After a day of being kitted out and zipped in and out of clothes and shoes and draped with necklaces and bracelets till she felt she’d almost rather spend the rest of her life stitched into one big snuggly Babygro, Molly would have preferred to visit any other shop than a clothes store, but Shirley had texted and told her to get on a bus and whizz into town to meet her as soon as she’d finished being a fashion victim for the day. It felt like an order, but quite a nice one. What could be bad about spending time with her gran? She was like an extra mum but with an element of safe distance. Molly could tell her things knowing they wouldn’t be dragged up and used in evidence against her at some future time, which she and her friends found usually happened with mothers.
Molly found Shirley waiting for her at the entrance to the shopping mall, where she was watching a quintet of exuberant violinists busking in the middle of the pedestrianized street and getting in the way of the shoppers.
‘Are you all right, Gran? And oh … isn’t this the place where you got …’ Molly dropped her voice to a whisper, ‘… arrested and that? Is this the first time you’ve been back?’
So that was what it was about, she thought. Shirley had lost confidence and needed her support. She felt both privileged (after all, Shirley could have asked Bella) and a bit sad. She didn’t want her gran to be feeling shaky about something as simple as mall-visiting. That would be mad. No one was going to be pointing at her and hissing ‘Shoplifter’.
‘It is where I had that mix-up, yes. But don’t worry, Moll darling, I haven’t asked you along because I can’t trust myself not to nick several fancy hats and a cashmere coat. I just thought you might need a bit of cheering up, so I decided I’d take you out and treat you to something lovely. So … let’s see what you’ve learned from these Fashion Victims people,’ Shirley told her as they went through the doors and felt the cool, welcome draught of air-conditioning. ‘And I’d like the company of my beautiful granddaughter for a while. Are you all right, darling? How is it going with the boyfriend situation?’
‘Ex-boyfriend,’ Molly reminded her, sidestepping a group of shrieky pre-teen girls sprinting suspiciously fast out of Claire’s Accessories. ‘Carly says Giles hasn’t been in school. I think he’s keeping out of Aimee’s way. He’s sent me about twenty texts today. All too much too late. And texts. He couldn’t like, just call? Why can’t boys talk?’ On cue, Molly’s phone beeped again. She glanced at the caller ID and switched the phone right off.
‘You could reply to him. Let him lead up to the talking part,’ Shirley suggested. ‘If you don’t encourage him to talk to you, you’ll never get past this pointless stalemate.’
‘Yeah, but Gran, he can’t undo what he did. So what’s he going to say? That it’s twins? That Aimee gave him a nasty disease as well? Last week, when I was thinking it was me that had done something wrong, I couldn’t get a word out of him. Couldn’t he even begin to imagine how that felt, after how we’ve been to each other for the past five months? I thought he’d decided to dump me just because I’m a bit picky as to where I have sex with him. Obviously he’s not so picky, as it turns out. Not even about who he has it with. And it had to be Carly who told me about the stupid baby, not him. Sorry. You don’t need to hear all this really, do you?’ It would probably be an odd conversation to have with anyone who wasn’t Shirley. Her mother would be too sympathetic and soppy, trying to hug her and reassure her. She didn’t want that. Right now she wanted to rant. Shirley, thank goodness, was looking completely unfazed.
Molly felt slightly sick now she’d mentioned the child out loud. This made it a human. A person. A real live small child that didn’t just lie in a frilly cot, waving its limbs randomly and looking cute, but a real growing little girl or boy that in no time would be off to school, have play dates, birthday parties with mad cartoon cakes and believe in Father Christmas. She wished now she’d said ‘pregnancy’. It seemed less real. Certainly less permanent. What was Aimee thinking of? Did she really want a baby? And if so, did she really want to share it with Giles? He didn’t even like her. She probably didn’t like him much, either. He was just another tick on the to-do list.
