‘Can we go?’ Niamh said, looking up at Erika.
‘Niamh, please,’ Leo said, stepping in front of her and blocking the way. ‘What’s going on?’ What had happened between this morning and now? How was it possible to go from telling someone you love them to have them virtually ignore you only hours later?
‘I’m not like them,’ Niamh said, waving in the general direction of Leo’s friends. Then she looked back at Leo and Erika standing next to one another and looking like the picture-perfect couple. ‘I’m not like you, either.’
He opened his mouth, and she could tell he was doing his best to hold something back. His cheeks were flushed and he was blinking rapidly. It wasn’t a million miles away from how he’d looked when he finally got around to opening his present. It was a cine camera that had taken her an absolute age to find. In the end, she’d taken a bus out to a small village near Banbury and spent over an hour talking to an ex-film technician who once worked at Pinewood.
‘Did I get it wrong?’ she had asked, chewing the nail of her little finger and trying to make sense of what was going on with his face. If she’d got it wrong, if she’d completely misunderstood the depth of his passion for film after so many nights spent listening to him explain the merits of camera angles and scores, then clearly she didn’t know him at all.
‘God, you’re just perfect,’ he had finally replied, and Niamh had swallowed down the lump that was making its way up her throat, wishing upon wishing that nothing could ever take him away from her.
‘Why do you think you need to be like anyone other than you?’ he said, drawing her close and smoothing a strand of hair from her forehead.
‘That’s what I keep telling her,’ Erika said, then backed away with hands raised when Niamh shot her a look. ‘I will wait for you outside. But don’t be long because my stomach is rumbling like a thunderstorm.’
‘Is it true?’ Niamh whispered, breathing him in and feeling her heart give way.
‘About Isabella?’ he asked and she nodded. ‘We dated, for about a term.’
‘And you’re still friends with her?’
‘Not really. We just know a lot of the same people.’
Niamh didn’t reply, because he didn’t get it. He’d probably never get it, just like Erika and Duncan. She was so very different from them all, purely because of what she had been born into and, for what felt like the millionth time, she wondered what her life would have been like if she’d had a family, a real family, from the very beginning.
He could sense her anger and part of him wanted her to let it go, to say all the things she seemed to be so afraid of confessing. The other part of him was wishing they could go back to that morning, wrap themselves around one another and block out the entire world. Because everything made sense when he was with her, in a way it never had before.
She looked at him and wished she could peek inside his mind, figure out if the version of her that he saw was the one she wanted to be. He might think she didn’t need to change, but it was easy to say that when you fitted perfectly into the world around you. Maybe she needed to be more like Erika, live in the moment and not give a fuck what anyone else thought about her. Confidence is key, fake it until you make it and all that bollocks.
Niamh reached out a hand and placed it against his chest. She could feel the heat of him through his shirt and it comforted her, grounded her in the moment so that everything else fell away. Even if it didn’t last, even if this was all she would ever get with him, then perhaps it was enough. When she was with him, nothing else mattered and she no longer cared what anyone thought about her, other than him.
‘I love you too,’ she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss him full on the mouth. ‘Always have, always will.’
ERIKA
FRESHWATER PEARL
London, 2002
‘Are you sure she’s coming?’ Layla stands on tiptoes to try to peer over the heads of the crowds that are gathered outside London’s most famous department store.
‘She’s always late,’ I reply, not looking up from my BlackBerry as I fire off a couple of quick emails.
‘This is why everyone should have a phone.’ Layla checks hers for the millionth time, shoving it back in her bag then kicking me on the ankle. ‘It’s Saturday. Can’t you ignore it?’
‘Hmm?’ I reply with a frown. ‘Oh no, it’s not work. It’s the estate agent with an update on the house.’
‘I still don’t understand why you’re buying somewhere over here when you live in New York.’
‘London’s a better market, and the rental yield will more than cover the mortgage. Besides,’ I say with a gentle poke between her skinny ribs, ‘it means I’ll always have somewhere to come back to.’
