What My Best Friend Did (13 page)

“You know, that is just brilliant,” the gay bloke gasped, as he wiped tears from his eyes and sat back into his chair, exhausted by all the activity. “You had a whole rail of McQueen in the back of a taxi and we had a whole load of mini Dolly Parton outfits—and no one noticed! That’s just delicious! Giddy up, horsey.” He held the now infamous horse mask up to his face and everyone screamed with laughter.

“Seriously though,” he let the mask drop for a moment, “I’ve just had a roaringly brilliant idea.” He sat up sharply and seemed to stare into the distance. There was a sudden low murmur in the office. Everyone fell quiet, as if anticipating a life-changing moment. “What about … what about we do the leather shoot as a next generation cowgirl concept—the evolution of leather. We could hang these funny little miniature outfits of hers,” he nodded at me, “from tree branches—along with a load of horse masks. God, it could be a kitsch nod to the Wild West meets
The Godfather
meets urban warfare. Saddle up, cowgirl, Daddy’s back in town!” He slapped the table gleefully. “Someone start sourcing a farm location; I need one for tomorrow. Come on, people: Can we do this? I SHOULD
COCO!”
he shouted and people started jumping up in a flurry of activity. “Darling, can we appropriate your sweet little costumes for one more day?” He turned to me.

I suddenly remembered exactly why I wanted to be a travel photographer.

By the time I got back to the studio at 1:42, having literally wrestled the outfits out of his very manicured hands and been told I was a brassy bitch harlot who offended his very eyes, I found twelve overexcited children, their chaperones, the stylist and a hair and makeup girl, all waiting for me. I was hungry and tired, and we hadn’t even started. I wanted to cry.

But just as I was considering shouting “Look over there!” and then legging it out of the door, Gretchen walked in.

She was wearing a bright red version of the waiting-list-only Lucky dress, which, with its cute capped sleeves, would have looked demure if she hadn’t teamed it with black patent open-toed heels. She looked like Red Riding Hood with an agenda that was going to end badly for the wolf. She filled the room with smiles and loud “Hellooooo!”s and “I’m so sorry I’m late … Hi, girls!” she called over to the children, who immediately got up, ran over and gathered around her, happily shouting things like, “I know who you are! You’re on my TV!” and “Gretchen, Gretchen! Come and see my dress!” One of them, standing next to me, jumped up and down on the spot three times, shouted, “It’s her, it’s her!” and was then promptly sick on my foot.

Gretchen dumped her oversized bag down on the floor and it fell open to reveal several paper bags completely stuffed with assorted candies.

“Oh how sweet,” said one of the chaperones. “Did you get them for the girls?”

“Um, yeah,” said Gretchen. “If you like. Go for it, kids!”

Squealing like piglets, including the one that had just puked on me, they all dove in and began to squabble about who got what. Gretchen laughed and walked over, looking just like her normal self.

“Hey, Al, you OK?” Her face creased into a look of concern at the sight of me.

“I’ve just had a run-in with some horrible bitchy git at
Coco
magazine,” I said and laughed, but it came out a bit high and squeaky at the end.

“What happened?” Gretchen listened intently as she pulled up a chair next to the makeup mirror and I sat down on it. “You need to get that shoe off, Al—it reeks.”

“It’s so stupid, I shouldn’t even care. They had our clothes and we had theirs. He wanted to keep the kids’ outfits for reasons too stupid to bore you with, but when I said he couldn’t, h called me a harlot and the whole office went quiet to listen. He told me I’d never work in fashion again.” I steadied my voice as I slipped off the shoe. “Not that I even bloody want to.” Gretchen pulled a tissue out of a nearby box, picked up the shoe and hurriedly dropped it in the bin. “Now that’s friendship,” she patted my shoulder, “I wouldn’t do sick for anyone else.” She peered at my leg. “I don’t think any has gone on your trouser leg. Thank God for cut-offs, eh? Just don’t give that silly queen a second thought, he probably has a miserable life perpetually dieting to fit into trousers he’s permanently too fat for.”

“Well, it was his birthday,” I said. “So I hope someone gets him a big massive cake he can’t allow himself to eat.”

“Oh, well that explains it,” she said instantly, “he’s another year older too … you were just wrong place wrong time. With any luck the cake will completely choke him for being mean to my best friend, the bastard.”

