The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights

by Sarah Lefebve

  I’ve known Emma so long I don’t really know a life without her as my friend. We’ve grown up together, really,

  My friendship with Katie had a far less innocent beginning – evolving primarily from a mutual appreciation for red wine and a mutual aversion to studying. We met at university, where we were both studying English, both of us chronically overworked with our eight hours of lectures a week…

  We met in our hall of residence and quickly became friends after it dawned on us that we were, in fact, the only two vaguely normal girls in our block – my immediate neighbours, just to illustrate, being:

  To my right – Wendy, the maths student away from home for the first time, who not only still considered it cool to wear Converse trainers with fluorescent socks, but also considered it cool to wear a different coloured Converse trainer and a different coloured fluorescent sock on each foot.

  To my left – Heather, the religious Medic who wore hand-knitted jumpers with pictures of elephants on them, and who liked to begin each and every day with a solo rendition of ‘I’d like to teach the world to sing.’

  And directly opposite, Victoria, the token Goth. Enough said.

  We spent the next three years together – two of them in halls, and one in a student house with our goldfish Bob (now sadly in goldfish heaven) – getting pissed, getting as many guys as possible to snog us at the hall balls, and, miraculously, making it to the odd lecture.

  Emma and Katie met each other loads of times while I was at uni, but it was at my twenty first that they really hit it off.

  It was an elaborate affair – much like Barbie’s wedding – with a big marquee in the garden decorated with embarrassing photographs of me, blown up to humiliating proportions and pinned to every available surface – me in a pram, me sitting on the potty, me on my first day of Brownies, me playing a Christmas tree in my primary school play, me and Emma as Perkin and Pootle from The Flumps for the school carnival (Emma was not pleased with my dad for digging out that one)…

  We had a pond back then, which my dad had fenced off with some tent poles and a bit of fluorescent ribbon. Whether it was there to stop people falling, jumping in or throwing things in, I never did establish. But I do recall helping my dad drain the pond the following summer and discovering an item or two that had mysteriously gone missing – coincidentally around the night of that party. Namely, a garden gnome, my mum’s best whisk, and the remote control for the kitchen television. I don’t know where the garden gnome fits in but I do remember Emma and Katie giving the guests an impromptu Karaoke performance of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, both of them hunting frantically for anything that could pass as a microphone.

  I also recall, I’m sorry to say, how I went missing just as my dad was about to make a speech in my honour and was spotted through the kitchen window, by absolutely everyone at the party – gathered, as they were, for dad’s speech – sat on the kitchen worktop with my legs wrapped tightly around Alex, snogging the face off him.

  I’m a much classier chick these days.

  Anyway, despite my own mortification at the whole spectacle, Emma and Katie were united in their approval, shouting frankly unrepeatable encouragement through the fanlight window at us. In between stuffing whole profiteroles in their gobs, that is. And so, another great friendship began.

  And the three of us have been best mates ever since.

  We know it’s good from the way Pippa theatrically sweeps back the curtain and practically shoves Katie out of the cubicle at us.

  “What do you think?” our friend asks. She’s beaming.

  And for what must surely be the first time in history, Emma and I are both simultaneously speechless.

  Well, almost.

  “It’s beautiful,” I whisper, as if I’m afraid to say it out loud in case the spell is broken and she turns into a pumpkin or something.

  “That’s the one, Katie,” Emma agrees. “You look stunning.”

  “Turn around,” I instruct her. “Let’s see the back.”

  It’s an empire line dress. Ivory. Strapless. With tiny little glass beads in the bodice which sparkle in the light. The buttons on the back are similar to the beads – only bigger – and they go virtually all the way to the ground. I make a mental note to allow plenty of time for button-fastening on the day.

  “It’s fab, isn’t it?” Katie asks.

  She doesn’t need us to tell her.

  Standing unobtrusively behind her, Pippa beams too. What a lovely job – witnessing the moment a girl finds the dress that she’ll wear on the biggest day of her life.

  She’s soon business as normal though, when Emma lunges forward to hug Katie.

  “Don’t touch the fabric,” she urges. “It’s only a sample dress, but we do like to keep them in pristine condition.”

  “Oooh,” Emma mumbles, jumping back. “Sorry! I’m just so excited!”

  After completing the paperwork and putting a significant dent in Katie’s dad’s bank account, we spend the rest of the day celebrating at a trendy wine bar in Wimbledon called The Hedge. It was only meant to be a pit stop on the way home, but it’s one of those places with comfy sofas that once you have collapsed onto you just can’t seem to drag yourself off, no matter how hard you try. Which we don’t, obviously.

  Between us we polish off a couple of bottles of red, two packets of pistachios and a bowl of olives. We then succeed in emptying an entire carriage on the tube – stop by stop – with our rendition of Billy Idol’s White Wedding. And when we finally reach Katie’s flat we all climb into bed with Matt, waking him up and telling him that when he sees Katie in her dress he will think he has died and gone to heaven.

  He rubs his eyes, surveys the three of us cuddled up together next to him and calmly informs us: “I already do!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It’s Monday. Again. Bollocks.

