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wasn’t considered
worth twenty-four-hour surveillance by the gutter press and tried to deal with
what was actually happening to my friend.
    ‘Listen,
Susan, I didn’t know about this, I promise you. I knew about that stupid …
What was her name?’
    ‘Selina
Barkworth.’ One of Jeremy’s flings. The one I knew that Susan knew about.
    ‘Yeah.
I knew about that but that was ages ago. But this… He’s kept it very quiet,
which isn’t like him, is it?’
    ‘No,
that’s why I’m worried, Guy. I’m …’
    Oh,
lawks. I really can’t stand hearing someone cry down the phone. Especially
Susan, who isn’t the crying type — I mean, who doesn’t, I mean, she’s usually
so strong. Being a man, even one who spends all day in an office full of women,
I can’t just let emotional or sad things happen. I have to try and make them
better, I can’t help it. I can’t just sit there and empathize.
    ‘He’s a
fucking stupid shitty bastard,’ I said, and then in slightly less than perfect
Planter, ‘He’s a f-fart, he’s a w—wanker, he’s p-p-pathetic, what does he think
he’s doing? He’s an arsehole,’ I added, and then, rather inappropriately, ‘Re’s
a c-c-cunt.’
    Luckily,
I don’t think she was listening to me at all, anyway. My direct line was
bleeping and I pushed it on to hold. Only eight people have the number of my
direct line, so I knew it must be one of my heavy seven, or Liz.
    She
snorted a half-laugh. The direct line stopped bleeping. Whoever it was had
given up, or Joan had taken it.
    For a
moment, I was aware of a twingette of jealousy. I’m sure guys like Jeremy
actually have a nicer time than Mugs Mullin here on the end of the phone. Sara
Henderson’s husky voice came snapping up to me from the depths: ‘He’s done this
before.’ For .guys like Jeremy, and Bob Henderson, whoever he was, there would
always be new bimbos at the end of the rainbow.
    ‘You
feeling a bit better now?’ I said, and added, ‘And listen, call me any time,
OK? I mean it, any time.’
    ‘Thanks,
Guy. I’m sorry. I feel terrible. I didn’t even ask how you were.
    ‘Oh, I’m
fine, fine,’ I said. ‘Well, reasonable really. My father died last week, so …
but apart from that I’m fine.’
    ‘Your
dad died? Oh, Guy, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. And here’s me blubbing down your
phone.’
    ‘No, it’s
OK. We knew he was going to. I’ve got to sort out all the gubbins, though, that’s
the only pain.’
    ‘I’m
sorry, Guy. Rave you had the funeral?’
    ‘Last
Wednesday, no, tell a lie, Thursday.’
    ‘And
how’s your mum?’
    ‘Unchanged.’
    I don’t
know why, but Susan was the only person with whom I could talk about the
inconveniences and realities of life without fear of intrusion. None of the
women in the office knew I even had a father, for instance. And with Liz, it
was always best to keep problems down to a minimum. I didn’t want to load her
down. Liz was stressed enough as it was, stuck indoors all day with our
progeny. I don’t think she or I had realized what an enormous task having a
child would be, and how career-compromising. But Susan, on the other hand,
seemed to have an extraordinary ability to soak things up without throwing any
of them back at you. Confidences and disclosures were safe with her and I hope
she felt safe with me. We got off the phone and I immediately got Joan to put
in an inconsequential and routine call to Harry, the producer of Planter’s
Revenge, which was the name of Jeremy’s latest vehicle. Harry was in a
meeting and would call me back. I accepted that nonchalantly. No point in
sounding any alarm bells yet. I kicked the door back open and waved across at
Naomi that I needed a chat when she was off the phone. I called Joan in for the
rest of the afternoon’s bumf.
    ‘Simon
Eggleston called, something about his tour dates not fitting in with The
Bill. I’ve told him they’ll have changed again by September anyway but he’s
fretting. It’s John