Not that I’ve ever actually got round to joining the NUJ. But still.
“What do you need twenty quid for?” says Luke Brandon, from the front of the room.
“I. . my aunt,” I say defiantly. “She’s in hospital and I wanted to get her a present.”
The room is silent. Then, to my disbelief, Luke Brandon reaches into his pocket, takes out a £20 note, and gives it to a guy in the front row of journalists. He hesitates, then passes it back to the row behind. And so it goes on, a twenty-quid note being passed from hand to hand, making its way to me like a fan at a gig being passed over the crowd. As I take hold of it, a round of applause goes round the room and I blush.
“Thanks,” I say awkwardly. “I’ll pay you back, of course.”
“My best wishes to your aunt,” says Luke Brandon.
“Thanks,” I say again. Then I glance at Alicia, and feel a little dart of triumph. She looks utterly deflated.
Toward the end of the question-and-answer session, people begin slipping out to get back to their offices. This is usually when I slip out to go and buy a cappuccino and browse in a few shops. But today I don’t. Today I decide I will stick it out until the last dismal question about tax structures. Then I’ll go up to the front and thank Luke Brandon in person for his kind, if embarrassing, gesture. And then I’ll go and get my scarf. Yippee!
But to my surprise, after only a few questions, Luke Brandon gets up, whispers something to Alicia, and heads for the door.
“Thanks,” I mutter as he passes my chair, but I’m not sure he even hears me.
The tube stops in a tunnel for no apparent reason. Five minutes go by, then ten minutes. I can’t believe my bad luck. Normally, of course, I long for the tube to break down — so I’ve got an excuse to stay out of the office for longer. But today I behave like a stressed businessman with an ulcer. I tap my fingers and sigh, and peer out of the window into the blackness.
Part of my brain knows that I’ve got plenty of time to get to Denny and George before it closes. Another part knows that even if I don’t make it, it’s unlikely the blond girl will sell my scarf to someone else. But the possibility is there. So until I’ve got that scarf in my hands I won’t be able to relax.
As the train finally gets going again I sink into my seat with a dramatic sigh and look at the pale, silent man on my left. He’s wearing jeans and sneakers, and I notice his shirt is on inside out. Gosh, I think in admiration, did he read the article on deconstructing fashion in last month’s Vogue, too? I’m about to ask him — then I take another look at his jeans (really nasty fake 501s) and his sneakers (very new, very white) — and something tells me he didn’t.
“Thank God!” I say instead. “I was getting desperate there.”
“It’s frustrating,” he agrees quietly.
“They just don’t think, do they?” I say. “I mean, some of us have got crucial things we need to be doing. I’m in a terrible hurry!”
“I’m in a bit of a hurry myself,” says the man.
“If that train hadn’t started moving, I don’t know what I would have done.” I shake my head. “You feel so. . impotent!”
“I know exactly what you mean,” says the man intensely. “They don’t realize that some of us. .” He gestures toward me. “We aren’t just idly traveling. It matters whether we arrive or not.”
“Absolutely!” I say. “Where are you off to?”
“My wife’s in labor,” he says. “Our fourth.”
“Oh,” I say, taken aback. “Well. . Gosh. Congratulations. I hope you—”
“She took an hour and a half last time,” says the man, rubbing his damp forehead. “And I’ve been on this tube for forty minutes already. Still. At least we’re moving now.”
He gives a little shrug, then smiles at me.
“How about you? What’s your urgent business?”
Oh God.
“I. . ahm. . I’m going to. .”
I stop feebly and clear my throat, feeling rather sheepish. I can’t tell this man that my urgent business consists of picking up a scarf from Denny and George.
I mean, a scarf. It’s not even a suit or a coat, or something worthy like that.
“It’s not that important,” I mumble.
“I don’t believe that,” he says nicely.
Oh, now I feel awful. I glance up — and thank goodness, it’s my stop.
“Good luck,” I say, hastily getting up. “I really hope you get there in time.”
