Authors: Jo Watson
And I just tip them all into bin bags without looking through them again. I know I’m going to miss some clothes. But I’ve got to see it as an opportunity to buy new ones, haven’t I?
If I don’t, all my too-small clothes will sneak their way back into my wardrobe without me even knowing it.
And clinging on to those the past isn’t a trait of a confident woman, is it?
Chapter Twelve
And so I’ve done it! I didn’t get a lot of sleep (because of the time it took sorting through the mess and the general worry that I might have thrown something important away), but when I wake up, there are three full bin bags sitting at the foot of my bed. They’re all tied up as tightly as possible so that I’m not tempted to peep at the contents and change my mind about anything, and the open wardrobe reveals all my remaining clothes, looking neat and tidy.
This is amazing. This must be how women who are confident feel all the time.
Okay. The issue of whether or not it’s normal to still own clothes ranging from a size eight to a size fourteen is a debate that’s yet to be settled in my head, but at least I’ve taken one confident step forwards and purged my wardrobe of any tiny skirts that I haven’t fit into since I left school.
After a quick shower, I flick through the rails of clothing like a customer browsing in a shop, ending up in a cream shift dress (size fourteen, but you can’t tell) and a navy blazer that I’d totally forgotten I had.
Now I even
look
like I have some self-confidence.
I just wish I didn’t have to get on the bus to work. I’m going to look so out of place sitting next to Gladys from across the road as she starts her commute in her grubby cardigan and riding boots.
Confident women all drive flash cars, don’t they? Like Nora and Helen. Like Anna from marketing. Even Bryony sodding Hudson drives, even though her Citroën C3 isn’t exactly flashy.
And Scarlett only gave up on her driving lessons because she ended up renting a flat in central Leeds and said she didn’t need a car. It’s not like she wouldn’t be any good at it.
Maybe, after I’ve completed Olivia Bright’s list, I’ll learn to drive. I mean, why not? There is the matter of the stationary-car-in-the-car-park incident that happened when I was a naive seventeen-year-old, but the vehicle’s owner was really understanding about it all.
And I’m bound to be better at it now, aren’t I? Women who wear shift dresses and blazers never stall their cars (or use other cars in place of their brakes).
I wonder if my mum is still friendly with her old next-door neighbour, Mrs. Casey. Apparently her daughter became a driving instructor.
It’s probably really cool to be taught by another woman. I bet they can teach you all sorts of things that a man would be clueless about. Like how to drive in stilettos and when’s the best time to apply lipstick using your rear-view mirror.
I’m starting to think it was an oversight on Olivia Bright’s part not to include learning to drive on her list. Maybe I could write my own follow-up list after I’m done. Or maybe the magazine has a similar project lined up for Olivia to write next. I have been buying each weekly issue with the hope that something else will appear with her byline, but so far, there’s been nothing.
The next step is the bit about cooking. Beyond loading the BBC food website onto my computer at work, I haven’t given it much thought.
I stare at the images of dishes I’ll never be able to make and sigh when I read the complicated recipes.
Helen appears behind me, carrying a stack of paper from the photocopier.
I click off the website as fast as I can and turn to smile at her.
“Good morning,” she says.
“Morning.” I wait for her to leave but she hovers around my desk. “What can I do for you?”
“So what can I do for you?”
“I saw what you were doing.” She nods at my computer, now open to my company email.
“I wasn’t doing anything.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell Nora. I have a personal assignment that you might be able to help me with.”
“What sort of assignment?”
“Looking up holidays,” she says. “I’ve got the time off and I want to get something booked. And I’m basically your boss until Nora comes in.”
“So that means I have to do what you say, does it?”
She grins. “That’s right.”
I shrug, happy to take a break from work. “Where were you thinking of going?”
“Cyprus?” she suggests.
I shrug. “Sure. Anywhere in particular?”
“I found a nice hotel earlier.” She returns to her own desk, angling her computer screen so that I can see.
I squint at the on-screen image of a tall white building surrounded by sparkling turquoise water.
“What about Spain?” Scarlett looks up at the picture.
“Ooh! Somewhere like Benalmádena or Salou,” Helen claps her hands.