‘I don’t mind what I hear, darling. I have no shock gene at all, as your poor mother remembers all too well from her own teen years. But I do want you to be happy again. I hate to see you so miserable over a boy. And you won’t be happy till you at least talk to him, see what can be salvaged, if anything. And even if nothing can be, at least you won’t be in this miserable limbo any more.’
‘You know, I can see he’d want to do all that with Aimee,’ Molly went on. ‘I mean, like, well everybody else has, and she probably does it … like … er, really well?’ She could feel her face going pink and hot. ‘But why would she want to keep his baby? If she really wanted one, why not take the morning-after pill this time and then pick out someone who actually quite likes her and get pregnant with him?’
‘She sounds a poor little mixed-up thing to me,’ Shirley told her. ‘I’m inclined to feel a bit sorry for her, to be honest.’
‘I used to be, too,’ Molly admitted. ‘Till it was my boyfriend she sha— stole.’
Shirley stepped on to the escalator and Molly followed. On the first floor, Shirley led her towards a branch of Zara and stopped in front of the shop’s window display. ‘I like this place … there’s always something good and a bit quirky in here. Let’s go in and have a quick look.’
Molly indicated a mannequin sporting a floral micro smock-style dress, cinched in with a wide, obi-style belt in black leather.
‘Carly likes that belt.’ Molly pointed to it. ‘But … well, she’s not nine inches wide like the model. I think it would look all wrong on her. And that dress, she likes that too, but it would bunch up over her bum and make her look fatter than she is. Not that she is, not really.’
‘You did pay attention, didn’t you, darling? That Daisy knows her stuff. And I don’t care what your mother says – learning how to make the best of yourself is useful. However low your mood, wearing something that delights you can lift you just that bit from the depths.’
‘You always look cool but you never had lessons, did you?’
‘No – but when I was younger we didn’t have the choices that you have. And clothes had to last, so you learned to choose carefully. Now – whatever Daisy’s taught you about what suits you, there’s another game with clothes … dressing to have the impact you want on the people you’re aiming at. Let me show you …’
The last shoes, the last bracelet had been packed away for the night in the wardrobe truck, and most of the crew had already left. Only the brightly coloured washing lines remained, strung across the garden like leftover party decorations. At just after six o’clock it was still warm enough to sit outside, and Daisy, Saul, Fliss, Jules and Bella were in the garden having a well-deserved glass of wine and some olives and nuts kindly left for them by the caterers. Dominic had rushed off to a handbag launch party, leaving Daisy looking a bit crestfallen at not having been invited along. She’d been moping for much of the afternoon, ratty with Fliss and abrupt with the victims. Twice Saul had had to stop the filming to tell her she had a face like a slapped arse and would she please smile occasionally for the camera.
‘I can’t,’ she’d whined, flicking her blue-black hair about. ‘I’m pissed off. I want Dom to take me with him tonight and he says no.’
‘Think of your pay cheque,’ Saul snapped. ‘That should make you smile.’
Molly had vanished somewhere into the teenage unknown and Dina had gone home the minute they’d finished filming, saying something about needing to feed her cat but looking far more glittery and excited than the prospect of opening a sachet of Whiskas merited. Bella knew it was something to do with James, and was glad. Someone had to have a go at the day’s happy rations, and anything that distracted James from trying to move Bella into a beige bungalow had to be welcomed.
Bella was aware of Jules’s eyes flicking in flagrant curiosity between her and Saul, looking for signs of, presumably, love’s crackling flame. She wasn’t going to find any. Saul was being friendly enough, but even allowing for the pact on being cool and professional, he was being far more remote than she could have ever wanted. In spite of her misgivings about him, she didn’t want ‘remote’ at all, deep down. She wanted uncomplicated, honest passion. And if the unalloyed euphoria of the night before was now damaged, she still longed for him to grab her hand and race out of this house with her, drive her in the little Merc to Soho, then take her up to his roof garden where they could lean on the railings side by side, bodies tantalizingly touching, watching London life drift past below them, and he could tell her about … oh yes … being married to Daisy. Pop went the wild-fantasy bubble. Bella, so uncomfortably close to Daisy on the bench that every now and then a foot or a thigh would come into accidental contact, felt sickeningly conscious that she was sitting beside the wife (current or otherwise, oh surely not current – by how vast a margin would that make him the world’s biggest cheating bastard?) of the man she’d slept with – and had felt herself falling in love with – the night before.
