Lost (Arielle Lockley Series Book 2) (12 page)

‘I can’t believe it!’ I don’t care that I am squealing down the phone; this is news that deserves to be squealed about. ‘We’ve had eight bloggers come back already to say they’d love to attend the pop-up preview!’

‘I told you this would work,’ Tabitha says warmly.

‘And I’ve gained fifty-four new followers on Twitter. This is so exciting!’

When Tabitha explained what a blog was and showed me Twitter, I had my doubts. When she showed me all her followers and how many people want to know what’s going on in her life – some of the comments she gets are pretty hideous and quite graphic, which is just awful and I don’t know how she laughs them off like she does – I knew I had to give it a go, hideous tweets aside.

‘Thank you for tweeting me!’

‘Retweeting you,’ she corrects. ‘And it’s my pleasure. It helps you out, plus it gets the café more business anyway. I’d be silly not to.’

‘Well, thank you, and I promise I’ll get better at tweeting. Hopefully all this will help get people to the pop-up.’  

‘Of course it will! You’ll have to celebrate your success with Piers tonight.’

‘Oh,’ I say glumly. ‘He’s in the States. He had to fly there this morning, and because he has to be there next week, he won’t be coming back this weekend.’

‘Isn’t it your birthday this weekend?’

When we set up the Twitter account for the pop-up, we had to fill out my birthday in the account details. Tabitha was slightly miffed to find out that she’s a few years older than me, but she’s only thirty-two. I’m starting to realise that age
is
just a number, but Tabitha pointed out I’m only saying that because I’m twenty-five, engaged, and have my life together. (Touch wood things stay that way.) She’s wrong though: I’d rather be single and happy at thirty-two than stuck with the wrong man and miserable.

‘Yep, but it’s not like it’s a big birthday.’

‘It should still be celebrated! What have you got planned?’

I cannot tell Tabitha-Rose, of all people, that I will probably be having a takeaway with Ob and my friend Lydia to celebrate, maybe even dinner out, but nothing more. I’m sure her birthday celebrations involve great fanfare, planning that goes on for months, and some of the oldest families in the country in attendance. That is not me.

‘Oh, I’ll think of something. Probably just a small celebration with some friends at home, nothing fancy.’

‘Come here! I’ll throw you a party!’

‘Oh, crikey no.’ I nervously laugh. ‘I don’t know nearly enough people to have a party.’

And, honestly, I don’t.

‘Seriously, come here. I’ll set an area up and we’ll have cocktails and food. It’ll be fun.’

‘An area is too much,’ I say awkwardly, because who likes to admit
she has no friends
. ‘A booth would be big enough.’

Now it’s Tabitha’s turn to sound awkward. ‘Oh, I wasn’t angling for an invite–’

‘No, no!’ I hastily interrupt. ‘Of course I didn’t mean that. I invited you to my
wedding
, remember? I’d love for you to be at my birthday thing, you’ve been a really awesome friend,’ I gush. ‘You’ve taken more of an interest in my wedding and pop-up than my friend Lydia has, and she’s supposed to be one of my closest friends.’

OK, she was my best friend until things went wrong between her and Nigel, but she’s been off with me ever since I mentioned we were only having Annabelle as a bridesmaid. With her being Nigel’s ex, and the fear I had that Piers might have asked him to be his best man, I didn’t want to put her in a situation where she would have to stand close to Nigel or sit by him at the reception.
Awkward
. Maybe I should have explained that to her.

I must purchase a wedding seating plan book, or buy a magazine that covers this nightmare. There will be some skeletons in Piers’ family tree, no doubt, where we have to keep one great aunt away from another. There will even be clients of his who will need to be kept separated because of conflicting business interests. Weddings can be so
political
.

Oh crikey, I’m turning into Felicity pausing like this and not explaining myself fully.

‘I just meant, I didn’t really want a birthday thing as there are only a few people I’d celebrate with. You are definitely one of those people, can I say, without sounding like I have some weird girl crush on you.’

Which I totally do.

‘And it’s just...’ I hesitate, ‘a little embarrassing to admit that you don’t have that many friends to invite to your own birthday party.’

