Page 22 of The Best Friend
‘Yeah, of course. What’s not to like. God, this food really is delish, just what you need on a chilly day.’
‘This time next year, we’ll… Hey!’
A seagull has just swooped down and swiped a chip straight out of my husband’s fingers.
‘Cheeky little…’
I break down into hysterical laughter at the outraged expression on Jared’s face. But I soon stop laughing when more gulls begin dive-bombing us for our lunch. I squeal as we run along Poole Quay, flapping our arms in an attempt to scare the squawking birds away. A couple of amused pedestrians glance our way. Apart from them, it’s quiet here today. We turn down a cobbled side street, tears streaming down our faces, panting with laughter. Thankfully, the gulls don’t follow us and we spy a wooden bench on which to sit and polish off our lunch.
‘I still can’t believe how gorgeous your new offices are,’ I say, breaking off another piece of fish.
‘And I can’t believe Mike actually came good with his offer,’ Jared says. ‘Sending Joe to that school has turned out to be one of the best moves we ever made.’
‘It wasn’t a “move”, Jared,’ I say, frowning. ‘We did it to help Joe with his reading.’
‘You know what I mean, Lou. If we hadn’t sent him there, we’d never have met Mike, and my dream of owning my own agency would probably have stayed a dream… for a hell of a lot longer, anyway.’
I can’t disagree with him. Joe’s new school is teeming with wealthy and influential parents. I’m not so keen on that aspect. But the teaching is superb, and I guess it’s also helped Jared out. There’s no denying Mike has opened doors for my husband.
We sit in silence for a few minutes more, lost in our thoughts, enjoying our lunch.
‘I’m stuffed,’ I finally say, licking the salt off my fingertips. ‘If I eat another mouthful I’ll explode.’
‘Here, give me that.’ Jared takes the fish and chip wrapper from my lap and strolls down the road a little way to dump our rubbish in the bin. I watch him walk. Even from behind he appears confident – his broad shoulders upright, his stride smooth and even. He gives a little leap to the side, clipping his feet together, making me laugh out loud. He screws the wrappers into a ball and shoots it into the rubbish bin. Then, he turns and rubs his knuckles on his jumper, blowing on them to show off his skill. I shake my head at my husband’s antics, then I freeze.
A man just crossed the alley behind him. A man with a beard, in a fisherman’s hat. He was too far away for me to be absolutely sure, but it looked just like my stalker. Should I run after him to check? I’m with Jared now, so we could go together, confront him. But do I want to ruin our day? Do I want to tell Jared that this man is stalking me? Jared’s response will be to punch first, ask questions later. It will be a nightmare. And what if I’m wrong? The man has never approached me. He wasn’t even looking my way today. It probably wasn’t even him. Anyway, this is Poole Quay – there must be plenty of bearded fishermen wearing hats.
‘Okay?’ Jared is back, standing right in front of me.
I push the man from my thoughts. ‘Yep,’ I reply, swallowing my unease. ‘I definitely ate too much, though.’
He pulls me to my feet. ‘Let’s go home.’
I wrap my arms around my husband and give him a salty kiss. Then, we amble back to the car while I try to push all unsettling thoughts of that man from my head.
Back home, Jared makes us a cup of tea, while I sit at the kitchen table checking emails on my laptop.
My stomach is teeming with nerves – Jared’s new offices, the man who may or may not be following me. It’s like I’m standing on the end of a moving seesaw trying to get to the middle where things are more stable.
I see a message from Kathryn, my editor. She’s been a little off with me these past few weeks. Usually, after I submit my work, she emails me back with glowing praise, pointing out the bits she found funny and occasionally adding suggestions. This month, she’s only replied with a simpleThank you. OrGreat, thanks. It’s been bugging me, making me insecure about my work. But she hasn’t said anything specifically negative, and I haven’t plucked up the courage to ask if anything’s wrong.
I open the email and read it, the words on the screen hitting me like blows to the stomach. A lump forms in my throat and tears prick my eyes as Jared comes and sits opposite me.
‘Louisa?’ he says, putting the mugs on the table. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Kathryn’s cancelled my column.’
‘Oh no. Why? Surely it’s a mistake.’
‘She says…’ I sniff and wipe the tears away with my sleeve. ‘She says:we’ve loved “Louisa’s Life’s a Beach”, but feel our readership is now looking for something fresh. Fucking great. So why didn’t she ask me if I could try something different? I wouldn’t have minded writing something else.’
Jared rushes round to where I’m sitting. He crouches down and wraps his arms around me, kissing the side of my head. ‘I’m so sorry. That sucks. Can you email her back, ask if they’ll reconsider, or if you can write something else for them?’
‘I suppose. But it’ll be humiliating. Her email is pretty definite. She’s thanked me for the work I’ve done over the years and wished me good luck for the future. Look.’ I swivel my laptop around so Jared can read the rest of the email.
‘Shit,’ he says. ‘Well, okay, fuck ’em. You’ll get another writing gig. Something better.’
‘Hmm,’ I reply, unconvinced. I know how unlikely that is. I was lucky to have held onto this one for as long as I did. I have a horrible feeling this has something to do with the time I let Darcy write for me. I think it pissed Kathryn off. I don’t blame her really. I guess I assumed that because I’ve been writing the column for over three years, she wouldn’t mind one guest spot. I was obviously wrong. I thought what Darcy had written was sharp and brilliant – hilarious actually – but maybe the readers hadn’t liked it for whatever reason.
