How Not to Fall in Love, Actually Read online

  To my grandmother,

  Helen

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘CUT! WHERE IS FIGHTING PROSTITUTE NUMBER THREE?’

  I shot out of my slouch and grabbed the radio off my desk, finger hovering over the transmit button.

  Fighting Prostitute Number Three? Fighting Prostitute Number Three? Is today Prostitute Day? I thought it was Car Accident Day?

  ‘Quentin to Emma,’ the radio crackled again. ‘Bring Fighting Prostitute Number Three to set, please.’

  Ignoring the plea, I flipped through a chaotic folder and scanned my extras booking sheet. Injured Pimp Number One, Injured Pimp Number Two, Boy with Broken Leg, three Nurses, two Doctors, one Porter and a partridge in a pear tree. OK, not the partridge. But also not Fighting Prostitute Number Three.

  ‘Oh no.’

  I looked at the two people I shared the office with: Sophie, a pixie-haired, 26-year-old from Somerset whose parents made cheese, and Douglas, who, twenty-seven and balding, with steel-framed glasses, looked every bit a misplaced accountant. How he’d found his way into the shitty world of low-grade medical soap opera production was beyond me.

  Sophie looked back with bloodshot eyes. ‘You forgot to book her?’

  I nodded.

  If Fighting Prostitute Number Three did not start crying in A&E our female lead (a 22-year-old former child show jumper who, despite being four foot two, looked down her nose at absolutely everybody) could not soothe Fighting Prostitute Number Three and quell her harrowing sobs. And if the lead male character (an overly tanned git with only two brain cells, one of which he left at home each day) did not witness Fighting Prostitute Number Three being given solace, he could not fall in love with Shorty Pants Horse Lover and we could not shoot the scene.

  ‘QUENTIN TO EMMA, ARE YOU HEARING ME?’

  ‘Shi-it.’ With an imploring look at Sophie, I raised my radio and pressed the transmit button. ‘Yes, sorry Quentin. Ah . . . we need five more minutes on Prostitute. Over.’

  Sophie shook her head, her tiny diamond nose stud catching the light from the overhead fluorescent tubes.

  ‘Please, Soph, I’m begging you!’ I stood in front of her folder-laden desk.

  ‘Uh-uh, Em. No way!’ She picked up a wad of messy schedules. ‘I’ve got new scripts, a schedule that is never going to work and my First AD has changed the entire day for tomorrow again. I have to rebook forty amputees and I can’t find enough wheelchair-friendly Ubers! I’ve asked them to share, but the armless can’t push the wheelchairs, can they? And—’

  ‘Oh, come on . . .’ I clasped my hands together. ‘I was Self Harmer for you last week.’

  ‘Does the prostitute have to be a woman?’ Douglas, pushing up his spectacles, offered his services.

  Our friendship had been cemented the day we both started on the show six years ago and found there was no real coffee. He’d brought me in a Costa every morning since.

  ‘Because I could do it. Most of my work is done, and I—’

  ‘Thanks, Douglas, but it’s definitely a woman. A small vulnerable woman.’ I looked pointedly at Sophie, who held up some papers and answered her phone.

  ‘Sophie speaking . . . OK, are you legless or armless?’

  ‘Quentin to Emma,’ contempt dripped from the radio. ‘Bring the girl in immediately.’

  ‘Arse.’ I pushed the transmit button. ‘She’s on her way.’

  It was past nine thirty that evening when I opened the door to my dark flat in Tooting. My job in television was supposed to have provided me with exotic locations, inspiring scripts and a large enough wage to warrant buying my salami from Waitrose. I was to have been an integral cog at the forefront of the British drama machine. I was meant to come home to a Jo Malone-scented flat where a Persian cat worthy of its own jelly meat commercial would be waiting, licking its poofy paws. But instead I was just a regular cog. A regular cog working in a 1970s squat brick building designed by somebody who believed in the return of the window tax. And my flat smelt of drains, dirty fridge and tomato sauce. I stepped over some stinky skate shoes and plonked my bag on the hall table among the many glossy leaflets advertising two-for-one pizzas and cheap calls to Poland. Damp of wall and noisy of radiator, our flat was a ground-floor box that Ned, my boyfriend, had found and at my look of despair had exclaimed, ‘But it’s got carpet in the kitchen!’ like it was a good thing. Next door was a busy brothel, and on the other side was a couple who liked to spank each other during sex – loudly. The working girls seemed nice, if a little jaded, but the spankers were constantly nailing things to the other side of our bedroom wall at odd times of the night. Possibly each other.

