Page 90 of Great Sexpectations
I laugh out loud, a nice feeling radiating through my bones.
‘It’ll come. True love always comes,’ she mutters philosophically.
I giggle. ‘I like that. Can we put that on a mug?’
‘You filthy mare!’ she says, cackling.
She glances around the room, noticing the hoover out. Yes, I also did some light cleaning last night.
‘Is there anything you want me to do here?’ she enquires.
I doubt she’s in the mood to start going through our VAT statements. ‘Do we still do penis-shaped soap?’ I ask.
‘You want to take a shower?’ she jokes.
‘I thought they’d be nice additions for the favour bags.’
‘I can do you one better. We have penis bath bombs, also willy candles. Honey and vanilla, they smell gorgeous. I’ll take a look at the stocklists. Has everyone got a penis lollipop too?’
I click my fingers at her. ‘You’re a genius.’
‘I’m not just a pretty face, yeah? I’ll give you a hand.’
She rises from her seat as my phone buzzes again. I look down at it.
Hi, can I check if this is the number for Josie Jewell?
I look down at the unfamiliar number. Is this another journalist? A tabloid predator? I’ve had a few of those emerge since the TV debate. My fingers hover over the buttons. Block or probe?
Yes, it is. Please can I know who this is?
You don’t know me. My name is Laila. I think you used to go out with my husband.
I don’t have the time for this. Ruby’s hen party starts in five hours where I need to meet everyone in a spa. I look like death warmed up so I probably need a nap. I need to wash my hair and change my pants. In terms of time management and priorities, I should not be sitting in this café waiting for my ex-fiancé’s wife. As the theme of my heartbreak is to feed it with carbs, I tear away at the cinnamon pastry on my plate. I am in no emotional place to have any of these conversations, I am sleep-deprived and still reeling from what happened with Cameron, but after having a brief conversation with this Laila, there was something in the tone of her voice that brought me here. I think she sounded how I felt, exactly how I felt.
‘Josie?’ a voice says from behind me.
‘Laila?’
I stand, and there’s a moment where we both study each other. I don’t quite know what to say about the person in front of me. She’s not the immaculate wedding or holiday destination Laila I saw in her photos. She’s in a camel coat, hoodie and baseball cap, no make-up and visibly quite distressed. I am not such a loon that I came here in my CRAZY IN LOVE tracksuit. No, I asked my PA if I could wear her clothes instead. It’s just a quick coffee, I told her. WITH WHO? YOU BLOODY MAD WOMAN! So we traded outfits, just as long as she could tag along and sit in a corner, like some covert spy with a latte and a plastic salad spork in case she needs to stab her on my behalf.
‘I am so sorry to do this. Thank you for meeting with me.’
She sits down and takes off her coat. She is very pretty, a different person to me in that I know she has regular haircuts and eyebrow shapings.
‘It’s a strange thing. I just didn’t know who else to ask?’ Her tone is desperate, frantic even, and for that one moment, I think I know exactly what she is going to say next. ‘It’s just… You know my husband, Michael.’
‘I knew him as Mike, but yes.’
‘I saw you on the television with your mother. With that idiot MP fella. I saw your name and thought, that’s her. That’s Michael’s ex-girlfriend.’
‘Is that what this is about?’ I ask, worried. She wants an autograph, a business loyalty account? Maybe she’s a journalist after an interview.
‘No. It’s just Michael has… I don’t quite know how to say this. He’s gone. He left me a note, two weeks ago. I don’t know where he is.’
‘What did the note say?’ I ask, panicked on her behalf.
‘He said he rushed into everything, and he didn’t know how to tell me because I was “obsessed” by the wedding. He said the wedding was a “circus”. He made me feel bad for it.’
