And now it’s time for Lucy’s dinner party. I spoke to Portia once last week. She phoned me after Lucy had invited her, and she said I should go to her flat for a drink first, and that it would be lovely to see me on my own after all these years, and how excited she was about seeing me properly, talking to me properly.
You know how I felt after that phone call? I felt exactly the same as I used to feel when we were at university. I felt honoured by Portia’s interest.
I felt as if a small piece of sunshine were shining on me when Portia treated me like this, as if I were special, and, although I’ve relished breaking free from Portia’s shadow over the last ten years, there’s something about stepping into this old role that feels very familiar, very comfortable, and I wonder whether I’m happiest in the shadows after all.
‘What about that lovely James?’ Lucy asked last Tuesday when we were closing up the shop, ringing up the wholesaler to put through some orders that customers had requested. ‘I’d love to invite him over, and the two of you seemed to get on so well. Can’t I ask him, Cath, my love?’
‘No!’ I practically barked at her, almost dropping the pile of books I was carrying up from the stock room.
‘You know,’ she said carefully, ‘there is nothing going on between him and Ingrid.’
‘Oh?’ I have to admit, my interest was piqued, even though I’d tried to put him out of my mind, particularly because I hadn’t actually been in touch with him since the day he brought the flowers round, which I still felt fairly guilty about, although with every passing day it was getting harder to call.
‘Nope. I asked her.’
‘You asked her? What did she say?’
‘Well, it was most peculiar, actually. For a moment she looked completely stunned, and then I realized she hadn’t got the foggiest what, or rather who, I was talking about.’
‘Maybe it was so awful she wiped it from her memory.’
‘Cath, darling, come on. Seriously, I realized she didn’t have a clue, so I reminded her that she’d left with him, and then asked if something had happened, and if she were interested in him.’
‘And?’ I was trying to look as if I didn’t really care.
‘And she looked at me as if I’d gone completely mad and then laughed uproariously for about five minutes.’
‘Are you serious?’ I was horrified. ‘That’s appalling. Jesus, I mean James isn’t exactly Mr Universe, but she’d be bloody lucky to get someone like James. Who does she think she is?’
‘I know,’ Lucy said. ‘I mean, I couldn’t really say anything, but James is divine. He may not be her type, but still, there was no need to laugh like that.’
‘Lucy, when are you going to realize that the woman is completely vile?’
‘Cath, as long as Max is happy I don’t really care. And anyway, these au pairs apparently never last long anyway. I was talking to a woman in the shop yesterday who’s been through five au pairs in three months.
‘Apparently the first one brought her boyfriend to stay when they were away for the weekend, the second was lovely but didn’t have a bath in three weeks, the third was wonderful but decided her room wasn’t big enough, and the fourth walked out after three weeks for no reason whatsoever.’
‘And the fifth?’
‘The fifth is apparently perfect. Although how long it will last she said she didn’t know.’
‘When did she start? The fifth?’
‘On Monday. Anyway, according to this woman, Ann, I’m incredibly lucky to have a godsend like Ingrid, and I should be doing everything I can to make her life more comfortable because good au pairs are about as rare as gold dust on the streets of London.’
It’s a good job Lucy had turned her back to pick up a stray magazine, as she missed the sneer on my face. ‘I suppose you’ll be buying her little treats now?’
‘As it happens I did buy her one of those little gift sets of bath oils and delicious-smelling soaps yesterday. It smelt so gorgeous and I couldn’t just walk straight past the shop after what that woman had said.’
‘You realize she’ll probably walk out now,’ I chuckled evilly. ‘She’ll probably think you’re trying to tell her she stinks to high heaven, and she’ll be so offended she’ll be gone by the time you get home, doubtless taking half your clothes with her.’
‘Oh God,’ groaned Lucy. ‘Do you really think so?’
‘Only if you’re really lucky.’
‘Anyway, the point is, Cath, that obviously nothing happened between them, and I would love to ask him round, and please, please, please say that you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Oh God, Lucy. How can you emotionally blackmail me like this?’
