More Than a Feeling

by Cate Woods

  There’s a stack of baby-care books next to the loo in my bathroom, and I resist the urge to search for solutions to the sleep issue that I know won’t be in there because I’ve checked a dozen times already. I’m thinking of starting Dot on solids next month, as she’s obviously hungry, so hopefully that will improve things.

  I take a final look in the bathroom mirror, squirt on some perfume and then head back into my bedroom. ‘So have you had any more thoughts about baby names?’

  But Tabby doesn’t answer. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed staring at a piece of paper in her hands, and when she looks up at me she seems shaken.

  ‘Tabby? What’s the matter?’

  ‘What’s this?’ she asks – and holds up the picture of my new nose from Mr Jindal’s office. Bugger, I must have left it on the bedside table.

  ‘Oh sorry, I was planning to talk to you about that.’ I’m not sure why I’m apologising, but the look in Tabby’s eyes is making me feel oddly ashamed.

  ‘But what’s it for? And who’s Mr Jindal?’

  I cross over and sit on the bed next to her. ‘He’s a plastic surgeon. I went to see him last week to talk about my nose.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Well, to get it fixed, obviously. Made smaller.’

  She stares at me, horrified. ‘You’re not thinking of getting a nose job?’

  ‘Well, yes, I am. You know I’ve never been happy with it.’

  ‘I know you occasionally mutter some nonsense about it being too big, but I had no idea it was bothering you this much.’ For some reason, she seems angry – and that makes me angry.

  ‘Do you have a problem with this?’

  ‘Of course I do! Why on earth would you want to do something like this to yourself? It’s crazy!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Tabby, but you’re overreacting . . .’

  ‘I’m overreacting? I’m not the one who’s thinking about butchering herself!’ Tabby gets up off the bed and crosses to the side of the room, as if she’s so furious she needs to get away from me. ‘Look, your confidence has taken a knock because of Luke cheating, I understand that, but this’ – she brandishes the paper accusingly – ‘is not the answer.’

  I stare at my feet, like a kid being scolded by her mum. ‘I have no idea why you’re making such a huge deal over this,’ I mutter.

  ‘Because it is a huge deal! You used to love your nose, Annie, what’s happened?’

  ‘I used to love my nose because it was part of my Barbra Streisand thing, but that’s not me anymore.’

  ‘No, and thank God for that,’ she says tartly. ‘You were an absolute nightmare.’

  I gape at her like she’s just punched me in the guts. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Annie, but it needs saying. I know you think Barb was this amazingly fascinating person who everyone adored, and now you’re just some frumpy, pale imitation of who you used to be, but honestly, you couldn’t be more wrong.’ Tabby is pacing around the room, getting increasingly het up. ‘Today’s Annie is sweet and kind and funny, and so much more amazing than that self-obsessed girl who thought she was God’s gift just because she worked for that idiot Jay Patterson and once made coffee for Kate Moss!’

  For a moment I’m too stunned to speak, partly because this outburst is so unlike Tabby, but also because I truly believed that Barb had been my absolute best self – exciting, glamorous, successful – and it hadn’t even occurred to me for one moment that my sister might feel otherwise.

  ‘Tabby, I’m going to forgive you for saying all this because you’re pregnant and hormonal, and God only knows I remember how batshit crazy that can make you, but I think you’re being more than a little unfair.’

  ‘No, I’m being honest. You turned yourself into a cartoon character. You might have looked incredible, but it wasn’t the real you – and I know for a fact that being Barb didn’t make you happy. I was living with you at the time, remember? You were always stressing about whether Jay was about to get rid of you, how you looked, whether you were at the right clubs with the right people . . .’ She gives a huff of frustration, running her hands through her hair. ‘It’s like you’ve completely rewritten history and forgotten how things really were back then.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ I say, shaking my head.

  ‘Having plastic surgery is not going to make you happy, Annie. It won’t solve your problems with Luke, or bring Mum and Dad back. I’m sorry to say this, but it’s not your nose that needs fixing, it’s your head.’

  I stare at her open-mouthed, staggered by her insensitivity, and anger rushes up inside me. ‘Tabby, that is bang out of order. It’s fine for you with your perfect little nose and perfect little life – Jonathan would never do the dirty on you. You’ve never been bullied for the way you look. You have it so fucking easy, Tabby, you have absolutely no idea . . .’