“I was thinking more like Benidorm,” Scarlett says. “You know, get a cheap flight to Alicante and then sort out some accommodation somewhere close to all the attractions.”
Helen’s eyebrows are firmly lifted. “By ‘attractions,’ do you mean ‘nightlife’?”
“Well…yeah.” Scarlett smiles. “Oh, you’d love it there! There are some great tribute acts. And guess what? There are multiple Michael Bublés. You can pick your favourite!”
My hands freeze a few centimetres off my keyboard. She knows. Oh, my God, she knows that I thought up that stupid nickname.
“Do you know who I think he looks like?” asks Helen. “Don’t you think he looks a bit like Liam?”
“Yes!” Scarlett agrees. “It’s the eyes, isn’t it?”
“And the hair!” Helen laughs.
My hands drop to a resting position. It’s okay. They haven’t found out any more embarrassing secrets about me.
I thought I was the only one who could see the Bublé resemblance! I’m so tempted to join in this conversation with girly chatters about the precise shape of Liam’s eyebrows. But it won’t help matters, considering I’ve only just got Scarlett to drop the whole issue of me asking him out.
“D’you reckon he can sing, too?” Scarlett muses.
“Who?” asks a voice.
We all turn to see Bublé-Face himself leaning casually in the doorway, an amused smirk on his face. “You mean Michael Bublé? Bloke’s not a bad singer. Terrible dancer, though.”
My jaw clamps shut. There is absolutely no way that I am going to say anything right now. I could pretend that I was too engrossed in my work to have any idea what my colleagues were just talking about. But that doesn’t sound like me, does it?
“Could I pull it off then, Scarlett?” He runs a hand through his dark spikey hair. “Would I pass for a Bublé tribute act in Benidorm?”
“Oh, definitely.” Scarlett nods. “I have a friend over there who works in a show bar if you want me to put in a good word for you.”
New idea. I could gradually sink farther into my chair until I’m completely hidden behind my computer. Hopefully he won’t even notice that I’m here.
“Go on then,” Helen encourages, “give us a few bars of ‘Haven’t Met You Yet.’”
He steps closer to my desk, and I duck my head. “Sorry. I can’t hold a single note. Do you want to see me dance instead?”
I start typing something frantically into my computer, hitting random keys and staring at the lines of nonsense on the otherwise blank Word document.
Helen looks over at me, her eyebrows furrowed. “Are you okay, Megan?”
“What? Oh. Yes. I’m fine.” I barely lift my head to make eye contact. “Just, you know, pretty busy.”
“Really?” Scarlett spins in her chair, its wheels rolling closer to my desk. “I thought you were looking up flights.”
Why did I choose a V-neck dress? Already I can feel the heat spreading downwards from my face to my exposed neck and chest.
“Well, Nora’s due back any minute.” I open up a new document in Word.
“Actually she’s not,” says Liam. “My boss just got back from a meeting with her and said she went home with a migraine..”
Helen turns and beams at me. “That means I’m in charge. You know what I think we should do all day?” She extends a finger to the picture of the beautiful Greek resort still glistening at me from her computer screen.
“We do have real work to do,” I tell her.
“But I’m the boss.” She pouts.
I sigh. “Fine. I’ll try flights to Alicante.”
“And I’ll find a nice hotel,” she says.
“And I’ll tell you if I’ve stayed there!” adds Scarlett.
Liam looks between the three of us and laughs. “I’ll leave you ladies to it.”
Once he’s vacated the office, I focus on my newly assigned job without looking at the other two women so that they can’t make any comments about Liam and me.
“Which of you lovely ladies wants to come with me?” Helen asks as she starts a new search.
I glance at Scarlett. The two of them would have a great time getting drunk and chatting up guys.
“You should go, Scar,” I say.
She shakes her head. “I’ve been loads of times.”
“I don’t know if I can afford it,” I admit, scanning the prices of flights. “You two can go.”
“I can’t,” Scarlett insists.
Helen frowns and turns her chair to face Scarlett. “Okay. What are you not telling us?”
“What do you mean?” She looks away.
“Do you expect me to believe that you’re going to pass up on the opportunity to drink sangria in the sun all day for no reason?”
“I never said there isn’t a reason.”
“Come on then,” says Helen. “What is it?”
“What’s what?”
