Maybe Tarquin will come back from the loo and ask me to marry him.
I raise my eyes, and they fall with an idle curiosity on the Coutts checkbook, which Tarquin has left on the table. That’s the checkbook of the fifteenth richest unmarried man in the country. Wow. I wonder what it’s like inside? He probably writes enormous checks all the time, doesn’t he? He probably spends more money in a day than I spend in a year.
On impulse, I pull the checkbook toward me and open it. I don’t know quite what I’m looking for—really, I’m just hoping to find some excitingly huge amount. But the first stub is only for £30. Pathetic! I flip on a bit, and find £520. Payable to Arundel & Son, whoever they are. Then, a bit later on, there’s one for £7,515 to American Express. Well, that’s more like it. But I mean, really, it’s not the most exciting read in the world. This could be anybody’s checkbook. This could practically be mine.
I close it and push it back toward his place, and glance up. As I do so, my heart freezes. Tarquin is staring straight at me.
He’s standing by the bar, being directed to the other side of the restaurant by a waiter. But he isn’t looking at the waiter. He’s looking at me. As our eyes meet, my stomach lurches. Oh, damn.
Damn. What exactly did he see?
Quickly I pull my hand back from his checkbook and take a sip of champagne. Then I look up and pretend to spot him for the first time. I give a bright little smile, and after a pause he smiles back. Then he disappears off again and I sink back into my chair, trying to look relaxed.
OK, don’t panic, I instruct myself. Just behave naturally. He probably didn’t see you. And even if he did—it’s not the hugest crime in the world, is it, looking at his checkbook? If he asks me what I was doing, I’ll say I was … checking he’d filled in his stub correctly. Yes. That’s what I’ll say I was doing if he mentions it.
But he doesn’t. He comes back to the table, silently pockets his checkbook, and says politely, “Have you finished?”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I have, thanks.”
I’m trying to sound as natural as possible—but I’m aware my voice sounds guilty, and my cheeks are hot.
“Right,” he says. “Well, I’ve paid the bill … so shall we go?”
And that’s it. That’s the end of the date. With impeccable courtesy, Tarquin ushers me to the door of Pizza on the Park, hails a taxi, and pays the driver the fare back to Fulham. I don’t dare ask him if he’d like to come back or go for a drink somewhere else. There’s a coldness about my spine which stops me uttering the words. So we kiss each other on the cheek and he tells me he had a delightful evening, and I thank him again for a lovely time.
And I sit in the taxi all the way back to Fulham with a jumpy stomach, wondering what exactly he saw.
I say good-night to the taxi driver and reach for my keys. I’m thinking that I’ll go and run a hot bath and sit in it, and calmly try to work out exactly what happened back there. Did Tarquin really see me looking through his checkbook? Maybe he just saw me pushing it back toward his place in a helpful manner. Maybe he saw nothing at all.
But then why did he suddenly become all stiff and polite? He must have seen something; suspected something. And then he’ll have noticed the way I flushed and couldn’t meet his eye. Oh God, why do I always have to look so guilty? I wasn’t even doing anything. I was just curious.
Perhaps I should have quickly said something—made some joke about it. Turned it into a lighthearted, amusing incident. But what kind of joke can you make about leafing through someone’s private checkbook? Oh God, I’m so stupid. Why did I ever touch the bloody thing? I should have just sat, quietly sipping my drink.
But in my defense … he left it on the table, didn’t he? He can’t be that secretive about it. And I don’t know that he saw me looking through it, do I? Maybe I’m just paranoid.
As I put my key into the lock, I’m actually feeling quite positive. OK, so Tarquin wasn’t that friendly just now—but he might have been feeling ill or something. Or maybe he just didn’t want to rush me. What I’ll do is, tomorrow I’ll send a nice chatty note to him, saying thanks again, and suggesting we go and see some Wagner together. Excellent idea. And I’ll mug up a bit about the Preludes, so that if he asks me which one again, I’ll know exactly what to say. Yes! This is all going to be fine. I need never have worried.
