by Sharon Owens
‘I love you too.’
‘You’re a lovely man.’
‘Yes, I know it.’
‘And so modest too …’
‘What’s the point in false modesty, I always say?’
Emily laughed, and threw a pillow at him.
‘Give me twenty minutes,’ she said. ‘I just need to jump in the shower and blow-dry my hair … I quite fancy a bucket of popcorn tonight myself.’
26. The Home at the Top of the World
Dylan had been right about many things: the sudden drop in property prices, the right way to deal with Mr and Mrs Reilly, and the prediction that he would not be sued by Emily’s ill-fated one-night stand, Glenn. But he was wrong about one thing: Arabella didn’t come round to Emily’s flat and beg for her forgiveness. And she didn’t ask her to come back to the office. Instead, she accepted Emily’s resignation in a letter sent the day after Emily walked out of Stylish Living for ever. And she gave Emily’s job as chief features writer to none other than Jane Maxwell. Senior stylist Petra Dunwoody told Emily all about it over a cup of tea in a new café near the magazine’s offices one blustery afternoon at the end of January.
‘We were all stunned when Arabella made the announcement,’ Petra said in a grim voice. ‘Honestly, you could have heard a pin drop for about twenty seconds after she’d finished speaking. We were all sitting around the table as usual, waiting for the weekly meeting to begin. And she just told us coolly and calmly that Jane was now her second-in-command. She never mentioned your name once. Not once. Stunned, we were.’
‘I bet you were,’ Emily said. ‘I still can’t believe I don’t work there any more.’
‘We had to clap and pretend to be delighted and congratulate Jane, of course. But it was so muted, it was embarrassing. Arabella’s always disliked Jane, and everybody knows it,’ Petra said sadly.
‘Tell me about it! Arabella’s been dreaming of firing Jane for years,’ Emily agreed.
‘But now that Jane is dating that orange-faced billionaire, Doug Liebermann, the two of them are glued together 24/7. We all thought Arabella would be dead jealous of Jane, but she seems delighted by it all. I wonder … Is she planning to seduce old Doug the minute Jane’s back is turned?’
‘I don’t think so. Arabella is the classy type, and Doug seems to go for the airheads.’
‘Look, I feel awful even telling you this, Emily, but Jane and Arabella are going to LA together next week to shoot some homes there. We’re bringing out our first ever American Homes issue in May, apparently. And Jane and Doug are going to be in it, announcing their relationship to the world. As if the world cares about some sleazy guy with a pot belly and dark glasses, and his giggling blonde bimbo gold-digger …’
‘Ah well, it doesn’t matter to me any more,’ Emily said. ‘It was becoming quite stressful, working at Stylish Living. I mean, I love my home. But beyond buying the odd set of new mugs and embroidered cushions, I don’t lose any sleep over it. In recent years most of the readers I’ve interviewed have been slightly bonkers. Half of them can’t sleep at night for worrying about anyone putting a scrape on their cantilevered staircases, and so on.’
‘True. It is a bit shallow.’
‘Jane’s always wanted to have more celebrities in the magazine, and now she’ll get her wish,’ Emily added.
‘But Arabella always said the magazine was about real homes, not celebrities,’ Petra complained. ‘I don’t like the way things are going, to be honest with you. We’ll end up taking close-ups of Z-listers wearing white shirts. They’ll be plugging their latest project, and we’ll be Photoshopping out their plastic surgery scars rather than showing the readers their actual homes.’
‘Probably,’ Emily nodded.
‘I’d resign myself, if I didn’t need the money so badly. And we are in a recession and all …’ Petra said bitterly.
‘I’ll tell you this much, though,’ Emily said brightly. ‘There is one thing that Jane was good for – she gave that silly old cow Daisy Churchill a taste of her own medicine.’
‘Oh yes! She surely did that.’
‘How many marriages has that woman wrecked during her glamour career? About six that I can think of, off the top of my head … Yes, at least three footballers and three pop stars have ended up in the divorce courts because of Daisy and her airbags. And now she’s been chucked herself, for our very own Jane Maxwell. It’s the most perfect, poetic irony. I laughed my head off when Daisy Churchill was arrested for breach of the peace yesterday.’
