‘Here, let me look,’ I say, trying to calm her down. ‘I’ve done some first aid.’
But she’s hysterical, and for a moment I think she’s going to ignore me and carry on shrieking, until dutifully she takes her hand from her face.
There’s nothing. Not even a mark.
‘It must have just been a little nip,’ I say matter-of-factly.
Blotchy from crying, she looks at me wildly. ‘What? There’s no blood?’
‘Nope, no blood.’ I shake my head. ‘It didn’t even break the skin.’
There’s a moment of relief, and then:
‘That dog’s a vicious animal! It needs to be put down!’
Fiona blanches and covers Tallulah’s ears with her hands. At which point, Pippa’s Botoxed forehead puckers slightly. ‘What’s that?’ she demands, peering at her fingers.
Suddenly I realise; she’s spotted The Ring.
‘Oh yes,’ says Fiona, blushing, ‘it’s my engagement ring.’
For a brief second Pippa is rendered speechless, before quickly snapping back. ‘Let me look at that,’ she snorts, snatching up Fiona’s finger. ‘It can’t be real.’ With her free hand she starts scrabbling around in her bag and pulls out her little magnifying glass, used for looking at gemstones. Like a sort of posh, blonde Sherlock Holmes, she peers at the ring. Her face turns puce. ‘But that can’t be . . . it’s real,’ she gasps incredulously.
‘Five carats, antique, worth a fortune,’ I stage-whisper to her.
I exchange looks with Fiona, who blushes.
Releasing Fiona’s finger, Pippa draws herself upright. ‘Congratulations,’ she says stiffly. ‘And who’s the lucky guy?’
‘You haven’t met him,’ says Fiona, her face lighting up at the mere mention of him.
‘His name’s Sir Richard,’ I butt in.
‘Well, I call him Ricky,’ corrects Fiona, blushing some more.
But I can already tell what Pippa is thinking, and it isn’t about whether his name is Richard or Ricky. Underneath that expensive Bali tan she’s gone as white as a ghost. Because that’s something I’ve found out about the high-and-mighty Pippa. She might be a serious heiress, but I looked her dad up online and it appears he made his fortune from bingo halls – not quite the pedigree she’d like everyone to believe.
‘Which means Fiona’s going to be a lady,’ I say, trying not to gloat. Pippa’s money might be able to buy a lot of Fendi handbags, and a lot of friends, but the one thing it can never buy is the one thing Fiona will, quite inadvertently, have: a title.
Pippa looks as though she’s about to collapse and has to steady herself against the side of the washbasin. One of the blondes rushes to her aid. ‘Pips sweetie, are you OK?’
‘I don’t feel well. I think I need a tetanus,’ she blusters.
She’s so ridiculous, I actually feel pity for her. Especially with friends like those, I note, watching how they’re now all fawning over her.
‘Probably best to be on the safe side,’ I nod.
She glowers and I smile sweetly.
‘And if it’s all right with you, I’m going to keep Tallulah,’ says Fiona, suddenly emboldened.
I glance at her proudly. Finally it’s happened. She’s sticking up for herself, and I can see in her expression, it’s because something’s changed. She doesn’t want to be one of them any more, she’s happy being herself
‘Whatever. Do what you like with the stupid mutt,’ Pippa scowls, ‘just as long as you keep her away from me.’ And, supported by the blondes, she’s swept out of the toilets.
Leaving Fiona and me by ourselves. For a moment neither of us speaks. Both slightly stunned and still absorbing what just happened, we just look at each other. Fiona cracks first. Her lips start twitching. After that it’s hopeless. Exploding into loud guffaws, we double up laughing, clinging onto the hand-dryers, our faces streaming with tears. Somehow, I think that’s the last we’ll be hearing of Pippa.
Afterwards, we go back outside to rejoin the party and Fiona goes off to find Sir Richard, linking her arm through his with the ease of someone who’s been doing it for years. Observing them from across the room, I look at them together, and now my initial shock has abated, I have to say they actually make a good couple. Sir Richard is obviously besotted by her, he keeps getting her nibbles and gazing at her adoringly, whereas Fiona is picking invisible threads off his jacket, subtly motioning to him when he has crumbs on his chin.
