Charlie Glass's Slippers (34 page)

I give Diana a dazzling smile in return as I get up and head, leading the way, for the front door. We’re only just out in the great hall, away from the eyes of witnesses, when I feel a hand grab my wrist from behind. When I turn around, Diana’s eyes are fixed on me, blazing, as if they’re laser-guided nuclear missiles and I’m their unlucky target.

“Just what the fuck,” she hisses, “do you think you’re playing at? How
dare
you do this to me?”

“Diana, I’m not doing anything
to
you.” Carefully but deliberately, I extricate my wrist from her grip. “This isn’t about you. I’m doing stuff
for
myself.”

“All those years,” she spits, as though I haven’t spoken at all, “all those years I looked after you, took you in when nobody else would have you, when your ungrateful wretch of a father didn’t want to know. How many other women would have done that, do you think? Offered you a home?”

“You offered me a place to live, Diana. Even you can’t possibly believe you made it a home.”

“Rubbish! I fed you, I clothed you . . . and did you ever think about what it was like for
me
, Charlotte? Being stuck with a child I never wanted”—she doesn’t seem to realize that this is a direct contradiction of what she’s just claimed about making me feel at home—“just because I’d stupidly thought it would bring Elroy back!”

“But . . . you didn’t want him back. Did you?”

For the first time, she looks away. “Well, of course not! That’s not what I meant.”

It’s what she just said, though.

“I wouldn’t have touched Elroy with a barge pole! Not after the way he treated me, waltzing off with your slut of a mother . . .”

“Seriously,” I say, in a low voice that’s so filled with quiet fury it takes me by surprise, “you do not want to talk about my mother, Diana. That way or any other way. Not now, and not ever.”

Her face contorts and she makes a move to grab my wrist again, only to be thwarted when I stick my hands, resolutely, into the pockets of my jeans. And we just stand here, staring at each other, for a long moment. The only sounds are the occasional creak of an old wooden panel, and—from somewhere upstairs—the low hum of a Hoover.

“You’ll regret this,” she says, when she eventually manages
to speak. “I promise you, Charlotte Glass, you’ll regret what you’ve done.”

I take a long, slow breath. “Well, it was very nice to see you, Diana. Have a safe drive back to the Vicarage.”

Her jaw falls open, slackly, for just a moment.

Then she gathers herself, closes her mouth, and practically crowbars the corners upward into a Diana Special of a smile. She doesn’t say another word, but brushes smartly past me on her way towards the front door, and the driveway.

There’s something about the set of her shoulders that tells me this: she may know she’s lost the battle but she has no intention—absolutely no intention—of losing the war.

But I can’t let this worry me right now. I’m just desperate to get Ferdy on his own to thank him for his heroic efforts on the evidence-destruction front (even though I have a nasty suspicion that I wouldn’t be able to do this without bursting into tears and covering him with kisses). But when I go back into the sitting room, Ferdy is getting up from the tea table to announce that actually, he thinks he’d probably better be heading home as well. He mutters a couple of things about work, and a staff member off sick at the new branch of Chill, but I can’t help thinking he’s really heading back to town to see Honey, and to try to smooth things over with her. He offers to give Pal a lift back to town so he can “get home to Lucy,” which obviously Pal is forced to accept, given that the alternatives are A) looking, openly, like a very, very bad and uncaring boyfriend, and B) staying here with me and Jay like some kind of third wheel. Pal stamps off upstairs to pack his things, and twenty minutes later, Jay and I are waving good-bye to the pair of them on the driveway, as Ferdy—not waving back—swings his great-uncle’s Jaguar around in a huge turning circle and heads off for the main road.

Which means that it’s just me and Jay. Alone.

“Well,” I say. “I’m really sorry about my stepmother making an unannounced—”

But Jay quite literally stops my mouth with a kiss. It’s an extremely long kiss, and a kiss of many phases, because around halfway through it he suddenly picks me up, carries me towards the house, continues carrying me up the stairs, takes me into the bedroom, sets me down on the bed, and starts removing clothing, both his and mine.

And if there’s something a little different about the ninety-minute sex marathon that follows; if there’s something oddly intense and stressed about him in comparison with yesterday’s confident virtuosity; if it seems, at times, less like he’s making sweet love to a naked and (extremely) willing woman and more like he’s trying to get something icky off the sole of his shoe . . . well, I’m probably imagining it. It’s been a seriously weird couple of days, after all.

