Just over an hour later I was back outside the Ritz wearing the new suede boots. I’d kept the netted skirt and had upgraded my sweater to the softest black cashmere. A stunning fitted single-breasted jacket with satin lapels, silk crepe lining, and cropped cuffs completed the look. Hattie emerged from a taxi, wearing plain black bootcut trousers and a thick green woolen three-quarter-length coat.
Beside me Hattie looked shrunken and I noticed the gray bags under her eyes, her whitish pallor.
“My treat,” I said, smiling and tucking her arm in mine, her hand freezing to the touch.
She gave me a disbelieving look and allowed herself to be pushed through the revolving doors of the Ritz into a lobby that shimmered gold, warm air enveloping us. A dazzling glass chandelier overhead threw light in intricate patterns across every surface.
My new boots made a satisfying clack as we walked across a polished marble floor, an enormous Christmas tree dominating the corner, beautifully decorated in red and gold ribbons and baubles, which filled the air with the scent of pine.
I approached a large mahogany desk. “We have a reservation to dine in your restaurant,” I said, tilting my chin. Say it with confidence, I thought, channeling my best Linda vibe.
The receptionist, a young man with impossibly flawless skin, smiled. “Of course, ma’am, if you would be so kind Jerome can show you the way. Please let me take your coats.”
He had either pressed a bell or done something magical as Jerome appeared, an actual pencil moustache like he was a cartoon sketch of a Ritz concierge. We handed over our coats and I noticed Hattie’s sweater, baggy on her frame. We followed dutifully behind Jerome, feet sinking into rich, patterned blankets as we passed statues in enclaves and soaring marble columns.
“This isn’t very us?” Hattie whispered, tugging self-consciously on her striped sweater as we entered the dining room.
“Roll with it,” I murmured back, sweeping through the room like a queen in my fancy new clothes.
It was the most stunning, high-ceilinged room, with intricate plasterwork and one wall made up of a hundred square mirrors, exaggerating the space that spilled out onto a spotless stone terrace, the view of Green Park beyond. We both sucked in our breath.
“I’ve always wanted to come here,” Hattie admitted as Jerome pulled out a plush pink padded chair for her to sit on, quick to make a flourish with a bright white, beautifully pressed napkin.
“I do recall,” I said, realizing that was where the idea had come from.
“Might I suggest a beverage before you order food?” Jerome handed us beautiful gold-embossed cream card menus and melted away as we perused them, the room filled with the gentle chatter of other diners.
“It’s £14 for an orange juice, Emma!” Hattie said, eyes rounding.
I smiled and batted a hand. “Honestly, it’s on me. Order whatever you like, I’m going to.”
A pianist we hadn’t even noticed began to play on a shiny grand piano in the corner of the room, the sound filling the space. His hands raced across the keys as the playful melody provided a welcome distraction from the madness in my head. I started dancing along in my chair, body swaying, other restaurant-goers glancing over. But literally who the fuck cares? I thought suddenly as I scraped my chair back and stood, moving to the music.
“Emma, oh my God, Emma, sit down.”
This was a dream. Me dressed in absurdly expensive clothes, in this insanely stunning place about to spend eye-watering amounts of money (beluga caviar for £700, anyone?), dancing to the best pianist ever with my most wonderful friend.
“No chopsticks for you,” I called out to him.
And I laughed and the waiter had taken a step in my direction and I turned to drag Hattie up to dance with me but when I reached my hand out I saw her, horrified expression, body curled into her chair—her face still gray despite the soft lighting in the wall brackets, her mouth pursed, sat on her hands. An inch of dark blonde hair at her roots. Hattie was always religious about keeping up her hair coloring. How had I missed all this the other day?
“Hattie,” I sat down abruptly and reached across for her. “Sorry. Just . . .” I coughed, tried to get a handle on myself.
“Shall we go? We don’t have to spend £42 on an omelette, Emma.”
“No, I want to stay. Sorry. I want to see you, to talk to you.”
Studying her face, I realized that she was in her own world of pain and I wanted to forget my own problems and fears and worries as I was thrown back to all the times she’d supported me. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
She bit her lip, “I don’t want to tell you. This is special, a treat. I don’t want to ruin it. And you’re being strange,” she added with a ghost of a smile.
“I’m sorry. I won’t be strange anymore. And you can’t ruin it—it is wonderful to be here, seeing you. We don’t do things like this enough,” I said, squeezing her hand, and realizing it was true. “Please tell me, Hatts.”
I could see the internal battle but I waited, swallowing down my natural impulse to dive in.
