‘What do you want now?’ I asked.
‘Look, I really am sorry,’ he said. ‘As a result of my actions Gareth has lost a sale. It’s not fair on him that my visit has potentially cost him his livelihood.’
‘His livelihood?’ I said, smearing my tone with his particular type of ridicule. It did not sit right with me, but this man clearly needed to be dealt with on his level. ‘His whole livelihood rests upon the sale of one little car?’
‘No, but it’s not good to lose customers in this current economic climate. And he’ll be doubly screwed if you go around telling people. That was all my fault. I’m sorry. Truly. Please can you give Gareth another chance? He’s a decent man trying to make a living. I’m an idiot for messing around with that.’
‘You’ll get no arguments on that from me.’
‘Please, will you give him another chance?’
The picture of me cruising along, window open, stereo on, singing out loud, danced across my mind. Gareth would be nice now. He’d stop trying to sell me extras and would want me to sign on the dotted line as soon as possible. And I did so love that little vehicle …
‘You’re always cutting off your nose to spite your face,’ my best friend Angela often told me. ‘I’ve never met a woman as stubborn as you. Even when it’s not in your interests you’ll do something to make a point. Sometimes, sweetheart, you need to go with the flow.’
Car versus Tell this man where to go?
There really was only one option.
‘She’s still awake.’
‘Awake?’
‘Her eyes might be closed, but she’s trying to speak.’
‘Libby likes to talk.’
‘You don’t, do you, Jack? Not about anything that really matters.’
‘Keep talking to her, it’ll help.’
‘Libby? It’s me, Jack. I’m right here. Everything’s going to be OK. You’re going to be just fine.’
‘I don’t feel fine. I don’t feel much of any—’
‘What’s the ETA?’
‘About three minutes. We should have got a doctor to come to the scene.’
‘They said there was no one available. Put your foot down. Oh, BP has just gone through the floor.’
July, 2008
Jack was sitting on the bonnet of a red car, chewing on bites of an apple when I had finally finished with Gareth. His long legs were drawn up towards his chest and splayed out at the knees, while he rested his elbows on his knees. I gave him a passing glance, a nod, then began towards the driveway.
‘All sorted then?’ he called at me, taking off his sunglasses.
‘Yes. All sorted.’
‘Good.’
Unexpectedly, the driver’s side door of the car he sat on popped open, and a pair of bronzed, slender legs in a pair of Prada sandals stepped out. The owner of the legs slowly uncurled herself from the car and was, of course, beautiful: perfectly applied make-up, shoulder-length honey-blonde hair, a short, floaty Gucci number and a diamond-encrusted Rolex on her wrist. They could not be a more clichéd couple if they tried.
‘Grace, this is Libby. Libby, this is Grace, my best friend’s wife. She’s here to drive me home while my car is being fixed.’
‘Hi,’ I said to her, wondering why he’d been at pains to clarify that she wasn’t his girlfriend.
She smiled warmly, which wrong-footed me: in my job, I met women like her all the time and they generally behaved how Jack behaved – as if the world revolved around them. ‘Hello,’ she said, the corner of her nude-lipsticked mouth turning up a fraction in slight amusement. If she wasn’t his girlfriend, she probably liked the idea of Jack having to apologise. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘You too,’ I said.
I nodded goodbye to them and then continued walking towards the bus stop. A minute later, he was in front of me again. He wiped the apple juice that had been glistening on his lips on the back of his hand and tucked his sunglasses in his top pocket.
‘Is that it?’ he asked.
‘Is what it?’ I replied.
‘You and me, done and dusted?’
‘Was there ever a you and me?’ I asked.
‘I thought there was a little frisson earlier. Something we could work on.’
‘Frisson? You mean, you taking the piss out of me and me saying you were rubbish? That was a frisson? I feel really sorry for the women you go out with.’
‘So this,’ he moved his forefinger in the space between us, ‘isn’t going anywhere?’
‘Where did you think it would go?’
‘To dinner or a drink?’
