If only I’d stuck with the Internet for longer. I’m sure I would have met someone vaguely normal sooner or later. But no, I had to let myself fall in love with the first lovely guy to walk into Potty Wotty Doodah.
“What do you think of this?” Fiona asks, pushing a piece of paper under my nose.
It’s only a rough drawing, but it looks great. The Pink Frog logo looks great. Dan has done a fantastic job with the design. Underneath the logo, Fiona has drawn a door with an open sign hanging on the door knob, and the date of the opening underneath that.
“That looks fab, Fi,” I tell her.
“I’ve got a stencil of the logo that…,” she says, before stopping herself.
“…that Dan gave you?” I say.
She nods reluctantly.
“It’s okay, Fi. The world doesn’t stop just because my love life’s in bits. You can mention his brother’s name without me breaking down.”
She squeezes my hand.
“Shall I draw the doors and you can paint them pink?”
“Sure,” I say, grabbing a brush determinedly. “Let’s do it.”
CHAPTER SIXTY SIX
Emma’s coming over.
I think I wore her down eventually with all my messages. She probably ran out of memory on her mobile.
I offered to meet her at the tube station, but she said she’d make her own way here.
I’m scared. I don’t want to lose Emma as well. She’s in all my memories. She’s part of who I am.
Emma’s the one who hit the brakes too hard when I was riding on the back of her bike. She’s the one who cried all the way to the hospital, even though it was my knee that was bleeding.
Emma’s the one I ran the three-legged race with every school sports day and always came last with because we laughed so much we fell over every few steps.
Emma’s the one who got a badge-maker for her eighth birthday and made ‘Best Friend’ badges for us both that we wore every single day for a whole year.
You can’t replace memories like that.
When I open the door, I know she knows that too.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know you’d never deliberately hurt me.”
I let out the breath that I think I’ve been holding in for three days and hug my best friend.
I had a whole speech planned. I don’t need it now.
“I know you love him, but I’m not sure I can handle it,” she says, brushing a tear from her face.
I break away from her. “It’s okay, Em. It’s over. We’ve split up.”
“Do you hate me?”
“No, I don’t hate you. I’m just glad you’ve realised I didn’t know. Because I didn’t, Em. I had no idea.”
“I know you didn’t. I was just upset. It was the first time I’d seen him since we split up. And then I saw you, standing next to him and I just put two and two together and came up with five. I’m sorry.”
We don’t say much after that. She doesn’t ask if I’ve seen James since. And I don’t tell her that I have. We both need to move on. Without James. And Jim.
“What happened with Daniel?” I ask her, as we share a bottle of wine later on.
“God, don’t ask,” she laughs. “I tried to phone him the next day to apologise, but he ignored my calls. I left a message for him to call me, but he hasn’t yet. And who can blame him? We’d only been on three dates. He probably thinks he’s had a lucky escape. It’s a shame though. He was nice. Still – plenty more fish in the sea,” she says, tapping her glass against mine.
For the rest of the evening we don’t say much. We sit on the sofa and watch episodes of Sex & The City – series four, where Carrie gets a job at Vogue and the editor strips off to his Versace underpants and asks her how he looks.
And we both laugh, and sip red wine, like it’s any other evening.
It doesn’t feel normal, but it’s our attempt at normal.
I look at her and smile. At least I have my friend back.
She reaches down for the tube of Pringles by her feet and shakes it at me. I take a stack of five and stuff them in my mouth all at once.
“What about your article?” she asks.
“I never finished it,” I lie. “It wasn’t really working. Not enough material. Rubbish interviewees. I’ll write something else.”
We watch Carrie as she writes her first article for Vogue about handbags and shoes.
“Maybe I could write about fashion,” I say to Emma.
She laughs until she realises I might actually be serious. And then she really laughs. And then I laugh. And before long we are both hysterical.
Now, this is normal.
CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN
It’s not that easy though is it? I’ll probably miss James for the rest of my life.