‘So did I – we all did.’
‘I know it’s so mean to take pleasure in anyone else’s misfortune, but Jane was lucky she got away with only losing a fistful of her hair extensions. She might have been murdered. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and all that.’
‘I know – isn’t it the truth? Jane’s got twelve magazine covers out of this romance so far, so she was well pleased when Daisy attacked her outside the Ivy. I think OK! magazine were on the phone to her this morning. Now Daisy has been truly humped and dumped, and Jane is the new gossip favourite in town.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t be London without a bit of juicy celebrity gossip, would it?’ Emily smiled. ‘It wouldn’t be London, if you couldn’t be a humble magazine stylist one day and the darling of the tabloid media the next. If Cheryl Cole can be described as the Nation’s Sweetheart just because she got cheated on, there’s hope for us all.’
‘Well, listen. Anybody who can knock Daisy off the front pages for a week or two has got to be welcomed. Do you miss us at all, Emily?’ Petra asked.
‘Of course I do,’ Emily said, pouring more tea. ‘I miss everybody at the magazine, even Arabella and Jane. But I’m having such a lovely time at the charity shop. The sales assistant who was supposed to replace me found another job, so I’m staying on for a while. Just until I figure out whether I want to find another job in magazine publishing, or try something new altogether.’
‘And how is Dylan keeping?’
‘He’s fine, thanks for asking. He’s working hard and generally treating me like a princess. We’re thinking of buying our own place soon.’
‘Are you really?’ Petra said excitedly.
‘Early days, but yes … I’m going house-hunting today, actually. Just having a tootle around on my own. I like to spend my days off looking at houses. It makes a lovely change – looking at properties for myself and Dylan, instead of interviewing the readers. We won’t be able to afford much. Maybe a studio flat? But I’ll be working again soon, and we can start slogging our way up that old property ladder.’
‘I really thought Arabella would say sorry to you,’ Petra said tearfully. ‘We all did.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Emily smiled. ‘She’s been through such a hard time recently, with the divorce and then having to downsize. And I dare say I could have picked a better time to get engaged.’
‘But you were such good friends always,’ Petra added, dabbing her eyes with a napkin.
Nobody at the magazine had realized how much they liked Emily until she wasn’t working there any more. The cosy atmosphere that Emily had created with her tea and biscuits had now been replaced with a frosty, target-driven regime. And the write-ups that were once packed with delicious domestic details were now just crisp notes slotted in around the pictures.
‘I do wish Arabella all the best … Maybe we’ll make up again some day?’ Emily said generously.
But they both knew this would never happen. Arabella had moved on, and it was time for Emily to move on too. Stylish Living had changed; Emily didn’t want to be a part of that world any more.
‘So where are you going today?’ Petra asked.
‘I thought I might try Hampstead,’ Emily said. ‘I thought I’d start at the highest point in London and work my way down.’
‘Why not? That’s as good a plan as any,’ Petra nodded, leaving a small tip for the waitress. ‘I can only afford a pound, but every little helps,’ she smiled. ‘Thanks for lun
ch, Emily. It’s been so lovely to see you again.’
‘Well, keep in touch, won’t you?’ Emily told her. ‘You have my mobile number, and I’ll let you know if we ever find a place we can afford. You’ll have to come to the housewarming party.’
‘Try and stop me.’
The two women hugged briefly outside the café door, and then Petra returned to work while Emily jumped on a Northern Line train in the direction of Hampstead.
While she was sitting there, half hypnotized by the clackety-clack of the train, she got three calls on her mobile phone.
One was from a very emotional Peter Diamond – to say that his wife, Sarah, had gone out of the house for the first time in ten years, to rescue a small grey cat that had caught its foot in a shrub in their garden.
‘I’m so pleased for you both,’ Emily said, tears of happiness welling up in her eyes.
‘Yes, Sarah saw the poor thing struggling in the bushes. I was out of the house that day on business, and after a while she could bear it no longer, so she went outside and plucked the cat to safety.’
