Rebound (8 page)

‘Anna, I’d like you to meet my wife, Samantha.’ I turn, relieved I don’t have to suffer the pollarding discussion any more, take one look at Samantha and freeze in
horror. I shake her hand and she smiles and says something. Shit. Shit. Shit. It’s the nice doctor from the Sexual Health Centre at St Bart’s. I’m mortified. She doesn’t
show any sign of recognizing me and I muster all my wits to follow what she’s saying. It’s about Wispa and she tells me how much her children would love to have a dog but how impossible
it would be to keep one. I know she’s already placed me on her clinic couch and I’m grateful to her for giving me time to recover. I slowly regain my composure and we happily banter
about dogs and children for a while. Then she moves on to tend to other guests and I’m left on my own, shaken and ashamed. I excuse myself and find my way to the loo. I lock the door and
stare at myself in the mirror. What does she think of me? Is she going to tell her husband? ‘Oh, that nice lady who you helped with her dog the other night is a sex addict who shags strangers
on the Heath.’ She actually wouldn’t know it happened on the Heath, but I add it for dramatic effect. Of course she’s not going to tell her husband, doctor–patient privilege
and all that, but I’m not sure if it doesn’t apply only to crime dramas. I bet in reality doctors gossip about their patients all the time. Maybe she’s telling all her guests
about me right now: ‘Anna is an interesting case, a nymphomaniac, but you’ll be pleased to know she’s currently free of STDs.’ I have to stop this nonsense, pull myself
together and go back to the party. I splash some cold water on my wrists, take a deep breath and unlock the bathroom door. When I get back to the sitting room, everyone is busy greeting new guests,
Francesca and Simon, an attractive couple who instantly charm the whole party. I’m relieved they’ve taken all the limelight. It turns out Simon is a bit of a celebrity, a business
genius who has made millions in advertising. Francesca and Simon have a house on The Bishops Avenue, David tells me in a hushed, reverent voice. Oh, real millionaires, I think, and take another
good look at them. They present themselves rather well, I have to admit, a mixture of extreme confidence and charm giving them the well-pampered, glamorous air of people from another dimension.
Simon regales everyone with a tale about Michael Birch, the co-founder of the social networking website Bebo, who sold it in 2008 to AOL for 850 million dollars and bought it back recently for just
1 million.

‘This is what I call a bargain,’ Simon says, as if it was something one could pick up in Oxfam. ‘And he actually tweeted everyone about it.’ He’s clearly amused by
the story and everyone chuckles in unison.

I empty my glass of Prosecco and quickly pour myself another one. Thank God for tweeting millionaires, but I still can’t stop feeling awful about the secret I now share with Samantha.
Thankfully, Simon has moved on to Rupert Murdoch and tells everyone with glee how he forked out over 500 million pounds for MySpace in 2005 only to get totally creamed by Facebook and sell it six
years later for the measly sum of 35 million. Everyone finds it hilarious.

‘And then there was Friends Reunited, of course . . .’ continues Simon.

I’ve had enough of social networking investment fiascos and I go to the kitchen in search of nibbles. I find Alden, the spaced-out young man, feeding Wispa big chunks of roast chicken.
He’s quite apologetic when he sees me, but I let him off for overfeeding my dog, making him laugh with the story of Wispa’s monstrous appetite. He turns out to be quite sweet and
isn’t stoned at all. He’s an aspiring film director, freelancing as a director’s assistant, a harsh reality job that most aspiring directors have to do to survive. He met Tom and
Samantha on the Greek island of Skopelos, only to discover that they were neighbours in Highgate. Samantha is a doctor (don’t I know it!) and Tom has a dental practice in Soho. They’ve
been really nice to him, looking after his cats when he’s away on shoots and feeding him when he’s around. Alden’s girlfriend sings in a band and is away touring quite a lot, but
I must come to her next gig at XOYO in Shoreditch. He’ll get some freebie tickets for me. Then he asks about my work and actually listens when I tell him about the recent upheaval. I’d
normally find him quite attractive, a charming little boy locked in the lean, almost ascetic body of a young man, but I realize I’m completely switched off to the charms of other men at the
moment. Despite my evident obsession with the Dior Man I actually quite enjoy talking to Alden. We both feel reluctant to go back to the sitting room, but eventually we decide it would be impolite
to stay in the kitchen any longer. I’m suddenly keen to join the rest, as I’m struck by the thought that Samantha will have noticed Alden and I are missing and probably thinks
we’re shagging on the kitchen table. It’s paranoia, I know, but in every paranoid thought there must be a grain of truth.