Would I have been better off if I’d never met him? Part of me wants to say yes. But then I wouldn’t have experienced the most amazing feeling in the world, would I?
How do you mend a broken heart? I wish there was a manual you could buy – a step-by-step guide. You could look it up on the Internet, maybe. Print it out. Follow it. There could be footnotes showing the time needed to complete each section.
They say it takes half the time you were with someone to get over them. That means it should take me less than six weeks.
I went out with Thomas Jenkins for two months when I was sixteen. He was a jerk. He smoked, drank and had spitting competitions with his mates. He was rude to his parents and bullied his younger sister. I only went out with him because Emma was going out with his best friend. He dumped me when I wouldn’t sleep with him. I told him I’d rather sleep with a toad. According to the theory it should have taken me one month to get over Thomas. It took me one minute, if that.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get over James.
CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT
It’s the opening of Fiona’s shop today.
I’m not really in the mood for a party, but I can’t let her down. She has been so good to me. She’s phoned me every morning to make sure I’ve got out of bed; she’s brought flowers and Maltesers to cheer me up – and boxes of tissues. And let’s face it – she has been doing the lion’s share of the work at Potty Wotty.
I broke a plate yesterday. Not a clean, white, unpainted plate. No. I broke a plate that was ready to be collected by its four-year-old designer and her mother. Fiona was brilliant. She pieced it together and then copied it, splodge for splodge, onto a brand new plate. (Fortunately this particular four-year-old artist was no Van Gogh, but still…) Later she apologised to the mother that there had been a backlog in the firing and it would be ready on Monday. And then she made me a cup of tea.
Dan and Christina are going to be there. That’s fine. Dan did make the sign, after all. I can’t expect contact between the Newmans and the rest of the world to stop just because of me. It won’t be easy though. He’ll ask how I am. And I’ll lie and say ‘fine.’ Or maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll just pretend I no longer exist. And who could blame him, after the way I’ve treated his brother? I can’t expect everyone to understand my logic – the reason I’m not speaking to your brother is because I love him…
I’m surprised Fiona invited me to be honest. I wouldn’t want me at a party right now. I’d turn me away at the door. There will be children at this party. I’ll scare them. I’ll turn the milk sour. Even the Pink Frog will be depressed after I’ve finished with him.
Fiona’s kitchen is full of party food – enough to make the Mad Hatter’s eyes light up. Plates of sandwiches, sausage rolls, cheese straws, mini pizzas. And that’s just for the children. For the adults there are quiches, salads, trays of dips with sticks of celery, carrot and cucumber.
I stayed over last night and we made shortbread and fairy cakes. We found an old Ladybird ‘Cooking With Mother’ book in the cupboard. Fiona did get a bit carried away at one point and suggested making cheese and pineapple hedgehogs. Fortunately she was fresh out of cocktail sticks.
“Do you think
it’s too much?” Fiona asks, surveying all the food.
Yes, there’s enough food here to feed an army.
“No, it’s fine,” I assure her.
She’s really nervous. She doesn’t need to be, of course. Her stuff is fantastic. People will be falling over themselves to get into the shop and buy it once it’s open.
“Morning ladies,” Adrian says, coming into the kitchen with an industrial-sized box of chocolate fingers and kissing me on the cheek. He was out when I arrived last night. Fiona had told him he was getting in the way when he kept dipping his fingers in the cake mix, apparently. He was still out when we finally switched off the oven at midnight and went to bed.
I’ve met Adrian a couple of times now, and each time I see him, I get this picture in my head of him, wiping Fi’s nose at the top of a mountain and I just want to laugh.
“How are you?” he asks. It’s not a normal ‘how are you?’ It’s a head-tilted-to-one-side, mouth-slightly-twisted, sympathetic ‘how are you?’ The kind you don’t generally expect an honest answer to.
“I’m fine,” I tell him.