I feel a glow of pleasure. My best friend’s in love, Sir Richard got his deal, the party is a huge success . . . the DJ has started up, and I watch everyone busting out their moves on the dance floor. Everything has worked out brilliantly, except – I let my eyes wander around the room, hoping they’ll fall upon a tall, six-foot-something figure, with broad shoulders and a shock of messy black hair.
Where are you Fergus? As I ask myself the silent question, I’m well aware I don’t know the answer. I’ve been trying not to think about him all night, but with each passing hour I’ve found myself glancing at the doorway, hoping he might turn up at the last minute. But no. He hasn’t come.
‘Thought I’d come and say hello.’ I turn to see Fiona at my side. ‘I’ve sent Ricky off in search of more of those delicious spring rolls.’ She flashes a smile, then frowns. ‘Hey, are you OK?’
‘Just a bit tired,’ I fib. ‘I think I’m going to go . . .’
‘Already?’ Her face flashes with disappointment.
‘I don’t want to turn into a pumpkin.’ I try to crack a joke, but there’s no fooling Fiona.
‘Do you want me to come back with you?’ she asks, concerned.
‘No, of course not!’ I protest quickly. ‘You stay, it’s your night.’ I smile encouragingly. ‘By the way, do the spring rolls mean no more rainbow food?’
She laughs. ‘No more, I promise. No more stupid fad diets, no more secret eating, no more trying to find blue food.’ She shakes her head in disbelief.
‘Congratulations, best friend,’ I say quietly, and this time I’m not just talking about the engagement, but about the battle she’s been waging with food ever since I’ve known her, and which, finally, she might have started winning.
‘You’ll be next,’ she says firmly.
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ I smile ruefully.
‘Trust me, there’re plenty of fish in the sea. Look at me and Ricky,’ she encourages. Now Fiona is in love, she’s evidently determined that everyone should share her good fortune. ‘When you least expect it, you’ll find someone.’
‘But that’s the thing, Fi, I already did.’
She’s had a few too many cocktails, and she squints tipsily at me. ‘Huh?’
‘Oh, it’s a long story . . .’ I quickly dismiss it. ‘I’ll tell you some other time. Now you go and have fun.’ Pinning on a smile, I give her a hug, before waving goodbye and weaving my way through the rest of the partygoers towards the large mahogany double doors.
I push them open. On the other side, the lobby is quiet and empty, and as I walk to the cloakroom I catch sight of myself in the red dress in a large, gilt-edged mirror. Sadness kicks in. I might have the dress, but it’s like the charity shop manager said: ‘All you need now is someone to dance with.’ And if life is like a dance, then there’s only one person I want to dance with.
Fergus.
And finally it hits me. I can’t deny it any longer. I love Fergus. I love every single thing about him. I love the way he made beans on toast taste like the most delicious meal in the world; the way he hates New Year’s Eve and transforms other people’s junk into something wonderful; the way he risked his life racing across London on a bicycle to help a friend. And the way he loved me for who I truly am. I never had to try with him, I could always be myself.
But now it’s too late.
I’ve found myself, but I’ve lost Fergus.
Collecting my coat I pause, listening to the sounds of music and laughter floating out into the lobby, before pulling up my collar. I step
outside into the cold night. And taking a deep lungful of frozen air, I set off walking and leave the party behind.
Chapter 41
And so life goes on.
Because that’s the thing about it: life won’t let you lie in bed feeling sorry for yourself. Life’s a bit like my mum when I was a teenager and she used to vacuum outside my bedroom door at the weekend to make me get up. All bossy and pushy, life won’t take no for an answer.
Oh no, siree.
Life doesn’t give two hoots if you’re feeling depressed or unhappy, heartbroken or upset, or just generally like things haven’t turned out the way you wanted them to. It’s not going to stop the world turning so you can get off until you feel better. On the contrary, life rolls up its sleeves and demands you carry on and get on with it.
And so that’s exactly what I do. What’s happened has happened. Now I have to try and put everything behind me and get on with it.
Because that’s all you can do, isn’t it?
