Читать книгу One Week ’Til Christmas - Belinda Missen - Страница 10

I woke with a start. My face was mashed into a cushion on the sofa and my breath blew back on me like a vineyard that had been freshly razed. If my guess was correct, I hadn’t moved since we’d uncorked bottle number three last night which wasn’t long after we realised the pizza box was empty and we’d debated getting dessert delivered just to see the Deliveroo boy again.

My brain scratched its nails down the blackboard of my skull.

Last night had been a long overdue catch-up. It had been six months since I’d last stayed with Estelle and, while we messaged each other constantly over social media, nothing could make up for the bone-crushing hugs and shared stories that came complete with pulled faces and bad impersonations.

Neon numbers on the microwave told me the city was about to tip over to the afternoon hours, which explained why Estelle was nowhere to be seen. I did not envy her having to disappear to work if she felt half as bad as I did. While I’d planned on being up early to get out and explore the city, a thumping head reminded me that I needn’t be in too much of a hurry. My day would simply start later and maybe I could even take in some Christmas lights when the sun dipped into the night.

I grabbed a coffee and walked upstairs to my bedroom to find my phone still plugged into the charger and ringing wildly. As it turned out, four missed calls and five messages meant that something was rotten in the State of Victoria.

It was my boss, Edwin. His incessant calling meant one of two things. Either he absolutely hated my last submission and I’d have to rewrite it to within an inch of its life (farewell to today’s plans), or he was about to ask me for something. I wasn’t sure which was the lesser of the two evils.

Right now, I had two options. One was to ignore him, and that would be fair. I was on holiday, I’d submitted all my pieces, and I was done for the year. Or, I could answer. Realistically, I knew what I had to do because the longer I hesitated, the larger the sinking feeling grew in the pit of my stomach.

Sighing, I answered his call as I reached for my jeans. After dinner last night, before the bloom of alcohol took over, I’d managed to wash and hang the gutter-damp clothes. They’d been spread across the bannister, hung off the backs of chairs and the heater in my room and now, not only were they dry, they were perfectly toasty.

‘Isobel, thank God you’ve answered,’ Edwin said with all the relief of a burst dam.

‘Oh, no,’ I grumbled. ‘What have you done?’

‘Nothing, nothing. I haven’t done anything, but I do need a huge favour.’

A begging Edwin was my favourite kind. Actually, not really, but it did give me a little wriggle room for bargaining.

‘You do?’ I ventured.

‘How was your night last night?’ he asked. ‘Head out on the town?’

I shrugged at the mirror, turning gently to make sure my clothes looked okay. There was no clumped washing powder on my pants, which was a good start. I switched my boss to speakerphone, threw on a shirt, and dabbed at my make-up while wriggling my feet into ankle boots with far less grace than Cinderella had with her glass slipper.

‘Can’t say I did, no,’ I said. ‘Just stayed in and had dinner with a friend.’

‘That’s nice,’ he said. ‘Listen, this favour.’

I sighed. ‘Here we go.’

‘Don’t be like that. You’ll love this one, I promise.’

‘You say that about all the terrible jobs, Ed,’ I said, tucking my passport away in the top drawer.

‘I do not,’ he balked. ‘Okay, maybe I do.’

He really did. A miracle pet story ended up being a revived hamster that had choked on the head of a Lego minifigure. A film premiere saw me vomited on by a washed-up soap star and my number being passed around like it had been written on the back of a public toilet door. It got so bad that I had to change numbers the following week. Oh, and the cooking contest at the local women’s association? I found myself the unwitting centre of a stolen recipe scandal. It was always the ‘one last thing’ jobs that went to pot, not the relatively safe travel reporting.

‘So, what is it?’ I asked. ‘Adding, with just a gentle reminder, that my holiday began at midnight, so I’m now very much ready to embrace my time off.’

‘All right, so, you know how readership has been lagging the last twelve months?’

‘You’ve mentioned that at the last four or five meetings, yes,’ I said. ‘And in big, bold neon Comic Sans letters in emails.’

‘Okay, well, I think this might really help give us a boost,’ he continued. ‘And you’ve been asking me for more interview experience.’

‘I recall something like that, yes.’ I pinched the bridge of my nose. I knew that would bite me in the arse eventually.

