by Lee, Mandy
‘Gordon said you’d have a chaperon, and I thought you’d have a blast. I texted to see if you were alright.’
‘You gave up pretty quickly.’
‘Whatever. You didn’t reply. Not once. I thought you were enjoying yourself. Anyway, it’s done now. Forgive me. Please. I can’t go on like this. You’re my best friend.’
‘Your only friend,’ she corrects me.
We spend a good thirty seconds exchanging glares before the next idea lands in my brain.
‘Look … I’ve got a lot of money at the minute. He-who-shall-not-be-named left it in my account before we split up.’
That sparks her interest.
‘How much?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Ball park?’
‘Lots.’
She readjusts her handbag.
‘You should give it back,’ she mutters, glancing at a passing couple.
‘No way. Not after what he’s done.’ And now, I’ll dangle the bait. I just bloody hope it does the trick. I’m beginning to freeze. ‘I could always treat you to something in Liberty. A peace offering?’
That does it. Her features soften, lips rise into a begrudging smile, eyes widen and I swear she’s begun to vibrate with excitement. The prospect of shopping, married with a nice, tasty bribe is far too much for her to resist. In an instant, all thoughts of alcohol are banished. With a squeak, she pounces on me, links her arm through mine and urges me to move.
‘What’s the limit?’ she asks.
‘There isn’t one.’
With Lucy taking the lead, I’m practically dragged along Frith Street, past Soho Square and through a succession of minor streets. Before long, we reach Liberty’s unmistakable mock-Tudor façade, take the main entrance and come to a halt in the atrium. While Lucy examines the displays, poking at bags and threading scarves through her fingers, I gaze up at the four storeys rising above me, each one a dark timbered gallery illuminated by soft light tumbling from the chandeliers above.
‘Let’s go up to Homewares,’ Lucy suggests. ‘They’ve got cooking stuff.’
‘Why would you want cooking stuff?’
‘D’uh … to cook with.’
She beckons me to follow her, navigating a path to the right, through the Jewellery department, before climbing a creaking wooden staircase. Giving Women’s Clothing a wide berth, we climb another flight of stairs, and then a third, finally reaching Homewares.
Impressed that my heart’s opted for a mild tango rather than a full-blown quick-step, I stand still, taking in the random displays of teapots and tiles and trays indiscriminately arranged on a jumble of tables and shelving units. Immediately, Lucy begins to mooch, leaving me to my own devices. Vaguely aware of Christmas music playing in the background, I head to the right of the gallery, past a display of Liberty-print dressing gowns. Wondering how on Earth this can be classed as Homewares, I’m stopped in my tracks by a rail of tiny pastel-coloured clothes. A young couple pause in front of me, the man waiting patiently while the woman examines the outfits. It’s when she turns, revealing a huge baby bump, that my brain kicks into panic-laden overdrive. Dragging my attention in her wake, she moves off to the right, into a small, brightly lit room. Little Liberty. I shuffle forward and peer through the doorway, coming face-to-face with a display of cots and blankets and bibs.
Babies.
Shit.
Babies.
An abject failure to deal with a more than slightly pressing situation.
Babies.
‘You bloody idiot,’ I scold myself, raking through the past few days.
What with Gordon’s company and the paparazzi attention, I didn’t dare visit a pharmacy in Manhattan, deciding to seek one out at the airport instead. Only there wasn’t a pharmacy at the airport, at least not one I could find. After returning home to Camden and sleeping off the effects of the trip, I woke yesterday morning certain it was already too late. True to form, I blanked it out, a tactic that’s worked pretty well for me in the past. But it’s not the right tactic now. Fixing my attention on a display of teeny-tiny boys’ clothing, I realise I’ve been a first-class idiot. I need to seek some advice, and quickly too.
‘What’s up with you?’ Lucy demands, snapping me out of my reverie. ‘Getting broody?’
I swallow, hard.
‘No way.’
‘Let’s go through there. Kitchen department.’
Taking hold of my arm, she hauls me past a display of clocks, through a timber archway into another section, this one arranged around a balcony above the main light well. Plates, cups, saucers, teapots, bowls: they’re everywhere – set out in piles on tables, displayed in cabinets, even perched precariously on chairs.
