Charlie Glass's Slippers (15 page)

She’s flinging her arms around him and kissing him on either cheek.

“What are you
doing
here?” she demands, doing one of her little hair-swooshy things, plus (and only someone who knows Robyn like I know Robyn would notice this move) dropping one shoulder, ever so slightly, so that her sweatshirt slips sideways to reveal a hint of hot-pink bra strap. I can’t help noticing, too, that she’s sporting a huge pair of yellow-diamond earrings and—when I glance at her wrist—a matching yellow-diamond charm bracelet. (Evidently when she told Yevgeny where he could stuff them, the place she was meaning he could stuff them was inside her jewelry box.) “I haven’t seen you in
ages
!”

“Yeah, it’s been a while.”

“It’s been
ages
!” Robyn reaffirms. “I never see you in Shropshire anymore!”

“Well, I don’t go there much.”

“Even so . . . I don’t think I’ve seen you since Eddie Methuen-Campbell’s engagement party.”

“I wasn’t at Eddie Methuen-Campbell’s engagement party.”

“Yes, you
were
. I did vodka shots with you and Jamie Ackroyd on the tennis court. Actually”—she does another little hair swoosh, and runs her tongue over her lips to make them look more alluring—“I think I might have done a little bit more with Jamie Ackroyd on the tennis court than that!”

“Right.” Jay nods, pleasantly. “Well, it sounds like a great night. Shame I missed it.”

“Oh,
Jay
!” She giggles, and gives him a playful swat on the shoulder, while I study the floor and try to ignore the unpleasant bubbling sensation in my innards. (Could be searing jealousy, could be chronic hunger pangs, most likely a mixture of both.) “Don’t be silly! You must remember. I was wearing that little pink dress, the really short one that was cut away like literally all the way at the back . . .”

“Wait a minute.” Jay’s voice is deadly serious. “Was it a Versace dress?”

“No, it was Alexander McQueen . . .”

“Ah.” He shakes his head, almost sorrowfully. “Then no, I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”

It suddenly occurs to me that he might be taking the piss out of her. Not in a cruel, mocking way . . . but not necessarily in a flirtatious way, either.

“Then you’re a very forgetful boy,” Robyn pouts. “And you still haven’t told me what it is you’re doing here.”

“He was just looking for
Silas Marner
,” I say, hastily, although I don’t know why I feel the sudden need to explain away Jay’s presence. “I mean, the book. Not the
actual
Silas Marner, obviously . . .”

“Charlie!” Robyn has only just noticed me. “Fucking hell! I hardly . . .”

But she stops herself before adding the words
recognized you
. She may not be the sharpest tool in the box, my sister, but when it comes to men, she is 100 percent switched on. And
she’s not going to draw attention to my appearance, new or otherwise, when a guy like Jay Broderick is around.

“Wait—you two know each other?” Jay looks surprised.

“Well, of course we do!” Robyn gives him another playful swat. “We’re sisters!”

“You’re
sisters
?”

I know I’m pretty well accustomed, after all these years, to people looking amazed that Robyn and I are related, but I suppose I’d hoped my makeover might have taken away just a little of people’s amazement. But Jay is looking more than just amazed. He’s looking flabbergasted.

“That’s right!” Robyn trills. “Robyn and Charlie, the Glass sisters!”

“But I thought . . . isn’t your sister called Abby, or Gaby, or something?”

“Ugh,
Gaby
. You don’t want anything to do with her, Jay. She’s a moody old cow. And married these days, by the way. Gazillions of bratty children. Whereas me and Charlie are the fun, single sisters!”

“Single?” Jay raises an eyebrow in Robyn’s direction. “Last I heard, you were going out with Yevgeny Lysenko.”

He says it in a light but pointed tone of voice, making me wonder two things. First, how does he know so much about Robyn’s love life? And second, why does it sound as though he cares?

“
God
, no. That’s all over. Yevvie was like literally a total pig to me this past weekend.
Anyway
,” she continues, moving a little bit closer to Jay and “adjusting” her bra strap so that he can see how sexily pink it is, and so that he can start thinking about the beautiful breasts it’s holding up. “Now that I’m not with Yevvie any longer, you can invite me to your birthday party on Friday night!”

