Chapter 4: Summer Romance

I got a text message from Lisa while I was eating breakfast on Sunday Morning.

Feels like I haven’t seen you for ages fancy lunch at vickys place?

I smiled. She was right. Even though she was back in Micester for the break from university before she started her final year, Lisa had bagged herself a summer job and I’d hardly seen her. It would be nice to meet up and chew the fat over lunch.

Great idea! But Mark will probably want to come when he hears we’re going to Millie’s. He likes the food there. Is it okay if I ask him and Imogen along?

I didn’t even have time to set the phone back down on the breakfast bar before it beeped again. How the hell did girls type messages that fast?

Great can’t wait to meet gen at last I’ll call em and book a table see u there at one

I suppose if you’re not going to bother with those pesky full stop and commas it makes typing those messages a bit quicker, but still...

I replied that we would see them at lunch and put the phone down just as Mark walked into the kitchen. He headed straight for the corner where the kettle and toaster lived.

“Lunch at my sister’s place?” I asked.

He nodded and grunted, which I took as a positive answer, but to be sure I said, “Leave here about half-twelve, okay?”

“Time for a few games on the Xbox then,” he said. “I swear, I’m gonna beat your arse this time.”

“In your dreams, Mark. In your dreams.”

Mark, Imogen and I arrived at Millie’s a little early, but Lisa and Emily had still beaten us there. Jessica, my now Sister-in-Law, had reserved us the same table at the back of the restaurant that we’d had that day in January after the first semester exams when we’d ultimately bumped into Del Stevens. I thought this might bother me, but it didn’t. It really didn’t.

After I introduced Imogen and Mark to Lisa, we quickly ordered and Jessica brought us out a bottle of wine on the house—it was a bottle of good stuff too—the conversation began and although I was, I really shouldn’t have been surprised by the first topic.

“So,” said Lisa, “How did it go last night?”

“How did what go?” I asked, knowing full well what she meant.

“Your date,” Emily said, already sounding exasperated.

“Oh that,” I said, trying to make it sound like no big deal. Then I feigned surprise and said, “Wait a sec—how did you two know about it?” I looked squarely at Imogen, who at least had the decency to look embarrassed. “So, you’re reporting on my love life to three people now? Why not just get a Twitter account and broadcast it?”

“Don’t be hard on her, Paul,” Emily said. “We asked her to keep us informed this summer. To make sure you’re okay, you know? We care about you, that’s all.”

“I know,” I said with a sigh. “I know. And to be honest, I’d have been more surprised if Gen hadn’t told you.”

“Who’s the third?” said Lisa. I was hoping they’d both missed that, so I feigned ignorance. It usually worked.

“Third?”

“You said Gen was keeping three people informed. Me and Em—that’s two. So who’s the third?”

Imogen looked at me and I shrugged. She could tell them about Chloë as far as I was concerned. If they were talking about the movie star, they wouldn’t be talking about me.

“Er ... Hang on,” said Imogen as she got up to leave the restaurant.

“Where’s she going?” Emily asked. I shrugged. It’s what I do.

“Probably to ask permission to tell you who the other one is,” said Mark. “She’s not supposed to tell anyone she’s got her number.”

“Who’s number?” Lisa asked.

Mark grinned. “Can’t say. Not unless she says so.”

Imogen returned—far too quickly in my opinion. Was Chloë really that interested in my story that she would respond to Imogen’s text straight away? Or had Imogen, God forbid, actually called her?

She sat down and looked at me. “She said I can tell them, on the condition that the four of us meet up sometime next week. She really wants to meet both of them.”

“Who does?” Lisa and Emily said at the same time.

Imogen looked at me and took a deep breath before addressing the girls. It was moments like this, when she demonstrated how she could be in charge of a tricky situation and keep things calm, that told me she’d be a really great lawyer. I’d certainly want her on my side if it ever came to it.

“You have to promise not to overreact,” she said. “You have to promise that you won’t shout out, or go crazy—although, I admit, I did kind of lose it myself the first time I met her. It was a bit of a shock though, she just turned up at the door unannounced.”

Emily and Lisa both nodded and Emily said, “I promise.”

“And you have to promise not to tell anyone else. At all. No one. Okay. Not even Amanda. Actually, especially not Amanda.”

They both nodded again.

Imogen took another deep breath. “It’s Chloë Goodman.”

“Bullshit,” said Lisa.

“What? The Chloë Goodman,” said Emily.

Now Imogen nodded.

“She’s not lying,” said Mark. “I opened the door to her last weekend. I swear. I opened the door, and there she was, bold as fucking brass. Chloë Fucking Goodman. Unbelievable.”

“But ... But...” Emily stammered.

“How? Why?” asked Lisa.

“I met her in the uni library a while back. The day before Clarissa’s birthday in fact. And we talked.”

