by Nana Malone
Chris had upped and gone to Manchester to begin again, promising he was finished with drugs. He was looking for work and determined to make a go of it in a new city. Nick hoped to God things would pan out for his brother, because he sure as hell wouldn’t be there to clean up the mess if it didn’t.
An old man approached the bar, took his flat cap off and said in a gravelly voice, “Ah, the wandered returns. Good to see you son. Have you been away travelling?”
“You could say that, Frank,” Nick said, smiling. “What can I get you? The usual? Pint of real ale?”
“Yes, lad, the usual.”
After work, Nick made the journey to his mom’s. The front door was wet and the smell of piss was so strong it hit the back of Nick’s nostrils and made him choke.
He knocked on the door and heard movement immediately behind it.
“Mum, it’s me, Nick.”
She opened the door, wearing neon yellow rubber gloves, a scrubbing brush in her hand. Her face was twisted into an agonized frown. “They bloody pissed in my letter box. I’ve had enough of it,” she said, tears spilling down her cheeks.
“Get your things,” Nick said forcefully. “You’re coming to live with me. I don’t care what you say, you’re not staying here a minute more.”
She nodded. Finally, she wasn’t putting up a fight. She spent fifteen minutes roaming around the rooms of the small flat, choosing which things to pack into a black suitcase.
“I’ll phone the landlord in the morning,” Nick said. “We’ll get it all tidied up and handed back, don’t worry.”
His mother looked up into her son’s eyes and whispered, “Thanks for turning out so well. I don’t know how you’ve done it, but you’ve turned into such a good man.”
Nick sighed. Good and man were not two words he would use together in a sentence about himself at the moment. He kissed his mother’s forehead and ushered her out the door, scowling at his wet sneakers as he stepped across the carpet.
Back at his apartment, he gave his mum the bedroom and settled on the sofa for the night. There was a spare bedroom, but he would have to save up to buy himself a small bed to put in it. For now, the sofa would do. He watched TV mindlessly, knowing that sleep wouldn’t take him easily that night. He pulled the red velvet blanket up around his shoulders, the faint smell of Chanel stabbing him in the heart.
I’ll wash this blanket tomorrow. I can’t stand that smell anymore. No I won’t. Who am I kidding? It’s the only thing I have left of her.
42
Selena poured Pinot Grigio into two glasses before handing one to Dee. The glugging sound from the bottle as the pale yellow liquid rushed out of its thin neck never failed to make Selena smile.
“I can’t believe it,” Dee said, shaking her head. “I’ve never seen you so hung up over someone and I can’t believe he turned out to be such a git.”
Selena sucked a long breath in through her teeth. “Yup. I never saw that coming.”
She took a big gulp of wine and glanced at the pile of undies thrown into the open case on the bed.
“Here I am packing for Paris again, and the only knickers I’m taking with me are all my old saggy ones. There’s no chance of anything happening this time,” Selena said, swinging a pair of large black knickers around her finger.
Dee chuckled. “Not unless you enjoy some rebound nookie with a French hottie.”
“Don’t even start, Dee,” Selena said, raising one hand. “I’m not even going there. It’s horrendous. I forgot how much it hurts when it goes wrong. I can’t deal with that again.”
Dee pouted. “Anyway,” she said, grabbing the knickers and examining the label, “you don’t own any nasty old knickers, these are all designer.”
Selena grabbed them back, grinning. After a pause, she said, “You’re lucky with your hubby,” her face softening into a gentle smile. “How’s he doing after his mum? How are you doing?”
“We’re good. Getting through. And we have each other,” Dee said, nodding. “He’s a good guy. It gets a bit boring having the same sex all the time—well, not that often—and doing the same activities, and I’ll admit I was jealous as hell of your office antics with this super-hot guy. But I wouldn’t swap Roger for any of that, not if it leads to heartbreak.”
Selena sighed. “What was your rule on footwear again?” she asked, turning back to the case. “A pair of ankle boots for travelling and stick the heels in the case?”
Dee grinned and shoved her friend’s shoulder. “See, I have been useful over the years.”
Selena shoved her back, laughing, and said, “You just need to learn to hold me back from tragically good-looking shitbags.”
They ordered in pizzas—Selena wasn’t in the mood to think of Gus and his flab-fighting motivational slogans. If she put on a few pounds burying her sorrows in cheese and pepperoni, so be it. Watching a chick flick with wine and pizza was even better healing treatment than she’d had at the spa.
“I cried such a big puddle through the hole in a massage table the other day, the poor woman had to get a towel to mop it up,” Selena said, laughing and picking up another slice of pizza.
“Jesus, Lena, that’s not like you,” Dee said, her eyebrows contorting in disbelief. “I’ve only ever seen you cry a handful of times.”
“Yeah, I hold it in,” Selena said, while chewing. “My mum never had time for tears. She told me it would show everyone how weak I was.”
“That’s actually quite sad,” Dee said, putting her pizza down. “Kids are supposed to cry. Goodness knows I hear my neighbor’s kid crying all the bloody time. And he’s well looked after, I know he is. You never speak much about your mum. Do you ever miss her?”