‘Does that mean I can ask him?’
‘Okay,’ I grumbled. ‘But don’t think this means I’ve given you my blessing.’
‘Fine,’ she said, and the grin on her face was huge as she picked up the keys and I followed her out the door. ‘I’m ringing him as soon as I get home.’
Now you know and I know that clothes have never exactly been a big thing for me, but I think I do kind of owe it to James to make something of an effort after the last time he laid eyes on me.
In fact, every time I think about opening the door and seeing him standing there, and more importantly him seeing me, with my wild woman of Borneo hair and my smudged mascara, bleary eyes and grey skin, I feel positively ashamed.
And perhaps this is yet another symptom of what Si has started calling The Portia Effect, because, let’s face it, the last time I made an effort with my hair, with make-up, with clothes, was probably about ten years ago.
But tonight I want to show James that I can look nice, and maybe, if I try really hard, I’ll manage to wipe the image of me from the other morning out of his mind and replace it with one infinitely better.
So I did something this morning that I haven’t done for years. I took a day off from the shop – only possible because Si is now dying of jealousy and wants to get in on the act and couldn’t wait to take my place, even for a day – walked out of my flat at ten o’clock in the morning, jumped on the bus to Oxford Circus, turned a blind eye to the Saturday crowds and hit the shops, even though I didn’t have a clue what I was looking for.
But in the first shop I went into I found a pair of grey flannel trousers that would have made Si proud, and then a few doors up I had to stop and admire a sophisticated window display that was so alluring it made even me want to step inside.
I walked past, hesitated, then stepped back and caught the eye of one of the sales assistants, who smiled at me, encouraging me to go in.
‘Can I help you?’ he said, and I found myself gesturing to the window display.
‘The sweaters,’ I said. ‘How much are they?’
Clever sales assistant that he was, he pretended to ignore the question, and instead strode to the back of the shop and brought over an array of gorgeous pastel sweaters that were so soft, so feminine, I was almost upset that he disturbed the pile of perfection by unfolding them and laying them out on the table for me to admire.
‘Why don’t you just try one on?’ he said with a smile, picking up the one I’d been tentatively fingering – as soft as butter, a delicate baby pink, it was the most beautiful sweater I’d ever seen. And remember, I’m not a person who goes in for sweaters. Or any clothes, for that matter.
I walked into the changing room as if in a dream, and when I pulled the sweater over my head and came out, even I had to admit that it was probably the nicest thing I’d ever worn in my entire life. There was something about the colour, about the softness, that made me feel soft, made me feel feminine, and even with my old black leggings that had definitely seen better days it still looked lovely.
‘Do you have trousers to go with?’ the sales assistant asked, not even bothering to ask whether I was going to take the sweater, probably presuming that it looked so good, how could I not.
I pointed to my bag and told him I’d just bought some, and he insisted on ha
ving a look.
‘Let’s see them together,’ he insisted, and for a moment – being bossed around by a gorgeous sales assistant who had far, far better taste than I could ever hope to have – it was just like having Si with me, and how could I resist?
They looked amazing. And what’s more, the sales assistant approved, which was about as much as I could ever have hoped for. I couldn’t believe how much this simple sweater cost, but I figured that it would be worth it after all. Because, to be honest, what would be the point in revealing your new image in the same old overstretched black sweater that you’ve worn almost daily for the last five years?
I went, I tried, I paid through the nose. And I was intending to go straight back home, really I was, but as I was walking down the street a young, trendy-looking girl stopped me and pressed a paper flyer into my hand.
‘We’re doing a special offer,’ she said brightly. ‘At Snippers. Everything’s half price today and you get a free consultation.’
On any other day I would have smiled vaguely at her and walked straight past, crumpling the paper into a tiny ball as I walked, and tossing it into the nearest rubbish bin, but today I stopped in front of her, listened, and then looked at the flyer. ‘Bored with the same haircut?’ it proclaimed. ‘Looking for a new image? At Snippers we have a team of top experienced hairstylists ready to show you the new YOU!’
