Bobsy dug about a bit in her bag, then handed me a little card. ‘Listen, if you’re looking for some part-time work, go and see Mrs McKinnon.’
My brow creased. ‘Mrs McKinnon? The Home Ec teacher? From St Cathal’s?’
Bobsy nodded. ‘Call her, and say I spoke to you. She might be able to help your . . . job situation.’
‘She’s running a temping agency?’
Bobsy smiled and, really, she looked like a different girl. A woman, in fact. ‘You could said that, yes.’
The card read simply ‘Hildegarde McKinnon’ with a Chelsea phone number, and it completely threw me. Home Ec was my favourite subject, and Mrs McKinnon was my favourite teacher, but she wasn’t exactly the careers officer, unless you wanted to spend your working life as a party-planner. Which, come to think of it, my mother, also an Old Cathalian, has.
Mrs McKinnon’s classes were supposed to cover such essential topics as ridding your surfaces properly of bacteria and devising delicious dinner-party menus for a Muslim, a vegan, a lactose intolerant and a pregnant woman; however, with a bit of prompting, she usually diverted into more arcane waters, such as how to eat lobsters without licking your fingers, or how best to decline a marriage proposal on a pheasant shoot. I adored her lessons.
Mrs McKinnon herself was something of an enigma. There was never a sign of Mr McKinnon. Rumour had it that he’d once asked her to pass him a serviette instead of a napkin, and had been summarily dismissed. Most of the girls were scared of her, but I was sort of fascinated by the obvious fire she had boiling away under her lint-free exterior. I mean, no one can get that exercised about fruit knives without concealing depths of extreme passion. And, on a personal level, Mrs McKinnon did spark off my interest in dress-making by persistently pulling me up on my ill-fitting school uniform and making me adjust my seams for needlework prep.
But with a final adjustment to the Chanel hairgrip keeping her glossy mane under control, Bobsy was off, before I could ask her how learning the correct way to dismount from a moped could possibly help me pay my substantial debt to British Telecom.
‘So,’ said Nelson wearily when I got back to the table, ‘is it the Bobsy Parkin, or just a Bobsy-a-like?’
‘No, it’s her all right,’ I said.
Nelson muttered something about horses, but I wasn’t listening because it occurred to me that there was now a bottle of Krug on the table.
‘Oh, you shouldn’t have! That’s so sweet but totally unnecessary!’ I gasped. ‘Which one of you . . .’
‘Oh no, Melissa, we didn’t buy it,’ breathed Gabi. ‘It just appeared. For you, the waiter said.’
‘Did it?’ I frowned. I told the man at the bar to send us the bill, not a bottle of champagne.
‘While I slipped off to go to the loo,’ said Nelson as if he should have stopped it arriving somehow.
The penny dropped, and I had to come clean. This wasn’t the first time this had happened to me. In my limited experience, I’d discovered that there were some awful men out there who thought they could buy a lady’s company – and more! – for a bottle of champagne. I always sent it back, though.
Nelson’s jaw was jutting.
Gabi was touching the bottle reverently and looking pained, because none of us could possibly afford Krug and it’s simply the best tonic for a bad mood. I must admit that even I found manners rather vexing at times.
But who had sent it? And was there any way of keeping it?
I looked around discreetly and spotted Bobsy’s father beaming at me, his red face nearly split in two at his own cleverness.
‘Oh, look,’ I said, turning back to Gabi and Nelson with no little relief. ‘It’s Bobsy’s father who’s sent it over. How sweet. Bobsy must have told him about my bad day. How considerate – of them both!’
‘Do you think so?’ said Gabi doubtfully. ‘She doesn’t look that pleased.’
It was true – Bobsy was pouting like a trooper about something.
‘Are you sure that’s her father?’ she added. ‘I don’t see a resemblance . . .’
‘Um, yes,’ I said. ‘Well, I suppose it could be an uncle. Or a family friend? Very generous, anyway.’
I was about to go over there and thank him myself, when Nelson said, rather icily, ‘And how was he meant to know about your bad day while you and Bobsy were chatting in the loos? Was your redundancy in the Evening Standard or is Bobsy’s daddy a psychic counsellor?’
