11

Chloe looks nonplussed.

“Um, hello!” she says cheerfully, but I can see she’s confused.

“Oh, right, yes,” I say, as if having an elderly gentleman in my flat watching Friends is completely normal. “This is Stanley. Stanley, this is my best friend Chloe. Who I thought wasn’t coming until Saturday!”

“Yeah, sorry for the short notice.” Chloe shrugs. “I managed to get away from work early, and thought, what the hell . . .”

Stanley stands up to shake Chloe’s hand. “Delighted to meet you. Are you a fan also?”

Chloe looks at me and raises her eyebrows.

“Friends,” I explain. “Stanley came round to watch it.”

“Oh, I see! Oh, right, well, of course I am. I mean, I wouldn’t say I watch it religiously, but . . .”

Stanley moves up the sofa to make room for her, and she takes off her coat and joins him just as the music starts. I take her bags into my bedroom, then take the pizzas I bought earlier out of the oven and place them on the coffee table. Stanley pulls a bottle of wine out of his bag and signals for me to open it.

The thing is, Chloe only rang me an hour ago to tell me she was coming down, and I didn’t have the heart to tell Stanley not to come. Luckily she isn’t the sort of person to get freaked out very easily—she just sort of accepts things and makes the most of them. Like the time I was meant to get us tickets to see the Stone Roses and I got a bit confused and got us tickets for Guns N’ Roses instead—she just got really into the gig and ended up snogging some biker.

So instead of making an excuse to usher her into my bedroom to tell her what’s going on, I figure it’ll probably be okay if I don’t say anything. After all, I don’t want to make Stanley feel awkward. When I told him Chloe was coming over, he immediately said he would leave, and I had to spend ages convincing him to stay.

I pour the wine, and squeeze in next to Chloe on the sofa.

“So, Stanley, tell me,” says Chloe, “what do you like apart from Friends?”

“Oh, Cressida introduced me to EastEnders and I also like Ground Force,” Stanley says heartily.

“Who’s Cressida?” Chloe asks.

Shit.

Stanley stares at her uncertainly. “Cressida?” he says, looking at me.

“Uh—okay,” says Chloe, giving me a strange look.

I pretend to have spilled some wine on my top to cause a commotion. Stanley gets up and I rush into the bathroom trying to work out what I’m going to say. Luckily Chloe comes after me.

“Natalie, is everything okay?” she asks me as I pretend to rinse out my top.

“Yes, of course,” I tell her, feeling absolutely the opposite. Then I drop my voice to hushed tones. “Look, that whole Cressida thing . . . It’s just a name Stanley likes to call me, okay? I don’t know why. I think he might have a daughter called Cressida or something.”

I blush as I lie. It feels terrible. But what choice do I have?

“Oh God, sorry,” Chloe gushes. “I had no idea. Look, I won’t mention it again, okay?”

“Thanks,” I say gratefully.

Ten minutes later, when she pops to the loo, Stanley leans over.

“Bit backwards, is she?” he says sympathetically.

I stare at him. “What do you mean?”

“Your friend, Chloe. Not even remembering your name! Oh, it’s so sad—so pretty, and so young, too!”

I shuffle about in my seat for a few seconds. This is really wrong. I can’t have Stanley thinking my best friend is stupid.

I take a deep breath.

“It’s true,” I find myself saying. “But look, she’s really sensitive, so don’t mention it, will you? She . . . er . . . likes to call me Natalie . . .”

Okay, now I’ve really stooped about as low as you can go. Telling Stanley Chloe is retarded? Jesus, is this going to be my life from now on, terrified about any of my friends ever meeting each other in case they find out what a barefaced liar I really am?

To my relief, Stanley decides he’s not quite ready for the Osbournes and leaves after Friends.

“Sorry about that, but he’s sweet, don’t you think?” I say as we hear the door downstairs bang and hear Stanley walking off down the street.

“Very. So how did you adopt him?”

