Separate Lives (6 page)

So the driver did a U-turn and I said, “Two minutes . . .” and ran back into the club and though I'm not a member they were fine when I told them about my bag, and of course I found it straight away, exactly where I'd left it. It wasn't the kind of place where anybody was going to nick a bag, not even a Mulberry Bayswater—and I came out again and I don't think even two minutes had passed but I could see my cab disappearing down Old Compton Street, and I said, “Fuck!” and a guy who had been standing outside the club having a cigarette the first time I'd left said, “I saw that. I was a bit surprised too—but I think the driver thought it was you who got in—same hair, really similar coat. I don't
suppose he felt like he could chuck her out.” And I shrugged and decided to walk round the corner to find another cab.

And I nearly bumped into Gary, but I'm so glad I didn't. It was weird the way it happened, because if I hadn't forgotten my bag . . . well, anyway, everything went a bit slow-motion when I spotted him, standing in the doorway of a bar—and there was nothing odd about that: he hadn't said he was going home and I hadn't asked. No, what was weird was the fact that he was standing talking to a guy he obviously knew—they were laughing together and I was quite enjoying being able to look at Gary when he couldn't see me; he'd have had to have turned round to catch sight of me—when the other bloke, who was taller, suddenly leaned forward and kissed Gary on the forehead and then put one arm round his waist and squeezed his bum. And Gary carried on laughing and even though he removed the man's hand, he didn't pull away or look remotely put out or surprised. And then they both went inside the bar. And . . . and I could feel a hot blush rising from my chest and creeping up my neck and I felt . . . stupid, embarrassed.

You'll work it out
 . . .

I'd spent the whole of my career working alongside gay men and I like to think I have a pretty finely tuned gaydar—though clearly not as finely tuned as I'd thought—so yes, I'd worked it out. Even if Gary hadn't.

So anyway, Gary did call. On Sunday evening. I knew he would; he's a nice guy. He started saying how much fun he'd had on Friday and I bit my lip while he went on about this and that and then he said, “So, how about dinner? Thursday or Friday? Does that sound like a good idea?”

And I said, “Gary, it would've been a good idea, if . . .” and I faltered a bit. And Gary said, “What? What's up?!” and
I just thought, fuck it, tell it like it is . . . “if you weren't gay, Gary. It would be a good idea if you weren't gay.” And that stopped him for a moment. So I told him about going back for my bag and losing my cab and walking round the corner, and . . . and the silence was awful, but then he filled it.

“Actually, Pippa, I don't know if I am gay. But I might be. I probably am. I just don't know. But I do know that you are great and I like you a lot and I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.”

“Why are you going out on dates with women if you think you might be gay? I don't get that. It's fine for you to be gay but what the hell are you doing on Imnotinlove.com and asking me—and God knows who else—out when you should be on, I dunno, Grindr? What are you
doing
?”

“Hedging my bets? Look, I'm incredibly sorry, Pippa. I mean that. I'm gutted. I've only just found you and it looks as though I'm losing you already.”

“He was hot, though, wasn't he?”

This wasn't said with any hint of bitterness, I might add. The bloke outside the bar was hot, end of. Gary laughed. His relief was obvious.

“Yes, he was hot. His name's Niall; he's a TV cameraman. Look, Pippa, I am desperate to salvage something from this. Please can we stay in touch?”

I even considered it for a moment or two, but then (you'll be pleased to hear) I got a grip. “I don't think so, Gary. My little pink book is pretty full. My quota of gay best friends has been met. If I needed more I'd sign up with mygaybestfriend.co.uk.”

“Does that actually exist?”

“No, to my knowledge it does not exist. But it's a brilliant idea and I might just stay in on Friday nights and set it up. Meanwhile have a lovely life, whichever path you choose to take, OK?”

And I put the phone down, albeit metaphorically, because I wasn't on a landline. So there you have it, Mum: my first internet date. It doesn't necessarily excuse what happened next but it does, I think, go some way to explaining it. I had pretty much worked it out of my system after a session in the gym on Monday morning. Or at least I thought I had.