He’s happy with the response. He’s got a car to fill with party food. There’s no time for tears.
We load the drinks and packaged foods into the boot and arrange the rest on the back seat next to me.
The wine bottles clink together at every bump in the road, and I glance nervously at the foil plates next to me, relieved they’re only sandwiches. I dread to think what state a trifle would arrive in.
There has been brown paper up at the window of The Pink Frog for weeks. Fiona wouldn’t let any of us see inside. She wanted us to wait for the full effect.
It was worth the wait. I’m blown away.
The shop-front is simple – white woodwork around the window and double doors in the centre with stainless steel door handles and letterbox. Dan has done a fantastic job with the sign. ‘The’ and ‘Frog’ are spelt out in chunky silver letters, the word ‘Pink’ is just as you would expect – bright pink and bold. There’s a pink frog at the far right, sitting on top of the shop’s telephone number, ready to leap. It’s striking. It makes you want to step inside and look around.
Two giant black and white pictures of babies hang from the ceiling in the windows either side of the doors. And behind them you can see the first of the rails of clothes.
We take the food inside where Fiona has set up trestle tables covered with white linen table cloths.
There are rails filled with baby-grows in every colour of the rainbow; tiny dresses, dungarees, t-shirts… About three-quarters of the stock has been bought in from other designers. The rest is her own. And it’s beautiful. It has taken her years to build up the stock. If the shop is successful she’ll have to take on staff to help her make more.
It’s not just clothes. There are shelves full of soft toys, baby-changing mats and blankets and mobiles hang from the ceiling.
Everything is covered in clear plastic sheets for today. Red wine and children’s sticky fingers are a dangerous combination.
“It’s amazing, Fi,” I tell her as we arrange the food on the tables and unwrap packets of napkins.
“Thanks,” she says, proudly.
I think she has invited practically everyone she knows as she’s so scared no-one will come.
They do though, of course.
Before the cling film has even been taken off the sandwiches they start arriving. Family and friends, owners and staff of neighbouring businesses, Katie and Emma. And everyone with children has bought them with them. They are what it’s all about after all. And we need to get rid of some food.
Potty Wotty Doodah is closed today. There’s no-one left to run it. Caroline has brought Benjamin with her. I rush over for a peek, but he’s fast asleep in his car seat. Caroline puts him down on the floor next to her and hugs Fiona tightly.
“Congratulations,” she says, bending down and sliding a card out from next to Benjamin. He’s wearing a Pink Frog baby-grow.
Everyone raves about the shop, especially about The Pink Frog range. Fiona takes well over £200 before she has even finished her first glass of champagne.
“I want to start having babies now, just so that I can dress them in your clothes,” Katie tells her.
“Don’t let me stop you,” Fiona laughs.
“I’m not sure the dress-fitter would be too thrilled if I turned up with a bump.”
“The wedding isn’t that far away, you probably wouldn’t be showing,” Emma says, winking.
“Stop it, all of you!” Katie laughs, and the four of us all have our own mini toast.
“To The Pink Frog!” Katie says.
“The Pink Frog,” we all echo, clinking our glasses together.
As Fiona leaves us to mingle with her other guests Dan walks in with Christina and Evan.
He comes straight over and kisses me on the cheek as Evan hands me his bunny rabbit. He’s wearing a pair of Pink Frog dungarees. Evan, I mean, not the bunny. I hand the toy to Christina and pick Evan up for a cuddle.
“Don’t you look handsome,” I say, tickling him.
“How are you?” Dan asks.
“Oh, you know…”
I glance nervously at Emma.
I have to ask. I can’t not ask.
“How’s James?”
“Not great,” he says, and shrugs, as if to say ‘what do you expect?’
Emma looks at Katie, and then back at me. I feel like everyone is waiting to hear what I’m going to say next.
I don’t know what I’m going to say next.
