by Ellen Berry
‘Oh, of course,’ she replied, lips pursed. ‘So, um, I assume this is fine with you, Roxanne?’
Rufus waved for the bill, as if such a piffling matter of whether she actually wanted to do this was of no concern.
‘I’m not sure actually,’ she murmured.
‘Sorry? What?’ Rufus tugged a company credit card out of his wallet.
‘I’m very flattered that you think of me in that way,’ she explained, ‘but if it’s okay, I’d like to take some time to think it over and get back to Marsha first thing tomorrow.’ Roxanne knew that this would seem insane to them: she’d basically just been offered a promotion on a plate, but neither Marsha nor Rufus seemed to care about what she wanted to do.
He frowned, clearly put out. ‘I don’t see what else we can offer you. Is it the salary?’
‘No, it’s not that …’
‘Because I know we haven’t talked an actual figure, but if we said …’ He shrugged, as if it was nothing. ‘We can certainly match Tina’s, can’t we, Marsha?’
‘Yes, of course …’
‘Well, that’s substantially more than you’re on now, Roxanne,’ he said grandly. ‘We’re probably talking something in the region of a fifty per cent rise. Obviously, I realise a role like this would be a big change for you. But trust me – we’ll make it worth your while.’
She nodded, and Rufus paid the bill. Marsha pointedly avoided eye contact with Roxanne as they left the restaurant.
So, Roxanne reflected, she would no longer have a creative role. She would be a ‘figurehead’, coaxing all those recently departed advertisers back to the magazine, thus raking in a vast amount of money for the company and, so it would seem, for herself.
A fifty per cent payrise. She could hardly get her head around that. Crazy money, really, for a job she could do standing on her head. So why was she experiencing a huge wave of fashion guilt?
Chapter Thirty-One
They parted company outside the restaurant. Marsha and Rufus headed back to the office, and Roxanne wandered into a smart boutique, more because it was there than because she was particularly interested in looking. In fact, she didn’t quite know what to do with herself now. She stared at a rail of tops in various shades of sludge, then stepped back outside again, finding herself drifting towards the office simply out of habit.
She could go back in and hang out with Serena and Kate – but then, they would want a full account of what had happened at lunch, and she had yet to make sense of it herself. Plus, as she didn’t have any actual work to do, she would just be floating about aimlessly. She slowed her pace to more of an Isabelle-style amble, with no particular destination in mind. The photography book was weighing heavily in her shoulder bag. A shot of normality was what she needed now, she realised – like hearing Sean’s voice. She stopped and fished out her mobile and called him.
‘Hey, honey, everything okay?’ He sounded distracted. But then, it was 3.20 in the afternoon, and he’d be working.
‘Yes – just wanted to say hi, really. It was good to see you the other day. Sorry if I seemed a bit flat when you left Della’s place. I’d just hoped you’d stay longer …’
‘Oh, darling, me too. It was such a pain, honestly – bloody Louie. But I’ll be up again soon, promise.’
She smiled. ‘Hope so. So, um, what are you up to?’
‘You’re very inquisitive about my comings and goings today, aren’t you, darling? You already asked what I was doing tonight …’
‘Haha, yes,’ she babbled. ‘Just wondering, you know. You should be flattered that I’m so interested …’
‘I am flattered,’ he said, and she could tell he was smiling. ‘Um, nothing terribly thrilling to report, though. I’m just catching up on reams of admin at home. Tax, accounts …’
‘I thought that’s what you paid an accountant for?’ she remarked.
‘Yeah, but they still need all the info from me, unfortunately. Plus, there’s a ton of invoicing …’
‘I thought Britt did all your invoicing?’
Sean chuckled. ‘Hey, what is this? The time management bureau? I still have to get involved, you know …’
Roxanne smiled, shifting her weighty bag onto the other shoulder. It was so heavy, it felt as if it had created a groove there. ‘So, um, you’re just staying in tonight, are you?’
‘Yep, looks like it. Recovering from the tedium of all this paperwork …’
‘Poor you,’ she murmured. ‘You might have to anaesthetise yourself with booze.’