And the four other men on Imnotinlove.com? For all I know they're still trying to email me. I canceled my subscription the next morning. And then straight afterward I got a call from Lisa wondering whether I'd mind doing a couple of days in the shop on Thursday and Friday, because Guy had just sprung a surprise long weekend on her and his mum had said she'd take the twins and although everything would probably be fine with just Marta in the shop, she'd feel that bit more secure if I was around, if I didn't mind? And she said she'd pay me, of course. But I said I'd love to and she could donate my two day “salary” to charidee. And I meant it because, a) I actually love being in the shop, and, b) I've no idea what the going rate is for an independent fashion boutique manager, but whatever it is, I don't need it.

And anyway, working in Name was the perfect distraction from dating closeted gay men. I love Lisa's shop—I know you would too—because it's funky without being alienatingly super-hip and it attracts the kind of women you want to talk to. Or at least listen to, or just watch. Because it's in Primrose Hill, half the clientele are TV presenters or actresses, and that's just the half I recognize. And Marta is a sweetie and fun to be around and I like hearing about twenty-something dating hell, if only because it has alarming similarities to forty-something dating hell, though I chose to keep my counsel on that subject, even when repeatedly pressed by Marta.

And the weather seemed to have cheered up a bit, too, which meant more customers keen to shed their layers—and I absolutely love the intimacy of a shop where customers will ask the “staff” what they think. I probably missed my calling as a stylist while I was busy booking jobs for models. Or maybe not an actual stylist, but as someone who has, as you know, always had a handle on how to shop (and the means to do it, for which I am grateful, I suppose, whatever the emotional cost of those means) it's a thrill to pass on The Knowledge.

For example, on the Friday we had a really lovely woman come in—beautiful olive skin, fabulous inky hair, excellent manicure, cute toddler in tow . . . and also about five foot two and the shape of a plum tomato. And I could see her eyeing the Hussein Chalayan rail with total longing—as well she might—and suddenly I desperately wanted her not to make a Terrible Mistake. I think she was in the toddler zone but wanting very much not to be, and we've all been there. So when she picked out a tiny sliver of a frock in a size ten—which, incidentally, there was no way she was going to get into—I felt a duty to deflect her potential misery, to reduce the huge gap between her expectations and the reality of almost certainly looking totally crap. So I did. And when she left half an hour later with a carrier bag containing a coral-colored swathe of silk jersey from Issa, I actually high-fived Marta.

So I was in a pretty good mood. Gary was a receding memory and Alex was as good as forgotten when this woman—blonde, very striking, slim but curvy—walked into the shop when Marta was on her lunch break. She came over to the till and said, “Hi, is Lisa around?” and I said, “No, sorry, Lisa's gone away for a long weekend with her boyfriend so
I'm just filling in,” and she said, “Oh, OK, that sounds fun. Where have they gone? Have they taken the twins?” and I said, “Well, I don't think Lisa knew when they set off, and no, the twins are with Guy's mother apparently, but she texted me this morning to say they were in Barcelona, which sounds pretty fab.” And the woman said, “Oh I love Barcelona. How wonderful . . .” and then her phone rang but she missed the call while looking for it in her bag, and she said, “Excuse me,” and wandered a few feet away and started flicking through the Hussein Chalayan rail while she made a call, and I thought:
Yup, you can wear that dress
. And then I couldn't help overhearing her conversation—she spoke quite loudly—because it was quite distracting. Here it is, or at least her side of it, pretty much word for word:

“Hey. Hello you. Look, I'm sorry I missed you last night. Best laid plans, yeah . . . But look, I think I can get away early this afternoon . . . Hook up with you at that hotel when I'm sort of on the way home . . . yeah . . . and we can grab an hour? Maybe longer . . . Um, by the way, on the subject of hotels, is The Landmark that big one on the Marylebone Road? . . . OK, no worries, I'll explain later . . . But I can only stay an hour, tops . . . Yeah, have to be home by seven . . . no later or I'll be in real trouble with you-know-who . . . Bye!”

