LITMIR.BIZ

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face … recognition?

      Oh Christ, now my knees are physically starting to buckle.

      ‘Lily though weally it’s Lily Lilibet Emily,’ she tells him seriously, looking at him, totally fascinated.

      Jesus, the resemblance between them is so strong it would almost knock your breath away.

      Same eyes, skin, hair colour, build … It’s astonishing.

      Helen has copped it too; I know by the gobsmacked, shell-shocked look on her face.

      Jake MUST notice it, he can’t not. It’s not possible that he doesn’t see how alike they are …

      Meanwhile I’m rooted to the spot, lantern-jawed, horrified, unable to say or do anything except stand there mutely, wishing I had a paper bag handy to hyperventilate into. For once in Lily’s life, I’m cursing the fact that she’s not a bit shy around strangers.

      Helen clocks my thunderstruck expression, seems to realise that I’m paralysed and useless, totally unable to stop this and calmly rescues me, scooping Lily up into her arms and taking total control of the situation.

      ‘Come on pet, who’d like another ice cream? And maybe your new friend Hannah would like one too? You know, I think I heard an ice-cream van nearby, how about we go and find it?’

       Oh thank Christ for you Helen, thank Christ at least one of us was able to think clearly, to act normally.

      ‘Yay! Tank you!’ Lily squeals delightedly, her little pink face lighting up. ‘I wanna chocolate one with pink spwinkles on the top!’

      ‘Come on then, let’s go,’ says Helen calmly, as Lily kicks to be let down again so she can waddle off and grab her pal.

      ‘She’s such a beautiful kid, a real little princess,’ Jake says simply, looking fondly after her as she waddles off happily.

      ‘Is she yours?’ he asks Helen simply.

      A half beat.

      ‘I’m babysitting her,’ Helen says.

      ‘And she’s how old? I’m guessing about three?’

      ‘In a few weeks’ time, yeah. How did you guess?’

      ‘I’ve a nephew exactly that age. Not as much of a cutie as little Lily though.’

      A tense moment, made worse by my mutely standing on the side lines, powerless to say or do anything in case I make this worse. That’s Lily’s cousin he’s talking about, is all I can think. Lily that never stops harping on about how much she wishes she had little cousins to play with. And the tragedy is that she does, she just doesn’t know it.

      But thank you God; the torture, it seems, is finally over. Next thing, Jake nods and smiles, wishes us a lovely afternoon and a second later, he and The Girl from Ipanema have swished past us and on their way.

      I slump exhaustedly back onto the rug again and knock back the dregs of not only the Pimms I was drinking, but Helen’s as well. If I smoked, I’d be pulling on them two at a time right now.

      ‘Oh my God, he is only bloody divine looking … You never said!’ says Helen, still staring starry-eyed after him.

      ‘I don’t know about you,’ is all I can mutter back, still shell-shocked and with beads of sweat slowly seeping their way from my armpits all the way down my ribcage. ‘But I’ve just had about two years knocked off my life. Now, will you excuse me while I go and have a coronary?’

      I’m running late by almost a full hour when I finally do get back to the office, with a sunburnt red nose and blades of grass stuck all over my black skirt, but for once in my career, I don’t give a shite.

      Can’t. I’m too shaken and trembly and still not the better of what just happened. Maybe in about five years I’ll have recovered, maybe, after some fairly intensive therapy and years spent lying on a psychiatrist’s couch, at a cost of several hundred euro an hour, but sure as hell not now.

      Helen is right. I’ll have to confess all to Jake, I think, mind racing, as I step into the lift on the ground floor going up. I cannot and will not ever go through anything like what just happened. No chickening out of it or putting it on the long finger because I’m so busy having a lovely time with him, I’m just going to grab the bull by the horns and bloody well do it. No more arsing around or dithering; next time I see him, I’m telling him straight out. He said we’d chat this weekend, so when we do, I’ll suggest meeting up and I’ll just come out with it once and for all. Obviously, this will involve getting several large glasses of Pinot Grigiot into me to get up the courage, but hey, there you go.

      And then suddenly I notice that the lift hasn’t stopped on the fourth floor, where my office is. Instead, it’s overshot and is now whizzing right the way up to the top floor. Where the executive suite, or the T. Rexes’ den as I like to call it, is.

      Shit. I wallop the button for my own floor again, still desperately trying to calm down, and try to just concentrate on breathing; in and out, out and in, all while checking my breath for a boozy smell and picking blades of grass off my bum. One massive slug of Rescue Remedy later and I’m starting to feel a little bit more like myself. By which I mean my hands have at least stopped shaking involuntarily and the dizziness is slowly but surely beginning to pass.

      Next time you see him, I tell myself sternly. Get it over with. For better or for worse. Cannot risk a repeat performance of this afternoon or else I’ll end up on a double dosage of Xanax every day of my life until Lily turns eighteen. It’s okay, I try to calm myself. I’m at the office now. It’s all over. I can breathe easy again.

      Just like Tiffany’s in New York, nothing bad can happen to me here.

      Abruptly, the lift stops at the T. Rexes’ floor. Another tiny panic, but I force myself to calm down a bit more. After all, it’s a Saturday afternoon, and the chances of any of the directors hanging round the office when they could be on a golf course are slim to none, aren’t they?

      But then suddenly, with a heart-walloping thump, the doors glide slowly open and in gets … Oh sweet Jesus, no …

      Yes. In steps none other than Sir Gavin Hume, our esteemed chairman, a sixty-something, portly, red-faced, slightly swollen about the gills figure: the Gorbachev of the print world as he’s known, liked and trusted by all. Distinguished looking, which as we all know means ugly, with money. With a reputation for being what was once politely referred to as a ‘bit of a ladies man’. In fact, you might say his default adjective is ‘flirt’, but to his credit, he’s always treated me fairly and I know for a fact he has taken my side on numerous heaves against me in the past.

      Out of the whole mighty pack of T. Rexes though, this is the one who trusts me and respects me and has stood by me, and now here I am, half trembling like I was just in a car crash, with straw practically coming out of my hair, grass all over my arse, an open half-drunk bottle of Rescue Remedy in one hand and more than likely looking like a candidate for care in the community.

      Oh, and lest we forget, smelling of drink too.

      Shit, could this day possibly get any worse? Beside, what the hell is he doing here anyway? The T. Rexes never, ever come in at weekends; it’s practically carved in stone on the architrave above the boardroom: Thou Shalt Bugger Off Every Friday Afternoon To The Nearest Golf Course And Thou Shalt Stay on the Fairways till Monday At The Earliest.

      ‘Ahh, Madame Editrix,’ he smiles, seeing me.

      This by the way, is what he always calls me, but then to Sir Gavin I think I’m a bit asexual, neither male nor female, so editrix covers all his options nicely. Plus it saves him the bother of having to flirt with a woman he clearly finds as unattractive as me.

      ‘Everything okay?’ is all he asks, a bit worriedly, taking in the hack of me.

      ‘Hmm? Oh, yes, fine, just, emm … you know, busy as ever,’ I smile over brightly, trying to sound cool and calm, brushing my skirt and frantically smoothing

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