‘I was planning on it.’ He paused. ‘All okay then, babe?’
Ah – a hint that he wanted to get back to work now.
‘Yes, darling. I’ll let you get on. Bye, honey.’
‘Bye for now.’
In fact, she was happy to finish their conversation before Sean noticed that the background noises around her sounded terribly urban, and not remotely what you’d expect during a dog walk in the hills. She turned onto Charing Cross Road, which was home to several second-hand and antiquarian bookshops. It wasn’t a part of town she was in a habit of exploring; she was usually too busy darting from one appointment to the next. She certainly wouldn’t usually have stopped to gaze into the window of one such shop, which specialised in nautical books and charts of the ocean.
In the window sat a terribly fragile-looking wooden model of a ship with mottled calico sails and a carved figurehead. So that was what Rufus had mapped out for her, was it?
She wandered onwards, past yet more bookshops – one filled with art books, another focusing on trashy pulp novels of the 50s and 60s, with terrified-looking women on their covers and titles such as Swamp Women and The Monster in the Lake. Who knew there were so many specialised bookshops? When Della had first mooted the idea of the cookbook shop, Roxanne had thought she was out of her mind.
Now her attention was caught by a small selection of vintage cookbooks in another shop window. Although it was nothing to rival Della’s emporium, Roxanne was intrigued enough to step inside. The cookbooks occupied just one small shelf, and most seemed to be about baking. Party Cakes Made Easy, The Baking Powder Bible, Nanny Violet’s Sweet Recipes. Spotting The Treasury of Fermented Breads – the book Michael had been after when she’d met him, she smiled and leafed through it, the warm, slightly biscuity smell of old pages transporting her back to her sister’s bookshop, and triggering another pang of regret about not turning up for Michael’s lunch yesterday. Still, he would understand and by now, he would have forgotten all about it.
Della had texted to say she had got home safely, and that all was well up there. Roxanne pictured the bookshop, milling with customers all admiring the new extension, everything ticking along fine without her.
Well, of course it was. She had merely dropped in, helped out a bit and dropped back out again. Back here in London was where she belonged – yet already, she was wondering when she might return to Burley Bridge.
She paid for The Treasury of Fermented Breads, deciding she would send it to Michael, as a sort of sorry/thank you gift. Then she left the shop, pausing to pull out her phone and call Amanda.
‘You’re back?’ her friend exclaimed. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Oh, a drama with Isabelle downstairs – her flat was broken into and trashed …’
‘Poor Isabelle. How awful …’
‘She’ll be okay,’ Roxanne said, ‘once the place has been redecorated. Can you believe they spray-painted everywhere?’
‘Oh, no!’
‘So, there’s been that …’ Roxanne paused, now picturing her friend trying to teach her class of twenty-eight seven-year-olds. ‘Sorry – I’ve just realised you’re still at work. How thoughtless of me—’
‘No, it’s fine – the bell’s just gone and I’m about to go home. So, I take it you’re going back to work, then?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ve just had a meeting with Marsha and Rufus, the publisher. They want to promote me, would you believe?’
‘Wow!
You mean to be editor?’
‘No – as a senior-floating-about sort of person. I’d schmooze the advertisers, be a brand ambassador …’ She sniggered.
Amanda laughed. ‘An ambassador? Like the one who always had Ferrero Rochers at his parties?’
‘That’s it! You are truly spoiling us …’ They chuckled over the ridiculousness of it.
By the time Roxanne finished the call, her bag was weighing even more heavily now with the addition of the fermented bread book.
Rather than lugging it around any longer, she decided to head straight over to Sean’s place at King’s Cross. After all, he was at home, drowning in paperwork. After all that tedious invoicing he would be overjoyed to see her.
She strode towards the tube now, stopping to buy a decent bottle of white wine for her and Sean to enjoy on his roof terrace on what had turned out to be a warm and pleasant summer afternoon. How decadent, she thought with a smile. She had already had a glass at lunch – Rufus had polished off most of the bottle – and the thought of getting tipsy in what was definitely still the daytime seemed rather naughty and fun.
