‘This, this and . . .’ Claudia flicked through the hangers at speed and pulled out a bright blue dress, ‘This.’ She looked at me. ‘What’s wrong with you? Shopping is meant to be fun, you know.’
‘Whatever.’
Claudia shook her head and strode off to the changing rooms and I almost had to run to keep up. The last time I’d tried shopping here, I’d got as far as choosing something to try on then had become so disorientated trying to find somewhere to change I’d given up and left. But I couldn’t do that today. No way. I had to find something to wear. There was a gaping hole in my wardrobe that had to be filled by something fabulous. I was sure my confidence would be boosted just knowing it was there. If I made it out from this sodding shop alive, of course. We reached the changing rooms. There were enough cubicles for half of Petersfield to change in there and still have room for a picnic. I dithered for a second. There was too much choice again: which one was I meant to use?
‘Come out when you’ve got something on!’ Claudia ordered and hustled me into the first one on the left.
‘What’s wrong with the mirror in here?’ I whined. Claudia didn’t reply.
I sighed and started peeling off layers. Jacket, hoodie, top. I tried to avoid the mirror, as I seemed to consist almost entirely of dark bags and dry skin.
‘Try the blue one on first,’ Claudia said behind the door. ‘And take your boots off.’
I looked down. ‘How do you know I haven’t taken them off already?’
‘I can’t smell your feet.’
‘Right. Thanks for that.’
I pulled my boots off obediently and took the blue dress down and peeked at the price. Shit. I’d never spent that much on a dress in my life. But I held it up in front of myself anyway, concentrating on the dress itself and avoiding looking at my face. It was a shame about the price – it was such a nice colour. My phone beeped then. I was expecting Vic to be in touch about a job so I quickly scooped it out of my pocket and checked it. My heart skipped a beat – it just couldn’t help itself.
Can’t wait to see you. Cx
I tapped out my reply and pressed send recklessly. Another reason why I don’t go shopping very often: I am likely to make rash, spur-of-the-moment decisions.
You’re not going to know what hit you.
He replied instantly.
Oh really?
‘Sam? What are you doing in there? You’re not on your phone, are you? We’re here to do a job, stay focussed!’ Claudia tapped her fingernails on the door.
Just one more.
Yes, really. Gotta go. Got a job to do.
I snapped my phone shut and shoved it back in my bag. With shaking hands I pulled the dress over my head and opened the door.
‘Oh my!’ Claudia beamed. ‘Don’t you look amazing!’
‘I do?’ I smiled, feeling all stupid and shy for a moment.
‘Go on, have a look yourself.’ Claudia pushed me towards a large mirror at the end of the room. The dress was made of some sort of floaty fabric – I never know the correct names. It crossed over at the breasts, drawing in tight under them, and then fell to just past my knees. It was beautiful. I forced myself to look at my face, steeling myself for disappointment. There, in the mirror, a proper woman looked back at me.
‘Oh my God.’
‘Here.’ Claudia lifted my hair off my shoulders and held it up on top of my head, ‘What do you think?’
I tried responding but I could only make a strangled squeaking sound. Maybe this hare-brained scheme could actually work. Maybe I would look good enough to eat, good enough to leave your girlfriend for!
It was only when we were on our way to the checkout that I remembered the price. My heart sank. I couldn’t bear the idea of going back through the racks for cheaper dresses. Maybe, oh maybe, one of my cards would work? Perhaps some central computer at the bank would be down and they wouldn’t realise I was already over the limit on my overdraft? The queue snaked twenty people deep to the row of cashiers and I had plenty of time to worry as we edged closer to the front. I tried engaging Claudia about work. Any more stories about John Tightpants? But Claudia wasn’t playing ball. She just gave me some one-line answers and then went all quiet. I was left to worry about the dress in silence. I handed over my first card with wet palms.
‘Sorry. Declined,’ said the girl behind the counter. She stared at me blankly, waiting for my next move. As I thumbed through my cards I could feel the eyes of the queue on my back. I handed over another one. Maybe the bank hadn’t cancelled this one after all, maybe, by some miracle . . .