  ‘Ned?’ I called.

  ‘In here,’ came his muffled reply from the bedroom.

  Ned sat in the corner hunched over his computer screen. Scrawled notes littered the unmade bed.

  ‘Hey, babe!’ He sprang out of his chair and seized me in a bear hug, his sparse three-day-old stubble grazing my cheek. ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Oh, you know. The usual.’ I looked at his computer screen, which seemed to display an unoriginal collection of motivational quotes geared towards starting a hugely successful yet unspecified business, then at a pile of washing on the floor. ‘Get much done today?’

  ‘Research,’ Ned said. His phone trilled. He bounded across the room, grinned at the message then got busy with a reply.

  I traipsed to the kitchen and found it foodless, drinkless and sticky of floor. I abandoned the idea of sustenance and collasped on the sofa, flicking the TV to an old Friends episode. After a few minutes Ned came into the living room, his jeans hanging off his thin frame and a hole in one of his mismatched socks. Closer inspection proved it to be my sock.

  ‘Did you get anything for dinner?’ He flopped onto the sofa and threw an arm round my shoulder.

  I couldn’t believe we were going to have this conversation. Again. I felt as though I only entered his thoughts as I entered the front door at night.

  ‘Did I get any food?’ I bulged my eyes.

  ‘Ah . . . well . . .’ He blinked. ‘You pass the shop on your way home, so I just thought, you know . . .’

  ‘Did I get any dinner?’

  Ned eyed me sideways. ‘Um . . .’

  ‘Me? Who left at five thirty this morning while you lay in bed till god knows when, then probably spent the rest of the day scratching your arse?’

  Ned quickly stopped doing just that.

  ‘Me? Who had to dress as a beat-up prostitute all afternoon because one actor got stuck in traffic, one had “hair continuity issues” and one demanded a gluten-free pizza with rennet-free cheese before he’d go on set, and there was no time to change?’

  ‘I could heat up some beans?’

  ‘Me, who walked out of work forgetting about the fucked-up hooker make-up –’ I circled my finger wildly in front of my face ‘– and had to go back to the studios when a woman on the street asked me if I was OK and offered to call the police? Me? ME? Did I get any food?!’ My left eye twitched as Ross and Rachel kissed on the TV.

  ‘There’s some . . .’ Ned pointed a tentative finger at my nasal area. ‘You still have a little bit . . .’

  I ran a bath by the light of a bare low-wattage bulb. In the kitchen a pot crashed to the floor and Ned yelped. If he was attempting to make dinner, he was going to have to get pretty creative with out-of-date chicken stock and a very questionable tomato. Or it might have been an apple . . .

  I slipped into the bath and shut my eyes. Ned and I had been together since my twenty-second birthday, when I’d turned a corner while moving from bar to bar, lost all my friends, tripped over my own feet and landed in a heap beside a guy sittin
g in a doorway eating a bag of crisps. Ned Dixie. He’d shared his crisps and bought me a birthday kebab, which I’d found in my handbag the next morning and had eaten for breakfast. Ned had come back to my flat that night, and I’d stayed up laughing at his impressions of Basil Fawlty at an all-night rave. His ginger hair stuck straight up from his head at different angles and a smattering of freckles ran across his nose. How I loved a ginger man. Kenneth Branagh; Eric Stoltz circa 1985; the one from Homeland; Tim Minchin.

  Chucky. No? That one just me? Anyway, Ned had ginger hair, expressive eyebrows and a wicked grin and I thought he was sexy. He was an ‘ideas man’. He saw the potential for improvement in everything. Esca-Wipes: Escalator handrails that sanitised your hands on your commute; Loven the Lunch Oven: a lunchbox that baked pies; Fartfume: air pouches in your back pocket that, if you accidentally farted in a public place, you’d activate via a discreet button in your front pocket and perfumed air would waft out, masking your odour. Oh yes, he had ideas.

