But in sharp contrast to the last time I spoke to her, after the presentation – nostrils flaring, blood pressure soaring, hooves stamping – she seems fairly relaxed. She even manages a smile.
Perhaps she’s come to the conclusion that I’m right and she’s going to confess all to Charlie. Or maybe she was nice and smiley to get through the door, and now she’s about to launch into another tirade.
But whatever I’m expecting, it certainly isn’t what comes out of her mouth.
‘Did you ever wonder,’ she says softly, ‘why the letters from that money lender stopped?’
I stare at her.
‘You don’t think they would have given up that quickly, do you?’
‘Money lenders?’
What’s she talking about?
‘Yes. You know. In London.’
In a daze, I think back.
I’d taken out a small loan to buy some glass-blowing equipment but when the trading went belly-up, I couldn’t afford to settle the debt. After I left London, a few redirected letters had arrived at Mum’s demanding repayment. But after a while – nothing.
‘They couldn’t track me down.’ I shrug. ‘So I counted myself lucky and forgot about it.’
She fixes me with her cool, green eyes. ‘They never found you because I made sure they didn’t.’
‘You made sure?’ She’s lost me. ‘But why? How?’
‘People kept coming to the flat looking for you. But I told them you’d left suddenly and I had no idea where you’d gone.’
We stare at each other in silence.
‘God, I never realised,’ I say at last. ‘Um – thank you.’
‘No problem.’ She gives an offhand shrug. ‘That’s what friends do for each other.’
‘But it must have been awful for you. I’d have paid the money back. You should have just given them Mum’s address.’
‘But I didn’t.’ She says it so softly I can barely hear her. ‘I lied to the money lenders to save your skin.’
We stare at each other, absorbed in our own thoughts.
Then suddenly, the penny drops.
‘Hang on a second.’ I narrow my eyes at her. ‘I hope you’re not saying what I think you’re saying.’
‘Which is?’ She’s all wide-eyed innocence.
‘That because you lied and got me out of a tight spot, I should lie to Charlie for you?’
She sighs impatiently. ‘But it wouldn’t be lying. Not really.’
‘You’re joking.’ I give a harsh laugh. ‘That’s exactly what it would be.’
‘Yes, but can’t you see it from my point of view? I’m determined to turn the business around.’ Blood rushes into her cheeks. ‘I’ll work my butt off to make that happen. You know I will. And when we’re a big success – in all senses of the word – Charlie will be really glad he invested in us.’
I stare at her sadly. ‘It’s still a lie. However you try to convince yourself otherwise.’
‘And you’re so squeaky clean, aren’t you?’ Her eyes flash angrily. ‘Miss Bobbie Bloody Perfect!’
‘No, of course I’m not.’
‘Well, Beau thought so.’
‘What?’
‘He thought you were wonderful.’ Her tone is scathing. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know.’
I stare at her, bewildered. ‘I didn’t! I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Don’t act all innocent. I lost Beau because of you.’
‘What?’ A laugh bursts out because it’s all so ridiculous. ‘How was it my fault you two split up?’
‘Because he kept comparing me with you.’
‘He did?’
She gives a harsh laugh. ‘You were a shining example of womanhood, apparently. Modest, well-balanced and not married to your job. Like I was.’
I laugh awkwardly. ‘Are you sure it was me he was talking about?’
She turns away. ‘To be fair, he didn’t keep comparing us. He only said it once, the day he left.’ She turns to me accusingly. ‘After he’d taken you out for that drink.’
‘Oh, that,’ I say surprised. My mind whizzes back. It was the night before I left London and I remember Beau turning up and taking me for one farewell drink at the pub on the corner. I can’t recall what we talked about. I was in far too much of a state to concentrate on anything except the fact that my whole world had come crashing down.
‘That drink was nothing.’ I appeal to her. ‘You were out when he came by. Otherwise you would have been there with us.’
She shrugs, looking suddenly defeated. ‘I know. But the point is, I wasn’t what he wanted in the end. He wanted someone like you. He came round that night to break up with me.’