At this juncture, Gabi took it upon herself to open the bottle in a very practised manner and had three glasses poured out before I could digest what Nelson had said and stop her.
‘Gabi!’
‘Come on, Mel.’ She’d already swigged half a glass. ‘Sometimes a girl needs a glass of champagne, no matter where it’s come from.’
‘But Bobsy . . .’ I wrestled with my conscience.
‘Oh, for the love of God, Melissa,’ said Nelson crossly. ‘It’s obvious to everyone in here apart from you that he can’t possibly be Bobsy’s father. He has his sweaty paw on her knee!’
Oh, yes. So he had. Urgh.
‘Well, who is he then?’ I demanded.
‘How would I know?’ Nelson looked askance. ‘I would have said it’s her boyfriend but it’s stretching the terminology a bit too far.’
‘Sugar daddy,’ said Gabi knowledgeably.
I tried to angle my gaze so I could observe Bobsy and her sugar daddy but it was impossible without staring. So I stared anyway.
‘Oh my God,’ I said. Then I shut my mouth because I couldn’t for the life of me think what to say next.
‘Well done, Bobsy, I say,’ said Gabi, refilling her glass. ‘Wish I had a man who’d shower me in Krug. Aaron’s a right tight git when it comes to champagne, even though he’s coining it in at the moment.’
‘I think you’ll find they’re drinking house white wine,’ observed Nelson. ‘Which may explain Bobsy’s lemon-face. Mel, close your mouth and stop gawping. This isn’t a motorway pile-up.’
I rearranged my face into a blasé expression, but I really couldn’t hide the fact that I was shocked. Gabi and Nelson were always going on about how I was too easily shocked by things. I suppose I had a very sheltered childhood; with the benefit of hindsight, of course, I realised my lack of exposure to television and the tabloid press had been because of the numerous scandals my father wished to keep from his family. And my mother had had plenty of things of her own she didn’t want to talk about.
But even so, I thought, how rude of that man to send me a bottle of champagne while he was on a date with Bobsy! I’d be livid!
‘I can’t drink it,’ I announced, pushing my glass away.
‘Good for you,’ said Gabi, finishing off her own glass and grabbing mine.
‘Gabi, we have to leave right now.’ I got my coat and started winding my scarf around my neck.
Why on earth had he sent it? Was it because I was looking over there at Bobsy? Did he think I was flirting with him?
A hot wash of shame ran over my skin. What kind of girl did I look like?
‘Stay here and finish the bottle now it’s opened,’ said Nelson firmly. ‘Then go over there, thank him for his kindness and wish the pair of them a happy evening. If you want, I’ll pay for it at the bar for you, and you can pay me back.’
This was a very generous offer, since although Nelson earned more than me, he still didn’t earn the kind of money you can chuck around on champagne.
‘OK,’ I said, with a massive effort. ‘But you two can drink it. I couldn’t possibly.’
The moment Gabi had drained her last glass – which wasn’t long – I walked over to Bobsy’s table and rushed through my thank you speech, blushing to the roots of my hair. I made myself meet her eye and hoped she could detect the unspoken apology on my face. I looked at him as little as was polite, and turned down his enthusiastic offer of another bottle at their table. Poor Bobsy, I thought. What a creep. I sincerely hoped he shelled out for a cab home for her.
 
; After that, none of us was in the mood to go on elsewhere, and the prospect of Nelson’s chicken korma and the sofa was more tempting than ever. Nelson and I decided to walk home since it was a mild evening, and Gabi decided to join us for some of the way as she, at least, was still full of champagne fizz.
I could have been drinking iced water for all the effect those cocktails had had on me, and Nelson had gone quiet, which was plain ominous.
Gabi put her arm in mine as we walked along, and bumped her hip against me companionably. Since I was a good four inches taller than her, I didn’t bump back for fear of bumping her over.
‘Poor Mel,’ she said with her customary lack of tact. ‘It’s just not going your way at the moment, is it?’
‘No, it’s not,’ I replied shortly.
‘No job, no man . . . good thing she’s got you, eh, Nelson?’
If this was a lame attempt to bring Nelson into the conversation, it failed.
