by Kelly Doust
‘You must have heard,’ said Jenny excitedly. ‘They launched on Instagram last week.’
Jenny pulled out her phone, scrolling down the screen and handing it over the table towards them. Penny, who was nearest, snatched it from Jenny’s grip. She took a long, slow drag on her cigarette, staring at the images with an inscrutable expression.
‘Show me, Penn,’ Sylvie said with an edge of panic, shuffling closer to the phone.
Penny turned it towards her. Sylvie’s face went slack.
‘I . . . I don’t understand. Those aren’t mine, but they look almost exactly the same . . . They can’t seriously be trying to sell them. Can they?’
‘But they are selling them,’ Olivia said coolly. ‘Daddy’s just bought the entire range for every outlet we have across the country. We’re doing a huge display at our flagship store in Knightsbridge next week. The Carter sisters are flying in to launch it themselves.’
Sylvie had missed all this news. Of course she had – she’d been hiding away at Ben’s parents’ place last week on a self-imposed social media ban.
Those, those . . . thieves! Sylvie felt a tic in her jaw start up. It took every reserve of her self-control not to scream.
‘Great frock, Olivia, looks amazing on you,’ Penny drawled. Sylvie turned to stare in surprise at her friend, who was paying her no attention, smiling brightly at Olivia instead. ‘Yeah, didn’t I see you in that same outfit at Alexa Chung’s party last Saturday? Nice to see you’re getting some wear out of it.’
Olivia stiffened and swung her glossy mane of hair around her shoulders. ‘Come on, girls. I’m bored, let’s go. See you around.’
‘Yeah – laters,’ Penny said, narrowing her eyes uncivilly.
As Olivia and her cronies turned away, Sylvie overheard Birgette’s loud whisper into Olivia’s ear: ‘. . . soooo over.’ Oliva shrugged, looked back at Sylvie and smiled maliciously. ‘Yeah.’ She made quote marks with her fingers and mouthed ‘What not to do’ to Sylvie.
Sylvie felt sick to her stomach. She knew they were referring to her crashing and burning in New York. She could almost take that, but what felt almost more galling was Olivia’s reference to her great-grandmother’s classic book on upper class etiquette What to Do, published in 1952 and still in print. The thought of her darling Lizzie being mocked – because of her own failure – made her stomach plummet.
Penny eyed Sylvie across the table. ‘You okay? Sorry, darls. I wasn’t sure if you knew . . .’
‘You’ve seen those scarf pics too?’ Sylvie said hoarsely, her throat suddenly raw. ‘Why has nobody thought to say something until now?’ With shaking hands, she lit up another cigarette. Her first reaction was scalding anger – she wanted to firebomb the both of them!
‘Well, I thought they were yours, didn’t I? They’re so similar, I just assumed you had something to do with it. We hadn’t spoken in months, after all. But then you turned up out of the blue, and I realised things must still be pear-shaped . . .’
‘I don’t know how they can just take my designs and run with them like that . . .’ Sylvie shook her head. ‘But let’s forget it.’
‘Up here for thinking,’ Penns tapped her head, ‘and down there for dancing,’ she said, pointing to her feet. ‘They know you can’t do anything about it, that’s what. I’m not surprised they tried this. They’ve always copied your work, and those scarves were the most popular thing in your collection. They must realise you don’t have the money to sic a lawyer on to them at the moment.’
Tears welled in the corners of Sylvie’s eyes. She was such a hypocrite. She pushed her drink away. ‘Can I grab your keys, Penn – I’m just going to head back if you don’t mind,’ she said, trying to brush away the fat tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘I’ll leave them in the mailbox for you.’
‘Sylv! You can’t go now, babes, we’re just getting started!’ Penny looked stricken. ‘I’m playing at the Bussey later. It won’t get going for another few hours, but it’s such fun – you have to come.’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Sylvie said, stubbing out her cigarette and fumbling for her bag. As she stepped away from the table, she banged straight into a short, pretty Indian girl dressed up to the nines in a funked-up shalwar kameez.
‘Sylvie fecking Dearlove,’ she said in a thick Brummie accent, her hands on her hips. ‘Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes . . . Lord, but you’re skinny, pet. Haven’t you been eating?’
‘Tabs!’ Sylvie reeled. ‘What are you doing here?’