  And I’m back at work. Again.

  Thirty-eight new emails, twelve new accounts to open, nine credit limits to chase, countless arsey salesmen to get right up my arse. So to speak.

  I got the train back from London on Sunday morning. I figured I ought to spend at least a few hours with my boyfriend this year.

  We cooked – or should I say Alex cooked – roast chicken, and we watched ‘50 First Dates’ on DVD. I asked Alex if he loved me enough to ask me out on a first date every single day for the rest our lives. He said he did.

  Maybe Drew Barrymore’s character had it good. To be able to feel that first longing for someone in the pit of your stomach every day. To never reach that point where they piss you off by leaving toenail clippings on the bathroom floor. To never reach that moment when you need to ask if something is ‘right’. That has to be good, doesn’t it?

  We went to bed after that. And had sex for the first time in six weeks.

  “The milk’s off,” I tell Fliss and Erin, sniffing the carton I have just pulled out of our illegal fridge. “I’ll nip out and get some fresh. Do you want anything?”

  “Get us a packet of Hob Nobs,” Fliss says, handing me a £1 coin. “My treat.”

  I’ll start my diet tomorrow.

  When I return fifteen minutes later, Fliss and Erin are both on the phone and there’s a Post-It note in the middle of my computer screen, informing me Alex called – at 9.42am. It’s from Fliss. The neat handwriting and the reference to the exact time tell me that. And the Post-It. If Erin had taken the call it would have been a note scribbled on the back of a sweet wrapper saying ‘Al phoned’. Either that or she’d have forgotten to tell me altogether.

  I move the Post-It to the side of my screen and dial Alex’s mobile number while I wait for the kettle to boil.

  “I can’t talk long, I’m making tea for the girls,” I tell him when he answers. Priorities…

  “Are you doing anything tonight after work?” he asks me.

  “No,” I say, immediately regretting it. It’s always wise to find out why you are being asked before you give your answer, I find.

  �
��Great. I’ve arranged for us to look at some of those properties we got details for.” He means the ones I hid. On the coffee table. Upside down. Underneath the newspaper.

  See what I mean? Clearly what I should have said was “yes, I am going out, and I am going to be out all evening, tonight, tomorrow night and every night from now until next Christmas”.

  Bugger.

  I quickly consider my options. Option 1 – stay at work and tell him I had an urgent can’t-possibly-get-out-of-it last-minute meeting. Option 2 – tell him the car wouldn’t start and I had to get the AA out, but they got lost on the way. Option 3 – ‘forget’, and drag Fliss and Erin to the pub. Or option 4 – I could just go. Because I can’t put it off forever. Well, I suppose I could, but I suspect that might get a bit tedious before long.

  “Great,” I say.

  I’ll just have to say I hate them all instead. That I wouldn’t live in those hell holes if you paid me.

  Which would have worked like a dream, had they not all been absolutely fabulous. Just what we’ve been looking for, in fact.

  What are the bloody odds? We have viewed some right dumps in the last few months – dry rot, mould, nicotine-stained flock-lined wallpaper, carpets stained with cat pee…

  Hence I didn’t think I was being unrealistic in thinking this lot would at the very least have a bit of damp or an avocado bathroom suite to speak of.

  But no. Each and every one of the four properties we have just been to view were perfect. With a capital P. Our dream homes, you might even say.

  They are all in ‘nice’ safe areas, all within our budget, and the most any of them need is a fresh lick of paint on the walls. One even has a brand new fitted kitchen and a brand new bathroom suite – both exactly what we would have chosen ourselves.

  Bollocks.

  “I think we should make an offer on that one in Maple Road,” Alex says when we get home. “That place isn’t going to be on the market for long.”

  “I don’t think we should rush into it,” I tell him. “We still have plenty more to look at.”

  “But it’s exactly what we’re looking for,” he laughs. “And we can afford it!”

  He’s right. It is. We can.

  “I don’t know,” I say, desperately trying to come up with something I didn’t absolutely love about it.

  “The kitchen could be a bit bigger,” I venture.

  “Says who?” he laughs. “You’re not the one who’ll be using it!”

  He’s right. Again. As I said – I can’t cook. I don’t cook. Not if I can help it anyway. Not unless beans on toast counts as cooking. And even then I’d probably burn the beans. Or the toast. Or both.

  In our last year at university when Katie and I shared a house, she and Alex tried to get me on Can’t Cook, Won’t Cook. I only found out when we got a phone bill with a premium number listed on it over and over again. Katie only admitted what she’d been up to when I accused her of phoning sex lines. I think I was actually a bit disappointed to discover my best friend wasn’t a secret sex addict after all.

  I never did get on the show. I was probably too bad even for Can’t Cook, Won’t Cook.

  “Okay, but let’s just wait a day or two and see how we feel then,” I say.

  “Fine. But don’t blame me if someone else gets there first and we lose the house.”

  “I won’t.”

  I phone Katie on her mobile as soon as I leave the house the next morning.

  “We’ve found a house,” I tell her, before I’ve even said hello.