  I turn my back on her, struggling to keep a lid on the emotions that are threatening to burst out. I really don’t want to start screaming at my pregnant sister, but this feels like a personal attack – and Tabby’s the one person I thought I could always rely on. Neither one of us speaks for a minute, maybe longer, but then I feel her hand on my shoulder and when I turn around and see the tears glistening in her eyes, my anger is swept aside in a rush of love.

  She pulls me into a hug, and we cling together. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry, Annie, I’ve handled this terribly,’ she murmurs into my shoulder. ‘I was just shocked by the fact that you would want to do something like this to yourself. You’re so beautiful, I just wish you could see that . . .’ She pulls away and looks me straight in the eyes. ‘Look, if this is something you really want to do, then of course I’ll support you a hundred per cent. But please, can you at least wait until your life is a bit more settled before making such a huge decision? Because you can’t change your mind once you’ve done it. You’ll be stuck looking like . . . well, like someone who’s had a nose job.’

  I reach for the paper that Tabby is still clutching. ‘But it’s quite subtle,’ I say, smoothing out the creases and holding it for both of us to look at. ‘Don’t you think it makes me look better?’

  ‘No, I think it makes you look like someone from Geordie Shore.’ But she’s smiling as she says it.

  We have another hug and the horrible scrunched-up feeling inside me starts to ease. Tabby and I hardly ever argue; it feels like the universe is thrown out of kilter when we do.

  ‘Come on, then, we better get a move on,’ I say, heading for the door.

  But Tabby doesn’t follow. ‘Annie, would you mind terribly if I don’t come tonight?’

  ‘Not because we just had a bit of a disagreement, surely?’

  ‘No, I’m just not feeling too great. I’m knackered and I’ve been getting these crampy pains . . .’ She rubs her bump; she does look quite tired. ‘I should probably get an early night. You understand, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure, but why don’t I stay here with you? We could get a takeaway, watch a movie . . .’

  ‘No, you go. Have fun for both of us.’

  I linger by the door, trying to work out whether she really means it.

  ‘I’ll be fine, honest,’ she insists. ‘Send my love to Fi and Claris.’

  We hug goodbye, and I’m already halfway out the door when she calls: ‘Annie, we are okay, aren’t we? You’re not mad about what I said?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I say, blowing her a kiss.

  Nevertheless, I can’t help stewing over Tabby’s outburst on the bus ride to Brixton. What was it she called me? Self-obsessed . . . a cartoon character . . . Barb wasn’t that awful, surely? And she’s certainly got it wrong about how happy I was back then – as far as I can remember, I was too busy having fun to be worried about anything . . . By the time I get to the tapas bar, I’ve pretty much dismissed Tabby’s comments as well-meaning, but hormonally misguided.

  Fiona and Claris are sitting at a candlelit table in the corner, hams hanging from the rafters above them, picking at plates of c
roquetas, chorizo and tortilla.

  ‘At last! You’re lucky we left you anything.’ Fi grins, getting up to kiss me.

  ‘How are you, my love?’ says Claris. ‘Where’s Tabby?’

  ‘She’s not coming. She wasn’t feeling that great and . . . well, we had an argument.’

  ‘That’s not like you two.’ Claris wrinkles her brow. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well, I mentioned that I was possibly thinking about having a nose job and she flew off the handle.’

  There’s a stunned silence; Fi and Claris look at me as if I’ve just announced I’m having a sex change. Christ, not them as well?

  ‘Oh come on, surely it can’t come as that much of a shock?’

  ‘Of course it’s a shock!’ roars Fi. ‘Jesus, woman, have you gone insane?’

  ‘We just had no idea that you were considering something that, um, drastic,’ says Claris, diplomatic as ever. ‘Why would you want to change your beautiful face?’

  ‘Because I hate my nose, alright?’ I slop wine into my glass, fuming. I can’t believe how old-fashioned they’re being about this! I guess it’s not their fault they’re not as forward-thinking as Riva, but really, they could try to be a little more open-minded.

