‘I know it’s disappointing,’ I replied. ‘But it is what it is. There are so many opportunities for you here – there’s all sorts of exciting stuff going on with our partner brands that I know they’d just love you to be involved in. Cuticle Inc., you know, the nail enamel, are looking for a brand ambassador, and you’d be absolutely perfect for them.’
I glanced at Ruby-Grace’s nails. They were a perfect coffin shape, protruding almost a centimetre beyond her fingertips, and painted in alternating hot pink and white, except for the index finger on her right hand, which was gold glitter.
‘I don’t do my own nails,’ she said petulantly. ‘God! Where would I find time for that?’
I wondered how making the journey to a nail salon and sitting there while someone applied a full set of acrylics then painted and cured them was less time-consuming than slapping on a coat of enamel at home, but what did I know? Clearly my standards were not the same as Ruby-Grace’s.
‘Okay, I take your point. How about activewear? We’ve just got a new brand on board, Lulu and Luther. They’re really edgy and fun – all about bringing a bit of glamour to your workout. Sam, shall we let Ruby-Grace have a little look?’
Sam fired up his iPad, which was connected to the big screen at the end of the room. He tapped onto a website, then scrolled through a few screens of images of fit, smiling models wearing leggings with mesh inserts, sports bras with skinny criss-cross straps and Lycra in animal, marble and psychedelic prints. Their stuff was seriously cool – almost cool enough to make me want to visit the gym for the first time in months.
‘Yeah, that’s all right.’ Ruby-Grace inspected a fingernail. ‘But do they want me to, like, wear it in the gym? And post pics on Insta? Because when I work out I look manky as fuck.’
I felt a flash of admiration for her honesty. The body I’d clocked with awe when she walked into the room couldn’t have been achieved by doing some gentle stretches and lifting the occasional dumb-bell while wearing a full face of make-up, that was for sure.
‘You could do selfies and stories before your workout, maybe? Or after, once you’ve showered?’
Ruby-Grace looked shocked. ‘But I believe in showing my followers my true self.’
I almost laughed out loud. Bless the woman – her true self, breast implants, hair extensions, nail art and all. There was a kind of internal consistency going on there. Probably.
‘I see, right,’ I said. ‘So maybe something a bit more glam would work best for you. We’ve already got you working on the MissMinx fashion brand, and they totally love you. That top you’re wearing is from there, right?’
‘Yeah, they’re all right,’ she said. ‘I mean, I deeply value my partnership with them. But if I’m going to grow my career, Sloane, I need more opportunities, more exposure. I want to reach out to more people, connect with them on a deeper level. Like, Gemma Grey, she’s got a make-up collection coming out. Can’t I do that?’
Quite what was deep about putting your name to a range of highlighters and lip stains, I wasn’t sure. But it was pretty clear that Ruby-Grace wanted to hit the big time, with all the money and recognition that came with it, and wasn’t too bothered about how she did it.
‘Have you thought about doing some charity collaborations? A few of our clients are involved in that side of things, and it’s great for building your personal brand, while also, of course, making a positive difference to people’s lives.’
‘Yeah.’ Ruby-Grace inspected her fingernails. ‘That or, like, Celebs Go Dating, or Ex on the Beach.’
Once again, I had to suppress a giggle.
‘Okay, Ruby-Grace,’ I said. ‘It’s clear you want us to explore more opportunities for you. I get that. You’re fantastically talented, you’ve got a great, engaged following, and we’re really proud to be working with you. And with Minou, of course – the camera just adores her!’
The little dog opened one eye and sighed as if to say she didn’t adore the camera one bit.
‘I really hope you’ll have some good news for me soon, Sloane,’ Ruby-Grace replied, standing and scooping up her dog and handbag, ‘because let me tell you, I’ve been approached by other agents and it’s just because I’m so loyal that I’ve stuck with Ripple Effect. For now.’
