Shit. I should have planned this. What the hell am I going to say about babies?
“So!” I begin brightly. “How are you, Tim?”
“Good, thanks,” he says in that flat way of his. “How about you?”
“Yes, all fine, all good.” I nod a few times, frantically racking my brain. “Er … babies are great, aren’t they?”
Shit. That just came out.
“What?” Tim peers at me with a suspicious frown. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing!” I say hastily. “I was only thinking about it because … um … we had a baby in the shop today. It was so cute. And I thought, That’s the future. That’s the next generation. Let’s keep this planet in good shape, for the kids.”
Wait. Somehow I’ve diverted onto an environmental talk.
“What kids?” says Tim, looking confused.
“Kids!” I say desperately. “You know, kids!”
I can see Hannah peering out from behind the blender display, raising her eyebrows questioningly, and abruptly I come to a decision. There’s no point being subtle with Tim. You have to bludgeon him.
“Listen, Tim,” I say in a low, firm voice. “Hannah wants a baby. Why have you changed your mind? You’ve really upset her. And, by the way, she mustn’t know we’re having this conversation.”
Immediately Tim’s face closes up. “It’s my business,” he says, looking away.
“It’s Hannah’s business too,” I point out. “Don’t you want to have a family? Don’t you want to be a father?”
“I don’t know, OK?” Tim’s face is tight and kind of upset-looking. I’m definitely pressing his buttons.
“You’d agreed that it was what you wanted,” I persist. “What changed your mind? Something must have changed your mind.”
I can see Tim’s face working with some sort of emotion, and I wait breathlessly.
“I didn’t know what it involved!” he suddenly bursts out. “Do you know what having a baby involves?”
I want to make a hilarious joke about how his contribution isn’t exactly tough, but I’m sensing it’s not the moment.
“Like what?”
“It’s a nightmare!” he says, looking beleaguered. “It’s endless!”
“What do you mean?” I stare at him.
“Check baby carrier for weak seams. Visit nurseries. Research safety of car seats. Literacy. Organic paint. La Mars. Annabel Karmel. Flashcards.”
As this stream of gibberish comes out of his mouth, he’s counting items off on his fingers. I wonder for an instant if he’s having some sort of breakdown.
“Tim,” I say carefully, “what are you talking about?”
“Don’t tell Hannah I said any of this,” he says, hastily lowering his voice. “Promise me. But she’s just … It’s all … I can’t do it.”
I’m thoroughly baffled. This conversation has gone so off-piste, I don’t know what to say next. And now here comes Hannah, clutching her blender, looking at me expectantly.
“Hi!” I say, my voice high and awkward. “So, Tim and I were chatting about … things.…”
There’s a long, prickly silence. I can sense both Hannah and Tim trying to convey urgent silent messages to me.
“So!” I say again, avoiding both their gazes. “I’ll ring that up.…” I take Hannah’s payment and hand her the blender. “I’ll … er … call you later, shall I?”
“Shall we have supper?” says Hannah eagerly.
“Can’t.” I pull a regretful face. “I’ve got Leila’s birthday-drinks thing at Six Folds Place. But we’ll talk.” I nod. “We’ll talk.”
As Hannah and Tim leave, I breathe out. I need to decode all that. I need to work out what I’m going to say to Hannah. And look up what “La Mars” means. Or was it “Le Mahs”?
I’m about to type it into my phone when Bob comes out of the back room in his anorak to go home, and I smile at him.
“Hi, Bob. Everything OK? We’re not going bust yet?”
This is Mum’s little joke. She says it every time she sees Bob, so I’m keeping up the tradition.
“Not quite yet!” Bob replies with his customary little laugh. But I notice his fingers are tugging at his cuffs, as they always do when he wants to venture something awkward. “Just working through the invoices for the relaunch party,” he adds. “That DJ was an expensive chap, wasn’t he?” He laughs again—but he sounds anxious.