It’s Sunday morning, but I wake up with a sense of purpose. It’s my Garden Sunday, one of the rare occasions when I put a bit of time and energy into the jungle at
the back of my house. I know very little about gardening and I choose not to do it on my own. I have Pia, the Danish gardener extraordinaire, come to help me once a month. I know it’s not
enough for my overgrown garden, but it’s better than nothing. Even with one day every month Pia manages to do wonders with all the plants and bushes, the names of which I don’t even
know. Garden Sunday is also a day all my friends know I’m at home and they can pop in any time, providing they bring a bottle of Prosecco with them.

Pia arrives at 10 a.m. on the dot with a precise plan of action in her head. I’m sent off with a shopping list to the garden centre in Ally Pally and when I come back the work’s
already started. I feel a bit superfluous standing over Pia’s shoulder, so I make myself useful by brewing some fresh coffee for both of us. Pia, before she became a professional gardener,
used to run her own garage. She knows as much about cars as she knows about plants; she’s one of those women who’s perceived as an immediate threat by men because she encroaches on
their field of expertise. She’s not a lesbian, although she’d make a fabulous one – or so I’m told by Bell, who never misses an opportunity to see Pia and I bet will turn up
at some point today. She’s rather petite, with a mane of curly red hair and Pre-Raphaelite looks. You wouldn’t think she’d have enough strength to pull a single weed out, but
I’ve seen her handle a sixty-litre bag of compost as if it were a packet of crisps.

Wispa adores Pia and she’s busy helping her, digging holes wherever Pia puts her tools down. Over mugs of steaming coffee I tell Pia about Wispa’s escape the other night.

‘How did she do it?’ Pia’s looking at the fence.

‘Actually, I have no idea.’ I’m annoyed I haven’t thought about it earlier.

‘Let’s find it and fix it, so she won’t run away again.’

We go along the garden fence, looking for a missing panel or a hole she may have dug. Everything looks intact.

‘Could she have jumped over?’ asks Pia.

‘Just look at her, she wouldn’t be able to jump over two bricks stacked on top of each other, and I mean Lego bricks.’ I know I’m unfair to my little puppy.

‘So how did she do it?’

We take another good look at the fence, the back wall, the overgrown shed.

‘There’s no way she could’ve done it,’ says Pia categorically. Those Danes, they don’t beat around the bush.

‘But she did escape and Tom caught her in the main street.’

‘Well, maybe you should ask Tom, then.’ Pia puts her empty mug down and picks up her edging shears. As far as she’s concerned, there is no way Wispa could have escaped from the
garden, so there is no problem. But it gets me thinking. How on earth did my fat little sausage manage to get out of a garden surrounded by a solid fence and adjoining gardens, and end up in the
street? A doorbell interrupts my puzzling over the issue.

It’s Sue, my old friend, a production manager known, because of her extraordinary organizational skills, as
Sue-
perwoman. Her work stories are always outrageous and, indeed, she
doesn’t disappoint this time either, launching straight away into the story of her recent shoot in Beirut. Apparently the cameraman, a burly gay guy named Hank, was obsessed with grinder.

‘A power tool?’

‘Not a grinder, Grnder,’ she corrects me. ‘A geosocial networking application.’

‘What the hell is that?’

‘It’s an application you get on your phone and it lets you locate other gay men within close proximity – from the nearest to the farthest away.’

I suddenly feel totally technologically challenged, like one of those old ladies who refuse to learn how to use the Internet because, as they claim, ‘it would waste their time’.

‘How do you keep up with all this apps shit?’

‘I don’t. I just keep an eye on other people. Talking of which . . . I think I saw James the other day.’

‘My James?’ Ooops, an unfortunate slip of the tongue. ‘You mean my ex?’

‘Well, I hope he’s your ex, because he had a rather dishy blonde on his arm . . .’

‘Really? He’s dating someone?’ I realize I’m not upset; on the contrary, I’m rather relieved I don’t have to feel guilty about dumping him any more.
‘Good for him.’

