Authors: Jo Watson
When Scarlett comes back, looking oddly pistachio-coloured, we all know something’s wrong.
“You should go home,” Nora orders, which is what she says when she’s scared she might catch something..
“I’m fine.” Scarlett waves a hand dismissively. “I just haven’t fully recovered.”
“You don’t look fine.” Helen edges back in her chair. “In fact, you look disgusting.”
“Thanks.” Scarlett gives her a meek smile. “And I go through my clothes all the time, Meg. I don’t want to be in the same outfit in all my Facebook pictures, do I?”
There’s the Scarlett I know. Maybe it is just food poisoning after all.
* * *
When I get home from work, I’m too exhausted to decide how many pairs of leggings I really need.
I step into the closet space and stare at the cluttered rail of garments.
Right. I know. I’ll just take everything out and then I can slowly add back in the stuff I want to keep. Then I’ll be able to buy more clothes to replace all the ones that I’m definitely getting rid of.
With an armful of clothes, I struggle towards the bed. After tripping over a beaded jacket and getting several coat hangers stuck in my hair, I end up with a mountain of clothes that look far worse consuming my purple, polka-dot bedding than when they were hanging in the wardrobe.
If Olivia Bright were here now, she’d probably say I was a complete failure. And that’s exactly how I feel.
Zara appears in the doorway to my bedroom, her eyes landing on the mess I’ve created. “Did all that come out of there?” She stares at the vacant space where my clothes used to be. “How the hell did you even get them in?”
“I do have some skills.” I shrug. “Mostly it involves doubling up on coat hangers.”
She pulls a face. “How can you see what you’ve got if everything is shoved on one hanger?”
The reason I don’t find this a problem is because I don’t trawl through my clothes, looking for something to wear. Most of the time, I choose the outfit that’s still sitting in the shopping bag waiting to be put away.
“I just know what clothes I have.” I ignore the urge to see what that orange velvet is, poking out from underneath all my office blouses.
“Well, if you need some help, I’ll be back later.”
I’ve only just noticed that she’s got her wool coat buttoned up, and she’s holding her leather gloves. “You’re going out?”
“I’ve got a meeting,” she says as she heads out the door. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
* * *
Exactly two hours later, there’s still no Zara and still no change to the mountain of clothes on my bed.
Obviously I
am
going to sort through them. It’s just that ITV2 is showing back-to-back episodes of
Gossip Girl,
and it’s all getting very dramatic with secret relationships and a masquerade ball.
I’ve actually got a dress perfect for a masquerade ball. And I might have a mask too. One of those identity-concealing ones so you can have all the secret relationships you want.
Oh, my God. That’s where Zara is. There might not be any masks involved, but she must be with a secret lover.
It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? That’s why she’s been so secretive recently. I wonder who it is. Maybe it’s Gary from the flat above. That would explain why she’s always so interested whenever we see him going somewhere.
I’ll have to interrogate Zara when she gets back.
Except it doesn’t quite happen like that.
I hear Gary from upstairs come home about an hour later, and I instantly run to the window to see if Zara is with him.
She isn’t.
And when it’s approaching midnight and she still isn’t back, I start to suspect that the occupant of the flat above might be some sort of axe murderer.
You hear about these things happening all the time, don’t you? Young girls being snatched by their supposed friendly neighbours, their bodies found by dog walkers in some deserted woodland.
When I get no answer from her mobile, I leave her a frantic message about Gary. Just in case.
I decide go to bed just soon after and see the pile of clothes still waiting for me to organise them.
Sod it. I’ll just sweep them all onto the floor and worry about it tomorrow.
Chapter Eleven
Wherever Zara was last night, it turns out that it wasn’t in the company of an axe murderer.
I wake up the next morning to find her crashed out on the settee, her pale face smudged with makeup, her wild acting as a pillow.
She can’t have been with Gary, either, so I guess that means I’ll have to rethink my earlier assumptions about who her mystery boyfriend is.
Oh, God. When did I become like Scarlett?
Leaving her to sleep, I head to work, where things aren’t any less weird.
Scarlett is at her desk, clutching a plastic bucket in one hand and copy of
Cosmopolitan
in the other.
“Morning,” she grunts, pushing her unusually wavy dark hair out of her face.