I hadn’t thought of that. I can hardly tell Chloe the truth, can I?

“Oh, we, um, just kind of got talking one day. At the bus stop.”

“I see,” says Chloe thoughtfully. “Strange that.”

I look up sharply. “Strange? No, not really. I’m always talking to strangers in the street. London’s actually much more friendly once you start talking to people,” I say quickly.

“Just random people in the street?” Chloe asks persistently.

“Absolutely. The more random the better.”

“He also said something about you being his healer,” she says pointedly.

“His healer?” I try to sound astonished, and instead overdo it and end up sounding really guilty.

“His Reiki healer, to be precise,” she says, taking a large swig of wine. “Natalie, just what is your job down here? I didn’t even know you were that into alternative stuff—when we went to that spa in Bath, you said it was all a load of rubbish. You can tell me, you know, if you’ve had a change of career. I think it’s really exciting!”

“Exciting?” I say faintly. It doesn’t feel exciting. It feels bloody ridiculous.

“God, yes. So are you like a proper healer person? Could you do me? Did you have exams and stuff?”

“No . . .” I say, trying to think fast. A couple more white lies can’t harm, can they? “I haven’t actually done my exams yet. I’m, you know, still studying. And Stanley . . . well, he lets me practice on him.”

“God, you’re a dark horse,” breathes Chloe. She seems really excited, but it could just be shock. I am so not the sort of person to become a healer. “I just had no idea,” she continues. “I thought you were being a bit cagey about your job, but I never suspected this. So when are you going to jack in your advertising job and do this full-time?”

I smile weakly. “Oh, that’s quite a long way off yet. I mean, there’s loads of studying, exams, workshops, you know. I’m just going to wait and see how it goes, y’know?”

“Absolutely. So is there anything else you’re keeping up your sleeve? What’s going on with that guy you were seeing?”

I reluctantly grin. “He bought me a very pretty dress.”

“Ooh! Show me, show me!” squeals Chloe. “No, wait, let’s open some more wine first. I want to hear every detail. And don’t you dare leave anything out—I want the truth, the whole truth, so help you God.”

As I take a bottle of wine out of the fridge, I can’t help but wonder whether I’m ever going to be able to tell the whole truth to anyone ever again.

We decide against going out with Alistair and Michael on Saturday night. Mainly because Alistair doesn’t appear to be in and Michael doesn’t say, “So, do you fancy coming out with Alistair and me tonight?” when we go and see him in Joseph. Although he does find Chloe some amazing trousers that make her legs look about six feet tall, and gives her his staff discount to boot, so it wasn’t a wasted trip.

To be honest, I tell Chloe as we get ourselves dolled up, it’s probably better going out on our own. You know, like old times.

She agrees enthusiastically. “So where are we going to go?” she asks, perfecting her black eyeliner in front of the bathroom mirror. “Shall we go out dancing?”

“Sounds like a great idea,” I say, nipping into my bedroom to have another look in Time Out. I don’t want to confess that I’ve only ever been to Canvas and Woody’s—I’ve made out like I know London inside out and back to front. I find a club called Notting Hill Arts Club in the listings page, and mentally note down its address. Or there’s Subterranea—but I’m not sure the music’s quite what we’re after. I mean, break-beat sounds all very well, but I have no idea how you’d dance to it . . .

Chloe is still rummaging around in her makeup bag, so I decide to have a quick tidy-up—my flat has become a bit of a dumping ground in recent days, and not in a cool way like Julie’s flat—more in a Men Behaving Badly way.

As I pick up a load of papers and flyers for low-rate credit cards from the coffee table, I look hesitantly at the new pile of post that has accumulated for Cressida. Nothing much—just a couple of brown envelopes. But I’ve promised myself I’m not going to open them—not this time. I mean, to open someone else’s post a couple of times could be understandable—forgivable, even. But to do it again is just asking for trouble.