As I walk along the pavement I’m feeling a bit shamefaced. I should have got out my 120 quid and given it to that man for his baby, instead of buying a pointless scarf. I mean, when you think about it, what’s more important? Clothes — or the miracle of new life?
As I ponder this issue, I feel quite deep and philosophical. In fact, I’m so engrossed, I almost walk past my turning. But I look up just in time and turn the corner — and feel a jolt. There’s a girl coming toward me and she’s carrying a Denny and George carrier bag. And suddenly everything is swept from my mind.
Oh my God.
What if she’s got my scarf?
What if she asked for it specially and that assistant sold it to her, thinking I wasn’t going to come back?
My heart starts to beat in panic and I begin to stride along the street toward the shop. As I arrive at the door and push it open, I can barely breathe for fear. What if it’s gone? What will I do?
But the blond girl smiles as I enter.
“Hi!” she says. “It’s waiting for you.”
“Oh, thanks,” I say in relief and subside weakly against the counter.
I honestly feel as though I’ve run an obstacle course to get here. In fact, I think, they should list shopping as a cardiovascular activity. My heart never beats as fast as it does when I see a “reduced by 50 percent” sign.
I count out the money in tens and twenties and wait, almost shivering as she ducks behind the counter and produces the green box. She slides it into a thick glossy bag with dark green cord handles and hands it to me, and I almost want to cry out loud, the moment is so wonderful.
That moment. That instant when your fingers curl round the handles of a shiny, uncreased bag — and all the gorgeous new things inside it become yours. What’s it like? It’s like going hungry for days, then cramming your mouth full of warm buttered toast. It’s like waking up and realizing it’s the weekend. It’s like the better moments of sex. Everything else is blocked out of your mind. It’s pure, selfish pleasure.
I walk slowly out of the shop, still in a haze of delight. I’ve got a Denny and George scarf. I’ve got a Denny and George scarf! I’ve got. .
“Rebecca.” A man’s voice interrupts my thoughts. I look up and my stomach gives a lurch of horror. It’s Luke Brandon.
Luke Brandon is standing on the street, right in front of me, and he’s staring down at my carrier bag. I feel myself growing flustered. What’s he doing here on the pavement anyway? Don’t people like that have chauffeurs? Shouldn’t he be whisking off to some vital financial reception or something?
“Did you get it all right?” he says, frowning slightly.
“What?”
“Your aunt’s present.”
“Oh yes,” I say, and swallow. “Yes, I. . I got it.”
“Is that it?” He gestures to the bag and I feel a guilty blush spread over my cheeks.
“Yes,” I say eventually. “I thought a. . a scarf would be nice.”
“Very generous of you. Denny and George.” He raises his eyebrows. “Your aunt must be a stylish lady.”
“She is,” I say, and clear my throat. “She’s terribly creative and original.”
“I’m sure she is,” says Luke, and pauses. “What’s her name?”
Oh God. I should have run as soon as I saw him, while I had a chance. Now I’m paralyzed. I can’t think of a single female name.
“Erm. . Ermintrude,” I hear myself saying.
“Aunt Ermintrude,” says Luke thoughtfully. “Well, give her my best
wishes.”
He nods at me, and walks off, and I stand, clutching my bag, trying to work out if he guessed or not.
ENDWICH BANK
FULHAM BRANCH 3 Fulham Road
London SW6 9JH
Ms. Rebecca BloomwoodFlat 24 Burney Rd.London SW6 8FD
17 November 1999
Dear Ms. Bloomwood: I am sorry to hear that you have glandular fever.When you have recovered, perhaps you would be kind enough to ring my assistant, Erica Parnell, and arrange a meeting to discuss your situation.Yours sincerely,Derek SmeathManager
ENDWICH — BECAUSE WE CARE
Three
I WALK THROUGH THE door of our flat to see Suze, my flatmate, sitting in one of her strange yoga positions, with her eyes closed. Her fair hair is scrunched up in a knot, and she’s wearing black leggings together with the ancient T-shirt she always wears for yoga. It’s the one her dad was wearing when he rowed Oxford to victory, and she says it gives her good vibes.