If she’d felt like shit a moment ago, now, somehow, Sylvie felt even worse. Her dearest friend had appeared from out of nowhere, and Sylvie was suddenly, painfully aware of how she’d failed to respond to her over the last year or more . . . She hadn’t even told Tabs she was coming home.
Tabs cocked her head. ‘I saw you talking to Miss Fairly-Long-Name over there. Thought you might welcome a friendly face.’ She cracked an enormous dimpled smile.
‘Oh, Tabs!’ Sylvie cried, throwing her arms around her. ‘It’s so good to see you!’
‘You too, lovely,’ Tabs said, hugging her back. ‘But what’s this – were you just going to sweep in and out of town without calling me . . . Seriously, what’s with that?’ Tabs asked, her artfully applied balayage perfectly matching the gold stud in her nose, her skin the colour of burnt caramel. ‘Oh, don’t cry, pet. Tell your Aunty Tabs everything.’ Tabs firmly steered her back to the banquette. ‘Hello, Penns – how’re you?’
‘Good, thanks. God, Tabs, you do look rather . . . themed. Are you planning on wearing that to the Bussey?’
‘Oh yes. It’s one of my Sylvie originals, isn’t it, Sylv?’
Sylvie couldn’t believe Tabs was still wearing one of the first pieces she’d ever made – a colourful scarf combo that didn’t quite make it into her award-winning St Martins show, but which somehow seemed to suit Tabs perfectly. It might not have been on trend – too garish and bright, and nothing at all like the tribal, iconic pieces she’d created for her later collections – but the scarves were Tabs all over: loud and colourful, showing just the right amount of cheek.
‘Oh, Tabs, you darling . . . But what are you doing here?’
Tabs raised an eyebrow. ‘Penn rang me, you eejit, as soon as you showed up at hers, so I got here as soon as I could. Lucky I did, too – you’re clearly wasting away.’
Sylvie gulped down a wave of shame and embarrassment. Just a few moments ago she’d been ruminating on Penny’s selfishness, but she was the selfish one. God, she didn’t even deserve them. She could have done with some support over the past few months, so why hadn’t she called upon her friends? What was wrong with her?
A bartender sidled up with a tray of drinks – twelve teetering shot glasses, filled to the brim with a viscous looking green substance – and placed them on the table. From the bar, next to the good-looking surfer dude, Jon waved and grinned happily.
‘Drinks!’ Tabs cried, passing them around. ‘All right, you lot – come on, get stuck in!’ she said, necking two in quick succession. ‘And can we please get some chips over here?’ she asked the waiter. ‘Or I’ll be under the table in no time.’
‘Fat chance,’ said Sylvie. Tabs’s ability to hold her alcohol was legendary.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ Tabs asked, slamming an empty glass on the table and lining up another in front of each of them.
With a throaty laugh, Penny leaned over to grab a glass. ‘Chartreuse?’ she asked.
‘Absinthe.’
‘Ugh. Well I suppose it’s one way to start the evening . . . Bottoms up.’
‘Oh, fuck it,’ said Sylvie, picking up a glass herself. There was no use – she had a rubber arm where Tabs was concerned.
‘That’s the spirit,’ Tabs laughed, pulling her in for a big smacking kiss. ‘That’s our girl – now drink up! We’re going to have some fun.’
4
The following day at around 2 p.m., heavy drapes drawn against the sunshine, Sylvie awoke to
another killing headache, her tongue thick and furred inside her mouth. It felt as though a small noxious creature had crawled inside her gullet and died there overnight – the thought made her stomach curl.
Rolling over on the pull-out mattress, trying to regain her bearings, Sylvie lifted the duvet to look down at herself. At least she was half-dressed, she thought. She was wearing a grey linen singlet and black M&S knickers. The rest of her clothes lay strewn across the floor. Jumping slightly at the sound of a snuffling breath, Sylvie realised there was someone sleeping on the bed beside her. God, what have I done? She stiffened momentarily, shame flushing through her, until, snoring lightly, the person drew a deep, waking breath.
‘All right, pet?’ Tabs asked, rolling over and smiling at her blearily through fake lashes.
Sylvie felt a wave of relief wash over her. Just Tabs, thank God. ‘Yes. No.’