“Still sick?” I plonk my purse down on the desk and study her melon-green face.
She nods. “Don’t worry. You aren’t going to catch anything.”
“Does Nora know you’re here?” I scan the empty office.
Scarlett shakes her head. “That’s why I’m reading this.” She waves the magazine in the air. “Keep an eye on the door for me.” She places the bucket on the standard-issue, office brown carpet near her feet and flips the issue of
Cosmo
open on her desk.
I watch as her eyes flick over the printed pages, but it doesn’t’ look like she’s taking any of it in.
Food poisoning or not, I can tell something is going on with Scarlett. But I don’t ask her about it yet. I know that she’ll tell me when she’s ready to.
Tonight, I have an unavoidable arrangement to meet my mum and Phil for tea. She’s picked the Toby Carvery in Rothwell, just a five-minute walk back to my flat for when I make my excuses and leave.
I’d much rather be asking Zara a few questions about where she got to last night than suffering through an awkward evening meal with my mother, listening to her going on about how wonderful Bryony’s winter-wonderland engagement party is going to be.
She’s planning to hold the party outside. Outside! In freezing-cold English December. That’s a reason why I don’t want to go already. Aside from the fact that Bryony is likely to be completely insufferable at such an event, as per bloody usual.
Leaving work, the last person I want to see is Liam Wiseman. But of course, there he is in reception, leaning over the marble counter talking to Charlotte.
I give him a scornful look as I push open the heavy glass doors so that he’s clear that I definitely do not have a sad, pathetic crush on him.
Outside, I stop to adjust my unravelling scarf before I head off to meet Mum. Liam appears on the pavement beside me like he’s teleported there.
“Yes?” I say with a hard stare in his direction. “Do you want something?”
“I wondered if you had Nora’s phone number.” He fiddles with the buttons on his jacket. “I’ve got a report to get to her and Charlotte says she’s already gone.”
“Why would I have it?” I snap.
“I thought you two were friends.”
“I’m sure Charlotte’s got everything you need on that computer of hers.” I shove my hands in my coat pockets and turn to walk away.
“Hey, wait.” Liam rushes in front of me. “Look, Megan, I—”
“Liam?” Another colleagues appears behind him and starts up a conversation—one that doesn’t include me.
Liam turns away long enough for me to take my opportunity to leave and run to the bus station before he has any chance of catching up with me.
I don’t know what he was going to say, and I don’t suppose it matters now.
* * *
Mum waves me over as I enter the pub.
“Phil and Tim are just at the bar.” She beams at me.
Did she just say…Tim Hudson is here?
What the hell is Tim doing gate-crashing my already awkward family dinner?
Forget that. My mother probably invited him. She probably invited him before she asked me.
Okay. I can do this. All I have to do is stay for the meal and then make a swift exit. I probably won’t even have to talk to Tim.
“Here you are, Meggy.” Phil places a large glass of white wine in front of me. “Tim bought your drink.” He winks at me, and I cringe.
Of course Tim bought my drink. That would explain why it’s white wine, which I can’t stand.
“How’s work going, Megan?” Phil sits next to Mum, forcing Tim to take the only available chair beside mine.
“It’s fine.” I grit my teeth, forcing away the memory of Liam leaning over Charlotte.
“Tim’s looking for a job in Leeds now, aren’t you, love?” Mum smiles across the table at him.
“Yes, I think I’m going to be sticking around.” He slurps his beer. “Any jobs going at your place, Meg?”
What? Oh, God. He’s kidding, isn’t he? Please tell me he’s kidding.
Okay. I’ll just say something jokey back.
“I think one of the cleaning ladies is leaving.”
Mum frowns at me, and Phil clears his throat before taking a gulp from his pint.
“Seriously.” Tim looks at me from over the rim of his glasses. “I’m having a spot of trouble finding a job that suits my skills.”
“Really?” I take a sip of wine and wince. “Well, you found the job in London, didn’t you?”
“The company was affiliated with Cambridge University. All their connections are in London.”
“They must need lawyers in Leeds.” I look encouragingly at Mum, hoping she’ll chip in with some local information.
“I’m not sure if I want to be a lawyer anymore.” Tim slumps forwards in his seat.
