Don’t You Forget About Me (24 page)

‘And I’m going to get wine, and lots of nibbles . . . which obviously I can’t eat . . .’ she adds hastily, ‘but I thought it would be a nice girlie evening. What about you? Seeing Seb?’ She gives me a nudge-nudge-wink-wink kind of look.

I shake my head. ‘No, he’s gone to Geneva for the weekend on business.’

‘Are you going to miss him?’ Fiona reaches across and squeezes my arm sympathetically.

‘It’s only for a couple of days,’ I smile ruefully. It’s true, I am going to miss Seb but, to tell the truth, it will also be nice to have a little time by myself. This week has been pretty hectic. What with staying up till 3 a.m. watching
Star Wars
on a loop, bikini-waxing at the crack of dawn, not to mention last night and this morning, I’m actually pretty exhausted. Don’t get me wrong, it’s been amazing, but I need some time to recover. Plus my jaw is aching from all that . . .

Well,
you know
.

I don’t want to get lockjaw, for Christ’s sakes.

We thank the assistants and Fiona leaves her card, promising she’ll send them a copy of her column with the article.

‘To be honest I really fancy a night in,’ I confess, as we push open the door and step into the wintry evening.

‘You do?’ asks Fiona delightedly. ‘Brilliant! You can join our girlie night!’ Linking her arm with mine, she beams at me. ‘We’ll have so much fun!’

‘Great,’ I smile and, ignoring my plummeting stomach, I fix a grin to my face like a ventriloquist dummy’s. ‘I can’t wait.’

Chapter 19

Arriving back at the flat, Fiona whips herself up into a frenzy of house-cleaning. With a screech of ‘Pass me the Marigolds!’, she dashes around the flat in her stilettos, a blur of yellow rubber, until, after twenty minutes, gone are the piles of paperwork, mouldy coffee cups and overflowing ashtrays that have taken over the kitchen table like a bunch of squatters.

In their place are artfully arranged bowls of nibbles, a vase of fresh flowers and a bottle of wine chilling in an ice bucket. And not just the usual £4.99 Chardonnay from the local off-licence, but an expensive bottle from a rather swanky wine merchant’s in Kensington, where the salesman went on and on about gooseberry undertones and lemongrass aromas, until finally Fiona blurted, ‘Yes, but will it taste
expensive
?’

As for the shampoo and moisturiser mountain, it’s now been transformed into a display on the kitchen counters that would give Selfridges’ beauty hall a run for its face creams.

Suddenly the buzzer goes.

‘Oh my god, they’re here!’ gasps Fiona, yanking off the rubber gloves and lurching for her lip gloss. She’s all jittery and nervous like she’s going on a first date. ‘How do I look?’ she gasps, fiddling with her hair and pulling down her dress.

‘You look great,’ I reassure her. She’s changed into a new dress which, like everything in Fiona’s wardrobe, is a size too small ‘for me to diet into’ and is breathing in so hard she looks as if she might pop at any moment. ‘Everything looks great, don’t worry.’

‘I know, but it’s the first time Pippa’s been to the flat. I’ve invited her over tons of times, but she’s always been too busy before.’

‘Hmmm, I bet,’ I murmur. Funny how when there are lots of free beauty products up for grabs, she can manage to find the time in her packed schedule.

Grabbing the intercom, Fiona hastily buzzes them in. ‘Hi darling, top floor,’ she trills in her posh voice.

‘Where’s the lift?’ crackles Pippa through the speaker.

Fiona looks stricken. ‘Um . . . actually we don’t have one,’ she flusters.

‘No lift!’ exclaims Pippa in disbelief. ‘Do you mean I have to carry my Birkin up all these stairs?’

I’m speechless. She cannot be serious.

‘Oh dear, I’m sorry . . .’ Fiona begins apologising profusely. ‘If you want I can come down and carry it for you . . .’

I have to wrestle the intercom from her. ‘It’s flat number seven. See you in a few minutes!’ I instruct, before hanging up and shoving the handset back on its cradle.

Fiona stares at me wordlessly, as if not quite sure what just happened.

‘Well, don’t you need to finish putting on mascara . . . or something?’ I say innocently, quickly turning away before she can argue, and pretending to polish an already spotlessly clean wine glass.

A few minutes later there’s the loud clattering of Louboutin heels and Pippa and her entourage appear, red-faced and breathless.