For a moment I’m silent. I don’t want to disturb her in case yoga is like sleepwalking and you’re not meant to wake people when they’re doing it. But then Suze opens her eyes and looks up — and the first thing she says is “Denny and George! Becky, you’re not serious.”
“Yes,” I say, grinning from ear to ear. “I bought myself a scarf.”
“Show me!” says Suze, unwinding herself from the floor. “Show-me-show-me-show-me!” She comes over and starts tugging at the strings of the carrier, like a kid. “I want to see your new scarf! Show me!”
This is why I love sharing a flat with Suze. Julia, my old flatmate, would have wrinkled her brow and said, “Denny and who?” or, “That’s a lot of money for a scarf.” But Suze completely and utterly understands. If anything, she’s worse than me.
But then, she can afford to be. Although she’s twenty-five, like me, her parents still give her pocket money. It’s called an “allowance” and apparently comes from some family trust — but as far as I can see, it’s pocket money. Her parents also bought her a flat in Fulham as a twenty-first birthday present and she’s been living in it ever since, half working and half dossing about.
She was in PR for a (very) short while, and that’s when I met her, on a press trip to an offshore bank on Guernsey. As a matter of fact, she was working for Brandon Communications. Without being rude — she admits it herself — she was the worst PR girl I’ve ever come across. She completely forgot which bank she was supposed to be promoting, and started talking enthusiastically about one of their competitors. The man from the bank looked crosser and crosser, while all the journalists pissed themselves laughing. Suze got in big trouble over that. In fact, that’s when she decided PR wasn’t the career for her. (The other way of putting it is that Luke Brandon gave her the sack as soon as they got back to London. Another reason not to like him.)
But the two of us had a whale of a time sloshing back wine until the early hours. Actually, Suze had a secret little weep at about two a.m. and said she was hopeless at every job she’d tried and what was she going to do? I said I thought she was far too interesting and creative to be one of those snooty Brandon C girls. Which I wasn’t just saying to be nice, it’s completely true. I gave her a big hug and she cried some more, then we both cheered up and ordered another bottle of wine, and tried on all each other’s clothes. I lent Suze my belt with the square silver buckle, which, come to think of it, she’s never given back. And we kept in touch ever since.
Then, when Julia suddenly upped and ran off with the professor supervising her Ph.D. (she was a dark horse, that one), Suze suggested I move in with her. I’m sure the rent she charges is too low, but I’ve never insisted I pay the full market rate, because I couldn’t afford it. As market rates go, I’m nearer Elephant and Castle than Fulham on my salary. How can normal people afford to live in such hideously expensive places?
“Bex, open it up!” Suze is begging. “Let me see!” She’s grabbing inside the bag with eager long fingers, and I pull it away quickly before she rips it. This bag is going on the back of my door along with my other prestige carrier bags, to be used in a casual manner when I need to impress. (Thank God they didn’t print special “Sale” bags. I hate shops that do that. What’s the point of having a posh bag with “Sale” splashed all over it?)
Very slowly, I take the dark green box out of the bag, remove the lid, and unfold the tissue paper. Then, almost reverentially, I lift up the scarf. It’s beautiful. It’s even more beautiful here than it was in the shop. I drape it around my neck and grin stupidly at Suze.
“Oh, Bex,” she murmurs. “It’s gorgeous!”
For a moment we are both silent. It’s as though we’re communing with a higher being. The god of shopping.
Then Suze has to go and ruin it all.
“You can wear it to see James this weekend,” she says.
“I can’t,” I say almost crossly, taking it off again. “I’m not seeing him.”
“How come?”
“I’m not seeing him anymore.” I try to give a nonchalant shrug.
“Really?” Suze’s eyes widen. “Why not? You didn’t tell me!”
“I know.” I look away from her eager gaze. “It’s a bit. . awkward.”
“Did you chuck him? You hadn’t even shagged him!” Suze’s voice is rising in excitement. She’s desperate to know. But am I desperate to tell? For a moment I consider being discreet. Then I think, oh, what the hell?
“I know,” I say. “That was the problem.”