  Within weeks we’d commenced smitten coupledom and were looking for our own flat. He was an eternally chipper, overeager, unrealistic, hilarious bundle of disorganised clumsy affection. And I was hooked. Once, I was at work with a paralysing hangover (the kind where, if you move your eyes too fast, a cold sweat sweeps down your neck and you kind of half-faint) and I’d got a message saying Ned was in hospital with a badly broken leg. I’d raced out of the studios cursing Ned for telling the little old man from three doors down he could fix his satellite dish. I’d rounded the corner of the tube station, fighting the urge to vomit up pure tequila and there, leaning against the station wall with a big smile, a massive bacon and egg bap and two fully functioning legs, was Ned.

  ‘Thought you might need a Duvet Day,’ he’d said, putting out his free arm.

  I’d crumpled gratefully into his embrace. We’d caught the tube home and Ned spent the rest of the day being my hangover nurse. He stroked my hair, made a bed on the sofa and watched The Princess Bride with me for the 1,217th time. I thought I could see my future. Curled up on the sofa, tucked under the arm of a guy who was happy to repeat ‘My name is Inigo Montoya. You kill my fadda. Prepare to die’ in a Spanish accent that sounded more Chinese takeaway lady till his girlfriend had giggled her hangover away. It hadn’t worked out so well when we’d googled a broken tibia and fibula (what he’d told the receptionist at work) and realised Ned would need to wear a fake cast to my work party two weeks later. We’d had to buy a ‘medical walking boot’ from eBay, and Ned created an elaborate story involving an unattended scaffolding platform, a stranded baby bird and one of the better-looking prostitutes from next door.

  He started an online business course and declared he’d make the big time in New York as an entrepreneurial something-or-other. We’d researched Brooklyn flats, investigated breeds of apartment-appropriate dogs and dreamt about me working on a Weinstein film. I’d gradually worked my way up the ranks from tea-maker/rubbish collector to Second Assistant Director and had started putting a little away each week. But Ned hadn’t finished his course. And no invention got past the scrawled-notes-on-the-back-of-the-water-bill stage. My New York dreams floated away and I’d yet to replace them with anything.

  ‘Babe?’ Ned tapped at the door. ‘Babe, are you coming out? I’ve got something for you.’

  Last time he’d said that I’d opened the door to see he had his foreskin pulled over the waistband of his jeans, was calling it his dried apricot and was guffawing like a schoolboy. I wrapped a radiator-heated towel round myself and opened the door to Ned’s smiling face.

  ‘Follow me, my lady,’ he held out an arm and guided me to the living room.

  Spread on a blanket on the floor, in mismatched pots and on chipped plates, was a carpet picnic. Sainsbury’s Basics candles dripped wax onto the coffee table.

  ‘Madam, tonight we have . . .’ Ned raised the lid on an old beige pot ‘. . . minted baby peas.’ He lifted a napkin off a small tin. ‘Tuna à la spring water – dolphin friendly for the lady, of course – served with a side of Huntley and Palmers Cream Crackers.’ He took a cracker and bent it without it breaking. ‘Slightly stale.’ He pointed to the apple/tomato drooping on a brown plate. ‘And I don’t know what that is.’ He gave a hopeful grin and I felt myself un-bristling.

  He inched forward and pulled me into a kiss. Ned may have left his debit card on the tube (complete with pin number written on the back) twice in the past year; he may have driven to the supermarket, done the shopping then bussed home more times than is strictly reasonable and he may be a little too freckly for polite society, but damn he was a good kisser. I dropped my towel. My stomach did twirly flips of pleasure as he kissed me from my mouth, over my breasts, down past my belly button and then . . .

  After a few minutes I raised my head.

  ‘Do you need—’

  ‘No.’

  Despite his kissing proficiencies, the exact location of the clitoris tended to evade Ned. He’d find it eventually, so to pass the time I thought about the coming weekend. I was meeting my friend Helen for brunch. She was an events coordinator for a media investment company in Russell Square which specialised in promoting only the zeitgeist-iest of musicians, scriptwriters and executive producers, so she always had stories that finished with ‘and then we ended up at 5 a.m. in a disused slipper factory watching a private screening of this Dutch director’s new film shot entirely in black and white, on an iPhone, in Alaska with Russian-speaking puppets’. We’d talk about Helen’s latest shag (generally someone she’d met through her work who was skinny, socially unusual and on the brink of stardom) then we’d order. Eggs, bacon, sausages and—

  Mushrooms!