“I can?”

“Of course! I’ve been hearing all about your party from
like literally
everyone
. Now, don’t worry, I wasn’t offended that you hadn’t invited me—I know some people can be a bit wary of Yevvie, especially after that episode with his security people and Jamie Ackroyd at Eddie Methuen-Campbell’s engagement party—but you don’t need to worry about that kind of thing now.”

“Well, that’s good to hear.”

“Isn’t it? Anyway, look, you don’t need to send me an official invite or anything. Just pop me down on the guest list.”

Just as I’m about to die from mortification on Robyn’s behalf, Jay nods.

“No problem, Robyn. I’ll put you down on the guest list.”

“Excellent! I can’t wait—”

He cuts her off, turning to me. “And I’ll put you on there, too. Okay, Charlie?”

There’s an awkward silence. Robyn stares at him. Then she stares at me. Then she stares back at Jay again.

“You’re inviting
Charlie
to your party?”

“Well, I’ve already established that she isn’t going to be busy on surveillance duty that particular evening . . .”

“Huh?”

“. . . or getting dropped behind enemy lines for a covert mission in Taliban-occupied Afghanistan. So yes. I am inviting Charlie to my party.”

“But . . . Charlie doesn’t go to parties.”

“Doesn’t go to parties?” echoes Jay. “Good God, Charlie—do you have some kind of party allergy or something?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Robyn snaps, before I can answer. “Nobody has a party allergy.” She thinks about this for a moment. “
Do
they?”

“Oh, yes. It can develop at any time, apparently.” Jay is wearing an expression of the utmost seriousness. “And it’s known to run in families. So if Charlie’s got it now, Robyn, there’s a pretty good chance you could get it, too.”

“He’s only joking,” I say quickly, when I see Robyn’s face fall. “And no, Jay, I’m not allergic to parties.”

“Good. So you’ll be there, then, on Friday night?”

His eyes are fixed on mine again, burning into me with such intensity that I’m suddenly worried I might accidentally catch on fire.

“Um, yes. I’ll . . . be there.”

“We
both
will.” Robyn suddenly links an arm through mine. “And who knows, Jay—I might even wear that pink dress again!”

“Right. Good,” Jay answers her, but he’s still looking at me. “Looking forward to it.”

Which is the last thing he says before he opens the shop door and heads back out onto King’s Road.

“Oh, my
God
!” Robyn squeals, the moment he’s out of earshot. “I have to call Lulu and Jules and tell them Jay Broderick just personally invited me to his birthday party! They’re going to like
literally
die of jealousy! But hang on—I need to call Richard Ward first . . . I’m going to need to get in for an emergency color and cut on Thursday, and a blow-dry on Friday morning . . . and then of course I’ll need a morning at the Mandarin Oriental spa—maybe a whole day, if I’m going to fit in a slimming treatment as well . . . oh, and I’ll need a pedicure . . . though my feet look utterly disgusting thanks to my bloody bunions, so I’m just going to have to hope Jay isn’t into toe-sucking or anything.”

“You have bunions, too?”

“There’s no need to make me self-conscious, Charlie!” she snaps. “
Everyone
has bunions.”

“Oh, right.”

“And I’ll need a showgirl wax, obviously.”

“A what wax?”

“
And
I have to get in a mega Net-a-Porter order, too!” She’s already scrabbling for her iPad. “I’ve got literally nothing to
wear, and they’ve got a shed-load of gorgeous new Valentinos I need to try on. Though everything’s bound to look hideous on me at the moment because I’m so fat and pale . . . Cha-Cha, will you call Richard Ward and the Mandarin Oriental for me and get all those appointments fixed up while I get these dresses ordered? But don’t book anything earlier than eleven on Friday morning!” she screeches. “If I’m going to pull Jay Broderick at his party, I need my beauty sleep the night before!”

“
Are
you going to pull Jay Broderick at his party?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

Robyn stops stabbing at her iPad and stares at me, hand on one hip. “Hel-
lo
! Didn’t you
see
the way he was looking at me?”