“Paul told her his whole story,” Imogen said. “And she came around the house for an update after he sent her a text telling her he was ready to find a happy ending.”

“Huh?” said Lisa. She must have been taking secret eloquence lessons from me without my knowledge.

“She told him his story would make a good movie if it had a happy ending, so she gave him her number on a whim and asked him to tell her how the story ended. He then forgot about it and left the number in with his lecture notes. When he came across it again filing them away, he texted her. And now, she wants to help him find the happy ending his story needs.”

“That is so cool,” said Emily, sounding like a star-struck teenager.

“This is real, right? You’re not having us on.”

Imogen rolled her eyes. “She said you wouldn’t believe me.” She took her phone out and tapped the screen a few times then held it out to Lisa, who took it.

“Hello,” she said, when the call connected. I could just make out Chloë’s voice on the other end of the line because I was sitting next to her.

“Hi, is this Lisa or Emily?”

“Er ... It’s ... It’s Lisa. Is that really you?”

“Yes, it’s me. Can I quickly say hello to Emily, please?”

Lisa handed the phone over and I could no longer hear Chloë’s side of the call.

“Hello ... Yes ... Ah ha ... Yes ... Okay. I’ll tell him. Okay. Bye.”

She hung up the call and handed the phone back to Imogen, then looked at me. “Chloë says you have to tell us everything about last night, and we’re to properly grill you because she wants a full rundown when we meet up with her on Wednesday evening.”

Mark looked at me and grinned. “Mate, you are in so much shit, you know that, right?”

I think most people in the office—or, at least in our little open-plan part of the office—figured out something was going on between Paige and me on Monday morning. It’s not as if we were obvious about it, there were no public displays of affection or anything so crass, but there was an air of something between us, whether it be the looks we gave each other that lasted a little longer than one might expect, or the shared smiles or the slightly more intimate way we were when chatting at tea break or over lunch—little touches on the arm, leaning in closer to each other, that sort of thing.

We weren’t a couple. We weren’t together. But there was something there, as they say.

And people noticed.

Just after lunch, I got an e-mail from Will asking me to go up to his office. He said he had a small research project for me. When I got there, he invited me to sit down and handed me a file.

“I need you to look at the potential Inheritance Tax liability for this client whose Will I’m drafting. He owns a lot of farmland and some commercial property and we’re looking to minimise the liability as much as possible. I want you to research it—ask Imogen to help if you feel the need—then report back and we’ll see if you draw the same conclusions as me.”

“Okay. I can do that. When do you want it back by?”

“Say, Wednesday morning. You have a login for the online library, right?”

I nodded.

“And someone’s shown you how to use it?”

“It’s pretty much the same software we use at university,” I replied.

“Good. That’ll help. I have trouble getting my head around Inheritance Tax sometimes—particularly when it’s this complicated with so much real estate involved—I just want to be sure I haven’t missed any recent precedents.”

I nodded again.

“If you need to stay late, or work on it from home, keep a note of your hours so I can make sure you get paid overtime.”

“There’s no nee—”

“Not for you, maybe. But I’m sure Imogen will appreciate it. Now, before you go and get started, there’s one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You do know that company policy forbids romantic liaisons between staff members, don’t you?”

“Er, I...”

“And if we were in Headquarters or one of the offices in and around London, I’d be putting a stop to anything going on between you and a certain Administrative Apprentice.”

“Will, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“But we’re not. I think it’s a stupid policy and I choose not to enforce it. I think as long as any personal relationships don’t affect working relationships, then they should stay personal. All I’m saying is—be discreet. I know you have been so far, and I appreciate it and would appreciate it even more if you kept it that way. Clear?”

I nodded. “I will. Thanks.”

Will nodded back. “Good. So, Imogen said it went well Saturday. When are you seeing her again?”

I rolled my eyes. “Did she tell everybody in my address book?”

“Just the ones that care about you, Paul.”

Wednesday. That was when Paige and I saw each other again. We went to the cinema on one of those two-for-one deals and for pizza afterwards at one of the big chains. It was pleasant.

And we saw each other again that weekend too. We went dancing in Central Pier. That was very pleasant too.

And that was how the summer went. Paige and I went out on dates twice, sometimes three times a week. We kept things discreet at work, just like I’d promised Will, and nobody mentioned it again.

Were we girlfriend and boyfriend? I don’t know. We certainly didn’t refer to each other that way—at least, I didn’t. I don’t know how Paige referred to me with her friends. But we were definitely dating. And exclusively so.

“There’s something I keep meaning to ask you but never have,” I said. It was a Wednesday evening in the middle of August and Paige and I were enjoying a chicken and chips basket meal at our lane in the bowling alley between games. I’d won the first one with a score of one hundred and eighty-five. I was getting better, but so was Mark. We played most weekends and were currently battling to see which of us would break two hundred first. My highest was one-nine-two. His was one-nine-three.