“I had a miscarriage,” she admitted, her voice almost drowned by the voices, tink of cutlery, the piano. “At seven weeks.”
I felt the sharp pain in my chest, knowing this wasn’t the first, that this was part of a struggle to get pregnant. “Oh Hattie. I’m sorry.”
“I know I should be grateful we can get pregnant but I just, I really thought . . .”
“Can I take your order?”
I drew back in my chair, dazedly looking up at the waiter who had interrupted us.
Taking control, I ordered quickly for us both, wanting to get back to the conversation, wanting to get rid of the perfectly starched waiter. “Let’s get some alcohol too,” I said aloud. “A bottle of white Pinot, please.” The waiter nodded and left.
Hattie stared. “It’s not even midday on a Monday.”
“Exactly. It’s almost the afternoon,” I said firmly.
I felt a wave of guilt ripple through me that I hadn’t discovered this sooner. I’d known something was wrong but had been too selfish to push it at the time. I hadn’t noticed the extent of how crumpled and weary she looked. How had I missed her haggard face, her hollowed-out cheeks, her dull eyes? I had been going through something huge and crazy but I felt terrible for being so self-centered. This was Hattie; Hattie was such a huge part of my life. I should have done better.
“I’m sorry, Hattie, and I’m sorry for not knowing what you were going through.”
“How could you?” she said in a small voice, clearly trying to get a handle on herself. I could count on one hand how often I’d seen Hattie cry.
The waiter returned with a rattling ice bucket and a bottle of wine wrapped in a tissue. We both watched him pour. The first sip was exquisite and I closed my eyes and really focused on the flavors. Hattie was scrutinizing me over the rim of her glass as I opened them again.
“OK. What’s going on? Have you sold a book for a million pounds? What’s all this about?” she said, waving her hand around the room.
“No, I just . . . It’s nice to indulge,” I said, not quite meeting her eye.
There was no way I was going to tell her. She was already drained from sharing her pain and there was no way I would heap more on her. And what could she do to help me? The hideousness of the last few days had eased a fraction. Sitting opposite her, focusing on her life, remembering she was someone I loved, felt good. I didn’t want to mar the moment.
And I’d missed Hattie; seeing her now reminded me how much. We’d always looked out for each other. I’d visited with emergency care packages, wine, chocolate, at the end of relationships, or work frustrations. She’d done the same. Once, after I’d told her my parents had taken away my very favorite childhood toy on the eve of starting school, as being too babyish, she’d tracked down a replica on American eBay and paid a fortune in shipping to have it sent over. I hated seeing her brought so low now.
“Today is about you,” I said firmly, taking another mouthful of wine. “How has Ed reacted?”
It was Hattie’s turn to look away; she pulled on the sleeves of her sweater. “Well, you know Ed, not one for sharing too much of what he’s feeling. But that’s from his childhood, you know, his dad . . .” She licked her lips, took another sip of wine. “He finds it hard; he hasn’t mentioned it since I told him but I mean, he’s quiet, you know?”
I tried to rearrange my face in time. “Have you tried to talk to him about it?”
Another strained silence as Hattie played with the fork in front of her. “He thinks I should get more tests. That it’s probably something wrong with me . . .”
“Well, that’s a ridiculous way to put it,” I said, affronted on her behalf.
“He thinks I should quit my job completely. Focus on getting pregnant.”
“And do you think that?”
Hattie looked up desperately. “I don’t think it makes a difference. In fact, I think I might go mad without something to do. The company have been great about me taking time out when I’ve needed it.”
“Well then.”
“Ed doesn’t agree,” she said, whisper quiet. “We fought about me quitting.”
“Well, he needs to listen to you: it’s your decision.”
“I hate making him angry,” she said, not meeting my eye. “If I do he shuts down completely, doesn’t speak to me for days.”
I couldn’t help my mouth gaping at that. “Doesn’t speak to you? Hattie, you live together—how is that even possible?”
Hattie looked away, her hands nervously plaiting her napkin. Worry niggled at me, Dan’s comments over the years about Ed solidifying in my mind: that he had a dark side, that he seemed overbearing. I’d often accused Dan of being paranoid, I thought, with a guilty flush.
“That’s not good, Hattie,” I said gently. I didn’t want to intrude on their relationship. But when did being silent and supportive cross over into being a bad friend?
“Well, he’s still talking to me for now,” her laugh sounded hollow. “But you know Ed.”
“Do I?” I said, meeting her eye and suddenly feeling horribly sober.
