About Last Night

by Adele Parks

  Frankly, sometimes, she was a bit embarrassed to be spotted out with her other boyfriends. She made sure that they took her to the sort of restaurants that her friends could never afford in a month of Sundays, so she was generally pretty safe. But she had been spotted twice. Mortifying! There had been one occasion when she was with Brian and she was trying on dresses in Harvey Nics when she bumped into a girl from college who was out shopping with her mum. Kirsten just pretended Brian was her father. The second time was much worse in a way. She hadn’t been spotted in a shop or a restaurant but she’d been in the lift with Mark Deally. Mark Deally headed up the EMEIA division and was a big deal, he had a big gut too (small willy!). Kirsten was adjusting his tie when suddenly the lift doors sprang open and who should walk in but Jake Mason.

  Jake Mason was this really hot guy, who she’d had quite a thing about throughout uni, not that she’d ever let him know. He was totally gorgeous, dead funny and clever and, you know, smiley. Yeah, smiley. He’d got a job in the city, same firm as Kirsten, as coincidence would have it. A couple of months back, when they first started working together, he’d asked her to have a sandwich with him but she’d had to say no because she’d already arranged to meet Brian Ford in a nearby hotel for a lunchtime quickie (and she didn’t mean drink). Jake had said, ‘Some other time then,’ and while she’d nodded he hadn’t ever asked again. The other PAs were always going on about Jake. They said that he was on a fast-track management scheme or something and would be heading up EMEIA himself in a few years. Kirsten hoped so, for one thing then she could ask him exactly what EMEIA stood for, but besides that she privately thought he was the sort of person who deserved success. He reminded her a bit of Jules. Not an arrogant arse, like so many of them. Anyway, he got into the lift and gave her this odd look. Not that he’d seen her give Mark Deally so much as a peck on the cheek, she was just adjusting his tie, but the look Jake gave her was as though he knew she’d just been giving head in the washrooms.

  He looked as though he’d just stepped in something nasty.

  4

  ‘Well, how did it go?’ Steph demanded with excitement.

  ‘Brilliantly!’ yelled Pip, not able to hide her own excitement but also exposing the surprise she felt too. ‘They placed an order! They didn’t even go away and mull it over, which is what I’d hoped for at best! But no, they bit my hand off!’

  ‘I knew it!’ shrieked Steph, who always seemed to have more confidence in Pip’s skills and creativity than Pip did herself.

  For years Pip had enjoyed spending hours poking around old bric-a-brac and vintage shops and buying up all sorts of interesting fabrics and laces, simply because she’d always loved materials. She adored the softness of velvet, the fun of felt, the simplicity of cotton and the luxuriousness of silk. Pip got excited about a piece of gingham or hessian in exactly the way artists became excited about their paint pallet or musicians loved their instruments. When she lived with Dylan she’d stored the lovely fabrics in the spare room, occasionally wearing a vintage cocktail dress or trimming a baby blanket with a piece of lace but not really doing anything particularly structured with her treasure. Then, one day, she found an especially bonny, wide 1950s skirt which she bought for a few quid. Because she’d loved the print above and beyond any that she’d ever discovered before, she carefully unpicked the skirt and used the material to make a peg bag and some sweet bags as gifts for Chloe’s guests to take home from her third birthday party. Everyone had loved the bags, they were unilaterally agreed to be adorable keepsakes. Six of the mothers at the party had asked where Pip bought them and had been suitably impressed when she admitted to making them herself. Pip had so enjoyed the process of creating something new out of something once loved but now forgotten that she sorted through her entire collection of pretty vintage materials, stashed in the spare room, in order to do the same thing again.

  She soon found that the 1950s skirts were so generous that she could transform one garment into two or more little knick-knacks, so alongside the party bags and peg bags, over time Pip started to design and make bunting, rosettes, badges, aprons, tray cloths, reusable shopping bags and suchlike. In her more confident moments, Pip thought that all her products were incredibly pretty and feminine and totally unique but sometimes she worried that she was simply peddling exactly the same artsy-fartsy stuff as the next bored mum who happened to be in possession of a sewing machine. In these moments of wavering confidence it was always Steph who would insist that her pieces were charming and dead on trend. Steph was adamant that Pip’s unique and attractive items had enormous commercial potential. She said that the accessories promised serenity and old-fashioned values that everyone would want to buy into.

