Olivia’s Luck (2000) (53 page)

She rubbed her eyes. “Blimey, at this hour? God, you’ll be there in half an hour, there’ll be so little traffic. I’m not sure the shops open at seven thirty, do they?”

“Ah, but I’ll get a good parking place,” I beamed. “So exciting. I’ve been – ”

“Looking forward to it for months,” said Claudia wearily, pushing past me with her arms full. “You’ve told us that about twenty times. She’s lost it,” she informed Amanda as she went on past her and trudged upstairs to find Lucy, whom she’d no doubt crash out next to on her bed. “She’s really lost it this time. We’re talking beyond Prozac.”

Oh God, was I overdoing it? I wondered, as I fled back down the path. Making too much of a meal of it? That would look even more peculiar. I must calm down. As Lance had said, this was absolutely nothing to do with me. Don’t panic. Nevertheless, as I roared up the Ml, every so often an image of Alf, kneeling, and holding a blood-soaked Vi in his arms, like Lear, sobbing over a lifeless Cordelia, would spring to mind and make me clutch my mouth with horror, and simultaneously put my foot down in an attempt to distance myself.

As a result, the speedometer hit 90, and I found myself in central London by seven forty-five along with all the early bird commuters. I parked in a Knightsbridge NCP, bought a paper, then had tea and toast in the Brompton Arcade, feeling I really should have a hat and dark glasses on in case someone recognised me and asked me why the devil I wasn’t at home, where I belonged. The minutes ticked by. As I sat at the little cafe table I peered over my paper, gazed around a bit, a little more adventurously now perhaps for a wanted woman, and looked at my watch. Eight fifteen. Good grief, only eight fifteen! What the hell was I supposed to do now?

“Um, what time do the shops open?” I bravely asked my Italian waiter, breaking my cover as he sauntered languidly up with my third cup of tea.

He shrugged, shoulders up around his ears somewhere. “Ees supposed to be ten, but you know, ees summer time, so…”

So – what, the shopkeepers have a lie in? I sighed. Excellent news. Well, the plan was to stay for late-night shopping and go home at about ten o’clock. At this rate I’d have to shop till I was vomiting. More tea was required. I ordered it and read the
Daily Mail
more minutely – from cover to cover, in fact – until I noticed that according to Patrick Walker’s replacement, Saturn was dominating my sphere and would undoubtedly be my downfall today. “Don’t expect to come up smelling of roses if you’ve deliberately deceived someone,” it warned grimly. I put the paper down with quivering hands, wondering if the deceived detective was even now banging on my front door, demanding to see the lady of the house, sniffing around to see which criminals I was harbouring today. Heavens, how brave those Resistance people must have been, with fighter pilots in the attic, whilst here was I, quivering with nerves at the thought of a brace of brickies in a caravan. Calm down, Olivia, just calm down. In an effort to do so, I emptied the entire contents of my handbag on to the table and sorted it out methodically. This, in the event, was just as well, because it was during this little operation, that a plan was hatched. You see, as I sorted around amongst the ancient cough lozenges, the parking tickets, the sweetie wrappers and a very tired-looking tampon, there, nestling at the bottom of my handbag, I spotted two tickets. Two tickets to a concert at the Wigmore Hall.

I sat back and stared at them. Of course, Hugh had given them to me, hadn’t he, and I must have stuffed them in my bag. I took a sip of tea, turning them over in my hand. Yes, why not? Why not, in fact, spend the entire day preparing for this very event? Why not go to the hairdresser’s, buy a new dress to wear, maybe even have my nails done for the first time in my life, and then, looking drop-dead gorgeous – well, as near as damn it, anyway – swan off to the concert in the evening? Imogen would be there, of course, and we could probably sit together since Hugo would be conducting, and naturally Sebastian would be there too…

I took another sip of tea. It was colder than one would wish. I hadn’t allowed myself to think about Sebastian yet, you see. Since Johnny had gone, I realised I’d mentally put him up on a high shelf so I couldn’t reach him. Not out of my mind, because that was impossible, but out of reach, because that was where I knew him to be. But I missed him – yes, of course I did. I missed the easy friendship we’d had and his downright niceness but, more than that, something deeper, more visceral, something in my heart ached for him too. If I allowed it. Mostly I didn’t, but just occasionally I’d let it out of its cage, give myself a glimpse of him, at Hugh and Molly’s maybe, his face creasing up with sudden mirth as he chewed gamely on a burnt sausage, or hauling a dripping Claudia out of the river, or just the two of us together, cooking in his basement kitchen, giggling as we threw Maureen’s putrid casserole in the bin…