‘Christ, I’m crap at presents.’ Edging forward, I scan the wares. ‘I never got Dad anything for his sixtieth.’
‘You were a bit distracted at the time.’
And I’m distracted now. By visions of nappies and baby wipes. Closing my eyes, I shake them out of my head.
‘So, what are you getting?’ Lucy touches a plate.
‘No idea.’
‘Who are you buying for?’
‘Mum, Dad, Sara.’
‘Gordon?’
‘What do you get for the man who’s already got everything?’
I pause, eyeing up a range of teacups, decorated with flowers. If I’m not very much mistaken, I’ve just spotted a sweet pea. Suddenly excited, I head for the display and pick up a cup. It’s crafted from delicate porcelain, and yes, adorned with sweet peas, curling around the body of the cup and twisting up the handle. I examine the rest of the display. Amongst the teacups and saucers, there’s a matching teapot, a sugar bowl and a milk jug. Perfect.
‘Is there something special about that cup?’ Lucy asks.
‘No. It’s just pretty, that’s all.’
She picks up another, turns it over and draws in a breath.
‘Twenty-five pounds.’ She puts it back down, carefully, and waves at the matching teapot. ‘I can’t imagine how much that is.’
‘I’m getting this for Gordon,’ I announce. ‘Hold these. I can’t see any baskets.’
I pass two cups and saucers to Lucy and equip myself with a teapot and a milk jug.
‘He’s American. He won’t know what to do with it. They’re all coffee, coffee, coffee …’
‘I’ll educate him in the ways of tea.’
Which is a downright lie. In actual fact, the tea set’s for Dan. As yet, I haven’t managed to locate a teapot in the apartment, and we can’t carry on like that. He may well be a coffee man, but I’m sure I can convert him with this little lot. Wandering further through the department, I choose a biscuit tin for Dad, and wedge it under my arm. And then serendipity runs dry, leaving my brain to descend into its usual shopping-panic mode.
‘So, what do you want?’ I ask.
Lucy shakes her head.
‘Dunno.’
‘There are some electric mixers over there.’
She seems terrified.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Electric mixers. That’s a bit serious.’ She shrugs. ‘Let’s leave it for now.’
Relieved of the tea set and biscuit tin by a helpful assistant, we skirt further round the gallery, finally arriving at a luminous sign that informs us we’re entering the Bath House. A few more steps and I’m surrounded by oils and body butters, shampoo and lotions, candles and vanity bags. And there’s soap too. Mounds of the stuff – in all colours and sizes – laid out on tables and shelves and baskets and presentation boxes.
‘Soap.’
‘Yeah, soap,’ Lucy echoes. ‘You can’t go wrong with soap.’
I’m pretty sure you can, even if it is expensive. But for now, it’s all I’ve got.
‘So, when are you seeing Gordon again?’ Lucy asks, delving through a flowery display.
‘He’s got a tight schedule, but he’s sorting something out.’
‘I suppose you’ll be swanning off to New York all
the time now.’
‘Maybe.’ I pick up a hand-made bar, light blue with a whale at its centre. ‘That’ll do for someone.’
I choose two more: one with a starfish, the other a shell. When I’m finished, I look up, focussing straight on a man at the next table, and an uneasy feeling surges through my gut. There’s something not quite right about him. He’s well-dressed, not one of Boyd’s obvious lackeys, and he’s currently examining a tub of body butter. But that’s not the issue.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lucy murmurs absently.
‘For what?’
‘Being a bad-tempered cow.’
I raise an eyebrow, surprised she’s finally chosen to apologise here. Maybe it’s the calming effect of aromatherapy oils.
‘I don’t blame you.’
‘But we’ve never fallen out like this.’
‘I know. And we won’t do it again.’
I take another peek at the man. I’m sure I’ve seen him before. I just can’t put my finger on the exact place.
‘I didn’t have such a bad time,’ Lucy admits, picking up a bar of soap and sniffing it. 'Most of it was a blast.’
