She nudges me. ‘He’ll just buy more.’
‘Probably with my credit card.’ I mentally berate myself for trusting the flirty philanderer! ‘Didn’t people warn me off him? Like Lisa the barista, who makes his unicorn latte with micro foam every bloody day, even though she despises him! Baristas always know – they’re like hairdressers. She told me to be wary of him, that he’d left a trail of broken hearts in his wake.’
‘That should have been your first clue, Orly: a man who orders a unicorn latte has clearly got secrets!’
‘Right? And remember my ex-client, Sasha? The one with the fancy car?’
‘The girl who pours herself into those tight-fitting plastic dresses?’
‘Yes, the rich one. She warned me off him too. Told me he was after her money, but of course I didn’t believe her, because how can you take a person seriously with teeth that blinding white?’
‘Harry’s teeth are blinding white.’
‘Exactly! They’re so phony – just like the rest of his body parts!’
‘What?’
‘His hair, dyed by the way, his nose has been fixed, his cheeks, his jawline, his butt!’
‘NO! Really? How did I not know this?’
I shrug. ‘I didn’t know either until I found a stack of photos of him with his parents and asked if he wasn’t an only child like he’d always said. I thought maybe he had a brother who died, or something tragic, and the sad thing is he let me believe that for a while, until I came across a school picture with his bloody name on it and let me tell you overbite is not the word. Let’s just say his orthodontist probably paid off his mortgage with the amount of work Harry needed. How did I manage to ignore this?’
‘Love-drunk is a thing and you were clearly blotto. Happens to the best of us.’
I sigh. ‘I always thought he was faithful, because he promised me. Told me all these stories about how he’d never felt this way before, how the women in his past were flings, all the rumours were just gossip-mongering because he hadn’t felt a real connection with them, like he felt with me. He spun that yarn so well I believed every word.’ Tears spill over. What an idiot. He used the same lines on all of us. ‘Do you think he’s been having it off with our clients the whole time? Other women when he’s been away?’ He’s such a flirt, but did he take that to the next level every time he was away from me?
She shudders. ‘Surely it would’ve got back to you if he did?’
‘Would it though? I feel sick.’ I clutch my stomach. Do you ever really know anyone? ‘I don’t want to see him, ever again after this. Ever. Again.’
‘You need to think ahead when you’re dealing with a snake like Harry.’ Maya has never liked Harry, but she’s never denigrated him in front of me before. I guess all bets are off now he’s broken my heart.
My mobile rings and I freeze. Maya picks it up. ‘Private number.’
‘Answer it.’
‘Hello, this is erm … Orly’s assistant.’ She scowls. ‘No comment.’ Maya swiftly ends the call.
I groan. ‘It’s started already?’ The press will want my side of the story. Little ol’ nobody me. ‘I’m never going to live this down. How will I show my face at the office? I’ll be a laughing stock, a fool, a—’
‘Stop right there. He’s the laughing stock, the fool, a complete and utter cockwomble who only thinks of himself. Really, Orly, you’re better off without him. And tomorrow you’re going to march into Excès, shoulders back, head high and you’re going to take charge, just like you always do.’
‘I can’t.’ I groan and hold my head in my hands. First JoJo and Chastity and now this!
‘You can and you will.’
‘I hate him.’
‘We all hate him.’
Despite my poor ravaged splintered heart, I smile. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Do you think it’s real? It can’t be real. It’s a holiday fling at best.’ But what does it matter? He can’t just go around having holiday flings now, can he?
Her lips are a tight line before she says, ‘I know you love Harry …’
‘Loved.’ But I can’t switch it off just like that, as much as I want to. When I think of him my heart seizes just like it does on the rare occasions Maya drags me to one of her boxing classes.
‘Right, loved, but I honestly think as horrible as this is, it’s so much better you found out what sort of man he is before you exchanged vows and had a brood of chubby-cheeked children and a mortgage up to your eyeballs. You guys are so utterly different. You can’t take him back after this, surely?’
