The old girl network, p.1
The Old-Girl Network, page 1
Catherine Alliott
THE OLD-GIRL NETWORK
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Follow Penguin
PENGUIN BOOKS
The Old-Girl Network
‘Her books are supremely readable, witty and moving in equal measure and she has a brilliantly sharp ear for dialogue’ Daily Mail
‘Possibly my favourite writer’ Marian Keyes
‘An addictive cocktail of wit, frivolity and madcap romance’ Time Out
‘Sensitive, funny and wonderfully well written’ Wendy Holden, Daily Express
‘Another charming tale of heartbreak from this wonderfully warm and witty author’ Woman
‘A poignant but charming journey of self-discovery. A bittersweet and captivating novel’ Closer
‘We defy you not to get caught up in Alliott’s life-changing tale’ Heat
‘A fun, fast-paced page-turner’ OK!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Catherine Alliott is the author of twelve bestselling novels including One Day in May, The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton and A Crowded Marriage. She lives with her family in Hertfordshire.
For George
Chapter One
I sat down and ran a practised eye over the ten people sitting opposite me. I saw at once that it wasn’t a good day. In fact, it was a particularly bad day. Six women and only four men, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, all four of the men looked as if they’d narrowly survived major car crashes. A singularly unpromising selection and I had to go to bed with one of them. Damn.
I sat back in my seat narrowing my rather myopic eyes and studied the four contenders: Too Fat, Too Young, Too Chinese and Too Ginger. Typical. Where was Too Handsome when I needed him most? Still, it was no good belly-aching about lack of talent; rules were rules, and one of these lucky guys was about to get even luckier. I gritted my teeth and appraised them individually, searching for hidden depths. I was going to have to dig pretty deep.
Number one was a fat slob masquerading as a businessman. The buttons of his blue nylon shirt were doing sterling work as they strained under the pressure of his ample bosom, and the waistband of his trousers was nowhere to be seen as his gut spilled out over the top of it. Lovely. Not only that, but he was bald too. Long flowing locks had been grown from somewhere beneath his left ear and swept carefully over the top à la Bobby Charlton, but that didn’t fool anyone. Sensing early depression, I dismissed him out of hand and moved smartly on to number two.
I suppressed a shudder. This callow youth was still grappling with something I’d got to grips with long ago and I didn’t fancy going through it again. Puberty. As I cast a cold eye over his acne-festooned, hormone-infested face, his upper lip suddenly curled into a leer, a lazy eye winked at me, and a lolling hand scratched at the fly of his jeans. Good grief, the very idea! I tossed my head in disgust. Bloody nerve.
I swiftly turned my attention to number three. Ah. Now this was a tricky one. You see, I’ve nothing against Chinese men per se, in fact the one in my local takeaway couldn’t be nicer, it’s just that – well, on balance I prefer my men to be, er, you know – English. I’m quite sure the Chinese make wonderful lovers but, as I said, my personal preference is for something a little closer to home, like – well, like Harry, of course.
For one blissful moment I allowed a fleeting glimpse of the divine Harry Lloyd-Roberts to seep into my consciousness. Ah yes, there he was, with his mop of blond hair, his tanned, smiling face, his bright blue eyes, his long lean legs, his broad shoulders, his – I gave myself a little shake. Concentrate, Polly, Harry is not on the menu this morning, but this Oriental gentleman is and you’ll have to do a little better than simply admitting to a preference for Englishmen.
I grudgingly appraised him again and realized, with joy, that he had a mighty peculiar set of teeth. I seized gratefully on his unusual dental arrangement. Oh no, I’m sorry, I simply have to have straight teeth; they must be regular and they must be white, I make a point of insisting on it. No, I wasn’t being racist at all, I was just – yes, I was just being a little toothist, that was it!
As I rejected him I realized with a sinking heart that I was now left with only one contender and – oh, horrors, I was about to be gingerist too. I studied the red-headed gentleman before me and sighed. But not deeply. Because, hold on a minute, Polly McLaren, not so fast. On closer inspection this one wasn’t so bad. Ginger, certainly, but not flaming carrots or nasty nasturtium red, more of a – well, more of an autumnal russet really. And was I seeing things, or weren’t those features remarkably regular? And wasn’t that face rather attractively tanned? And didn’t we have here a particularly piercing pair of blue eyes? We did! Complete with crinkle-cut laughter lines at each corner! That very nearly did it, I’m a sucker for crinkle cuts, but I had the good sense to run an eye over the rest of the goods before I clinched the deal. Shoulders broad, legs long, no sign of a paunch, good.
He was wearing a pale blue Brooks Brothers shirt topped with an expensive navy jacket, a good quality leather belt and heavy cotton trousers – not too baggy, not too tight – and, more to the point (and how foolish of me not to have spotted it before), he was sporting a signet-ring on the little finger of his left hand. I leaned back in my seat, heady with relief. I had myself a winner.
There was no true competition, but I gave the opposition another cursory glance just to ensure fair play. Too Chinese and Too Young had never got off their starting blocks, Too Fat was definitely Too Bald and, let’s face it, a girl has to have something to run her fingers through, even if it is red, so Ginger – I charitably omitted the ‘Too’ – it was. He’d run an easy race and won by an absence of baldness, hormones and buck teeth. What a lucky guy!