“Let’s go get a drink, Em,” Katie, says, coming to my rescue. “I could use another glass of vino.” She steers Emma away from us, towards the back of the shop where Fiona is being interviewed by a reporter from the local newspaper.
“Is that the Emma?” Dan asks me. Of course… he hasn’t met her before. None of James’ family has. I wondered why Emma was looking so confused.
I nod.
“Shall we go find you a drink, darling?” Christina says, taking Evan from me and leaving us to it.
“He’s in bits, Becky,” Dan says. “He loves you. You’re the one, you must know that?”
“I do Dan. And I love him too. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. More than I ever thought I could love someone. But I can’t do it to Emma. I’ve known her my whole life. She’s like my family. And I can’t be her friend and be with James.”
I look to the back of the shop.
“I can’t do this right now. This is Fiona’s day.”
I lean forward and kiss him on the cheek.
“Look after him for me.”
He nods, as I walk away to join my friends.
Emma looks at me. She bites her top lip and tucks her hair behind her ear, and then looks over at Dan as he picks up his son.
“I never met his family,” she says.
“I know,” I tell her.
The opening is a huge success. Everyone Fiona invited comes. Passers-by even pop in – hoping to blag a free glass of champagne and find a little treasure trove as well.
A photographer from the paper turns up to get a picture to go with the story. He takes one of Fiona, behind the counter, holding Evan and Benjamin in their Pink Frog outfits. She beams.
We put up a pink ribbon at the door for the official opening and Fiona makes a speech. She thanks everyone for coming, thanks everyone for all their help, thanks Dan for his fabulous sign, thanks Adrian for being her biggest supporter. And then she cuts the ribbon and we all cheer. And we drink champagne and eat cucumber sticks and dips, and fairy cakes with pink icing.
By the end of the afternoon there are just a few sandwiches and a couple of chocolate fingers left.
They look lonely. I put one in my mouth and sweep empty paper plates into a rubbish sack.
“Thanks Becky,” Fiona says, wrapping her arm around my waist.
“S’okay,” I mumble through a mouthful of chocolate biscuit.
I’ll miss Fiona a
t Potty Wotty. I know she’ll only be a few doors away. But it’s not the same, is it?
Still, I’ve got Caroline – and baby Benjamin now.
Besides, I don’t want to be there forever, do I?
I want to be a writer.
CHAPTER SIXTY NINE
‘I Can’t Be In The Same Room As A Mushroom,’ ‘I Have Multiple Orgasms All Day Every Day,’ ‘My Boyfriend Left Me For My Brother.’
These are not statements about my own life, no. They are magazine features. Believe it or not, there’s even ‘Cheese & Pineapple on a stick, anyone?’ – a feature about a 1970s fashion revival, thus proving that there really is nothing you can’t write about.
So why can’t I come up with another feature idea?
I have been to WH Smith and practically stripped the shelves bare looking for inspiration.
I have bought no less than fourteen magazines (okay, so they’re not that bare). And I have read them all from cover to cover.
But the inspiration is distinctly lacking.
How Do You Know You’ve Met Mr Right? That’s all I can come up with. That, and How To Lose a Mr Right in Three Months, obviously, which nobody in their right mind would want to read.
I need to come up with something though. I can’t work at Potty Wotty forever. That was never the plan.
I have to write to Jennifer Sutton. I have to tell her she won’t be getting my feature after all. I guess that’s one magazine I can cross off my mailing list.
Well there’s no time like the present.
I clear the magazines off the coffee table and plug my laptop in.
Dear Jennifer,
I’ll just play a quick game of Patience. And then I’ll write the letter.
Dear Jennifer,
I think my bedroom carpet could do with a vacuum.
I am very sorry to let you down, but I’ve gone and lost yet another wonderful boyfriend, so I really don’t think I’m in any position to give your readers advice on their love lives…
Too honest.
I’m terribly sorry, but I won’t be able to send you the feature we discussed, after all. You remember? The one I have waited all my life to write…
The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights Page 155