Selena swallowed and took a sip of wine. She pondered the question. “This sounds terrible, but not really. I was seventeen when she died, but I hardly ever saw her. It was always the housekeeper who looked after me. And of course, dad was still alive, so I clung to him. At least he let me cry. He was so different from her.”
Dee tilted her head to the side, examining her friend’s face. “You really deserve a Roger of your own. I know it’ll happen for you, you’re lovely. The right man will sweep you up and give you the love you need.”
“Pass me the sick bucket,” Selena teased, rolling her eyes.
The morning after, Selena felt groggy from the wine and heavy from the amount of pizza dough she’d consumed. Thank goodness it was the weekend. She pulled on a T-shirt and Lycra shorts, grabbed a bottle of mineral water from the fridge and went to her gym room for a run on the treadmill. She lasted all of ten minutes before her head fuzzed over and she had to sit down.
Now’s not the time. She decided that shopping would make her feel better.
She marched into her walk-in wardrobe, scooped up every last grey dress, leaving the dark blue and black dresses safely on the rail—she would need some comfort colours in there.
She stuffed them in a bag for charity, pulled on a pair of jeans and boots, and headed out into the city to throw cash at her problems. She didn’t want work to feel the same anymore. She imagined if she restyled herself, it would be as good as wiping Nick from her memory. He was an old story, from the old version of her. And with the next Paris trip only days away, to launch the new product line with Pierre Berest’s retail team, she needed to feel super confident.
On impulse she bought a tight shift dress in every colour the boutique stocked—red, fuchsia, brown, white, and olive green. It wasn’t exactly daring, but it was a start. She tried on new heels in tan and red leather, and bought them both, plus a few belts in black and tan leather with bold buckles, to wear over the dresses. This was retail therapy of the highest order, with eye-watering four-figure sums, something she hadn’t done since her dad died and she’d panic-bought a business wardrobe to convince herself, and everyone else, that she could take over as boss. This time, she had less to prove to others, but more to prove to herself. She needed to know she could succeed on her own steam, despite th
e recent knock to her confidence. She would wear the brightest red lipstick from Shades of Chic’s new line the entire time she was in Paris, she decided, as armour. This product launch was going to be her own personal relaunch too, and only she would know it.
43
“Last orders,” Nick shouted over the noise of several strands of conversation all blending into one big tangle of noise. He had an essay to finish and it was quarter to one in the morning. If he could just get these customers to drink up and leave he could get the paper finished and possibly still have time for a few hours’ sleep before he was due at his mom’s old apartment to do a final clear up before the inspector came.
Chelsea groaned, “Here come the masses, desperate for their last drinks. Let’s hope they’re not the kind who buy up three drinks each and need to be dragged out by Mike and Dan.”
The next hour went by in slow motion, or so Nick thought. Last drinks were served, the beer taps were cleaned, fridges stocked, surfaces wiped, trash cans emptied, coffee machine cleaned. Eventually, the list was fully ticked off, the last of the drinkers swayed his way on wobbly legs out onto the street and Nick leapt across the room to lock the door immediately.
He wasted no time grabbing his coat and bag from the staff room and gestured to Chelsea to hurry.
“What’s the rush mister?” she asked. “Why don’t you and I grab a sneaky drink before we leave?” She sidled over to him and stood so close he could smell her coconut shampoo.
He shook his head. “No, thanks. I’ve got to get this final essay finished tonight.”
She pushed her lips out in a pout.
He had no intentions of drinking with Chelsea. He had taken a personal oath to stay away from women until he got his shit together. His personal life was enough of a mess without adding Chelsea to the mix. Besides, no woman would ever be a match for Selena.
Even just thinking the name felt like a punch in the stomach to Nick. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he had taken a tester card of Chanel Mademoiselle from a department store the other day. He instantly regretted it. Sniffing those familiar fumes was like taking a hit from a drug he was trying to quit. It was no comfort, only a reminder of what he’d lost.
Nick darted along the street, towards the night bus stop. Once on board he pulled out a notebook and began scribbling notes in the side margin. His essay was taking shape. This was the last piece in the gigantic puzzle that had engulfed his life for years. He couldn’t wait to type it up and click send to his tutor for the very last time.
The bus was crowded with teens, alcoholics, a hooker, and a jazz musician, who was gently fingering a guitar as they rode, but Nick was completely unaware. He was lost in his own world of words. Nothing would pull him off course now.
44
Here goes, this is the big one.
Selena fastened the black buckle on the leather belt around her waist. It cinched her in perfectly, showing off her hourglass curves. She might have indulged in a few heartbreak pizzas and some wine lately, but it didn’t show. She smiled and turned to examine her derrière in the mirror, nodding in approval. This red dress is actually working for me. I look pretty foxy, if I do say so myself.
There was a knock on the hotel door. Hair and make-up had arrived. Two French women carrying enormous black vanity cases marched in and wasted no time in setting up a salon corner.
“Hi ladies,” Selena said, bubbling with excitement. “Have you been to the other girls already?”
“Yes, all your team is done already,” said one of the stylists in hurried tones. She pulled her long black hair into a messy nest on the top of her head with a band and gestured to Selena to take a seat. “Let’s make you fabulous, Miss Day.”