I swing the door open, taking off my coat—and then my heart gives a flip. Suze is waiting for me in the hall. She’s sitting on the stairs, waiting for me—and there’s a reproachful expression on her face.
“Oh, Bex,” she says, and shakes her head. “I’ve just been speaking to Tarquin.”
“Oh right,” I say, trying to sound natural—but aware that my voice is a frightened squeak. I turn away, take my coat, and slowly unwind my scarf, playing for time. What exactly has he said to her?
“I don’t suppose there’s any point asking you why?” she says after a pause.
“Well,” I falter, feeling sick. God, I could do with a cigarette.
“I’m not blaming you, or anything. I just think you should have …” She shakes her head and sighs. “Couldn’t you have let him down more gently? He sounded quite upset. The poor thing was really keen on you, you know.”
This isn’t quite making sense. Let him down more gently?
“What exactly—” I lick my dry lips. “What exactly did he say?”
“Well, he was only really phoning to tell me you’d left your umbrella behind,” says Suze. “Apparently one of the waiters came rushing out with it. But of course I asked him how the date had gone …”
“And … and what did he say?”
“Well,” says Suze, and gives a little shrug. “He said you’d had a really nice time—but you’d pretty much made it clear you didn’t want to see him again.”
“Oh.”
I sink down onto the floor, feeling rather weak. So that’s it. Tarquin did see me leafing through his checkbook. I’ve ruined my chances with him completely.
But he didn’t tell Suze what I’d done. He protected me. Pretended it was my decision not to carry things on. He was a gentleman.
In fact—he was a gentleman all evening, wasn’t he? He was kind to me, and charming, and polite. And all I did, all throughout the date, was tell him lies.
Suddenly I want to cry.
“I just think it’s such a shame,” says Suze. “I mean, I know it’s up to you and everything—but he’s such a sweet guy. And he’s had a crush on you for ages! You two would go perfectly together.” She gives me a wheedling look. “Isn’t there any chance you might go out with him again?”
“I … I honestly don’t think so,” I say in a scratchy voice. “Suze … I’m a bit tired. I think I’ll go to bed.”
And without meeting her eye, I get up and slowly walk down the corridor to my room.
B A N K O F L O N D O N
LONDON HOUSE MILL STREET EC3R 4DW
Ms. Rebecca Boomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD
23 March 2000
Dear Ms. Boomwood:
Thank you very much for your application for a Bank of London Easifone Loan.
Unfortunately, “buying clothes and makeup” was not deemed a suitable purpose for such a substantial unsecured loan, and your application has been turned down by our credit team.
Thank you very much for considering Bank of London.
Yours sincerely,
Margaret Hopkins
Loans Adviser
• ENDWICH BANK •
FULHAM BRANCH
3 Fulham Road
London SW6 9JH
Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD
23 March 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood:
I am writing to confirm our meeting at 9:30 A.M. on Monday 26 March, here at our Fulham office. Please ask for me at reception.
I look forward t
o seeing you then.
Yours sincerely,
Derek Smeath
Manager
• ENDWICH — BECAUSE WE CARE •
Fifteen
I HAVE NEVER IN MY LIFE felt as terrible as I do when I wake up the next morning. Never.
The first thing I feel is pain. Exploding sparks of pain as I try to move my head; as I try to open my eyes; as I try to work out a few basics like: Who am I? What day is it? Where should I be right now?
For a while I lie quite still, panting with the exertion of just being alive. In fact, my face is growing scarlet and I’m almost starting to hyperventilate, so I force myself to slow down and breathe regularly. In … out, in … out. And then surely everything will come back to me and I will feel better. In … out, in … out.
OK … Rebecca. That’s right. I’m Rebecca Bloomwood, aren’t I? In … out, in … out.
What else? Dinner. I had dinner somewhere last night. In … out, in … out.