Although they do look pretty boring, really. Innocuous. And if I want Simon to think that I am actually Cressida, I should probably have some letters addressed to Cressida lying around, shouldn’t I? Plus, surely I should know what sort of letters she gets, if I’m going to sound convincing?

“Sorry, Natalie, I’ve decided against the blue top, so I’m redoing my makeup to go with the pink one instead. Won’t be long . . .” Chloe calls out from the bathroom. Chloe should really be a makeup artist or something—I’ve never known anyone to be as fixated as she is by eye-shadow color.

I look at the letters again. Do I or don’t I? On the one hand, I’ve already got myself into quite a mess as it is and don’t need to make it any worse. On the other hand, opening the letter from Leonora did mean that I met Simon. And I suppose that since I have already revealed myself to be morally reprehensible by lying to my best friend and to the loveliest man I’ve ever met, I may as well go the whole hog.

After um-ing and ah-ing for a few minutes, I gingerly open the first letter. It’s from Citibank trying to convince Cressida that she needs a bank that allows her to hold currency in euro and dollar denominations as well as sterling. So, a jet-set Reiki healer, huh?

I throw it in the bin. Then, just as I’m about to tear open the second letter, Chloe wanders in.

“So, what do you think? Left eye or right eye?”

I quickly thrust it under a cushion and look up guiltily. Chloe is batting her eyes at me, each adorned with a different combination of eye shadow, eyeliner, and sparkly bits.

“Um, left eye,” I say quickly, feeling myself blush slightly.

“Really? I thought the right one might work better . . . but, if you say so . . .” Chloe walks over to the mirror on my wall to peer at herself. Making sure that the letter is completely covered up, I get up and walk over to her.

“Come to the window so I can see what you look like in daylight,” I suggest.

“Nooo!” Chloe says, rolling her eyes. “We’re not going out in daylight, are we? We’re going to be in clubs and bars.”

“Ah, of course,” I say, humbled. “Well, in that case, maybe you’re right about the right one being better.”

“I thought so,” Chloe says, smiling. “Give me a few mins, and I’ll be finished, then.”

As soon as she’s left the room, I go back to the sofa, take out the second envelope, and rip it open. As I pull out the letter, I see the familiar Soho House logo at the top and my heart flutters slightly. Crouched over the letter so that I can hide it if Chloe wanders back in, I take in the contents quickly. Blah blah film night. Blah blah new staff working in the crèche. Blah blah . . . new membership card enclosed. At this point, I stop reading. Membership card? To Soho House? I tip the envelope up over the sofa, and sure enough a credit-card-style membership card falls out, a beautiful apparition in gold and black. And it’s got Cressida’s name on it.

I quickly put the card in my pocket, and shove the letter in the bin in the kitchen. Then I take it out again. It’s got the address at the top—40 Greek Street, W1. It’s got details of the films being shown that week in the private members screening room. And I’ve got a card to get in.

Obviously I couldn’t use it, though. I mean, there’s just no way I would have the guts to walk nonchalantly into Soho House, smile at Jude Law, chill out with Julia Roberts.

Although, on the other hand, I might get away with it. I’ve got a membership card, haven’t I? And you don’t get a chance like this every day of the week, do you? To go to one of the most exclusive addresses in London? Frankly it would be rude not to.

“Ready!” Chloe trills, as she walks back into the sitting room. I look up in awe. She’s wearing the Joseph trousers with three-inch heels, a pink sparkly top, and her dark hair cascading down her back. She looks absolutely incredible.

“Chloe, you look amazing,” I tell her.

“I should bloody hope so after all this work. Still, it’s not every night you get to go out in London, is it? So come on, Natalie, where are we going to go? Impress me!”

“Okay . . .” I say hesitantly. “Would Soho House be impressive enough for you?”

 

It takes me a while to calm Chloe down. Mainly because it takes me a while to calm myself down, too. The adrenaline courses through my veins as I’m pulled between two thoughts. One: We’re going to Soho House! Two: We’re going to get thrown out of Soho House for impersonation!