“Thanks,” I said gratefully. She thought of me as her best friend? That was so nice! I was torn between wanting to hug her and feeling bad for dumping my stress on her when she’d been upset the day before. “Anyway, enough about me. Are you OK?”

She waved a hand airily. “Yeah, sorry about yesterday … and I’m sorry I didn’t call you back either, I just had massive P.M.S. In fact, can you use every trick of the trade today, because I’m so bloated I feel like ten-ton Tessie and I’m craving sugar like you wouldn’t believe, but”—she lowered her voice and whispered—“those horrible little rug rats are eating all my sweets!”

I laughed. “Let’s get each other through this, shall we?”

She nodded. “But only if we can go out and have a glass or three once it’s done.”

“Deal,” I said. “Except I’ve got no shoes.”

“We’ll think of something,” she said. “We always do.”

* * *

By quarter to four, the kids’ sugar rush was showing no signs of letting up. They were all completely out of control and running about the place like small Tasmanian devils on speed, not helped by the fact that the stylist had stuck the
High School Musical
soundtrack on, very loudly, to which they were all dancing and singing like crazy. To give her credit though, Gretchen had firmly thrown herself into the activities and was also leaping around like a lunatic, making the kids giggle with delight.

By five o’clock she was still going strong, but the children were fading fast.

“You’ve been amazing today.” I laughed, wrapping her in a grateful hug. “Well done. I think we should go and get that drink—I’ve got all I need.”

“Except a shoe.” She pointed, still dancing to the background music. Why don’t we get a cab and swing past your place before the bar, so you can grab replacements?”

That was fine by me, as I knew Tom was gyming it after work so wouldn’t be at home.

Half an hour or so later we pulled up outside the flat and, having unlocked the front door, I rummaged around quickly in the jumble of mine, Tom’s and Paolo’s shoes—aware the taxi meter was running. I was just dragging on a pair of pumps when Tom appeared at the top of the stairs. “Hi,” he called down.

“What are you doing here?” I said in amazement, looking up at him.

“Well, that’s nice!” he laughed. “Love you too. My meeting finished early and I couldn’t be bothered to go back to the office, but all my stuff is under my desk. I’ll go for a run tomorrow instead. How about you?”

“Gretchen and I are just zipping out for a drink, post-shoot.”

“She’s here?” he said instantly. “Oh right, I’ll come down and say hello.”

“No! It’s fine, we’re just—” I began, but he was already halfway down and practically out of the door. Panicking, I followed him.

Gretchen had unwound the window and Tom extended his hand through the gap. “Hello, Gretchen, I’m Tom,” he said easily.

She took in his work outfit and said, “Oh hi! Alice has told me lots about you.”

Tom laughed and said what everyone says to that: “All good, I hope?”

I held my breath. She knew something had been—might still be—going on between Tom and me, but she also knew I had an inappropriate crush on her brother. Yet she said immediately, “Of course—so good it was almost hard to believe.” She held his gaze steadily. “Just finished for the day then?”

“Yeah, I work for a consultancy in the city.”

“Oh, which one?” she asked politely.

“Holland and Grange,” he replied, hands in pockets. I guiltily ran around to the other side of the taxi and jerked the door open, desperate to be gone.

“I’ll see you later, Tom,” I said. “Sorry to dash—meter and all that.” Checking that Gretchen wasn’t looking, I blew him a quick kiss.

“Have fun,” he said. “Nice to meet you, Gretchen.”

“You too,” she said.

We pulled away and she turned to look at him curiously over her shoulder, watching him walk back into the flat. “Well,” she said, “he wasn’t what I expected at all.”

H
onestly, Al, I didn’t mean anything by it, it was just one of those throwaway remarks people make.”

“OK, so what were you expecting him to be like?” I pressed insistently. It was really niggling me that she’d obviously had some preconceived idea of Tom, but wouldn’t tell me what that was. I’d certainly never described him to her—we’d barely discussed him at all! She’d clearly imagined my “flatmate” to be far less … conventional.

“Oh, let it go,” she said without malice. “Let me just zip to the loo, then I’ll get us a drink. Bottle of white?”

I waited at our table for what felt like ages before she returned. She plonked two glasses and the wine down and said, “You so owe me.”

I immediately reached for my purse. “You’re absolutely right, sorry. How much was it?”

