The Men in her Life

the first person she’d felt able to admit that to.
    ‘Oh, Holly, it’ll be fine. He’s a gorgeous man, really kind... and I shouldn’t be telling you this, but he’s really scared too...’
    ‘Is he?’
    ‘Yes.’
    They hugged each other for a long time.
    ‘D’you think we’re going to be friends, again?’ Holly asked when they finally separated.
    ‘Yes,’ Clare replied instantly, ‘why, don’t you?’

Chapter 38

    Holly woke up at about eleven o’clock feeling luxuriously relaxed. Normally, on waking, her brief sense of pleasure at being alive was almost instantly replaced by anxiety about what the time was, what clothes she was going to wear, whether she had any clean underwear, what problems lay in wait for her at work, and how she was going to staunch the headachey nausea that flooded through her body as her hangover began to kick in. Today, she felt as if all her demons had been laid to rest.
    Bright sunlight flooded through the windows. It was one of those crisp, cold, autumnal days that made her almost look forward to winter. She wriggled down further under the duvet so that only her head was peeping out, and looked around the room she loved. This fourteen-by-ten-foot rectangle was the story of her life so far. The walls were papered with the film posters she had nicked when she worked at the Odeon; the bedspread had been created by Mo from pieces of her childhood dresses. The mirror on the dressing-table was strung with beads of all descriptions, dating from the long strings of tiny love beads from the first and second hippy eras to the big fake ruby crucifix she had worn during her Madonna period. There were bookshelves made from bricks and planks nicked off skips when she had no money, and a candelabrum dripping with bunches of Venetian glass grapes which she had bought herself as a reward for doing her first six-figure deal. There were 3D postcards with religious scenes blu-tacked around the mirror and ashtrays stolen from all sorts of different venues on every available surface. On her bedside table there were five alarm clocks, a half-empty bottle of Evian and Ginger’s script.
    Holly got out of bed and rummaged around in her handbag before pulling out a single Marlboro that had snapped in the middle. She had cadged it from Robert just before she clambered out of the white limousine at the bottom of her street. Her last cigarette. She had intended to smoke it before going to bed, but Clare’s presence had made her forget. This must mean, she told herself, lighting up the bit with the filter left on it, that she was no longer addicted. Inhaling deeply, she picked up Ginger’s script and read the rest of it, and when she had finished she got up, showered, put on jeans, a T-shirt and a big jumper, and went out to Patisserie Valerie for breakfast.
    There was only one chair left at a table for six. Holly sat down, breathing in the wonderful steamy scent of fresh croissants. Three people at the table were hidden behind newspapers, the other two men, both smoking Marlboro, were discussing the ban on tobacco advertising and their disillusion with the Labour government.
    ‘Do you mind if I cadge one of those cigarettes?’ Holly asked. ‘I’m getting married today,’ she explained, as they gave their assent with an irritated wave.
    The day stretched ahead of her, gloriously empty. Life stretched ahead of her, waiting to be enjoyed. Ginger’s script was so good, she just knew she would sell it for a great deal of money. She thought of the bonus she would receive at Christmas and smiled, and then her face set into a frown. It would be large, possibly five figures this year, but would she feel it was finally enough? Maybe now was the time she should break away from Louis Gold Ltd and set up on her own? It was what people did when they became successful.
    But would it really make so much difference, she wondered, ordering a second cup of coffee. More of the money she made would go into her own pocket, but she would still be an agent and she would never really feel she had achieved anything except as an intermediary.
    Anyway, now was not the time to make any big decision like that, she thought, stubbing out her final, final cigarette and picking up her pain au chocolat. Getting married was enough for one year. The wonderful thing about getting married that no-one ever told you was that it freed you up. You didn’t have to spend all that time worrying about whether you really wanted a man,