‘Jack, I’m sorry to say I don’t particularly like you. Your clearly over-inflated sense of entitlement keeps bringing out the not very nice side of me. See? I would never normally say that to someone – and believe me, I meet a lot of odorous people on a daily basis so I do know how to keep it in – but with you, I can’t help it. So, no, I don’t see this going anywhere.’
He studied me silently, his eyebrows knitted slightly together as his moss-green eyes held mine. ‘At least tell me your full name.’
‘Why?’
‘So I can forever remember the one person who didn’t fall for my charm, or lack thereof.’
The promise of rain in the air suddenly fulfilled itself, spilling out onto the world. This rain in early July was incredibly welcome: beautiful and calming. I lifted my face to the sky, smiling as the drops gently exploded on my skin. It was the enemy of my hair, would make me a frizzy mess in less time than it took to boil water, but I still loved the cooling touch of rain.
As I lowered my head, I saw on the horizon behind Jack, the large lumbering shape of a bus. It was going in my direction and I had to be on it if I had any hope of salvaging what was left of my day off. ‘No, you can’t have my full name,’ I said to him. ‘I know you’ll just Google it, because you can’t help yourself, and then you’ll have to call whatever number you find because, again, you won’t be able to help yourself. Believe me, it’s better like this.’ As I spoke, I ferreted in my bag for my one-day travel pass. Finally finding it lodged between the book I was reading and my umbrella, I pulled it free. ‘Goodbye, again.’ Without waiting for a response, I stepped around him to start running down the slick pavement for the bus stop.
‘Libby!’ he called to me.
I stopped, turned around. ‘Yes?’ I asked, pushing locks of my wet black hair off my face.
He smiled, shook his head. ‘Nothing. I’ll see you around.’
I shrugged. ‘Anything’s possible.’ I turned and sprinted towards the bus stop, arriving just in time to get on.
Jack stood in the same spot and waved at me as the bus went past.
I gave him a wan smile then looked out of the front window to concentrate on where I was going, which was away from this place.
‘BP’s still dropping, she’s extremely tachycardic.’
Why is only part of my life flashing before my eyes? What about everything else? Doesn’t the rest of my life count?
‘We need to get more fluids into her.’
Is my whole life really about Jack?
‘I’ve lost her pulse!’
July, 2008
‘Have you been keeping things from us, Libby Rabvena?’ asked Paloma when I returned to the haven of the staff room after performing a particularly gruesome bikini wax.
I was still shuddering, hoping I wouldn’t wake up tonight dreaming about it, when Paloma had stopped me in the doorway with her words. She was my boss: manager of Si Pur, the exclusive beauty salon for those who liked to experience purity from the inside out.
Standing beside her, like a row of white-uniformed, cleansed, toned and moisturised soldiers were Inês, Sandra, Amy and Vera, the other beauticians who, like me, lived to do nothing more than impart the Si Pur ethos. They were all looking at me with flawless, expectant faces, and I instantly drew back in apprehension. Those looks meant they were up to something, possibly planning a surprise of some sort. And I did
not like surprises. I preferred to know what was coming, always.
‘Not that I know of,’ I said cautiously. I wasn’t exactly living the most exciting life at the moment. The only thing that I hadn’t told them was that I had lost my debit card yesterday, after paying the deposit on my car. Thankfully, I’d managed to cancel it before whoever found it had used it. I hadn’t told them that because, well, why would I? I had told them about my car, which would be arriving sometime next week.
‘Well, what do you make of this, then?’ Paloma said and, almost as if they had choreographed it, the five of them stepped aside, revealing a bouquet of burgundy and cream roses.
I stared at the roses, all with lickably luscious, velvety petals, and at the expensive glass vase with a large red bow tied around its middle that they had obviously arrived in.
‘Are those for me?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ Paloma said, not bothering to hide the naked jealousy in her voice. ‘They’ve just arrived.’
‘Right,’ I said, perplexed. I could not think of a single person who would send me flowers, let alone ones as beautiful as these. I stepped forwards, and reached for the square white card with my name and the salon’s address on the front that sat on its own metal holder in the middle of the bouquet.