Pizza. I had pizza. And who was I with, again? In … out, in …
Tarquin.
Out.
Oh God. Tarquin.
Leafing through checkbook. Everything ruined. All my own fault.
A familiar wave of despair floods over me and I close my eyes, trying to calm my throbbing head. At the same time, I remember that last night, when I went back to my room, I found the half bottle of malt whisky which Scottish Prudential once gave me, still sitting on my dressing table. I opened it up—even though I don’t like whisky—and drank … well, certainly a few cupfuls. Which might possibly explain why I’m feeling so ill now.
Slowly I struggle to a sitting position and listen for sounds of Suze, but I can’t hear anything. The flat’s empty. It’s just me.
Me and my thoughts.
Which, to be honest, I can’t endure. My head’s pounding and I feel pale and shaky—but I’ve got to get moving; distract myself. I’ll go out, have a cup of coffee somewhere quiet and try to get myself together.
I manage to get out of bed, stagger to my chest of drawers, and stare at myself in the mirror. I don’t like what I see. My skin’s green, my mouth is dry, and my hair’s sticking to my skin in clumps. But worst of all is the expression in my eyes: a blank, miserable self-loathing. Last night I was given a chance—a fantastic opportunity on a silver platter. I threw it in the bin—and hurt a really sweet, decent chap, to boot. God, I’m a disaster. I don’t deserve to live.
I head to King’s Road, to lose myself in the anonymous bustle. The air’s crisp and fresh, and as I stride along it’s almost possible to forget about last night. Almost, but not quite.
I go into Aroma, order a large cappuccino, and try to drink it normally. As if everything’s fine and I’m just another girl out on a Sunday for some shopping. But I can’t do it. I can’t escape my thoughts. They’re churning round in my head, like a record that won’t stop, over and over and over.
If only I hadn’t picked up his checkbook. If only I hadn’t been so stupid. It was all going so well. He really liked me. We were holding hands. He was planning to ask me out again. If only I could go back; if only I could play the evening again …
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about what could have been. It’s too unbearable. If I’d played it right, I’d probably be sitting here drinking coffee with Tarquin, wouldn’t I? I’d probably be well on my way to becoming the fifteenth richest woman in the country.
Instead of which, I have unpaid bills stacked up in my dressing table drawer. I have a meeting with my bank manager on Monday morning. I have no idea what I’m going to do. No idea at all.
Miserably I take a sip of coffee and unwrap my little chocolate. I’m not in the mood for chocolate, but I stuff it into my mouth anyway.
The worst thing—the very worst thing of all—is that I was actually starting to quite like Tarquin. Maybe he isn’t God’s gift in the looks department, but he’s very kind, and quite funny, in his own way. And that brooch—it’s really quite sweet.
And the way he didn’t tell Suze what he’d seen me doing. And the way he believed me when I told him I liked dogs and Wagner and bloody violinists in Mozambique. The way he was so completely, utterly unsuspicious.
Now I really am going to start crying.
Roughly I brush at my eyes, drain my cup, and stand up. Out on the street I hesitate, then begin walking briskly again. Maybe the breeze will blow these unbearable thoughts out of my head.
But I stride and stride, and I still feel no better. My head’s aching and my eyes are red and I could really do with a drink or something. Just a little something, to make me feel a bit better. A drink, or a cigarette, or …
I look up, and I’m in front of Octagon. My favorite shop in the whole world. Three floors of clothes, accessories, furnishings, gifts, coffee shops, juice bars, and a florist which makes you want to buy enough bouquets to fill your house.
I’ve got my purse with me.
Just something small, to cheer me up. A T-shirt or something. Or even some bubble bath. I need to buy myself something. I won’t spend much. I’ll just go in, and …
I’m already pushing my way through the doors. Oh God, the relief. The warmth, the light. This is where I belong. This is my natural habitat.