‘No, I couldn’t. But what if there’s an explanation? Could there be an innocent reason for this?’ As soon as the words slip out I regret them. How can he explain away their faces being glued together, his bloody roving hands …
Harry’s the cad, the man about town, and I’m the homebody who likes binge-watching Netflix and drinking too much tea. He’s the swarthy, well-manicured, designer-label-wearing metrosexual, whereas I’d be happy to live in my yoga pants if I could get away with it. While I have to look a certain way at industry events and when I meet with clients, I don’t enjoy that side of things. High heels are the work of the devil and I only wish everyone else would get the memo so we could all wear flip-flops or wellies and be done with it.
No wonder Harry’s left me for the ultra-glamorous Carly C! I’ve never fit in with the London circuit because I’m two shades too quirky but it’s never really bothered me because I only cared about my job, not the social circles I’m not admitted to. If being friends with someone in society hinges on what type of holiday home I own (none) then I know they’re not the right kind of friend for me, but people like Harry crave that kind of acceptance. Really, the writing has been on the wall since I moved here; I just didn’t translate it.
‘You mustn’t let this destroy your self-esteem, Orly. Let this be the catalyst for change.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, still feeling utterly dazed. I’m reminded of my earlier hesitancy about arranging our wedding. Maybe deep down I always knew this would eventuate.
She falls beside me on the sofa. ‘You need to make a plan and move forward with your life. And the first thing I suggest is finding a replacement. A bookworm, one of those cute spectacle-wearing corduroy-trouser types who smells a bit like fresh washed linen and coffee. Update your social media with lots of hot broody photos of him.’
‘What? No.’
‘Yes, straight back on the bike.’ She nods. ‘You’re such a gentle soul. You’re the one who always makes sure everyone is all right; it’s time you found someone who does that for you. You need an arty type, a creative soul, a deep thinker.’
‘Wow, is that it? You don’t have any other specifics?’ I laugh in spite of it all. ‘I’m never trusting a man again as long as I live!’
‘Not even a poetic, sultry-lipped, long-haired, nice-smelling bibliophile?’
‘Not unless he’s fictional. That’s about my limit.’
‘What about if he collects stamps?’
‘If I ever find a man who collects stamps, I’ll know he’s the one. But so far, all my philatelist friends are eighty or ninety … Trust me, as far as hobbies go it’s waning in popularity.’
‘I can’t think why. I do love your eccentricities though, you philatelic, you.’
‘You know the nerd words, which by default makes you one of us.’
‘Only by association.’
‘That’s close enough for me.’ My life as a philatelic, a collector of stamps and other postal material, started when I received my first postcard in the mail at ten years old. It struck me as magical that it’d winged its way to me all the way from India. How did it not get lost, that tiny little rectangle amidst all the other mail? Paying its way, the even tinier rectangle, the statue of King Rajaraja Chola. It spoke of other worlds, far-flung places, exotic lives that were being lived and it all seemed so foreign and exciting from my little patch on earth. My dad had recent
ly died and I think part of me imagined these letters coming from him – maybe he was still alive on another plane, another realm, anywhere as long as I could still hear from him. Of course he wasn’t, but that’s how my love of collecting was born.
My mum had moved on with another man quite quickly and those little squares were a tenuous link to my dad, the man I loved and missed so much.
Whenever I have bad days, you’ll find me in front of my collection because it has the ability to remind me that the world is a big place, and it will keep on spinning whether a client yelled at me or not. It reminds me there’s always an escape. I don’t have to stay in one place forever – I can transport myself like a stamp, across vast oceans, over sunburnt plains and start anew. Like now, I remind myself. I’m not affixed, if I don’t want to be …
I take a glug of wine and then another as I think of showing up at Excès tomorrow. It’s not just the shame that bothers me, it’s the job too. ‘Really, Maya. What am I doing with my life? It’s all a sham. A great big exotic sham. It’s got so bad I started to believe in my very own lies, that I’ve been living this wondrous life, when really it’s as empty as one of Harry’s promises.’