Quickening her pace, and wishing she was wearing her ballet flats rather than these silly heels, she passed a row of cheap, dismal-looking shops, in which staff were probably working in miserable conditions on zero-hours contracts. How could Roxanne feel so reluctant to take on a job which amounted to wall-to-wall expense-account lunches? How could she possibly feel hard done by when, just a few feet away, a young woman was curled up in a grubby sleeping bag, with a sleeping Alsatian and a couple of ripped carrier bags lying at her feet?
As she clung to the rail on the tube carriage, she wondered what she would do about Rufus’s offer. No alternative had been suggested. What if she didn’t want the figurehead role? She would talk it over with Sean – and Amanda, too, when they could get together. It was all rather overwhelming. In fact, the person she really wanted to sit down and talk to was Della, who was two hundred miles away with a shop to run.
Roxanne emerged from the tube and strode briskly towards Sean’s apartment block. By now, she had decided against pretending to be a delivery person. She would simply surprise him instead, and perhaps they would go out to eat later. Like Roxanne, Sean never seemed to have much food in his fridge but luckily there were plenty of lovely little places nearby. When he first moved in, choosing the flat for its proximity to his studio, King’s Cross was pretty shabby. However, now the warehouses were all prestigious apartments, and the tatty Victorian former-railway buildings had been turned into buzzing bars, restaurants and artists’ studios. London had changed so much since Roxanne had moved here twenty-nine years ago. It seemed as if there were barely any tatty little corners left.
She had reached his block. It was a huge, solid building – a former garment factory converted into desirable canalside apartments. Rather than buzz the intercom at the main front door, she pushed it and found that, as was usually the case, it was open. She trotted upstairs – Sean lived on the top floor – looking forward to chilling out with him now after her hasty departure from Burley Bridge and the dramas of Isabelle’s burglary. They just needed to hang out together, she decided; to reconnect and relax, without him having to rush off somewhere. That’s what she got for falling for a man who was perpetually ‘crazy-busy’.
Roxanne rapped on his door and waited. For a few moments, there was no sound at all. She knocked again.
‘Hello?’ came his voice from the other side of the door. She grinned, deciding to remain silent. She heard muttering, then Sean saying, ‘Just a minute.’ There was some pottering around, then the twiddle of the handle as the door opened.
‘Hi, darling!’ She beamed and took in the sight before her. Sean was standing there, wearing a dressing gown and he didn’t look happy. In fact, his face had frozen and she knew, instantly, that she was the last person he wanted to see.
‘Rox! What the hell?’
She stared at him. ‘What’s wrong? What’s going on?’
He stepped back, still neglecting to invite her in. ‘Nothing. Jesus. I just didn’t expect you, that’s all.’
She blinked at him as he tightened his dressing gown belt. ‘I thought you liked surprises,’ she added, her heart pounding now. ‘You surprised me, when you came to the bookshop party. So, can’t I come in?’ Her voice was tight and high and sounded as if it was coming from someone else.
Sean’s face had coloured. As he opened his mouth to speak, Roxanne saw movement in the hallway behind him. It was Britt.
‘Oh!’ Britt gasped, looking startled.
As the two women locked gazes, a series of quick-fire thoughts darted through Roxanne’s mind: She’s his agent. She’s often here. They’re just friends.
Another dart: But she is wearing only her bra and pants.
Roxanne dragged her gaze back to Sean, who was exhaling dramatically and sweeping a hand over the back of his head.
‘You’re supposed to be in Yorkshire. What made you come here today?’
‘I came to bring you your present.’ She was blinking rapidly as she took the bag from her shoulder and pulled out his book. ‘So … how long has this been happening?’
His face crumpled, and he glanced round as if Britt might still be standing there and could speak on his behalf, but she had run into his bedroom.
‘It’s nothing really,’ he muttered after what felt like an eternity, at which Britt reappeared, wearing a blue shift dress now.
‘That’s nice,’ Britt growled, picking up her jacket from a chair in the hallway, pulling it on and striding past them. ‘I’ll leave you to explain everything, Sean,’ she added, pulling a brittle little smile before clattering off down the stairs.