I remind myself that Bob is the most cautious man in the world and doesn’t know anything about DJs or marketing or parties. Even so, I can’t help feeling my own corresponding stab of anxiety. I suddenly want to confide in him. I want to wail, “Bob, I know exactly how you feel! We didn’t even need a DJ! And I don’t know what that party was for, anyway! It’s not like anything about the shop has changed, sales haven’t gone up, there aren’t any new customers … it was pointless!”
But family first.
“I think all these marketing things help,” I say at last. “You know. Profile and everything.”
“Ah,” says Bob. His mild brown eyes meet mine and I feel sure he understands everything but would never open his mouth because he’s too discreet and loyal and agreeable.
“Have all the invoices come in?” I ask. “Do we know what the total budget was?”
Mum okayed the party, I remind myself. There was nothing I could do to stop it. And, anyway, it’s not going to be a problem. It’s not going to bankrupt us. It was only a party.
“Not yet,” says Bob. “Not everything.”
“Well, keep me posted,” I say.
“Of course,” he replies with a nod.
He turns to leave and I watch him with a sigh. Now I need to go and get ready for Leila’s birthday drinks, even though the last thing I feel like is going to 6 Folds Place. The idea of dressing up feels exhausting. Let alone making conversation with Jake’s posh friends about sailing (not a clue) and makes of car (not a clue). But I promised Leila, and she’s such a sweetheart, I can’t let her down.
Anyway, there’ll be free drinks there, I remind myself as I reach for my makeup bag. Free champagne. Or cocktails, maybe. In the mood I’m in, I could do with one.
—
It’s cocktails. It’s strong, tangy, limy cocktails in martini glasses, and I seize one greedily. I have no idea what it is, only that I want to drink it. I close my eyes and glug it down and, oh my God, bliss. I haven’t had anything to eat all day and the alcohol hits my bloodstream like a drug.
Well, it is a drug, in fact. Ha.
I open my eyes and look around for someone to share this thought with, but there’s no one I really want to approach. Leila greeted me affectionately when I arrived but then went off to the ladies’ with two of her beautician friends. Jake is talking loudly to three guys in suits about his manufactured-diamonds deal. Apparently there’s been a holdup in Asia.
“I mean, this is international shipping for you,” he keeps saying in a show-offy way. “This is the reality of global trade, know what I mean?”
I have nothing to offer on the subject of global trade, so I take another cocktail. I could drink these all night, I think with each delicious gulp. In fact, I will drink them all night.
Our little party area is roped off, but there are plenty of other people around the place, sitting at tables and standing at the bar. They’re not in Leila’s party, just members of 6 Folds Place out for the evening. There’s a group of girls sitting at a table to my left, and I keep glancing at them, because that’s the table we had last time. That’s where I was sitting when Ryan brought me that bouquet of lilies and kissed me and I thought … I really thought …
A familiar stabbing pain hits me and I swivel away, grabbing yet another cocktail. Every icy swig numbs a bad feeling. The humiliation. The self-reproach. The worst thing is, everyone tried to tell me. Hannah, Mum, even Tim in his own way. They all sensed the truth about Ryan—although Hannah has told me several times during the past two miserable weeks that she had no idea he was that bad. Not that bad.
I don’t know if that’s supposed to cheer me up or not.
As I drain my glass, I suddenly see Nicole standing on the other side of Jake. I hadn’t noticed her before. She’s looking stunning in a short white fringed dress and tossing her carefully styled hair back as she talks to some tall guy. I can hear her saying, “Yeah, I’m actually suffering from separation anxiety, you know? I really have to self-care?”
I can’t face talking to her. I can’t face talking to Jake. What is wrong with me that I don’t want to talk to my own family? In slight despair I put down my empty glass. I pick up another full one, wondering if four cocktails is somehow against the law. And then I stiffen. Oh my God, oh my God. It can’t be.
But it is. It’s Seb. He’s sitting at a table some distance away, dressed in an elegant understated jacket. And he’s with a girl. A tall, confident-looking blond girl with a blunt chin-length haircut and a good manicure and a bright-green body-con dress. She looks like she could be a TV presenter. Is that his girlfriend? What’s her name again?