‘How amazing! I did notice a cat’s paw prints in the snow the day I visited you. I wonder if it’s the same cat?’
‘We seem to have adopted it, anyway,’ Peter Diamond said. ‘Ever since Sarah rescued it, it won’t leave our kitchen. We went out for a short walk that very evening, Emily. I think Sarah may be on the road to recovery.’
‘That’s wonderful news.’
‘Yes, it is. Well, take care.’
‘Yes, you too …’
The second call was from her parents – to say that Jake Lancaster was coming home early from Australia, but that a friend of Jake’s had offered them another house-sitting gig in a nearby street. They couldn’t decide whether to take the job and give up their old house in Belfast, or go home again and settle down to the quiet life. Emily was amazed to discover she wanted them to stay in London. She told them to think about it for a day or two, and that if they ever felt they were getting bored with house-sitting, she would help them find another place to live – either in Belfast or in London.
Then she told both of them that she loved them dearly, despite knowing that lots of people on the Tube could hear what she said.
‘We love you too, Emily,’ Mr Reilly said.
And Emily knew that he meant it.
The third call was from Dylan – to say that his old bank had agreed to give them an exclusive deal as a well-regarded former employee: a hundred per cent mortgage if they ever wanted one. Only up to the sum of £300,000, but it was a great start. So all they had to do now was find a place of their own.
‘And I have to find a job,’ Emily grimaced.
‘You will,’ he said confidently.
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Where are you, anyway?’ Dylan asked.
‘On the Tube, going to Hampstead,’ she told him.
‘Any particular reason?’ he said.
‘Just looking at property; I hear the views are pretty good in Hampstead,’ she smiled.
‘Okay, I’ll see you later,’ Dylan said tenderly. ‘Take care. Love you.’
‘Love you too,’ she said.
Emily got off the Tube and walked towards the Heath. It was a sunny day, though still very cold, and she went in that direction purely because the sun seemed to be shining a little stronger there. She bought a takeaway cappuccino at a café, and sipped it slowly while strolling along pretty streets lined with red-brick Victorian houses.
She turned into Parliament Hill, then remembered someone telling her once that Parliament Hill was where the members of the Gunpowder Plot had gathered to watch the Houses of Parliament burn. The area had stunning views across the city.
And then she saw it: a small but perfectly formed second-floor flat with a For Sale sign in the front window. The front door of the house was painted dark green. On the doorstep was a reclaimed chimney pot – empty now, but in Emily’s mind it was brimming over with red tulips. She set her cappuccino on the garden wall and rang the number of the estate agent. They answered on the first ring; they were obviously having a quiet day at the office.
‘Hello? My name is Emily Reilly, and I’m calling about the second-floor flat in Parliament Hill,’ Emily began.
‘Would you like to see it today?’ a woman said.
‘Yes, please,’ Emily said, amazed. ‘I’m standing right by it now, actually.’
‘I’ll send someone over right away,’ the woman said.
Five minutes later, Emily was climbing the stairs with her heart in her mouth. The communal hallway was bright, clean and airy. And when the estate agent opened the door to the flat, Emily felt dizzy with excitement. Although small, the flat had stunning views of the Heath and the city beyond. She felt as if she were standing at the top of the world.
‘Stunning views,’ she said breathlessly.
‘Indeed,’ the agent smiled.
‘I like it,’ Emily told him, noting the brand-new carpets, the spotless kitchen and the built-in storage in the bedroom. All of it done up in white to maximize the feeling of space. There was no garden – not even a balcony for her reclaimed chimney pot. But she could make do with a vase of red tulips on the window sill. And with the Heath on their doorstep, they didn’t really need a garden of their own.
‘Any offers on it yet?’
‘A couple of offers, yes, but the owner is holding out for the asking price.’
‘What is the asking price?’ Emily said, trying to sound nonchalant.
He told her.
It was just within the budget Dylan had mentioned.
‘Can I have another look around, and then phone my fiancé?’ Emily asked quietly.
