‘No, I tried Dad’s old PA, but she couldn’t find any details for her. Don’t tell Eddie, though, he’ll be devastated. Why don’t you ask Kelly? I’m sure she could put you in touch with someone.’
‘Sure, maybe I will. Thanks for the advice. Anyway, how are you? How’s Nathan?’ I say, to change the subject, making a mental note to invest in a new coat with a large hood, or a snood, or, better still, a balaclava, to shield my face whenever I’m outside my flat or Carrington’s from now on. I don’t want any more random pictures of me turning up online.
‘All good here. I haven’t had the dreaded morning sickness for days now. And Nathan is such a sweetheart, you know he’s getting very good at foot massage.’
‘Aw, that’s lovely. Are your feet getting very swollen?’
‘Oh no, it’s way too early for all that, but he likes to feel involved. And he was thrilled to bits when the first scan appointment arrived.’
‘Oooh, how exciting – when is it?’
‘Monday … in a couple of weeks’ time. I can’t wait. It’s in the morning at the hospital and then we’re going for lunch afterwards, followed by a pay-per-view session at the private clinic. Jenny went a few days ago and said it’s fantastic. They even let her set up a Skype call from her laptop so that Tony could see the baby on the plasma screen, all the way from Helmand.’
‘Wow. It’s incredible what they can do these days,’ I say, feeling really happy for Sam, and sad for Jenny that she doesn’t have Tony here with her at such a special time.
‘And I’m sure I felt the baby moving around. Maybe I’m more pregnant than I originally thought. It said in the baby book that it’s around sixteen weeks for the first kick, if I’m lucky, but sometimes later for a first timer like me.’
‘Oh my God, that’s amazing,’ I say, thrilled for her. ‘What did it feel like?’
‘Tickly. Like popcorn popping in a microwave,’ she says, her voice sounding soft and bubbly.
‘Well, that makes sense. She is baking inside your tummy, I guess.’ We both laugh.
‘True. And I like that analogy. Aw, my little cupcake,’ Sam says, and there’s a short silence while I imagine her rubbing her stomach lovingly. ‘Going back to KCTV – you’ll never guess what Kelly also asked me last night?’ She pauses. ‘Only how I felt about being filmed in labour!’
‘Whaaaat? Nooo!’
‘Exactly. I said no way. End of. Not even discussing it – that was after I asked how she even knew I was pregnant, of course.’
‘I didn’t breathe a word, I swear,’ I quickly tell her.
‘Oh, I know hun. Kelly told me she just knew, has a knack for guessing these things, apparently. Reckons she has psychic powers inherited from her great aunt or something. More like she heard on the Carrington’s grapevine that I’d been puking in the staff loo.’
‘Well, she does seem to know everything that’s going on; it’s probably all there on those little TV monitors she loves so much.’
‘Talking of Aunty Mary’s – I’m not having mine broadcast to a film crew. Ew. Hideous. I mean, I love watching One Born Every Minute, but it doesn’t mean I want a starring role in it.’
‘They could always put one of those blurry things over your bits,’ I suggest, and we both crack up.
‘Oh stop it, or you’ll make me need the loo again. I can’t stop going at the moment,’ Sam manages in between wheezes.
‘Oh dear. Anyway, the baby isn’t even due before Kelly Cooper Come Instore ends,’ I laugh, relishing in the banter that makes me feel just like I did before everything changed, and it’s nice. Normal. There’s a lot to be said for anonymity. If I go down the FHM route, I’ll never be anonymous again.’
‘She said it could be part of her next show!’
‘The one in the hotel?’ I ask, wondering how that will work.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, I overheard Kelly talking to someone about a hotel with underground parking – presumed it was for her next show,’ I say, wondering if Eddie knows.
‘Sounds intriguing, but no, she didn’t mention any of that. And Nathan was outraged when I told him. Said Kelly is a sensationalist and will stop at nothing to garner publicity and notoriety with her reality TV shows.’
‘Well, he has got a very good point – her setting me up with Dan like that, and without any warning.’
‘Talking of which, how was it, being with him? Stir up any lustful feelings?’ Sam says, adopting a sultry voice now.
‘It was OK,’ I say evasively.
‘Bet it was better than just OK. He’s hot. And he plays guitar – that’s just sexy as … ’ she teases.
‘Weell, I’d be lying if I said my heart hadn’t skipped a bit. Just a teeny-tiny bit.’
‘I knew it!’ she screams. ‘Go on … ’
‘All right, but on one condition.’
‘OK.’
‘You understand that just because I want Tom back, doesn’t mean I’m immune to other men, does it?’
‘Of course not, you’re a typical twenty-something woman, not a nun! Stop worrying. I’m not going to think any less of you for fancying Dan, or even going on a date with him, not after Tom’s “knight in white jodhpurs” performance on the TV screen the other night.’ She huffs. ‘I’m not being funny, Georgie, but he must have known you would watch the show. To be honest, it doesn’t look very good, does it?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Good, because I’m still sure you’ll sort everything out when he comes back, but in the meantime, why shouldn’t you have a bit of fun? He obviously is.’
‘Well, there was a moment.’
