I knew what that meant, too – not careful with money, not watching every penny, which Mum did automatically anyway, because she had to. ‘Careful’ meant hiding her purse in a different place every week, logging out of her online banking every time she used it and changing the password so frequently she often forgot it herself, because she couldn’t leave it written down anywhere.
You know I hate to ask, but would it be possible to let us have a couple of hundred pounds, just to tide us over? I’ve asked work for extra hours but there’s nothing right now, with it being winter, and of course Perdy isn’t able to help. Don’t worry if it’s difficult, we’ll manage! Do tell me all your news soon. Dad sends his love.
‘Like I need his fucking love,’ I muttered. ‘I need money.’
I needed money, and not for the first time. A year ago, I’d been in this exact same situation. It had been Christmas that brought on that crisis. A trip home and wanting to spoil my family with the nice things they could never afford themselves: toys from Hamleys for Rosie and Arthur, perfume for my sister, a cashmere cardigan for Mum, a supermarket order with an organic free-range turkey and a case of prosecco, even a Peaky Blinders box set for Dad.
And then, like now, when the humble, apologetic request came from Mum in January (I know how much you’ve already done for us, love…), my bank account had been empty.
Perdita couldn’t help, because she had two kids and no job and only just managed to get by herself. Perdita’s husband Ryan could probably have spared a hundred quid, but I remembered my sister telling me tearfully that they’d had a blazing row about it just recently, during which Ryan had said his own wife and kids were his fucking priority, and did she want to save for Rosie and Arthur’s university education, or did she want to keep pissing money away on a deadbeat?
Which I’d thought at the time – and still thought, to be honest – was harsh but fair.
When I’d hit on the solution, it seemed like a genius one. I could make extra cash, working from my bedroom in the evenings. Quite a lot of extra cash. It was easy.
Of course, it didn’t turn out to be anything like as good an idea as I first thought.
For a horrible few months, I was Tansy, junior buyer for formalwear at Luxeforless, during the day, and someone else entirely by night: Saskia, a girl men could talk to and watch online.
Webcam work was easy at first – easy and lucrative. It made me feel powerful and in control. So what if, when I thought about it properly in the cold light of day, I felt dirty and ashamed? So what if I was afraid to meet strangers’ eyes in the street in case they recognised me? So what if one of the punters started bombarding me with gifts and requests to meet in a way that went from being a bit creepy to full-on stalking, even turning up outside our house? I was able to help Mum, and I was even able to buy nice things for myself.
And then I met Renzo. After the first time he kissed me, I knew I couldn’t do it any more. My body was no longer an object I could detach from, a resource I could exploit – even if it was for the good of my family. I was alive with desire for Renzo; physically and emotionally connected to a man for the first time in ages, and the idea of sharing that part of myself with anyone else but him was impossible – it was horrifying.
Besides, I knew deep down how he would react if he found out. And I was right. When I told him, at his work Christmas party, right after he told me he loved me for the first time and I couldn’t bear there to be secrets between us any more, after months of feeling guilty for hiding it, he flew into a white-hot rage. Right there, in front of his colleagues and my friends, he said terrible things to me. He called me a slag and a whore. He pushed me away from him with his eyes shut like he couldn’t stand to look at me.
My whole body burned with shame remembering it – because he was right. I’d sold myself for money. Even if no physical contact had taken place, that was what I’d done.
And I could never, ever go back to doing it again. No matter how desperate things got.
My eyes stinging with unshed tears, I put my phone down, got up off my bed and went back out onto the landing. If only Charlotte was here, I thought, she’d know what to do. But Charlotte had been spending more and more nights at Xander’s flat, as the date of their departure for Thailand grew closer. Adam’s door was closed, but I knew he wasn’t asleep – even on weekends, he was generally up at eight o’clock, tapping away on his computer with the blinds closed, the room in darkness apart from the glow of the screens.
I knocked on his door.
‘Come in.’
As I’d known he would be, Adam was there, on his wheeled chair, Freezer curled up on his lap. The cat opened one eye – the green one – and peered at me, then curled up again and put his paw over his face.