‘Most of it?’
‘My chaperon was fucking gorgeous.’
I pull my best ‘Wow, what a surprise’ sort of face.
‘He took me everywhere. Round the Statue of Liberty in a helicopter, up the Empire State Building, ice-skating at the Rockefeller. I can’t complain.’
But she will. In fact, she’s already building up to it. Her eyebrows have sunk and her bottom lip’s sticking out. I look over her shoulder, relieved that Mr Familiar’s moved on now. He’s over at the far end of the room, talking to an assistant. Placing a hand on her back, he guides her out of the department.
‘He was lovely. Bloody fit,’ Lucy goes on. ‘And I thought he fancied me. And then we went out on Sunday night and …’
‘And?’
‘Nothing.’
She chucks the soap back onto the table, causing the whole display to wobble. I wince.
‘Careful.’
Ignoring my plea, she picks up another bar and carries on talking, this time in some terrible sort-of-American accent. ‘I’m so sorry, Lucy. Oh my gahd, this has been so rad and everything, but I need to take a rain check.’ She wafts the soap in the air and scowls. ‘And off he pops. No number. Nothing.’
I can’t help smiling. No shenanigans, as promised. Clive’s going to be relieved.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re smiling at my bad luck. That’s a foul thing to do to your friend.’
‘Sorry.’
She throws the second bar of soap back into the display. It wobbles again.
‘Gordon’s a crap name by the way, much worse than Clive.’
Ooh no, she shouldn’t have done that, shouldn’t have mentioned the ‘ex.’ Her bottom lip begins to tremble.
‘I’m fed up with being single.’
‘It’s never bothered you before.’
‘Well, it’s bothering me now. I’m twenty-seven and I want a relationship. And not with Shih Tzu Man. I thought … I thought … Clive …’
No, no, no. Not again. I thought the New York experience might have eased the pain, but it only seems to have made things worse. Her eyes have reddened, and tears have made an appearance. Biting her lip, she picks up yet another bar of soap, and I’d say there’s a distinct possibility this one’s going to end up being hurled across the shop. Eager to avoid a scene, I move around the table, prise it out of her hand and put it back in place.
‘It’s not fair,’ she sobs.
‘Lucy. Just be patient. One day, the right man’s going to show up. He’s out there waiting for you.’
And his name, I’d like to add, is Clive.
‘Yes, but he won’t … he won’t be like Clive.’
No, he won’t be like Clive at all … because he actually will be Clive.
I roll my eyes, suspecting she’s about to launch into one of her ‘I really miss him’ rants and decide it’s time to make an exit.
‘Come on.’
I guide her to the till, identify myself as the prospective owner of the tea set and biscuit tin, present the three bars of soap and settle in for a wait. I’ve just about managed to kid myself that the Clive crisis has passed, when it starts up again.
‘He didn’t mind it when I tried to cook.’ Watching my hoard of presents reappear on the counter, she blinks away a tear. ‘He always tried his best to eat it. And he didn’t mind the mess. I think he was the one, Maya. We could have got married. We could have shopped here for bits. But now it’s just you and me.’ She begins to sob again. ‘You and me.’
Shrouding the teapot in bubble wrap, the woman behind the counter eyes up my friend, clearly deciding she’s a lunatic.
‘Calm down.’
‘I can’t.’ She wipes the back of a hand across her eyes. ‘I’ve lost so much. He was lovely. Really funny. And bloody good at sex.’
‘Oh …’ I gasp.
I really don’t want any further information on that particular matter. I check on progress with the wrapping. The teapot’s done, and now the assistant’s making a start on the cups. Only she’s slowed down a bit, and there’s a mischievous glint in her eyes.
‘You don’t need to wrap them so carefully,’ I tell her, waving a hand.
‘But they’re lovely.’ She smiles slyly. ‘We don’t want them chipped, do we?’
‘Very attentive,’ Lucy continues, oblivious to her audience. ‘Know what I mean?’
I open my mouth, and close it again, not entirely sure what to say.
‘He’d go down on me for ages.’ A sob and a sniff. ‘Ages.’
