The Honeymoon Prize. Jessica Hart
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‘I work with them. I thought I’d invite everybody, not just the other newsroom secretaries, like me, but all the subs and the reporters and the photographers. They’re always up for a party and free drinks!’
‘But, Freya, you can’t afford it.’ Pel had switched into major motherly mode. ‘You’re massively in debt, you got chucked out of your last flat because you couldn’t pay the rent and you’re in some crappy job with no prospects that pays you really badly for the privilege of working in an interesting place. Everyone else has got their lives and careers sorted out, but you seem to be happy to drift on struggling to make ends meet from month to month without any thought to the future.’
Freya sighed. ‘Honestly, Pel, you’re worse than my father,’ she complained.
‘Your father’s a very sensible man,’ said Pel sternly. ‘Have you any idea of how much cocktail parties cost, Freya? It’s not like bring a bottle and sit on the floor. If you’re going to do it, you’ll have to do it with style.’
‘I know, and that’s why I need you to help me,’ she said coaxingly. ‘Think about it, Pel. It could be really excellent! It’s a chance for Dan to see me being glamorous, not just the girl who answers the phone on the newsdesk. I’ll put my hair up and wear a little black dress, and when he comes in, I’ll be surrounded by sophisticated friends.’
Her green eyes narrowed as she visualised the scene. ‘I’ll be sparkling and witty, making everyone laugh, or—’ She broke off, considering the matter. ‘Or would it be better for me to be looking cool and mysterious? What do you think? I don’t want to put Dan off by playing too hard to get, after all.’
‘Frankly, pet, I can’t see you carrying off cool and mysterious,’ said Pel, sucked into her fantasy despite himself, as Freya had known he would be.
‘No,’ she agreed with a sigh. She had always longed for that sultry, faintly sulky look, but it was hopeless when you were a galumphing great thing with wide, innocent green eyes and hair that obstinately refused to do what it was told.
‘I’ll have to go for being the life and soul of the party instead,’ she decided. She sucked on her lemon for a bit, thinking about it. ‘Yes, fun would work. I don’t suppose Dan’s had a lot of that where he’s been recently.’
She warmed to the theme. ‘He’ll come in, see me there, drinking cocktails in my little black dress, having a great time and surrounded by all these other incredibly glamorous friends…It’s bound to make him look at me differently, isn’t it?’
‘I hate to spoil this fantasy of yours,’ said Pel, ‘but where exactly are you going to find all these glamorous friends before next weekend?’
Freya waved this aside. ‘You’ll all have to pretend,’ she said. ‘It’s just a question of standing around in a dinner jacket or a black dress and not smiling too much. It’ll be fun!’ She laid her hand on his arm. ‘But it won’t work without you. You will help, won’t you?’
Pel made an attempt to keep up his show of disapproval at her extravagance, but in the end he succumbed. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I need a bartender. You know about things like martinis—and Marco could give you a hand. He looks like the kind of guy who knows one end of a cocktail shaker from another!’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Pel with a resigned sigh that imperfectly concealed the fact that it was exactly the kind of situation he revelled in. ‘At least I’ll get a chance to eyeball the famous Dan Freer. Now, we’re going to need to find proper cocktail glasses,’ he warned. ‘You can’t just have a martini in any old glass. And you’ll need proper canapés,’ he went on, warming to his task. ‘A bowl of corn chips just won’t do!’
Freya dug into her bag for a pen and wrote ‘glasses’ and ‘nibbles’ on the back of an envelope. ‘What else?’
‘You’ll have to decide on a venue. What’s this new place you’re living in like?’
‘Perfect for a party,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘It’s a loft in a converted warehouse, with a big open-plan living area. All steel and polished floorboards—a bit minimal for my taste, but the view across the city is wonderful.’
‘It sounds fab,’ said Pel enviously. ‘How on earth can you afford a place like that?’
‘I can’t. I’m not paying rent. I’m just house-sitting until the owner comes back.’
Pel whistled soundlessly. ‘How did you swing that?’
‘Lucy arranged it.’ There was the faintest trace of reserve in Freya’s voice. ‘The apartment belongs to her brother.’
‘Joe? I thought he was still a student?’
‘Not Joe. Her older brother, Max.’
Freya was sure that she sounded perfectly normal, but Pel’s eyes had immediately brightened with speculative interest. ‘Oh?’ he said, in the way only Pel could, with at least sixteen syllables and due warning that he would insist on knowing every last tiny detail, no matter how trivial, before he would let the matter drop.
‘He’s a civil engineer.’ Freya picked up her drink, would-be casual. ‘He runs some kind of aid organisation and is always running off to Africa and places like that, building roads and irrigation systems. You know the kind of thing.’
Pel gave a kind of shrug to indicate that he didn’t really, but didn’t particularly want to know any more.
‘He’s in Africa now, as a matter of fact,’ she went on. ‘Lucy heard that he was going away just when they put up the rent on my old flat and I couldn’t find anywhere else to live. She suggested to Max that I look after the apartment for him while he was overseas.’
It sounded reasonable enough, Freya thought. It was reasonable, come to that. There was no reason for her to feel defensive and vaguely self-conscious whenever Max’s name came up.
‘How long is he away for?’ asked Pel.
‘At least four months. It’s worked out really well,’ she hurried on before Pel could start tutting about short-term solutions. ‘It’s saved Max having to find a short-term tenant or leave the place empty, and it’s given me time to look around for somewhere else. The apartment’s perfect for me, too. It couldn’t be more convenient for work. I can cycle there in five minutes. So you see, the party isn’t really an extravagance,’ she said, hoping to divert Pel from the subject of Max. ‘I’ll only be spending the money I would otherwise have had to fork out on travel costs.’
Her ploy didn’t work. For once Pel failed to rise to the bait of correcting her ropey economics. ‘I’d forgotten Lucy had another brother,’ he was saying. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met Max. Was he at her wedding?’
‘I think so,’ said Freya, who had spent the entire wedding trying to avoid him, not an easy task when he was the bride’s brother and she was chief bridesmaid.
‘Hmm…’ Pel searched his memory. ‘What does he look like?’
Picking up her glass, Freya pretended to sip her gin as an uncomfortably vivid image of Max settled in her mind. Max, with his quiet face and his cool mouth and the sardonic amusement glimmering in his unnervingly pale grey eyes.
‘Oh, you know…’
‘No,’ said Pel pointedly.
‘He’s very ordinary,’ she said, proud of her careless shrug. ‘A bit dull, really. Not the kind of man you’d notice at a party. He’s one of those save-the-world-before-breakfast types who thinks building a few roads in a developing country gives him the moral high ground on every other issue.’
Pel sat back in his chair and smiled knowingly. ‘Ah, it’s like that, is it?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Freya stiffly.
‘You and