‘And who’s Jack?’ Paloma asked before my hand had made contact.
I wasn’t surprised she’d opened the card, she did that sort of thing all the time. She made no secret of the fact that she thought she had first dibs on anything that came into the salon – even if it was sent specifically to one of us. It was a perk of management, she insisted to anyone who dared complain: you try doing her job on top of managing such a large salon for the money she made, she reasoned, it would make you realise that you deserved a little extra. None of us had been brave enough to point out that what she did was actually bordering on theft.
‘Some man I met,’ I said, slipping the card out of its envelope.
You wouldn’t tell me your name, but I found this, so I took it as Fate. Call me. Jack. His number was at the bottom of the card.
From the envelope I pulled out my errant debit card. Ah. When I’d got my pass out of my bag, I must have dropped it. That was why he’d called me when I ran for the bus – for a moment he was going to return it, then saw it as too good an opportunity to pass up.
It was not Fate, it was me needing to organise my bag so things like this did not happen.
‘You can’t just say that! Where did you meet him. When? Who is he? How come he sent you flowers? Are you going to call him?’ Paloma asked, straining to keep herself in check. She thrived on mysteries, the thought of one involving a man who sent flowers was probably driving her insane.
Paloma was stunning. She had thick dark hair that she wore in a sensible bun for work, a heart-shaped face, dewy dark-brown skin and long eyelashes that framed her chestnut eyes. She would love Jack. And he would probably love her. She might be less of a challenge than me, but she was on his wavelength: she had an innate sense of entitlement, and she was impressed by money and monied people. They would go together perfectly.
‘You should call him,’ I said, handing her the little white card. ‘You’d love him: good looking, rich. Drives one of those sporty Z4 things and wears a Tag Heuer watch.’
She almost snatched the card out of my hand, stared at it wide-eyed. ‘You really think I should?’ she asked casually, while her eyes were desperately committing his details to memory in case I changed my mind.
‘I do,’ I said. ‘You’re his type.’
Once she had memorised his number, she raised her gaze to me and pursed her lips. ‘What’s the catch?’ she asked. ‘What do you want in return?’
Shaking my head, I went to the cleaning cupboard and liberated the jar of instant coffee we hid behind the bleach and washing up liquid. (If we ever had a visit from the ‘so pure’ people who owned the salons, they would probably die – after sacking us – to discover we didn’t sip green tea and eat seeds all day in the purity of our staff room haven.) ‘Nothing,’ I said, going to the kettle and shaking it to see if it had enough for a cup. ‘Oh, except maybe an invite to the wedding if it all works out.’
At the word ‘wedding’, Paloma’s eyes suddenly lost focus and she began mentally trying on her – already chosen – Vera Wang wedding dress, placing her real diamond tiara on her head, and wafting the long white veil with Swarovski crystals hand-sewn onto it. It was obvious she would never invite any of us mere mortals to her wedding. She tolerated us because we were all good at our jobs, but she was treading water – the second she landed a handsome, rich husband she was leaving and not looking back. Once she hit her jackpot, she’d probably pass us in the street and pretend she didn’t know who we were.
The more I thought about it, the more perfect she seemed for Jack.
‘It’s a deal,’ she said with a smile.
Her hands reached out for the vase. ‘But I get to keep the flowers,’ I told her. Her manicured fingers hovered a few seconds longer around the base of the vase, before they were eventually – reluctantly – withdrawn. There’d be plenty more where they came from, she obviously decided.
Why is it so quiet?
And so dark?
And still.
A minute ago there was noise and sirens and people talking, and I think Jack was holding my hand, and everything was moving so fast.
At least the pain has stopped.
But I want to know why everything else has stopped, too.
Am I asleep?
Maybe I’m asleep. You can’t hurt in your sleep. And all I wanted was to go to sleep before.
I want to wake up now.
Where is everybody?
Why am I suddenly alone?
