ENDWICH BANK
FULHAM BRANCH 3 Fulham Road
London SW6 9JH
Ms. Rebecca BloomwoodFlat 24 Burney Rd.London SW6 8FD
23 March 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood: I am writing to confirm our meeting at 9:30 a.m. on Monday 26 March, here at our Fulham office. Please ask for me at reception.I look forward to seeing you then. Yours sincerely, Derek Smeath Manager
Fifteen
I HAVE NEVER IN my life felt as terrible as I do when I wake up the next morning. Never.
The first thing I feel is pain. Exploding sparks of pain as I try to move my head; as I try to open my eyes; as I try to work out a few basics like: Who am I? What day is it? Where should I be right now?
For a while I lie quite still, panting with the exertion of just being alive. In fact, my face is growing scarlet and I’m almost starting to hyperventilate, so I force myself to slow down and breathe regularly. In. . out, in. . out. And then surely everything will come back to me and I will feel better. In. . out, in. . out.
OK. . Rebecca. That’s right. I’m Rebecca Bloomwood, aren’t I? In. . out, in. . out.
What else? Dinner. I had dinner somewhere last night. In. . out, in. . out.
Pizza. I had pizza. And who was I with, again? In. . out, in. .
Tarquin.
Out.
Oh God. Tarquin.
Leafing through checkbook. Everything ruined. All my own fault.
A familiar wave of despair floods over me and I close my eyes, trying to calm my throbbing head. At the same time, I remember that last night, when I went back to my room, I found the half bottle of malt whisky which Scottish Prudential once gave me, still sitting on my dressing table. I opened it up — even though I don’t like whisky — and drank. . well, certainly a few cupfuls. Which might possibly explain why I’m feeling so ill now.
Slowly I struggle to a sitting position and listen for sounds of Suze, but I can’t hear anything. The flat’s empty. It’s just me.
Me and my thoughts.
Which, to be honest, I can’t endure. My head’s pounding and I feel pale and shaky — but I’ve got to get moving; distract myself. I’ll go out, have a cup of coffee somewhere quiet and try to get myself together.
I manage to get out of bed, stagger to my chest of drawers, and stare at myself in the mirror. I don’t like what I see. My skin’s green, my mouth is dry, and my hair’s sticking to my skin in clumps. But worst of all is the expression in my eyes: a blank, miserable self-loathing. Last night I was given a chance — a fantastic opportunity on a silver platter. I threw it in the bin — and hurt a really sweet, decent chap, to boot. God, I’m a disaster. I don’t deserve to live.
I head to King’s Road, to lose myself in the anonymous bustle. The air’s crisp and fresh, and as I stride along it’s almost possible to forget about last night. Almost, but not quite.
I go into Aroma, order a large cappuccino, and try to drink it normally. As if everything’s fine and I’m just another girl out on a Sunday for some shopping. But I can’t do it. I can’t escape my thoughts. They’re churning round in my head, like a record that won’t stop, over and over and over.
If only I hadn’t picked up his checkbook. If only I hadn’t been so stupid. It was all going so well. He really liked me. We were holding hands. He was planning to ask me out again. If only I could go back; if only I could play the evening again. .
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about what could have been. It’s too unbearable. If I’d played it right, I’d probably be sitting here drinking coffee with Tarquin, wouldn’t I? I’d probably be well on my way to becoming the fifteenth richest woman in the country.
Instead of which, I have unpaid bills stacked up in my dressing table drawer. I have a meeting with my bank manager on Monday morning. I have no idea what I’m going to do. No idea at all.
Miserably I take a sip of coffee and unwrap my little chocolate. I’m not in the mood for chocolate, but I stuff it into my mouth anyway.
The worst thing — the very worst thing of all — is that I was actually starting to quite like Tarquin. Maybe he isn’t God’s gift in the looks department, but he’s very kind, and quite funny, in his own way. And that brooch — it’s really quite sweet.
And the way he didn’t tell Suze what he’d seen me doing. And the way he believed me when I told him I liked dogs and Wagner and bloody violinists in Mozambique. The way he was so completely, utterly unsuspicious.