Oh no. Not the ideal note on which to end a meeting with a client who – while not exactly A-list – was still an asset to the agency. And I knew Megan would want to hear how the morning had gone, and would worry if I told her the truth.
Then inspiration struck me.
‘Just one thing before you head off, Ruby-Grace. I’m sure you’re aware that we like to offer our clients one-on-one support when they’re exceptionally busy or at crucial times in their careers. Sam is one of my most talented colleagues, and he’ll be available to curate your social media, assist you with any life admin you need help with and just generally be on hand for you. Of course I’ll be overseeing any new partnership arrangements we propose for you, as usual. How does that sound?’
Ruby-Grace stopped mid-flounce, one hand already on the door. ‘Oh. That’s… Thank you. Thank you very much. I appreciate it.’
‘It’s our pleasure. Sam will reach out and set up a face-to-face to discuss what he can do to support you initially.’ We said our goodbyes and our client clacked off to the lift, fringes swishing.
‘So that went okay in the end,’ I said.
Sam nodded mutely. He looked, I thought, like a man who’d been handed the keys to a Ferrari and didn’t want to admit he hadn’t passed his driving test.
Ten
When I went to see Vivienne the next day, I knew what to expect – kind of. But the anticipation of that squalor, that smell, the flies buzzing around the overflowing kitchen waste, actually made it worse, not better. And added to my dread of going back was concern about Vivienne herself.
I’d called, several more times, but still there had been no answer. Maxed it – what the hell had that been about? Could she have reached her overdraft limit and been evicted from her house, hence her not answering the phone? Could she have been trying to tell Rosie that she’d gone beyond whatever her no doubt formidable alcohol consumption limit was and had been hospitalised – or worse?
The thoughts that had haunted me for more than a decade – I should have done more; I should have been there for her – swirled around my brain like cloudy water in a washing machine. But had I been negligent in whatever duty of care I had to Vivienne? As her agent, I had no idea whether I had any at all. But should I have gone round sooner, not waited thirty-six whole hours before going to check on her? Should I have called the emergency services? I didn’t know, and as I approached her street, I found myself feeling sicker and sicker with anxiety.
Before I reached the house, I noticed a black taxi pulling up outside. Probably the driver arriving home after a shift, I thought; this was the sort of area where cab drivers lived, rather than one where they dropped off fares. And, as I expected, the driver swung open the door and got out. But before I could hurry towards him, ask if he was a neighbour and knew Vivienne, he hurried round the back of his car and opened the passenger door with a flourish.
Vivienne stepped out.
She was dressed all in black. A slim-fitting shift dress, a little jacket with sparkly threads through it – I could see them glinting in the brilliant afternoon sunshine – sheer black tights with seams down the back, high-heeled patent leather shoes and a black pillbox hat on her head.
I was close enough to hear her say, ‘Darling, you’ve been ever so kind. Here, keep the change.’
And his reply, with a gesture that was almost a bow: ‘Thank you, madam.’
He got back in the driving seat and started the engine. Vivienne walked, quite steadily, up the path to the front door and fitted her key in the lock.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I just dropped by, to see how you’re doing.’
I decided not to mention her call to the office; not yet, anyway. Maybe she wouldn’t even remember maki
ng it.
‘Sloane! Darling girl! How lovely to see you. Do come in.’
She remembered me, at least. If I’d had to go through the rigmarole of explaining who I was, that would have been awkward to the max.
‘How are you, Vivienne?’ I followed her into the shadowy, chaotic house, trying to breathe through my mouth and wondering for how long it would be possible to not breathe at all before I keeled over in a dead faint.
But Vivienne said, ‘It’s a beautiful day, thank goodness, so we can go outside. Follow me.’
Bewildered, I obeyed, barely noticing the grime that lay thick on the floorboards and the dusty cobwebs draped from the chandelier over the dining table until she pushed apart the heavy velvet curtains that covered the French door leading to the garden. Light flooded the room, dazzling me and illuminating the squalor in which she lived so that, suddenly, I understood why she chose to keep the house in that state of twilight gloom.
