The Night That Changed Everything (28 page)

I cave, and after we've phoned the office to clear the time off, Jemma drags me to a boutique in Old Street, where she collects dresses off the rails like it's
Supermarket Sweep
before pushing me inside the changing room.

‘Oi, Cinders!' bellows Jemma, as I try them on. ‘Hurry up. I just phoned that salon across the road and booked me a blow-dry and you an updo.'

I sigh loudly.

‘You're welcome,' she adds.

Nothing suits me and I'm close to giving up when I pull on an ankle-length satin gown in a shade of green so dark, it's almost black. The front falls into a low V, but not dramatically so. The back is so low it ends just above my bum.

‘Rebecca!' Jemma squeals, when I pull back the curtain. ‘You look like a movie star!'

‘A transvestite movie star?' I joke, but when I look in the mirror properly, I have to admit, this dress works for me.

‘Not at all.' Jemma shakes her head. ‘And it's floor-length so it'll hide your big boat feet.'

I buy it, and as we leave the salon after getting our hair done – me walking, and Jemma jogging next to me, trying to keep up – I reluctantly admit to her I'm glad she made me do this.

‘Fun, isn't it?' She beams. ‘We're like the
Sex in the City
girls.'

‘Don't push it.'

‘Let's get our make-up done in Selfridges, then go get ready in the pub.'

‘Ta-da.' Jemma emerges from the pub loos a couple of minutes after me and gives me a twirl.

‘Jem, you look lovely.'

‘Oh, fuck off.'

‘You do.' She does. The sleeveless, gold, lacey top of her dress clings in all the right places, while the layered skirt puffs out flatteringly.

‘Be honest,' she says, ‘do I look like a hippo in a tutu?'

‘God, no. That's perfect on you.'

‘You sure I don't look like a fat Christmas fairy?'

‘Not at all. You look gorgeous.'

‘All right, calm down. I'm still not going to have sex with you.' Jemma hands me her bags. ‘Prosecco?'

‘Lovely.'

I've barely touched a drop of drink since Jamie and Jemma's Spintervention six weeks ago. I have to admit (though not to them) that I'm feeling miles better. I'm sleeping well, I'm finding it easier to concentrate and I've not had any more morning-after angst to deal with. I still blush when I remember New Year's Eve, though thankfully Jamie seems as happy as me to pretend it never happened.

‘The guy that was standing next to me at the bar,' Jemma says as she puts my glass down. ‘I recognize him.'

‘Me too,' I agree. ‘Maybe he's famous.'

I regret saying that because Jemma then lists every television show, film and band she knows, trying to work out which one he's in.

‘Drop it, Jem.'

‘I can't.
Hollyoaks
? Everyone is in
Hollyoaks
.'

‘I don't watch it.'

‘Oh, for fuck's sake,' she says, sounding disappointed. ‘I know who he is.'

‘Who?'

‘That dude in the Vietnamese place that tried to chat you up on the way out of the door.'

‘Eh?'

‘Months ago. Had a beard at the time. Having lunch with a bald guy.'

‘How the hell do you remember that?'

‘I've got a frighteningly good memory.'

‘Then how come I'm the only architect in the world without a pencil, because you keep forgetting to order stationery?'

She's right, though. I recognize his quiff and his rectangular, black-rimmed glasses.

‘There's something a little Clark Kentish about him, don't you think?' I ask Jemma, cocking my head.

Before she has a chance to answer, something kicks off next to our booth, between a guy carrying three pints and a guy who isn't watching where he's going. The first guy ends up wearing his beers.

There's a bit of pushing and shoving, then Clark Kent rushes over, places his hands unthreateningly on each of the guys' chests and says something quietly to them, before they both scuttle off to their own friends.

‘Superman!' says Jemma, winking at me. ‘Hey,' she calls after him before he heads back to his friends. He turns around. ‘Do you work in Farringdon? And sometimes go for lunch in that Vietnamese cafe on the corner?'

‘I do,' he confirms, obviously confused.

‘You were right,' she tells me. Then to him: ‘Rebecca said she recognized you from when we had lunch there, but I was all,
Nah, that was months ago, how could you possibly remember him?
' She ignores my glare. ‘Hey, are you and your pals standing? Come join us, there's plenty of room in our booth.'

