Christmas at Tiffany's (12 page)

‘Sorry, sorry. Sorry, Nooks,’ she sniffed finally. ‘You’ve caught me at a low ebb. End of the day and all that.’ She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘God, how boring for you to have to listen to this.’

‘Cass, you are my friend. If I cannot help you in this, then what use am I? Apart from dishing out anti-cellulite remedies and good shoes, I mean.’

Cassie’s face cracked into a smile.

‘The day will come – it is coming – when you will meet someone who eclipses him. Someone better. Someone who will cherish you like you should be cherished. It is the very least you deserve.’

‘Yeah,’ Cassie mumbled. Anouk must be confusing ‘cher-ishable’ with ‘perishable’ – after all, she was fast approaching her sell-by date. She was going to be thirty-one this year, and she was not just alone, but broken too. It would take her years to recover from this and put herself back together. Meanwhile, what did they say the chances were of a thirty-plus single woman meeting someone in Manhattan? She was more likely to be hit by a meteorite, wasn’t she? No. Her eclipsing man wasn’t on his way. He had a good ten years of bachelordom and casual sex left before he needed to start making his way to her yet.

Fondly they said their goodbyes. Anouk seemed to sense that solitude was Cassie’s best companion tonight. Somewhere close by a clock ticked, and outside the sooty window the Manhattan skyline began to light up, room by room. She lay down on her side, the tears still coming, but less violently as her despair gave way to an exhausted, defeated calm. She stared at the multicoloured swirls of the Paul Smith rug, her eye like a child’s pencil in an activity book, following the red line, then the black, then the yellow in a rhythmic meditation. She was navigating the turquoise loop at the bottom left of the rug when the envelope in her bag caught her eye.

Her energy rising slightly, she opened it carefully. If Henry’s sense of humour hadn’t moved on in the past fifteen years, she could expect his toenail clippings to drop out. She peered in. Inside there was a cream paper tag that read, in loping brown ink:

Huh? A self-help motto. How un-Henry.

She turned it over.

The door slammed. ‘I’m back!’ Kelly hollered as though the apartment was spread over four thousand square feet, not four hundred, and with no regard for Cassie’s headache. She kicked her shoes off immediately, sending one slingback rocketing down the hallway to narrowly miss dead-heading the one token plant in the apartment. ‘What’s that?’

Cassie tipped the envelope on its side and poured some of the contents into her hand. ‘Seeds,’ she said, baffled.

‘Seeds? What the hell are you going to do with those in Manhattan?’ Kelly laughed.

Cassie carried on staring at the gift. ‘What indeed.’

‘Now look,’ Kelly said, swirling the short straw in her drink and shouting above the music. (As usual, she’d won the argument about going out.
It’s important to keep busy, Cass
, she’d chided the second she’d clocked Cassie’s swollen eyes and soggy sweatshirt.
You can’t afford to mope
.) ‘There’s this guy. He’s called for you seven times in the past five days. Even
I’m
getting embarrassed and we both know I’ve got the hide of a walrus.’

‘But not the complexion, happily,’ Cassie joked.

‘He’s driving me mad. He says he won’t give up. We have to do something.’

‘Call the police?’

Kelly smiled. ‘He’s not like
that
,’ she reassured. ‘He’s very funny, actually. And polite. And amazingly easy to talk to . . .’

Cassie raised an eyebrow. ‘Maybe
you
should see him.’

‘He’s not calling to see
me
.
’

Cassie took another gulp of her drink. She’d given up asking what Kelly was ordering for her each night. They all tasted the same after three, and, much as her head throbbed in the morning, she was so grateful for the numbing that came after four that she’d have drunk cod liver oil if she’d had to.

‘More’s the pity,’ Kelly muttered under her breath.

Cassie looked up. ‘You
do
like him!’

‘I do not.’

‘Yes you do.’

‘No. I’ve simply got to know him a little bit through intercepting all your calls and having to explain what a lying, conniving little shit your husband was.’