  “Hang on a sec, B, I’m just paying for a coffee…Thanks mate,” I hear her say. There’s a loud clunking noise as she puts the phone down on the counter. Then the noise of the zip opening on her purse, and coins dropping in…a big slurp of cappuccino froth.

  Does she not realise I am in the middle of a crisis that requires immediate attention?

  “B? Sorry, what did you say?” Now the sound of heels clicking along the pavement.

  “We’ve found a house. Alex and I. It’s perfect it’s in a nice area it’s five grand under our budget it’s got a brand new bathroom and a brand new kitchen and it’s got wooden flooring in the living room the good kind not the shit kind what am I going to do?” I’m so desperate for her to tell me, I don’t even draw breath.

  “What do you want to do, B?” Click, click, slurp…

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “Katie…can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you ever think that Matt might not be the one?”

  “No. Never…Becks, is this just about Alex?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is there someone else?”

  “No!” I shout, a little louder that I’d intended. “God no. I wish it was that simple. No, I just keep wondering if the thoughts I’ve been having are normal. Maybe everybody questions at some stage whether they are with the right person. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. But then you don’t question it, do you?”

  “No. I know Matt is the one for me. I can’t imagine my life without him. I see myself growing old with Matt.”

  I can see myself growing old with Alex. I can. I can see us sitting in our slippers, holding cups of cocoa, watching Countdown and re-runs of Heartbeat on UK Gold. But that means nothing really. I can see myself growing old with anyone if I look hard enough. Jude Law, for example, or Aidan from Sex & The City (lovely guy – can’t imagine what Carrie was thinking,) or that cute new doctor in Holby City. But just because you can see it, doesn’t mean it’s right, or that it’s going to happen – Jude might not feel the same way about me, for instance and, well, sadly Aidan isn’t even real.

  But more importantly – not growing old with Alex – I can see that too.

  I suddenly remember Katie on the other end of the phone.

  “B?” she is saying. I think I’ve worried her. The clicking has stopped. So has the slurping.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you still love Alex?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you know for sure that he’s not the one?”

  “Not for sure, no.”

  “Then you need to find out. You could just be having a wobbly moment.”

  “Yes, but how do I do that?”

  “Maybe you should have some time apart? Maybe you could go and stay with Felicity for a few days?”

  “But what about the house?” I ask.

  “Forget the house. You can’t possibly consider buying a house with Alex while you’re feeling like this. It would be total madness. You’ll have to stall him.”

  “How?”

  “Can’t you just tell him you didn’t like it?”

  “He wouldn’t believe me. It’s perfect.”

  “There must be something wrong with it. Why are the owners selling?”

  “I’m not sure. They’ve just had a baby so they’re probably looking for somewhere bigger.”

  “There you go – tell Alex you want to wait and find something bigger.”

  “But we can’t afford anything bigger.”

  “Exactly. Tell him you want to wait and save up a bit more money so you can get something a bit bigger. So that when you have kids you won’t have to move. That’ll be enough to put the wind up him!” she laughs.

  Now I don’t know what frightens me more – the thought of buying a house with someone who might not be Mr Right, or the thought of having children with him.

  “It might work, I guess.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Let’s fall in love –

  In our mid thirties

  It’s not only

  Where the hurt is.

  …

  We’ll make the whole thing

  Hard and bright

  We’ll call it love –

  We may be right.

  ‘The Proposal’, Tom Vaughan

  Great minds think alike.

  On reflection, Alex thinks we should save for longer too. He thinks we should spend the money we have s
aved so far on something else.

  On getting married.

  They say there comes a point in your life when you know you’ve met the person you want to spend the rest of your life with.

  By the same rule, I can now confirm there comes a point when you know for sure you haven’t.

  And when your boyfriend is knelt in front of you holding out a sparkling platinum and diamond engagement ring and asking you to marry him is not, you might say, the ideal moment for it to happen.

  Alex is not Mr Right.

  Why?

  I don’t know.

  I just know.

  CHAPTER NINE

  My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

  ‘The Bargain’, Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586)

  Have you ever broken somebody’s heart?

  It’s horrible. I think I’d rather have my own heart broken. I think it would hurt less.

  Telling Alex I can’t marry him is without a doubt the hardest thing I have ever had to do in my life.

  I don’t have to say the words. My eyes tell him for me, when they fill with tears. Not the happy kind.

  “You don’t want to marry me, do you?” he asks quietly, clutching the ring in his hand.

  I shake my head.

  “But it’s not because I don’t love you.” It seems like such a stupid thing to say. Do I think it will soften the blow somehow? A consolation prize of sorts? Hard luck mate, she won’t marry you, but on the plus side, she does love you.

  “Then why?”

  It’s a fair question.

  “I don’t know. I just can’t.” As answers go it’s inadequate. But it’s the only one I have.

  Of course, saying yes would have been easier. Because I do love Alex. And I know we could have a good life together. And I am scared I won’t ever meet that person I seem to have convinced myself I’m meant to be with – that person I think I might love more than I love Alex. But I also know if I did marry Alex, then I’d be settling. And we both deserve more than that.