  ‘They subliminally suggest childhoods full of fluffy ducklings, skipping ropes and games of hopscotch rather than Pokémon cards, violent video games and text speak that corrupts grammar lessons,’ Steph had argued firmly.

  Pip wanted to believe Steph but she knew Steph was biased and also, she sometimes wondered whether privileged Steph lived in the real world and therefore whether her view was relevant. She wasn’t criticising Steph when she allowed this thought to drift around her head; it was just that Steph didn’t have to live in the real world, so why would she choose to?

  ‘Does anyone want that, nowadays?’ Pip had asked gloomily.

  ‘Absolutely every mother in the country would want to buy that!’ Steph had said fixedly. ‘The fact the fabric is recycled appeals to the eco-warrior mums and the fact that all the pieces are handmade and many are one-offs appeals to those who continually strive to find some sort of individuality while staying well within the boundaries of doing exactly what everyone expects of them.’

  ‘Suppose.’

  Just this morning Steph had asserted, ‘If there was any justice in this universe, the people at Selfridges will fall over themselves to sign you up to a massive deal. I’m sure of it!’

  Pip very much doubted there was any justice anywhere so hadn’t been especially comforted but she couldn’t bring herself to say as much to Steph who liked to believe there was.

  ‘I’ve literally just left the meeting. I’m still in the store. It’s actually pretty difficult finding a door out of this place, isn’t it? I had to call you straightaway.’

  ‘So tell me exactly what happened,’ Steph now said excitedly.

  ‘Aren’t you busy?’ Pip could hear the distinct buzz of light, not especially sensational, gossip and chatter in the background.

  ‘I’m hosting a coffee morning for the mothers of the boys in Freddie’s class,’ explained Steph. ‘Hang on one moment.’ Pip heard Steph hurriedly say, ‘Will you excuse me. I have to take this, it’s important. Do help yourselves to tea or coffee. The scones have just come out of the oven.’

  Pip imagined her friend dashing out of the kitchen, away from the gaggle of well-groomed, eternally polite ladies that Steph baked scones for. She would hide away in the room that she referred to as the library (although in reality it was just a room with two small bookshelves, a desk and a rather smart gilt antiqued armchair that the sales assistant had described as a library chair). The books were stacked in size order and the heavy hardbacks suggested a serious-minded interest in Victorian architecture and other equally worthy matters. Pip knew that Steph was always fastidious about removing all her romantic novels from the newspaper rack, kitchen units or the coffee table whenever she expected guests. Even though she derived so much pleasure from those sorts of books, it was an awkward, secret pleasure and not one she wanted to advertise. Both Steph and Pip were aware that at thirty-eight (nearly thirty-nine, nearly forty!) Steph shouldn’t really give a damn what anyone thought of her reading matter, but she did and Pip understood that, possibly better than most. Stephanie also cared if people thought she’d selected the correct heel height for a function, or whether she’d cooked the appropriate number of courses depending on the formality of the entertainment she was offering. Sometimes, she even worried what the neighbo
urs thought about the length of the grass in her front garden. It was a strange comfort to Pip that despite the hundreds of things, large and small, that Steph cared about and worried over, Pip knew she was top of the charts – second only to Steph’s children. To be frank, Pip was glad that someone worried about her so intensely, even if that someone was her best and oldest friend rather than a caring and sexy boyfriend.

  Steph wanted every last detail of the meeting, she wanted to chew it over and fully digest it, just as much as Pip wanted to deliver it.

  ‘Are you sitting comfortably?’ teased Pip.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I shall begin.’ This was their old joke from the days when they watched Jackanory together, glasses of milk and custard creams grasped tightly in their small hands. Steph instantly forgot that there were fourteen mothers in the kitchen who expected to be intravenously dripped Fair Trade Colombian bean coffee.

