The Night That Changed Everything

by Laura Tait

‘I hadn’t planned to do it today. I was going to give it a month or two to save up a bit, but then Richardson came over and said what he said and I just thought, Fuck it. I mean, nothing’s going to concentrate my mind like being unemployed, right?’

  ‘Follow your gut,’ says Danielle.

  Jamie looks at her. ‘Normally I’d be with you on that,’ he says. ‘But not with Ben. His gut has a very poor sense of direction. His gut is pre-satnav.’

  ‘He’s right,’ I agree. ‘But one thing I do know for sure is I need to get my own place.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that, mate,’ says Jamie.

  ‘On the subject of apologies,’ I say, ignoring him and turning to Danielle. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been a very good mate lately. I know this whole thing has been—’

  ‘It’s OK,’ she cuts me off. ‘I know you had to put Rebecca first.’

  Her name almost feels tangible, as though she is here in the room, which only serves to remind us all that she’s not. The silence is eventually broken by a beeping inside Danielle’s patent handbag. She delves inside and spends at least a minute reading the text message.

  Jamie looks knowingly at Danielle so that I feel like I’m witnessing some kind of private joke.

  ‘It’s Shane,’ she eventually explains.

  ‘I thought Rebecca made you delete his number?’

  ‘He texted me.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Jamie. ‘To see if he could borrow money.’

  ‘And you presumably told him to F off?’ I say.

  ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Though I paraphrased a bit.’

  ‘To what?’ I ask.

  ‘How much?’ answers Jamie.

  I can’t help but laugh.

  ‘This is all Rebecca’s fault,’ says Danielle, folding her arms huffily. ‘I wouldn’t be replying if she was here to stop me.’

  Danielle scrutinizes the message again.

  ‘What’s he put?’ asks Jamie.

  Danielle sighs. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Danielle?’

  She sighs. ‘Haha.’

  ‘Haha?’ says Jamie. ‘That’s what you spent three months reading?’

  ‘I was trying to work out what to text back.’

  Jamie and I share a disbelieving look, then he snatches the phone.

  ‘Oi,’ moans Danielle.

  ‘You can’t reply to Haha.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Do you want to tell her?’ he says to me.

  ‘Jamie’s right,’ I say. ‘Haha is text speak for Go away now.’

  Danielle’s bottom lip protrudes at the injustice.

  ‘On the subject of dating,’ I say to Jamie, ‘did anything happen with Tidy Tania after I left on New Year?’

  Jamie nibbles at the nail of his thumb, then gets up to fill the kettle.

  ‘No.’

  Without asking if anyone wants a drink he pulls three mugs from the cupboard.

  ‘Why not?’ I ask.

  He rolls his shoulders, adding teabags and sugar to the three mugs.

  ‘Why are you avoiding the question?’

  ‘It was New Year’s Eve, I was too busy,’ he says to shut me up.

  We watch him make the tea and bring it over but he ignores our eyes, and then deflects the attention back on to me.

  ‘Ben is worried that Rebecca is online dating.’

  Danielle’s laugh sounds like a handbrake being yanked. ‘Er, no,’ she says.

  ‘That’s what I said,’ says Jamie.

  ‘But . . .’ I start, but I censor myself, because I don’t want Danielle to know why I’m suspicious.

  ‘Listen,’ says Jamie, ‘I know Rebecca isn’t exactly open about this stuff, but I talk to her a lot, and she hasn’t given me any hint at all that she’s ready for anything new, and even if she is online dating, which I maintain she definitely isn’t, she’s hardly going to end up with any of them, is she?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because . . .’ A few seconds pass. ‘Because unexpected break-ups are like house fires. You can’t just buy a load of new stuff and move back in. You need to give the house time to air, otherwise you’re just going to stink of ash and fire.’

  I smile. ‘You’re saying Rebecca stinks?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’

  ‘Good. I like that.’

  Our eyes meet and we exchange a grin, and if the world was different and these kinds of things were acceptable I’d go over and give him a hug.

  ‘You’re a good mate,’ I tell him instead.

  ‘The best,’ agrees Danielle.