‘We need to get you out more,’ said Gabi with a fresh squeeze. ‘That’s what we need to do. We’ll have a girlie makeover evening, and hit the town.’ She fluffed up my brown curls with her spare hand. ‘Forget Orlando. You’ll find another bloke in no time at all. One that sends champagne over to our table.’ She paused, then added, ‘Younger than that bloke, though, obviously.’
‘How tacky,’ spat Nelson.
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘It’s tacky.’
‘Tacky, but cost-effective. And your love life needs a jump-start.’
My heart ached, hard, at the bleakness ahead of me. I had managed not to think about Orlando all evening, but now that Gabi had mentioned his name, the dull aching returned. I had only agreed to go to the Bluebird in part because it wasn’t a bar that reminded me of him.
We usually seemed to meet in bars. My heart used to turn over when I saw Orlando perched on a stool, chatting away to the barman. He was so blond and handsome with long legs and the sort of half-smile that hinted at inner naughtiness – the complete storybook-hero package. I didn’t care what the experts said, a broken heart doesn’t heal with time. Mine was only suppurating. We would have been going out for two years in three days’ time – well, two years, on and off.
Mainly off.
‘Didn’t you meet Orlando when he bought you a bottle of champagne in a club?’ said Gabi.
‘Well. Yes. But that was different.’
‘How was it different?’ asked Nelson. He’d never liked Orlando. When I told Nelson we were having a break, all he’d said was, ‘Neck or leg?’
I bit my lip. ‘That was Fate, not some sleazy chat-up line. He brought it to my table and asked if I’d like to share it with him. He’d been taking his mother out for dinner and she’d just had to run off to deal with an urgent family matter. What else could I do? It was going flat.’
I was appalled to see Gabi and Nelson roar with laughter.
‘What?’
‘I love it when you tell that story. Cracks me up every time.’ Nelson wiped his eye with his sleeve. ‘You are so gullible.’
‘I am most certainly not,’ I bristled. ‘Ask Quentin. There isn’t an estate agent in that office who can get one over on me.’
‘Not for want of trying,’ snorted Gabi drunkenly and for some reason the pair of them were off again.
I didn’t get the joke, but I didn’t like to interrupt either, as it was obviously a bonding moment, but really, it was true: everyone said how efficient I was. Hughy frequently used to boast about the appalling liberties he took with his last PA, then wring his hands and claim he couldn’t any more because I was just impossible to lie to.
I let them giggle and strode on down the street. It wasn’t that I couldn’t laugh at myself, but I was absolutely not in the mood that night. I didn’t think I’d ever felt so low in my whole life: there was nothing at all there for me. When I lost my job at the law firm, I had Orlando to cheer me up, and when Orlando told me he wanted to have a break, that’s when I threw myself into organising the huge Valentine’s party at work. Now I didn’t have either, plus I was more in contact with my draining family than ever, with Emery’s wedding coming up.
I would have turned to drink if it didn’t have such alarming effects on my personality. Too many glasses of wine and the sultry Sophia Loren persona, which I occasionally tried on along with my tighter dresses in the privacy of my own room, had a tendency to rise to the surface, all hips and hooded eyes. Not what I needed right now.
Footsteps scuttled behind me as Gabi and Nelson hurried to catch up.
‘Blimey,’ panted Gabi, ‘you can certainly shift when you want to.’
‘Sorry, Mel. We didn’t mean to upset you.’ Nelson slung his arm around my shoulder. ‘You know, from behind you looked just like Marilyn Monroe wiggling down the platform in Some Like It Hot.’
‘Thank you,’ I said gratefully, as much for the comforting warmth of his big hand on my shoulder as for the compliment.
‘Mincing away in a fit of rage,’ he continued.
Gabi took my other arm, possibly to inveigle herself within reach of Nelson’s hand. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just that you deserve to be happier, when you’re so good at making life easier for everyone else.’ She squeezed me against her own warm hip. ‘Why are you so scared about putting yourself first for a change? You’ve got to stand up for yourself a bit more. Sod whether it’s ladylike or not.’