“What?” She looked puzzled, then it dawned on her. “Not the drink—I’ve just called Bailey and told him about your little crush.”

I stared at her, flabbergasted. She’d done what?

“Turns out the girl from Ipanema was more of a fling than a serious thing,” she said slyly, pouring me a very full glass and passing it over.

Despite my shock and panic that events had taken such an alarming leap forward without my knowledge, I was unable to help myself. “What did he say?” I whispered.

“He was very flattered,” she said.

I felt my insides curl up and wither like burning paper. I wanted to die—how incredibly embarrassing. He was flattered? That was tantamount to a carefully phrased fan mail response: “Mr. Clooney was very flattered that you sent him a picture of your breasts and some of your underwear, but will in fact be extensively filming for the next few months and will be unable to accept your kind offer to marry him at any point this year.”

She must have noticed the look on my face because she said, “That’s not a bad thing, Al. Just watch this space. That’s all I’m saying.”

Watch this space? There was no space—it already had Tom in it. “But Gretchen—” I began urgently.

“Hush up, Al, I’ve got it all under control,” she said smugly.

“But—”

“Oh brilliant!” she exclaimed, as she noticed something over my shoulder. “Look, they’re setting up karaoke!”

I glanced over to a small stage at the front of the bar where a man was fiddling with a microphone. “You’ll do a song with me, won’t you?” she said eagerly.

For a moment I saw myself singing a mournful rendition of “I Will Survive” under a lonely spotlight—Tom, betrayed and hurt in the audience, staring angrily at me; and Bailey, arm slung around a model type, smiling pityingly before blowing me a kiss and sauntering off. Urgh. Oh, why the fuck had she told Bailey I fancied him?

“No, thanks,” I said faintly.

But Gretchen wasn’t taking no for an answer. An hour later she was still saying “Oh pleeeease?”

Since our earlier arrival, the bar had filled up and become fiercely hot. I was already a little dehydrated from the wine and was starting to feel like I was stuck in a sauna where someone was steadily pouring other people’s sweat on the coals. I desperately wanted some air. In fact, I just wanted to go.

“I think we should call it a night, Gretch,” I said.

“Oh but look!” She nodded delightedly up at the stage, where four girls were now energetically bouncing around to “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.” “They’re having a wicked time. Come on!”

“Gretch, please! I really don’t want to.”

“Tell you what,” she knocked back the last of her drink, “I’ll sing with them on my own.”

“You don’t even know them!”

“They won’t mind. Wait here for me?” She handed me her empty glass.

“All right,” I said reluctantly. “Then I think we ought to get going, OK?” She was doing amazingly well for someone with raging P.M.S. I’d have been lying on the sofa crying at ASPCA adverts, eating a whole package of cookies and then randomly shouting at Tom for no apparent reason.

She bounded off and I watched as she climbed on to the stage in her heels and red dress, to admiring whistles from the audience—some of whom immediately pulled out their camera phones to sneak a picture. She put an arm around one of the girls, who at first looked a bit surprised but then smiled widely, pulling her new celebrity friend into the group—probably drunk.

Gretchen had obviously decided she was going to sing lead vocals, however, and pushed her way to the mic, which didn’t seem to annoy the girls much, apart from the leader of the pack, who was looking a little irritated as Gretchen bounced away energetically next to her. Luckily the song started to wind down and, as everyone began to clap and cheer, I looked down to check in my bag that I had enough money for a cab. But then I heard Gretchen say through the mic, “No, no—play that one again!”

I looked up to see the girls leaving the stage, shooting curious glances at Gretchen. She was ignoring the bloke who had set up earlier and who was now leaning in and trying to talk to her. “No!” she repeated clearly, through the mic. “Just that one again—go on! Once more!” And she leaned forward and flicked a button on the monitor. The first bars of “Wake Me Up” began again and there were a few catcalls and whistles, but she ignored them and began to sing.

The bloke, irked, reached over and flicked the switch off. The music died. “Hey!” Gretchen said, annoyed. “Put it … now.” The mic became muffled as she let it slip. It squealed slightly while they gesticulated a bit and she was waving it around. The bloke tried to grab for it, but Gretchen moved smartly out of his way and shouted, “Fine, well I don’t need the music … I’m going to sing anyway and you can’t stop me.”