  Jamie sips his tea. ‘I’m not going to argue.’ He slurps the drink. ‘And actually, there’s a way you can repay me.’

  ‘How?’ I say.

  ‘You can come and cook at the bar a few nights a week.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I was going to ask you anyway, but now you’ve quit your job you don’t really have an excuse.’

  I’m totally confused. ‘But you’ve got a chef?’

  ‘He walked out on Saturday after all the complaints.’

  ‘He just walked out without giving you any notice?’

  ‘Isn’t that exactly what you’ve just done?’

  I lift the mug to my mouth. I’ve already drunk the tea; I’m just stalling to think.

  It’s not as if I couldn’t do with the money but . . .

  . . . I don’t know.

  ‘Burgers and nachos aren’t exactly my thing, mate.’

  ‘Then change the menu.’

  He says it flippantly, as though placing his professional kitchen in the hands of a complete novice isn’t a big deal at all. Cooking for him here is one thing, but I’m not sure I’d know where to start in a proper kitchen.

  ‘And do I need to remind you of rule six,’ he says, wagging his finger towards the chalkboard. ‘Cook for Jamie.’

  I look at them both, a nervous grin cracking my lips.

  ‘You’d be doing me a huge favour,’ he adds.

  ‘OK, I’ll do it.’

  Jamie slaps his hands together in delight and Danielle looks just as pleased as she stands up.

  ‘What time is it?’ she asks.

  Jamie checks on her phone before returning it to her. ‘Ten past eleven.’

  ‘Shit, I’d better go if I’m going to make this client meeting.’

  ‘What time’s it start?’ I ask.

  ‘Half ten.’

  Chapter Twenty-six

  REBECCA

  Friday, 13 February

  ‘I didn’t know you were left-handed.’

  ‘Holy crap,’ yelps Jemma with a jump. ‘You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ I protest, glancing back at the lift. ‘I just came out and walked right up to you. It’s lunchtime.’ I notice her placing an arm over what she was writing so I can’t see it. ‘What you doing?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then why do you look guilty?’ I spot a red envelope next to her and grin. ‘Aw, you’re writing a Valentine’s card.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Who’s it for?’

  ‘No one.’ She piles both hands over the top half of the card so all I can see is the sign-off. Love, your secret admirer.

  ‘I didn’t realize people still sent anonymous Valentine’s cards.’

  ‘Well, they do. It takes me aboot three days to open all mine. And my flat always ends up looking like a cyclist got killed there because of all the flowers.’ She keeps laughing until she starts to sound demented, then peters out. ‘So, what are you wearing to the company do tonight?’

  ‘Dunno. I’m going to grab something now.’

  ‘You haven’t got a dress yet?’ She opens her mouth and covers both cheeks with her hands dramatically, leaving the card uncovered so I can’t help but notice the name.

  ‘Dear Rebecca,’ I read aloud. ‘Um . . . Jemma?’

  ‘Twat!’ she scolds herself, slapping he
r own forehead. ‘OK, fine – it’s for you. I’m in love with you.’

  What?

  Jemma cracks up. ‘You should see your face. I’m not really. I just thought a card might boost your confidence a bit after the shite few months you’ve had. You get all weird when guys chat you up, even though you’re pretty and stuff.’

  She was sending me a Valentine’s card so I’d feel loved? I’m so touched I can’t speak for a moment.

  ‘Just to reiterate, though,’ she adds, ‘I don’t want to rub fannies with you.’

  ‘Understood.’ I pick up the card and study it. ‘Did you want me to think that my secret admirer has only just learnt to write?’

  ‘Piss off,’ she cries, grabbing it back. ‘I was writing with my left hand so you wouldn’t know it was from me. Ballsed that right up, didn’t I?’

  Then she grins. ‘You never know, though, you might get a real one from you-know-who.’

  ‘Nah, I haven’t heard from Ben since before Christmas.’ I try to keep my voice light. ‘I hardly think he’ll be at home right now writing poetry. Not for me, anyway.’

  ‘Ben? Why would your ex send you a card? You split up months ago.’

  ‘Three and a half months.’