My lip wobbled, and I let it. It was tough putting on a brave face all the time. At least with Gabi and Nelson I could admit that things weren’t so great. That was something to be grateful for; you sometimes don’t realise how a pair of shoes are crippling you, until you take them off and marvel at your bunions and blisters.
Well, that was one good thing. Just another two to go.
‘Hey, Gabi, there’s a cab,’ said Nelson, pointing out a taxi with an orange light. ‘Why don’t you grab it and get home while there’s still time for Aaron to buy you another drink?’
Gabi looked at me, torn with indecision. I knew there was nothing she’d like more than an evening at our house, scoffing curry and gazing at Nelson, but on the other hand, it was still only nine o’clock, and Aaron would be getting home from the trading floor with a fistful of cash. They got very little time together as it was, but I did sometimes wonder if Gabi preferred things that way.
Nelson solved Gabi’s dilemma by flagging down the taxi, which pulled up next to us.
‘Where to, mate?’ said the driver.
‘Mill Hill,’ said Nelson, and before she could open her mouth, he opened the door for her and ushered her in.
Gabi gave me a tight hug. ‘I’m leaving you in Nelson’s capable hands,’ she said, and pulled a comedy face of thwarted desire, for my eyes only. ‘It’ll all work out, Mel,’ she shouted as the cab pulled away, and blew a tipsy kiss out of the window.
‘Will it?’ I said morosely, watching as it pulled away. ‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’
‘It will, you moron,’ said Nelson, putting his arm round my shoulder again as we set off. ‘You just have to start valuing yourself a bit higher. And I don’t just mean at work.’
‘I know what you’re hinting at, Nelson, and I do,’ I protested. ‘I’ve got very high standards.’
Nelson snorted.
‘Don’t be so critical! You just don’t know Orlando the way I do.’ As soon as the words left my lips, I realised my mistake, because Nelson had a charmless ability to make all Orlando’s good points seem thoroughly . . . I don’t know, ordinary. But I ploughed on regardless, if only because right at that moment, I needed to hear positive things about me and Orlando spoken aloud. Even if I had to do it myself.
‘Orlando’s everything I want in a man,’ I insisted. ‘He’s romantic and creative, and he really cares about me. The real me.’
‘So why did you split up?’ said Nelson bluntly.
‘We’re on a break,’ I faltered.
But as I said it, I knew I couldn’t keep lying to myself any longer. We had split up. We’d be
en split up since the New Year. We’d been split up since he utterly failed to send me a Valentine’s card or indeed even a text on my birthday.
Orlando and I were over, and there was no point pretending he was ever coming back. Suddenly I had no idea how I’d managed to convince myself otherwise for so long.
My legs stopped walking as the shock of it hit me like a bus.
‘How is this different from the times you’ve had a break before?’ Nelson asked, when I didn’t go on. ‘And are you allowed to start looking for a replacement while he decides? Mel? Why have you stopped walking?’
I barely heard him. It was as if a bright light was shining into all the dark corners of my life that I hadn’t wanted to look at before. I blinked away a hot tear and rubbed my eyes furiously. Suddenly I felt so lonely. Stupid and lonely.
I didn’t want a replacement. I wanted Orlando. Even though he clearly wasn’t worth it.
As he couldn’t see my face, Nelson mistook my sudden devastated silence as permission to carry on with his lecture.
‘I don’t understand why you waste your time with these flaky layabouts,’ he tutted. ‘You need someone sensible, who can support you, and look after you. You’re an old-fashioned girl at heart, and, deep down, you’re only going to feel cheated by anything less than unconditional devotion from a decent man who’s worth devoting yourself to. You know, it really makes me angry, Mel, watching you throw yourself away on losers like Orlando. You’re worth so much more than that.’
‘Shut up, Nelson,’ I said, biting my lip. ‘You’re not my dad.’
‘More’s the pity,’ he retorted. ‘That’s precisely why your male-role-model pattern’s well and truly screwed up. Talk about lowering the bar.’
At the mention of my bloody father for what felt like the millionth time that night, the floodgates finally crashed open and I burst into tears right there on the street.
Nelson stopped walking immediately and put his hands on my shaking shoulders so he could see my face, which was red and unattractively screwed up like a tantrumming toddler.