‘So that’s the gratitude I get for rescuing you,’ I said.
‘He’s very grateful,’ Adam protested. ‘He’s just expressing it through the medium of sleep.’
‘One of his core skills,’ I said. ‘Along with eating tuna and getting stuck up trees.’
‘And purring.’ Adam scratched Freezer behind the ear and I heard a low rumbling sound, like a Harley-Davidson revving in the distance. ‘He’s an ace purrer.’
‘Fancy a cup of tea?’ I asked.
Adam turned away from the screen to look at me, rolled his shoulders and yawned. ‘Go on then.’
Relieved, I hurried downstairs. I waited impatiently while the kettle boiled and the tea brewed to a deep tan colour, the way Adam liked it, then added milk and three sugars and poured a glass of water for myself.
As I put the mug carefully down on his desk, Adam asked, ‘Are you feeling okay, Tans?’
Shit. He must have heard me throwing up.
‘I’m all right. Hung-over.’
‘Good night?’
‘It was all right. I ended up walking home all the way from Mayfair, which was maybe not the brightest idea.’
Adam raised his eyebrows. ‘Maybe not.’
‘Listen, Adam, how do you make money trading bitcoin?’
‘You want the long answer or the short answer?’
‘Short, I guess.’
He smiled. ‘Buy low, sell high.’
‘No, but seriously. How do you?’
‘Tansy, seriously,’ Adam said. ‘Why are you asking me this?’
I sat down on his bed and put my water glass down on the floor. Then, without any warning at all, I started to cry.
‘Shit.’ Adam wheeled his chair over to me, sending Freezer leaping to the floor in a huff, and patted my shoulder awkwardly. Bless him, he’d seen me crying enough times over the past few weeks, but his shoulder pats weren’t getting any less awkward.
‘Shit,’ he said again. Then he got up and went to the bathroom and came back with a roll of loo paper. ‘Don’t cry.’
‘Sorry.’ I blew my nose and wiped my eyes, but I wasn’t done. Another sob built in my throat and I put my face in my hands and cried some more, while Adam patted and shushed like an out-of-practice nana trying to comfort a new baby. Freezer jumped up onto the bed and butted his head against my hand as if he was also trying to console me, which made me cry harder.
Eventually I stopped, blew my nose again and said, ‘I’m really sorry, Adam.’
‘It’s okay. All part of the service. Do you want to tell me what’s the matter? It’s not just Renzo, is it?’
‘No. It’s… I’ve got myself into a bit of a mess.’
Adam looked appalled. ‘You’re not…?’
For a second I couldn’t think what he meant. Then I laughed. ‘I’m not pregnant. Jesus, that would be a proper fucking mess.’
Weirdly, the realisation that I could be having Renzo’s baby – or making the decision not to have it – but I wasn’t, cheered me up considerably.
I took a deep breath. ‘I’ve got myself into a hole with money. I’m skint, and Mum’s asked for some cash, and I can’t help her. And I feel terrible about it. I don’t know what to do.’
Ada
m said, ‘Is that all? God, you had me worried there for a second. Just tell me how much you need.’
‘I can’t take your money, Adam.’
‘Why not? I’ve got lots.’
‘I just can’t. I’d never be able to pay it back, for one thing.’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes, it does. It matters to me. I can’t do it, Adam. But I’m so grateful to you for offering.’
He shrugged. ‘I want to help. If you change your mind, please let me.’
‘I will.’ I stood up, giving Freezer a final stroke. ‘Thanks. You’re a good mate.’
We looked at each other for a second, then I turned and left the room. I could hear the rumble of Adam’s chair wheeling across the floorboards as he moved back to his computer.
Whether it was his kindness or having had a good old weep, or realising that, however awful things were, at least I wasn’t up the duff, I was feeling almost positive as I crossed the landing to my room.