Cassie shifted position at the mention of Gil and rejigged her waistband, which was cutting into her tummy. She looked down at the skinny black jeans Kelly had forced her into and the black ankle boots which wound around her ankles with pirate straps. Two weeks ago she had been in Laura Ashley velvet and Hunter wellies. Now she looked like a rock princess. She guessed it was progress of sorts.

‘I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you that perhaps he isn’t ringing to get to me at all,’ Cassie said after a minute, when she was convinced she could trust her voice. ‘I mean, if you two are speaking that much, maybe he’s ringing because he knows he’ll get
you
.’

The idea clearly hadn’t crossed Kelly’s mind. ‘You think?’ Her eyes immediately sparkled at the prospect and Cassie was surprised to see that well-hidden vulnerability flash through her friend.

‘Sure. Even
I
know most guys don’t like being repeatedly turned down. Why don’t you suggest drinks with him?’

‘Oh no. I’d never ask a man out,’ Kelly said quickly.

‘But why not? I thought that’s what everybody did nowadays?’

‘Nowadays? What are you? Eighty?’

‘I may as well be in dating terms. I’m going to be like a pensioner on the Internet the first time I go on a date.’ Cassie leaned in, elbows on the table. ‘Okay, how about this? Next time he rings, suggest you meet up so that you can vet him for me.’

Kelly’s eyes widened with delight. ‘I like it! Subterfuge dating. And that way, if I hate him in the flesh, I don’t have to go through the rigmarole of blocking his calls. Oh, but are you sure? I don’t want to step on your toes.’

‘
My
toes?’ Cassie echoed, placing her hands over Kelly’s. ‘Kell, the kindest thing you could do to my toes is put them in some slippers. Then we’ll call it evens.’

Cassie tapped the headset again. ‘Testing,’ she said quietly, feeling a bit like a Madonna wannabe.

‘Speak up!’ the voice snapped down the earpiece. ‘There are going to be nine hundred people in here in thirty minutes, and I can hardly hear you now.’

‘Sorry,’ she apologized, clearing her throat. ‘Testing?’ she called a bit louder.

She heard the voice groan at the other end. ‘Fine, fine,’ it said. ‘Go check on how everything’s going backstage.’

‘Righto,’ Cassie replied. ‘Over.’

The voice groaned again. ‘You’re not a fucking pilot.’

Cassie turned towards the catwalk, making her way delicately. Everything was black – the carpet, the walls, the chairs, the runway even, until they turned the backdrop lights on. ‘I could make a great career as a cat burglar,’ she thought to herself. She was barely able to see her own sore-but-toning-up-fast thighs in the skin-tight black trousers. With diagonal shin stitching and button cuffs, they were from the current autumn/winter collection, as was the black cobweb mohair jumper sliding off one shoulder, and she’d put them with the black bondage ankle boots which, of all the torture devices she strapped to her feet each day, were the least painful and, therefore, her favourites. Still, she couldn’t walk the walk in them yet, and her ankle turned over as she tripped on an electrical cable that hadn’t been taped to the floor.

‘Ow!’ she cried, falling across the seats and sending the programmes on them flying.

‘What the fuck was that?’ the voice demanded in her ear.

‘Sorry, I tripped on something,’ Cassie mumbled.

‘Just get backstage. We don’t have time for this.’

Standing up, she hurriedly put the programmes back on the chairs, then made her way to the heavy black curtain by the side of the stage and ducked under.

The other side, by contrast, was all light. Stark light bulbs and heat lamps were positioned alongside the rows of mirrors as the hair and make-up teams transformed the grungy, sulky, seen-it-all models into rosy-cheeked, heavy-browed eastern European virgins.

She could see Bebe in a far corner, holding her head by the temples as a particularly long-legged model tried in vain to squeeze her feet into the shoes.

‘She’s the prettiest ugly sister I’ve ever seen,’ Kelly muttered, coming up to her.