Jemma's lucky she's already scored so many points with me today, otherwise I might very well kill her.

After he's hollered his mates over, the man introduces himself as Michael. Jemma holds court trying to establish whether the group would rather have their genitals on the back of their necks or the palm of their hands, and I pretend not to notice how Michael keeps looking at me.

I start to wonder if my hair is falling out of my huge bun, but when I excuse myself and nip to the loo I find every strand in place.

Could Michael have been flirting with me? He was being very nice. But he seems like a very nice man.

The door swings open. ‘Cab's here,' shouts Jemma.

Oh well. I'll never know.

The converted Ironmongers' Hall where the party is being held is already heaving when we arrive – folk are less inclined to be fashionably late when it's an open bar.

The hall is vast, with high ceilings, wood-panelled walls and huge chandeliers. White-clad servers work stealth-like around the room, topping up champagne flutes.

‘Tell me we don't have to mingle with clients,' Jemma whispers to me, scanning the room.

‘Well, we should . . . But, given the choice, I'd rather shoot myself in the face.'

‘Great, then let's go stand by that entrance. It's where the canapés are coming in.'

No sooner have we claimed our spot than a tray of mini pulled-pork rolls appears in front of us.

‘So, Michael was nice,' Jem says as she pops one in her mouth.

‘Yep.' I shrug, sipping my champagne.

‘And he liked you.'

‘I don't know about that.'

‘I do.'

‘He was just being friendly. It's not like he asked for my number or anything when we said goodbye.'

‘Would you have given it to him?'

‘Probably not.'

‘Oh.'

‘Oh what?'

‘Nothing.' Jemma looks around the room. ‘Oh, look, a chandelier.'

‘Jemma?'

‘OK, fine. I gave him your mobile number . . .'

I groan. It's fine, I tell myself. I can just ignore any numbers I don't recognize.

‘. . . and your landline.'

‘What?'

‘Oh, and your direct line at work. Plus my number in case he cannae reach you on any of the above. I said I'd put him through.'

‘What's the matter with you?'

‘What's the matter with
you
? He's handsome, brave and available. What single woman wouldn't give him their number?'

I go to answer her but realize I have nothing. Maybe she's right. What am I scared of?

‘I'm just crap in those situations,' I tell her lamely.

‘Really? I hadn't noticed.'

I spot Jake and wave hello, then notice Adam next to him leaning cockily against a beam.

‘Ladies,' Jake calls, waving us over. ‘Aren't you two a sight for sore eyes?'

‘You both look great,' Adam agrees, meeting my eye. I instinctively look away.

‘Oh, stop it,' says Jemma, clearly chuffed.

‘You know what else is a sight for sore eyes?' Jake continues. ‘The cinema. I went to see it yesterday, Rebecca. It's coming along splendidly. I'm impressed.'

I brush off his compliments, though inside I'm doing the Riverdance. I've been putting in all the hours under the sun to turn things round since his diplomatic warning.

‘Let's not talk shop, though,' he adds. ‘You girls should let your hair down.'

‘You know what this calls for, don't you?' says Jemma, after they've gone. ‘Shots.'

Reluctantly, I get on board and let Jemma direct me to the bar.

‘Do you do Jägerbombs?' Jemma asks the barman.

‘I'm afraid not.'

I review the bottle shelf. ‘Two Patrón XO Cafes, please,' I tell him. Then to a baffled-looking Jemma: ‘It's coffee-infused tequila.'

‘Yuk, gross. Change one of those to normal tequila!' she yells down the bar. ‘Coffee tastes like bum rubbish. That's why I'm a tea lassie.'

‘But you drank coffee at Arch 13 that time – I saw you.'

‘Jamie is fit.' She shrugs. ‘He could have given me a tumbler of his own pish and I'd have drunk it.'

‘You should come to his for a drink soon,' I tell her.

‘His house?'

‘No, the bar, you knob. Maybe not on a night Ben's working, though.'

Jemma makes a face. ‘You still OK with that?'

