‘Seriously,’ Alastair said, ‘don’t you have a shawl thing?’
There was a wrap back in my room but I didn’t want to be a woman who wore wraps. Or, worse still, a shrug. I wanted to be a defiant warrior woman, who strode about with bare arms and a straight back and an out-and-proud embonpoint.
Tim had arrived, looking eleven years of age, in his neat black tux and black dickie-bow. ‘Tim, is this too much?’ I gestured in the general direction of my bosom and he gave an I’m-sorry-to-be-the-bearer-of-bad-news smile. Well, if Tim thought it …
I’d returned to my room and the spirit-dampening wrap had accompanied me to the ballroom – but now Josh Rowan was standing looking at me, still holding on to my arm, and my wrap was miles away, slithering around on the back of my chair.
‘You look great.’
‘So do you! Very James Bond in your tux. Very Daniel Craig. Sorry, sorry.’ Apologetically I flapped a hand in front of my face. He didn’t look like Daniel Craig … well, not in his colouring, maybe a little in the uncompromising expression. I pulled him close and said into his ear, ‘I’m a bit pissed.’
‘That’s okay.’ He moved back enough, just so I could see his face. ‘So am I.’
Together we said, ‘Only way to get through these things.’ Then we both laughed, quite long and quite hard.
When the laughter had stopped and we were standing, smiling broadly at each other, I said, ‘You know something?’
‘What?’
‘I have a room upstairs.’
‘And?’
‘You like to come up and join me there?’
35
Saturday, 24 September, day twelve
‘Hiiii!’ Bronagh Kingston greets me with a bright smile. ‘How are you?’
‘Yes, good!’ I exclaim. Is that positive enough? Maybe not. ‘Great!’ I say. ‘Top form! Yourself?’
‘Wow, you’re in a good mood.’ She laughs. ‘Have you had good news or something?’
‘Er …’ Oddly, I’m finding my downtime more challenging than work – especially having conversations with those who don’t know what’s going on between myself and Hugh.
Bronagh had texted on Tuesday that she’d put aside tons of clothes for me. So, during the week, whenever the horror hit, I’d calm myself with the promise of gorgeous affordable clothes on Saturday. There seems, however, to be a gap between anticipated events and their reality. Bronagh is lovely but we’ve never crossed the line into the personal full-and-franks, so talking to her is a surprising effort.
‘I’ve loads of great stuff to show you.’ With pride, she displays a heap of dead people’s clothes and, because my instinctive-response centre seems to have shut down, I’m having to manufacture my reactions. I’m aiming for positive but clearly my pitch is off because at one stage Bronagh says, with concern, ‘Are you okay, Amy? You seem a bit … manic?’
Manic? Right. I’d better tone down the chirpiness. It’s hard to get the balance right – it’ll take trial and error, I guess. Well, I’ve six months (minus twelve days) to get it down. No doubt I’ll be pitch perfect by March.
To apologize for my weirdness I buy too much, stuff I wouldn’t have shelled out for if my mind hadn’t been unhinged, and when I leave, whether it’s due to the waste of money or the loneliness of faking a bond with someone when it used to come naturally, I feel extremely low.
From there I go to meet Steevie for a coffee. We made up during the week – a flurry of ‘Sorry’ and ‘No, I’m sorry’ and ‘No, I’m more sorry!’ But as I hurry across town, it’s clear that my bond with everyone is fragile. If Steevie mocks my bag of dead people’s clothes or if she tries to make me wish gonorrhoea on Hugh, I don’t think I can deal.
There she is, at a window table in Il Valentino. She wanted us to have lunch but I’d asked if it could be something shorter, then had to speak at high speed to ameliorate her resentful silence with the admission that I’ve become prone to panic.
‘Even with me?’ She’d been hurt.
‘With everyone,’ I’d replied, which wasn’t entirely true.
‘Just since Hugh went?’
‘Yes.’
‘Poor Amy. Fucking Hugh.’ She added, in a grim tone, ‘I hope he gets rabies of the dick.’
But we get on fine, lovely even. I tell her about Genevieve Payne showing up with the casserole, and even though she’d already heard it from numerous sources, she wants my version. She laughs and laughs at Neeve saying, ‘Keep your casserole.’ Although the report that reached her ears was ‘You can stick your fucking casserole, lid and all, up your skinny arse, you piece of trash.’
Then I wonder if I should worry about Neeve being slandered.
‘Look, Jana and me are going to a party tonight and we want you to come –’
‘No, Steevie. Please, no.’
‘But it’s so wrong, you hiding under a rock, while Hugh is riding girls left, right and centre.’
I wish she wouldn’t say stuff like that. He may be. I just don’t want to think about it and I don’t want it spoken about so casually. But if I say anything to her, it might make things weird again.
It’s a relief to go home to an empty house, climb into bed with my iPad and look at the new arrivals on net-a-porter. All the beautiful things … It’s uplifting to examine them. Statement coats, witty clutch bags – and then, making me actually gasp out loud, the most indescribable pair of shoes. Super-high, super-magical, with all kinds of sparkly embellishments on the heels; I know, without having to check, that they’re by Gucci. Not because I’m a regular purchaser of Gucci – I couldn’t afford even a keyring – but I have a gift for identifying spendy brands.
I see women on The Graham Norton Show and, right away, I can tell you who their dress and shoes are by. Or Claudia’s clothes on Strictly. Or whatever the female judges on X Factor are wearing. ‘Ask Amy,’ people say. ‘Amy will know.’
We all have our gifts and admittedly, yes, mine is fairly niche, but if there was a career in it, I’d be extremely highly regarded.
Kiara disapproves. She says that being au fait with so much designer stuff isn’t something to be proud of. But, feck it, what harm does it do?
Transfixed, I stare at the enchanting Gucci shoes. They’ve such a cute shape – they remind me of My Little Pony – that, even though I could never afford them, they make me happy.
Asos might have copies! Six points of difference: that’s all a knock-off needs to be allowed to exist. But Asos has nothing, so I move on to Kurt Geiger, then Zara, TopShop, Russell & Bromley …
I click on site after site and somehow get sidetracked by a pair of knee boots from Dune, lovely lace-up Edwardian-looking things, and even though I don’t need them, and don’t have the money, I click enough times that they become mine.
36
Monday, 26 September, day fourteen
Monday morning is being very Monday-y.
‘Kiara, get up!’
‘Oh, Mu-um! Bring me orange juice.’
‘Sofie,’ I yell up into the attic room. ‘Get up!’ She’d stayed here last night but her school uniform is at Urzula’s and I’ve to drive her there before going to work. ‘Kiara, it’s ten to eight, get up!’
‘Orange juice!’
‘Get the feck up!’ Neeve howls, from her bedroom. ‘I’m trying to sleep.’
I race down the stairs to get Kiara’s glass of juice. Sofie still hasn’t appeared and I let a roar up at her. ‘Sofie! I’ll be late for work if you don’t come right now!’
‘Shut the FUCK up!’ Neeve shrieks.
‘Mum, where’s my school shirts?’
‘In your wardrobe!’
‘I can’t see them.’
I thunder into Kiara’s room, go straight to her wardrobe and yank one out.
‘It wasn’t there two minutes ago,’ she says sulkily. Kiara, normally lovely, isn’t so good in the mornings.