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He leans over the open door as I clip in my seatbelt, “By the way, they’re having a paternity test done soon,” he says, his tears drying. I don’t bother telling him that I already know. “But it’s just a formality to keep Nick happy. Jean-Pierre had a vasectomy some time ago. I’ve told Nick it’s a waste of time and money but he won’t listen, you know what he’s like.” I nod silently. We all know he’s stubborn. “But anyway,” he adds quickly as I turn on the ignition, “that’s all in the past now, isn’t it, you’ve got Daniel now.”
“Yes,” I say, putting the car into first gear. “I’ve lost all my friends but at least I’ve still got Daniel.”
37
Standing in front of the mirror, the sweltering spotlights shine down on me as if I were centre stage at the Wyndham’s Theatre. Why do they make these damn dressing rooms so tiny? I pull off one dress and hastily climb into another. Nothing fits – NOTHING! I can’t go to Paris tomorrow underdressed. I harrumph in exasperation, face burning. This is all Louise’s fault. I always to turn to comfort food when I’m stressed. I’ve put on half a stone since I fell out with her three weeks ago. Our friendship is over now – ruined. I will never be able to trust her again.
I zip up the back of the dress as far as my arms can reach, these are the times that I wish I’d listened to my mother and taken up yoga. Loud music pounds across the dressing rooms as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Actually, although figure hugging, this black little number doesn’t look too bad. I turn to the side. Shit. I look like I’m expecting. Yanking back the curtain, I grab the attention of a svelte, young assistant.
“Yes, can I help you, Madam?” My shoulders slump. Madam. Why did she have to use that word? WHY? She’s just made me feel like I’m a-hundred-and-three years old.
“Have you got this in extra-large?” I ask discreetly.
“Erm…I think we have but I’ll just check for you, Madam.” That dreaded word again. “And can I just say that we’ve got this style in red, blue and…”
“No, just another black one please.”
“But if we’ve no extra-large in black? Shall I bring you another colour?”
“No,” I say wearily, “if there’s no black I’ll leave it.” She smiles and scurries out of the dressing room to the loud thump of the music.
I lean my back against the doorframe, fanning myself with my hand as I gaze around the communal area. It’s more like a nightclub in here than a clothes shop. I’m surprised they aren’t serving cocktails. A willowy, young woman is twirling around in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. I wish I had her confidence. And figure. She’s standing on her toes now to see how the dress’ll look in high heels – a girl thing. That dress is way too big for her, by the way.
“I look like a sack of potatoes,” she admits to an over-enthusiastic assistant. She is tiny. Whatever possessed her to try on such a large size? Mind you, they always look different on the hanger, smaller in my case. I often snatch a size 12 off the rail, convinced that it’ll fit me. It never does. The young woman catches my eye and I smile but she looks away. Goodness, why are people so cynical?
I glance at my watch and start tapping my foot. How long is that dress going to take? Vicky will be having kittens. She doesn’t do waiting around outside dressing rooms for longer than ten minutes.
“Black dress in an extra-large!” Jesus, did she have to shout that out loud?
“Yes, over here,” I say dryly, sticking my arm out of the booth.
As I climb into the dress I hear the voice of the svelte assistant telling the sack-of-potatoes-woman that the smallest size they have is a six. SIX! And that they don’t do extra-small. I’ve got to go on a serious diet once I get back from Paris. I don’t think I’ve ever been this big.
Outside on Oxford Street, I link my arm through Vicky’s as we brave the crowds. It’s rush hour, people are heading home, pushing past us hurriedly, grabbing a free copy of the Evening Standard, talking loudly into their mobile phones. It’s the first time Vicky and I have been alone since Francesca-Baby-Gate. It’s been good, therapeutic, cathartic - she’s a good listener.
We cross Regent Street and hurry along beneath the twinkling Christmas lights to the buzz of traffic and army of people heading for the underground.
“Are you looking forward to going to Paris tomorrow?” Vicky asks as we’re practically carried down the stairs by a heap of commuters.
I tell her that I am, sort of, but peeved that I couldn’t find a dress I liked today. Or at least one that would fit me, and will now have to resort to my safe jeggings and black blouse. “But I’m still feeling quite raw, Vicks, you know.” A man jabs me on the shoulder, I turn to give him a look but he’s gone. “About Louise and Francesca. Oh, and just everything.”
“Well, at least now it’s all in the open,” she says as we step onto the escalator heading for the Central Line. “I did tell you that Daniel’s secret would be one you could live with, didn’t I?” She smiles smugly. Daniel made me swear that I’d tell everyone that his secret was Aliki’s affair, just until he told Connie the truth. But I hate lying to Vicky. “And it must be a relief to know that Nick only called off your wedding because of the baby. Gerry must’ve really put the pressure on him, poor bloke. And poor Louise. Imagine how desperate she must’ve been. It can’t have been easy lying to you.” She steps off the escalator and I rush behind her, black Manolos clicking against the resin floor.
“Hey,” I complain, trying to keep up, “Whose side are you on? I’ve been deceived and betrayed by my best friend and ex-fiancé.”
“Yours, of course.” She stops to throw a coin at a busker playing the clarinet. “He’s bloody amazing, isn’t he?” I nod, he is very good. I’ve seen him here before, brightening up humdrum evenings with his beautiful sounds. “But you’ve got to admit, it all makes sense now, doesn’t it?” She raises her voice as we step onto the platform. “Can’t you see how hard it must’ve been for them?” A gust of warm air blows our hair in all directions, the distant sound of the clarinet whines in the background as the train thunders into the dark tunnel.
I look up at the LED indicator – 1. Hainault 3 minutes. I wait until the train disappears into the darkness before answering. “If they’d just told me the truth from the beginning I’d have…”
“You’d have what?” she cuts in as we walk along the platform, “Married Nick and lived happily ever after? Given Louise and Gerry your blessing and offered to be Godmother?”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” Despite her natural counselling skills, she can be quite harsh sometimes. “Nick should’ve just told me. Why on earth did he listen to Gerry and Louise, anyway? They’re not his keepers, he’s a grown man, for goodness sake.”
“He panicked. Obviously, the thought of disappointing you must’ve been unbearable.” My bottom lip jerks outward as I mull over what she’s just said.
“But how could Louise have been so selfish?” I protest.
“Desperate times, desperate measures,” Vicky shrugs. “You’d be surprised at what lengths some people will go to have a family.”