Sean stared down at his bare feet. Terribly attractive feet, Roxanne had thought just two days ago. ‘Rox, look – it’s not what you think,’ he muttered.
‘How do you know what I’m thinking?’
‘I just … well, we didn’t plan it, you know. It just sort of happened, with you going away.’
She peered at him, unable to form words for a moment. And slowly, it started to make sense: why he had been so keen for her to go to Yorkshire, so un-bothered by the prospect of there being two hundred miles between them for several months.
‘Poor Sean, all abandoned by his girlfriend,’ she remarked coolly.
‘I didn’t mean that. I just meant—’
‘Don’t lie to me,’ she snapped. ‘This has been going on for way longer than the time I’ve been at Della’s.’
He cleared his throat and reddened even further. It had just been a hunch, but clearly, she was correct. ‘It’s not a serious thing,’ he insisted. ‘It’s just – you know. Sort of sporadic …’
‘And what about us, then? I mean, are we sporadic too?’
‘Of course we’re not! I love you, Rox …’
‘Oh, do shut up.’ She looked down at the book she was gripping. She was seized by an urge to whack it over his head but she knew it could quite possibly kill him, and that being able to joke about murdering her photographer boyfriend with a photography book really wasn’t worth going to jail for.
‘You’ve brought my book,’ he said weakly, noticing it for the first time. ‘Thanks, darling. That’s really thoughtful of you.’
She looked back into his eyes. Her heart was banging so hard it was a wonder it hadn’t dented her ribs. ‘Hope you enjoy it,’ she said, flinging it with all her might so it landed with a loud crack against his hall wall, as she turned and hurried away.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Despite the fact that she was wearing heels, she decided to walk home. She needed some proper brisk exercise to help her to make sense of things. Walking was good for a person, she mused, especially on a bright, blue-skied day like today. Especially when your bag was lighter – because she was carrying just a small volume on fermented breads and not a whacking great photography book. Especially when you could finally admit to yourself that the man you had been seeing for the
past nine months probably wasn’t making you as happy as you tried to convince yourself he was.
This was a man who freaked out if she left so much as a spare pair of knickers at his flat. Who okayed Marsha and Tina being on his party guest list when he knew darn well that Tina was being brought in to the magazine over Roxanne’s head. He had harangued her for drinking too much and sneered at her love of Abba.
And, to top it all, he had been sleeping with his agent for God knows how long.
Perhaps she should have been more angry or upset. However, as she detoured to follow the towpath, she felt only a sense of calm and possibly even relief.
Maybe she had known all along that there was someone. She had certainly known, deep down, that things would never move on – and that really, he wasn’t the right man for her. Sure, he was a step up from Ned Tallow, in that he had a proper job and didn’t steal cacti from garden centres. But was that her sole criterion for a boyfriend these days? She would be better off alone.
Across the canal, in a cobbled courtyard, a photo shoot was taking place. There were two models – older women, easily in their sixties and both incredibly elegant in smart cotton dresses and flat shoes. Roxanne approved of this trend of using models of all ages. Isabelle could easily be a model, she decided; she certainly had the bone structure, elegance and poise. Roxanne stood and watched the shoot, relieved that everyone was too engrossed in their work to notice her, because she realised after a moment that the photographer was Yasmin Morrel, whom she had worked with several times. She would prefer to avoid any awkward shouting and waving across the canal.
Roxanne could tell, even from across the water, that the shots would be lovely. The women moved beautifully and the gentle sunlight played in their silvery hair. This was what she loved about her job – making gorgeous pictures. She could never take on Rufus’s ‘ambassadorial’ role, she realised that now. She would call Marsha to tell her so, and then she would resign – and to hell with it. Roxanne knew she could freelance as a fashion stylist; she knew virtually everyone in the industry, and had all her decades of contacts and experience behind her. It would tide her over if nothing else. But then, she couldn’t shake off the image of Della in the shop she had created from just a collection of old books. Could Roxanne also create something she could call her very own? An idea began to form in her mind: of a beautiful boutique filled with new and vintage clothing, but other things too – like the delicate tea sets she had rescued from Rosemary Cottage when no one else had wanted them, and stored in her oven ever since.