What My Best Friend Did (12 page)

“They were ideas three and six on the list, in fact,” I laughed, “both of which I managed to talk them out of.”

“Well thank God for you,” Gretchen said, linking arms with me and looking appalled. “Can we just hurry up and buy this rope so I can hang myself with it? My job completely sucks. Oooh, look! I like the dress in that window over there. Let’s just take five—c’mon!” And without waiting for an answer, she dragged me across the street.

Half an hour later we had managed to find somewhere to buy the props, which was lucky, as by then Gretchen had very firmly lost interest in shops that weren’t selling something she could wear. Despite claiming to be hungry enough to eat a buffalo, en route to a café she swore served the best pizza she’d ever had outside of Italy, she suddenly broke off left and came to a stop outside a small shoe shop I hadn’t even noticed we were passing.

“I love this place, I’d forgotten it was here! Have we just got five minutes?” she asked hopefully.

“Yeah sure,” I said, although all these five minutes of hers were really adding up. In we went. I sat down patiently, quite glad for the chance to rest the heavy coil of rope across my lap.

“So, I meant to say, you’ve been very sneaky-quiet about your Paris trip.” She inspected the shoes, took one off the shelf, kicked her own off carelessly and slipped her foot into the prospective new one. “Explain to me again how it is that you said it was ‘properly over’ with this Tom bloke, but then he whisked you off on some extravagant European love trip?” She raised an eyebrow and looked at me pointedly. “For the record, you can’t go away like that again—it wasn’t fun here without you.”

I smiled, then hesitated, wondering if I should just tell her the truth. Well, maybe not all of it. An edited version perhaps.

“We just went to see our ex-flatmate together,” I said. “A birthday rather than love trip. It was sweet of him.”

“Very nice indeed, all things considered. You must have stayed on pretty good terms post-split?”

I glanced away guiltily. “He’s very important to me, yes.”

“Hmm,” she said sardonically. “So there wasn’t, in fact, any dropping down on one knee in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower then?”

I paled. “God no!”

“Do you like these?” she said, looking up questioningly and wiggling her foot.

They were nothing special. “They’re OK,” I said absently, “but they’re pretty similar to your other ones, with the buckle?”

“True,” she conceded, “but they’re brown. These are black,” she looked at me naughtily and I laughed.

“Well, that makes all the difference.”

She grinned and then turned back to look in the mirror. “You know what I think?” she said slyly. “I think you’re hiding something from me.”

My mouth fell open. Was it written all over my face? But just that little bit of probing was all it took. I was, it seemed, more desperate to confess everything to her than I’d realized.

“You guessed? How?” I said. “OK, so I might have a bit of a crush on someone.”

“What?” She looked perplexed for a moment and then her eyes widened. “Really? How very naughty! Who is he? I’ll take these please!” She beamed at the shop assistant, kicked the shoes off nonchalantly and turned to me expectantly.

I took a deep breath and said, “Your brother,” and then did a half shrug and smile as I waited.

But unlike when we’d been in the café, when she’d been all twinkling eyes and suggestive nods, she just sort of blankly stared at me for a moment and then said, “Oh, right,” before abruptly turning away and starting to busily look through another row of shoes. She picked up a strappy, purple number with a three-inch heel and said, “I’ll take these too—in an eight, please,” to the assistant, who was still hovering, now rather awkwardly, in the background.

“Don’t you want to try them on first, see if they fit?” I asked. “Remember the Louboutins?”

“No I don’t, thanks,” she said shortly, not looking at me. “In fact,” she called after the assistant, who had scampered off, “I’ll take them in the black too.”

“Are you pissed off with me?” I said carefully, knowing that she was, without really understanding why. She’d encouraged me before, offered to put in a good word. What had changed? My heart sped up a bit as I realized that I’d completely, unwittingly steered us into the first disagreement of our friendship. “Have I upset you?”

She looked up at me, eyes all wide and innocent. “No!”

“Is it because of what I just said? About Bailey?”

She laughed airily. “You can’t possibly think you’re the first friend of mine to fancy my brother? It’s been like this since I was fifteen—maybe even younger.” She picked up another shoe, inspected it and then threw it down carelessly. I felt incredibly stupid. “Anyway, I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but he’s just started seeing someone.”