We sit in silence.
I can’t believe she’s held a grudge against me all this time about something so trifling.
Except it wasn’t trifling to her. Not when the man she adored was breaking up with her. Telling her she wasn’t what he wanted.
I smile sadly at her. ‘But none of that was my fault.’
She frowns. ‘I know. But it felt like it at the time. Especially when you buggered off back to your Mum’s the day after I was chucked, without even a backward glance to make sure I wasn’t killing myself or something.’
I stare at her in horror. ‘But I never knew! I assumed your break-up was a mutual thing.’
‘Yes, but you never bothered to find out, did you? You were so obsessed with your own stuff, you were totally blind to my pain.’
‘But I had to leave London. I couldn’t pay the rent and Bob had buggered off. I really had no option.’
‘Yes, well, that’s a matter of opinion.’
‘Carol, I had no money. I’d lost every penny. What could be worse than that?’
She laughs bitterly. ‘Plenty. Having a family who judge your worth by your bank balance? Having the man you adore tell you you’re a sad workaholic who needs to get a life – without him in it? Having a ‘best friend’ who doesn’t care enough to stay, even though I pleaded with her and offered to let her live rent-free until she sorted herself out?’
‘Rent-free? Wow. I’d forgotten that.’
She nods slowly and emphatically, as if to say ‘what greater sacrifice can a person make for a friend than to suspend rent payments?’
‘But I did care,’ I protest. ‘I do. I was just so – I don’t know – well, fucked up, I suppose.’ I shiver at the memory. ‘Money terrifies me. It always has.’
We sink once more into silence.
Then Carol gives me a feeble grin. ‘It was a bloody mess, wasn’t it? An absolute fucking disaster.’
I smile back. She’s not just thinking of the trading going wrong or even her break-up with Beau. She’s talking about the death of a friendship, too.
‘You’re right there,’ I say, leaning sideways and gently bumping her shoulder with mine. ‘An absolute fucking disaster.’
She draws in her breath then exhales sharply. ‘What a pair.’
‘Yeah.’
She straightens and crosses her arms. ‘So … can I rely on you to keep quiet?’
‘Sorry?’
‘We’re a team,’ she says coolly. ‘We need to get the company back on track. So we need that investment.’
She narrows her eyes at me. ‘And people will lose their jobs if you go telling tales to Charlie.’
I stare at her, speechless for a moment.
‘God, you really are a piece of work!’ I flick my eyes to the ceiling. ‘How the Hell did you get to be so conniving and manipulative and – and downright mean?’
‘Ask my father.’ She gives a bitter laugh. ‘I guess I’m just a chip off the old block.’
‘Of course you’re not. You’re completely different. Your father thinks about nothing else except making money and striving for success at all costs.’
‘Tell me about it!’ Her mouth twists wryly.
I stare at her, wanting to understand.
She sighs impatiently. ‘My father expects a
return on his investment. He bank-rolled me, remember? He owns the cleaning business. If he ever finds out it’s a failure, I’m done for. Totally.’
‘That bad?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She laughs mirthlessly. ‘But conversely, if I trample over people to succeed, thus displaying the ruthless streak of the McGinleys, there’s a chance my father might actually be proud of me for once.’
Before I can say anything, she marches through to the hall, flings open the door and hares down the stairs.
She’s always hated people seeing her cry.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
It’s just after seven and I’m in a taxi with Tim and Ryan, heading for Fez’s party.
Destination: The Vista Ballroom on the top floor of the Tower Hotel.
‘Your hair’s nice,’ says Tim from the back seat.
‘Praise indeed.’ I turn to give him a droll look and my new silky bob, with its deep chestnut glints, swings round and tickles my neck.
Tim is my most nit-picky critic. If Tim says it’s ‘nice’, it must look ‘sick’, which is, apparently, a huge compliment.
When I put on the turquoise dress, I couldn’t believe how perfectly it fitted me. Wearing shapeless clothes all the time, I’d assumed I’d lost my figure. But I haven’t.