Now I really am going to start crying.
Roughly I brush at my eyes, drain my cup, and stand up. Out on the street I hesitate, then begin walking briskly again. Maybe the breeze will blow these unbearable thoughts out of my head.
But I stride and stride, and I still feel no better. My head’s aching and my eyes are red and I could really do with a drink or something. Just a little something, to make me feel a bit better. A drink, or a cigarette, or. .
I look up, and I’m in front of Octagon. My favorite shop in the whole world. Three floors of clothes, accessories, furnishings, gifts, coffee shops, juice bars, and a florist which makes you want to buy enough bouquets to fill your house.
I’ve got my purse with me.
Just something small, to cheer me up. A T-shirt or something. Or even some bubble bath. I need to buy myself something. I won’t spend much. I’ll just go in, and. .
I’m already pushing my way through the doors. Oh God, the relief. The warmth, the light. This is where I belong. This is my natural habitat.
Except that even as I’m heading toward the T-shirts, I’m not quite as happy as I should be. I look through the racks, trying to summon the excitement I usually feel at buying myself a little treat — but somehow today I feel a bit empty. Still, I choose a cropped top with a silver star in the middle and put it over my arm, telling myself I feel better already. Then I spot a rack of dressing gowns. I could do with a new dressing gown, as a matter of fact.
As I finger a lovely white waffle robe, I can hear a little voice at the back of my head, like a radio turned down low. Don’t do it. You’re in debt. Don’t do it. You’re in debt.
But quite frankly, what does it matter now? It’s too late to make any difference. I’m already in debt; I might as well be more in debt. Almost savagely, I pull the dressing gown down from the rack and put it over my arm. Then I reach for the matching waffle slippers. No point buying one without the other.
The checkout point is directly to my left, but I ignore it. I’m not done yet. I head for the escalators and go up to the home-furnishing floor. Time for a new duvet set. White, to match my new dressing gown. And a pair of bolster cushions.
Every time I add something to my pile, I feel a little whoosh of pleasure, like a firework going off. And for a moment, everything’s all right. But then, gradually, the light and sparkles disappear, and I’m left with cold dark blackness again. So I look feverishly around for something else. A huge scented candle. A bottle of Jo Malone shower gel. A bag of handmade potpourri. As I add each one, I feel a whoosh — and then blackness. But the whooshes are getting shorter and shorter each time. Why won’t the pleasure stay? Why don’t I feel happier?
“Can I help you?” says a voice, interrupting my thoughts. A young assistant, dressed in the Octagon outfit of white shirt and linen trousers, has come up and is looking at my pile of stuff on the floor. “Would you like me to hold some of these while you continue shopping?”
“Oh,” I say blankly, and look down at the stuff I’ve accumulated. It’s actually quite a lot by now. “No, don’t worry. I’ll just. . I’ll just pay for this lot.”
Somehow, between us, we manage to lug all my shopping across the beechwood floor to the stylish granite checkout point in the middle, and the assistant begins to scan everything through. The bolster cushions have been reduced, which I hadn’t realized, and while she’s checking the exact price, a queue begins to form behind me.
“That’ll be £370.56,” she says eventually, and smiles at me. “How would yo
u like to pay?”
“Erm. . debit card,” I say, and reach for my purse. As she’s swiping it, I eye up my carrier bags and wonder how I’m going to get all this stuff home.
But immediately my thoughts bounce away. I don’t want to think about home. I don’t want to think about Suze, or Tarquin, or last night. Or any of it.
“I’m sorry,” says the girl apologetically, “but there’s something wrong with your card. It won’t authorize the purchase.” She hands it back to me. “Do you have anything else?”
“Oh,” I say, slightly flustered. “Well. . here’s my VISA card.”
How embarrassing. And anyway, what’s wrong with my card? It looks all right to me. I must call the bank about this.