‘You’re just …’
I don’t wait for platitudes. ‘I snatch a few hours here and there and guzzle alcohol to “relax” and then get back on the merry-go-round of big-city living and for what? I can’t think of the last time I had a lie-in, or took a Pilates class. Looked after my body and soul. Instead, I’m pandering to the most self-absorbed of society, hating every minute of it, when I could be doing something meaningful. Something that sparks joy instead of migraines. Even choosing Harry, really, what was I thinking? Practically all the inhabitants of London have dated him and I didn’t think that might be a sign?’ A big, fat flashing neon sign saying run. RUN! ‘But of course, my answer to everything: Yes, sir, three bags full, sir. Urgh.’
‘You’re upset.’
‘I’m furious. But I think this has happened for a reason, Maya. Don’t you? I’m so over Excès, the excess of it all! Ordering an orchid stem that could pay for a well in a developing country. Having iPads coated in 24K gold for celebrity babies, when some children have no access to books to read! Pimping out private jets so they match their owners’ moods when we’re in the middle of an environmental catastrophe. I’m an enabler. Maybe this is a sign from the universe to change my life before I get stuck for good in the rut I made.’
‘Change it how?’ A deep frown forms and I know Maya thinks I’ve lost my mind.
‘Dramatically. You shocked me back to life when you used the paddles, Maya, and this is going to be my rebirth …’ I grin, believing every word, even if I don’t know exactly what it means just yet.
Panic flares in her eyes. ‘But I didn’t use the paddles …’
I smile. ‘I’m not going to be the yes person anymore. I’m not going to pander to rich people with bad manners. I’m not going to put up with a fiancé who cheats. I’m going to start saying no to people!’ I think of our dream, a rambling country property that we’d do up in stages, bring back to life. Could my dreams come true as a singleton? Why the hell not!
The phone rings and I snatch it up.
‘Is this Orly?’
‘NO!’ I say and hang up, realising I have zero idea what I’m going to do with my life but knowing deep in my heart I’m making the right decision.
It’s time to be the curator of my own life!
A few hours later Maya leaves and I take out the delicate folders that house my philatelic collection. I find such solace in it. It’s proof of the passing of time. How things inevitably change. That these little squares have been ferried all over the world, have their own mysterious provenance and I’ll never know just what that is.
Did this Penny Black Queen Victoria stamp carry a love letter from a husband to his wife? What about this envelope addressed in perfect curlicue calligraphy to Agnes Merriweather – did it deliver good news or bad? What happened to the letter that was inside the envelope – does it still exist?
These are the treasures I hunt high and low for, knowing one day that I’ll reunite letter to envelope, or postcard to owner, and the world will be a little brighter because these mementos matter. Love can be shown in many ways, and these relics from the past prove it. People die and life moves on, but they’re not forgotten if we have their treasures.
Chapter 5
The next day, pictures of Carly C and Harry are everywhere. There are salacious articles about me, with wildly inaccurate stories. If I wasn’t so devastated, I’d be howling with laughter. I’ve been accused of everything from selling secrets to gossip mags, to having affairs with celebs I’ve never even heard of – it looks as though Carly C’s PR team are doing their utmost to discredit me, so none of this sticks to her and damages her launch.
They’ve managed to find old photos of me that are hugely unflattering – I look demented. I wonder how I’m ever going to get through this as I swipe the article away and hope it’s obliterated forever.
But there’s plenty more just like it all over the internet. And of course, there’s a stack of flattering photographs of the new lovebirds themselves. I guess Harry and Carly weren’t too concerned about having an audience every time they canoodled, which by the look of all the pictures popping up over social media, was all the damn time. His betrayal feels like a kick in the gut made worse by the attention from the media.
My phone rings and I brace myself until I recognise the number.
‘Guten Morgen, Orly. I hope I haven’t caught you at a, erm … bad time but I was wondering if Hans’ dinner meeting was all sorted?’ Gretel’s heavily accented voice is more hesitant that usual.
She knows! And she’s a PA to a German diplomat working out of the US. I will never live this down.