‘This one too,’ she said, just the wrong side of withering.
‘Bother,’ I said quietly. I shuffled my cards some more. Library, out-of-date gym card, supermarket loyalty cards, unread business cards, all useless. Not a healthy bank balance between them.
‘I’ll get it.’ Claudia handed her card to the cashier just as I started pulling away from the counter, defeated.
‘Are you sure? I’ll pay you back.’ I felt like a heel.
‘You have to have that dress.’ Claudia smiled at me.
‘Thanks. And sorry, again.’
My cheeks burnt as the patronising cow behind the counter passed Claudia the bag. Another thing Claudia had paid for, another bloody thing. Out on the street, I started to thank her again but Claudia cut across me.
‘Actually, I’ve got to get moving, sweetie, but I’m so pleased you found a dress you love. It looks really good on you. I’ll call you soon, OK?’ And with another kiss she was gone, disappearing into Oxford Street, six deep with bustling lunchtime shoppers.
25
CLAUDIA
Finally the day was over and I was home. I dropped my keys on the table and stood and stared, unseeing, at the rooftops out my window. The word inside my head sounded dirty and fungal and seething. I felt as if my whole being was infected, as if I couldn’t form a single thought that wasn’t poisoned by it. I don’t know how long I stood there – it could have been a couple of minutes or half an hour – but it was long enough for every one of my demons to come out from whatever rank hole they usually lived in. They took up with that horrible word and started a violent party in my head, singing along to their favourite songs about how awful and unworthy I was. No, not singing – shouting. I swear I hadn’t felt this dark for years. Eventually I made my way to the kitchen and dug around in a cupboard until I found a bottle of whisky, some cheap crap Sam had brought round months before. I’d drown them out. Pour shot, tilt head, bang. I shook my head from side to side, the fiery liquid scorching my throat. ‘Ahhhhh!’ I shouted at the nothingness around me and my stupid, hot tears ran down my face.
For a moment that afternoon, I had felt quite serene sitting in that civilised waiting room again. I even found myself admiring the decor again, my head desperate to be taken along some inane thought process that involved colour combinations and fabric textures and la-di-da-di – anything but reality. It didn’t last. Reality kicked in when I walked back into Dr Epstein’s consulting room. Then I’d felt nauseous and nervous as hell.
‘Have a seat. We’ve had your tests back,’ Dr Epstein had said. And was I imagining it? Was he more formal than when I’d last seen him? I took my seat.
And then he dropped the bombshell.
‘You have tested positive for chlamydia and negative for all other tests.’
Chlamydia. Chlamydia. That word. As soon as he said it, it stuck in my head. I felt cold and scared, with only one word inside me. Chlamydia. Dr Epstein started speaking but he sounded like a bee in the corner of the room. A bee with a German accent. He buzzed away about antibiotics and effectiveness and timescales and frequency of doses, but none of it made any sense.
Until he said, ‘Ah so the next step will be notifying your sexual partners from the past six months.’
‘All of them?’ I gasped. Chlamydia shrunk while I started counting back, trying to tally how many awful conversations that would entail. Too many to bear – I cou
ldn’t count them, couldn’t even begin to. Dr Epstein was buzzing again and this time I forced myself to listen to what he was saying.
‘. . . if you want, we can contact your partners on your behalf, telling them that they may have been exposed to the infection and that they, and their partners, should get tested. Your name wouldn’t be mentioned . . . buzz buzz buzz.’
I swallowed. Bloody hell, I didn’t even have a last name for some of them! Oh, Claudia, you idiot. It was one thing to enjoy sex like one might enjoy a sweetie; it was quite another thing to have the whole sweetie jar tipped onto the table for all to see.
‘The woman who does this job does it in complete confidence. There isn’t much she hasn’t seen.’
Suddenly I bristled. He was patronising me! I clenched my hands in my lap. I was being tossed from indignation at the situation to deep insecurity about my choices. Furious, I felt tears well up. Dr Epstein passed me tissues, and his small act of kindness made me weep even more. I stabbed at the tears and blew my nose noisily, trying to regain some composure.
‘I’ll need to get some of the contacts from home,’ I said eventually.