It’s been a week since the party. Sir Richard has officially left and so it’s all change. On Monday we were all summoned into the conference room to meet Mr Patel, our new CEO. He seems like a really nice guy and afterwards he made a special effort to talk to me and encourage me to reapply for my job as PA. Which was really kind of him, but I’ve decided not to and am working out the rest of my notice until the new PA starts. If finding myself proved to me one thing, it’s that I have to be true to myself – and that means not being a PA any more.
Plus, quite frankly, Mr Patel had a lucky escape, I muse, glancing at my inbox, which is overflowing with unanswered emails. Including one from Fiona that’s just popped in entitled ‘Sassy Soul Mates.’ I can’t resist opening it. Since she met Sir Richard she’s been evangelical about online dating and has been trying to get me to join, but I’m steadfastly ignoring her.
Hi Tess, look what I’ve found! I thought I recognised her at the party, but couldn’t place her, then I remembered where I’d seen her. It was when I was checking out the competition on Sassy Soul Mates. I’ve attached the photo and profile. Don’t you know her???
Curious, I start scrolling down. Calling herself, ‘Pussinboots’ and listing her ‘likes’ as ‘domination, whipped cream and prickly objects’, it’s a photo of a woman wearing thigh-high PVC boots, a frilly blouse unlaced to her navel, and a studded dog collar. Carrying a whip, she’s suggestively holding a very phallic-shaped cactus . . .
I get the fright of my life. Oh my god. For a few, stunned, horrified seconds I just stare in disbelief.
And not just because of the phallus-shaped cactus.
As I look at her pouting into the camera, my stomach lurches in recognition.
It’s Wendy!
For a moment I’m frozen, then I clap my hand to my mouth to stifle a giggle. Well, I’m sorry, but it’s just too funny. It’s Wendy the Witch as you’ve never seen her before.
Oh my gosh, imagine if anyone ever saw this? It’s one of our managing directors!
I type hurriedly in response to Fiona and hit reply.
Trying to brush the image from my mind, I turn back to the rest of my emails. Bloody hell, I’ve got so many, they’re like magic porridge. No sooner have you deleted one then another one appears—
My train of thought is suddenly interrupted by a loud snort of laughter. I glance up from my computer to see Kym, her hand over her face, which is creased up with laughter. Hmm, I wonder what’s so funny? I turn back to my emails and am just clicking on one headed Marketing Strategy; detailed notes, when I hear a shriek from one of the girls in the Marketing department, followed by more guffaws of laughter.
What is going on?
Then all at once there’s this big commotion and everyone starts snorting with laughter and shrieking, ‘Oh my god, have you seen it?’ ‘I can’t believe it’ ‘Bloody hell!’ ‘Does she know?’ ‘Has Wendy seen it?’
Oh. God.
Suddenly I realise what all the uproar is about. The photograph. I’ve sent everyone Wendy’s photograph by mistake! I feel hot and cold all over. I don’t know how I did it but in my haste, instead of hitting reply, I must have hit forward and somehow it’s gone to my entire address book. Which means it’s gone to everyone in the company.
Thank god I’ve resigned already.
By the time I leave the office that evening the commotion has only just died down. Wendy is understandably both furious and hugely embarrassed. I own up straight away, and after shouting abuse at me she finally calms down when Kym offers to make her a cup of tea, which she accepts with a grateful smile. To be honest, it’s the first real smile I’ve ever seen from Wendy. Maybe now this will make her a bit nicer to everyone. Well, if she wants the jokes about little pricks to stop, anyway.
After work I catch the bus to Hemmingway House to visit Gramps. I find him in the common room playing Scrabble with Errol and Pearl, a West Indian couple in their eighties, both of whom have snow-white hair and the loudest laughter you’ve ever heard.
‘Ah, just in time to help me with a seven-letter word,’ calls out Gramps, as he sees me walk in.
‘Where’s Phyllis?’ I ask, giving him a kiss on his whiskery cheek and pulling up a chair beside him. ‘I thought she was the expert.’
‘Haven’t you heard? She’s got herself a lover,’ replies Errol, erupting into deep, velvety laughter.
‘Wash your mouth out with soap,’ cusses Pearl, slapping him on the arm. ‘Not in front of the young girl.’