  ‘Exactly. I was talking about the hot vampire – I don’t care what you say, there’s definitely pent-up sexual chemistry between you and he’s—’

  ‘Coming through the door right now,’ I interrupt. ‘Sshhh.’ I nod at Adam as he approaches reception. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Afternoon,’ he says, his eyes flitting unsurely from Jemma to me and back again. Did he hear us? ‘Just dropping off this for Jake.’ He holds up some paperwork.

  ‘Nae bother – I’ll call him.’

  While Jemma’s on the phone I rummage through my handbag, even though I’m not looking for anything, then pull out my mobile as if to demonstrate I’ve found it. It’s weird: since the night we almost kissed, Adam and I have been working well together, and I’m fine when we’re talking about the project, but I can’t talk to him about anything else without feeling awkward.

  ‘You going to the grand party tonight?’ he asks.

  ‘Yep. You?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Head on up.’ Jemma hangs up and waits until Adam’s out of earshot to squeal: ‘See?’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘The sexual tension was so thick I could have actually had sex with it.’

  ‘Bollocks was it.’ Sometimes I wish I thought like Jemma, seeing every single bloke as a potential mate. ‘Anyway, I’d better go get a dress.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I forgot that’s where we were.’ She opens her mouth and covers both cheeks with her hands dramatically again. ‘You haven’t got a dress yet?’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ I tell her, but my nonchalance is fake. I’ve been putting off finding a dress ever since I got the bloody invitation to the Goode Grand Party, because I hate shopping, I really do. I hate the queues, I hate trying on clothes in busy changing rooms. I hate the pushy sales assistants asking if there’s anything they can help with when you’re just looking, and I hate the lazy sales assistants who are nowhere to be seen when you need something in another size.

  ‘I’ll come help you,’ says Jemma, jumping down from her seat.

  ‘You don’t have to do that.’ If there’s one thing I hate more than shopping, it’s shopping with other girls.

  ‘I insist.’

  ‘Oh. Great.’

  I feel like a dick as we trawl round House of Fraser and I have to admit – as much as I hate to – I miss Danielle.

  I wouldn’t have been running around trying to find a dress at the eleventh hour on her watch.

  She’d have found me something – and come over to do my hair and make-up too.

  As a kid, I was always unsure and awkward when it came to dressing up. Maybe it was the lack of females in my life. No mum, no sister – and because I was shy and we moved around a lot, I never had close girlfriends until I went to uni. It felt easier kicking about with my brother and his mates – girlfriends were much harder work until I met Danielle.

  Then again, maybe I got it right as a kid.

  This is all right, I think, holding a silky, navy Coast dress against my front. The sort of thing Danielle would have suggested.

  Not the sort of thing she’d choose for herself, though. Her outfits scream party girl.

  The thought annoys me for some reason.

  Maybe that’s why she always made sure I was dressed a little more conservatively than her: so it would be obvious who the fun one was.

  I hang up the dress and carry on wandering through the store, and find myself stopping at a dress that’s far more up Danielle’s street.

  ‘Show me,’ yells Jemma through the changing-room curtain five minutes later. This is why I hate shopping with other people.

  ‘What do you think?’ I say, pulling back the curtain.

  The dress is blood red, with a short, A-line skirt. Maybe it’s time for me to be the party girl, I figured. The stilettos are a little higher than I tend to go for, but it’s time I try something new.

  ‘It’s perfect.’

  ‘Really?’ I bite my lip. It is short.

  ‘Definitely. I mean, tonight is the night you wanted to introduce your colleagues to your flaps, right?’

  Oh.

  ‘Look at the back in the mirror and lean over a little,’ she continues.

  Oh dear God, what was I thinking?

  ‘And don’t take this the wrong way, pal,’ she adds, ‘but those shoes make you look like a tranny.’

  ‘There’s no right or wrong way to take that.’ I sigh, sinking down on the bench and feeling the cold wood making direct contact with my buttocks. ‘You know, I think I might just give tonight a miss.’

  ‘What the bloody hell is wrong with you?’

  ‘I miss Danielle,’ I tell her with a sigh.