‘Tell me about it,’ Cassie sighed. She’d never seen or heard anything like this before. Everything was bedlam. Hairdryers were blowing, music was chopping and changing as the DJ tested for sound feedback, dressers were pushing along hanging rails like the trolley attendants at supermarkets, and models, who looked like they’d all been put on the rack and s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d, ran about in nothing but flesh-coloured thongs and rollers, waving their hands daintily as they let their nails dry or screech-greeted one of their other best friends across the room. On every counter stood pots and trays of powder, cream, mousse, sponges, brushes, mirrors, mobiles, mini champagne bottles, and over on the walls, polaroids of the ‘looks’ flapped like scales. By the stage exit, someone had written in furious black type:
Put the fugee into refugee
–
frightened but funky; Work it!

‘Seriously?’ Cassie asked, exasperated. ‘That’s so exploitative. I mean, how can anyone trivialize refugee status by saying it’s “
funky
?’’’

‘Remember this is just a drama where the clothes are the narrative,’ Kelly replied loftily.

Cassie turned and looked at her. ‘You don’t actually believe that.’

‘Course not,’ Kelly said under her breath. ‘But beneath all that shit there are actually some killer shirts and pants and a season-defining blazer that the retailers are going to go nuts for, and I’ll bet you my apartment that the emerald evening dress ends up at the Oscars. Those pieces are what pay my fees, but it’s more than our jobs are worth to say that,’ she continued in a low voice, keeping her attention on the flurries of chaos in the room. ‘Bebe wants creative acclaim. She’s fed up of being seen only as the working woman’s basics pit stop. She wants to be hot. That’s why she’s called me in to reposition her, so we’re the last people who can call her on it. Oh, shit! I’ve gotta go. Selena’s going into the loos again. She is
not
ODing on my watch. Go see if Bas is nearly done. They’re doing the final run-through in five.’

‘Bas?
My
Bas?’ Cassie asked happily, looking around until she found him brushing out a girl’s hair at the far end of the mirrors. Given that she was seeing him every third day for blowouts (in spite of the Brazilian perm, Kelly still felt this was mandatory) and every third week for colour touch-ups to her roots, they were growing close, fast. He was a devil with gossip. The fact that Cassie didn’t know who any of the players were made it okay for both of them, and although she loved the way he made her look, she loved the way he made her feel even more. The first time he’d shampooed her hair, he’d given her an Indian head massage which had promptly and inexplicably made her burst into tears. Only when he swore not to tell Kelly about her crying did she confide in him about everything that had happened with Gil and Wiz, and ever since then he’d taken her under his wing, insisting that she get double shampoos and an extra sprinkle of chocolate flakes on her cappuccino, and when she fell asleep during her second Indian head massage, he simply covered her with a towel to keep her warm and waited until she woke up.

Though she’d known him less than a month and on paper their lives had nothing in common, there was a trust between them, and their appointments had started to overspill into drinks afterwards as he joined her and Kelly on their nights out and dared them into dance-offs.

‘Bas!’ Cassie beamed.

‘Teabag,’ he replied, jumping up to kiss her. Teabag had become his nickname for her, due to his amusement at her almost obsessive search for a decent cup of tea in Manhattan. ‘Holding the fort for the men in black?’ he asked, one eyebrow raised at her CIA-style headset.

‘The women in black, maybe,’ she laughed. The only coloured clothes in the room were swinging from hangers.

‘The girls look great,’ she gushed, looking at the intricate coils of plaits he’d wound for ethnic effect into their hair.

‘Well, Bebe wanted
naïf,
’ he said, moving her head to the side and examining her hair. ‘You know, you’d look great with this style.’

‘You just can’t help yourself, can you?’

‘Uh-uh. Sit down and I’ll give you a quick finish. I’m done for the next five minutes at least. They’re into wardrobe and the final walk now. ’

‘God no, I can’t, Bas. I’m working.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Well, supposed to be. Although between you and me, I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to be doing back here.’

‘Join the club, sweetie. I’m sure they’ll let you know if they need you,’ he said, taking off her headset. ‘We all know these girls can shout.’