Chloe, meanwhile, can’t seem to contain her excitement. “Natalie, you are just the coolest. I was hoping you might take me there—I mean, when you said you were going there when I called you that time, I was so jealous. And I told everyone at Pete’s party—he was really impressed, by the way. Kept asking me about you and what you’re doing in London and stuff. And . . . oh God, I’m babbling, aren’t I? Fuck it, we’re going to Soho House!”

I grin inanely, trying to suppress the knowledge that this could—and indeed is likely to—go horribly wrong. And then a genuine smile starts to work its way onto my face. I mean, actually, it’s probably not that hard. I think I’ve demonstrated that telling a few white lies here and there is not only easy to do, but that it also gets results. Just look at the evidence—things worked out pretty well with Simon, didn’t they? I got round the problem of not being a Reiki healer okay, didn’t I? Quite frankly, being honest hasn’t got me very far in the past. Whereas, since I opened Cressida’s mail, I’ve met Simon, impressed everyone back home, and now have a Soho House membership card. I think we’re going to have a great night.

Checking that the card is still in my pocket, I grab my bag, and take Chloe’s arm.

“Okay, let’s go!” I say happily, letting the door slam behind us.

 

We don’t go to Soho House right away. I mean, you have to work up to a blag like that. To be honest, I’m not really sure what to expect, which makes it difficult talking to Chloe about it because she wants to know everything, from what the bar is like to what the loos are like and whether they have dancing on a Saturday night.

So, as we sip our cocktails at the Soho branch of All Bar One, the restaurant chain, I manage to convince her I’ve never been to Soho House on a Saturday, despite the fact that the night she called and I said I was going there it was a Saturday. Then I describe the place based on photos that were in the program—full of squishy leather seats and old battered wooden floorboards. I’m worried that I’m getting a bit too good at making things up, but every time I move I can feel the membership card in my pocket, reminding me that things could soon go horribly wrong.

Luckily by the time we’ve finished our two cosmopolitans, we’re both pretty tipsy and Chloe seems to have forgotten most of what I’ve told her because she keeps asking me the same questions, her voice gradually getting louder and louder.

I drain my drink and look at my watch. Nine-thirty P.M.

I thought a couple of drinks would make me feel more confident, more blasé. But instead it’s just made me feel even more apprehensive. How stupid will I look if we don’t get in?

“Shall we get some more drinks in?” I say brightly, trying to postpone the inevitable. I’m trying to convince myself that one more drink will make all the difference. But Chloe shakes her head.

“No, I think we should go now. I mean, the celebs with babies may have to get back to their baby-sitters by eleven P.M. If we don’t go soon, we’ll miss them.”

“What?” I say incredulously. “Do you realize how ridiculous that sounded?”

Chloe looks at me crossly. “They have All Bar Ones in Bath,” she says pointedly. “And babies or no babies, I think we should go now. Unless you want to stay here, of course. I mean, we don’t have to go to Soho House if you don’t want to.”

“No,” I sigh, “we can go now.” I can’t think of any other excuses, and she’s right—All Bar One is hardly the epicenter of London nightlife.

“Don’t look too enthusiastic,” says Chloe, looking curiously at me, but I avoid her gaze. In a few minutes when we’ve been refused entry to Soho House, I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do. But that’s later. Right now, my challenge is actually finding the place.

“Okay,” I say purposefully as we emerge into the Soho night air. We need Greek Street. Which is . . . that way.

I memorized the map for Soho on the wall at Oxford Street tube before we came to the bar, but I’m not convinced I’ve got my directions right. I can’t remember if we’re facing north or south. Or, for that matter, which way is east and which is west. I’ve never been too hot on orientation, and two cocktails have not helped matters much.

We walk down Old Compton Street for about ten minutes and I look at every street sign, looking for clues. It would be really embarrassing if we were heading in the wrong direction.