Oh, no. This is bad enough without me acting as a careers advisor.
“Thirty years ago, you could have walked into a job like that.” Phil snaps his fingers. “Hard to imagine now.”
I eye the growing line of people filling their plates at the carvery counter. “Let’s go get something to eat,” I suggest, standing and nodding at the others to follow me.
Once we’ve eaten, there isn’t anything to talk about. My mother is unfamiliar with silence and tries to start a gossipy conversation about her neighbours, which soon leads on to the topic of Bryony and her bloody engagement party—as if she had scripted it to happen.
“It’s going to be spectacular, darling!” she describes in great detail how she’s going to decorate the garden.
“What if it snows?” I don’t want snowflakes landing in my champagne (not that I’m going to be drinking champagne again, but that’s just an example).
Mum blinks a few times. “Well, that’ll be lovely, won’t it? We were looking at those snow machines, but you wouldn’t believe how much they cost! I said she’d be better off spending that money on something nice for the wedding.”
I nod in agreement, glancing at my watch.
How long am I required to sit here and pretend to be interested in these things until I can make an excuse to leave?
It suddenly occurs to me that this time I genuinely do have an excuse. I’ve still got that mass of clothing waiting for me where I left it on my bedroom floor.
“Mum, you don’t mind if I shoot off, do you?” I grab my coat from the back of my chair.
“Aren’t you going to stay a bit longer?” she protests. “We’ve hardly seen you. And I’m sure you and Tim have got lots to talk about.”
“I’ve got something to do.” I tug my coat on.
“Something to do?” Phil repeats. “That sounds very mysterious.”
“It’s not,” I assure him. “I’ve just got to clear out my wardrobe. You know, the things that don’t fit anymore.”
“You look better with a bit of weight on you now,” Mum nods at my body, now hidden beneath the fur coat. “Our Meggy’s got a lovely figure, don’t you think, Tim?”
To save a red-faced Tim from answering that question, I jump in. “Right. Well. I’ll see you all later.” I loop my scarf around my neck and lift my hand in a limp imitation of a goodbye wave.
“But You’ve barely touched your drink,” Tim says.
I stare at the incriminatingly full wine glass on the table.
Mum stares at it, too. “I thought you didn’t like white wine?”
Oh, no. What do I say? I can’t tell her that I do because she’ll start buying it for me for Christmas. And I can’t admit that I don’t because it might hurt Tim’s feelings.
Phil scratches his chin. “Come to think of it, I’ve never seen you drink it.”
All three of them are looking up at me, expecting some sort of reaction.
With a shaking hand, I reach for the glass and pour its disgusting contents down my throat.
The only problem is, I don’t exactly aim very well for my mouth, and most of the liquid spills down my coat, soaking the leopard-print fur.
Surely I must have another winter coat hidden amongst my vast clothing collection.
* * *
Back at the flat, the only trace of the woman I supposedly live with is a hastily scribbled note pinned to the fridge, telling me not to expect her back until late.
I wander into my bedroom and stare at the mound of clothes practically serving as a patchwork mess of a carpet.
I kneel down, positioning myself between the foot of the bed and the chest of drawers. The first item I pick up is a black lacy dress with spaghetti straps. Why haven’t I worn this? It’s not that long since I bought it. I shrug and toss it onto the bed where I’ve decided my ‘keeps’ pile will be. Then I notice the hole snagged in the lace.
Is it that noticeable? I finger its rough edges. Well, I suppose that’s why I haven’t worn it.
But I can’t just throw it away. I chuck it to the far end of my bed, where it lands on the pillows. Nothing wrong with having an undecided pile, is there?
An hour later, when there’s nothing but a ratty old T-shirt in the bin liner, and my undecided pile is bigger than the heap of stuff I’m keeping, I decide that drastic action must be taken in order for this to work.
I gather up the undecided pile with both hands and shove it all into the bin bag. I have to cram to get it to fit. And I do have a few second thoughts about my Audrey Hepburn T-shirt. But at least I’ve done something.
All the items that I really care about get put back on the rail.
When that still leaves my wardrobe looking reasonably full (not so full that I won’t have room for that cable-knit jumper from Peacocks that I’ve had my eye on, of course), I turn to the remaining clothes still sitting in their various heaps on my bed.