“What’s so important that you’d be willing to stay on our dreary little island for? You haven’t met a guy, have you?” Helen looks briefly at me, and I shake my head to signify that I don’t know anything.
Scarlett sighs. “Not exactly.”
“Not exactly?” I repeat. “What do you mean? Either you have or you haven’t met someone.”
“Tell us who he is!” Helen demands when Scarlett still remains silent.
Suddenly, I have this awful feeling that Scarlett’s about to say something I don’t want to hear. Look at how she acted when Liam walked in. She was practically flirting with him right here in the office.
What if Liam’s been interested in Scarlett all along?
I haven’t quite aligned in my head why she would bother trying to set me up with him if that was the case when Scarlett groans. “Fine. I’ll tell you. But you’re not going to be happy about it.”
Helen chews on her French-tipped fingernail as she slides her chair closer to Scarlett’s desk.
I plant my feet on either side of my chair’s wheel base, in case the office furniture takes on a life of its own and sends me spinning across the room at whatever it is she’s about to say.
“I can’t go on a boozy girls’ holiday.” Scarlett lowers her head so her pale face is hidden by a mass of dark hair.
“I think we’ve already established that.” Helen folds her arms.
“No, you don’t understand.” Scarlett looks up suddenly, and I see the glisten of tears forming in her brown eyes. “I can’t go because I’m pregnant.”
Chapter Thirteen
Scarlett and I became friends mostly because of our mutual love of shopping. Obviously this was helped along by the fact that we spend eight hours a day sitting at adjacent desks in a stuffy office.
Today, after we’re released from work early by acting-boss Helen, the two of us have some shopping to do.
But it’s not exactly hitting the sales in H&M.
“I’m probably not even pregnant,” Scarlett insists as I drag her along to Boots.
“That’s why you need the test.”
Scarlett pulls her pale pink coat sleeve free from my grasp. “But what if I’m not? Don’t you think I should wait a bit longer?”
“No.” I grab her again before she can run off and hide in the crowds passing the Merrion Centre. “How late are you?”
“Well, technically I’ve completely missed October’s period now. But I searched it on Google, and it said that I could still have one in November. Maybe they’re just irregular or something.” She shrugs as though she thinks that could be a reason for not having her monthly cycle.
“What about any other symptoms? Morning sickness?”
She examines a loose button on her coat. “It
could
have been food poisoning.”
I roll my eyes. “Let’s get to Boots and buy the bloody test.”
“But I don’t want to be pregnant,” Scarlett wails, flapping her free arm and almost knocking out a man walking past us.
“Can I ask a stupid question? Why didn’t you use contraception?”
“Because I’m not eighteen anymore. I don’t exactly carry condoms around in my handbag. And men expect you to have it covered anyway.”
“Have what covered?” I raise my eyebrows.
“Oh shut up, Megan! The truth is that I didn’t think about it, okay? I’m that stupid girl who everybody pities. There. I’ve said it. Now, can we just get this over with please?” She marches off through the shopping centre doors and in the direction of Boots.
I up my standard walking pace to catch up with her, still not convinced that she isn’t going to make a run for it. “So what about the father? Are you going to tell me who he is?”
She shoots me a disdainful look. “Until proven otherwise, he is not anybody’s father. We shall refer to him as Mr. One-Night Stand.”
“Fine.” I try a different approach. “Is it somebody I know?”
“Does it matter?”
“Well, yeah, I think it matters quite a lot when it comes to bringing up a baby.”
Scarlett stops outside the entrance to Boots. “I’ve told you, it’s not a baby until I’ve seen those two blue lines.”
“I think some of them use little plus signs,” I point out.
“Whatever,” she growls, dragging me inside the shop.
We eventually find the aisle we’re looking for without having to ask a sales assistant.
There are boxes and boxes of pregnancy tests stacked up right next to the condoms, which is a joke I daren’t mention to Scarlett, so I hide my laughter behind my scarf.
“Which one do I get?” She scans the different products. “I had no idea there were this many. Do I need one test or two?”
I pick up a box for a digital test. “How about this one? It tells you how far along you are, too.”
“Isn’t that just brilliant?” She snatches the box out of my hands and throws it back onto the shelf. “I don’t need to know that! It only happened once.”