Dan had always said Ed was punching above his weight. Certainly he could be grumpy—that whole thing at Sunday lunch about Hattie getting under his feet had made Dan so cross; his face had really twisted with disgust. But that lunch hadn’t been the first time he’d rubbed Dan up the wrong way. Sometimes I’d dismissed it as Dan being an overprotective elder brother, seeing things that weren’t there.
Ed had always been so nice to me, charming, and Hattie said she loved him, always told me how hard Ed had had it, growing up with an aggressive, dominating father. How he struggled emotionally, that Dan didn’t understand because they’d had such supportive parents. That had rung true for me, quicker to accept this than Dan.
Ed’s reaction to her loss though seemed cruel. And the knowledge that he could ignore her, sometimes for days, was unsettling.
The waiter sidled over, silently refilling my glass, his face bland even if he did think two glasses before an omelette was an extravagance. If I said something would I ruin this time with Hattie?
We ate. We tried to talk about other things around the solid shape of Ed between us: Dan, work, Poppy and Miles. I told her they’d had a row. She frowned, “A bad one?”
“I’m not sure,” I mused, thinking back over the last few days. “I think so, maybe . . .”
“I’ll message Pops,” Hattie offered as I drank more wine. Hattie had always been close to Poppy: living with us in those early days when Dan had left had given them a special bond. Hattie had always been her greatest supporter, as proud as Dan or I when Poppy showed us drawings or school reports, coming to dance recitals and school plays.
I finished the bottle. Hattie had barely touched her first glass, eyeing me as I continued to make her laugh, gesturing wildly as I moved on to work, wanting to cheer her up, take her away from her sadness. Telling her about the time Linda had learned how to leave Amazon reviews and one-starred all our rival clients’ books, but under her own name so the whole industry found out.
“She’s awful! Ems, you have to leave there.”
“I know,” I admitted, blinking as Hattie swam in front of me. “There was a meeting booked. I was going to ask for more freedom over my list, for Jas to be made an agent in her own right, for lots of things. But now . . . I know I need to go.”
The pianist was back, playing something jaunty and playful. The wine was going to my head as I looked across at my friend. “Maybe you need to go too, Hatts?”
The words hung in the air between us for a beat before Hattie removed the napkin from her lap.
“I need to get back, Ems, I’ve got a work call.” She signaled to the waiter for the bill.
“No, don’t go,” I protested, loudly enough for the man at the table next door to frown at me. “Ssssshhh,” I said quickly, holding a wobbly finger up to my face.
“Ems,” Hattie hissed, looking at me aghast. “People are looking.”
I woozily looked around me, the setting spinning, faces indistinct.
“Let’s get the bill and get out of here,” Hattie said.
“I’m gonna pay for this,” I said quickly, twisting to rummage in my handbag for my wallet. The movement made me blink and clutch the back of my chair.
“Are you OK?” Hattie asked.
Locating my bank card, I turned back to her. “I’m fine,” I insisted, slapping the card onto the table and missing so it bounced onto the floor. “Oops,” I giggled.
Everything felt fuzzy, but the alcohol gave me renewed confidence to get back on track, find out more. “I don’t want to talk about me, I want to talk more about you. About what’s going on with you. You and Ed,” I said, keeping my voice steady.
It was the wrong thing to say, Hattie pushing out her chair as she spoke, “I’ll get your card. And I really do need to get going,” she said, sliding my bank card back to me. “Thanks so much though, for this,” she said, gesturing at our empty plates. “That omelette was amazing.”
My stomach lurched as I stood, moved around the table for a hug, “Hattie you know we’re here for you, OK. You’re family,” I finished, arms wide.
“You’re drunk,” she commented.
“You’re still family,” I wagged my finger. “I’m just shaying we love you and you always have somewhere to stay if you need.”
Hattie tucked her hair behind her ears. Was it the wine or was she not meeting my eyes?
The waiter sidled over with our bill on the small silver tray.
“This was a real treat, Ems,” Hattie said, quickly giving me a kiss. “I’m going to get off . . . that call, you know . . .”
“But . . .”
By the time I’d paid she’d gone, no sign of her as I moved through the corridors and foyer, the patterned blankets blurring, the columns multiplying. My stomach churned uneasily as I pushed through the revolving doors, the shock of the wintry day hitting me immediately.
I vomited on the pavement outside. Salmon pieces, black caviar, frothy wine-based bile. A passerby watched me curiously as I leaned over, hands on my knees, a light sheen of sweat on my face. All that waste. All pointless. I straightened, wiping my mouth and stumbling away into the rabbit warren of Soho.
It was hours later and miles away when I realized I’d left my new £1,160 coat behind.