‘That’s fine. If it’s possible, please drop them in tomorrow.’ He passed me a card. ‘Actually, I think there’s an email address on there. You could email them to her.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I said, my voice tinny.
Back at the office, I was completely distracted. I tried to bury myself in work but it was useless. Even though I had a pile of tasks waiting for me, I couldn’t focus on a single one of them. The knot in my stomach tightened as the minutes ticked over. I kept coming back to the gruesome reality of having to tell all those men about the infection. I had questions now too – of course they’d started bouncing round and round my head, competing for space with that word, once I’d left the surgery. If they told my partners, would I be told which one of the bastards gave me the infection? Of course not! Damn patient confidentiality. I got up from my desk and stood at the window, resting my forehead on the cool glass. I could see the logic of having a service to tell my partners but something didn’t quite sit right. Of course it didn’t sit right. How could news like this ever sit right? I needed to know who the culprit was, that’s why! I stared out the window at the Thames, glinting in the early spring sunshine. Sunshine – I hadn’t even noticed there was sunshine.
‘Everything OK?’
I swung around, my hand on my chest. ‘Jesus, John, you gave me a fright!’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to.’
He offered a soft smile.
‘Why didn’t you knock?’
John looked a little sheepish. ‘I don’t know really. I didn’t really want to disturb you, in case you were on the phone.’
What was he talking about?
‘You could have been on an important call!’ he said defensively.
‘People usually knock on my door.’
‘Sorry,’ he said again. As he stood there, his solid frame seemed to take up more room than usual and it was as if he wasn’t quite sure where to put himself, as if he couldn’t remember exactly why he was there.
‘You were looking thoughtful, Claudia.’
I wished he’d get to the point and then leave. I didn’t have the energy for small talk. I wasn’t even fit for work.
‘How long were you looking at me?’ I asked him.
‘Not long. Long enough to see you didn’t look very happy.’ He really was making an effort – that much was obvious. I took a deep breath and all of a sudden felt like I needed to talk about this awful situation right there and then.
‘I’m not happy as it happens, John,’ I said, fighting back yet more sissy tears.
John nodded slightly, waiting for me to go on.
‘Actually, it’s something I’d like to talk to you about.’
But John held a finger up to his mouth. ‘Can we talk about it outside of the office? Let me buy you dinner tonight,’ he said.
I paused, looking around my office for evidence that this wasn’t the place to discuss this.
‘Somewhere private, where we can have a good talk,’ he insisted.
And for a moment, I weighed up my need to be at home against my desire to share. Home won. I couldn’t have been ready to talk quite yet, after all.
‘I can’t.’
‘How about tomorrow night then?’
He wasn’t going to give up until he had a date. ‘OK, tomorrow night then,’ I said, knowing that I’d have twenty-four hours to come up with an excuse not to.
‘Great!’ His face lit up and he paused on the ball of one foot as if he was about to – horror of horrors – cross the floor to join me at my desk. But he stopped himself and left the room with a wave, closing the door quietly behind him.
26
ED
From: Ed Minkley
Date: Monday, 16 February
To: Covington Green <>[email protected]>
Subject: Dodgy
Charlie.jpg
Cov,
Here he is, Charles himself. I feel awful but I had a quick look at Sam’s account when she left her laptop lying around. If this comes back to bite me on the bum, it’ll all be your fault! So the competition . . . must be from a nice resort somewhere hot. See how the dapper mug’s eyes are slightly hooded, as if he is so relaxed he can barely open them. Don’t tell me, you’ve probably been to the same resort, you preppy bastard. Of course occupying the moral high ground means I wouldn’t ever consider visiting such a place. I know – they’re probably fantastic. Yada yada. There were loads of pics of him with the same leggy blonde thing, probably the girlfriend. I just don’t get it – this is who Sam is chasing? There were loads of other pics – of Charlie on boats, on waterskis, drunk Charlie, Charlie with a series of ladies who all look the same. All meaningless bullshit – playboys and empty-headed women having their jollies, completely oblivious to how the real world lives, their lifestyles revolving around having fun, fun and more fun. Fuck, they looked like they were having a bloody good time doing it! Can’t they look miserable now and then? Just for my sake?