I didn’t, actually, but you don’t tell Robyn that kind of thing.

“And he’s had a crush on me for like literally
ever
. I mean, I’ve known him since I was nineteen or twenty. His family has this like totally incredible house a few miles from Mummy’s in Shropshire. God, Mummy will just
die
of excitement if I get together with him!”

“Right. But it just seems so soon after Yevgeny . . .”

“Charlie, this is
Jay Broderick
we’re talking about. Jay-gazillions-in-the-bank Broderick.”

“I thought,” I say, more pointedly than I intended, “you weren’t interested in money.”

“Have you
seen
him? He could have like literally
nothing
in the bank, and I’d still be dropping my knickers and begging him to shag me senseless over the railings on his hundred-foot yacht. Oh, though I guess if he had nothing in the bank, he probably wouldn’t have the hundred-foot yacht, would he? Well, I’d just find another railing somewhere. I mean, Hyde Park has railings and stuff, doesn’t it? And you can get into Hyde Park for absolutely free.

“Oh, don’t be such a prude, Charlie,” Robyn scoffs, when she sees my cheeks redden. “I’m only describing exactly what I happen to know he did to Cassia Connelly last summer in Cap Ferrat.”

“Cassia Connelly . . . the supermodel?” I feel a strange, tight sensation in my throat, as if I’m wearing a polo-neck a size too small. “Jay went out with Cassia Connelly?”

“Well, I don’t think they did too much
going out
, if you know what I mean!”

What kind of a fool have I been to entertain the notion, these past fifteen minutes, that Jay Broderick might have fancied me a little bit? Never mind that I’m thinner now, and blonder now, and never mind that I’ve furnished myself with the regulation eyebrows.

It would be laughable, if I weren’t feeling quite so miserable.

“But then, Jay’s such a playboy, he’s practically always got some stunning supermodel draped around him,” Robyn is saying. “Which is why I have to lose
at least
five pounds before Friday . . . especially if I’m going to go to the party with you, Cha-Cha, you bitch. I used to look
really
thin when I stood next to you, and now I’m only going to look a
bit
thin.” She looks properly put out, and without the slightest notion that what she’s saying might sound rather rude. “Though I suppose,” she adds, generously, “that it’ll be nice to go to a party together for once. Hey, I know—you can come over to my place to get ready before we go! When was the last time we did that, Charlie?”

“Well, let me see . . . never?”

“Oh, don’t be silly! We used to do it all the time when we were teenagers!”

What she’s probably (willfully?) misremembering are the occasions when her friends would come around to get ready for their big nights out and Robyn would come wheedling to
me for help with nail-painting and hair-styling. Many were the Saturday nights when—banned by Diana from going out myself, and a sucker for Robyn’s suddenly sweet entreaties—I’d back-comb the blond hair of some Felicity or Isabella, or daub their toenails with Rouge Noir.

“We’ll put on music,” she’s continuing, unembarrassed, “and drink champagne, and you can help me do my hair and makeup . . . It’ll be brilliant, Cha-Cha! Just like the old days! Oh, I have to take this!” she suddenly adds, as her phone rings loudly. “It’s Lulu!
Hi
, darling,” she says into the phone, shooting me an excitable wink and opening the door, already on her way out onto King’s Road. “You’ll never guess who
I’ve
just run into!
Or
where I’m going on Friday night . . .”

I watch her for a moment or so as she strides away, the red soles of her Christian Louboutin ankle boots flashing as she does so.

chapter eleven

G
alina may not actually
curve her crimson-painted lips into a welcoming smile, but there’s a glint of triumph in her eye as I settle into her chair on Friday morning.

“So. Sharlee. You are wanting me to do something about mustache.”

“I’m wanting you to do something about the downy hairs on my upper lip.”

She nods. “Mustache.”

“Well, I still think it’s not exactly . . . all right, all right.” I surrender. “Yes, please, Galina. I would like you to do something about my mustache.”

“You will not regret. Will be much better without it.”

“Well, I hope so. I’ve got this party tonight, you see, and . . .”