‘It’s OK, I heard,’ I smile, colouring slightly. ‘And I’m not that young.’
‘You’re a baby,’ dismisses Pearl, fixing me with her mega-watt smile. ‘Now, when you get to be old coots like we are . . .’
And then she’s off. Shoulders heaving, head thrown back, her loud, raucous laughter starts ricocheting around the common room. And who knows how long for, if she hadn’t been interrupted by the arrival of Melanie who appears at the doorway.
‘Hi everyone. I’m just showing around a new member of Hemmingway House who I’d like to introduce . . .’
We all stop what we’re doing and look up.
‘Sidney, Tess, Errol and Pearl, I’d like you to meet Cécilie.’
There’s a murmur of cheery hellos as a small lady with grey hair scraped into a chignon, and pillar-box red lipstick, appears next to her.
I recognise her immediately.
‘You’re the French lady from the shop,’ I exclaim delightedly, hurriedly jumping up to welcome her.
‘Ah yes, you’re the girl who bought my dress,’ she smiles in recognition. ‘Quelle belle surprise!’
We hug as if we’re old friends, bonded over a shared love of a red silk dress.
‘Gramps, this is the lady I was telling you about,’ I say excitedly, turning to him, ‘the one who has all the vintage flour sacks that I made my bag from . . .’
Easing himself up from his chair, he walks over to join us.
‘Enchanté,’ he smiles, kissing her hand.
She blushes. ‘Le plaisir est pour moi.’
‘You speak French?’ I stare at him in astonishment.
‘I used to have quite a few customers from Paris when I worked in Savile Row,’ he reveals. ‘Though I’m afraid I’m a little bit rusty.’
‘Not at all,’ protests Cécilie, and I see Gramps’s chest swell.
Watching them both, I feel a strange sort of tingle . . . Hang on a minute, is something happening here? Standing in the middle of them both, I suddenly feel rather green and hairy, like a gooseberry.
‘Ah, you’re playing Scrabble,’ she says, noticing the abandoned board.
‘Why, do you play?’
‘A little, but being French I’m not so good with the words,’ she smiles apologetically and shrugs her shoulders. Then, leaning closer she whispers, ‘I’m much better at cards.’
Gramps jumps back, his face lit up with delight. ‘Well, now you mention it I’ve got a deck right here. What about a game of Whist?’ He turns around to look
at the others.
‘As long as you let us win for once,’ laughs Errol, and Pearl joins in.
‘What fun,’ smiles Cécilie, clapping her hands delightedly.
‘Well, that’s decided then,’ announces Gramps, looking pleased, before his gaze falls upon me. ‘Oh, but there’s Tess’ – he looks at me as if suddenly remembering I’m here – ‘and it’s only for four players.’
Only this is one time I don’t mind him being forgetful. I’m more than happy to be forgotten. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’ll leave you to it, have fun,’ I smile, giving him a kiss and waving goodbye. ‘Bye.’
But Gramps is already bent close, dealing out cards with Cécilie, both of them chuckling and smiling. I haven’t seen that spark in him since Nan died. Smiling to myself, I walk away. This is the first time I’m not a bit sad to be leaving him. It’s a good feeling.
It’s getting late by the time I get back to the flat. As usual there’s barely anything in the fridge, apart from a packet of half-stale pitta, so I toast some in the vain hope it will make it more edible, then pad into my bedroom and flop on my bed. I dislodge Flea who’s curled up on my pillow, and he gives a little squeak.
‘Sorry buddy,’ I whisper, tickling his ear and showering him with pitta crumbs. He gives another little grumble, then curls up again, tucking his tail neatly underneath him so he resembles a big, hairy orange croissant.
Picking up the remote, I turn on my little portable TV and start flicking absently through the channels, while munching on half-stale, half-toasted pitta. There’s nothing on, just a bunch of soaps and bad reality shows and I’m just ruminating over the important topic of where would I be without pitta bread and Flea, which are the two main staples of life – well, apart from Gramps of course, when I see it.
It’s some entertainment show and they’re doing a news bulletin about some actor who’s got a part in a new hospital drama:
‘From bog roll to dream role . . .’
I stare rigidly at the TV as the presenter begins his introduction.