  ‘Well, of course, it’s your decision,’ soothes Claris. ‘And we’ll be there for you whatever you decide to do.’ She shoots Fi a significant look. ‘Won’t we, Fiona?’

  ‘You don’t need a feckin’ nose job,’ she mutters darkly, stuffing an olive in her mouth. ‘But yes, of course, if it’s what you really want . . .’

  ‘Thank you,’ I snap, far more tetchily than I intended. It doesn’t help that last night’s sleep deprivation is fast catching up with me.

  Claris smiles nervously at me and Fi, clearly keen to smooth over any tension.

  ‘So Tabby’s okay, is she, Annie? Just a little tired?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure she’ll be fine after an early night.’ I intend to leave it at that, but Tabby’s comments from earlier are still niggling at me. ‘She was in a really funny mood though. She told me I was a nightmare when I worked for Jay, called me self-centred. Can you believe it?’

  I see Fi and Claris glance at each other, as if trying to work out how to respond, and immediately regret bringing this up.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t necessarily have used the word nightmare . . .’ Claris begins carefully. ‘You were very cool and loads of fun, and obviously you looked so glamorous, but you were a little . . . unreliable.’

  ‘Yeah, always cancelling at the last minute,’ agrees Fi. ‘And you did kind of think you were fucking it, what with your fancy job and kaftans and that dickhead male model who was always messing you about . . .’

  I look at them both, open-mouthed; for the second time tonight it feels like the rug’s been pulled out from under me. ‘What is this, “Bash Annie Day”? If I was so bloody awful back then, why didn’t any of you tell me at the time?’

  Fi takes a sip of wine. ‘Well, it wasn’t so much you that was the problem, but the people you were hanging out with.’

  ‘Jesus, here we go again!’ I virtually shriek, on the verge of losing it completely. ‘Fi, why do you have such a fucking problem with Riva? Are you just jealous because I’m back in touch with that lot again?’

  ‘No, Annie, it’s not because I’m jealous, it’s because I care for you, unlike those eejits. Have you forgotten how they all dropped you when your parents died? Not one of them made an effort to get in touch. It was like the moment you weren’t fun, fabulous Barb anymore, you no longer existed. God forbid they should have actually got their faces out of the coke long enough to check up on you! And then when you were ready to go back to work again, they didn’t lift a finger to help you get a job.’ She shakes her head bitterly. ‘As far as I’m concerned, that was when they showed their true colours.’

  ‘It wasn’t their fault! You remember what I was like during that time – I went to pieces, I completely shut myself away.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember because I was there. And so was Claris, and Jess.’ Fi glares at me accusingly. ‘Where the feck was this Riva?’

  I’m shaking with anger, and it would be very easy for me to lash out and shout and rant at Fi over this, but I’m not yet so out of control that I don’t realise she’s only saying it because she cares about me. Besides, she’s got a terrible temper; I don’t want to unleash that on our fellow diners. Still, I want her to see that she’s being unfair.

  ‘Maybe Riva wasn’t there for me after Mum and Dad died like you guys were, but she was just a work colleague, not one of my closest friends, and besides, she actually apologised about that the other day.’ I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. ‘I’m sorry you don’t like that crowd, Fi, but I had a really fun time with them the other night, and I’m going to be seeing them again next week.’ I should leave it there, but in my current point-scoring mood, something else occurs to me. ‘And if we’re on the subject of being supportive, Riva and that lot are being far more understanding about my nose job than you are.’

  I realise what a stupid thing this is to say before it even leaves my mouth.

  ‘Yeah, that figures,’ mutters Fi sarcastically. ‘In fact, they’re probably the ones who suggested it . . .’

  Maybe it’s because this is all far too close to the bone, but something inside of me suddenly snaps.

  ‘Right, I’m going home,’ I say, grabbing my bag and jumping up.

  ‘Annie . . .’ Claris reaches her hand towards me.

  ‘Oh come on, you eejit, don’t leave like this,’ says Fi.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, I’m just really tired.’ I feel like I’ve just done twelve rounds in a boxing ring and I need my bed. I scrabble in my purse for money and put some notes on the table. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow. Sorry.’

  I give them both a quick kiss and head for the door. I’ll smooth things over with them tomorrow; I’m too knackered to deal with this now.

