowing that having to sit through a kids movie would be anathema to someone with Marc’s more elitist cultural leanings.

      He rolls his eyes up at me and on his way out throws back, ‘I’ll have the cover mock-ups for you by about ten tonight.’

      ‘No rush. It’s a Sunday night.’

      A look so shocked from Marc that I have to resist the sudden urge to smile.

      ‘I’m sorry … Did you just say “no rush”? Did I really hear that right?’

      ‘Come on Marc, you’ve earned some breathing space. Enjoy a bit of time off after your movie and we can take this up again tomorrow.’

      A stunned, dazed look from him and just like that, he’s gone, leaving Jake and me alone.

      ‘Hi.’

      ‘Hi.’

      ‘For you,’ he says, thrusting the flowers over.

      ‘Jake, they’re lovely, thank you.’

      ‘Come on then, I just got paid this week and I’m treating you to dinner at the poshest restaurant we can find.’

      Twenty minutes later we’re sitting at a cosy little table for two in Ciao Bella, a gorgeous Italian bistro only about a ten-minute stroll from the office. Popular with the T. Rexes, but as it’s a Sunday, I reckon I’m safe enough from them. The place is quiet tonight, which couldn’t suit me better. Privacy for what I’m about to say, I reckon = really good idea. We order and while we’re waiting I think … Just bloody well do it now. Go for it. Get it over with.

      But somehow, I just can’t. Just silently sit looking at him, thinking how in hell do I ever begin?

      A tension knot inconveniently forms in the pit of my stomach and suddenly I’m finding it difficult to breathe.

      ‘Good to see you taking a bit of time out to eat a proper nosh,’ he smiles across the table at me, eyes twinkling, giving me his big, open, trusting smile.

      Silence from me. And now I’m aware of the background music playing; Marilyn Monroe singing My Heart Belongs to Daddy. A sign, surely?

      ‘You know, I really worry about all the crappy food you eat? Sometimes I think you’re on the John the Baptist diet – you’d live off grass shoots and the odd fistful of herbs if you could – the odd Big Mac meal, now Missy, would do you no harm at all.’

      I nod absently. Still skirting around it, formulating in my head how best to approach this. Feeling like a child caught up in a complex lie.

      Guess what Jake, you’re a dad … And I never told you … And by the way, I’ve been lying to you basically since the first time I met you … Ehh … no, probably not.

      ‘… Plus it’s always lovely to have an actual dinner with you,’ he grins across the candlelit table at me, ‘not just try and get you to wolf down a sandwich in between meetings.’

      Still no reaction from me. Our food has arrived by now and as Jake horses hungrily into a deluxe-size cannelloni chatting easily away, I play with a house salad, pretending to eat. Doesn’t take long though for him to cop there’s something up with me and, as ever, is straight in for the kill.

      ‘Eloise?’

      ‘Hmmm?’

      ‘What have I just been talking about?’

      ‘Emm …’

      ‘I knew it. Knew you were miles away.’

      ‘Sorry, I’m just a bit …’

      ‘Here’s me warbling on about my big exams next week and ordinarily by now you’d be messing round with your iPad and producing study timetables, but instead you’re just staring into space, totally tuned out. Are you OK?’

      ‘Sorry Jake,’ I say, regrouping, snapping out of it. ‘Didn’t mean to be rude. Your exams, that’s important. Sorry, tell me more.’

      ‘Never mind the fecking exams for a minute.’

      ‘No, go on, tell me.’

      ‘Some other time,’ СКАЧАТЬ