I stood up, flushed with success and pleased with my prize. So pleased, in fact, that I did something unforgivable. I smiled at the victor. It slipped out before I had a chance to retract it or even to turn it into something like a nasty little twitch. There it was, all turned up at the corners, wide and welcoming, teeth flashing away like beacons. Ginger looked up in surprise and returned the smile, blue eyes crinkling as predicted.
Horrified with myself, I wrapped my scarf around my flushing neck and made for the sliding doors, just as – thank God – the tube pulled into South Kensington station. There was a nasty moment when the doors stuck for a second, but a minute later I was off and running – well, walking fast – in the direction of the escalator.
How ghastly! He must have thought I was sizing him up for real, propositioning him even! I glanced nervously over my shoulder as I joined the moronic trudge for the exit, but thankfully there was no sign of his russet locks hovering hopefully behind me.
But that was a lucky escape, Polly, I told myself sternly; don’t do it again, for God’s sake – who knows what sort of trouble it could get you into? It’s bad enough that you stare at them every morning, without giving them the come-on too.
I grinned sheepishly as I thought of the way I amused myself on the way to work. Blind date without the blindfold, and without, of course, the actual date. Harmless fun, but these days increasingly depressing. Take yesterday, for example. I shuddered as I recalled. Yesterday, due to an unprecedented number of women commuters, I’d been forced to climb between the imaginary sheets with a slack-jawed octogenarian with bubbles on his lower lip. There’d been a moment back there when I could have become a lesbian, but no, I played the game. After all, it was my game, and I couldn’t cheat on myself, could I?
As I jostled for position in the line up to the escalator, I spotted the leering Too Young ahead of me in the queue. Oh dear, he really didn’t know the ropes did he? There he was, pushing his way through, and committing the unpardonable sin of standing firmly on the left which, as every urbane traveller knows, is for climbers only. I had the satisfaction of seeing him being bundled over to the right by a hoard of embattled commuters amidst a sea of shaking heads and tutting tongues. ‘You stand on the right,’ someone muttered by way of explanation – only muttered, you understand, no one who did this on a regular basis would be so gauche as to talk. I joined in the ‘glare past’ on the way up to complete the ritual humiliation. To my surprise, he had the balls to leer back at me.
Oh well, I thought, as I trudged on up the moving staircase, it’s always nice to be ogled, even if it is by a spotty fourteen-year-old: I must be looking quite good today.
We reached the top and I geared myself up to catch a glimpse of my reflection in the photo-booth mirror that everyone looks in and pretends not to. Christ, I thought as I caught my millisecond’s worth, he must be desperate. Bad hair, bad make-up (too hurried) and a very bad jacket covered in dog hairs. Lottie’s fault for buying a bloody Yorkshire Terrier. I brushed myself down, cursing my impulsive flatmate. At least it was all superficial. The hair could be washed, the jacket changed, and the make-up carefully reapplied in time for tonight’s little excursion with the divine Harry. Please God, let there be an excursion! Please God, let him ring!
I allowed myself a moment’s luxury as I considered the joys of going out with the utterly mouth-wateringly delicious Mr Harry Lloyd-Roberts. My heart pranced around in its usual foolish manner, but after an initial burst of skippy enthusiasm, sank a little too. I sighed. If only he wasn’t so elusive. If only every date wasn’t such a trumpet-blowing-red-carpeted-big-deal because they were so few and far between. If only – oh well. Don’t bang on, Polly.
And that was another thing, I thought bitterly as I barged and elbowed my way towards the ticket barrier, it was all so time-consuming. I really didn’t want to be the sort of girl who only thought about boys, but until I’d well and truly ensnared this one, I honestly didn’t think I could get my mind around anything else. Of course it went without saying that once he was as besotted with me as I was with him I’d spend a lot more time thinking about – oh well, you know – Shakespeare, art, starving orphans, charity work, that kind of thing; but until that glorious, glorious day came, I’m afraid I just didn’t have the time.
As I approached the barrier, I dug into my pocket for some change. The diminutive ticket collector already had his hand out, palm upward. It was a tacit agreement we had. He knew I was a lazy slut who couldn’t be bothered to buy a ticket at the right station, and I knew he was a thieving bastard who pocketed my sixty pence. We smiled sweetly at one another, both happy with the arrangement, and London Transport was none the wiser.
As I walked up the few remaining steps to the main road, I felt as if I was walking into a Persil advert. South Kensington was awash with bright, primary colours bathed in sunshine. Tall white houses soared up into a bright blue sky, and the little patches of green grass at their feet played host to the very first signs of spring as snowdrops, crocuses and a few lonely daffodils bobbed around in the sunshine. It was a beautiful day, and my spirits rose.
They rose even higher as I turned the corner into Cresswell Gardens, for this was where I’d met Harry and it never failed to please. Number twenty-four, to be precise – yes, this was the one. I paused outside, allowing myself a moment of sentimental nostalgia.
