“Oh, Bex!” Suze is practically crying herself. “I feel so terrible!”
“It's not your fault!” I reach for a tissue and blow my nose. “If it's anyone's fault, it's The Daily World's.”
“I hate them!” says Suze savagely. “They should be strung up and flogged. That's what Tarkie said.”
“Oh right,” I say after a pause. “So . . . he . . . he saw it, did he?”
“To be honest, Bex—I think most people saw it,” says Suze reluctantly.
I feel a painful lurch as I think about Janice and Martin reading it. About Tom and Lucy reading it. All my old school friends and teachers reading it. All the people I've ever known, reading my most humiliating secrets.
“Look, come on,” says Suze. “Leave all your stuff. Let's have a nice cup of tea.”
“OK,” I say after a pause. “That would be really nice.” I follow her into the kitchen and sit down, leaning against the warm radiator for comfort.
“So—how are things going with Luke now?” says Suze cautiously as she puts on the kettle.
“Not great.” I fold my arms tightly round myself. “In fact . . . it's not going at all.”
“Really?” Suze gazes at me in dismay. “God, Bex, what happened?”
“Well, we had this big row . . .”
“About the article?”
“Kind of.” I reach for a tissue and blow my nose. “He said it messed up his deal, and I was obsessed by shopping. And I said he was obsessed with work . . . and I . . . I said his mother was a . . . a complete cow . . .”
“You called his mother a cow?” Suze looks so taken aback, I give a shaky giggle.
“Well, she is! She's awful. And she doesn't even love Luke. But he can't see it . . . all he wants is to land the biggest deal in the world and impress her. He can't think about anything else but that.”
“So what happened then?” says Suze, handing me a mug of tea.
I bite my lip, remembering that last painful conversation we had, while I was waiting for my taxi to take me to the airport. The polite stilted voices, the way we didn't look each other in the eye.
“Before I left, I said I didn't think he had time for a proper relationship at the moment.”
“Really?” Suze's eyes widen. “You called it off?”
“I didn't mean to.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “I wanted him to say he did have time. But he didn't say anything. It was . . . awful.”
“Oh, Bex.” Suze stares at me over her mug. “Oh, Bex.”
“Still, never mind,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. “It's probably all for the best.” I take a sip of tea and close my eyes. “Oh God, that's good. That's so good.” For a while I'm silent, letting the steam warm my face, feeling myself relax. I take a few more sips, then open my eyes. “They just cannot make tea in America. I went to one place, and they gave me this . . . cup full of hot water, and a tea bag in a packet. And the cup was see-through.”
“Ooh.” Suze pulls a face. “Yuck.” She reaches for the tin of biscuits and takes out a couple of Hobnobs. “Who needs America, anyway?” she says robustly. “I mean, everyone knows American TV is rubbish. You're better off here.”
“Maybe I am.” I stare into my mug for a while, then take a deep breath and look up. “You know, I thought a lot on the plane. I decided I'm going to make this a real turning point in my life. I'm going to concentrate on my career, and finish my book, and be really focused—and just . . .”
“Show them,” finishes Suze.
“Exactly. Just show them.”
It's amazing what a bit of home comfort does for the spirit. Half an hour and three cups of tea later, I'm feeling a million times better. I'm even quite enjoying telling Suze about New York, and all the things I did. When I tell her about going to the spa, and where exactly they wanted to put a crystal tattoo, she starts laughing so hard she almost chokes.
“Hey,” I say, a sudden thought striking me. “Have you finished the KitKats?”
“No, I haven't,” says Suze, wiping her eyes. “They seem to go more slowly when you're not around. So, what did Luke's mum say? Did she want to see the results?” And she starts gurgling with laughter again.
“Hang on, I'll just get a couple,” I say, and start to head toward Suze's room, where they're kept.
“Actually—” says Suze, and her laughter abruptly stops. “No, don't go in there.”
“Why?” I say, stopping in surprise. “What's in your . . .” I tail off as Suze's cheeks slowly turn pink. “Suze!” I say, backing quietly away from the door. “No. Is there someone in there?”