In the dress and with my new hair, I feel almost like a different person – someone stronger and more confident.
The sort of person who can easily march right into that party and say the things that are begging to be said.
The views will be great, I think, as we draw up outside the twelve storey building on the river front and walk in to reception. It’s cutting edge modern inside, all glass and chrome, with talking point objects d’art at every turn.
I must make a point of looking at the views, I decide, as I wait for the receptionist to finish her phone call. And I’ll do a few deep breathing exercises as well. That’s bound to have a calming effect on my insides. Because however determined I am to do the right thing, I’m still feeling horribly apprehensive. My stomach is stuck on a sixty degree wash cycle with loads of spin.
The receptionist directs us to the lift and I call for Tim and Ryan who are smirking at a semi-nude statue in the corner.
‘This is a grown up party,’ I warn them as we wait for the lift. ‘I promised Fez you’d behave yourselves. Don’t let me down, lads.’
Tim looks indignant. ‘Of course we won’t.’
I’m not so sure. Why is it that pre-teen boys – normally fairly grown-up and sensible when they’re on their own – will regress about five years when they get together with their mates? Sometimes Tim and Ryan are worse than giggly schoolgirls. I’m praying this isn’t one of those occasions.
A man in overalls with a tool box gets in the lift with us and presses for the fifth floor.
I look at Tim and Ryan. Grins and secret looks are passing to and fro. They’re planning something, I can tell. And sure enough, before I can press twelve, Tim nips over to the control pad and with a big grin, hits each button in turn.
‘Tim!’ I give the workman a despairing ‘what can you do?’ look. He smiles and shrugs as if to say boys will be boys.
Naturally, Tim and Ryan find it hugely funny when we lurch to a halt at the first floor then have to wait ages for the lift to proceed.
When the doors open at the second floor, it’s clear there’s a kid’s fancy dress Christmas party going on. Two kids and their mum are searching through a large assortment of colourful costumes and wigs laid out on a table outside a function room. The boy, already dressed as Robin Hood, is running back and forward, firing off plastic arrows, while his younger sister’s whining that there are no Cinderella costumes left. Mum is valiantly trying to convince her that being a snowman is so much cooler.
She catches my eye and I give her a sympathetic smile. Good luck with that one, Mum!
‘Can we get out here?’ asks Tim, as the lift doors start to close.
‘No, of course you can’t.’ I laugh. ‘That’s not your party.’
At last we make it to the twelfth floor, follow the arrows on the wall to Fez’s event and step into a Christmas wonderland.
Ryan and Tim fall silent.
The space is huge. But ambient lighting and the twinkle of a thousand fairy lights – strung along the bar, dropping like icicles – give the room a festive, magical feel. There’s a magnificent, elaborately decorated tree in the corner and small tables with starched white cloths are arranged in a horseshoe formation around the dance floor.
‘Look up,’ says Tim, nudging me.
It’s my turn to say ‘wow’.
The ceiling is draped in midnight blue with hundreds of lights twinkling like tiny stars.
People are already milling about in their party sparkle, chatting, getting drinks from the bar and finding tables. Michael Bublé is wrapping us all up in love, hoping we have a ‘holly, jolly Christmas’.
Fez comes over.
‘Hi. You made it.’ He high fives the two boys, makes sure we have drinks (mulled wine for me, cokes for the boys) and whisks off to welcome more guests.
We stand on the fringe of the party, sipping at our glasses, watching the ballroom slowly fill with people. Part of me is dreading seeing Carol again after her speedy exit last night. And every time my eye lights upon a tall man with broad shoulders and dark hair my heart does this funny little leap in my chest.
But they’re not here.
After all my brave talk in front of the mirror, rehearsing what I’d say to Charlie, it looks like I’ll have to wait a little longer to get it off my chest.
‘Come on,’ I say at last. ‘Let’s sit down.’
We wander over to the tables and a waiter refills my glass.
I point to the buffet to keep the boys interested. ‘Look, we’ll be having food soon.’