Saul didn’t wear a wedding ring, but with Daisy it was hard to tell. She habitually had several rings on two or three fingers of each hand, all flamboyant and chosen to tone with whatever she was wearing. Bella tried not to stare too blatantly to see if a plain gold band nestled among the tourmaline and opals on her left hand, but she caught herself, on the rare moments that Daisy’s expressive gold-nailed hands were still, eyeing her left ring finger, just in case.
‘We need to have a party when all this is finished.’ Daisy’s mood lifted as she gulped down wine rather quickly, ‘Can we do that here, Bella? Just the victims and the crew and so on? The catering people can rustle up a bit of nosh – maybe a barbecue. We’re right in the absolute suburbs, aren’t we, here? Isn’t a barbecue what people have in places like this? Such fun!’
Bella, who wasn’t at all in party mood and was trying to ignore Daisy’s customary little stings, nevertheless didn’t want to be a downer on the others. ‘If you like,’ she agreed – with Mandy the cook in charge, plus all the kit from the truck, it would hardly be a hassle. ‘I’ve got some outdoor lights in the cellar. Perhaps Nick could rig them up in the trees.’
‘Settled, then.’ Daisy nibbled the edges of an olive. ‘You were all wonderful today, by the way. Sorry I’ve been a bit vile. I’ve loved this gig – you’ve all been stars.’
‘You mean we’ve been good girls and done what you’ve told us, don’t you!’ Jules said.
Daisy, beaming her scary Transylvanian smile, was being unusually generous with her praise. ‘Jules, admit it, I know what I’m doing – those straight-leg linen trousers were perfect on you, weren’t they?’
Jules laughed. ‘They were, and thanks for that. I’d never even have looked at them on a shop hanger. I can’t hundred per cent promise I won’t still sometimes wear jeans, but I’ll make sure it’s when nobody’s looking. I wouldn’t want to inflict my vast behind on the outside world for fear of an outbreak of mass fainting.’
‘Well, in the privacy of your own home, I suppose that’s just about acceptable,’ Daisy conceded. ‘I mean, I’m sure we all – though not me, obviously, because I know you can’t go wrong with essential cashmere lounging items – have secret slobbing-about outfits that we couldn’t be seen in, not even to open the front door to the postman. This one here,’ she waved her glass in the direction of Fliss and wine slopped over the side on to the table, ‘she’s got some Paddington Bear winceyette PJs, haven’t you darling?’ She continued in a loud pretend-whisper, ‘She wears them when she’s watching reruns of ER or if she’s feeling a bit peaky.’
‘Mum, please!’ Fliss mumbled, embarrassed to be picked on. ‘You’re pissed!’ It was true that Daisy had downed her first glass in record speed. She was now close to finishing the next one.
Daisy cut in, loud and emphatic, banging her glass down dangerously on the table. ‘Ah – now that’s what I meant to say earlier after the burglar-alarm thingummy happened!’ she slurred. ‘Remember when we’re at work, Fliss darling, it’s an absolute rule: you call me Daisy, not Mum. Otherwise looks very neposh, er … nepo-thing.’
‘Nepotism,’ Bella supplied for her, wishing they’d all just go home so she could lie on her bed and drift into sleep.
Bella saw Saul flash a look at Daisy. ‘Ah, now I get it …’ he murmured to no-one in particular, then he leaned forward and quietly asked, ‘Bella, could we just go inside and talk?’
‘When they’ve all gone,’ Bella murmured back.
‘I’m not pissed!’ Daisy snapped suddenly. ‘I just haven’t eaten much today and this hugely acceptable vino is going straight to my head.’