There, I’ve said it: I am a Billy-no-mates.

‘I can count on two hands how many people I genuinely like, Arielle,’ Tabitha shares with me rather frankly.

She laughs at that, but it’s a genuine one. She’s laughing with me, not at me. Not that I’m laughing. This has felt like quite a tragic issue in my life.

I guess I drifted away from all the people I was friends with at uni, not that I had many friends there, and Ob is the only childhood friend who is still in my life. My London friends are Piers’ friends and, other than Lydia, I never really got close to any of them. I keep myself to myself a lot of the time, and I’ve never minded that.

‘I wish people would understand that it is quality, not quantity,’ Tabitha remarks. ‘No one has three hundred proper Facebook friends, and I think you’re really blessed if you have three genuine friends in your life. I don’t get this popularity contest, or the need for fake friendship.’

I love this woman.

‘I’m so glad you trusted me enough to tell me,’ she continues. ‘Look, how about you come round to my house with your friends, and I’ll cook? We can have a low-key evening celebrating your birthday or, if you’d rather not, I understand. I’ve avoided celebrating my birthday for a good few years!’

That surprises me. I imagined her having showbiz parties for her birthday, with the likes of Wills, Kate and Harry in attendance. I’m sure I’ve seen pictures of those kind of bashes in the glossies.

‘Can I let you know?’ I ask. ‘I really appreciate the offer, but I should have a proper think about my birthday. It seems pointless to celebrate if I’m not really in the mood.’

‘Of course! Right,’ she says. ‘I’d better let you crack on, but we’ll speak soon, OK? Keep me posted on the bloggers!’

‘Will do! Bye, Tabitha.’

‘Bye!’

She hangs up the phone, and I do the same. Walking through to the kitchen, I grab a glass of water and a banana – OK, some Hobnobs – and then head back to Piers’ study to see how many people are now following me on Twitter. This site is completely addictive.

‘What’s that noise?’

It sounds like... no, it couldn’t be. But it
does
sound like it.

‘Nothing, nothing!’

The noise is getting louder and more insistent as I close the front door and follow Ob into the reception room. He dumps his bags in the middle of the floor – brilliant – throwing his muddy Barbour jacket on top.

‘Obélix! What is that noise? What have you got in there?’ I demand.

I step forward to pick up his jacket. His things do not belong in the middle of my floor. Honestly, this man is something else.

‘Don’t!’ he says rather forcefully, which stops me short. ‘Look, can you just go and make a cup of tea whilst I– I deal with this.’

Whatever he has under that jacket, the noise it is making is getting more and more frantic and Ob is looking more and more panicked.

I hesitate. ‘Happy birthday to me, too,’ I mutter.

OK, he can deal with whatever he’s hiding under there. I don’t want to be involved.

‘It’s your birthday tomorrow,’ Obélix shouts after me as I head into the kitchen, though I’ll be damned if I’m making him a cuppa. He knows where the kettle is, just like he knows how to find the coat rack and the guest room. ‘No birthday histrionics, please!’

‘Twat,’ I swear fondly under my breath.

I’m not the only one muttering. I can hear Ob talking away to himself as I survey the kitchen and flick on the kettle. After spending a bit of time in Felicity’s kitchen in recent months, I’m hankering to update ours. We’ve not really done much to his Chelsea pad since I moved in, other than buy the odd new throw and cushions, plus a gorgeous Kashan rug we had handmade in Iran the other year. But, I think with pop-up planning, wedding planning and the manic time Piers is having at work, we won’t be redecorating any time soon. Maybe once the wedding is out of the way I can get rid of the redwood kitchen cabinets and the steel worktops, inject a splash of colour in here, plus make it more comfortable. A refresh would be good for this house.

I reach for a mug, and almost drop it when I hear the most almighty bellow from Ob. Putting it down I race through to find Obélix kneeling down on the rug in front of what looks like poo. Did I mention that it was a really eye-wateringly expensive rug?

‘What are you doing, Obélix?’ I screech. ‘No, no!’ I shout hysterically. ‘Don’t rub it, don’t rub that in Randolph!’

That stops him short. I don’t think I’ve ever addressed him as Randolph in his entire life.