And then she hung up and turned round and rolled her eyes at me and sort of grinned and said, “Sorry about that!” and I said, “No problem!” and grinned back because I could read between the conversational lines and it was pretty obvious what was going on. Anyway she started flicking through the Chalayan rail again and said, “Actually I only popped by to see Lisa but my God, this is a great dress . . .” and she picked out the same dress that Plum Tomato had looked at,
and I figured she'd look great in it so I said, “Oh you really should try that on,” and she didn't need much persuading.

I was just about to process the payment while the woman was saying how “totally perfect” the dress was for this Do she had to go to next weekend, when Marta came back from lunch and I said, “Look, Marta, do you mind sorting this out for me? This customer has just bought the most perfect frock, and I'm completely starving.” And I turned to the woman and said, “Enjoy. You looked really great in it. And of course you've got it with you for the cocktail hour too.” And I winked and she laughed and said, “No, I think I'll save it, but thanks.” And Marta came round to the till and said, “Hi. How are you? Let's have a look . . .” and peeked in the bag. And the woman, who was obviously a regular, said, “Hi, Marta, it is the most fabulous frock and—” she turned to me—“I'm sorry, I don't know your name . . .” and I said, “Pippa,” and she said, “Pippa talked me into it, but it didn't take much, to be honest.” And I said, “Well as I say, enjoy it.” And she said, “Thanks, I will.” And I left.

And when I came back an hour later, Marta said it had been quite a busy lunchtime since Susie had bought that dress. And I said, “Susie?” And Marta said, “Yes, she's Guy's sort-of-sister-in-law. Her partner is Guy's twin, Alex. They're not married but they've been together forever and have two kids, I think.” And, Mum, I really didn't know what to say for a moment, but then I said, “Oh, I wish she'd said.” And Marta said, “She said the same thing to me. She said, ‘Oh, I was about to tell Pippa how I knew Lisa and ask her to give her my love when I was totally distracted by that dress.'” And I said, “It's easily done.”

And though I carried on with my Friday afternoon on autopilot, my head was full of Susie. And, by extension, Alex.

My phone rang on Sunday night, quite late, about ten. And I nearly ignored it because I had a hunch it might be David, or even Gary—though there was no reason why it should be either of them—but I was glad I did because the caller ID said it was Lisa.

“Pip!”

“Lisa. Have you just got back? How was
le weekend
?”

“We stayed at this amazing hotel just off Las Ramblas and it was . . . Pip, Guy proposed.”

And that was properly wonderful news. I mean really brilliant. Because Lisa and Guy are great together and even though they had had the twins, I still wasn't sure if Guy was the marrying kind, so it was lovely to know he was, because Lisa deserves that. And then I asked if she was going to be in the shop tomorrow and if so, could we have a quick lunch, possibly involving a glass of champagne? And she said, “Absolutely. And anyway I wanted to thank you for looking after things when I was away.” And I said, “Well, there's no way you're buying me lunch now.”

Mum, I lay in bed on that Sunday night and you must believe me—I know you would—I was in a real quandary. Whatever I may be, whatever kind of woman I have become, I am not, have never been, a gossip. If anything I am a people-pleaser, occasionally at some cost to my own happiness. And I'm also a bit naive sometimes, too, though recent events have kind of shored up a stronger side of me, I think. And so as I lay in bed thinking about Susie cheating on her nice . . . well, I'd assumed he was her husband, but anyway, partner . . . who, it now seemed clear to me, probably already suspected something—if indeed he didn't already know—the more I felt that that was . . . well, there's no other word for it except wrong. And although I
am a woman's woman, well, I'd spent twenty minutes selling a frock to Susie Whatever-her-surname-is, whom I had liked . . . and about four hours getting to know her partner really quite well, even if I had done most of the talking. And he was such a nice bloke—arguably even nicer than Guy, whom I adore. And I felt bad for Alex, understood now why he had been so muted when we'd met, why he'd barely spoken about Susie.

The following morning I went to the gym straight after dropping Hal at school. I worked out for an hour and when I got out of the shower I felt that delicious kind of physical exhaustion and mental alertness that I always get from a really good workout and which really seems to help keep me off the anti-depressants. So yes, I was in a very good mood when I got home—even singing along to the oldies on Ken Bruce while I sorted out a few emails and unloaded the dishwasher before going to meet Lisa for what I hoped might be quite a long lunch.