Free Greatest Love Story of All Time by Lucy Robinson Page A

starchy peach and was shrouded in some sort of gigantic fur coat that made Leonie’s vintage number look like a dirty old stoat. Harrods and Harvey Nicks bags hung from her arms and her hair was a rock-hard halo of Thatcheresque perfection. My heart sank. ‘Hello, Mum!’ I said brightly, as Dave got up to take her coat.
    A loud cackle came to us from the fruit machine. Leonie yelled ‘Take that, you fucker!’ and Michael groaned loudly.
    Mum stiffened. ‘Leonie’s language really is disgusting,’ she said, with a shudder. Her eyes narrowed as Michael shook hands with Leonie to end the game. ‘Is that Michael? Why is he not here with you?’
    Dave went to get Mum a drink. ‘Mrs O’Callaghan!’ Michael arrived at the table, looking so incredibly handsome and lovely and eager that I nearly wept. I had the most perfect boyfriend in the world.
    Even Mum, after God knew how many glasses of champagne at the opera, couldn’t fail to be impressed. ‘Well, now. You must be Michael. Fran has spokenabout little else,’ she said grandly, offering him her hand as if she were Queen Victoria.
    ‘Mum …’ I said, my cheeks staining red.
    ‘Shush, Frances,’ she said. ‘You have every right to be proud of this young man. I hear you’re a political journalist,’ she said to Michael, with a beady stare.
    ‘Yes. I’m still finding my feet at the
Independent
but it’s mostly what I’m used to – hanging round Westminster badgering politicians, same old same old,’ he said easily, as if he was working in a launderette. I swelled with pride.
    ‘Well, I have to say I’m a bit disappointed not to have seen your name in the paper since you started,’ she said, a little sniffily.
    Mum disapproved of any paper other than the
Telegraph
; I was touched that she’d been buying the
Independent.
Although she was probably doing so to show off about Michael to her neighbours.
    Michael smiled. ‘A lot of what I do is editing other people’s work so my name often doesn’t make it into the finished article.’
    ‘And you
never
get to see what I’m up to,’ I said loudly, in Michael’s defence. ‘I’m a total gofer by comparison!’
    Michael and Alex laughed – Alex perhaps a touch too much – but Dave interrupted: ‘Not true, Fran. And I’ve heard a little rumour that your job description’s about to change anyway.’
    I swung towards him, surprised. ‘How?’
    Dave grinned. ‘I shouldn’t tell you,’ he said.
    ‘But you will,’ Leonie commanded.
    Dave batted her away. ‘Well. Hugh pulled me in earlier, wanting to know what I thought of your performance in Kosovo. And I told him you’d been a fucking legend, Fran, and how much you’d impressed me.’
    I felt my face flush with gratitude and pride. Freya smiled prettily, watching me with interest. ‘And he said – if it doesn’t work out you can’t hold me responsible – that he was going to make you a proper specialist producer for ents and culture. Frances O’Callaghan, specialist producer!’
    I stared at him open-mouthed. I tried to talk but nothing came out. And then, eventually: ‘OH, JESUS! SHITTING BOLLOCKING – OH, MY GOD!’ I launched myself at him and sent the remainder of his pint flying. ‘Thank you thank you thank you,’ I cried, into his sideburn.
    Dave pushed me away. ‘Oi, off. And go and buy me another drink, you mad beast.’ He looked delighted. Dave was so kind; Freya was a lucky woman.
    As she glided calmly to the toilet I saw her smirk. It was almost imperceptible but I knew it was there. Disgust at me and my swearing and my poxy little career.
Well, sod her
, I thought, smarting. And Alex, who had watched with a raised eyebrow. They could be as superior and grown-up as they wanted. I had Michael Slater and a very exciting promotion.
    ‘This calls for champagne,’ Mum said loudly. She looked pointedly at Michael, a section of hairsprayed quiff falling into her eye. I felt simultaneously embarrassed and appalled. Mum was not