“Oh.” I felt my expectant heart pop with disappointment and plummet through the bottom of my sensible old shoes.

“She’s Brazilian,” she added, turning to look at me unfalteringly. “From Rio, I think.”

“Right.” I looked down at the rope on my lap. “Well, that’s nice for him.”

We said nothing more, just waited in silence until the assistant came back and put Gretchen’s three boxes down on the counter and rang them up. The only sound in the small shop was the churning of Gretchen’s receipt as she yanked her credit card out of the machine. “Enjoy your shoes,” the girl said, looking uncomfortably at Gretchen, then at me as I stood up.

Gretchen swung the shop door open with unnecessary force and it clashed off the wall, almost hitting me as it rebounded. “Oops! I’m so sorry!” she said immediately to the girl and pulled a face. “Bit overexcited about my new shoes!”

Once we were back out on the street I said, “Look, let’s just go and get lunch and we can talk abo—”

“Can’t, I’m afraid,” she said briskly. “We took much longer than I thought we would getting all your stuff. I’ve got to get over to the studios now.”

“But it’s your day off.” I looked at her as I adjusted the rope more comfortably on my shoulder. “Gretch, I’m getting the feeling you’re really unhappy with me and—”

She exhaled shortly. “Nope, I’m not. I’ve just really got to go.”

“But I—”

“For fuck’s sake, Alice!” she exploded. “The only bloody problem is the fact that you keep saying there’s one when there isn’t! I’m fine, but I’m now going to be late for a work meeting. Just like you said earlier—it’s not always about what you want and you need, OK?”

“Gretchen,” I said in disbelief, “what on earth are you talking about? I was joking when I said that. Can’t we just—”

“Look, please,” her voice suddenly wavered, “can we just leave it? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get shitty with you. I’m just … I’m just a little stressed out, OK?”

“What’s up?” I asked immediately, my own stuff forgotten. “You can tell me.”

“It’s nothing,” she said. “Nothing major anyway, I promise. I’m just tired.”

I looked at her critically. Come to mention it, she did look pretty worn down under her makeup. “Is there something I can help with? Is it work?”

“Seriously,” she insisted. “Don’t give it a second thought—I’m just being a twat, just ignore me.”

She stepped out into the middle of the street, waved and a black cab immediately swerved over to her, indicator flashing.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, OK?” She leaned forward, kissed me on the cheek briefly and jumped into the cab. Her eyes were shining as she slammed the door shut and I suddenly realized she was near to tears.

I watched her lips move silently as she sat back on the seat and gave an address. I tapped on the window to get her to stop. Something was very badly up—I’d never seen her like this. I mimed undoing the window but she just pretended she hadn’t seen me. She smiled and waved cheerily, even though I saw a tear unmistakably spill over and run down her face. The cab jerked away and I instinctively stepped away, watching her staring furiously ahead, refusing to meet my eye. Then she disappeared around the corner, leaving me standing on the pavement, clutching my rope.

S
he ignored my calls for the rest of the afternoon and by the time I tried her again when I got home, her mobile was switched off.

“That’s about the seventh time I’ve seen you check your phone tonight,” Tom said as we got ready for bed. “Something wrong?”

“Gretchen’s a bit out of sorts,” I confessed. “I’m worried about her and she’s not picking up calls.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he yawned. “Though I wouldn’t know, I guess—having not actually met her.” He pulled the duvet back, got in and reached for his book. “God, I’m so wrecked! I’ve never known a work schedule like this … but it’s going to pay off.” He patted my hand and smiled. “You’ll see. Anyway, I know it’s slack that I’ve not met Gretchen yet. When things calm down a bit I will, I promise.”

“It’s really not a problem,” I said quickly. Seeing as Gretch thought he was only my flatmate anyway, I wasn’t exactly in a rush to introduce them.

“I’m going to the gym after work tomorrow,” he said, “so I won’t be back until late. Why don’t you bring her around to have dinner here or something?”

I shook my head. “I’m doing a shoot with her tomorrow so I’ll see her then—and I’m sure you’re right, it’s probably nothing to worry about. I expect she’s just gone to bed early to get some beauty sleep.”