‘Sweetie, you don’t eat much any day,’ Saul sniped back. ‘The moment you allow a carbohydrate past your lips, it’ll be breaking news on CNN.’
Jules winked at Bella. ‘Been a long day,’ she commented briskly, quickly finishing her drink. ‘And it’s possibly getting to the tears-before-bedtime stage.’ She nodded almost imperceptibly in Daisy’s direction. ‘I think I’ll go home and see if any of the other inmates of my asylum have thought about supper.’ Jules stood up, ready to leave. ‘Come with me a sec, Bella, I need to ask you about Molly’s exams.’
Bella took the hint and followed her, but as she went, she heard Saul saying, ‘Fliss, can you take Daisy home? I think it’s time …’
‘Sorry Saul, I didn’t bring my car. I’m meeting someone in Richmond.’
‘OK … down to me then, I suppose. Come on Daisy, I’d better drive you home before you make a complete idiot of yourself.’
Bella glanced back at him. He looked weary, hauling a rather wobbly Daisy off the bench. So much for the chance to explain. Was he really being kind to his ex-wife, or just copping out?
‘What’s going on?’ Jules stage-whispered to Bella as soon as they got to the hallway. ‘Did you and Saul have a sudden spectacular falling-out? I mean call me old-fashioned, but usually between secretly loved-up couples there’s at least a bit of sly eye contact …’
‘It’s unexpectedly complicated. Possibly, probably, dead in the water,’ Bella told her, feeling glum. She’d only had half a glass of wine, and decided that was enough for the night. Any more and the miseries would set in even further. Saul couldn’t have failed to twig that she knew now who the mother of his stepdaughter was.
‘Oh darling, I’m sorry! You really don’t have much man luck, do you?’
‘No!’ Bella gave a shaky laugh. ‘But there you go: my own fault. I just rushed straight in there, didn’t I? Again! I must be one of those stupid people who really does keep on making the same old mistakes.’
And as she watched Jules pacing away across the gravel to the gate, there were Saul and Daisy behind her, about to leave. Daisy was lurching slightly sideways, tottering on her sky-high heels.
‘Till tomorrow, then!’ Daisy put her skinny arms round Bella and hugged her. ‘You are quite a nice woman you know, Bells.’ She smelled faintly of hyacinths. Through the tumbling flat dark curtain of Daisy’s hair Bella glanced at Saul, who was looking a bit frantic – as well he might, she thought. ‘I’m amazed you haven’t got some man who totally adores you.’
‘Me too, Daisy. Me too,’ Bella told her, feeling nastily caustic.
‘But you have,’ Saul murmured to her.
‘One of my own, I meant,’ Bella snapped back. Please just go, she willed them. Never mind drifting to sleep, she really just wanted to lie down and weep for a while.
‘Daisy, come on.’ Saul was impatient now.
‘I’m being taken home! Come on, husband!’ Daisy demanded, abruptly letting go of Bella and snuggling up to Saul. ‘Help me get across that lethal gravel.’ She turned back to Bella. ‘Terrible stuff, gravel, you know. You could break an ankle on it in heels, easy peasy. And it is vilely provincial.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Bella agreed, all bright and brittle. ‘But I recommend it highly for pre-warning you when unwanted visitors are approaching. You get an extra few minutes before some scumbag breaks your locks and nicks the telly. It was James’s idea, way back. He was in his security-mad phase.’
‘I really must talk to you, Bella,’ Saul said. He moved towards her as if to kiss her, but this coincided with her stepping back inside the doorway. Damn, the moment missed. Now she’d looked openly hostile and she hadn’t meant to at all.
‘OK,’ he said, his face clouding. ‘Look, I’m really sorry that there’s a bit of confusion. But I can explain … we really need to …’
‘… go home! We need to go home!’ Daisy interrupted before he could finish. She clutched Saul’s hand and tottered across the gravel, pulling him with her. Saul looked back at Bella, briefly and with what could have been an apologetic appeal for clemency. Whether for being economical with the truth or for Daisy being drunk (which was hardly his fault), Bella couldn’t tell. As she watched Daisy gigglingly pick her way across to his car, she thought about what it was they said in theatres for good luck. Bella trawled her brain to remember; oh yes, that was it – break a leg. While she would never go quite that far with malice towards Daisy, just now it was hard not to wish on her a lightly turned ankle.