She threw off the covers and fumbled her way to the bathroom, where she stood over the basin for a moment, riding a wave of nausea, pain throbbing inside her head. Inspecting herself in the mirror, scenes from the night before flashed through her mind: dancing in the thumping club, a darkened, dingy affair housed in an old munitions factory . . . standing outside, sucking down more Marlboro Lights . . . Penns laughing as they ate kebabs in the gutter at 3 a.m., grease dripping down their chins . . . Tabs reaching over to wipe her face with a napkin, looking gorgeously louche in her silvery heels and split-at-the-thigh shalwar kameez . . .
Sylvie let out a groan as she saw her reflection. Her skin looked pale and greasy, and massive circles ringed her puffy eyes, smudged from last night’s makeup.
Coming in behind her, Tabs shut the bathroom door and lowered herself to the loo for a pee, unbothered by Sylvie’s presence. By comparison, Tabs’s skin looked richly glowing and healthy as ever. Sylvie splashed some water on her face and groped for a towel, eyeing Tabs with barely disguised resentment.
‘It’s absolutely criminal how fresh you look,’ she croaked.
‘What have I always said, honey?’ Tabs grinned. ‘Black don’t crack.’
Sylvie looked at her in the mirror. ‘But you’re not black.’
‘Close enough. Kerala. Now, Penns and I have decided something,’ Tabs said firmly, standing up and flushing the loo, pulling her top down over her generously rounded bottom. ‘I’m on suicide watch. We’re not letting you out of our sight until you’re safely down in Somerset, and I can drop you first thing tomorrow morning. Fortunately for you, I’ve taken a few days off work, so there’s no need to get back too quickly.’
‘Are you kidding me?’ Sylvie asked, cheeks pinking with shame. ‘No, don’t be silly. I’ll be fine.’
‘Suuuure you will,’ Tabs drawled. ‘I’ll be coming with you all the same, thank you very much.’ She bumped Sylvie aside with her hip and washed her hands vigorously in the sink.
‘Really, it’s not necessary,’ Sylvie said grimly, hunting out Penny’s toothpaste. Where was her own toothbrush, she wondered, before realising she must have left it at Ben’s in her haste to leave. Honestly, it was a wonder that she’d managed to pack anything useful at all, the state she’d been in. She smeared toothpaste over her gums to get rid of the godawful taste in her mouth, and felt the familiar guilt wash over her. Oh God. She didn’t want to feel like this. So fucking miserable all the time, so aware of her mistakes . . .
‘You want coffee?’ she asked Tabs abruptly. ‘And where’s Penn? Has she gone out?’ As soon as she spoke, Sylvie realised that the house was quiet around them.
‘Yeah, she left earlier to go to work. And that would be a yes. I never say no to caffeine,’ Tabs said, brushing through her hair with her fingertips, looking at herself in the mirror.
‘Okay, give me a sec,’ said Sylvie, heading back into the bedroom, where she crouched down by her carry-on bag, rifling through the tangled clothes until she came across the little bottle of pills. Checking that Tabs was still in the bathroom, Sylvie quickly put a pill in her mouth, chasing it down with the glass of water that had been left by the bed. She leaned against the wall for a moment, waiting until everything calmed and settled.
Pretty much everyone else had it together, thought Sylvie. Jon had a great career as a stylist; Tabs had always had it sorted, and even Penny finally seemed to have her act together. Just me who’s the crashing failure, then, she winced, thinking of her last conversation with Ben, just before she’d left New York.
‘Honey,’ he’d said, holding her hand at a quiet little bar in Tribeca, looking earnestly into her eyes. ‘This is not the failure you think it is. Consider it an opportunity. Surely there’s something you can take from it?’
‘That I’m completely useless, you mean?’ Sylvie had said, pulling away her hand, tears coming to her eyes. His niceness was grating on her, making her hate herself even more.
‘Oi, where’s that coffee?’ hollered Tabs from the bathroom. ‘Is it coming this century or what?’
‘Coming right up,’ Sylvie shouted back, blinking back the ever-present tears and pushing herself off the wall.
Opening and closing Penny’s kitchen cupboards, she cast about for some coffee grounds, but apart from a few cases’ worth of wine and champagne, stacked haphazardly in the tiny pantry, and a few lonely-looking tins of puy lentils and diced tomatoes, they were bare. Eventually Sylvie found some coffee in the freezer. She pulled out a silvery pot from under the sink, filling it with coffee and cold water, and popped it on the stove top to boil.