I opened my wardrobe and took a deep breath. If I hesitated, I’d be lost. I pulled out the red dress I’d worn to Renzo’s Christmas party, the night we split up, and threw it onto my bed. That, at least, I’d never want to wear again. The grey silk jumpsuit I’d worn on our first date was next, then the designer scarf he’d bought me in Paris and the white wool coat I’d splashed out on when we were in Zürich together. Several more dresses followed, and – after I’d given it one final, loving stroke – my shearling coat. From the bottom of my wardrobe I pulled pairs of shoes, some unworn and some almost new. There was the Prada handbag I’d bought with my webcamming money but never used, because I didn’t feel as proud of it as I’d expected to – it felt tainted, somehow.
Hands on hips, I surveyed the pile. There were about twenty items there. Some I’d put straight on eBay with a Buy it Now price, so I could send Mum some money right away and tide myself over for a couple of weeks. Some would go to specialist retailers of ‘pre-loved’ designer fashion, which would take longer but give me a better price. The next morning, I took a load of the garments to the dry cleaner – another hit for my long-suffering credit card – and spent most of the day photographing the rest of the items and listing them online. It was something – a start, and not a bad one – but it wasn’t enough.
That evening, I put on my coat, telling myself that wearing it just one last time would make no difference to its value, picked up my handbag and an empty Selfridges carrier bag and headed for the Tube station.
I’d been to the Luxeforless office on weekends before, once when I’d planned to work from home over the weekend and discovered I’d left a vital file on my desk, once when I’d needed to prepare for a Monday-morning photoshoot, and once when I’d lost my mobile and had become convinced I must have left it by the coffee machine. (I hadn’t. It had been in my coat pocket all along.)
But this felt different. I felt furtive and guilty as I tapped in the passcode to let myself into the downstairs reception area, which was dark and silent. My footsteps sounded extra-loud on the marble floor as I approached the lift, then changed my mind and headed for the stairwell instead.
The office was dark, too, empty and still. But the alarm wasn’t armed: instead of a flashing red LED on its panel, there was a steady green one. My breath caught in my throat and my heart hammered. I stood there in the gloom, listening intently, but I couldn’t hear a thing.
What if there were burglars in the building? There was computer equipment worth tens of thousands of pounds filling the banks of desks, not to mention the merchandise in the sample room. For a second I imagined myself being ambushed by men in leather jackets, overpowered and left there, tied up and helpless, until the cleaners arrived in the small hours of Monday morning.
Don’t be ridiculous, Tansy, I scolded myself. I didn’t know much about the MO of your average burglar, but I was pretty sure that if they were planning a heist on the Luxeforless office, they’d need a van or something to transport their swag in, and the street outside had been empty.
One of my colleagues must be here, catching up with work or picking something up, just as I had. But then why were all the lights on their dim, energy-saving, out-of-hours setting? When I’d come in alone over the weekend, the first thing I’d done was switch them to their daytime brightness setting to banish the creepy shadows that filled every corner.
I didn’t switch them on now, though. I walked silently through the deserted space, past the meeting rooms and the banks of desks, almost all the way to the closed door of Barri’s office at the back of the room, and I saw no one.
Reassured, I turned and retraced my steps. Whoever had left last on Friday must have forgotten to set the alarm, that was all. It happened sometimes – there’d been an angry email about that very thing from Priti just a few months ago.
Still, I tried not to make a sound as I let myself into the sample room, pulled the door to and turned the light on low. The rails were groaning with garments on hangers, the floor stacked with boxes of shoes and bags. There was almost no room to move; the next staff sample sale was only a month away, and then the room would be half-empty again, waiting for more merchandise to come flooding in.
To make more space, someone had opened the crates sent by my Chinese supplier and crammed the unwanted dresses onto a rail, still in their plastic sleeves. I checked the swing tag on one, a rectangle of matte-black card embossed with the silver Luxeforless X Guillermo Hernandez label, bearing a price sticker.