We’re interrupted by the doorbell. It’s Michael, followed by Alden, whom I invited yesterday on the spur of the moment. I haven’t mentioned my Garden Sunday to Tom and
Samantha. I’m still getting used to the idea of someone knowing something so intimate about me, without even being close to me. My doorbell rings again and I decide it’s time to open
the first bottle of Prosecco.

Monday morning and I think I’m ready to go back to the Heath. Wispa watches me in disbelief when I put my jogging gear on. Eventually she gets up from her bed, stretches
herself and goes to wait for me by the front door. I open the door and can’t believe my eyes. There is a bouquet of red roses lying on my doorstep. No wrapping paper, no card, just beautiful,
long-stemmed, lush flowers. All fifteen of them. I go back in, find a suitable crystal vase and put them in water. I leave the vase on the kitchen table, thinking I’ll find a better place for
it when I get home in the evening.

Both Wispa and I are a bit rusty and it takes us a while to get into our stride. We’re turning off into Fitzroy Park when another jogger overtakes me, slows down and turns towards me.
It’s Tom. Wispa greets him like a long-lost friend. What a coincidence.

‘Do you mind if I join you?’

‘Not at all. Although we might be a bit too slow for you. I haven’t jogged for a week and I can feel it. We both can.’ I look at Wispa, who is panting happily. Tom laughs and I
notice how white and straight his teeth are. Then I remember he’s a dentist.

‘I really enjoyed your little get-together, thanks for inviting me over.’

‘It was a pleasure to have you. Both Sam and I are very excited to have a new friend in the village.’

Somehow I can’t imagine Samantha being excited about having me in close proximity to her house and husband, but I let it pass.

We enter the Heath and it’s clear Tom is planning to follow me along the whole route. I find myself annoyed by it. As nice as he is, I somehow don’t fancy his company. I feel quite
possessive about my loop, as if he’s encroaching on my own, private territory. When we get to the top of the hill I turn left instead of the usual right and trot towards Parliament Hill
instead of Kenwood. I feel his presence somehow would ruin the intimacy of my usual route. I want it all to myself and I don’t want him there. Just in case I bumped into the Dior Man? I
question my motives, but whatever they are I feel irritated by him. He doggedly follows me, seemingly oblivious to my change of mood. Even worse, he catches up with me and wants to chat.

‘Have you heard about the poor girl who got attacked? It must have been somewhere here.’ He waves in the direction of Parliament Hill.

‘Yes, I heard, how awful.’ I pretend I’m out of breath to cut the conversation short. But he continues.

‘And it happened in the morning, when there were plenty of people around, joggers like you and me . . .’

He’s not going to get another word out of me. He waits for me to respond then adds, ‘Terrible. They should have more wardens patrolling the area.’

I nod in agreement and huff and puff theatrically to get him to shut up. But he doesn’t.

‘If you ever need a running mate, just to feel safer, do give me a shout. Sam doesn’t really jog, she’s more of a gym girl. I’d be happy to be your jogging escort . .
.’ He laughs and I grunt noncommittally.

He gets the message and we jog back in silence. When we say goodbye at the top of Fitzroy Park a thought occurs to me: is he the sender of the mystery roses? Nah, I reject the idea, he
would’ve mentioned it by now. The guy is a talker, he wouldn’t be able to keep schtum about it for so long.

I realize I’m really pissed off with him. I feel as if he’s intruded into my private sanctuary. At the same time I know it’s completely unreasonable to feel this way, it was
just the natural gesture of a friendly neighbour. He’s a nice man, I tell myself, don’t behave as if he’s taken your favourite toy. I try to reason with myself, but I feel my bad
mood has settled in for the day. Even the sight of the beautiful flowers on my kitchen table doesn’t manage to lift my mood.

But as I drive to work my thoughts go back to the anonymous gift. Were they meant for me? Most likely, as I found them on my doorstep. It couldn’t have been a wrong address blooper by
Interflora because clearly they had been delivered by hand by an individual person. That leaves two questions: who are they from and what do they mean? A quick check on my iPad while I’m
stuck in traffic: fifteen roses apparently mean ‘I’m sorry’. Who is sorry and what for?

The roses are forgotten as soon as I get to work. Some arsehole has parked his banger in my parking space and the security guys take ages to sort out an alternative place for my car. As soon as
I settle in my office, Karen sticks her head round the door.