Bella lay on the purple sofa and tried some yoga relaxation techniques with a bit of restorative deep breathing. She was now alone in the house and instead of finding the solitude peaceful and calming as she’d hoped, she felt restless and agitated and more than a little cross with herself for having leapt into yet another man mistake. Taking clothes on and off all day (as opposed to flinging them off in a rush of passion the night before) was surprisingly tiring, and her arms ached lightly from hauling things over her head. Her thigh muscles ached too, but that, she realized with a flash of delicious recall, was nothing to do with the day. That was from making love with Saul, and heavens, it had been so fantastic. It seemed close to tragic that it would possibly never happen again. Oh well, she tried telling herself rather bitterly, some you lose. The phrase sounded so hard and cynical.
She closed her eyes and tried to put Saul out of her head, thinking of something else: where was Molly? She’d rushed off as soon as Saul said that was it for the day, and she hadn’t so much as sent a text to say where she was. Bella thought of her own teenage years, of being accused by her mother, as every adolescent had surely been since Moses was a boy, of ‘treating this place like a hotel’. It had seemed a peculiar expression, as she and her mother weren’t at all familiar with the kind of grand hotels that weren’t run on far tighter rules and regulations than the average family home.
Holidays had been mostly in rented seaside cottages, but on the occasions she and Shirley had stayed in small hotels – for a family funeral, weddings, big anniversary parties – the proprietors had been very strict about mealtimes, about late-night comings and goings and general behaviour. It was now way past seven and still no Molly. If this were a hotel, and if she’d cooked, she could almost justifiably refuse if Molly came strolling in and attempted a late booking for dinner. Still, so long as whatever the girl was doing cheered her up and helped her get over the Giles thing, Bella could only wish her luck with it.
In spite of (or possibly because of) spending the day chatting about the superficialities of who looked good in what and churning out sound-bite opinions to order, Bella had a sudden urge to distract herself by getting some work done. Gradually, as she lay idly on the sofa thinking about – of all things – accessories, a magazine piece was becoming almost fully formed in her head. It had to be got down in writing immediately – at least in note form – or it would vanish, so she brought the Mac downstairs from her office, put it on the kitchen table and started on the piece while what she wanted to say was fresh in her mind.
‘I really don’t get … Statement Handbags’ she began typing, determined to get Saul out of her brain, at least for an hour or so. Daisy and Dominic had accessorized every outfit they’d all worn over the past few days with items they kept referring to as ‘important pieces’. How, she wrote, can a handbag ever be described as ‘important’? The contents, for sure – money, credit cards, driving licence, diary, phone, photos of friends and family – but the bag itself? Many of the bags Daisy mentioned, in a tone close to that of a fervent worshipper, were priced at well over a thousand pounds. And they were never of a practical size – that was another thing. Either they were large enough to transport a well-grown three-year-old (and whatever did you put in a bag that size to pad it out and stop it looking as pathetically empty as a just-milked udder? And could you even reach to the bottom corner when you were scavenging for loose change to make up the amount for a parking meter?), or they were teeny, dolly-sized evening bags which weren’t long enough to hold an essential Tampax, and which bulged and wouldn’t fasten if you dared add a tissue and a lipstick.
Who, exactly, at the average party/office/restaurant, she continued, would recognize the ‘importance’ of this trophy accessory that cost as much as a sofa? And how mortifying was it to those who were in this elite circle to have to downgrade to a chain-store shame item in times of credit stress? Who would want to be the sort of person who needed to impress a tiny teeny band of total strangers who would know the retail price of the sack-thing you were carrying your wallet and Oyster card around in? It was a weird exclusive little club she couldn’t ever imagine wanting to join and, fired up by pent-up fury about the mess that she’d laughingly call her love life, she speedily bashed out seven hundred satisfying words that lashed the bones out of these perfectly innocent and possibly beautifully crafted fashion items.