‘Good morning. Yes, yes, it’s all organised,’ I say sweetly to Gretel. ‘I’ll email you the itinerary, and all Hans has to do is arrive promptly at 8 p.m. at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. They’ll have staff to greet Hans and his partner on arrival, with champagne of course.’
‘Lovely, Orly. And the dinner will be in front of the painting?’
‘Yes, a romantic tête-à-tête in front of Vincent Van Gogh’s Starry Night, including a bespoke degustation menu prepared by a celebrity chef so they can take their time and enjoy the evening, which is exclusive to the two of them.’
The proposal is simple as far as they go and I always enjoy working with Gretel.
‘Sounds divine. Thanks again. I’ll wait for your email and invoice and get that paid immediately.’
‘You’re welcome.’ We ring off and I send the details to Victoria and ask her to forward all the relevant information to Gretel before I finish getting dressed and head out to grab a taxi. I haven’t even heard from Harry but word is he’s shacked up with Carly C in her mansion – just his style. What kind of person doesn’t even call to talk?
My phone bleeps with a text and I swipe to find one from Maya: Remember your worth. You’re not running away, let him do that. Love you xxx
The morning feels surreal, as though I’m living slightly outside of myself. Despite my own catastrophic love life, I still need to sort out JoJo too.
Inside the warmth of the cab I text Maya back: Thanks darling xxx
Soon enough I’m delivered to the usual corner. I thank the driver and take in a deep breath, centring myself before I make the walk into Excès.
Jorges blushes as he holds open the door. ‘Morning, Orly. I just wanted to say …’
Here we go …
‘Thanks for the raise. It’s much appreciated with the new grandchild on the way and all.’
I let out a breath. ‘You’re so welcome, Jorges. It was well overdue.’ Maybe not everyone knows … small mercies and all that.
Victoria sees me, her face sombre. She rushes up with a mug of coffee and gives me an awkward hug with the other arm. ‘Good morning,’ I say, and take the coffee as if it’s just any othe
r day.
‘Orly.’ She rubs the back of her neck. ‘I saw the ten-page spread in that sleazy rag …’
OK, scratch that, the entire world knows and I’ll just have to live with it.
I do what I always do and throw myself into work. The day lasts forever but I manage to hide in my office for the most part and Victoria keeps the press at bay. I’m humbled by the number of emails from clients, who all wish me well and tell me the same thing along the lines of this too shall pass and that they’ve all been there themselves in one way or another.
For the first time ever, I leave the office at a regular time while the sun is still shining and the traffic is chaotic. I don’t say any goodbyes, I just sneak out when no one is looking and I hate myself for it.
Later that night I make a platter of tacos with extra jalapeño to add some spice into an otherwise dreary day. My philosophy in life is to live like it’s always Taco Tuesday. And what goes best with Taco Tuesday? Tequila, of course. I crank up the music and proceed to gorge, promising myself I’ll stop after two or three or four or five fiery delectables. At this point does it even matter? The tequila goes down well, too well. It tastes like liquid happiness and I wonder if that’s all a girl needs in order to be whole? A plate of tacos, some salt, lemon and tequila? Could it be so simple? I down another shot and all my problems melt away.
There’s a knock at the door and I stumble over the coffee table. ‘Who put that there!’ I right myself as the room tilts and I swing open the door just as my favourite song comes on, ‘Tequila’ by The Champs. It makes me swing my hips and really feel the vibe of Taco Tuesday!
My hips soon stop. ‘YOU!’ Smarmy Harry himself stands there as if he’s dropped in for a quick visit with a friend.
He takes a step back. ‘You’re drunk.’
‘Well, you’re … promiscuous!’ I go to slam the door in his face but he steps inside. I can’t seem to make my hands move as fast as my head.
‘Comfort eating?’ he says, hands in his stupid pockets as he surveys the remnants of my taco fiesta. He picks up the half-empty tequila bottle and raises a brow. ‘You should lay off this stuff, you know. It’s not good for you.’
Escape to Honeysuckle Hall Page 5