‘Step away from the... Is that poo?’ I ask, cringing at the scene in front of me. Was that in his bag, or on his jacket? Has he travelled from Dorset with bloody poo on him?

‘I was, well–’

‘What was that noise?’ I interrupt, the pieces lining up. ‘Did that noise do this?’

I point at the poo. Of course I am not accusing Ob of pulling down his trousers and going to the loo on the rug, but something had to make that brown smelly lump happen because it was not there when I went into the kitchen.

‘It stinks,’ I say, going over to the window to open it, and that’s when I see it.

Tucked away in the corner is a tiny grey fluffy cat with four white paws. I am in love.

‘Hello kitty,’ I coo, bending down carefully. I’m not sure how I would feel if something a lot bigger than me suddenly started petting me after what, I can only imagine, has been a bit of an ordeal with Ob. ‘Where did you come from?’

The kitty looks at me as if to say, where do you think I came from you fucking idiot, and then promptly starts to wash itself. I reach out carefully to touch it, but it darts off before my hand can make contact. I don’t blame it.

‘Happy birthday,’ Obélix says weakly as I stand up and turn around to stare at him, my arms crossed in annoyance.

‘Wait, you bought me that? Is that mine to keep?’

Who gives a cat as a present? Who does that?!

Obélix is still sitting on the rug in his khaki chinos and white shirt, right next to
it
. I guess he’s that used to animal excrement that the smell doesn’t register any more.

‘Don’t answer that,’ I say. ‘Not yet. We need to get that rug cleaned up and get someone to come and look at it because if that doesn’t look or smell like it did when Piers left here, he’s going to have a fit and you’re going to have to be the one to explain what happened.
How
did this happen anyway?’

Ob stands up, trying to make puppy dog eyes at me, but it won’t work. That rug cost nearly ten thousand pounds, I shit you not – ha! – and then a further eight hundred quid to get it safely imported from Iran. That rug is a big deal to Piers. I don’t get it either but Piers’ parents had one, and Piers has always wanted one. I’ve no idea who got his parents’ rug because it’s not at Giles’, but this rug is Piers’ pride and joy, his Scotch and art collection coming in a close second and third.

‘I’m–’

‘Don’t talk,’ I say. ‘Just go into the kitchen and get me a fish slice, rubber gloves, kitchen roll and some plastic bags.’

‘He is fully litter trained,’ Ob insists. ‘I did–’

‘Just get it!’

I don’t want to hear it, any of it. I want to fix the rug, but I also want to find the cat and see what damage he’s doing elsewhere, see where else he is marking his territory.

I find him tucked away on our bed, happily curled up and purring in the middle of it.

‘Well, you’ve certainly made yourself at home, haven’t you?’ I remark, carefully sitting next to him.

He lets me stroke him this time, and gives an excited meow when I stroke under his chin. My heart is gone, though my brain is cursing slightly at the pull marks on the Egyptian cotton duvet caused by the cat kneading his paws to get comfortable, or whatever reason it is that cats do that paw action. Already grey fur is accumulating on the duvet.

Reluctantly I leave the cat, who is still purring his head off and clearly over his ordeal, to head back into the living room.

‘What shall I do with this?’ Ob says sheepishly, holding up the fish slice. I hope he has had the sense to flush the poo down the loo and hasn’t put it in the kitchen bin.
Gross
.

‘Bin it. I don’t care if a dishwasher can get rid of all the germs, I’ll never be able to use it again.’ I shudder. ‘Now, why did that cat poo on the rug?’

‘I do have a litter box with me,’ Obélix admits, waving the fish slice around. I cringe, and grab it from his hand. ‘But he’s been locked away in his cat box for hours whilst I drove over here, so I thought I’d better let him stretch his legs... I realise that was a bad idea now.’ He pulls a face which does nothing to help his cause.

‘A-huh, you think!’ I roll my eyes. I could probably excuse anyone else, but Ob is a ruddy vet!

‘I need to phone the rug man, so set that litter tray up whilst I do,’ I order.

‘Of course!’

I’ve never seen Ob move so fast. Once that’s done and he’s sorted the cat out, we need to have a serious chat.