I traced the gingham pattern on the cafe tablecloth sadly. I knew I’d blown it, you see. I realised that. I knew I’d always thought of Sebastian as a first reserve, a sort of – well, if Johnny doesn’t come back then who knows? Better than Malcolm and Rollo and Lance but not as good as Johnny. And I’d more or less said as much, hadn’t I? Said, sorry Seb, old boy, Johnny’s back now, I’m afraid, so it’s bye-bye and on yer bike, OK? Well, I could hardly turn round now and say – hey, guess what, great news! He’s gone, so you’re on again! Except that Johnny hadn’t gone. I’d thrown him out. Surely that was different? Surely that changed the whole complexion of the situation somewhat? And maybe if I explained that to Sebastian, maybe if I didn’t ask for too much, no more than our familiar old friendship back, then perhaps – perhaps something deeper could develop? Into what it should have been?

I lit a cigarette and watched a couple go by, arm in arm, the boy turning to drop a kiss on the girl’s head. I glanced dreamily down at the tickets and for one giddy moment, saw Sebastian with his arm through mine, turning to drop a – Christ! My eyes suddenly snagged on a headline in the
Daily Mail
. “British girl arrested for her part in cover-up.” I gasped, horrified, and read on. Oh – drugs, oh no, no, I wasn’t involved in that, thank heavens, but what was I
thinking
of? Sitting here, mooning about Sebastian, when all the time…didn’t I have enough on my plate? I mean, I had the murder squad on my doorstep, the boys in blue snooping round my house, what I needed was advice, not frigging romance! I took a deep, deep drag on my cigarette. OK, I reasoned calmly, so forget the romance bit, but – how about if I just talked to him? To Sebastian? About my present pickle? About the almighty Horlicks I seemed to have got myself into? See if he could give me some words of wisdom, some words of advice, because actually, I realised with a jolt, his were the only words I’d care to listen to. If he told me to go straight to the police, do not pass Go, do not collect £200 then I would, unreservedly, and conversely, if he said I was under no compulsion to do anything of the kind, well then, I’d go along with that, too.

Of course, I reasoned, packing up my bag again, it would be nigh on impossible tonight. I could hardly sneak up to him in the interval, tug at his sleeve and hiss, “Listen, Seb, down at the bottom of the garden where most people have fairies, I’ve got these self-confessed killers who are frightfully sorry but would like me to cover up for them, what d’you think? Loved the violins in the first half, by the way.” No, no, that would never do. But perhaps afterwards, if I crept backstage and caught his eye, then maybe I could pass him a note? Ask him, if he wasn’t too busy, if he could possibly spare a moment tomorrow? At about six in the morning, before the police popped round again?

I gulped and took another terrified drag of my cigarette, but felt relieved at least, to have something of a plan. Something to cling to. Resolving to stick to it, I heaved my by now groaning bladder from the chair, tottered to the counter to pay for four cups of tea, then embarked on my exhausting day.

As I trailed between Harvey Nichols and Harrods, filling in cancelled manicures here, and leg wax appointments there, it occurred to me to wonder how on earth French women managed it? All this beautifying? On a weekly basis? What, face, nails, toes, the lot? How very tiring, and how on earth did they find time to prick out their dahlias? As I emerged from yet another salon, having gamely entrusted myself to a student who’d never plucked an eyebrow in her life but was keen to try, I finally ended up, sans eyebrows, at the hairdresser’s, with Marco, a drop-dead gorgeous blond, standing behind me.

I could tell at a glance that Marco was more used to positioning himself behind members of his own sex, and was standing now as though he was slightly uncomfortable, as though there might even have been someone standing behind him last night. Gosh, it could go on for ever, couldn’t it, I thought, lines of them, my mind boggling at the possibilities. Marco gave a little sigh.

“So what are we doing today then?” he enquired in a bored little voice, gazing distractedly across the salon to where a fresh-faced young lad was sweeping the floor.

“We’re doing sex and glamour,” I informed him firmly.

His peroxide head spun back like a machine gun, and his eyes met mine in the mirror. “Ambitious,” he murmured doubtfully. Then arching his eyebrows in pained disdain he began plucking sniffily at my split ends. “But then again,” he murmured, “I always like a challenge.” Pausing only to shriek imperiously, “Cindy, a coffee for my lady, please!” he pursed his lips, clenched his tight little buttocks, flexed his scissors, and went to work with alacrity.