The bank. Meeting tomorrow, with Derek Smeath. Oh God. Quick, think about something else. Look at the floor. Glance about the shop. There’s quite a big line of people now, and I can hear coughing and clearing of throats. Everyone’s waiting for me. As I meet the eye of the woman behind me, I smile awkwardly.
“No,” says the girl. “This one’s no good either.”
“What?” I whip round in shock. How can my VISA card be no good? It’s my VISA card, for God’s sake. Accepted all over the world. What’s going on? It doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t make any. .
My words stop midstream, and a nasty chill feeling begins to creep over me. All those letters. Those letters I’ve been putting in my dressing table drawer. Surely they can’t have. .
No. They can’t have done.
My heart starts to thump in panic. I know I haven’t been that great at paying my bills — but I need my VISA card. I need it. They can’t just cancel it, just like that.
“There are other people waiting,” says the girl, gesturing to the queue. “So if you aren’t able to pay. .”
“Of course I’m able to pay,” I say stiffly. With trembling hands I scrabble in my purse and eventually produce my silver Octagon charge card. It was buried under all the others, so I can’t have used it for a while. “Here,” I say. “I’ll put it all on this.”
“Fine,” says the girl curtly, and swipes the card.
It’s only as we’re waiting silently for the authorization that I begin to wonder whether I’ve actually paid off my Octagon account. They sent me a nasty letter a while ago, didn’t they? Something about an outstanding balance. But I’m sure I paid it off, ages ago. Or at least some of it. Didn’t I? I’m sure I. .
“I’m just going to have to make a quick call,” says the assistant, staring at her machine. She reaches for the phone next to the till.
“Hi,” she says. “Yes, if I can give you an account number. .”
Behind me, somebody sighs loudly. I can feel my face growing hotter and hotter. I don’t dare look round. I don’t dare move.
“I see,” says the assistant eventually, and puts down the phone. She looks up — and at the sight of her face, my stomach gives a lurch. Her expression isn’t apologetic or polite anymore. It’s plain unfriendly.
“Our financial services department would like you to contact them urgently,” she says curtly. “I’ll give you the number.”
“Right,” I say, trying to sound relaxed. As though this is a fairly normal request. “OK. Well, I’ll do that. Thanks.” I hold my hand out for my charge card. I’m not interested in my shopping anymore. All I want to do is get out of here as quickly as possible.
“I’m sorry, I’m afraid your account’s been frozen,” says the assistant without lowering her voice. “I’m going to have to retain your card.”
I stare at her in disbelief, feeling my face prickling with shock. Behind me there’s an interested rustle as everybody hears this and starts nudging each other.
“So, unless you have another means of paying. .” she adds, looking at my heap of stuff on the counter. My waffle robe. My new duvet set. My scented candle. A huge, conspicuous pile of stuff. Stuff I don’t need. Stuff I can’t pay for. Suddenly the sight of it all makes me feel sick.
Numbly I shake my head. I feel as if I’ve been caught stealing.
“Elsa,” calls the assistant. “Will you deal with this, please? The customer isn’t going to make the purchase after all.” She gestures to the pile of stuff, and the other assistant moves it along the counter, out of the way, her face deliberately blank.
“Next, please.”
The woman behind me steps forward, avoiding my eye in embarrassment, and slowly I turn away. I have never felt so humiliated in all my life. The whole floor seems to be looking at me — all the customers, all the sales assistants, all whispering and nudging. Did you see? Did you see what happened?
With wobbling legs I walk away, not looking right or left. This is a nightmare. I just have to get out, as quickly as possible. I have to get out of the shop and onto the street and go. .
Go where? Home, I suppose.
But I can’t go back and face Suze. She’s been so kind to me and how have I behaved? She has no idea what a horrible person I am. If I go home, I’ll have to hear her telling me again how sweet Tarquin is. Or even worse, risk bumping into him. Oh God. The very thought makes me feel sick.
What am I going to do? Where am I going to go?
Shakily I begin to walk along the pavement, looking away from the mocking window displays. What can I do? Where can I go? I feel empty, almost light-headed with panic.
