How to Break Your Own Heart

by Maggie Alderson

  I had to bite my lip not to smile when she sobbed, ‘And I haven’t got a TV licence either…’

  This had all blown up in her mind to the point where she saw her whole flat as some kind of catastrophe when, really, the rest of it was fine. Sometimes, she said, the whole thing weighed on her so badly she checked into a hotel for a night to get away from it.

  It was time for action, but once we went back into the study and I took in the great piles of mixed-up papers and unopened envelopes that had drifted like sand dunes against the walls and furniture, I could understand why she had been having trouble sleeping. For a moment I felt a little daunted, and I was not at all afraid of a little financial admin.

  I did all of ours – not Ed’s business stuff; he had a professional bookkeeper for that – but all the household finances, council tax, insurance, the car, that kind of thing. My mother had shown me how to balance a cheque book and keep things filed when I was fourteen, and it had been second nature to me ever since. I did it once a month and even enjoyed it in a Uriah Heep kind of way.

  Rosalyn’s study was overwhelming simply because of the sheer volume of it, and it was hard to see where to start, but I didn’t want to leave until I had given her some sense of hope that I would be able to sort it out for her. So I used what I was beginning to think of as my bin-liner trick. I got out my trusty roll and we stuffed every single bit of paper in that room into bags.

  Then I sent Rosalyn out to wait while I piled them up in one corner behind the door so that when I brought her back in – et voilà – she had a room again, with a desk and bookshelves, even a floor. Like Kiki and Janelle, she was amazed by the difference.

  And just putting the stuff into the bin-liners, we had come across several cheques she had never banked – the total would more than pay my fees, I was pleased to note – plus she had found a lone shoe she’d been searching everywhere for, which had been buried under the heaps of paper.

  Once again, that first small change worked wonders and, while I knew we would still have to sort through all that paperwork, which was not a very appealing prospect, I was confident that Rosalyn’s life was already starting to change for the better.

  And so, I realized, as I left with a cheque for £500 in my wallet, was mine.

  My final appointment on Wednesday afternoon was the follow-up with Janelle and I was amazed by what I found at her flat when I got there.

  ‘Amelia!’ she said, giving me a huge hug at the door. ‘Come in, come in, I’ve got so much to tell you. You are such a genius. Look at this.’

  She took my hand and led me through to the sitting room, where I saw that the pile of bin-liners, containing her unopened designer carrier bags that we had stuffed behind one of her sofas, was now three times as high as it had been when I had left the week before.

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘You have been busy.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, her alarmingly green eyes dancing with excitement. ‘And there’s loads more to come.’

  ‘You don’t have to get rid of everything you own, Janelle,’ I said, a bit alarmed at what I might have started. ‘ There is a happy medium.’

  ‘It’s not all mine,’ she said, jumping on to the sofa – quite an achievement in jeans as tight as the ones she was wearing – and grabbing one of the bags. She opened it and pulled out a pair of bright-pink sequinned hot pants. ‘ These are Lorelle’s, and this bag’ – she produced some egg-yolk-yellow moon boots – ‘is Shanelle’s stuff.’

  I was bewildered, although I did recognize the names as those of her former girl-band colleagues.

  ‘What have you got all their stuff here for?’ I asked.

  ‘The charity auction,’ she said, looking at me as though I should know all about it. ‘It was such a brilliant idea, Amelia, and it’s going to be so amazing. Look, it’s in the papers today.’

  She handed me a copy of the Sun and there it was.

  A TASTE OF MONEY!

  Honeypots reunite for

  charity auction, rumours of tour!

  ‘Good going, Janelle,’ I said. ‘You got right on to that.’

  I didn’t want to tell her I had completely forgotten ever suggesting she could have a charity auction of her unwanted stuff.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I felt so much better just getting all that crap out of the hall, I had this big surge of energy, and the brilliant thing was, it gave me the excuse I needed to call Lorelle. We’ve been friends since we were five years old and I hadn’t spoken to her since the band broke up. So I rang her and suggested we did a charity auction of our clothes, like you said, for our old school where we met, and it’s just gone on from there. Turns out we were all really sad and missing each other and now – don’t tell anyone, we haven’t released it officially – we are reforming and we are going to do a new album and a tour. And it’s all thanks to you.’