‘Come straight out. Mind your step, darling. And have a seat over here.’
‘Here’ was a little marble bench underneath a bower of roses, with an elegant white wrought-iron table in front of it. I sat down. I had to. My legs literally wouldn’t hold me up, I was so completely baffled by what I saw around me.
‘Now, I know it’s early but I do feel a breakfast Martini is called for. May I get you one, darling?’
I was as bemused as if I’d already necked several, too bemused even to feel guilty about enabling – even encouraging – her to drink alcohol. All I could do was nod and say, ‘Thank you, yes please.’
Vivienne stepped back inside the house, and I took a deep breath and looked around. I must be hallucinating. But everything – the dappled sunlight falling on my face, the solid marble under my thighs, the heady scent of flowers everywhere – was real. But also surreal.
I looked around, disbelieving. The garden was exquisite. Long and narrow, it extended quite far beyond where I was sitting. There was a winding path, paved with round, pale-gold flagstones with vivid foliage surrounding them like a kind of living mortar. Bees hummed industriously through the bank of lavender opposite me. Two olive trees in stoneware pots, trimmed into perfect spheres, flanked a pathway that led onwards to an area I couldn’t quite see, but from which I heard the splash of a fountain. Hanging baskets over my head trailed flowers whose names I didn’t know, but whose colours were lilac, cream and deepest pink.
How is this possible? My mind whirred. How can someone so incapable of keeping her home habitable have a garden that would nail it in every flower show going?
But I didn’t have time to frame all my questions, never mind consider what the answers to them might be, because Vivienne reappeared from the gloom of the house, carrying two brim-full cocktail glasses, one in each hand, quite steadily. They looked perfectly clean, I noted, and were filled with clear liquid, each garnished with a sliver of lemon peel.
Vivienne placed them carefully on the table and then sat down next to me. Her hands, which had seemed perfectly steady when she carried the glasses out, were trembling now as she raised one to me. I picked up my own glass and touched it to hers.
‘Chin chin, darling,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much for dropping by. I needed the company. You see, I’ve just come from a funeral.’
Right. That explained her formal, all-black outfit. But it didn’t begin to explain anything else at all. Not the state of the garden and its stark contrast to the sordid interior of the house. Not her distressed call to the office. And most of all, not why she seemed so poised now, so chipper, almost radiating confidence.
Or was she?
‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’ I took a careful sip of my drink and tried not to wince – it was lethally strong. ‘Do you mind me asking who…?’
Vivienne picked up her own glass, regarded the contents, then downed the whole thing in one go, like necking four units of alcohol in seconds was as normal as having a drink of water.
‘Max,’ she said. ‘My husband. Max is dead. Max is dead – Max. Dead, dead, dead.’
And she broke into hoarse, rasping sobs.
I didn’t even think, or hesitate. I wrapped my arms around her and held her close while she cried. I stroked her heaving back and made the best soothing noises I could come up with, feeling her hair tickle my face and breathing in the smells of her face powder and perfume and something a bit musty that might have been the feathers on her hat.
She cried for a long, long time. It was like there was a huge reservoir of tears inside her that had been waiting to come out for years, and now a dam wall had broken and there was no stopping the flood. I held her tight and stroked her back and waited it out, smelling the scents of her and the garden, hearing a blackbird singing over the sound of her sobs, watching the shadows the climbing roses cast over us moving almost imperceptibly with the breeze and the sun’s high arc.
I didn’t say anything much, and she said nothing at all – I don’t think she could have done if she’d wanted to. I just made soothing noises like, ‘There, there,’ and, ‘I’m here,’ until as last, when my shoulders were screaming with tension from holding her close and the front of my dress was soaked through with her tears, she gave a final, hiccupping sob, sniffed and moved away from me.