‘You made it!’ beams Fiona, greeting them like visiting royalty. I haven’t seen Fiona this thrilled since she lost ten pounds the Christmas before last from a bad case of tonsillitis.

‘Only just,’ gasps Pippa, lurching into the hallway as if she’s about to collapse. A troop of skinny blonde girls follow, grumbling loudly and panting like my parents’ Labrador. ‘I’m surprised I didn’t have a heart attack.’

‘Really? And there was me thinking you’d run up those stairs,’ I interject with an air of surprise, ‘what with all that working out you do with the personal trainer Fiona’s been telling me all about.’ I smile sweetly.

‘Er, right . . . yah,’ Pippa smiles tightly and gives me the evils.

‘Would you like any wine?’ offers Fiona, shimmying across the kitchen like something from
Abigail’s Party
, and starting to open the bottle that’s been chilling.

She’s completely ignored.

‘Where are the products?’ demands one of the blonde girls. I think it’s Grizzle, then again it could be Lolly – to be truthful it’s hard to tell them apart.

‘Oh, they’re over there on the—’

But before Fiona can finish she’s pushed roughly aside as the pack of blondes rush past and dive on her display like shoppers on the first day of the Harrods sale. ‘Ooh, look, wrinkle-smoothing serum . . . I want the Perfecting Fluid . . . give me the Protecting Complex Cream . . . No, I want it, you can have the mineral hair mask . . .’

As a scuffle breaks out over the beauty products, Fiona looks on with dismay.

‘I’ll have a glass,’ I say supportively.

As she pours me one, her other hand trembles, and I realise she’s nervous and am suddenly reminded of being back at school. Of how Fiona used to be so nervous around Susan Fletcher, the most popular girl in the class. She was actually a bit of a cow, but Fiona used to desperately want to be her friend. It was almost as if she hoped some of her confidence and popularity would rub off on her, as if by gaining her approval and being accepted as part of her gang, she would become one of them. Which, in return, meant she’d no longer have to be herself: a rather shy, frizzy-haired girl with puppy fat and a pushy mother.

‘Would anyone like any nibbles?’ Picking up a bowl of wasabi peas, Fiona tries again, but it’s as though she’s invisible. It’s a frenzy over there. I glance across at Pippa, who’s dumped her Birkin bag on a kitchen chair, and now has her arms full of face creams. Glumly Fiona puts the bowl back on the table.

‘Mmm, this is delicious wine,’ I say, giving her an encouraging smile.

‘Oh . . . good,’ she replies gratefully, but after all the effort she made, I can tell she’s horribly disappointed. This is not how she envisaged her evening going at all. I glare at Pippa & Co., and am just about to say something when I’m suddenly distracted by the Birkin bag.

Hang on a minute. Did that just
move
?

Which, of course, is ridiculous. Bags don’t move.

I stare at it for a few moments, but it remains still on the chair,
of course
, and glancing away I take a sip of my wine. Honestly, I’ve only had two mouthfuls of wine and I’m already seeing things.

It just wriggled!

I see it out of the corner of my eye. And this time I’m definitely not mistaken. It’s definitely wriggling! And sort of shaking. I stare at it, frozen, then suddenly a tiny pink nose appears and a pair of beady eyes, followed by a thin hairy body. As quick as a flash, it leaps into the bowl of wasabi peas.

‘Oh my god, it’s a rat!’ I gasp.

‘
A rat!
Where?’ shrieks Fiona, jumping backwards on her stilettos and piercing Pippa’s toe.

Who lets out an ear-splitting scream. ‘Argghhh!’

Which sets off everyone else until the kitchen is filled with the sounds of girls screaming hysterically and moisturisers flying everywhere as they cling onto each other in terror. ‘Oh my god a rat! It’s a rat! It’s—’

‘Tallulah!’ wails Pippa, suddenly breaking free and flinging herself across the table. ‘Darling Tallulah!’

Tallulah?

Abruptly everyone falls silent as she pounces on the rat and clutches it to her chest, stroking its little head and trilling and cooing in its ear as if it’s a baby.

She has a rat called Tallulah?

‘Don’t worry baby, Mummy’s here,’ she gushes, before looking up and glaring at me. ‘A rat!’ she snorts incredulously. ‘Tallulah happens to be my new puppy.’