  I was about to open my mouth to say I couldn’t possibly take any credit for any of it, but Janelle had started talking again.

  ‘Who’s your agent?’ she said.

  ‘My agent?’ I replied, bewildered all over again.

  ‘It’s just that the magazines are fighting over the exclusive about how the auction came out of your clutter-clearing my place, and my agent wants to speak to yours to discuss who we should place it with.’

  ‘Magazines?’ I said, dumbly.

  ‘Yeah, I’d like to do it with Grazia, because they’ve got more class than Heat and I’ve done Hello! so many times, but I’m just gonna tell her, take the one who offers the most, because I’m going to give it all to the school fund anyway. So, who shall I tell her to call?’

  ‘Give her my number,’ I said, my head whirling.

  After all that excitement, I insisted we get started clearing the rest of the place and, within a couple of hours, we had arranged for one sofa to go back to Heal’s and filled several boxes with knick-knacks ready to be flogged on eBay, all money raised to go to Janelle’s old school.

  She helped me down to the car with them and, as we said goodbye, she handed me a wedge of crisp banknotes. I looked at it for a moment and then pressed them back into her hand.

  ‘Put it towards the school fund,’ I said. ‘That’s my donation.’

  She gave me another big hug and said she’d ‘see me at the photo shoot’. I didn’t even ask her which photo shoot, I decided just to let it all unfold, like some crazy flume ride – and it did.

  I hadn’t got far down Haverstock Hill when my phone rang. It was Janelle’s agent, calling to discuss which magazine we should place the story in, but it soon became clear that wasn’t the only reason she’d called me.

  By the time we rang off, we’d agreed a date for me to go and sort out her office, which she said was such a ‘cesspit’ she had to have all her meetings in cafés, which was a huge waste of time – plus, she’d put on half a stone drinking endless lattes she didn’t really want. Then, she reeled off a list of names of clients who she said would also be contacting me.

  Kiki had been right – London badly needed its clutter clearing.

  13

  The next day was supposed to be our big shopping expedition, and I met Kiki in the café on the ground floor of Liberty’s as we had planned, because I thought it would be easier – and kinder – to explain face to face that I wasn’t ready for the wardrobe makeover yet.

  ‘Oh boy, have we got work to do,’ she said, shaking her head, when I walked in. ‘We’d better not dawdle too long over this coffee.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I said, sitting down.

  ‘Well, it’s all a bit random, Amelia, isn’t it?’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘You – your outfit. You’ve got Sloane Ranger shoes, yummy-mummy jeans, a top that looks like it’s on holiday in Goa and a jacket that should never have left Cheltenham. Nice bag, though – when did you score that?’

  She reached over and grabbed Pussy Galore, nuzzling it against her face and purring.

  ‘Last week,’ I said proudly. ‘I
t is gorgeous, isn’t it? I got it from Anya Hindmarch. And this top’s new as well. It’s by Antik Batik. I think it’s lovely, and it’s got a matching skirt…’

  ‘It is lovely, Amelia,’ said Kiki, in surprisingly gentle tones, and putting her hand on mine. ‘But it just doesn’t work with the rest of your outfit. Like I said before, you need to look more pulled together if you want to be taken seriously professionally. Mind you, I’m hearing great things about you on that front. Monica says her flat is going to be a museum, Janelle says you have reunited the Honeypots, and Rosalyn said you found cheques for £5,000 while you were tidying up her place. Is that all true?’

  I nodded. Kiki high-fived me across the table.

  ‘Way to go, baby girl,’ she said, grinning broadly. ‘I knew you’d be a star.’

  ‘Well, thanks to you,’ I said. ‘It’s still early days, but I am loving it and you’ve reminded me – I’m going to check out the stationery department here to see if they have any nice filing boxes for Rosalyn’s place to help keep her motivated once we’ve sorted her out.’