There, she thought, as she ended with the virtues of the unpretentious canvas tote, that felt better. Much.
She went back to the beginning of the piece, tidied up the prose and emailed it to Charlotte at the Sunday Review before she had time to change her mind about it, then made herself a cup of tea. While she was texting Molly to ask when she’d be back, her phone rang.
‘It’s me, darling. Charlotte. Lovely piece you’ve just sent me, very pacy and furious. You sound as cross as a trodden-on snake. I take it the makeover thing is pissing you off, big-time?’
‘Hi Charlotte, oh it’s not so bad … just tiring. But it’s nearly finished. How’s the Review?’
‘Oh fine. Listen, we’re looking for someone to cover skincare. I was wondering if you might be interested?’
‘Well yes I would, absolutely!’ Oh joy, Bella thought, crossing her fingers, at least one thing might turn out all right today.
‘The only thing is,’ Charlotte sounded a bit hesitant, ‘it’s all very high end. You’ll need to go to a lot of product launches and so on. We really need to feel that when you’re out at events, you’d be representing the image of the … well you know … sort of a bit cutting edge, kind of thing.’
‘Er, image? The readers don’t need to see me, Charlotte, surely? Or do they?’
‘Well there’ll be your byline shot, but really it’s not just about that … it’s more about the PR people and so on. I know they need us onside more than we need them, but it’s a glamour business, obviously. We’d need you not to be … oh I don’t know how to put this without sounding vile. If I just say, tea dresses and the word never, will you be offended, darling?’
Bella looked down at her old jeans and softened linen comfort shirt. Image. Right. So she might not fit the gig on frock grounds. She’d see about that. She had an idea.
‘I promise I’ll never so much as look at ditsy florals ever again, Charlotte. After this week, I am now style incarnate. But look – we’re wrapping up the Fashion Victims thing tomorrow and having a gathering here at my house. Why don’t you come along? See what we’ve been doing? And you can meet Daisy and Dominic …’ That should do it, she thought, recalling Charlotte’s squeal of delight in Quo Vadis when she’d mentioned their names.
‘Oh, yes! I’d be delighted to! It’ll be lovely to see you!’
Only if I’m not wearing a flowery matron-frock and cropped cute ballet wrap, Bella thought ruefully as she hung up and returned to her computer to close it down. Tea dress, she thought, I’ll bloody show Charlotte.
There were several new emails in her inbox and she began opening them, quickly consigning to the junk the usual ones offering to enlarge bits of body that she didn’t possess, and deleting others that promised online shopping bargains from rather safe catalogues that she was normally quite fond of but now felt more picky about. She was, she was amused to find, all clothed out for the moment. It was quite a liberating feeling. Now if she could only manage to feel the same about Saul, love and relationships, life could be just hunky-dory.
A new message flashed up as she was about to shut down the Mac. Saul. Stupidly and infuriatingly she went instantly trembly and tense. What on earth would he say to her in an email? She hoped, prayed, that he had more class than to reveal his married status via something as impersonal as the Internet. That would put him even below the level of Rick, who, she now thought, might well have almost deliberately – even at a subliminal level – let his wife do it for him. However else would she have known he was going to be at that New York hotel, unless he’d somehow told her? If he really had used Carole as a means of dumping a mistress, it showed quite a resourceful – if cowardly – streak in him.
Nervous at what she would read, Bella clicked the email open. It was short, only a couple of lines. She couldn’t decide if this was a disappointment or not. Much as she wanted detail and information, reams of rambling explanation in an email would mean that talking face to face about this was something Saul intended to avoid.
‘We need to talk – in person, not by phone. Tomorrow, please, on our own. Everything is a stupid tangle of misunderstanding and I’m so sorry. I do love you, Bella, please don’t doubt it.’