I stare at her, and she pulls her dressing gown around her defensively, without saying anything.
“I don't believe it!” My voice squeaks incredulously. “I go away for five minutes and you start having a torrid affair!”
This is cheering me up more than anything else. There's nothing like hearing a juicy piece of gossip to raise your spirits.
“It's not a torrid affair!” says Suze at last. “It's not an affair at all.”
“So, who is it? Do I know him?”
Suze gives me an agonized look.
“OK, just . . . I just have to explain. Before you . . . you jump to the wrong conclusion, or . . .” She closes her eyes. “God, this is hard.”
“Suze, what's wrong?”
Suddenly there's the sound of stirring from inside Suze's bedroom, and we stare at each other.
“OK, listen. It was just a one-off,” she says quickly. “Just a . . . a really impetuous, stupid . . . I mean . . .”
“What's wrong, Suze?” I pull a face. “Oh God, it's not Nick, is it?”
Nick is Suze's last boyfriend—the one who was constantly depressed and getting drunk and blaming Suze. A complete nightmare, to be honest. But I mean, that was over months ago.
“No, it's not Nick. It's . . . Oh God.”
“Suze—”
“OK! But you have to promise to—”
“To what?”
“To not . . . react.”
“Why should I react?” I say, laughing a little. “I mean, I'm not a prude! All we're talking about is . . .”
I tail off as Suze's door opens—and it's only Tarquin, looking not at all bad, in chinos and the jumper I gave him.
“Oh,” I say in surprise. “I thought you were going to be Suze's new—”
I break off and look at Suze with a grin.
But she doesn't grin back. She's chewing her nails, avoiding my eyes—and her cheeks growing redder and redder.
I glance at Tarquin—and he looks away, too.
No. No.
She can't mean—
No.
But . . .
No.
My brain can't cope with this. Something's about to short-circuit.
“Erm, Tarquin,” says Suze, in a high-pitched voice. “Could you go and buy some croissants?”
“Oh, ahm . . . OK,” says Tarquin, a little stiltedly. “Morning, Becky.”
“Morning!” I say. “Nice to . . . to see you. Nice . . . jumper.”
There's a frozen silence in the kitchen as he walks out, which remains until we hear the front door slam. Then, very slowly, I turn to face Suze.
“Suze . . .”
I don't even know how to begin.
“Suze . . . that was Tarquin.”
“Yes, I know,” she says, studying the kitchen counter intently.
“Suze . . . are you and Tarquin—”
“No!” she exclaims, as though she's been scalded. “No, of course not! It's just . . . we just . . .” She stops.
“You just . . .” I say encouragingly.
“Once or twice . . .”
There's a long pause.
“With Tarquin,” I say, just to make sure.
“Yes,” she says.
“Right,” I say, nodding my head as though this is a completely reasonable scenario. But my mouth is twitching and I can feel a strange pressure rising inside me—half shock, half hysteri
cal laughter. I mean, Tarquin. Tarquin!
A sudden giggle escapes from me and I clamp my hand over my mouth.
“Don't laugh!” wails Suze. “I knew you'd laugh!”
“I'm not laughing!” I protest. “I think it's great!” I give another snort of laughter, and try to pretend I'm coughing. “Sorry! Sorry. So—how did it happen?”
“It was at that party in Scotland!” she wails. “There was no one else there except loads of ancient aunts. Tarquin was the only other person under ninety. And somehow . . . he looked all different! He had on this really nice Paul Smith jersey, and his hair looked kind of cool—and it was like, is that really Tarquin? And I got quite pissed—and you know what that does to me. And there he was . . .” She shakes her head helplessly. “I don't know. He was just . . . transformed. God knows how it happened!”
There's silence. I can feel my cheeks growing redder and redder.
“You know what, Suze,” I admit sheepishly at last. “I think it kind of might have been . . . my fault.”
“Your fault?” She raises her head and stares at me. “How come?”