  He’d found it!

  Sprawled on the sofa an hour and a half later (once he’d located it, it was all stations go) he leant over and kissed my ear.

  ‘I’ll buy some food tomorrow, babe.’ Then he got up, grabbed his beer and left the room to trawl eBay while I curled up and watched Would I Lie to You?.

  ‘Hmmmm.’ I stretched, my eyes still closed.

  I’d not had a glorious sleep like that since those peaceful nine months in the womb. I opened my eyes. I was still on the sofa.

  ‘Oh my god!!’ I leapt up and ran to the bedroom.

  Ned lay fully clothed on top of the bed, a can of corn emptied onto my pillow. I snatched my phone from the nightstand. Eighteen missed calls!

  ‘Ned, I’m late!’

  Ned shot up like Dracula from a coffin, his hair vertical on one side and corn stuck to his cheek.

  ‘No! You can’t be!’ He looked horrified.

  ‘Well I bloody am!’ I rifled through the mess on the floor. ‘Work has rung eighteen times. The phone was right next to you. I’m going to get fired, and I’m the only one that earns any money!’

  I launched myself into some jeans.

  Ned’s face relaxed to being just hung over. ‘Oh, that kind of late.’ He lay back in his bed of corn. ‘I thought you meant women’s stuff late.’

  I stopped wrestling with my fly and did some menstrual maths.

  ‘Oh, no . . .’

  I looked at Ned. He was unconscious again, safe in the thought I would only be fired, not pregnant.

  ‘I can’t think about that now.’ I kicked my feet into some trainers and flew out the door.

  I dashed into the office unwinding my scarf, getting my arms stuck in a handbag/scarf/parka sleeve bind and nearly toppling the Christmas tree over with its lone bit of tinsel and Rod Stewart angels I’d made one slow afternoon.

  ‘Has Quentin been asking for me?’ I panted, dumping the handbag/scarf/parka knot on my chair and retrieving my radio from Douglas’s neat desk. ‘Anything gone wrong?’

  Sophie and Douglas looked at each other.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We-ell,’ Douglas started. ‘It probably wasn’t your fault—’

  ‘You forgot to book Dead Homeless Man in Swamp.’ Sophie interrupted.

  She picked up her cigarettes
and walked round her desk towards me. ‘And unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, Quentin happened to fit the costume.’

  ‘Noooooo,’ I groaned.

  ‘He had to lie face down on the edge of the Wandle for about an hour this morning,’ Douglas said.

  Forgetting to book featured extras two days in a row was bad enough, but the First Assistant Director – and my boss – having to step up and lie face down in a swampy bit of river in December was . . . was . . . I felt sick thinking about it.

  ‘He . . . he’s not happy,’ Douglas said, shunting his spectacles.

  ‘It was so cold the make-up girls had to defrost his face with a hairdryer before he could talk properly,’ Sophie added.

  ‘Oh god.’ I slapped my hand to my forehead.

  ‘Come on.’ Sophie held out her cigarettes. ‘Everything’s fine now. They’re in the studio, Quentin’s got all the feeling back in his lips and you look like you need one of these.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Douglas? Cover for us,’ Sophie said, walking out.

  We sat outside in the designated smokers’ area, a metal cage flanked by the catering skip and a noisy air-conditioning unit.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ Sophie said, watching me stare at a mound of something mushy beside the skip while trying to do more detailed period calculations.

  ‘Just thinking how quickly time goes when you work here, that’s all,’ I replied.

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Sophie launched into a soliloquy of how she woke up last Friday and realised it was December again. Then she realised that instead of being twenty-five she was twenty-six, and hadn’t she ought to be getting grown-up things like a long-term boyfriend, life insurance, bras without holes, sofas you’re not allowed to sit on, cars you’re not allowed to eat in?

  I became aware of the cigarette in my hand. I threw it on the ground and stamped it out.

  ‘. . . And when is the official time to stop having soft toys on your bed? Nobody actually tells you these things. I mean, I’ve never even seen a French film. I was in France once and went to a film and it was in English but the subtitles were in French . . . Does that count?’