‘I’ve just got a call from a friend who owes me a favour. He’s managed to wrangle us a fifteen-minute interview slot with Tom Bracken. Season one of his telly series, Countershock, was a ratings bonanza. Everyone loves a war hero covered in blood, sweat and mud, right? Sexy. He’s riding high on critical acclaim and heading into a theatre season early in the new year. There are half a dozen film projects lined up plus a possible superhero franchise. Basically, he’s everywhere including your grandmother’s fantasies.’

‘That’s gross.’ My grandmother was filthy enough as it was. She didn’t need the extra encouragement. I dithered about for pen and paper to make a note but, frustratingly, couldn’t find anything.

‘I suspect his success is purely down to screaming girl theory because I’ve seen him in action and, I’ll be honest, he’s no Olivier.’

Screaming girl theory? Urgh, because girls can’t just have free thought. I tossed my head back and shook a fist. ‘Yes, but you also have terrible taste.’

‘Only in women and booze,’ he quipped, the tell-tale sizzle of a burning cigarette filling the dead air. ‘Anyway, I really think it’ll be a boon for website traffic. What do you say? Ready to be swept off your feet?’

Despite my requests for experience, I don’t think Edwin realised it had been a good six months since I’d sat down to binge-watch anything except the inside of my eyelids, let alone consider anything in the entertainment industry.

My days were either spent in an office that still had dusty Easter decorations fluttering from the air-conditioner, or on the lowest of low-cost airlines to visit some new health retreat for an exclusive article. Nights were spent at the latest bar openings in Melbourne, racing home to write an article before I turned into a pumpkin. Television was a distraction I simply couldn’t afford. Between that and trying to maintain relationships with equally busy friends, I hadn’t had a lot of time to dip my toes into the world of celebrity.

‘What do you want me to put together?’ I asked. ‘A fluff piece? A five-minutes-with type article? A few hundred words on the rise of this magic star? Or something more in-depth?’

‘I’ll leave that up to you,’ he said. ‘But let’s not get too deep and meaningful. Just something to bring in the clicks.’

Quelle surprise. It was so like him to just drop something on my lap with zero structure and expect me to pick it up and run with it. I looked longingly at the handwritten list Estelle had prepared of Christmas experiences I should have while I was in town. Did London have a 34th Street? At this rate, I’d be heading down there to try and conjure up a miracle just to get through half of it.

‘Have you got anything at all you can send through? A bit of a cheat sheet?’ I asked. ‘Some more details? Any questions you specifically want to focus on?’

‘You get yourself into a cab. I need you at the National Theatre by 1 p.m. I’ll shoot you through the details,’ he said, excited to finally have me over the line. ‘Oh, and make sure you take your camera equipment. I need some of those award-winning shots you’re so famous for.’

Cab? I huffed so hard my fringe blew into the next postcode. If I had to be in the seat by one, I had just over thirty minutes to get myself to the Southbank. Anyone with half a Google Map and a set of eyes could tell you a cab wouldn’t cut it in the middle of London. Not today. Not ever.

As for award-winning photos? While travel allowed me to indulge in my mistress of photography, if ever I’d won a prize for it, nobody had told me.

‘All right, okay,’ I said, as if I had absolutely any choice in the matter. ‘You do realise that I’m supposed to be on leave, don’t you?’

‘Just know that I adore your commitment to the Melbourne Explorer,’ he said.

‘You owe me an extra day. Or, you know, actual money so I can pay my bills,’ I said.

‘I’ll even buy you a slice of your favourite cake when you get back.’

If that were true, he’d be buying me mango and macadamia cheesecake and not one of Coles Finest chocolate mud cakes every time he ‘nipped out’ to the shops near the office, but beggars can’t be choosers, and cake was cake.

I unplugged my phone, threw my backpack over my shoulder and raced down the stairs. ‘I’ll have it through in, say, twenty-four hours?’

‘There’s that Christmas spirit. Thanks Iz, you’re a keeper, you are!’

Yes, I bloody well was.

I hadn’t even left home and I was already running late. I didn’t check to see if I had everything I needed before I stole Estelle’s leather jacket and made my way to the Tube at Sloane Square. By the time I made it to the street corner, snow was falling, and the neighbours were arguing as they tried to pull a fir tree through their front door. Fronds and needles littered the footpath but, boy, did it smell great.

And that was about as Christmassy as I was likely to get today.