“I gave him the jumper. And the hairstyle.” I flinch at her expression. “But I mean, I had no idea it would lead to . . . to this! All I did was give him a look!”
“Well, you've got a lot to answer for!” cries Suze. “I've been so stressed. I just keep thinking, I must be a complete pervert.”
“Why?” I say, my eyes brightening. “What does he get you to do?”
“No, silly! Because we're cousins. Well, distant cousins, but still . . .”
“Ooh.” I pull a face—then realize that isn't exactly tactful. “But I mean, it's not against the law or anything, is it?”
“Oh God, Bex!” wails Suze. “That really makes me feel better.”
She picks up her mug and mine, takes them over to the sink, and starts to run the tap.
“I just can't believe you're having a relationship with Tarquin!” I say.
“We're not having a relationship!” squeals Suze, as though I've scalded her. “That's the point. Last night was the very last time. We're both completely agreed. It'll never happen again. Never. And you mustn't tell anyone.”
“I won't.”
“No, I'm serious, Bex. You mustn't tell anyone. No one!”
“I won't! I promise! In fact—” I say, having a sudden idea. “I've got something for you.”
I hurry into the hall, open one of my suitcases, and scrabble for the Kate's Paperie carrier bag. I pluck a card from the pile, scribble “To Suze, love Bex” inside, and return to the kitchen, sealing the envelope.
“Is this for me?” says Suze in surprise. “What is it?”
“Open it!”
She tears it open, looks at the picture of a zipped-up pair of lips, and reads aloud the printed message:
Roomie—your secret's safe with me.
“Wow!” she says, wide-eyed. “That's so cool! Did you buy it especially? But I mean . . .” She frowns. “How did you know I'd have a secret?”
“Er . . . just a hunch,” I say. “You know. Sixth sense.”
“You know, Bex, that reminds me,” says Suze, flipping the envelope back and forth in her fingers. “You got quite a lot of post while you were away.”
“Oh right.”
In the astonishment of hearing about Suze and Tarquin, I'd kind of forgotten about everything else. But now the hysteria which has been lifting my spirits starts to evaporate. As Suze brings over a pile of unfriendly-looking envelopes, my stomach gives a nasty flip, and I suddenly wish I'd never come home. At least while I was away, I didn't have to know about any of this.
“Right,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant and on top of things. I leaf through the letters without really looking at them—then put them down. “I'll look at them later. When I can give them my full attention.”
“Bex . . .” Suze pulls a face. “I think you'd better open this one now.” She reaches for the pile and pulls out a brown envelope with the word SUMMONS on the front.
I stare at it, feeling mortified. A summons. It was true. I've been summonsed. I take the envelope from Suze, unable to meet her eye, and rip it open with trembling fingers. I scan the letter without saying anything, feeling a growing coldness at the base of my spine. I can't quite believe people would actually take me to court. I mean, court is for criminals. Like drug dealers and murderers. Not for people who just miss a couple of bills.
I stuff the letter back into its envelope and put it on the counter, breathing hard.
“Bex . . . what are you going to do?” says Suze, biting her lip. “You can't just ignore that one.”
“I won't. I'll pay them.”
“But can you afford to pay them?”
“I'll have to.”
There's silence, apart from the drip-drip of the cold-water tap into the sink. I look up, to see Suze's face contorted with worry.
“Bex—let me give you some money. Or Tarkie will. He can easily afford it.”
“No!” I say, more sharply than I'd intended. “No, I don't want any help. I'll just . . .” I rub my face. “I'll go and see the guy at the bank. Today. Right now.”
With a sudden surge of determination I scoop up the pile of letters and head to my room. I'm not going to let all this defeat me. I'm going to wash my face, and put on some makeup, and get my life back in order.
“What will you say?” says Suze, following me down the corridor.
“I'll explain the situation to him honestly, and ask him for a bigger overdraft . . . and take it from there. I'm going to be independent and strong, and stand on my own two feet.”