“Call me Selena,” she said, brushing off the formality. She hated being addressed that way. “But first, let’s pop some bubbly.”
She twisted and pulled on the cork until it burst off triumphantly, allowing a mini fountain of bubbles to spurt up and onto the carpet. “Oops,” she said, giggling.
She poured three small glasses, giving one to each stylist, and then sat in the chair as she was ordered. The duo went at it, spraying, back-combing, dabbing and dusting. When the make-up artist’s fingers patted foundation over her scar, it suddenly dawned on Selena that she hadn’t flinched. Whenever she’d been made up professionally before, it used to send shudders through her bones to have someone’s fingers glide over the traintrack-like scar tissue, but now, nothing. Wow. I’ve actually gotten over it. That’s the one thing I can thank Nick for.
Thinking his name sent a rush of nerves through her chest and into her heart, causing it to quicken. She hadn’t realized she still felt raw. It had been a month since she last saw him, but still the emotions kept flooding back to her as strong as ever. If she smelled bacon it reminded her of their breakfast at Soho House. When she looked across the street from her office at work she couldn’t help but see the woman in the office who had been working late the night they made love at the window. Singing In The Rain came on TV the other day and reminded her of Nick’s grandfather whom she’d never even met, and never would. But the poster in his living room, and the look on his face when he spoke of his granddad—that’s what she would always think of fondly.
Ugh, get him out of your head tonight. This is your big night, Lena.
After the last molecule of powder was brushed on her face, Selena was handed a large mirror to examine herself. “Wow,” she said, her mouth gaping. “Just, wow. Thank you girls. I feel like a star. Bloody hell, I’m a bit emotional.” She gulped away the lump in her throat and downed the last bit of champagne.
Feeling on top of the world, knowing that she was hot enough to melt a thousand icebergs, Selena made her way down to the hotel bar to meet the rest of the Shades of Chic team. She had deliberately asked Nancy to book a different hotel from their first trip to Paris. This time, she wanted modern, slick—basically nothing that would remind her of her previous French sexual revolution.
The team was there, drinking cocktails paid for by Shades of Chic. There was a party atmosphere as they stood in a small circle chattering nervously.
“The cars will be here soon,” said Nancy under her disguise of perfectly applied make-up. Selena had never seen Nancy’s hair so big.
“You all look amazing,” Selena said, as the younger girls on the team all started snapping selfies. They asked a waiter to take a group shot of the whole team and Selena looked around at all the happy faces. It was good to be away from London, away from that office.
She walked over to the bar to pick up a cocktail when a waiter in a white shirt and grey waistcoat intercepted her to pick up a glass and hand it to her. “Are you one of the models?” he asked, his smooth French accent sending a kick of excitement through her. “Me? No, no. I’m the boss,” she said laughing.
“No,” he said. “I thought, wiz ziss beauty you must be the make-up model. You are a very attractive woman.” He flicked an eyebrow on those last words, causing Selena to laugh into her drink, her cheeks burning red.
“Thank you,” is all she could think of to say. You’re pretty damned hot yourself.
She took her drink back to the group just in time to hear Marnie say, “It’s a shame Nick isn’t here, you know, with him being one of the original group who came to France. He would have loved this.”
Nancy’s face tightened as she glanced at Selena. Selena’s stomach lurched. Nobody mention that bloody man, and especially not with a reminder about the damn Paris trip in the same sentence.
She simply smiled as if she hadn’t registered that comment, raised her glass and said, “Cheers to Shades of Chic, Paris-style.” The team cheered and clinked glasses. This was going to be a night to remember.
The team were swept into a convoy of black limos to a large ballroom in central Paris where they were photographed on the red carpet next to huge billboards of Tamara, the model, under the Shades of Chic logo. Selena’s gut was on a spin cycle. She was nervous and excited all
at once.
Pierre Berest greeted her with kisses on both cheeks as cameras flashed. He pulled her around to pose for the French media and her pearly teeth sparkled in the camera glare. It was like no other business trip. She was walking on air—well, a red carpet, which felt like air.
Tamara, the A-list girl about town, strode up to Selena in a floor-length silver gown, which plunged so low you could see every bit of her breasts apart from the nipples, and kissed her cheek. “Selena, so good to see you. What a night,” she said, her voice delicate and dramatic like Marilyn Monroe’s. She followed the same routine as Pierre had done and put one arm around Selena’s waist to turn her to the right camera. Selena glanced up to the see the model strike a pose that looked as if she was thinking “Don’t I know you?” to the camera lens.
Selena followed suit, smiling, but then toning down her smile and adding a touch of a frown in there. The last thing she wanted was to look like a happy clappy children’s entertainer next to a glamour-puss when the photos appeared in the press.
“Selena.” came a voice from behind the row of paparazzi. She squinted to see a man with a shaved head, beard, and loose linen shirt.
What the—? “Simon?”
He edged forward to the barrier and went to squeeze through a gap when one of the security men stepped forward to stop him.
“It’s okay,” Selena said, her face stern. “Let him through, though I’m not sure why you’re even here.”