If I say so myself, I’d looked pretty damn sexy that night; seductively clad in a black Alaia dress which clung to every curve – of which I have a few; some would say too many – and with a liberal sprinkling of Butler and Wilson’s finest baubles at my ears and around my neck, my long, wavy blonde hair freshly highlighted, and the remains of a tan still glowing … I hadn’t looked bad.
The occasion had been a birthday drinks party, but to this day I can’t remember being invited, although I do remember the hostess’s look of surprise as I kissed her warmly on both cheeks. I’d obviously crashed it, probably with Lottie, who knows everyone. It had been a small, select gathering, and the venue had been the drawing room of this majestic townhouse. It was chock-a-block with original oil paintings, tasteful antiques, and other expensive and eminently breakable family heirlooms, and in fact the atmosphere had been so rarefied that people were talking in whispers. They didn’t stray from their own little groups of two or three, and it seemed to me that everyone was in danger of turning to stone and joining the rest of the precious treasures dotted around the room.
Thankfully, as the evening limped along, the hostess was suddenly alive to this possibility, and hastily poured a two-litre bottle of brandy into the insipid punch. A rather horsy girl standing next to me said she thought it was the stupidest thing she’d ever seen. I thought it was inspired. Within twenty minutes the party was revving up like nobody’s business, and I delved deep to summon up all the Dutch courage I possessed to chat up the most attractive man in the room.
He was standing by the window wearing a pair of ageing beige cords, a blue shirt and a bright red skiing jumper. An unruly mop of floppy blond hair was constantly falling into the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. He was such a cliché it was untrue. He was calmly eating pistachio nuts and staring out of the window to the street below, pretending he didn’t know how divine he looked and what a commotion he was causing.
No less than three knock-out-looking girls were prowling and circling around him, tossing back metres of silky hair and adjusting their hemlines up or down, according to whether they had good or bad legs. I decided to skip these formalities and move in for the kill. Buoyed up by too much bevvy and my revealing little black dress, I took a deep breath and dived in.
Somehow, and to this day I know not how, I managed to monopolize him totally for the rest of the evening, engaging him with my witty repartee whilst at the same time staving off the competition. The circling harpies evidently decided I’d scored and limped away to nurse their egos and, within the hour, I’d secured myself a seat opposite him in a restaurant of my choice somewhere on the Fulham Road. Before you could say your place or mine, it was back to his for Rémy and rumpy-pumpy – and the rest, as they say, is history. Unfortunately I was under the distinct impression that, unless I could recapture some of that original wit and vitality, I was in danger of becoming history too. I bit my lip miserably. Why was love such bloody hard work? Perhaps I should have a few sun-beds.
I turned the corner into Egerton Street where the houses are even taller, even whiter and even lovelier. My second pause on the walk to work was just coming up, right … here. I stopped in front of one of the tallest and whitest and gazed up at it, for this was where Harry and I were going to live when we were married. I’d picked it out ages ago as being the perfect house. I could almost hear my Manolo Blahnik heels tip-tapping around the highly polished wooden floors as I checked on my beautiful blond children asleep in their bedrooms and adjusted my Chanel suit in the enormous hall mirror before skipping off to join my husband for dinner or the theatre – or both.
Before I went I would dispense a few last-minute instructions to the Swedish nanny – did I say Swedish? Lord, no, I meant Romanian or, um … yes, Mongolian. Or did Mongolians have those rather attractive high cheekbones? I was rattled. Well then, we wouldn’t have one at all, why bother? Baby-sitters were just as good, and cheaper. But younger. I sighed. Even I could see the poverty of my situation, when even in my fantasies Harry was incapable of keeping his hands to himself.
With these weighty problems still preying on my mind, I climbed the steps to my workplace, Penhalligan and Waters, number thirty-three. I pressed the buzzer urgently, as if I’d been waiting there for some time and wasn’t late at all.
‘’S me!’ I yelled into the metal squawk box, and another buzzer obligingly let me in.
The only delay I was now likely to encounter was Bob. I looked nervously around the marble hallway. Bob was a large black labrador who belonged to Maurice, the aged and grumpy commissionaire who fielded visitors and clients up to the various offices in the building. They say a dog resembles his owner, but these two really couldn’t have been more different.
Maurice was a Yorkshireman; dour, miserable, grizzled and past it. Bob, on the other hand, was well-bred, bouncy, friendly, in peak condition and well up to it. He greeted most people simply with enthusiasm and affection, which was fine as long as his paws were clean and you weren’t wearing white, but I was a different matter. Bob adored me. Let’s face it, Bob had the hots for me. The mere smell of me would make his nose twitch with delight, and the sight of me would have him yelping with joy. Within seconds, his front paws would be up on my shoulders, his tongue frantically licking every scrap of make-up off my face. If I pushed him away, he’d think it was all part of the foreplay. He’d goose me in the crutch, whimpering with delight, and it wasn’t funny because Bob was a big dog. There I’d be, pinned to the Regency staircase or the Georgian hall-table, with Bob on top of me, pleading with him, or Maurice, or both, to give me a break.
‘Wants to play, by the look of things,’ Maurice would observe at length from the safety of his chair.