What’s a girl supposed to do when something like that is thrust into her hand, and she’s been thinking about taming the frizz for, ooh, at least a week now? Up the steps of Snippers I went, and into the hands of – hopefully – top experienced hairstylist, Pezz.
‘Mmm,’ he said, picking up handfuls of hair and looking distinctly unimpressed. ‘Yays, I see. Eet is very deefeecult to handle, no?’
I nodded meekly.
‘You would like to have seelky smooth hair, no?’
I shrugged, then realized from Pezz’s impassive face that this was evidently the wrong answer and proceeded to nod vigorously instead.
‘We will give you the hair of Jennifer Lopez,’ he said triumphantly, looking pensive again. ‘Maybe you don’t like the colour of theese hairs, hmm?’
Actually I hadn’t stopped to think. Other than to note that far more grey hairs seemed to be appearing by the day, I really wasn’t that bothered. Pezz, on the other hand, evidently was.
‘I am theenking vegetable rinse, yes? I theenk nice reech brown. Strong warm tones weeth leettle beet of red, hmm?’ Is it just me, or is his accent becoming more and more unintelligible? It seems that as Pezz becomes excited, his accent deteriorates, but I’ve never been the type to sit and chat with hairdressers about holidays and DIY, so I refuse to worry about it.
I accept the offer of a cappuccino, eat the two tiny little biscuits in about two seconds flat, and then settle back in the chair with a sizeable stack of crappy magazines that I’d never be seen dead reading anywhere else.
Two hours later – Christ, this is seriously decadent of me – and I’m sitting in the chair at Snippers looking into the face of someone who does look like me, only a far better version.
Because I would never have believed that my hair could be silky, smooth and actually shiny! My hair is shiny! But Pezz has worked wonders, and good God, I seem to have got a chestnut mane falling to slightly below my shoulders.
It looks amazing. I can’t stop smiling at myself. The only problem is, and I only realize this as I keep looking at myself in the mirror, it’s exactly the same as Portia’s. Shit. And how the hell am I supposed to pass this off as coincidence?
But by the time I get the tube home, I’m allowing myself a damn sight more than a little smile. I’m actually getting a few looks. From men. Oh my God! Oh not many, not enough to start making headline news, but – and at first I thought this was my imagination – there have definitely been two men who have walked past me and have held my eyes for far longer than was absolutely necessary.
Sitting on the tube, I lean my body slightly to the right, so that I’ve got an almost clear view in the reflection of the black glass, and, though I have never been a vain person, it’s definitely not too late to change, and I can’t believe how I look!
I love this new hair. No, I don’t just love it, I think I may well be completely in love with it. I can’t stop stroking it, marvelling at how soft it feels, how it feels, in fact, like hair, rather than like pubic hair that had accidentally been planted in the wrong spot.
And the only reason I’m late for Portia’s now is that I spent so long marvelling at my reflection in the mirror, I didn’t realize what time it was. That and the fact that once I’d dressed in my new clothes and shaken my hair around a bit, I realized that the finishing touch would have to be a bit of make-up, the only problem being that it’s been so long since I wore any I didn’t even know what I had.
Luckily, lurking in the back of the bathroom cabinet was an old brown eyeliner and an old lipgloss that I vaguely remember being stuck to the cover of one of the glossy magazines that I must have bought aeons ago.
I dragged the eyeliner across my upper lid, and then a bit underneath, but I completely overdid it and a rather messy Cleopatra stared uncertainly back at me, so I grabbed a cotton bud and smudged it, after which it actually looked pretty good. In fact, I was astonished at how my eyes suddenly seemed double the size.
Hmm. What else could I do with the eyeliner? I decided to use it as a lipliner, and very slowly outlined my lips, before doing the cotton bud trick again, then filling it in with the lip gloss.