  ‘Well, they adored the fabric-covered photo albums and the fabric-covered photo frames. They even complimented me on the bunting. I didn’t know what they’d make of that. Everyone offers bunting nowadays.’

  ‘But your bunting is personalised,’ pointed out Steph. Besides the usual triangles, Pip strung up the letters of the kid’s name. ‘No mother could resist advertising her own darling.’

  ‘They even talked about devoting a window section to my stuff. A nostalgic tea party set-up. With the bunting and tablecloths, party bags and aprons.’

  ‘Oh, my gosh!’ squealed Steph. ‘How bloody fantastic.’

  Steph didn’t often swear, it was clear that the excitement, the relief, the achievement had overwhelmed her. This was not just Pip’s achievement but Steph’s too. After all, it had been Steph’s idea to turn Pip’s sewing skills into some sort of a career, or if that was too grand a word then certainly an income. An income independent of Dylan. It was Steph who repeatedly insisted that Pip had an extraordinary talent and needed to be expressing herself. It had been Steph who had encouraged and cajoled Pip into expanding beyond making the odd apron or tray mat as a birthday gift for a pal and instead to concentrate on producing a range of samples of all her work and collating a professional portfolio, in order to find someone who could retail the stock in a robust way. It had been Steph who insisted that Pip write to Harrods, Harvey Nics and Selfridges to ask for a meeting with the buyer. Pip would have been happy with selling her goodies at the school craft show.

  Pip had once been considered a luminary and everyone expected she’d have a glittering career (herself included). She hadn’t shone at school at anything other than art and biology but her work was so outstanding that, after a year’s foundation course, she won a place at the prestigious St Martin’s School of Art to study textiles. She’d never have had the basic GCSE requirement for entry if it hadn’t been for Steph. Steph had always done Pip’s maths and English homework when required, in return Pip had dissected Steph’s rat during lab work (while Steph sipped water and looked in the opposite direction, not wanting to faint like Stephen McCarthy had) and Pip had also got Steph an undeserved A in art.

  After graduation Pip was lucky enough to secure an enviable apprenticeship in a celebrated Parisian haute couture fashion house. Pip was adored by her employees, as she was a captivating mix of diligent and inspired. Her role ought to have been limited to coffee-making and silently observing but swiftly became one where she was allowed to unofficially brief designers on trends in fabrics, colours and shapes. Her flair and competence meant that within half the time anyone could reasonably expect, Pip was visualising ideas and making hand sketches that the powers in the fashion house respected enough to work up into complete designs. Within just two years her designs were dripping off the world’s most stunning models as they flounced down the catwalks in Milan, Paris and New York.

  Pip was noticed by the right people, she was invited to the right nightclubs, restaurants and parties. She wore the right things (to be accurate, whatever she wore became the right thing). She knew the right designers, artists, photographers and musicians. She was more than an It girl, she was the right girl.

  It all seemed such a long time ago now.

  Pip’s downfall was her creative heart. She had a clear belief in her own talents, that was never up for question, but she also believed that the only way for her to be truly happy was for her to be in love. She respected career women who worked relentlessly to claw their way to the top of whichever field they excelled in and she gasped in awe at women who smashed through glass ceilings but she couldn’t help but notice that those women seemed to have bloody knuckles. Their success came with a price, a price she wasn’t prepared to pay. Actually, Pip believed male success also came with a price. She only had to look so far as her best friend’s husband to see what sacrifices were demanded to excel in a career, irrespective of gender. Julian rarely managed to attend his children’s birthday parties, he didn’t know what colour his own bedroom wall was painted and when his mother had been treated for cancer in a wonderfully plush (some might say swanky) hospital (which he’d paid for) he’d only managed to visit her four times in the last four months of her life. Pip had visited more than Julian had (although nowhere near as often as Steph). Julian didn’t like being in the hospital, not just because he baulked at the sight of his mother wasting away and angrily felt his impotency to affect her end, but also because he couldn’t switch on his BlackBerry. His office didn’t like not being able to reach him.