Anyway, when I was on his page I saw his party invite and a list of people going to it. There was Sam. Seeing her name there made me feel like shit. I wished it was my party she was coming to. Get the violins out, mate!
But back to business – I’ve made a note of the place and time of the party and also the name of Charlie’s work . . .
You are making me feel extremely dodgy, mate. For a guy who likes saving the planet, you sure lack moral fibre.
Ed
27
SAM
I was texting at the table, and without Mara there to tell me not to, I could fiddle with my phone all night if I wanted. Mum, bless her, had requested a girls’ night out with her daughters. And like many of the barely concealed plans to get Rebecca and me to spend time together that Mum had tried over the years, this one was bound for failure. She was bustling – in fact she was even managing to bustle while she was sitting down, for Pete’s sake. She was on a mission and I had a terrible feeling the mission was that this girls’-night malarkey would become a regular occurrence. Right on cue she began gushing once the preliminary – and in both Rebecca’s and my case begrudging – hellos had been dispensed with.
‘So Suzanne has this thing with her daughters.’ She paused and looked at each of us in turn, making sure we were paying attention. I lifted my head from the phone long enough for her to stop looking at me. I had no desire to hear anything more. It was Suzanne who inspired Mum to enthusiastically slap up friezes, a different one for each room, throughout the entire house, a good five years after they’d gone out of fashion. Suzanne, whose hair was so emphatically blow-dried it should come with a public health warning. Suzanne, who generated a special, Suzanne-sized sigh from Dad every time she ‘popped in’. Suzanne, who lived next door.
‘Once a month, they meet for a night together. A girls’ night,’ she added, hooking
her fingers around the imaginary sentence hanging in the air in front of her.
We were silent.
‘So I thought that might suit us.’ She made big rotating motions with her hands. ‘I mean, I know you’re both really busy.’ She shook her fingers in Rebecca’s general direction. Oh yes, it was the full repertoire of her bustling plan-making. Lots of arm motions, lots of trilling. Way too much trilling.
‘What do you think?’
‘Well, it’s a good idea in theory, Mum, but as you say, we’re very busy,’ Rebecca said, while I sort of hmmmed in half-hearted agreement.
‘Great!’ Mum beamed. ‘Now let’s have a look at this menu. It certainly is different, isn’t it?’
We were eating Lebanese food, on account of Petersfield not having any, so in Mum’s book that definitely counted as ‘different’. Anything that wasn’t curry or Chinese would probably fall under this bracket. And different is what Mum loved. She wasn’t a small-town bigot, no way. She always got very excited about new experiences.
‘Look at that lovely picture!’ (A faded, slightly food-spattered print of a hubbly-bubbly pipe.)
‘These cushions are nice!’ (Running her multi-ringed fingers over cheap velveteen.)
‘Do you think these people are all Lebanese, you know, to get some authentic food?’ (Said in a stage whisper, as she peered around at the other diners, none of whom jumped out as particularly, or even partly, Lebanese.)
Once through this little routine she settled back in her chair, happy as anything. Here she was with her girls in an interesting place. What could be better?
‘So James hasn’t returned any of my calls,’ Rebecca stabbed across the table.
‘Oh dear, that must feel awful for you, darling,’ and the conversation galloped off around the rocky, windswept terrain that was Rebecca’s broken heart. And as nauseating as it was I didn’t mind it that much, at least not for the moment. I tuned out and tuned back into checking Facebook and noticing (not without considerable relief) that there were no new photos of Charlie with any beautiful women on there from today. In fact, I was discovering quite quickly that Charlie wasn’t really on Facebook much. Most of the photos posted were uploaded by his friends, not by him, which was probably a good thing. I was trying to see it as a good thing anyway. He was too busy doing other things – that was good, right? Of course it was. The problem with him not Facebooking of course meant that I started imagining all of those other things he was too busy doing and it invariably involved him looking all sharp and gorgeous, with some silky stick on his arm who wasn’t me.
Chasing Charlie Page 13