  ‘You can do that another day,’ said Kiki, in her bossiest voice. ‘We haven’t got time now. I thought we’d start here to get a feel for what suits you, then we might head over to Dover Street Market to pick up some statement pieces. Then on to Selfridges for jeans, shoes and basics.’

  ‘Actually, Kiki,’ I said, taking a breath and determined to be firm with her, ‘it’s incredibly nice of you to do this for me, especially after what you’ve already done setting me up in business, but I think I need to take it slowly on this wardrobe-makeover lark. I’m not really ready for a whole new look in one go.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  I wasn’t going to tell her the real reason was Ed – and anyway, it wasn’t just about him. ‘Well, it’s just too much change for me all at once,’ I told her. ‘It’s quite scary working for myself for the first time and if I suddenly get all new clothes as well, I don’t think I’ll know who I am any more.’

  Kiki looked at me steadily. She was wearing the heavy-rimmed 1950s style glasses she appeared in sometimes. I strongly suspected they were just for effect, and they were certainly having one on me. She was reminding me uncomfortably of my father in telling-off mode. He looked at you over his glasses like that. Joseph Renwick used to do a very funny impersonation of him doing it, I remembered, and his face flashed into my head suddenly, looking back at me at Kiki’s party. I felt myself blush at the memory. It was all too much; I was squirming in my seat.

  ‘It’s Ed, isn’t it?’ said Kiki quietly, her gaze not breaking mine. ‘He didn’t like it when I bought you those shoes, and you’re worried he’ll freak out if you come home looking like a twenty-first-century woman, rather than the mid-twentieth-century version he seems to prefer. Hmmmm? Am I right?’

  I had to hand it to Kiki. She was as tactful as a nightclub bouncer, but she was spot on once again. Ed’s feminine ideal was pretty much Miss Moneypenny. He’d bought me several cashmere twinsets over the years, and I had a drawer full of Hermès scarves.

  ‘No,’ I said, hoping it sounded more convincing to her than it did to me. ‘I just want to take my new life one step at a time. OK?’

  She leaned across the table towards me. ‘Look, Amelia,’ she said. ‘You did something amazing for me with my flat. I really feel my life has changed since you sorted it out. I used to live with a slight feeling of panic permanently in my chest, and that has gone – completely gone. You did that for me, so now will you let me do something for you? I think you need this as much as I needed to be told to get rid of those stupid videos…’

  She was looking at me so kindly and intently over those silly glasses, and while it made me feel quite uncomfortable, I could see she was completely sincere. Then, as I looked back at her, wondering what to say, something strange happened. My eyes filled with tears, and when I opened my mouth to answer her, I realized my throat was all achey and closed.

  She squeezed my hand. ‘It’s OK, Amelia,’ she said. ‘Just this once, let me look after you. OK?’

  I was so horrified that I might be about to burst into tears in public, I just nodded.

  In the end we had a really great day. Although I was still adamant I didn’t want her to buy me anything, I did agree to try things on and found it was a lot of fun. She took me over to Dover Street Market – by a route which took us perilously close to C. J. Mecklin & Son – where she put me in all kinds of peculiar garments by Comme des Garçons, Balenciaga and Boudicca.

  And while I had no intention of ever wearing clothes like that, I could see that they looked rather good on me, in a weird kind of way. Being tall, I realized, meant you could get away with quite extreme styles.

  ‘See,’ said Kiki, when I came out in an almost backless black satin dress by Lanvin which had looked like a sack on the hanger. ‘You look amazing in that. It’s sickening actually. I’d love to be as tall as you. And why don’t you wear more black? It looks great on you. Put these shoes on.’

  They were a ridiculously high pair of silver platforms that I wouldn’t have been seen dead in – they looked like something from Dr Who – but I was happy to go along with her for the lark.