“So you want also wax? Leg, Brazilian, Hollywood, showgirl . . .”

There’s that word again, the one Robyn mentioned.

“Galina, what exactly
is
a showgirl wax?”

“Is legs, arms, armpits, Brazilian bikini, face, toes . . .”

“
Toes?
”

“Toes are getting hairy sometimes. You want?”

“Do I want hairy toes?”

“Do you want,” she asks, patiently, “showgirl wax?”

“Oh, I see! Oh, God, no. No, I don’t want any kind of a wax at all, Galina. I’m perfectly happy just shaving.”

She shrugs. “Nice men prefer wax. Nice men prefer smooth all over. You are wanting meet nice man at this party, no?”

“No, I’m not. I mean, okay, the host happens to be a nice man, and I know for a fact that he prefers smooth all over, seeing as the only people he dates, apparently, are top international supermodels . . .”

“Then you are not having snowball chance in hell,” she points out, charitably. “Now, keep mouth still, please.”

I won’t dwell on the details of the next two minutes, because (unlike Galina) I’m not some kind of pain freak who revels in reliving the experience of eye-watering agony. But I know for sure she has a sadistic streak when the second she’s finished my upper lip, she asks, “Now I do also sideburns?”

“I . . . don’t have sideburns.”

A scoffing noise. “You are having sideburns.” She strokes the sides of my face, beneath my ears, as though she’s a judge in an Elvis lookalike contest and I’m one of the hopeful contenders for the Best Female Elvis title. “For you today I include in price of mustache.”

“But I really didn’t think I had . . . I mean, nobody’s ever mentioned . . .”

She thrusts a magnifying mirror into my hand. “You look. You see.”

I turn my head to see if I can notice these so-called sideburns in the mirror.

Well . . . I suppose she
may
have a point. Calling them sideburns is pretty extreme, but under the very bright light, there is the faintest whisper of soft, downy hair beneath my ears that I’ve never really noticed before. And I don’t think anyone else is going to notice it, either. Unless Jay Broderick’s required standards of female grooming are so
very
sky-high that you’re
refused admission to his parties until a security guard has given your face the once-over with a magnifying mirror and a high-powered flashlight.

“I suppose maybe you’d better do my sideb . . . those areas.”

“You will not regret. Will help you meet nice man.” Satisfied by my capitulation, Galina is tearing off a new length of twine. “And next time you come, you will be dating. And you will be wanting showgirl wax. And eyelash dye. You would not regret eyelash dye. Make eyes look less piggy.”

“Do I
have
piggy eyes?”

She shrugs, neither confirming nor denying this.

I put my head back down on the headrest and grip the chair’s arms as Galina approaches my so-called sideburns with her fresh piece of floss. “Well, if you say so, Galina. If you say so.”

• • •

I don’t, in fact, have the slightest intention of getting ready at Robyn’s before the party this evening. This isn’t because I don’t secretly yearn after some idyllic vision of sisterhood, where Robyn and I prance around in bathrobes and face masks, the way she used to do with her friends before a Saturday night out, singing mid-eighties Madonna at the tops of our lungs before settling down to a girlie hour of mani-pedis and helping each other pick out the right accessories to go with our outfits. Though I’ve secretly yearned after that scenario plenty of times over the years, I’m smart enough to know that the reality wouldn’t be that idyllic at all. The reality, let’s face it, would involve:

1) Robyn throwing a temper tantrum because she’s got it into her head that there’s the vaguest suspicion of a hint of a suggestion of the beginnings of a spot on the underside of her chin;

2) Robyn conducting a fashion show with every item in her wardrobe, getting me to take pictures of her in every dress, from every angle, and then listing ad nauseam the many different ways in which everything she owns makes her look fat and disgusting;

3) Robyn (having decided she’s fat and disgusting) burying herself under her duvet and refusing to go to the party until very, very gently coaxed over the course of roughly ninety minutes; and

4) Robyn getting me to help with her makeup and insisting that I try out smoky eye after smoky eye until eventually there’s no time left for me to do my own makeup and I have to daub it on in the back of a taxi.