Except that even as I’m heading toward the T-shirts, I’m not quite as happy as I should be. I look through the racks, trying to summon the excitement I usually feel at buying myself a little treat—but somehow today I feel a bit empty. Still, I choose a cropped top with a silver star in the middle and put it over my arm, telling myself I feel better already. Then I spot a rack of dressing gowns. I could do with a new dressing gown, as a matter of fact.
As I finger a lovely white waffle robe, I can hear a little voice at the back of my head, like a radio turned down low. Don’t do it. You’re in debt. Don’t do it. You’re in debt.
But quite frankly, what does it matter now? It’s too late to make any difference. I’m already in debt; I might as well be more in debt. Almost savagely, I pull the dressing gown down from the rack and put it over my arm. Then I reach for the matching waffle slippers. No point buying one without the other.
The checkout point is directly to my left, but I ignore it. I’m not done yet. I head for the escalators and go up to the home-furnishing floor. Time for a new duvet set. White, to match my new dressing gown. And a pair of bolster cushions.
Every time I add something to my pile, I feel a little whoosh of pleasure, like a firework going off. And for a moment, everything’s all right. But then, gradually, the light and sparkles disappear, and I’m left with cold dark blackness again. So I look feverishly around for something else. A huge scented candle. A bottle of Jo Malone shower gel. A bag of handmade potpourri. As I add each one, I feel a whoosh—and then blackness. But the whooshes are getting shorter and shorter each time. Why won’t the pleasure stay? Why don’t I feel happier?
“Can I help you?” says a voice, interrupting my thoughts. A young assistant, dressed in the Octagon outfit of white shirt and linen trousers, has come up and is looking at my pile of stuff on the floor. “Would you like me to hold some of these while you continue shopping?”
“Oh,” I say blankly, and look down at the stuff I’ve accumulated. It’s actually quite a lot by now. “No, don’t worry. I’ll just … I’ll just pay for this lot.”
Somehow, between us, we manage to lug all my shopping across the beechwood floor to the stylish granite checkout point in the middle, and the assistant begins to scan everything through. The bolster cushions have been reduced, which I hadn’t realized, and while she’s checking the exact price, a queue begins to form behind me.
“That’ll be £370.56,” she says eventually, and smiles at me. “How would you like to pay?”
“Erm … debit card,” I say, and reach for my purse. As she’s swiping it, I eye up my carrier bags and wonder how I’m going to get all this stuff home.
But immediately my thoughts bounce away. I don’t want to think about home. I
don’t want to think about Suze, or Tarquin, or last night. Or any of it.
“I’m sorry,” says the girl apologetically, “but there’s something wrong with your card. It won’t authorize the purchase.” She hands it back to me. “Do you have anything else?”
“Oh,” I say, slightly flustered. “Well … here’s my VISA card.”
How embarrassing. And anyway, what’s wrong with my card? It looks all right to me. I must call the bank about this.
The bank. Meeting tomorrow, with Derek Smeath. Oh God. Quick, think about something else. Look at the floor. Glance about the shop. There’s quite a big line of people now, and I can hear coughing and clearing of throats. Everyone’s waiting for me. As I meet the eye of the woman behind me, I smile awkwardly.
“No,” says the girl. “This one’s no good either.”
“What?” I whip round in shock. How can my VISA card be no good? It’s my VISA card, for God’s sake. Accepted all over the world. What’s going on? It doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t make any …
My words stop midstream, and a nasty chill feeling begins to creep over me. All those letters. Those letters I’ve been putting in my dressing table drawer. Surely they can’t have …
No. They can’t have done.
My heart starts to thump in panic. I know I haven’t been that great at paying my bills—but I need my VISA card. I need it. They can’t just cancel it, just like that.
“There are other people waiting,” says the girl, gesturing to the queue. “So if you aren’t able to pay …”
“Of course I’m able to pay,” I say stiffly. With trembling hands I scrabble in my purse and eventually produce my silver Octagon charge card. It was buried under all the others, so I can’t have used it for a while. “Here,” I say. “I’ll put it all on this.”