‘You can always stay with me and Christophe.’
‘I have just about had my fill of your sickening displays of affection.’ I have no desire to be within spitting distance of Layla’s future husband, but it would have been rude of me to tell her that actually I’d rather spend a fortune on a hotel room than stay with them for the week. And even I can admit that being back here with her, even if it’s only for a short time, has been blissful.
‘Is this about Layla’s inability to keep her knickers on?’
We both turn at the sound of a familiar voice, watching as someone with the bone structure of a supermodel and platinum-blonde hair snakes through the crowds. She gives us each a hug then grabs hold of Layla by the waist and steers her towards the store.
‘You’re late,’ Layla says with a pout.
‘I know,’ Michelle says in return, giving the doorman a mock salute as he holds the door open for us. ‘Which means you don’t get to be mean.’
Together we walk around to the bottom of the escalators, tilting our heads back to stare up at the Egyptian carvings.
‘You got laid,’ I say and Michelle drops her head, a flush slowly creeping its way over her face.
‘How do you do that?’ Layla calls down from a few steps up, leaning around Michelle to stare at me.
‘Supreme powers of deduction.’ I point at Michelle. ‘Plus her skirt’s on the wrong way round and she smells most distinctly of Lynx deodorant instead of the Body Shop White Musk she’s been wearing ever since she was a spotty teenager.’
‘I was never spotty,’ Michelle says as we reach the top of the escalator.
‘All that horse manure you used to roll around in must be good for the skin,’ I say and dodge out of the way as she tries to whack me.
‘I hate that my brother told you all my secrets,’ she says as we walk past row upon row of designer clothes and she pauses momentarily beside the shoe display.
‘Did you know, there are around one hundred thousand pairs of shoes in this building?’ I pick up a pair of satin Manolos with a kitten heel.
‘Life’s short,’ Michelle says as she picks up another pair of shoes and visibly blanches at the price. ‘Buy the damn shoes, Erika. Lord knows you can afford them.’
‘Can’t,’ I say as I put the dainty shoe back with a sigh. ‘I’m soon to be as poor as a church mouse.’
‘A mouse who is about to become a property mogul on both sides of the Atlantic.’ Layla grabs Michelle’s hand and pulls her away from the shoe department.
‘Wait, what?’ Michelle looks back at me.
‘She’s had an offer accepted on a gorgeous mews house within spitting distance of the Portobello Road.’
‘Are you moving back? Does Hector know?’
I trot after them because Layla is belting through the store like a greyhound chasing a rabbit.
‘No.’ Layla shoots me an evil look as we arrive at the entrance to the bridal boutique and she gives her name to a snotty sales assistant who checks her clipboard like a bouncer allowing us access to an exclusive club. ‘She’s too busy climbing the corporate ladder to think about her heart.’
I roll my eyes in spite of myself because we’ve had this fight already. She met me at Heathrow, literally bubbling over with exci
tement due to all the plans she’d made for my visit back home. Then I had to tell her I’d arranged to meet with an estate agent and so couldn’t spend the following day at the spa with her. At which point she looked like she was having a fit, swiftly jumping from excitement to disappointment to rage when she realised that I wasn’t actually going to live in the house I wanted to buy.
‘Why buy somewhere in London if you’ve no intention of coming back?’ Michelle asks.
‘That’s precisely what I said.’ Layla folds her arms over her chest and fixes me with another scathing look. ‘I reckon she’s homesick. Desperate, in fact, but her pride won’t let her admit it.’
‘She’s definitely desperate,’ Michelle says with a snort, followed by a long yawn. ‘And there was I, hoping perhaps you could spend at least some of the summer in Ibiza with little old me. I was even going to set you up with one of Torsten’s friends. How long is it exactly since you’ve had a boyfriend?’