I smiled at my reflection, and then, lacking mascara and blusher, I did what I remember the girls at school doing when we were eleven years old, too young for make-up, but desperate to look grown-up and impress. I pinched my cheeks until they were red, and then licked my fingers, carefully brushing them against my eyelashes and holding them to try to curl the lashes. Not a fantastic curl, but a discernible difference, certainly.
And by the time I grabbed my coat and ran out the door, I was already fifteen minutes late, but what did I care? I looked the best I’d looked in ten years, and that, quite frankly, was the only thing that suddenly seemed important.
Chapter sixteen
‘Cath, you look wonderful.’ Portia comes to the door of her apartment, air kisses me on each cheek and beckons me inside, through a wide, airy corridor to an enormous living room with huge windows overlooking communal gardens off Sutherland Avenue.
Several scented candles are dotted around, and the air is filled with the sweet scent of orange and cinnamon. On the glass coffee table, next to the enormous bowl of white lilies, is a bottle of champagne, already opened, and two glasses.
There isn’t a colour to be seen, and everything looks terrifyingly expensive. The sofas are so white, I’m almost loath to sit down just in case I should have some sort of ghastly period leakage or something, which of course would only happen if you were to find yourself sitting on an immaculate white sofa.
It is exactly where I would have expected Portia to live, the sort of apartment that you only ever normally see in the pages of a glossy interior magazine, the sort of apartment that I’ve never set foot in, in my entire life.
Portia pours me a glass of champagne and collapses elegantly on the sofa next to me, her knee-length skinny skirt more than adequately showing off the length of her legs, helped somewhat by high strappy sandals.
Portia looks rich. She looks as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. And, although I am in my new grey flannel trousers, my new pink cashmere-mix sweater, with my glossy locks sitting sleekly on my shoulders, next to Portia I feel even more frumpy than I did this morning.
There is something about her appearance that looks effortless. If you look closely you will see that she is wearing make-up, and quite a lot of it at that, but unless you are standing nose to nose, she looks naturally beautiful, as if she has just fallen out of bed, brushed her hair, slicked on some lip gloss and run out the door.
And her whole look, the pencil-slim skirt, th
e elaborate brocade skin-tight top, trimmed with lace and thin velvet ribbon, the high-heeled sandals that cling to her feet with wisps of leather, screams Vogue. It screams super-expensive understatement.
She raises her glass to mine and smiles. ‘Cheers,’ she says, and then sips some champagne, sighing and sitting back, looking for all the world as if she should be in a film or, at the very least, a television advert.
‘Your flat’s amazing,’ I say. ‘I can’t believe how huge it is, how high these ceilings are.’
‘I know. The first time I came to see it, it was in the morning and light seemed to stream through every window. The minute I came into this room I just fell in love with the proportions. Do you want the guided tour?’
I nod, and she leads me through into the kitchen, the dining room, points out the terrace at the back, and shows me the bedroom. All of it is beautiful, and at the last door Portia hesitates and grins before turning the knob.
‘This,’ she says, ‘is the real me. It’s the room I never show people because it’s in such an appalling state, so here goes. Tah dah,’ and she opens the door. ‘My study.’
No wonder she manages to keep her flat immaculate. All the junk, all the papers, all the books, are in here. The walls are lined with bookshelves, and every available inch is crammed full of something. An enormous desk takes up one side of the room, and again piles of papers, letters, scripts, are threatening to topple over on either side of a state-of-the-art computer.
‘This is my real home,’ she says with a smile, gesturing around. ‘It’s the one room in which I feel really comfortable.’
Which of course doesn’t surprise me, because the rest of the flat is like a museum. In here there’s a navy blue sofa, the cushions squashed flat, and Portia flops down on it with a grin.
‘I do all my read-throughs on here,’ she says. ‘My favourite place in the world,’ and for a second I catch a glimpse of Portia before she felt she had to play a role, before she became the sophisticated adult she is today. Portia was always sophisticated, of that I’m sure, but at university it was far less well honed. You knew she came from a wealthy family, but you didn’t know.