PART THREE

chapter twenty

N
ot that I want
to be churlish, but I do kind of wish Jay had thought a little bit about the practicalities of car ownership before he bestowed such an incredible and generous gift on me. I realize, as I head out of my flat to walk to King’s Road on Monday morning, that a zealous traffic warden is about to give me a fifty-quid ticket for parking in a residents’-only bay. My attempts to tell him that I
am
a resident, followed by my entreaties to his good nature, fall predictably flat (I need an official resident’s permit, for one thing; he’s not got a good nature, for another), so in the end I’m forced to take the car with me for the day, where it will probably cost me almost as much in parking as a fifty-quid parking ticket would.

Still, I can’t deny that it’s pretty fun driving the MG on this bright, warm morning. All right, I’m a bit nervous every time my foot touches the accelerator (even though I’m in flats this morning), but with the roof down and the breeze in my hair, I’ve almost forgotten about the practicalities of car ownership by the time I pull up in a space right outside the store.

Before I hop out, I’ve just got time to give Lucy another try. It was too late to call her when I got back from Shropshire last night, and her phone was off—probably because she was on the tube—when I tried her just before I left home earlier.

Her phone is
still
off, however. So I leave a quick message, made even quicker by the fact that I can see Galina emerging from the salon and bustling out onto the street to come and greet me. Her crimson mouth is half-open in astonishment.

“You are given car?”

“Yes.”

“Is from new boyfriend?”

“Well, I suppose you could call him that now, yes.”

“Is wonderful!” She smooths a lock of hair behind my ear, a misty look in her eye. “I am remembering when you are first coming to me, Sharlee. Back then you are just pretty girl with bad eyebrow, lumpy-bumpy cellulite, and too much hair in private places.”

“Thanks, Galina.”

“But now you are not hairy. You have good eyebrow. I am proud of you, Sharlee. Is so important to be having nice grooming, especially as you are getting older. Right now you are having it easy. You are thirty-two, thirty-three, is not so difficult to . . .”

“I’m twenty-eight!”

“Is not possible.”

“It is! I’m twenty-eight, Galina!” I stare at her, horrified. “Do I really look five years older than I actually am?”

She studies my face, intently. “You are having fine lines around eyes. Frown line between eyebrows.”

“Well, isn’t there something we can do? Should I be thinking about Botox or something?”

“I am not offering Botox.”

“Okay, but maybe you could recommend a place that does offer Botox, and . . .”

“Botox is horrible. Botox is looking artificial. Botox is looking as if try too hard.”

“And a full-body wax, spray tan, weekly threading appoint
ments, a permanent mani-pedi, and eyelash extensions
aren’t
trying too hard?”

“I am not offering Botox,” she repeats, as if I haven’t spoken at all. “But am offering very nice collagen-boosting facial. Course of six is only price of five. And for you, Sharlee, I offer extra twenty-percent discount.”

I agree. It’s easier than not agreeing. Besides, if she’s right—that I look thirty-two or thirty-three—then I need all the help I can get.

Galina looks pleased, and assures me that she’ll find a space in the diary for my first facial. “Do not worry, Sharlee. I am not giving up on you. We will be making sure you are perfect.”

She heads back into the salon, leaving me to insert practically every coin I have into the ticket machine. You’d think this would pay for parking from now until Doomsday, but I still only manage to get a ticket to last me until half past ten this morning. Once I’ve put it in my windscreen, I head for the store, feeling vaguely unsettled as I go. It’s partly that I still haven’t been able to get hold of Lucy. And now it’s partly that Galina has just used the dreaded “P” word.

I mean,
perfect
is how Jay described me when he saw me naked on Friday night. And perfection—the kind of perfection you achieve only after hours of exercise, agony in the salon, and eye-watering expense at the hairdresser—feels a pretty daunting state to maintain.