I’m starting to feel a little ganged up on, not least because Layla has already asked me at least a thousand times why I won’t move back to London. Even when I pointed out that she was planning on moving to Paris, she smiled sweetly and said a single word in response – Eurostar.
The sales assistant looks us up and down, casting a critical eye over our faces and clothes, before pulling back the heavy velvet curtain and stepping aside.
The wall opposite us consists of four enormous windows with full-length mirrors hanging in between. To the left is a series of changing rooms with ivory curtains and discreet lighting. The other two walls are filled with every conceivable type of wedding dress, from simple and understated shifts, to full-on Cinderella with pink taffeta and millions of sequins.
‘Who’s Torsten?’ Layla says as she walks along the near-side wall, stopping every so often to finger the fabrics.
‘It’s the DJ, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘The one from that launch party for some street artist back in May.’
‘On second thoughts,’ Michelle says as she sticks her tongue out at me, revealing a diamanté stud stuck through its centre, ‘I think you should stay in New York.’
‘What DJ?’ Layla is considering a lace gown with spaghetti straps and low neckline. ‘What launch party? What are you two talking about?’
‘You were in Paris.’ I shake my head as Layla shows me the dress, then point across to a couple that are hanging near all the puffballs and bling. ‘Being wined and dined and all the rest of it by Christophe.’
‘I’m surprised you even remember,’ Michelle says as she takes down a cream dress with intricate beading around the bodice. She holds it up against her torso, considering her reflection in the mirror, then passes it to me. ‘You ran off the moment Hector arrived.’
‘I wasn’t sure he’d want to see me,’ I say, turning the dress around and noticing the covered buttons that run all the way along where the spine would sit.
‘My brother always wants to see you,’ Michelle says as she takes down another dress, then heads in the direction of the changing rooms. ‘That’s the problem.’
I wanted to see him too; it’s part of the reason why I went to the opening in the first place. Even though I was only in London for one more night, exhausted from back-to-back investor meetings all week and struggling through another bout of jet lag, I needed to see him.
‘What do you think?’ Layla asks as she hooks a gown over her head and presses the skirt to her hips.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I reply. ‘But is it you, or who you think you’re supposed to be?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You don’t need anything extra.’ I ease the dress over Layla’s head, swapping it for a gown with a scalloped bodice made from hand-sewn lace and a chiffon skirt that would be perfect for dancing.
‘Ta-da!’ Michelle bursts out of the changing room, resplendent in a silver-sequined gown and holding her arms out wide as she skips across the room. It transports me straight back to a vintage store on the King’s Road where we tried on the dresses we were wearing the night it all went horribly wrong.
Michelle forgave me for breaking her brother’s heart. Despite everything, she has managed to stay loyal to both her family and friends and never once chosen a side. It hurts my head to think about how much the younger version of me could have done with some of her wisdom and kindness.
‘I can see your nipples,’ Layla says, barely stifling a laugh and then looking away as another sales assistant glares in our direction. ‘Seriously, you have to take it off or we’ll get thrown out. And it takes at least six months to get a dress made, so I can’t afford to waste this appointment.’
‘All right, Bridezilla,’ Michelle says with a pout as she scuttles back to the changing room, Layla and me following close behind.
‘Do you think you’ll ever get back together with Hector?’ Layla calls through the curtain to where I’m sitting, staring out the window and trying not to think about the last time I saw him, at the gallery opening back in May.
‘Too late,’ Michelle says as she comes out of the changing room, this time with her skirt on the right way. ‘He’s shacked up with a primary school teacher called Rachel.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’ I can tell by the tone of her voice that Michelle does not approve of her brother’s latest conquest. Looking along the street, I watch all those people going about their day with no idea that I’m up here spying on them. I could spy on Hector and Rachel too. No. Bad idea. Best not to find out, or even be tempted to look, because once you see, it’s impossible to unsee how perfectly fine they are without you. Remember the promise you made to yourself when you left Oxford – never look back, because regret is nothing more than a waste of time.