‘Oooh, what kind of moment?’
‘The kind where, after the photos were done, Dan was waiting for me and asked if I fancied getting together some time; that he’d heard about me breaking up with Tom, from Kelly I reckon … ’
‘See, she really does know everything,’ Sam sniffs.
‘True. And I know she’s a bit bonkers, but I can’t help liking her. She has a serious side, too, and seems to want the best for me.’
‘Good. So tell me more about Dan.’
‘Well, we chatted a bit and he seems like a really nice guy. Not flashy or full of himself, given how famous he is. He was really down-to-earth.
‘Aw, that’s nice. When are you going out with him then?’
‘Steady on, I still want Tom. And if I’m honest, seeing him with Valentina just made me want him even more. I was a stubborn idiot that day in his office, and I think he was too.’
‘Fair enough. For what it’s worth, I think you have a point, but you don’t want to miss out on a date with Dan Kilby. Tom will keep, especially if you two are meant to be together. Remember that old adage … if you love someone, let them go, they’ll come back, and all that. Plus, it will do him good to have a bit of competition.’
‘Maybe. Anyway, I told Dan I’d think about it.’
‘Whaat?’ Sam is outraged. ‘Georgie, please tell me you’re joking and that you didn’t really tell Dan Kilby – the man of many girls’ dreams, that you would think about going on a date with him.’
‘Well, I didn’t want too look keen. Besides, I’m in demand now … didn’t you know?’ I laugh.
‘True, but just don’t think for too long. There’s the wrap party, remember, and a trillion women that wouldn’t mind going with Dan on their arm. Have you seen the number of “Likes” on his Facebook fan page?’
‘We’ll see,’ I say, wondering if I am actually ready to go on a proper date with another man. I’m not sure. I just hate the way things were left with Tom. If only I could talk to him for a few minutes to find out if it really is over – I need closure, if nothing else.
‘OK. Hun, I’m going to have to love you and leave you as Nathan’s just walked in.’
‘OK, chat tomorrow. Oh, really quickly, before you go. Did you know Melissa was back working at Carrington’s?’ Sam always hears what’s going on, from the café.
> ‘Yes, apparently she didn’t like it at the prison – too many psychopaths for her liking, said she found it very hard not to want to fight them. You know how she’s into all that ninja warrior stuff … ’ We both laugh. Typical Mel.
We end the call and I make my way into the bathroom, smiling to myself at Sam’s comments. She’s such a queen of hearts, always trying to pair me up, ever the romantic. I turn on the bath taps and plop in my favourite vanilla-scented Lush bath bomb and take off my clothes, carefully hanging the dress and jacket on the back of the door, which I’ve left ajar, so the steam doesn’t ruin them.
I’ve submerged my body into the blissfully warm water and relaxed for a few minutes, when my mobile vibrates across the vanity unit next to the bath. After drying a hand on a towel, I reach for the phone and turn it over to see the screen.
And I don’t believe it.
It’s a text message.
From Tom! Just like that.
Seems Sam was right – let him go and he’ll come back …
I hurl myself up into a sitting position. Water splashes everywhere. My heart soars as I press to see the message. At last! Maybe he has been missing me. Maybe Eddie was right and KCTV engineered the horse-riding scene. Tom isn’t interested in Valentina at all. It was just for show. Of course it was. And he’s not interested in Zara, why would he be when he has me? I’ve been an absolute fool. Maybe he genuinely thought I’d love doing the show, a nice surprise, and to be honest … I’m not exactly hating it. I should never have doubted him. Or what we have together. He just needed a bit of time to get his head straight and now he wants to sort things out. All that rubbish about calling it a day – it was said in the heat of the argument, nothing more.
I’m so excited. Everything’s going to be wonderful after all. We’ll spend Christmas together and it’s going to be amazing. It will be all of the gorgeous romantic things we talked about. Hot chocolate. Tartan rugs by the fire. Bing singing in the background. There’s still time to find a log cabin. I could get on Lastminute.com. I can not wait. I read the message.
Yes I have moved on! I’m with somebody else now so stop stalking me, or you’ll lose your job too.
Stunned! I sit motionless in the water staring at the screen. Saliva drains from my mouth. Silent tears trickle down my cheeks. Is that what he thinks of me? A stalker! Oh God. How hideous. I feel like utter rubbish – humiliated too. Nauseous even. I’ve never been called a stalker before. And I’ve never seen this side of him. It’s horrible. I don’t believe it. And I don’t know what to do. And he has somebody else. A sob catches in my throat. Who is she? Valentina or Zara? And how can he be so callous? He knows how much my job at Carrington’s means to me. I stare again at the message. I type out a reply. I delete it. I type another reply. I delete it. And I type another. I delete it too. A hideous cold trickle of realisation seeps through me. This is it! Over. Really over. So he meant it after all. I can’t contact him again. Not now. Not ever. Because if I do, then his words will be true – a stalker! A bunny boiler. Whatever spin you want to put on it. And nobody wants to be likened to a looper who shoves a rabbit in a saucepan and freaks everyone out.