‘Sure. I can come back later today, if he wants to view the property.’
The agent went out to the communal hall to make some phone calls. Emily gazed out of the wide bay window and then selected Dylan’s mobile number with a trembling hand.
‘I’ve found our first home,’ she said.
‘Have you? Wow! Where is it?’ he asked.
She told him.
‘Do you like it?’ he said.
‘I love it, baby.’
‘You called me baby,’ he laughed.
‘We have got to buy this place,’ Emily said.
‘I’ll come over and see it now,’ Dylan said.
‘Can you just leave the office?’ she gasped.
‘I’ll ask the boss, and then call you back,’ he laughed. ‘I’m sure he’ll say yes.’
‘Okay, I’ll wait for you outside,’ Emily said.
The agent came back into the flat. He was looking at his watch. Emily knew this was just another day at work to him.
But to her it was the beginning of something wonderful.
27. A Winter’s Wedding
One year later …
All year long Emily had been praying for snow on her big day. She was probably the only adult in the entire city who was yearning for the long, icy fingers of winter to come creeping across the rooftops once more. And Emily’s prayers did not go unanswered, for on the morning of the wedding the air was filled with countless millions of floating, falling, tumbling, silent flakes of white.
‘I don’t believe it,’ she cried happily, looking out of the window of their flat on Parliament Hill.
‘Be careful what you wish for,’ Sylvia laughed, handing her a mug of hot chocolate and a glass of pink champagne. ‘We won’t be able to feel our feet come lunchtime. I don’t know which one to give you – hot choccy or champers? So you might as well have both.’
‘Can I have pink champers?’ Molly asked, resplendent in her flowery frock and polka-dot wellies. ‘Just a little glass? I am a bridesmaid, after all.’
‘No, you certainly can’t,’ Sylvia said, rolling her eyes. ‘And don’t forget to take your pumps with you for when we get to the party.’
‘I have them all ready,’ Molly said crossly, holding up a pale pink dolly bag, ‘and my tissues and the box of c
onfetti. I’m not stupid, Mummy.’
‘No, you’re not stupid at all; you’re the most gorgeous bridesmaid that ever was,’ Sylvia laughed again.
She scooped the child up into her arms and waltzed round the room with her.
‘I’ll go and get dressed now,’ Emily said. ‘Thanks for doing my make-up, Sylvia. Do you know, my heart’s suddenly gone all fluttery?’
‘That’s to be expected,’ Sylvia told her gently. ‘It’ll be fine when we get there. And the beauty of a civil service is … it only takes ten minutes.’
‘Oh yes, I forgot about that. Thanks, Sylvia; that helps me a lot, actually.’
Emily went into the bedroom to put on her dress. The soft layers of palest pink tulle moved a little bit in her slipstream as she approached. The glittery bodice sparkled like a handful of diamonds. She wondered what Dylan was doing, and thinking, at that exact moment. He was getting ready in Jake’s house, as were her parents. Arabella and Jane had not replied to their wedding invitations, and Emily was rather relieved they hadn’t. She’d sent them out on a whim, but there’d been no RSVP in the post. Petra had also been invited but as it was her sister’s wedding on the same day she couldn’t make it. Now she was glad she had made the gesture, and glad it had not been reciprocated. The only guests at the wedding today would be Emily’s parents, Jake and his Australian girlfriend, and Dylan’s immediate family. Strange to think that Jake’s girl would be there, a person she had never met before. Yet Arabella and Jane would not, and she had worked closely with them both for ten years.
‘Ah well, that’s life,’ she said.
Emily sat down at her small, antique dressing table and took the large roller out of her fringe. She combed her long brown hair into a smooth ponytail, then clipped the silk rose on to it. A spritz of perfume on both wrists, and she was ready. She looked at her reflection in the mirror; Sylvia had given her grey, glittery eyeshadow and palest pink lip colour. This was a good thing, Sylvia said, because she wouldn’t be worrying all day about smudging red lippy.
This time tomorrow she and Dylan would be on their honeymoon, bare feet toasting on hot sand.