When it was ready – letting out a sharp whistle that made Sylvie wince – she filled two small cups and swung around to see Tabs standing in the doorway, smiling at her.
‘How are you feeling?’ Tabs asked. ‘About being back, I mean?’
‘Oh . . . all right, I s’pose,’ said Sylvie. She sank down at the kitchen table and took a quick gulp of coffee. It was scalding. ‘Actually – a bit crap, if you must know. It’s the first time I’ve been home since . . . well, in ages.’
‘What’s it been – six years, or more? It must be hard . . . But you’re surely looking forward to catching up with everyone? Especially Lizzie – you’re so close.’
‘I don’t know if I can face them, to be honest.’ Sylvie’s stomach tightened. Just the thought of crawling home, so reduced, and admitting her abject failure to the entire family made her cringe. Especially to Lizzie. The grand dame of Bledesford did not tolerate second best, let alone last place. Sylvie remembered vividly coming home from St Martins after her first year, so proud that she’d come second in her class, until she registered Lizzie’s faintly contemptuous expression, eyebrows arched over her cup of Lapsang Souchong. ‘Second? Darling, surely you can do better than that? Dearloves don’t do second.’
‘What about your mum – you must be glad to see her at least?’ Tabs asked evenly.
‘You know Mum – I expect she’ll be telling me it’s all for the best,’ said Sylvie bitterly.
‘Psht – your mum’s a dream, you just can’t bring yourself to see it. And she’s so proud of you. Besides, she’s not at all like the rest of them, those fancy Dearloves. So down to earth, I love her.’
Sylvie took another large gulp of espresso and grimaced. The coffee hit her stomach like a douse of acid. ‘Oh yeah? Good for you.’
Tabs sensibly ignored her and carried on. ‘And how’s Ben? I thought everything was super rosy there. You haven’t gone and ditched him already, have you?’ Tabs smiled, teasing her.
Sylvie took a deep breath. ‘No, no, he’s fine . . . we’re still together. He’s back in New York. He might come out soon, but . . . I told him I needed a breather. It’s just, well, it’s all moving very quickly, Tabs . . . His family are lovely and welcoming and of course he’s very kind and looks after me. Much more so than I deserve . . .’
‘What do you mean?’ Tabs’s brow crinkled.
‘I just need some time, you know?’ Sylvie said hurriedly. ‘I need to get my head together. Have a reset.’
‘Yep, I know what
you mean,’ said Tabs, staring into her coffee cup. ‘We all need that sometimes.’ Sylvie detected a note of something in her voice.
‘What’s wrong? Tabs? Are you okay? Sorry, I haven’t asked you a thing . . . I’m an idiot, so caught up with myself. What about your love life, then – are you seeing anyone?’
‘Oh, you know what my parents are like,’ Tabs said. ‘They’re trying to set me up with another marriage prospect. This one’s a doctor.’ She arched an eyebrow at Sylvie. ‘Which of course they love.’
‘Oh, Tabs, you poor thing.’ Sylvie knew a little bit about how much pressure her friend was under. Both her brothers had acquiesced to the matches her parents had arranged, and although she was a tiny little Indian woman, Tabs’s mother was formidable and filled with steely resolve. She’d often told her only daughter – only half-jokingly – that she’d better hurry up and find someone if she didn’t want to be kidnapped and sent back to the homeland. ‘How are you coping? Is it awful?’
‘Same old, same old,’ said Tabs, cutting her off and changing the subject. ‘Work’s good. I got a promotion, did I tell you? To head pattern maker.’
‘No! That’s fabulous news!’
Tabs and Sylvie had met at St Martins years ago when they were students, but unlike Sylvie, Tabs had never wanted to start up her own label. Sylvie had always joked that Tabs had so little ego, she didn’t belong in the fashion industry at all. Content to remain behind the scenes, Tabs had risen through the ranks at a small department store in her first job out of college, then had moved to a thriving street label and slowly started making a name for herself, before taking the leap to McQueen a few years ago. Others would kill for the role she’d landed – and indeed many people probably had Tabs marked out for death – but Tabs had earned every inch of her place with pure hard graft. She loved making patterns for other people’s designs and couldn’t imagine doing anything else.
‘Well that’s exciting. I had no idea!’
