Page 8 of The Do-Over

‘No.’

‘What? What do you mean, no? Have you not listened to a word I’ve said?’

I have, Sarah-or-whoever-you-are, and your attitude frankly stinks. ‘The fact is that I’ve lived here for several years,’ I tell her. ‘And, although the car is new, I’m well aware of the parking regulations on this street. This space is occupied. I suggest you do what everyone else would do in your circumstances and look for another, rather than trying to bully me out of a space I’ve parked in quite legitimately.’

For a moment, she stares at me, as if unable to comprehend what I’ve said. An insistent beeping from a delivery van that’s pulled up behind her brings her back down to earth.

‘This is unbe-fucking-lievable,’ she yells as she storms back to her car and climbs in, slamming the door behind her. As she screeches off up the road, my eyes meet Rollo’s for a fraction of a second, and I could swear I see him mouth the word ‘sorry’ at me.

5

I’m still reflecting on my surreal encounter with Rollo’s mum when my phone pings with a message. It’s Alasdair.

Whereabouts in the world are you ATM?

At home, would you believe… Got in from NY this morning. You?

The ticks go blue instantly and I can see he’s typing so, rather than returning to my annotations, I wait for his reply to come in.

Also in London. Fancy celebrating your elevation?

I smile as I type my response.

Sounds good. I have wine in the fridge…

His reply is immediate.

Sod wine. I’ll pick up some champagne on the way. See you in an hour.

I return my attention to the document, and it seems like no time at all has passed before the doorbell sounds to announce his arrival. I mark my place so I know where I’ve got to, and go to open the front door.

‘La Porsche obligatoire?’ he asks with a raised eyebrow and a mischievous grin, waving a bottle of Dom Pérignon in the direction of my car. ‘Such a cliché, darling. I never had you down as following the corporate herd mentality.’

‘Sod off,’ I laugh as I stand back to let him in. ‘I didn’t choose it, if you must know.’

‘How did it arrive then? Is it true that they’re delivered by the secret partner Porsche fairy?’

‘My PA organised it while I was in New York. Apparently, I’m too important and expensive to rely on trains now.’

‘Of course you are, your majesty.’ He bows deeply. ‘What’s the view like from the heady heights of Olympus?’

‘Have you come to celebrate or take the piss?’

‘Both, naturally. On a serious note, I couldn’t be happier for you. If anyone deserved to make partner, it’s you.’

‘Thanks. Why didn’t you apply?’

‘I’ve still got a bit of a grey smudge against my name, I reckon.’

‘Surely that’s long forgotten, isn’t it?’

One of the things I’ve always admired about Alasdair is the way his brain can switch from work to play mode in an instant. When we were trainees together, I was regularly in awe of his ability to grasp a concept and run with it, often while the rest of us were still getting our heads around it. But then, come the end of the day, he’d waltz out of the office as if he didn’t have a care inthe world. Unfortunately, although his competence was never in doubt, his ability to switch off so easily did cause questions to be asked about his commitment, and his first annual appraisal was, in his words, a bit of a car crash. He was much more careful after that, but the stigma followed him for quite a while.

‘Well, now that you’re the other side of the great divide, maybe you can put in a good word for me.’ He grins to let me know that he’s not serious and waves the bottle again. ‘I think this might have got a bit shaken up on the way over, so shall I stick it in the fridge to calm down a bit before we open it? It’s the good stuff, so it would be a shame to redecorate your hallway with it.’

I return his grin. ‘That sounds like a good idea. How on earth do you plan to entertain me in the meantime though?’

Alasdair and I first had sex the night it was announced that we were the only two from our intake group that Morton Lansdowne wanted to keep on as junior associates. We hit the town to celebrate and, with clichéd inevitability, ended up drunkenly falling into bed together at his rather grotty bedsit. The next morning, I woke with a splitting headache, ready for the usual guilt-ridden recriminations and awkward conversations, but quickly realised to my relief that Alasdair doesn’t work like that. He took me out for breakfast to cure my hangover, we had sex again, and then I went home. Since then, we’ve had a tacit understanding that, although we’re more than friends sexually, we aren’t a ‘thing’. We’re just mates who hook up when the feeling takes us, as it has today.

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