“How much further?” says Chloe. “My feet are hurting.”

I grunt with frustration. I’m about to humiliate myself, and she’s got sore feet?

“Not far,” I manage to say. “It’s just around the corner, I think . . .”

But at the next corner the name of the road is Frith Street, and I’m still no clearer as to where we are. I grin unconvincingly and suggest we keep going. Chloe is huffing and puffing and I’m having trouble concealing my irritation.

“Look, we’re nearly there, okay?”

Chloe sighs, then stops after a few steps.

“We’re here! This is Greek Street!” she squeals. “Oh, thank God! Sorry for being a bitch, but you have no idea what it’s like walking in these shoes.”

I gulp. We’re here. We’re actually here, and we’re going in. Once I’ve found the door, of course.

As luck would have it, we’re at the right end of the street, and we’re soon outside the door of Soho House. Chloe clutches my hand in excitement. “God, you’re really sweaty, Natalie. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” I trill gaily. “Absolutely nothing!”

“Are you sure? You seem really nervous.”

“Nervous?” I say with a hysterical laugh, “why would I be nervous? Although we could go somewhere else for a quick drink first, if you want? There’s loads of places round here . . .”

Chloe gives me a look and I stop talking quickly. She’s right, I am nervous.

Actually I’m more than nervous—I’m nearly shaking with trepidation. Calm down, I tell myself. I’ve got to walk in, hand over my card, and that’s it. It’s not hard. I just have to look like I do it all the time. Think like Cressida, I tell myself. I am fabulous. I can do this.

Taking a deep breath, I open the door and we walk in.

The woman at reception looks uncertainly at us.

“Can I help you?” she says politely.

“We’re just here for a drink,” explains Chloe, her eyes glittering with excitement.

“I see. Well, this is a members-only club, so I’m afraid . . .”

“Natalie’s a member, aren’t you, Natalie,” says Chloe quickly. I smile thinly at the woman, who peers at me. Bollocks. Now she knows I’m called Natalie, and my card says Cressida. We’re doomed.

“And do you have your card with you?”

“Of course I do,” I say as confidently as I can. “It’s in here somewhere . . .” I halfheartedly fumble around in my bag. This is awful. I don’t feel fabulous. I feel hot and uncomfortable, and I’m convinced that it’s absolutely obvious to the receptionist that I’m not a member. Chloe will never forgive me for making us look so ridiculous, and for lying to her. Why can’t I just be like other people and tell the truth about things? Why do I make things so complicated for myself?

“Come on,” says Chloe impatiently, and raises her eyebrow at the receptionist as if she can’t believe she’s actually making me get the card out. Like she should know who I am. Which of course makes me feel even worse.

And then the door opens and a group of people walk in talking loudly. I look up and recognize a face—I think she was in Heat last week, but I can’t remember who she is. Another looks very familiar, but I can’t place him, either. He looks at me quizzically and I look away quickly. He’s probably famous and I don’t want to embarrass myself further. But instead of looking away himself, he walks over to me.

“All right, gorgeous? Fancy bumping into you here!”

I look up in shock to study the face closing in on mine to deposit a kiss on my cheek, and Chloe swings round to stare. And then I remember. Of course, it’s Serge, the white noise–pink noise man. I feel a rush of relief course through me.

“Serge, hi! No, well, we just thought we’d drop by. You know . . .”

“Fantastic stuff,” he says, putting his arm round me, and walking toward the reception desk. This is my chance to get in, I think quickly. I smile at Chloe so that she knows to follow us, and she rolls her eyes at me in wonderment.

Serge leans over the reception desk and gives the stern woman a kiss on the cheek.

“You’re new, aren’t you?” he says easily. “Well, they probably warned you about me. Serge Waterman. I’m afraid I lower the tone desperately!”

He grins and hands over his membership card.

The receptionist appears charmed, and smiles back at him, handing his card back.

