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Authors: Jane Costello
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reply. ‘Julia, our account manager, will be on the case already. She’s very good. All you need to do now is fill Roy in when he gets
back from his meeting.’
‘The problem is, Ms Cope—Imogen . . . he phoned back to say that there was no answer at Ace and that he wanted to speak to someone urgently. And there just isn’t anyone. No one
at all. I’m so sorry.’
‘This
is
about the press release we sent out on Friday, isn’t it?’
‘Oh . . . I actually didn’t ask that. Oh God, I should’ve found out . . .’
‘Laura, it doesn’t matter. Roy’s been briefed to handle any matters like this in my absence. All it needs is for him to get on the PR company’s case and make sure Julia
follows up the call.’
‘Ms Co—Imogen, I don’t think you understand. I even got Graham to try and track him down on the office CCTV, but he spotted nothing except a potentially hazardous fire hydrant
on the fourth floor.’
‘Well, I presume he’ll be back soon,’ I reply, getting a little exasperated.
She takes a deep breath, clearly unconvinced. ‘I’ll keep trying him on his mobile then, shall I?’
‘I’d appreciate that. Thanks, Laura.’
‘No problem at all. I won’t rest till I’ve found him.’
‘And . . . oh, it doesn’t matter—’
‘Anything at all.’
‘Well, could you phone the journalist back and reassure him we’ll be happy to help? It’s a straightforward press release. I’m sure all they want is some freebies for a
taste test.’
‘Consider it done,’ she says, as I open my book, realize it’s time to get ready for dinner, and close it yet again.
That night we banquet on tapas at a buzzy little beach bar. A warm breeze dances through the air, and couples stroll along the boardwalk arm in arm.
I love this sort of food. It’s not just that picking at tiny plates lulls you into the completely false idea that you’re eating modestly; there’s also something deliciously
unpretentious about it. Not that I mind the opposite now and then – on our last night we’re booked in, as part of our prize, to the hotel’s Michelin-starred restaurant, where
I’ll expect as much pretentiousness as possible, thanks very much.
Meredith spends the evening flirting with our waiter, but manages to resist his thinly veiled invitation for a ‘walk’ along the shore, while Nicola rolls her eyes extravagantly.
After hearing nothing back from Laura and leaving my own (unreturned) messages for both the PR agency and Roy, the only thing for me to resist is the wine. And I can’t, as my large,
consecutive gulps make plain to everyone.
‘Is something the matter, Imogen?’ Nicola asks.
‘Oh, nothing. Well, work stuff,’ I reply, tapping my fingers on the tablecloth.
Meredith frowns. ‘That’s so wrong. You’re on holiday!’
‘I know,’ I reply. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Not that that tends to stop me.’
‘In which case, the wine is probably a good idea. I suggest you carry on.’ Nicola smiles, sympathetically.
I do as instructed, so much so that, as we weave our way back to the hotel, I’m overcome by a desire to hit my bed. Thankfully I’m not the only one.
‘Pregnancy is
exhausting
,’ Meredith declares, as she links arms with me.
‘It is the way
you
do it,’ I point out.
‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Meredith,’ Nicola says. ‘There are rabbits on heat that don’t manage to pull as fast as you. And when you’re heavily pregnant,
too. Amazing.’
Meredith shrugs. ‘I thought I was remarkably restrained. Did you see that waiter’s bum?’
‘Wasn’t he a bit young?’ Nicola asks.
‘Yep.’ Meredith grins. ‘Anyway, I know you were worried I’d spend every night wanting to talk, Imogen, but I’m absolutely shattered. I’ll be dead to the world
before you’ve even finished brushing your teeth.’
We get into the hotel room and I quickly perform my ablutions, emerging to see that Meredith’s prediction was accurate.
back from his meeting.’
‘The problem is, Ms Cope—Imogen . . . he phoned back to say that there was no answer at Ace and that he wanted to speak to someone urgently. And there just isn’t anyone. No one
at all. I’m so sorry.’
‘This
is
about the press release we sent out on Friday, isn’t it?’
‘Oh . . . I actually didn’t ask that. Oh God, I should’ve found out . . .’
‘Laura, it doesn’t matter. Roy’s been briefed to handle any matters like this in my absence. All it needs is for him to get on the PR company’s case and make sure Julia
follows up the call.’
‘Ms Co—Imogen, I don’t think you understand. I even got Graham to try and track him down on the office CCTV, but he spotted nothing except a potentially hazardous fire hydrant
on the fourth floor.’
‘Well, I presume he’ll be back soon,’ I reply, getting a little exasperated.
She takes a deep breath, clearly unconvinced. ‘I’ll keep trying him on his mobile then, shall I?’
‘I’d appreciate that. Thanks, Laura.’
‘No problem at all. I won’t rest till I’ve found him.’
‘And . . . oh, it doesn’t matter—’
‘Anything at all.’
‘Well, could you phone the journalist back and reassure him we’ll be happy to help? It’s a straightforward press release. I’m sure all they want is some freebies for a
taste test.’
‘Consider it done,’ she says, as I open my book, realize it’s time to get ready for dinner, and close it yet again.
That night we banquet on tapas at a buzzy little beach bar. A warm breeze dances through the air, and couples stroll along the boardwalk arm in arm.
I love this sort of food. It’s not just that picking at tiny plates lulls you into the completely false idea that you’re eating modestly; there’s also something deliciously
unpretentious about it. Not that I mind the opposite now and then – on our last night we’re booked in, as part of our prize, to the hotel’s Michelin-starred restaurant, where
I’ll expect as much pretentiousness as possible, thanks very much.
Meredith spends the evening flirting with our waiter, but manages to resist his thinly veiled invitation for a ‘walk’ along the shore, while Nicola rolls her eyes extravagantly.
After hearing nothing back from Laura and leaving my own (unreturned) messages for both the PR agency and Roy, the only thing for me to resist is the wine. And I can’t, as my large,
consecutive gulps make plain to everyone.
‘Is something the matter, Imogen?’ Nicola asks.
‘Oh, nothing. Well, work stuff,’ I reply, tapping my fingers on the tablecloth.
Meredith frowns. ‘That’s so wrong. You’re on holiday!’
‘I know,’ I reply. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Not that that tends to stop me.’
‘In which case, the wine is probably a good idea. I suggest you carry on.’ Nicola smiles, sympathetically.
I do as instructed, so much so that, as we weave our way back to the hotel, I’m overcome by a desire to hit my bed. Thankfully I’m not the only one.
‘Pregnancy is
exhausting
,’ Meredith declares, as she links arms with me.
‘It is the way
you
do it,’ I point out.
‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Meredith,’ Nicola says. ‘There are rabbits on heat that don’t manage to pull as fast as you. And when you’re heavily pregnant,
too. Amazing.’
Meredith shrugs. ‘I thought I was remarkably restrained. Did you see that waiter’s bum?’
‘Wasn’t he a bit young?’ Nicola asks.
‘Yep.’ Meredith grins. ‘Anyway, I know you were worried I’d spend every night wanting to talk, Imogen, but I’m absolutely shattered. I’ll be dead to the world
before you’ve even finished brushing your teeth.’
We get into the hotel room and I quickly perform my ablutions, emerging to see that Meredith’s prediction was accurate.
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