So this is my alternative plan: I’m going to get myself ready in blissful peace at my flat,
then
go around to Robyn’s at the designated time so that I can still perform all the required soothing/coaxing/smoky eye-perfecting without having to worry that I’m barely dressed and made up myself.

Blissful peace, unfortunately, hasn’t quite materialized.

The trouble is that I was so red and sore after this morning’s threading/torture appointment with Galina that I had to delay my planned late-afternoon run along the Embankment and half-hour of lunges until I was sure that the sweat wouldn’t make me all red and sore again. So now I’m in a colossal hurry. I’m showered, at least, but the last hour has been entirely taken up with blow-drying my hair (
damn
this blasted fringe!
And
these sodding layers!) followed by several minutes of sitting, immobile, by my open bedroom window until I’m cooled down enough from the blow-drying to think about starting my makeup.

So when the doorbell rings upstairs, I ignore it, and carry on rubbing in my tinted moisturizer and brushing on my blusher. It’ll only be a pizza delivery for one of the other flats,
ringing my bell by mistake to taunt my starving stomach with the scent of yeasty pizza dough, sweet tomatoes, and tangy pepperoni. Anyway, my phone has just started ringing, too, so I’d better grab that . . . oh, it’s Lucy.

“Luce? Sorry, I can’t talk. I’m running seriously late . . .”

“I’m upstairs.”

“What?”

“I’m upstairs, outside your flat. I just rang the doorbell but you ignored me. And I know you’re in because I can see the lights on.”

“I wasn’t ignoring
you
, I was ignoring the pizza delivery person I thought you were . . .” I’m already scurrying up the stairs to let her in.

When I open both the inner and the outer front doors, she’s standing on the steps with a bottle of red wine.

“I thought,” she says, “you might like an evening in with a glass or three of this and a repeat episode of
Peter Andre: The Next Chapter
.”

Evenings in with wine and
Peter Andre: The Next Chapter
have, for better or worse, long been a popular way for the two of us to spend time together. Though not usually on a Saturday night; Saturday night is almost always Lucy’s date night with her current boyfriend. Pal must be fartlek training this evening, or something.

“Oh, no, Luce, I can’t! I have to go out!”

“So I see.” She comes into the flat, deposits her wine bottle on the old telephone table, and folds her arms, perusing me closely. “Your hair looks gorgeous. And you smell yummy. You’re not . . . going on a
date
, are you, Charlie?”

“No! It’s just this party I’ve been invited to.”

“Whose party? And why haven’t you told me about it?”

“Because,” I point out, “I haven’t been able to get hold of you all week. I’ve left messages.”

“Oh. Yes. Sorry about that. I’ve been busy at work, and
Pal isn’t keen on me making calls when I get home in the evenings . . .”

I’m too stressed to give any energy to being Entirely Positive about Pal right now, so I dredge up some old advice that Mum used to give me: if you can’t say anything nice, it’s better to say nothing at all.

“Look, Luce, I’m running really late, so can you come downstairs and we’ll talk while I finish getting ready?”

“I can do better than that. I can actually help you get ready.” There’s a bit of a bounce in Lucy’s step as she starts down the stairs ahead of me. Never having had to put up with Robyn-style antics over the years, she loves getting ready for parties almost more than she loves parties themselves. Though this has probably changed now, seeing as I suspect that getting ready for the parties she goes to with Pal involves little more than a brisk shower and a handful of milk thistle capsules to line the stomach before one too many sips of chilled white wine. “So, what kind of party is this, then? Where is it? What are you wearing?”

“Well, I think it’ll be fairly smart.” Feeling suddenly shy, I reach into my wardrobe for the new dress I bought from H&M. “So I thought a nice cocktail dress would be the right sort of thing . . .”

When I turn around, Lucy has made a great show of falling onto my bed and snoring, in mock slumber.

“Fine. You think it’s a boring dress.”

“Not true.” She sits up. “It’s
such
a boring dress, Charlie, that I have literally no thoughts about it at all.”

“You’ve barely looked at it!”

“I don’t need to look at it. It’s black, right? With wide straps and a square neckline, right? With an A-line skirt to hide your bum. Correct?”