“Are these young ladies with you?” she asks him, looking quickly at Chloe and me.

“They are now!” says Serge, grinning wickedly. “Although you’re my number one woman, you know.”

The receptionist giggles as we all walk past, and I feel a huge weight lift off my shoulders. I nearly kiss Serge out of gratitude, but his hand is already moving down toward my ass, so I decide against it.

 

So this is Soho House! I’m finally in the coolest members club in the world. Unfortunately, I can’t see Madonna anywhere, or Jude Law, for that matter, so instead concentrate on the surroundings. It’s a bit like being in someone’s house—but someone who’s really rich with amazing taste, loads of really cool friends, and lots of staff. I can’t imagine anything like this opening up in Bath. People just wouldn’t know what to do with themselves. And although it’s really cool, I didn’t expect it to be this cozy and comfortable. Like, you can have cocktails, but you could also order Marmite on toast if you wanted—Serge does just that. Or a hot chocolate. There are people watching DVDs like they’re in their own homes. People just sitting around reading the papers like it wasn’t ten o’clock on a Saturday night.

The girl from Heat is an actress, it emerges, who is releasing a single on Serge’s record label. And the single is going to be on the soundtrack for a film that another guy with them is producing for DreamWorks.

It’s like a different world—names that I know from magazines pepper the conversation along with the plastic surgery they’ve allegedly had or the person they are supposedly shagging, and it’s all I can do not to gasp every five seconds. Chloe doesn’t even try to hide her gasps and she keeps squealing and squeezing my arm every time someone famous is mentioned.

“So where’s this boyfriend of yours?” Serge asks me under his breath.

I turn round sharply. “He’s not my boyfriend. I mean . . . he is, you know. But I’m just here with Chloe . . .”

It’s coming out all wrong.

“Ah, just a little flingette, is it?” Serge grins. “Lots of money and not much else? Well, a girl’s got to have some fun, hasn’t she?”

“It’s not like that,” I say hotly. “I like him.”

“Great!” says Serge, smiling smoothly. “Makes it easier when you like them, too, doesn’t it?”

I look at him angrily. How dare he try to make out that I’m only with Simon for the money? He doesn’t even know me. Just because he hangs out with flaky, self-obsessed people, it doesn’t mean we all do.

God, I sound just like Simon. Or, worse, like my parents.

Okay, think Cressida, I tell myself again. You’re in Soho House, for God’s sake!

I turn to the actress. “You were in Heat last week, weren’t you?” I say with a smile.

She stares at me. “So what?” she says, then turns to the girl next to her and starts laughing. I look around quickly to see if Chloe has seen me being completely humiliated, but luckily she’s busy texting someone on her mobile phone.

Eventually I realize that none of Serge’s “friends,” if you can call them that, are going to talk to us. And Serge himself has only one thing on his mind—his foot keeps brushing against my leg no matter how many times I shift around in my seat. I feel uncomfortable, and I want to go home.

“There’s not much going on here, is there?” I say as quietly as I can to Chloe. “Do you want to go soon?”

“Home? Are you serious?” She looks disappointed.

“Yes,” I say, directing her eyes toward Serge’s hand, which has now taken up residence on my knee.

“Fine,” she agrees with a shrug, and picks up her bag.

“You’re not going, are you?” says Serge, as I remove his hand and stand up.

“ ’Fraid so,” I say with an apologetic smile. The others are engaged in conversation and barely notice us as we leave the group.

“I’ll call you,” Serge calls drunkenly after me as I smile hesitantly at the woman in reception, and walk out into Greek Street.

 

“You know, I think I should move to London,” says Chloe thoughtfully, stirring her coffee. “I mean, I’m going nowhere back home, am I not? Not like you . . .”

It’s Sunday morning, and we’re sitting at my table having breakfast. I’m quite relieved we had a relatively early night last night—my head’s still pounding a bit from all those cocktails, but I did manage to get a good sleep.