“What do you mean?” Suze leans forward. “Bex, what are you talking about?”
I take a deep breath and turn to face her.
“He didn’t want to.”
“Didn’t fancy you?”
“No. He—” I close my eyes, barely able to believe this myself. “He doesn’t believe in sex before marriage.”
“You’re joking.” I open my eyes to see Suze looking at me in horror — as if she’s just heard the worst profanity known to mankind. “You are joking, Becky.” She’s actually pleading with me.
“I’m not.” I manage a weak smile. “It was a bit embarrassing, actually. I kind of. . pounced on him, and he had to fight me off.”
The cringingly awful memory which I had successfully suppressed starts to resurface. I’d met James at a party a few weeks back, and this was the crucial third date. We’d been out for a really nice meal, which he’d insisted on paying for, and had gone back to his place, and had ended up kissing on the sofa.
Well, what was I supposed to think? There he was, there I was — and make no mistake, if his mind was saying no, his body was certainly saying yes, yes, yes. So, being a modern girl, I reached for his trouser zip and began to pull it down. When he reached down and brushed me aside I thought he was playing games, and carried on, even more enthusiastically.
Thinking back, perhaps it took me longer than it should have to guess that he wasn’t playing ball, so to speak. In fact, he actually had to punch me in the face to get me off him — although he was very apologetic about it afterward.
Suze is gazing at me incredulously. Then she breaks into gurgles of laughter.
“He had to fight you off? Bex, you man-eater!”
“Don’t!” I protest, half laughing, half embarrassed. “He was really sweet about it. He asked, was I prepared to wait for him?”
“And you said, not bloody likely!”
“Sort of.” I look away.
In fact, carried away with the moment, I seem to remember issuing him a bit of a challenge. “Resist me now if you can, James,” I recall saying in a husky voice, gazing at him with what I thought were limpid, sexual eyes. “But you’ll be knocking at my door within the week.”
Well, it’s been over a week now, and I haven’t heard a peep. Which, if you think about it, is pretty unflattering.
“But that’s hideous!” Suze is saying. “What about sexual compatibility?”
“Dunno.” I shrug. “I guess he’s willing to take that gamble.”
&nbs
p; Suze gives a sudden giggle. “Did you get a look at his. .”
“No! He wouldn’t let me near it!”
“But could you feel it? Was it tiny?” Suze’s eyes gleam wickedly. “I bet it’s teeny. He’s hoping to kid some poor girl into marrying him and being stuck with a teeny todger all her life. Narrow escape, Bex!” She reaches for her packet of Silk Cut and lights up.
“Stay away!” I say. “I don’t want my scarf smelling of smoke!”
“So what are you doing this weekend?” she asks, taking a drag. “Will you be OK? Do you want to come down to the country?”
This is how Suze always refers to her family’s second home in Hampshire. The Country. As though her parents own some small, independent nation that nobody else knows about.
“No, ‘s’OK,” I say, morosely picking up the TV guide. “I’m going to Surrey. Visit my parents.”
“Oh well,” says Suze. “Give your mum my love.”
“I will,” I say. “And you give my love to Pepper.”
Pepper is Suze’s horse. She rides him about three times a year, if that, but whenever her parents suggest selling him she gets all hysterical. Apparently he costs £15,000 a year to run. Fifteen thousand pounds. And what does he do for his money? Just stands in a stable and eats apples. I wouldn’t mind being a horse.
“Oh yeah, that reminds me,” says Suze. “The council tax bill came in. It’s three hundred each.”
“Three hundred pounds?” I look at her in dismay. “What, straight away?”
“Yeah. Actually, it’s late. Just write me a check or something.”
“Fine,” I say airily. “Three hundred quid coming up.”
I reach for my bag and write a check out straight away. Suze is so generous about the rent, I always pay my share of the bills, and sometimes add a bit extra. But still, I’m feeling cold as I hand it over. Three hundred pounds gone, just like that. And I’ve still got that bloody VISA bill to think of. Not a great month.
“Oh, and someone called,” adds Suze, and squints at a piece of paper. “Erica Parsnip. Is that right?”