  I put them on, looked in the mirror, and it was suddenly quite strange. I felt like I was looking at someone else, someone rather amazingly glamorous. It was exciting, but also slightly terrifying. I didn’t feel up to being the woman I was looking at in the mirror. She was me, but I wasn’t her.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ said Kiki, looking at my reflection. ‘I think I hate you.’

  Then she came behind me and lifted up my hair so it hung like a bob just above my shoulders. It made my face look quite different, more bony and sculpted. More grown up.

  ‘That’s the next thing,’ she said.

  After that, I felt so unsettled I hurried to get back into my own things again. When I was dressed I stopped and looked at myself in the mirror inside the changing room, and for the first time I really understood what Kiki meant about my clothes.

  Compared to the glamazon I had momentarily been transformed into, I could see I was pretty frumpy – and the only difference between me and that other woman I had glimpsed in the mirror was the clothes.

  ‘All right, Kiki,’ I said, when I came out. ‘You’re right. I do need to change my look. I get it now, and I do want new clothes. Today.’ She grinned at me, and I realized she must be feeling the way I did when I had just cleared someone’s hallway. ‘But I don’t feel ready for silver platform shoes and backless dresses,’ I added. ‘Can you help me look less frumpy without looking freaky?’

  She took me off to Selfridges, where we commandeered a changing room and several assistants to bring us things from all over the store. Sending them off on quests like a little potentate in red high heels, Kiki was in her element.

  ‘OK,’ she said, coming back to the changing room carrying armfuls of clothes. ‘I know you love jeans and a tailored jacket, so let’s stay in your comfort zone, but with these jeans and this tailored jacket.’

  She picked out two garments from her pile and I obediently put them on. The jeans were in the very dark denim colour she always wore, quite high on the waist and very narrow right down to the ankle, and while they were different to what I was used to, I could see right away that they really showed off my long legs.

  The jacket – black, just to the top of my hip and with wide, oddly short sleeves – was more challenging, but after Kiki had me try it on over a stripy T-shirt, with the jeans, I totally got it, and after that I was open to anything she suggested.

  After an hour or so we had narrowed it down to the dark jeans, a wide-legged white pair, a pile of assorted long-sleeved T-shirts, the black jacket and a double-breasted bright red one like a reefer jacket. There were also a couple of floral-print silk dresses which she was trying to persuade me could be worn over jeans or on their own, belted or loose.

  ‘But how come these don’t count as floaty?’ I asked her.

  ‘
Trust Auntie Kiki!’ she said happily. ‘ The fabrics are modern. OK, next stop, shoes. Some very frivolous flat sandals and perhaps some red ballerinas – they’d be gorgeous with your new handbag.’

  In the end, after protesting that it was too much, I let her buy me the jeans, the jackets, the T-shirts and the dresses as her thank-you for doing her place, but I insisted on paying for the shoes myself.

  I got three pairs, all variations on the basic ballerina style, in wonderfully fanciful colours. I’d hardly had a pair of shoes that weren’t black, brown or navy since I was a child, I realized, apart from trainers, and flip-flops for holidays, and it felt really reckless.

  Finally, the crazy spree over, we stopped on Oxford Street to say goodbye and I gave Kiki a huge hug before she got into her taxi.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I said. ‘I love my new clothes. I really didn’t know how much I needed to do that. Thank you for being so bossy.’

  ‘You are so welcome, Amelia,’ she said, smiling up at me. ‘But I still don’t think you realize quite how much you have done for me. So I’m going to force you to let me be as helpful to you as you are to me. Just trust Auntie Kiki, OK?’

  I kissed her again and headed home down Duke Street, happily swinging my bright yellow Selfridges bags.

  I felt a little like Janelle when I dropped them all on my bed, but unlike her I immediately opened them and tried everything on again. Ed was going to be out late that night doing a cellar inventory for one of his best clients, so I had great fun putting on different combinations of my new things and parading around the flat striking poses.

  And as I looked at myself in the big mirror in Ed’s bedroom, wearing the narrow-leg dark denim jeans, a tight and shiny dark blue T-shirt and the Christian Louboutin heels Kiki had given me at her party, I was relieved he wasn’t in.