Two hundred and fifty pounds. At our sample sale, the dresses would be priced at twenty-five pounds. Online, they’d fetch at least a hundred and fifty. We weren’t supposed to sell on samples we’d purchased in the staff sale, but everyone knew it happened. I’d assuaged my guilt about it by sending a few garments every season to Mum and Perdita, pretending to myself that they might want to keep them for themselves, even though I knew that the chances of my mum or my sister ever wearing a floor-length cerise velvet evening gown or a feather-trimmed lace cocktail dress were somewhere between slim and none.
Well, pretence or no pretence, I couldn’t keep Mum waiting a month. Her situation was desperate. When the sale happened, I’d just have to slip extra cash for the dresses in with my payment for whatever else I purchased. Which would mean I’d have to have cash – but that was a problem for another day. I’d find a way somehow.
I slipped five dresses off the rack and stuffed them into my waiting yellow carrier bag, wishing I could squash down my guilt as easily. It wasn’t stealing, I told myself. I’d repay the money and no one would be out of pocket. And, most importantly, Mum would be able to pay the rent and not get a Section 21 notice from her landlord through the letter box along with all the other bills and final demands I’d seen her crying over, month after month.
It was done now; there was no other way.
I turned to leave the room, suddenly desperate to get home, back to Adam, a cup of tea and normality. Then I heard the alarm beep six times in rapid succession – the familiar tune I’d played so often when I left the office late.
Seventeen-five-thirteen, star – the date when luxeforless.com had gone live for the first time.
I froze again, rigid with fear. Then I heard the double chime the lift made when it arrived on our floor and – almost against my will – I pushed the door open a crack and peered out.
A figure in a cashmere coat and boots, a bright wool scarf wound high above the collar, was hurrying into the lift. I couldn’t see their face, but I’d recognise that glossy fall of dark hair and croc-embossed leather tote bag anywhere.
It was Felicity.
Seven
Don’t you hate it when it’s Saturday, you were looking forward to a long, lazy lie-in and you find yourself pinging awake at seven in the morning? I mean, how is seven o’clock on a Saturday even legal? It was still dark outside, for God’s sake. And it was raining. And the weekend, which should have felt packed with fun and possibility, just felt grey, dull and depressing.
; I almost wished it was Monday, so I’d at least have something useful to do.
The past few weeks had dragged by. A few times, Adam had texted me to let me know Renzo’s plans for the evening, but there was nothing I could do about them. Apart from one raucous but bittersweet night out at the Prince George to wish Charlotte and Xander bon voyage, I’d been too skint to go out. If it hadn’t been for Adam’s Netflix subscription I’d literally have spent every night at home staring at the walls; as it was I spent every night at home staring at the telly.
I rolled over in bed, pulled the duvet up over my head to shut out the sound of rain pattering against my window and cars swishing along the street outside, and closed my eyes.
It’s only sleep, Tansy. You’ve got this. Anyone can sleep.
But I couldn’t.
Reluctantly, I stood up, pushed the duvet aside and slid my feet into my slippers. Adam’s room and the room that used to be Charlotte’s were both closed and silent.
Downstairs, I switched on the lights, the telly and the radio for a bit of company, and dropped two pieces of bread into the toaster.
I looked at my phone, but I had no new messages. I’d been expecting to hear from Mum or Perdita that the new baby was coming, but there was nothing yet. I opened Facebook and saw an event reminder for Sally’s birthday drinks at a pub in south London that evening, from seven thirty. She’d invited everyone in the team, and all of us were going apart from Felicity, because it was Pru’s birthday too and she was off to a far more glamorous location to celebrate that. It was seven thirty in the morning now, and my God, those twelve hours might as well have been a lifetime.
Is there anything more depressing than a rainy Saturday when you’ve got no one to snuggle up and watch Netflix with, no one to go for brunch with, no one to have lazy afternoon sex with?
If there was, I couldn’t think of it.
I spread a thick layer of peanut butter onto a piece of toast, sprinkled it with salt and Tabasco sauce (don’t knock it till you’ve tried it), and carried the plate, a mug of coffee and my phone over to the sofa.
It's Not You It's Him: An absolutely hilarious and feel-good romantic comedy Page 7