‘That’s a dog?’ I stare at the tiny, rodent-like creature in amazement.

‘It’s not just a dog,’ she says hotly. ‘It’s a miniature Chinese crested breed. But then, silly me, of course you wouldn’t know anything about pedigrees, would you?’ She looks pointedly across at Flea, who’s sitting on the arm of the sofa, legs splayed. With perfect timing, he starts vigorously cleaning his bottom.

‘Well, never mind, panic over,’ interrupts Fiona, who’s down on her hands and knees on the kitchen floor, picking up all the products everyone dropped in their panic. ‘It was all a silly misunderstanding.’ Pulling herself upright, she pats her hair and gives everyone a bright smile. ‘I think we could all do with a lovely glass of wine, don’t you?’

‘’Fraid we can’t stay,’ shrugs one of the blondes, lighting up a cigarette.

‘It’s no smoking inside,’ I fib, annoyed that she didn’t ask if we minded.

‘Nonsense,’ says Fiona, laughing lightly and immediately providing her with an ashtray. ‘Please, everyone make themselves at home. I’ve got mushroom vol-au-vents in the oven.’

Pippa practically sneers. ‘Vol-au-vents? Do people eat those any more?’

Fiona looks somewhat confused. ‘Well, I got them from Waitrose—’

‘Thanks, but we really can’t stay.’

‘You’re leaving already?’ Fiona looks crestfallen.

‘I’m afraid so, sweetie. We’re going away for the weekend. Our friends Freddie and Bells have invited us to stay, only there’s just one teeny-tiny problem.’

‘What’s that?’ I demand, narrowing my eyes and peering at her suspiciously. I don’t like the sound of this.

‘Well, they’ve just had Zebedee, their adorable baby girl, which means I can’t take Tallulah. Babies and puppies and all that.’ She gives a tinkly little laugh.

‘No,’ I say firmly before she can ask. I know what’s coming next.

‘Tess,’ hisses Fiona, shooting me a look.

‘And so I was wondering if you’d look after Tallulah, just for a few days, while I’m gone . . .’ Blanking me, she gives Fiona one of her brightest, shiniest smiles. ‘You’re so wonderful with animals and there’s no one else I could trust with my beloved but you, Fifi . . .’

It works like a charm. In disbelief I watch Fiona’s disappointment melting away as she swells up with pride. ‘Well, if you’re sure, she
is
super-cute.’

‘What about Flea?’ I say.

‘Oh Tallulah is fine, she won’t try and eat your cat,’ says Pippa dismissively.

‘Yes, but Flea might try and eat Tallulah,’ I warn.

Pippa frowns and hugs her little rat-like dog tighter.

‘She’s only joking,’ reassures Fiona quickly. ‘Tess has got a very quirky sense of humour.’

‘Yes, hasn’t she?’ grimaces Pippa, handing over Tallulah, who immediately snags Fiona’s new dress with her diamanté collar.

‘OK, well, we must go, otherwise we’re going to miss our flight,’ interrupts one of the blondes, glancing at her watch.

‘Your flight?’ repeats Fiona, looking bewildered. ‘I thought Fred and Bells lived in Wiltshire?’

‘No, that’s Tiggy and Tarquin,’ corrects one of the blondes.

‘So where do they live, Pippa?’ I ask directly, fixing her with a look.

Fastening up her coat, she looks all shifty. ‘Oh, didn’t I say? Silly me.’ She gives a tinkly laugh. ‘Bali.’

‘
Bali?
’ gasps Fiona in astonishment.

‘You’ve got to be joking!’ I snort. ‘There is no way—’

But she doesn’t let me finish. ‘It’s a flying visit, I’ll be back before you know it,’ she says, quickly air-kissing Fiona on both cheeks. ‘
Mwoah, mwoah
, thanks darling, have a fabulous weekend . . .’

Grabbing her Birkin, she pauses by the kitchen counter on her way out. ‘Oh, mustn’t forget,’ she says lightly, and with a sweep of her hand clears the countertop and fills her bag with products, before continuing on her way. Followed by all the rest of the blondes, lugging bulging carrier bags, who march behind her into the hallway and out through the door.

Fiona hurries after them. ‘Bye, have a safe trip,’ she calls out from the doorway as they disappear into the communal stairwell.