‘She dresses like a nineteen-fifties housewife and makes her own jam. Can you imagine what it would be like with her at Christmas?’
I can’t help but laugh at the image I have been presented with. Michelle and Hector’s parents live just outside Sheffield and spend most of their free time hiking through the Peak District with their beloved Alsatians. Parents and children alike are tall and annoyingly sporty, with opinions on absolutely everything. I only got to visit once, but I can still remember the argument about migrating butterflies that spread over the course of an entire week.
‘It’s your fault,’ Michelle says as she punches me lightly on the arm. ‘Instead of having you as a sister I’m going to be stuck with Little Miss Perfect.’
‘Leave her alone,’ Layla says as she comes out of the changing room and stands before us, hands on hips and a nervous smile across her face.
‘Wow,’ I say, eyes wide and filling with tears. ‘You look incredible.’
‘Really?’ she asks, kicking her feet out from under the hem. ‘It’s so not what I thought I’d choose.’
‘I bet you didn’t think you’d end up marrying a Frenchie either.’ Michelle goes to stand behind Layla and pulls the straps up higher.
‘Although you did dream of getting married in a castle,’ I say with a smile, because Layla once showed me a scrapbook she’d made years before, complete with a sketch of her and her future husband standing outside a castle fit for a princess.
‘True,’ Layla says, turning around and then peering into the mirror over her shoulder. ‘It’s just . . .’
‘Just what?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she says. ‘It feels weird. Being here without Sara.’
‘Who’s Sara?’ Michelle asks.
‘Former best friend,’ I reply, watching as Layla’s face folds itself into a frown and I know what she’s thinking. I know what it means to lose the person closest to you. I find myself thinking about her, and about Duncan, during the moments you know you’ll remember for years to come. And then it washes over me all over again, how much I have lost, not just from my past, but from my future too.
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing really,’ Layla replies with a shrug. ‘We just drifted apart after school. But now I have you two.’ She
plants a kiss on my cheek and I half-heartedly swat her away.
‘Which makes you the luckiest girl in the world.’ Michelle takes Layla’s hands and together they begin to skip around the room. I watch them, their faces bright with love and the expectation of love, and I feel a little jealous at what they have.
‘There’s another dress hanging up in my cubicle,’ Layla calls as she and Michelle skip over to the far side of the room and back, like a cross between My Fair Lady and a barn dance. ‘I think you should try it on.’
I peek behind the curtain to discover a fountain of pale-blue crêpe-de-chine, with long, diaphanous sleeves and delicate pearlescent beading stitched into both the bodice and the hem. I allow the fabric to run through my fingers, so light it would be like wearing a summer breeze. It reminds me of a girl who would have worn it on any given day with platform boots and a chain of daisies in her hair.
I thought we would be best friends forever. I thought we would be doing this exact same thing one day. Trying on dresses and talking about our futures. I thought we would always be part of one another’s lives, and it hurts every single time I imagine what could have been, if only I’d kept my promise to never let a boy come between us.
Moving my hand away, one of the beads comes loose, hanging by a single thread. I ease it free, glancing behind me as I slip it into the pocket of my shorts.
Michelle gives a low whistle as I step out of the changing room. ‘Do not let my brother see you in that; he will have a heart attack.’
‘You should let your hair grow out,’ Layla says as she walks slowly around me.
‘I seem to remember you telling me how shit it was when we first met.’
‘Because it was. But if you had it longer,’ she says, ruffling my hair so that it stands out at odd angles, ‘it would be a bit more . . .’
‘More what?’ I immediately run my fingers through my hair and tuck it neatly behind my ears. Turning to the mirror, it strikes me that the person staring back seems to belong to a different era.
‘You know,’ Layla says. ‘Like those girls back in the seventies, all miniskirts and thigh-length boots that would spread wide with one wink from Mick Jagger.’
The Love We Left Behind Page 17