I pulled a pack of tissues from my bag, extracted one and handed it to her and then, after a second’s hesitation, passed her the rest of the pack and my drink as well. I felt torn about it – tempted to tip it out into a flowerbed or something – but I knew I couldn’t make that decision for her, any more than eight-year-old me had been able to make it for Mom. Besides, if ever there was a woman who could be forgiven for wanting a large gin, it was Vivienne.
‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ I asked, once she’d blown her nose and mopped her eyes. Her carefully made-up face was a ruin now, eye make-up and lipstick smeared everywhere and all her face powder washed away.
I could have kicked myself for not researching Vivienne’s marriage more thoroughly. Presumably, when she’d said ‘husband’, she must have meant ex-husband. There was no way, surely, that a woman living the way she did lived with someone else. And Megan, when she’d first told me about Vivienne, hadn’t mentioned there being a husband on the scene. Of course, I knew he existed, from the conversation I’d had with Bianca and Michael and their names together on that midnight-coloured DVD box, the contents of which I still hadn’t got around to watching.
‘I’m so sorry, darling. What a state I’m in. You must think I’m quite mad.’
‘Of course not. You’ve suffered a bereavement, you poor thing. I’m just glad I came.’
She took a gulp of my cocktail and grimaced. The drink must have been warm by now, and pretty unappetising, but she sipped again, undeterred, then took a shuddering breath, her shoulders trembling.
‘The worst thing is, no one told me,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I read about in The Telegraph on Saturday. No one thought to contact me, or tell me about the funeral. I just turned up, like a wicked fairy in a children’s story.’
She managed a laugh – a harsh, unsteady sound.
‘I’m sure he would have wanted you to be there,’ I assured her, although of course I had no idea whether that was true.
‘Hardly anyone even recognised me. It was like being a ghost. I could hear people whispering behind my back, and Sarah, who was our PA way back in the day, came over and said hello, but I could tell she didn’t want to. She was embarrassed to see me, clearly. I didn’t go on to the wake – it would have been too humiliating, even though I could have murdered a drink. But that wouldn’t have been wise, would it?’
She looked down at my glass, then lifted it and drained it.
‘I only stayed until his coffin was in the ground,’ she said. ‘I’d had some vague plan about throwing my wedding and engagement rings into the grave, so at least something of our marriage would have been with him forever, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t cause a scene like that.’
She pulled off o
ne of her long, skintight black gloves – she must have been sweltering in the summer heat – and looked at her hand. Sure enough, a huge solitaire diamond and its partner, a simple platinum band, still sparkled on her finger. She hadn’t been wearing them the first time I met her – or had she? I’d been too appalled by what I’d found in the house to notice.
‘I only take them off for gardening,’ she said. ‘I have a horror of losing them in a flowerbed somehow. But there I was today, quite eager for them to be buried in the ground. Isn’t that silly?’
‘Not at all. It’s normal to want to mark a loss in a symbolic way.’
There were so many questions jostling for position in my mind, but I knew better than to ask them. I knew that Vivienne would tell me all she wanted me to know, in her own time.
‘So I waited until the vicar had said his piece – “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust”, such beautiful words, although what they mean is so grim. Max was always a traditionalist – he would’ve had no truck with the cosy modern version. Someone must have told them what to do, and someone must have chosen the hymns and the readings. A man I’ve never met gave the eulogy, and to be honest it was like he was talking about someone I didn’t know, either. I tuned it out. And as soon as he was in the ground I realised there were going to be no grand gestures from me, so I left and got a taxi home.’
She gave another choking sob and pressed a soggy tissue to her eyes.
‘I’m so very sorry,’ I said. ‘It sounds like it was awfully difficult for you.’
Vivienne twisted the tissue in her hands like she was trying to wring it dry of her tears.
‘Darling, I’m going to have another cocktail. And I drank yours, so will you keep me company?’
You should stop now, Vivienne. Why don’t we have a nice cup of tea?
But I didn’t say that. I wasn’t her mother – and, more to the point, she wasn’t mine.
No, We Can't Be Friends: A totally perfect romantic comedy Page 9