  31

  Having been working in the world of premium property for a couple of months now, I thought I’d seen all the ludicrously ostentatious things you could do to a house – until today, and this koi carp pond.

  Nothing unusual about that, you say? Ah, but this particular koi carp pond is indoors, located downstairs in this mansion’s enormous basement extension. There’s a little bridge over the pond, decorated with lanterns and a gold Buddha, and it leads to a swimming pool complex, complete with a wave machine, artificial beach and a hand-painted re-creation of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel ceiling, so you can watch God creating Adam while practising backstroke. You get the impression the interior designer couldn’t decide on a theme for the basement – Japanese Zen, Baywatch or perhaps the Vatican – and so boldly went for a mash-up of all three.

  ‘What do you think?’ I ask Rudy. We are standing by the side of the pool, the sound of lapping waves and piped Tibetan gong music echoing around the cavernous space.

  ‘Appalling,’ he mutters, face pained. ‘This place is the definitive answer to the question: “How do you know if you have too much money?”’

  I’m not here to take photos today; the owner, heir to a Greek shipping fortune, is such an important client that Karl wanted Rudy to accompany me on a preliminary recce so we could discuss marketing strategy – although I can’t think there’ll be that many potential buyers for a multi-million-pound mansion with an integral papal-themed leisure complex.

  Just then Mr Eliopoulos, the aforementioned shipping magnate, strolls over the bridge. He’d gone upstairs to speak to the housekeeper; he wanted to show us how the swimming pool transforms into a dance floor but couldn’t remember which button to press.

  ‘Sorry, it’s the pool chap’s day off,’ he says cheerily, ‘but I’ll make sure it’s working the next time you come.’

  As gazillionaires go, Mr Eliopoulos is one of the more pleasant I’ve met – and also one of the more flamboyant. In his statement glasses and Versace print shirt, he resembles a younger, Greeker Elton John.
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  ‘So Rudy, how do you like my frescoes?’ he asks, gesturing to the ceiling. ‘The painting of David is actually modelled on an old boyfriend of mine.’

  ‘The craftsmanship is exquisite,’ enthuses Rudy, his RADA training to the fore. ‘My partner is actually working on a doctorate in Renaissance art, so I’ve visited the Sistine Chapel many times; I could almost believe this had been painted by Michelangelo himself.’

  I barely manage to stifle a giggle at this blatant bullshit, but Mr Eliopoulos literally twinkles with delight. ‘Really? Well, you must bring your partner to visit sometime, I’d love to get his expert opinion on some of my other works . . .’

  It takes my mind a moment to process this breaking news: Rudy is gay? I can’t believe I’m only discovering this now! I guess I shouldn’t be entirely surprised – the fondness for musicals and Barbra Streisand should perhaps have signposted me in that direction – but I really hadn’t got that impression. Not that he gives much away: in fact, getting to know the real Rudy involves as much detective work as a whole series of Line of Duty . . .

  Mr Eliopoulos puts his hand around Rudy’s shoulders and steers him towards the bridge – ‘Let’s head outside: I think you’re going to love the treehouse guest suite and Bikram studio . . .’ – leaving me to trot along behind as the third wheel.

  As flabbergastingly over the top as Mr Eliopoulos’ house is, as we continue the tour, my mind’s not really on the job. Not only am I trying to digest this new information about Rudy, I had a bit of an awkward encounter with Fiona in the office this morning and it’s still niggling at me. Fi and I did make up the day after our tapas bar argument – she obviously felt as awful about it as I did – but when I saw her earlier, I got the impression she was still a bit off with me, even though she was her usual chatty self. This in turn made me bristly with her – because surely if anyone has the right to be angry, it’s me? I keep running over the negative things the girls said the other night about Barb, and I can only conclude that the real issue is that they just collectively got the hump back then because I was off having fun without them. And yes, I do understand that it must have been annoying to hear me banging on about my adventures, but that doesn’t mean that I was full of myself – it was just the kind of life I was living back then. What was I meant to do: not tell my best friends what I was up to? Well, they’ll just have to get used to the fact that Riva’s back in my life; I’m not going to cancel my plans to see the old gang again this Friday just because Fiona has a problem with them.