‘You’re not alone,’ the woman’s voice, as smooth and rich as velvet says. ‘I’m here. And I know exactly what you’re going through.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Oh, come on, Libby, you know who I am.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Yes, you do. You’re a smart woman, that’s why Jack’s with you. Come on, you can work it out.’
‘No, you can’t be. You can’t be—’
‘We’ve got her back, but I don’t know for how long. You really need to put your foot down or she won’t make it.’
‘I’ll try, but there is so much traffic. No one is moving because there’s nowhere to move to.’
‘I’ll keep pumping in fluids, but I don’t know how long that’s going to work.’
July, 2008
‘That was very funny, giving my number to your boss,’ Jack said to me as I approached my building.
He was leaning on the wall outside, holding a brown cardboard drinks tray with two white paper coffee cups slotted into the holes and a white bag perched between them.
It was eight o’clock. The world was bright, and London was, of course, already on the move: traffic was rolling past Si Pur’s glass-fronted building at the bottom of Covent Garden, various people were heading towards buildings or the Tube station around the corner. I always came into work early because it meant I was less likely to have to do the late shift since I had the furthest to travel. I’d also been hoping to leave early tomorrow because my car was being delivered.
‘Just happened to be in the area?’ I asked him. ‘No. I came to see if I could tempt you to sit on a bench and eat a croissant and drink a coffee with me. And to thank you for giving my number to your boss, of course.’
‘She actually called you? She wouldn’t tell us if she had or not.’
‘She did.’
‘And it didn’t go well?’
‘Not for me it didn’t.’
‘I genuinely thought you’d get on.’
‘We did get on. It turns out we know quite a few of the same people, and she’s funny, and intelligent, and if it wasn’t for one little problem, I’d probably have asked her out.’
‘Oh, right,’ I said. ‘That’s a shame.’
‘Don
’t you want to know what that problem is?’
I shook my head. ‘No.’
‘I’ll tell you anyway: that problem is I’m interested in going out with you.’
‘OK,’ I said.
Jack’s handsome face, which looked disconcertingly awake for the hour, did a double take. ‘You’ll go out with me. Just like that?’
‘Yes. I will go out with you. Right now. I will go and sit on a park bench and eat a croissant and drink a coffee and we’ll call it “going out” and then we can call it quits, OK?’
‘What if you actually enjoy yourself? What if you decide that you quite like the attentions of the J-man and would like to see me again? How are you going to square that with—?’
‘Don’t push it. And don’t call yourself J-man.’
‘Got you. How about Soho Square?’
I liked early morning London, with the people, lives, and stories that made up the city’s blood continuously buzzing under its skin, constantly moving it forwards. It was so different to early morning Brighton. Early morning Brighton was best experienced with a walk along the front, nodding to dog walkers and joggers and those who’d been partying all night. Brighton’s blood flow seemed so much calmer than London’s but I loved them both in equal measures.
‘I feel like I need to be on my best behaviour or you’re not going to finish your breakfast with me,’ Jack said as we crossed Charing Cross Road and headed towards Manette Street.
‘Why are you putting yourself through this, then?’ I replied. ‘There really is no need for it.’
‘I find you intriguing. Not many people intrigue me.’
I’d been out with men like Jack before. Many, many times before because, it seemed, the beautician’s uniform was a magnet for the type of man who wanted a girlfriend but not a woman. They wanted someone who would take care of their appearance, who would appreciate the gifts and the exotic trips, who would smile sweetly at the right moments, but wouldn’t do things like have period pain, or hairy legs, or – horrors of horrors – expect to have their opinions and thoughts listened to. The last man I’d been out with, a diplomat for a small African country, had been horrified that the woman he’d met at a party who told him she was a beauty therapist turned out to have a degree in biochemistry and had once been a research scientist. I’d seen it on his face – he’d been expecting me to twirl my hair around my finger and sit there agog as he told me all about his diplomatic immunity and what things were like in his country. He didn’t expect me to ask about the economic stability that indigenous fuel production could bring to his country (but I only did that because he’d been so presumptuous about me from my job title) and he couldn’t get away fast enough at the end of the date.