‘Oh,’ I breathe, watching as the milk jug gets the bubble wrap treatment.
‘Magic tongue.’ She sticks her own tongue out and waggles it.
Suppressing a snigger, the assistant stows the tea set in a bag, and makes a start on the biscuit tin.
‘No, don’t wrap that.’
‘But …’
‘It’s fine.’ I grab the soaps and dump them in the bag. I try to do the same with the biscuit tin, but the bloody woman’s not parting with it easily. ‘Bag it,’ I snap. ‘How much?’
‘Two hundred and forty-three pounds.’ She produces a second bag and slips the tin into it.
‘For a tea set, a biscuit tin and three bars of soap?’ Lucy demands.
‘I can afford it.’ I hand over my card.
‘I suppose you can,’ Lucy muses. ‘One millionaire dumps you and another steps right into his place. How do you do it?’
I’m presented with a card machine and tap in my PIN.
‘Luck,’ I announce.
‘Bollocks to luck. Has he got an accountant?’
‘Probably.’ PIN accepted, I pop the card back into my purse, grab hold of the bagged biscuit tin, and thrust it at Lucy. ‘I think that’s enough shopping. We’re going home.’
‘No,’ she whines. ‘I want a drink.’
‘And you’re getting a drink,’ I inform her. In fact, she’s getting so much wine, she’ll be wallowing in a tongue-tied, drunken stupor by eight o’clock, if I have any say in the matter. ‘At home,’ I add, picking up the second bag. ‘I’m not letting you inflict any more of your crap on the unsuspecting public.’
Casting an apologetic smile in the assistant’s direction, I march out of the Bathroom section, hardly caring if Lucy’s following me. I’m stopped in my tracks by a young girl. She thrusts out a hand, and I look down, sucking in a sharp breath. She’s holding a single red rose.
‘From an admirer,’ she says awkwardly. ‘He asked me to give you this.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. He’s gone now.’
My stomach reels. I have no doubt it was Mr Familiar. And wherever I’ve seen him before, he’s definitely working for the opposition.
‘It’s so romantic,’ the girl smiles dreamily.
‘No, it’s not.
’ Lucy appears at my side. ‘It’s from her stalker. No offence, but you’d better sling it in the bin.’
Chapter Fifteen
‘You should go to the police,’ Lucy calls after me.
‘No.’
‘Why not? He’s stalking you.’
I come to a halt. After making our way up Regent Street, we’ve finally reached the madness of Oxford Circus. And now, unless we take a diversion via the backstreets, I’m going to have to negotiate a route through the hordes of shoppers. I check to the right, registering the crowds, the gaudy window displays, the Christmas lights shimmering against dark skies. My pulse begins to race.
‘The police,’ Lucy insists, catching up with me.
‘Leave it.’
‘Leave it? That’s what you always do.’
Because that’s my modus operandi. Bury it for now, tuck it away in some dusty compartment at the back of my mind, and deal with it later. Trouble is, the compartment’s currently full to overflowing, its contents spilling out into the open. Despite Boyd’s intrusion, nagging images of baby bumps and expensive cots refuse to leave my head. There are some things that just can’t be tucked away. Narrowing my eyes, I scan the shop signs. There’s bound to be a chemist somewhere.
‘Boyd’s being dealt with. Trust me.’
‘Is he?’ She looks around. ‘How? And I don’t see any protection, by the way.’
I close in on her.
‘It’s here. Somewhere. Now, stop going on about it. I need a chemist.’
‘What for?’
‘Thrush.’
Without another word, I pitch myself into the Christmas mayhem, heading toward Tottenham Court Road. Along the way, I find what I’m searching for, and head into the harsh light of a chemist. While Lucy takes herself off to examine the make-up, I sidle up to the pharmacist’s desk. A middle-aged, suited man emerges from the back office and I stare at him, panicking.
‘I’ve had unprotected sex,’ I mutter out of the side of my mouth, leaning over the desk.
‘Have you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’
We spend a few seconds nodding at each other before I realise he’s waiting for a little more guidance.
‘I don’t know what to do. I need help.’
He becomes business-like.