Not that I’m 100 percent sure I’m managing to maintain it, even thus far. Already I’m getting the distinct impression that Jay, after the dizzying heights of Friday night, might be thinking I’m slightly less perfect than he boldly claimed. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly why I think this. The slightly stressy way we had sex on Saturday afternoon, perhaps (and most of the day on Sunday; Jay might have been oddly stressed, but
he obviously wasn’t about to let that interfere with his productivity). The subdued atmosphere in the car last night when he (sweetly, to save me from having to endure the motorway) drove me home in the MG. And if it’s hard to pinpoint the things that are making me think Jay is just a smidgen disillusioned by me, it’s even harder to pinpoint the source of his disillusionment. He didn’t, thank God, see that god-awful photograph of Fat Charlie, so it can’t be anything to do with that. I don’t even think it can be anything to do with the sex, seeing as he remained extremely vocal about his satisfaction with the process, and seeing as how he practically refused to let me out of bed for a full twenty-four hours from Saturday to Sunday. So I’m left with the niggling concern that it’s something to do with me being, up close, somewhat short of the perfection he’s accustomed to. Which is exactly what panicked me into the additional exercise, salon agonies, and expensive hair appointments in the first place.

Right now, the prospect of having to maintain this standard—for weeks? months? the rest of my life?—just to “hang on” to Jay is way too daunting to think about.

I’m still feeling unsettled half an hour later when—only ten minutes late for our scheduled meeting at eleven o’clock—Maggie trips through the door in her gloriously impractical sandals.

She lets out a little whoop when she sees me. “Was it heaven?”

For a moment, I have no idea what she’s talking about.

“I told you Jay would show you a good time, didn’t I? And from the look on your face, he barely let you out of the bedroom all weekend! You’re absolutely glowing. You shagged each other senseless, I can tell. Well, there’s not a woman in the land who would blame you, my darling. Make hay while the sun shines, and all that. Oh, I brought us doughnuts, too.” She fishes in her capacious Balenciaga tote, a bit like Mary
Poppins feeling around inside her carpet bag for goldfish and a hat stand, and pulls out a Krispy Kreme bag. “I don’t know about you, but I always need a second breakfast right around now.”

Actually, I’d have liked a
first
breakfast—well, one that didn’t consist of a blob of no-fat yogurt, anyway (I’ve made a drastic executive decision to cut out the muesli from now on). My stomach lurches with hunger and desire as I watch Maggie take a doughnut out of the bag and clamp her lips around it. The sticky glaze catches the light in a way that—and I’m including the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo’s
David
, and a sunrise across the Californian desert in this—is possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The paper bag that she’s still holding out with her other hand is giving off a sweet, yeasty scent that could well, for a miserable dieter, be in direct contravention of the Geneva Convention against the use of torture.

“I’m fine,” I croak, exerting every last ounce of my willpower and managing to turn away from the paper bag, “actually. Maybe I’ll have one later.”

“Sure. It’s your funeral. Well, it’ll probably be more like my funeral, to be fair, if I don’t kick the Krispy Kreme habit.” She slings her tote onto the floor, parks her denim-clad bottom on one of the empty crates, pulls a chair towards her, and puts both feet on it, using her lap as a table to drop little flakes of sugar glaze onto. “Right, then. You’re off to this scary-sounding board meeting tomorrow?”

“Yes. Leo and Suzy should be getting here in half an hour or so with their designs, so I can take those with me.”

“Exciting! So, do you want me to come along with you tomorrow, just so I can happen to name-drop some of the A-list clients I’ve already got on the hook . . . Charlie?” She breaks off. “Uh, that was the point where you were meant to shriek with excitement and ask me
which
A-list clients I’ve already got on the hook.”

“God, sorry, yes.” The only reason I didn’t do what she was expecting, I’m ashamed to admit, is that I can’t get my mind off those doughnuts. “That sounds amazing, Maggie! Tell me who!”

“Well, I ran into Lily at Claridge’s on the weekend . . . that would be Lily Cole, as I hope you’re thrilled to hear . . . and she’s absolutely gagging to come along as soon as Glass Slippers is up and running . . .”

“Mm, that really is fantastic news. I wonder, actually, Maggie, if you could hand me one of those Krispy Kremes after all?”

“Sure.” She slings the bag in my direction. “And I was styling a
Vogue
shoot with the very lovely Emma Watson on Friday—she’s already inherited a pair of vintage Elroy Glasses from her mum, as it happens—and she’s very excited indeed about being able to get her hands on some more.”