I pause at a corner, waiting for a traffic light to change, and look blankly at a display of cashmere jumpers to my left. And suddenly, at the sight of a scarlet Pringle golfing jumper, I feel tears of relief springing to my eyes. There’s one place I can go. One place I can always go.
Sixteen
WHEN I TURN UP at my parents’ house that afternoon without warning, saying I want to stay for a few days, I can’t say they seem shocked.
In fact, so unsurprised do they seem that I begin to wonder if they’ve been expecting this eventuality all along, ever since I moved to London. Have they been waiting every week for me to arrive on the doorsteps with no luggage and red eyes? They’re certainly behaving as calmly as a hospital casualty team operating an emergency procedure.
Except that surely the casualty team wouldn’t keep arguing about the best way to resuscitate the patient? After a few minutes, I feel like going outside, letting them decide on their plan of action, and ringing the bell again.
“You go upstairs and have a nice hot bath,” says Mum, as soon as I’ve put down my handbag. “I expect you’re exhausted!”
“She doesn’t have to have a bath if she doesn’t want to!” retorts Dad. “She might want a drink! D’you want a drink, darling?”
“Is that wise?” says Mum, shooting him a meaningful what-if-she’s-an-alkie? look, which presumably I’m not supposed to notice.
“I don’t want a drink, thanks,” I say. “But I’d love a cup of tea.”
“Of course you would!” says Mum. “Graham, go and put the kettle on.” And she gives him another meaningful look. As soon as he’s disappeared into the kitchen, she comes close to me and says, in a lowered voice, “Are you feeling all right, darling? Is anything. . wrong?”
Oh God, there’s nothing like your mother’s sympathetic voice to make you want to burst into tears.
“Well,” I say, in a slightly uncertain voice. “Things have been better. I’m just. . in a bit of a difficult situation at the moment. But it’ll be all right in the end.” I give a small shrug and look away.
“Because. .” She lowers her voice even more. “Your father isn’t as old-fashioned as he seems. And I know that if it were a case of us looking after a. . a little one, while you pursued your career. .”
What?
“Mum, don’t worry!” I exclaim sharply. “I’m not pregnant!”
“I never said you were,” she says, and flushes a little. “I just wanted to offer you our support.”
My parents watch too many soap operas, that’s their trouble. In fact, they were probably hoping I was pregnant. By my wicked married lover whom th
ey could then murder and bury under the patio.
And what’s this “offer you our support” business, anyway? My mum would never have said that before she started watching Ricki Lake.
“Well, come on,” she says. “Let’s sit you down with a nice cup of tea.”
And so I follow her into the kitchen, and we all sit down with a cup of tea. And I have to say, it is very nice. Hot strong tea and a chocolate bourbon biscuit. Perfect. I close my eyes and take a few sips, and then open them again, to see both my parents gazing at me with naked curiosity all over their faces. Immediately my mother changes her expression to a smile, and my father gives a little cough — but I can tell, they are gagging to know what’s wrong.
“So,” I say cautiously, and both their heads jerk up. “You’re both well, are you?”
“Oh yes,” says my mother. “Yes, we’re fine.”
There’s another silence.
“Becky?” says my father gravely, and both Mum and I swivel to face him. “Are you in some kind of trouble we should know about? Only tell us if you want to,” he adds hastily. “And I want you to know — we’re there for you.”
That’s another bloody Ricki Lake — ism, too. My parents should really get out more.
“Are you all right, darling?” says Mum gently — and she sounds so kind and understanding that, in spite of myself, I find myself putting down my cup with a bit of a clatter and saying “To tell you the truth, I am in a spot of bother. I didn’t want to worry you, so I haven’t said anything before now. .” I can feel tears gathering in my eyes.
“What is it?” says Mum in a panicky voice. “You’re on drugs, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not on drugs!” I exclaim. “I’m just. . It’s just that I. . I’m. .” I take a deep gulp of tea. This is even harder than I thought it would be. Come on, Rebecca, just say it.
I close my eyes and clench my hand tightly around my mug.
“The truth is. .” I say slowly.