“Cat!” Flora’s mother puts a cool hand in mine, then turns back to Flora. “Are you off to Portobello?”
“Yes, we’re Christmas shopping! Only I’m a bit broke.” Flora looks wheedlingly at her mother. “And I need to find something for Granny….”
“Sweetheart.” Flora’s mum rolls her eyes. “All right, look in my bag. Take a hundred. No more,” she adds sternly. “You’re always cleaning me out of cash.”
“Thanks, Mummy!” Flora pecks her mother on the cheek and dances down the rest of the stairs. “Come on, Cat!”
My mind is reeling. A hundred quid? Just like that? I haven’t asked Dad for money for years. And I never would, even if he did have a load of spare cash, which he doesn’t.
I watch as Flora helps herself from her mum’s purse, then follow her down the palatial white steps of her house. If Demeter has steps fit for a princess, these are steps fit for a queen. I want to take a picture, but that would be uncool. Maybe when I’ve got to know Flora better.
The air is crisp, and as we stride along, I feel buoyant. This is such a cool area of London. The rows of pastel houses are adorable, like something from a storybook, and I keep stopping to take pictures for Instagram.
“So, what d’you want to get?” asks Flora as we round the corner to Portobello, slightly battling the crowds of tourists.
“I don’t know!” I laugh. “Nothing much. I’ll just browse.”
My eyes are drinking in the sight of endless market stalls stretching ahead of us, with everything from necklaces to Kashmiri scarves, vintage cameras to antique plates. I’ve been to Portobello before, but not at Christmas, and it has an extra-fun vibe today. There are decorations up on the lampposts, and a group of guys in hipster hats are singing a cappella carols, while a CD stall blasts out Christmas songs in competition. There are mulled-wine stalls and a mince-pie stall and the delicious scent of freshly made crepes in the air.
I have a sudden flashback to sipping mulled wine with Alex, and find myself thinking, Ooh, will that be “our drink”? before I wrench my thoughts away, like a needle off a vinyl record. Get a grip, Katie. Mulled wine? “Our drink”? I might as well say that Santa hats will be “our headwear.”
Flora finds a china elephant for her granny and then drags me into a designer shop to buy a sequined dress for the office party. I wasn’t intending to get anything, but it turns out that some of the prices aren’t too scary. I see a woolly hat for Dad, only ￡8, and then a rack of ￡1 clothes, which Flora thinks is hilarious. Especially when I actually buy a crochet cardigan. At another stall we both try on crazy felt hats and I take loads of photos and I’m exhilarated. This is the quirky London life I always wanted to have.
Flora has been texting throughout the morning, and as we pause by a stall of mirrors she scowls at her phone.
“Something up?” I ask, and she makes a huffing noise.
“No. Yes.” She shoves her phone away. “Men.”
“Oh, men,” I agree, even though I don’t know exactly what she means.
“Anyone in your life at the moment?” she asks, and I feel a flutter in my stomach. I mean, the answer is no. But my mind is roaming back to that moment on the merry-go-round, the feel of Alex’s fingers in my hair.
“No. At least, there’s this guy…”As I meet Flora’s eyes I laugh, partly out of relief at having someone to talk to. “I’m sure he isn’t interested, but…”
“I bet he is! What’s he like?”
“Oh, you know. Gorgeous. Dark hair. Tattoo,” I add, with a little grin.
There. That’s vague enough. It could be anyone.
“A tattoo!” Flora’s eyes widen. “Wow. And where did you meet him?”
“Through other people,” I say vaguely. “You know. It was a bit random.”
“So, has anything happened?” She makes such a comical face that I laugh again.
“Nothing real. Just flirting. Wishing,” I add, with sudden honesty. “And what about you?”
“Well, I’m supposed to be seeing this guy called Ant, only I think he’s going off me.” She looks disconsolate. “He never replies to my texts….”
“They don’t.”
“I know, right? What’s so hard about sending a text?”
“They think sending a text makes them lose part of their soul,” I say, and Flora giggles.
“You’re funny,” she says, and links her arm in mine. “I’m so glad you’ve joined the office, Cat.”
We walk on for a few seconds, and I take a photo of a stall selling only vintage car horns. Then Flora turns to me, looking thoughtful.
“Listen, Cat, there’s something I need to ask you. Did you know we meet for regular drinks at Wednesday lunchtime? Me, Rosa, and Sarah. At the Blue Bear. Every week.”
“Oh, right. No, I didn’t know.”
“Well, we keep it a bit quiet. We don’t want Demeter gate-crashing.” Flora pulls a face. “Can you imagine?”
“Ah.” I nod. “I get that.”
“So the point is, this isn’t an open thing. It’s like…” She hesitates. “It’s like a gang. A club. A special little club.”
“Right.”
“And I’m asking you to join the club.” She squeezes my arm. “What about it? Are you in?”
I feel a joyful little surge inside. A gang. A club. I hadn’t realized quite how lonely I was feeling.
“Definitely!” I say with a huge beam. “Count me in!”
I’ll have to adjust my budget if I’m going to start buying rounds every Wednesday, but it will so be worth it.
“Cool! We’ll start again after Christmas. I’ll let you know. Only don’t tell Demeter.”
“OK! I promise!” I’m about to ask where the Blue Bear is, when Flora gives a loud shriek.
“Oh my God!”
“Babe.” A tall, dark-haired guy in a trilby has appeared from nowhere and has wrapped his arms round Flora from behind. “Your mum said you were here.”
“I’ve been texting you!” says Flora accusingly. “You should have texted.”
The guy shrugs, and Flora pushes him and giggles, and I’m wondering whether I should slip away, when Flora grabs my arm and says, “This is Cat. Cat, this is Ant.” She pouts charmingly up at him. “And since you’ve been such a nightmare, Ant, lunch is on you.”
Ant rolls his eyes with good humor, and I hurriedly say, “Actually, I’ll be going.”
“No, come with us!” Flora links arms with both Ant and me and drags us across the road to the Butterfly Bakery, which I’ve read about in a zillion blogs. It’s all pink and white stripes, and there are paper butterflies hanging everywhere from the ceiling. The customers color them in with felt-tips. It’s, like, the gimmick.
We hang up our coats on white wooden hooks by the door, then Flora grabs a floral-printed tray for each of us and bossily starts dumping items on them. “OK, these pumpkin muffins are yummy. And the flapjack hearts are great…and we should get a salad each…and this ginger cordial is amazing….” She loads up each tray, then announces, “Ant, you get in the queue. We’re going to nab a table. C’mon, Cat.”
She leads me across the room to an alcove where a couple are just getting up from their lunch and high-fives me as we slide into our seats.
“Result! This place gets sooo crowded.” Flora pulls out her sequined dress and looks at it lovingly. “So, what are you wearing to the Christmas party?”
“Little black dress,” I say. “Tried and tested.”
Flora nods. “Good choice. Last year, Demeter wore such a short dress, you could practically see her Spanx,” she adds disparagingly. “Who’s she kidding? I mean, just because you have a toyboy, it doesn’t mean you’re suddenly, like, twenty years younger. She’s such a crone. Here, I’ll show you a picture of what she looked like.”
“Toyboy?” I say with interest.
“You know.” Flora’s busily flicking through photos on her phone. “Alex Astalis.”
It takes a moment for the words to imprint on my mind.
“Alex Astalis?” I echo stupidly.
“That guy you met.”
“You mean…”
“Demeter and Alex? Oh God, yes.” Flora nods. “They’ve been having a totally un-secret affair, like, forever.”
My throat has clenched up. I can barely speak.