I would answer—because that’s amazing news about Emma Watson, it really is—but I’ve just taken a bite of doughnut, and my brain is otherwise engaged (in raptures) right now.

“Now, Emma’s got a big premiere this coming Thursday night, so why don’t we pick out a few pairs in her size and I can try to get them to her stylist—he’s a good friend of mine, actually—and see if . . . Oooh.” Now Maggie is distracted, too, but not by a doughnut. She’s just looked out of the window and seen the MG. “Nice
car
.”

“Oh, that. Yes, I know. It’s a bit of a nightmare, parking-wise, but as soon as—”

“It’s yours? I didn’t know you had a yummy little speedster like that!”

“Um, well, it is mine now. I mean, Jay . . .” I trail off, suddenly feeling awkward.

“Jay gave it to you?”

“Mm.”

“No need to turn so red! I don’t think you’re a total whore or anything! Well, not because you accepted a car, anyway,” she adds, with a cheery wink. “Besides, Jay’s always been a big giver of gifts. Remember those aquamarine earrings I was wearing at his birthday party? They turned up next to the coffeepot on the breakfast table the morning after our third date. But a whole
car
, now . . .” She lets out a little whistle. “Like I said before, he must really,
really
like you.”

“Do you think?” I’ve felt awkward about discussing Jay with her before, but I’m suddenly desperate. After all, I haven’t had the chance, yet, to discuss anything about the weekend with Lucy. “I mean, I know you don’t exactly go around giving cars to people if you
don’t
like them! But I’m just a little . . . well, it all seems a bit . . .”

“Full on?”

“Yes.”

“Sure, but that’s just Jay, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“’Course! He’s the most all-or-nothing guy I’ve ever known. I mean, while you’re with him, he’ll give you the most amazing ride of your life—and yes, I do mean the double entendre,” Maggie adds, with another of her winks, “and you just have to let go and enjoy it while it lasts.”

“While it lasts?”

“Oh, now, you mustn’t worry about that part, darling. Jay is always so incredibly civilized about breakups, and he couldn’t be nicer to his exes. Well, he has to be, doesn’t he? The poor guy can hardly step out of his front door without bumping into about five of them . . . Oh, God.” Maggie stops talking. She’s staring at me, no longer eating her doughnut. “You . . . don’t think this is a long-term thing, do you?”

I open my mouth to say
no, are you crazy
, and quite possibly to let out a good old rip-roaring laugh, too. But neither the words nor the laugh are forthcoming.

“Charlie . . .” Concern is etched on Maggie’s usually cheeky face. “It’s just that Jay’s pattern . . . Well, he’s not all that big on reality, that’s all. And the faster and harder he falls for a girl, the sooner he starts to find fault with her.”

“Fault?”

“Well, nobody can stay up on that lofty pedestal for long.”

“Pedestal,” I echo.

“Come on, Charlie, you can’t have failed to notice that he puts his women up on a pedestal? Honestly, every moment I was with him, I felt like a bloody
goddess
.”

The word jabs at me, somewhere in the region of my solar plexus. I wince.

“Oh, God, Charlie, I’ve upset you.” Stricken, Maggie leaps down from the table and puts an arm around me. “Look, ignore me, okay? What the hell do I know? I only managed about six dates with Jay Broderick. Six dates and a crappy old pair of Tiffany earrings.”

I’m aware that she’s joking about the crappiness of the earrings, so I give a little laugh. It’s a fairly hollow-sounding one. Oddly, though, and in a doom-laden sort of way, I’m comforted by one thing: I’m not, apparently, entirely paranoid. Jay’s disillusionment isn’t just a figment of my imagination.

“And who knows,” she carries on, “probably a year from now, I’ll be eating my words! I’ll probably be helping you choose the designer for your wedding dress, and we’ll be here picking out a pair of your dad’s shoes to wear for the Big Day instead of picking out a pair for Emma Watson’s premiere.”

Now I’m aware that she’s trying to be extra nice, so I make sure I give her a big smile, and even suggest a second doughnut for each of us. Then I deliberately get us off the topic of Jay, of pedestals, of faults and of goddesses, and back onto the important matter of tomorrow’s presentation to the board of directors.