‘Sure.' I shrug. ‘Guess I'm a bit jealous they're getting to hang out together so much.' At least Ben's looking for his own place now so they won't be working
and
living together.

‘Maybe you're not really over Ben,' says Jemma as she pours salt on her hand.

‘It's not that.' I wave a dismissive hand. ‘I just don't really feel part of the gang any more.' She looks like she's going to say something else so I pick up my shot. ‘C'mon, let's do this.'

Jemma wants to dance but I make her wait until the dance floor is half full before I let her drag me on to it. She moves to every song like there's a routine and she knows it, and she ends up in a dance-off with Eddie to ‘Moves Like Jagger'. Everyone steps back and gives them the floor, clapping and cheering.

That's what I'm doing when I feel someone standing close beside me.

‘Hello, Adam.' I flash him a smile. I feel the good kind of drunk – oiled enough to feel confident and relaxed, but in control.

‘Hello, yourself.'

Just as I'm trying to work out where to take the conversation from there, everyone starts joining in with the dancing and Adam takes my hand and spins me round. He's a good dancer. Maybe he learnt to dance at Lothario Night School.

I smile to myself and close my eyes, and allow myself to get lost in the moment. Things are good. Jake's impressed. Jemma's become a real mate. A decent guy wanted my phone number.

A few weeks ago it felt as if my life was snowballing out of control, but it finally seems like I'm getting myself on track again. Ben is no longer always the first thing on my mind when I wake up and the last thing on my mind when I fall asleep, although I'd be lying if I said he wasn't regularly on it between those two things.

I become aware of my own body as it moves with Adam's, and the feel of his hands on the bare skin of my back. It sends tingling sensations over my entire body.

It's been a really long time since I had sex.

For a moment the drink blurs my mind and it's Ben whose arms I'm in, but when I open my eyes it's Adam's blue eyes I see, not Ben's brown ones, and I'm OK with that.

‘You look stunning, by the way,' he says softly into my ear.

‘Thanks,' I reply, grateful he can't see my cheeks from that angle. ‘You don't scrub up too badly yourself.'

‘Careful,' he gasps. ‘That was almost a compliment.'

‘Almost.'

He smiles but his eyebrows knit together slightly. ‘Remember that night we went out in Soho?'

‘Uh huh.'

‘Well, we never really talked about what—'

‘Sshhh,' I tell him, making myself meet his eyes. ‘I know what you're going to say, and you don't have to. I know we'd had a lot to drink. I don't want to complicate our working relationship either.'

He looks exasperated and starts to say something, but just then the lights get brighter, and I realize the music has stopped. The party is over.

‘Um, I should say goodbye to Jemma,' I tell him, half of me wanting to run away but the other half curious about what he was going to say. ‘Have a good weekend.'

‘You too,' he says, releasing me.

I find Jemma and we head outside to look for cabs.

‘You get this one,' I insist when I see an orange light.

‘OK, doll. Text me when you're home.'

‘Will do. And thanks for today,' I add, feeling a rush of affection for her. ‘Thanks for everything, in fact. You were right what you said earlier – it has been a shit few months, but you've been a good mate.'

‘You know what, Rebecca?' she says seriously, taking my hands and meeting my eyes through her false lashes. ‘I really think things are about to turn a corner for you.'

‘Really?' I ask, touched.

‘How the fuck should I know?' she asks, dropping my hands. ‘But it felt like the right thing to say.' Then she plants a kiss on my forehead and clambers into her taxi.

Saturday, 14 February

I try to open the door but the postman seems to have deposited his entire sack through the letterbox, and it won't budge.

‘My door was the same this morning,' Russ quips.

‘Sorry,' says the landlord, squeezing past Tom, Russ and me, then shoulder-barging the door so he can show us around. ‘It's been a while since anyone lived here.'

The reason for this soon becomes clear. It's a converted basement in an Edwardian house. The website had pictures of a bathroom, a bedroom, a kitchen and a living room, but it turns out they're all part of the same room.

‘And this is the en suite,' says the landlord, pointing to the toilet without a hint of irony.

His accent is reminiscent of the Kray twins but he looks more like a Chuckle brother.