And just then, Charlie walks in.
At once, I feel shy and slightly awkward, like a pre-teen at her first disco. He’s wearing fitted cream chinos and a cornflower blue shirt. And he’s chatting to Fez as if he’s known him all his life. At one point, his eyes sweep the room and land on me. I quickly look away in case he thinks I was staring.
‘Earth to Bobbie!’
I’m suddenly aware that Tim’s trying to get my attention.
He holds up his empty glass. ‘I said, what sort of drinks do they have?’
‘Go and get some more.’ I grin at them and they’re off in a flash. ‘But no energy drinks!’
‘That’s something I could bloody do with,’ says a voice at my shoulder. ‘Energy.’
It’s Carol in a pale green strappy dress and high wedges.
I touch the little silver star that’s clipped in her hair. ‘That’s nice. You look great.’
‘So do you. Gosh, I remember that dress.’ She turns and looks at me properly. ‘I was there when you bought it. Those were the days.’
We smile wistfully.
Then she glances round. ‘Where’s Charlie?’
‘In the corner over there beside the artfully arranged twigs,’ I say, without missing a beat. ‘Chatting to the woman in the red dress.’
Carol gives me an odd look.
Bugger! I’m supposed to be completely indifferent to Charlie, not able to come up with detailed Ordnance Survey co-ordinates at a second’s notice. I have been trying my hardest not to look at him – with a sliding scale of success that relates inversely to the quantity of mulled wine I’ve consumed.
And then it occurs to me.
If I ever thought Carol might be harbouring notions of a love match with Charlie, I know now I was wrong. If she really liked him she wouldn’t have had to ask where he was.
She would have known, like hopeless, lovelorn me, exactly where he was in the room.
What this actually implies sinks into my brain slowly, like a cherry in a bowl of whipped cream.
Oh, God.
It’s time I faced it.
I’m in love with Charlie.
‘Are you all
right?’ Carol peers at me. ‘You look a bit flushed.’
‘Must be the drink.’ I look at Carol. Really look at her. And suddenly, I know how she must have felt about Beau. Because that’s the way I feel about Charlie. Happy and sort of exhilarated. But scared and a little bit uncertain, too.
‘You know, Beau wasn’t good enough for you.’ (I can speak with authority. I’ve been online and seen his relationship track record. Plus he’s dyed his hair that funny auburny colour.) ‘And there was absolutely nothing going on between him and me.’
She shrugs. ‘I believe you. What I can’t believe is that I’ve held it against you for all this time.’
I glance at her in surprise. Is that an apology?
‘Neither of us was blameless.’ I nudge her shoulder with mine. ‘It was crossed wires. We were both in a state.’
‘Bloody stupid,’ she grumbles. ‘Bloody Beau.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Love, eh?’
We sink into silence, watching the milling crowd gradually head for the buffet.
Then she sighs. ‘I mean, how the Hell are you supposed to know who’s really right for you?’ She turns with a wry smile. ‘Any ideas?’
I ponder this for a second, trying not to look in the vicinity of the artistically arranged twigs.
‘Well … you’d probably think he was the most attractive man you’d ever met. And the hottest, of course.’
She nods.
‘And your heart would probably launch into a funny sort of tap dance routine whenever he entered the room. Plus you’d spend a ridiculous amount of time thinking about the all the little things you’d done together and laughed about.’
‘Right.’
‘Obviously, you couldn’t bear to imagine a future without him in it. And you’d get – I don’t know – ridiculously anxious when you think he might possibly fancy someone else.’
She’s looking at me a little strangely but I don’t care. I’m in the flow, expressing myself effortlessly for once and it feels good.
I gaze up at the twinkly lights on the ceiling for inspiration. ‘You’d wish you didn’t think about him as often as you do. But at the same time’ – I smile indulgently to myself – ‘you wouldn’t really want to think about anything else.’
Wow, I think, maybe I should write a book. It could be called How To Spot The Signs …
Humbugs and Heartstrings Page 26