Not to doubt it was her instinct, she was surprised to find. She was also surprised at how touched she felt by the straightforward, uncomplicated message. It had simple sincerity in it. She pictured Saul at home in Soho, possibly in the big scarlet office surrounded by all those photos of half-built structures. All that work in progress. She saw him at the big table, tapping out the message to her in the fading evening light, trying to find the right words, maybe writing too many, discarding them till he’d whittled it down to those few bare-bones sentences. Below in the street would be other rickshaw cyclists, ferrying other romantically entwined couples; there would be so many people in the restaurants and bars, holding hands and trusting each other’s love. Well lucky them, she thought sadly, may it all work out the way they dreamed.
If Molly wanted someone to blame for ending up in Giles’s bed that night, she’d have had to pick Shirley, who had simply taken her by taxi straight from the town centre to his house, leaned across to open Molly’s door and more or less hurled her out on to the pavement.
‘All right Molly, I looked up Giles’s address in the phone book. You agreed you’d talk to him but you have to do it now. It’s the perfect moment for you. Can’t hang about for you though, I’m off to meet Dennis. Bye, darling, and good luck!’ she called, throwing Molly’s bag out after her, slamming the door shut and telling the driver to pull away immediately so Molly couldn’t change her mind.
The cab sped away, did a swift U-turn and Shirley waved goodbye. Molly waved back, ruefully realizing that the entire shopping trip was a con. Here she was in the new black skinny jeans Shirley had bought her (exactly the shape Daisy had told her to go for), and a coral-coloured long top (colour from the spring palette), too-hot high black strappy shoes and with a speedy but effective make-up makeover from a girl on the Bobbi Brown cosmetic counter (‘Just for fun, darling,’ Shirley had persuaded her, ‘let’s see what the professionals can do,’) who had gone to a lot of trouble with three shades of eyeshadow and too much mascara. As a finishing touch she’d mussed up Molly’s hair and clipped it up loosely with a butterfly slide.
‘Perfect,’ Shirley had decreed, inspecting the finished version of Molly. ‘You look a bit less pink and scrubbed, more along the lines of Sandy from Grease when she’s in the leather outfit. Though nowhere near as obvious, of course.’
‘Do you mean I look a bit slutty?’ Molly frowned at her reflection. ‘I’ll try it out on my next conquest, if I ever get one. I suppose boys like this sort of thing.’ She thought of Aimee and her tops cut so low that most of her bra showed. Was that all it took?
‘No, you don’t look at all slutty. Just a little sexier than usual but also in charge. It suits you. It is,’ Shirley added rather mysteriously, ‘perfect for the purpose.’
What she had meant, Molly now realized, was that it suited this purpose. The one she’d had in mind all the time. Talk about devious. Her own gran had completely set her up. Could you trust anybody? Slowly, she went towards Giles’s garden gate. The space where Giles’s mother kept her car was empty; it would be just the two of them. It would be a long walk home, so she might as well get this discussion with him over with. If he was in.
She rang the doorbell, feeling quaky and yet strangely in control, as Shirley had assured her she would. It really was something to do with this not-quite-her new look. It was as if she’d put on a costume to play a particular role. A sexy, confident one – not hiding her body under baggy hoodies. None of the cute-and-cosy hiding of hands up her sleeves. She waited a while, getting no answer and hearing no sign of life from inside. This was mad – she should have texted or phoned first. Perhaps Giles was on a trip to Mothercare picking out prams with Aimee. But just as she turned away, the door opened and there, rubbing his wet hair with a towel, was Giles.
‘Molly! Er, wow! I was so not expecting you – sorry, was in the shower. Got dressed dead quick when I heard the bell. You’re looking very … er … different, very … er, come in.’ He looked embarrassed suddenly and she realized the word he’d been thinking was ‘sexy’. Good. Serve him right – now he’d see what he was missing. She stalked in past him, enjoying the unusual sensation of being those few powerful inches taller on the mad shoes. Ah yes … perhaps her gran had a point.