I must have still looked worried though, because he put his book down and reached out an arm to me. “Want a hug?” he said.

But I wanted to take my makeup off first before I settled down, and by the time I came back from the bathroom, he had fallen asleep with his arms folded and his book open on his chest. Relieved, I closed it and slipped into bed beside him, turning the light off.

I slept badly, dreaming about engagement rings slipping on my fingers that then exploded my hands—which was unpleasant—so the following morning I arrived to set up the studio, feeling tired and like I needed at least another three hours in bed to deal with the day ahead. I wasn’t sure how best to handle Gretchen. Should I act like nothing was wrong? Not mention yesterday? I didn’t want her to think I didn’t care about what was obviously bothering her, but equally I didn’t want to upset her again, especially not just before she was having a set of pictures done.

But then I discovered that I had a more pressing problem. The studio had already taken delivery of the rack of clothes for the shoot. When I unwrapped them, however, I realized we’d been sent the wrong rail. It was full of exotic and very expensive haute couture destined for—I checked the label—
Coco
magazine. I had a moment of complete panic but then took a deep breath and checked my watch. I had ages before anyone was supposed to arrive. There was plenty of time to fix it.

Which was lucky, because when I phoned the PR company who had sent the rail, they couldn’t have given less of a shit. “The labels fall off all the time,” one of the girls said carelessly on the phone. “I expect they just got mixed up and
Coco
got your stuff. We could get it picked up and sorted tomorrow, I suppose?”

What, a day after my shoot? An hour later, I was trying to calm myself down in the back of a ludicrously expensive people carrier, bombing across town, having asked the driver to get to
Coco
‘s offices as fast as he could. I’d never worked for them before, but knew that they liked to be seen as the directional magazine, meaning their fashion department probably consisted of scouts and muses that scoured the world looking for the very latest designers, seeking out women weaving exquisite fabrics by candlelight on mountaintops so remote one would have to trek on a camel for five days to reach them. And I had to explain the rack of couture they thought they had was in fact twelve mini-cowgirl outfits and a novelty horse mask.

I wrestled the rail from the back of the taxi outside the hip, glass-fronted building, out of which impossibly glamorous people were drifting. They stared at me coolly as I, glowing rosily, pushed through into the stark, A/C-chilled reception area.

“Can I speak to someone on fashion at
Coco?”
I puffed to the über-cool receptionist, who had an asymmetric fringe. It looked like an optical illusion when she raised an icy eyebrow at the sight of a sweaty me hanging over her desk.

Eventually, after some embarrassing explanations, I was ushered into a large elevator and told someone would meet me on the fourth floor. I stepped out into a corridor lined with hundreds and hundreds of framed magazine covers, all of which had
Coco
blazed across them. No one was there, so I pushed my rail around the corner … into a scene little short of office carnage. There were about thirty desks in the open-plan office and a lot of shouting coming from one in the middle, where a man was saying loudly into a phone, “Robert, I don’t care. I’ve got a load of plaid stuck in Morocco and everyone waiting in the middle of a bloody desert for it.” In another corner, a group of very overexcited women were huddled around a very camp man, cooing, “Who’s the birthday boy?” as he opened a small pile of presents. He pulled a pair of huge sunglasses out of some wrapping and screamed “OH MY GOD—I literally LOVE THEM! They’re so FUCKING COCO!” He shoved them on and inexplicably the women began to sing, “It’s gotta be … so
Coco,
it’s gotta be … so Coco,” to the tune of Sinitta’s “So Macho.”

I wanted to leave. Instantly.

A woman barged past me, clutching a loose sheaf of pages and throwing them over her shoulder as she discarded them one by one, muttering, “No, no … definitely no, her knees sag … possibly her, get the agency to send her arse over.” She shoved the picture at a timid-looking girl trotting alongside her, who nodded and rushed off like the white rabbit.

No one took any notice of me at all.

Eventually, after what felt like hours, a girl looked up from a desk and said, boredly and without smiling, “Can I help you?”

I explained the situation and, after much hilarity (how I laughed), at the fashion desk, which is what the bunch of singing women and the gay bloke turned out to be, we swapped rails.