  ‘Um, thanks very much.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ I give her a small smile. ‘It’s just . . . not having anything to wear tonight reminds me that it’s pretty much down to her that I actually own clothes. She gave up trying to drag me shopping. She used to make notes whenever she saw something she thought would suit me. Then she’d send me a link to it online, so all I had to do was enter my card details if I liked it.’

  ‘Sounds like a good friend,’ she says, and then more gently: ‘Maybe you should make up with her?’

  I always did like the outfits she suggested for me. I have to give her that – she always got my style spot on, despite us having totally different tastes.

  Then again, maybe she was just pretending to have different tastes, because she’d secretly already worn all my clothes the night I met them.

  ‘You seem in a really good place at the moment,’ adds Jemma. ‘Think you could forgive and forget? Bet she misses you too.’

  ‘Nope, I’ll get by.’

  ‘OK then, I’ll help find you something. But we’re going to have to take a half day – I can’t turn this around in fifteen minutes. I can only work with what I’ve got.’

  I cave, and after we’ve phoned the office to clear the time off, Jemma drags me to a boutique in Old Street, where she collects dresses off the rails like it’s Supermarket Sweep before pushing me inside the changing room.

  ‘Oi, Cinders!’ bellows Jemma, as I try them on. ‘Hurry up. I just phoned that salon across the road and booked me a blow-dry and you an updo.’

  I sigh loudly.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she adds.

  Nothing suits me and I’m close to giving up when I pull on an ankle-length satin gown in a shade of green so dark, it’s almost black. The front falls into a low V, but not dramatically so. The back is so low it ends just above my bum.

  ‘Rebecca!’ Jemma squeals, when I pull back the curtain. ‘You look like a movie star!’

  ‘A transvestite movie star?’ I joke, but when I look in the mirror properly, I have to admit, this dress works for me.

  ‘Not
at all.’ Jemma shakes her head. ‘And it’s floor-length so it’ll hide your big boat feet.’

  I buy it, and as we leave the salon after getting our hair done – me walking, and Jemma jogging next to me, trying to keep up – I reluctantly admit to her I’m glad she made me do this.

  ‘Fun, isn’t it?’ She beams. ‘We’re like the Sex in the City girls.’

  ‘Don’t push it.’

  ‘Let’s get our make-up done in Selfridges, then go get ready in the pub.’

  ‘Ta-da.’ Jemma emerges from the pub loos a couple of minutes after me and gives me a twirl.

  ‘Jem, you look lovely.’

  ‘Oh, fuck off.’

  ‘You do.’ She does. The sleeveless, gold, lacey top of her dress clings in all the right places, while the layered skirt puffs out flatteringly.

  ‘Be honest,’ she says, ‘do I look like a hippo in a tutu?’

  ‘God, no. That’s perfect on you.’

  ‘You sure I don’t look like a fat Christmas fairy?’

  ‘Not at all. You look gorgeous.’

  ‘All right, calm down. I’m still not going to have sex with you.’ Jemma hands me her bags. ‘Prosecco?’

  ‘Lovely.’

  I’ve barely touched a drop of drink since Jamie and Jemma’s Spintervention six weeks ago. I have to admit (though not to them) that I’m feeling miles better. I’m sleeping well, I’m finding it easier to concentrate and I’ve not had any more morning-after angst to deal with. I still blush when I remember New Year’s Eve, though thankfully Jamie seems as happy as me to pretend it never happened.

  ‘The guy that was standing next to me at the bar,’ Jemma says as she puts my glass down. ‘I recognize him.’

  ‘Me too,’ I agree. ‘Maybe he’s famous.’

  I regret saying that because Jemma then lists every television show, film and band she knows, trying to work out which one he’s in.

  ‘Drop it, Jem.’

  ‘I can’t. Hollyoaks? Everyone is in Hollyoaks.’

  ‘I don’t watch it.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ she says, sounding disappointed. ‘I know who he is.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That dude in the Vietnamese place that tried to chat you up on the way out of the door.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Months ago. Had a beard at the time. Having lunch with a bald guy.’

  ‘How the hell do you remember that?’