‘Yeah. Well I just felt like a change.’ She shrugged. Although she knew she looked stunning, she actually felt slightly uncomfortable. Her mouth felt all sticky with hyper-shiny lip gloss. Her hair was escaping its clip and the jeans might possibly be just that bit too tight.
‘Is it what they made you wear on that programme?’ he asked, looking her up and down. Although she felt very contrived, she could tell he liked what he was seeing. She could see how the what-you-wear thing could collect results.
‘No. It’s my choice. I like it.’ She shut up then. He was the one who was supposed to be doing the talking. It crossed her mind, suddenly, that possibly he wasn’t alone in the house. Suppose he’d got Aimee with him? Perhaps (eeuw!) they’d been having soaped-up porno shower action? She started to back away towards the door, appalled at her imaginings, her confidence shrinking.
‘Maybe this was a mistake …’ she said.
‘No don’t go! Come in, please – I really wanted to see you.’ He looked like a pleading puppy, she thought, so sad and desperate. She relented and followed him into the kitchen. Music was coming from upstairs but she sensed the house was otherwise empty.
‘Drink?’ he offered, opening the fridge.
‘No thanks. Oh, well yeah, maybe some water.’
He poured them both some chilled water from the fridge tap, and the coldness of it almost froze Molly’s fingers to the glass.
‘She’s not pregnant,’ Giles said. ‘Aimee, I mean.’
‘Yes I know you mean Aimee,’ Molly snapped. ‘Unless she’s just one on a list.’ This was such a mistake. She and Giles were almost circling each other in the kitchen, nervous and unsure what to say.
‘She made it up, just to get at you. She’s jealous. Mad, bonkers and jealous,’ he told her.
‘Why didn’t you say, then?’ Molly asked. ‘Why did you go all silent on me and not want to see me? If there was nothing in what she’d said, you could have just laughed it off and told her to get lost, and we could all have moved on.’
‘Can’t we get past this now? I’m sorry I was such a flake. I got scared.’
Molly could almost feel her brain cells stretching and flexing in an effort to make sense of this. Why would he be scared if there was nothing to be scared about? Because there was, that’s why.
‘Right. But … although she’s not pregnant, you had sex with her, didn’t you?’ Well obviously. The brain cells relaxed, job done. ‘That’s why you were scared. You thought she might really be pregnant.’ She felt detached now, having sorted the truth. She could almost feel sorry for Giles; he looked close to tearful, so penitent.
‘Why?’ she asked him. ‘Was it because we hadn’t? I mean, you know I would have …’
‘It wasn’t about you.’ He wouldn’t look at her. ‘It was about me. I wanted it to be so right for us, just like you did. But … well …’ He laughed, nervously. ‘You aren’t the only one who hadn’t done it before, OK?’ He laughed again. ‘You don’t know how much of a big-deal admission that is for a bloke, Molly! I expect you’ll want to go home now.’
‘So why Aimee?’ She was still puzzled; was he saying he had sex with Aimee so Molly would somehow get the benefit? How so?
‘She’s done it all. With everyone.’ He shrugged. ‘It was like … I don’t know, going to a class or something. Just a …’
‘Learning curve?’ How harsh, she thought. Poor Aimee, functioning as nothing more than an all-comers’ sex manual. How could they treat her like that? Why would she want them to?
‘Molly, I’m really sorry. I know you’re going to say we’re totally over, but I do still love you and I wish I hadn’t done it. Truly, I feel gutted on every possible level. I mean, how unfair was it not just to you, but to Aimee? She’s a human with feelings and I treated her like some hooker. I hate myself for that.’
Turning point. Molly took a step closer to him, put her hand on his face, stroked him gently. If he’d only been sorry about her and had dismissed Aimee as no more than the school bike as so many others did, she’d have turned and left the house and never come back. But he hadn’t. With some people, she thought as he pulled her close to him, it was worth looking past their mistakes.