  Was he finding the cure for the cancer that was killing his mother? No, he was buying and selling shares. Successfully, Pip realised that. But that was her point. Glittering careers seemed to cost such a lot. Too much.

  Put simply, Pip was a romantic. Deadly so. She was certain that she wouldn’t be able to enjoy a loft apartment, a corporate silver card or even an expensive bottle of champagne if she didn’t have someone to enjoy them with. She would have loved to enjoy those things and pursue a lover but if forced to choose one over the other, Pip Foxton would always plump for passion before promotion.

  For example, when Pip met Philippe (a French musician) at an arty fashion party and he’d invited her to live with him on his barge, Le Bleu (he made the offer the night they met, before the clock had struck midnight), she barely paused to pack her toothbrush but embraced the romantic opportunity with her two skinny arms. Their names matched, it was meant to be! He had dark brown eyes that seemed to stare directly into her innermost thoughts, thoughts that glittered and glistened in his presence! She had not for a moment considered the fact that a nomadic life sailing up and down the Seine might affect her commute to work.

  But soon it transpired that while it was undoubtedly utterly romantic to moor right next to the Eiffel Tower one night and then at Port d’Arsenal near Notre Dame the next, it did play havoc with her sense of direction. Each morning Pip woke up, not quite certain which metro line she was near to, which meant she rarely arrived at the fashion house in time for dark coffee and croissants. One night Philippe quietly trudged Le Bleu along the Seine, sailing right through Corbeil to Melun. Of course, when Pip woke up she could appreciate that the market town was beautiful, très jolie! And that the Château de Vaux le Vicomte was very likely worthy of a visit and yes, how fascinating that Philippe knew that it was built from 1658 to 1661 for the superintendent of finances of Louis XIV, but how was she going to get to work? Philippe persuaded her that she didn’t have to. Better to lie in his arms (or to be accurate sit on his penis, he preferred her on top although Pip found that position rather uncomfortable). Le Bleu was cramped and Pip was forever banging her head against the wooden ceiling. The bathroom facilities were basic and it was easy to burn oneself when preparing even the simplest of meals. All in all, the barge did not turn out to be as idyllic or romantic as Pip had imagined. Nor did Philippe, come to that. Or, to be strictly accurate, he continued to be incredibly romantic and attractive and continued to bore holes in hearts with his dark brown eyes; only they were other women’s hearts, not Pip’s.

&nbs
p; So, Pip ran back to Paris where her first tragic love affair (and, more importantly, her sudden departure from the fashion house) was forgiven. The French understood a love affair and generally believed that a little drama was good for an artiste.

  But then Pip met Jacob. Jacob was a Californian fashion photographer, very ‘up and coming’, studying in France. Pip was certain that their careers were more complementary and refused to notice all the signs that indicated the place Jacob most liked to come up was different women. Jacob wanted Pip to open her legs and her contact book but keep her heart firmly closed. After two years he still insisted that theirs was just a casual thing. Pip not being a casual sort of girl had to walk away while she still had the power to move.

  She walked right away, on to an aeroplane and back across the Channel. The memories of Philippe and Jacob had stained Paris for ever for her and she could not live there. The grand fromage of the French fashion industry could not understand why she had made the exact same mistake twice. To be gripped in a passionate fever once is poor luck, twice – then, it’s a sickness. The bigwigs in the UK believed that her one true love ought to have been her art; workaholics and martyrs to their careers, they believed she lacked commitment. Pip had been pretty sure that when she returned to London her haute couture experience would guarantee that she’d be snapped up by a UK ready-to-wear designer or, at least, have the opportunity to work developing affordable high-street fashion. But, sadly, Pip struggled to find a job of comparable prestige to the one she’d so carelessly chucked away. Her former employers were irritated by her casual attitude towards the opportunity they had bestowed upon her and didn’t hesitate to say as much when potential ones called for references. Other would-be employers stifled Pip’s chances without even going so far as to request references by insisting she was overqualified and that she’d soon be bored working in the studios they ran.