“Good for you, Bex!” says Suze. “That's really fantastic. Independent and strong. That's really great!” She watches as I try to open my suitcase with shaking fingers. As I struggle with the clasp for the third time, she comes over and puts a hand on my arm. “Bex—would you like me to come too?”
“Yes, please,” I say in a small voice.
Suze won't let me go anywhere until I've sat down and had a couple of brandies for Dutch courage. Then she tells me how she read an article the other day that said your best negotiating weapon is your appearance—so I must choose my outfit for seeing John Gavin very carefully. We go right through my wardrobe and end up with a plain black skirt and gray cardigan which I reckon shouts “frugal, sober, and steady.” Then she has to choose her own “sensible, supportive friend” outfit (navy trousers and a white shirt). And we're almost ready to go when Suze decides that if nothing else works, we might have to flirt outrageously with him, so we both change into sexy underwear. Then I look at myself in the mirror and suddenly decide I look too drab. So I quickly change into a pale pink cardigan, which means changing my lipstick.
At last we get out of the house and arrive at the Fulham branch of Endwich Bank. As we go in, Derek Smeath's old assistant, Erica Parnell, is showing out a middle-aged couple. Between you and me, she and I have never exactly got on. I don't think she can be quite human—she's been wearing exactly the same navy blue shoes every time I've seen her.
“Oh, hello,” she says, shooting me a look of dislike. “What do you want?”
“I'd like to see John Gavin, please,” I say, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “Is he available?”
“I shouldn't think so,” she says coldly. “Not without notice.”
“Well . . . could you possibly just check?”
Erica Parnell rolls her eyes.
“Wait there,” she says and disappears behind a door marked “Private.”
“God, they're horrible here!” says Suze, lolling against a glass partition. “When I go to see my bank manager he gives me a glass of sherry and asks me about all the family! You know, Bex, I really think you should move to Coutts.”
“Yes, well,” I say. “Maybe.”
I'm feeling slightly jittery as I leaf through a pile of insurance brochures. I'm remembering what Derek Smeath said about John Gavin being rigorous and inflexible. Oh God, I miss old Smeat
hie.
Oh God, I miss Luke.
The feeling hits me like a hammer blow. Since I got back from New York I've been trying not to think about him at all. But as I stand here, all I wish is that I could talk to him. I wish I could see him looking at me like he used to before everything went wrong. With that quizzical little smile on his face, and his arms wrapped tightly around me.
I wonder what he's doing now. I wonder how his meetings are going.
“Come this way,” comes Erica Parnell's voice, and my head jerks up. Feeling slightly sick, I follow her down a blue-carpeted corridor, into a chilly little room furnished with a table and plastic chairs. As the door closes behind her, Suze and I look at each other.
“Shall we run away?” I say, only half-joking.
“It's going to be fine!” says Suze. “He'll probably turn out to be really nice! You know, my parents once had this gardener, and he seemed really grumpy—but then we found out he had a pet rabbit! And it was like, he was a completely different—”
She breaks off as the door swings open and in strides a guy of about thirty. He's got thinning dark hair, is wearing a rather nasty suit, and is holding a plastic cup of coffee.
He doesn't look as though he's got a friendly bone in his body. Suddenly I wish we hadn't come.
“Right,” he says with a frown. “I haven't got all day. Which of you is Rebecca Bloomwood?”
The way he says it, it's like he's asking which one of us threw up on the carpet.
“Erm . . . I am,” I say nervously.
“And who's this?”
“Suze is my—”
“People,” says Suze confidently. “I'm her people.” She looks around the room. “Do you have any sherry?”
“No,” says John Gavin, looking at her as though she's subnormal. “I don't have any sherry. Now what's this about?”
“OK, first of all,” I say nervously, “I've brought you something.” I reach into my bag and hand him another Kate's Paperie envelope.
It was my own idea to bring him a little something to break the ice. After all, it's only good manners. And in Japan, this is how business is done all the time.
“Is this a check?” says John Gavin.
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