Well, I have to say that half an hour later, albeit with a frightening amount of hair on the floor and an exhausted Marco behind me, the end result wasn’t half bad. He’d cut it short, shorter than I’d normally have it, but had given me a long and sexy fringe which flopped right down over one eye, and which I had to flick back if I wanted to see daylight.

“What am I supposed to do with this then?” I said, lifting it doubtfully.

He sighed. “You’re supposed to smoulder through it, darling, but if that’s a problem I’ll cut it off.”

“Oh!” I dropped it. “No, that’s not a problem at all, watch.” I pouted kittenishly at him in the mirror.

He shuddered and reached for the scissors. “Off, then.”

“No no!” I laughed, stopping his hand, “I’ll practise. Trust me, Marco, in a couple of hours I’ll be smouldering so hard I’ll have half the men in London spontaneously combusting.”

“Scary,” he muttered drily, tossing his pretty little head and tucking his scissors in his tight back pocket. “Well, be sure to leave a nice red-hot one for me.”

I assured him that I would and as he minced away I sailed out, feeling really rather sassy and pleased with myself. I kept catching glimpses of myself in the mirrors as I rode the Harvey Nicks escalators, and the effect was so gratifying, it gave me the confidence to sail straight into the hushed portals of the Donna Karan franchise and try on the first little black dress I came across. Yes, OK, it was a bit tight across the bottom and perhaps a bit short – sleeveless and backless too – but, boy, did it look terrific. I bounced out of the changing room delightedly and saw the young, male sales assistant glance admiringly.

“You don’t think it’s a bit young for me?” I asked with a confident smile.

“You’re right,” he nodded, “it is. How about this?”

Thunderstruck, I watched as he minced to a rail and plucked out a vast black tent. He dangled the hangar from his manicured little pinky and raised his eyebrows quizzically. Bastard. This was clearly Marco’s boyfriend and there was obviously some homosexual conspiracy afoot here to put thirty-something women in their place. Well I, for one, wasn’t going.

“I’ll take it,” I said, smiling sweetly, “and what’s more, I’ll be wearing it this evening!”

“Certainly, madam,” he murmured demurely, gliding seamlessly to the cash desk, “but if you don’t mind my saying, madam might want to pop to the beauty salon, first.”

“Bloody cheek!” I seethed. “Madam has just spent three hours up in the beauty salon, actually!”

“Ah, but not in the depilatory section, I’ll warrant,” he purred.

“Oh!” I clenched my arms to my side. “Yes, right. Well, I’ll see.”

Flushing but fuming I paid and stalked away. Actually I was a teeny bit grateful, too. God, imagine hailing Sebastian in the Wigmore Hall, looking like a Romanian shot putter? Flowing freely? I shuddered and dashed to Boots for a packet of Gillette, decorated a lavatory pan in the ladies, and then totally plucked, shaved, coiffured and painted – and somewhat stressed now, too – I hailed a taxi to take me to the other end of the Kings Road, where I was pretty sure the latest Hugh Grant film was showing, and where I was also pretty sure I could hole up for a couple of hours and pick my nails in private.

The first time I watched it I laughed, the second time I slept through it, and then when I awoke, sometime later, it was five thirty. I looked at my watch and blinked. Perfect. I’d had a nice relaxing snooze, felt totally refreshed, and now I had precisely half an hour in which to go back to Harvey Nichols, monopolise the ladies, put on my dress, fiddle with my fringe, apply the make-up, and dump my clothes and shopping bags in the boot of the car.

I arrived at the concert early. For some reason I’d imagined the Wigmore Hall to be somewhere arty, somewhere on the South Bank perhaps, or even in the Barbican, so when I hailed a cab, it was with a good half an hour to spare. I felt slightly foolish when I realised the venue was literally five minutes away in, funnily enough…Wigmore Street. Once outside I loitered nervously on the steps for a bit. There was no one else going in and I didn’t want to be the first, so I pretended I was studying the programme which was stuck up in a glass case, like a restaurant menu, and which meant absolutely nothing to me, save for the fact that Sebastian’s name was writ large at the top.

“
Night of the Spirits
by Sebastian Faulkner; performed by the London Symphony Orchestra.”

I swallowed. Quite something, really, one way and another, to have one’s work performed here by the likes of them, surely? I suddenly wondered if a little black dress and a floppy fringe were quite the thing? I also wished to God I’d thought to ring Imo at work. How stupid of me! We could have gone together, met at the gallery, had a couple of drinks first perhaps. Still, people appeared to be arriving in dribs and drabs now, and even going inside, so I crept in behind a hugely sartorial group, pulling my dress down a bit at the back.