I look at Chloe curiously. “What do you mean? You’ve got everything going for you.”

“Pah,” she snorts. “I’ve got a boring job at Shannon’s and that’s it—I mean, for God’s sake; I’ve been there since I left university. It’s pathetic. Whereas you’re really going places here.”

“I thought you loved your job?” I ask incredulously. Chloe was always the complete golden girl at Shannon’s, always got the really interesting assignments. If only she knew what I was really doing in London. I feel a sham. And last night at Soho House, I actually began to question for the first time whether I should be in London myself.

“I do . . . I mean, I’ve just been promoted, too, which is really nice. Good money and everything. But this . . .” Chloe looks around my flat. “This is different. You’ve taken a leap, and it’s really paid off.”

“Promotion? You didn’t tell me!”

Chloe looks at me like I’ve completely missed the point. “Yeah. Account director of a little agency in Bath. Big fucking deal. You’re a member of Soho House and get to hang out with film directors.”

I take a deep breath. “Chloe, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. Account director—that’s amazing. It usually takes years to get that kind of job. And look, getting into Soho House is hardly life changing. So you get to see Zoe Ball having a drink. It’s not that great, really!”

“You used to think it was great,” Chloe says pointedly.

She’s right, I did. I do. I moved here for the very reasons that Chloe is talking about, so why do I think she’s so foolish to give up what she’s got? Having moved to London to be cool and to hang out with the beautiful people, am I now actually saying that it isn’t what it’s cracked up to be?

“Maybe,” I say. “I just think right now, with your new job and everything . . . well, it’s probably not a good time.”

“You mean you think I’d cramp your style.”

I look up at Chloe, shocked. “What did you say?”

“Oh, come on,” she says crossly. “You’ve got it sewn up here. You think that if I moved down, I’d show you up. I saw that look you shot me in the reception at Soho House. Like I was acting way too excited. Well, I was excited—what does it matter? You used to be like that, too . . .”

“I still am!” I say, surprised.

“No you’re not. You’re really different. It’s like you don’t want me meeting your friends because I’m not cool enough. You didn’t even want to go into Soho House with me until your London friends arrived. What’s the matter—am I too square for you now? Not good enough to hang out with? I suppose that’s why you wanted to leave early—you thought your friend Serge might think less of you because I was there . . .” Chloe almost looks like she could burst into tears.

I stare at her, completely shocked. “Chloe, is that really what you think? Jesus, you’ve known me long enough, haven’t you? You know I’m not like that. I was trying to get away from Serge, not to get you away. He’s a total creep.”

“You didn’t seem to think he was a creep when you waltzed into Soho House with him, leaving me to follow behind,” Chloe retorts. “I may not live in London, Natalie, but at least I’m not a jumped-up pretentious cow.”

Chloe shoots me a meaningful look. I can’t believe her. How can she be so cruel when I went through hell to give her a good night out in London?

“If that’s really what you think, why did you come and stay with me?” I ask angrily.

“I keep asking myself the same question,” Chloe retorts. “You’ve even become a Reiki healer, for God’s sake. I mean what’s that all about? It’s like you’ve become someone else, Natalie. And I don’t like this new person very much. And if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go home now, back to some normal people.”

Chloe starts throwing her things into a bag. I stand up silently and clear away the coffee cups and breakfast bowls. A heavy tension hangs in the air as both of us refuse to say anything. Ten minutes later she’s at the door.

“You know, you and Pete have got more in common than I thought. When you’ve stopped being quite such a show-off, maybe I’ll see you around,” she says bitterly.

“Don’t count on it,” I reply coldly.

And before I can say anything else, she’s gone. I move over to the window and watch as she appears on the street below, walking to the tube. She looks up and catches my eye, and for a moment I nearly throw open the window and shout down to her not to go. I don’t want her to leave me here on my own. But I don’t. I’m not sure I should be the one to apologize. And I don’t know what I’d say even if I did.