This is, in fact, correct.

“Actually,” I say, feeling a bit disgruntled, “it also happens
to have a very nice little sparkly belt that you can put around the waist . . .”

“Saints preserve us from nice little sparkly belts!” Lucy gets to her feet and grabs the dress from me. “Come on, Charlie! You’ve worked so hard to look this good, and now you’re choosing to go to a party in something so . . . un-spectacular?”

“Well, I apologize for not having the kind of clothes budget that allows me to order half a dozen spectacular dresses on Net-a-Porter.” Which reminds me. Robyn. I reach for my phone, which is somewhere amongst the cache of open makeup pots on my dressing table. “I have to text Robyn, tell her I’m going to be a bit late.”

“You’re going to this party
with Robyn
?”

“Yes. It’s a long story.”

“Bloody hell, Charlie. It’s not a party for one of her obnoxious friends, is it? Miffy Tallulah-Fudgington or Hector van Codswallop-Sissingthorpe?”

“No. And I’m not certain either of those people exist. Well, not Miffy Tallulah-Fudgington, anyway.”

I finish sending the text to Robyn and then sit back down at my dressing table to get on with applying a hasty line of eyeliner and a layer of mascara.

“Charlie Glass! Why are you avoiding the issue? Why won’t you just tell me whose party it is?”

“Lucy, it’s no big deal, honestly.” I do my best to make my voice sound super-casual. “It’s just that Broderick bloke I was telling you about, that’s all.”

“
Jay
Broderick?”

“Mm.”

“You’re going to
Jay Broderick’s
party?”

“Mm.”

“And you’re
really
planning on wearing this dreary bit of cloth?” She shakes the H&M dress at me, furiously. “Do
you have any idea how glamorous this party is going to be, Charlie?”

“Do
you
have any idea how glamorous it’s going to be? I mean, for all you know, it’s going to be a . . . a charity fundraiser for”—I struggle to think of the least glamorous charity I possibly can—“search and rescue in the Brecon Beacons. It could be full of earnest mountaineers in Day-Glo walking gear.”

“Charlie, this is Jay Broderick we’re talking about. The party’s going to be full of racing drivers and international supermodels.”

“You don’t,” I mutter, almost stabbing myself in the eye with my mascara wand, “have to remind me.”

“I’d give my eyeteeth to go to a party like this, Charlie! I mean, seriously, when you compare it to some of the parties Pal takes me to, with all his work colleagues standing around sipping sparkling elderflower and talking about the latest thrills and spills in the world of tax accounting . . .” She stops herself before she says too much. “Anyway, all I’m saying is that you absolutely can’t go to the party in something boring and black from H&M.” She throws the H&M dress, with nothing short of contempt, onto the bed and starts rifling through my open wardrobe. “Seriously, Charlie, I’m not letting you be a wallflower tonight.”

“I’m not being a wallflower. But I won’t really know anyone there apart from Jay Broderick, and he isn’t going to notice me . . .”

“Well, obviously not. He’ll be draped in about a half-dozen Victoria’s Secret Angels all night.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, “for reminding me.”

“Hey, don’t take that personally, Charlie, I’m just saying that Victoria’s Secret Angels are more Jay Broderick’s type. Anyway, you haven’t explained how you even got invited to his
party at all. This isn’t anything to do with that interview you went for a few months ago, is it?”

“Christ, no. It’s—”

“Oh, my God.” Lucy stops rifling through my wardrobe and pulls out a hanger. “This is it.”

The hanger she’s clutching is holding Mum’s dress. The floaty silk, kimono-style dress she used to wear for her fabulous dinner parties. I keep it hanging in my wardrobe, though I haven’t so much as looked at it in years.

I deliberately don’t look at it, in fact. It just reminds me, painfully, of what I used to do for months after Mum died. Which was to bury my face in the soft silk and try very, very hard, to breathe in a fading hint of Anaïs Anaïs.

“This is Yves Saint Laurent,” Lucy says, peering at the label inside. “I never knew you had a vintage Yves Saint Laurent dress hanging in your wardrobe, Charlie.”