After what feels like an eternity, I place the phone back on the vanity unit and pull my knees up under my chin, wrapping my arms around my legs, I hug them into me. I’m shaking all over. I guess I really did get him completely wrong. I feel like such a fool. And then it occurs to me – this is like Brett all over again. I‘ve been dumped for another woman. For all I know, Tom could have already had his sights on Valentina – he did say he had a Skype meeting with a foreign supplier the morning after our hat trick; maybe it was with her. My mind races, mentally scouring our time together, searching for clues of his infidelity. Cold, miserable tears trickle down my face, slowly at first, but fast now, and they won’t stop. My chest heaves, in and out, until I’m sobbing uncontrollably.
Eventually, I manage to calm down. The water is cold, I feel trembly and weak with emotional exhaustion – euphoric elation, quickly followed by crashing devastation, does that, I guess. I manage to haul myself out of the bath and scrub myself dry before pulling on my oldest pair of Disney-themed fleecy pyjamas. They’re practically threadbare, with a hole at the knee and a button missing – but what does it matter, it’s not like I have an actual boyfriend to impress any more … just a fake date, and a list of Facebook strangers who are probably only interested because I’m on the telly.
Feeling numb now, and very sorry for myself, I grab my phone and quickly delete Tom’s message. I can’t bear to read it ever again. Then I delete every single one of his other messages – even the ones from the start, where we joked together, where he flirted, where he asked if I fancied having lunch with him, where he thanked me for a lovely evening, right through to his actual numbers – home and mobile. Until it’s as if he never existed in my phone, or my life at all. And then the penny drops – no wonder he wanted me to have Mr Cheeks, he bloody knew he was going away, he must have been talking and planning with KCTV for months. Well, I get the message, Tom! I hear you. Loud and clear.
I head into my bedroom and slump down on the bed, wondering what to do next. I try to think straight. The shock is subsiding into anger now. If I look at this rationally, then I haven’t done anything wrong, not really. All I did was ask him why he didn’t tell me about the filming. And he can’t blame me for retaliating when he said he wanted to call it a day. OK, I’ve tried to contact him a few times since, and yes, I did send a drunken text – well, seven times, to be precise! But then who hasn’t done that when they’ve had a few too many buck’s fizzes while trying to heal a broken heart? It’s not a crime. It’s not illegal. Because if it was, then the prisons would all be high-rise tower blocks, or makeshift cells would have to be set up all over the place, in sports halls, aircraft hangers and suchlike. They’d have to utilise those empty retail units down in the pedestrianised part of town, stack bunk beds in and install communal showers. And that would be totally ridiculous.
I turn my phone over and over in my hands, until I come to the realisation that I’m stronger now than I was after the split with Brett. I’m not going to sit around moping and worrying about what might have been with Tom. And I’m sure as hell not going to the wrap party on my own like some saddo, not while Tom’s there whooping it up with his new ‘somebody’. Eddie was right, I need to dive straight back into the dating pool. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
I take a deep breath before letting out a big long puff, and scroll through my contacts list until I find the number. It rings twice before he answers.
‘Georgie. Hi, how are you?’
‘Not bad thanks. How are you?’ I say, doing my best to sound assured and breezy, even though I still feel wobbly inside.
‘Good, much better for hearing from you.’
I brush away the last of the tears and swallow hard, remembering Sam’s words from our conversation earlier, which seems like an eternity ago now.
‘I was wondering about us getting together. And if the offer still stands, then I’d love to, Dan.’
15
It turns out that the council have had to scrap their plans for an ice rink in the centre of town. Sam found out from Mandy, who works in the town hall. She came in for her weekly chocolate orange cupcake with banoffee coffee and told Sam all about it – not enough funds left after their budget was slashed, apparently. But Mandy also said that KCTV had stepped in and offered to stump up the money instead, on one condition, that it’s built on the roof of Carrington’s, and that customers access it via the store after buying a ticket for a fiver, or merch costing at least the equivalent amount. So that’s why Kelly insisted I mention it on camera; she wanted to make sure Carrington’s and KCTV garnered as much kudos as possible. She’s certainly shrewd when it comes to business and publicity. And someone from Footwear said they heard her plugging it on the local radio station too, so now the whole of Mulberry-On-Sea is delighted with Kelly and KCTV, especially as
she has agreed to let the first fifty shoppers have a twirl on the ice for free.
So, due to health and safety regulations, the store is closed this afternoon, with Friday being our quietest time. KCTV are covering the estimated loss of takings. It was the only way the board would agree to Kelly’s plan to have scaffolding erected up the back of the store, so the builders don’t have to come inside to reach the roof.
Sam and I have decided to make the most of the bonus time off, and are heading into town for a late lunch followed by a pamper session in the Mulberry Grand Hotel spa. Sam’s booked herself in for the special Mum To Be package, and I’m having the Ultimate Night Out package, ahead of flicking the switch with the rest of the Carrington’s staff, for the Mulberry Christmas lights on Saturday. The rumour was true and I’m so excited. Dad said he might come down to watch – if it’s not too cold.
‘What do you reckon on these?’ We’re in the changing room of a little boutique called Bumpalicious, just off the market square in the centre of town, and Sam is trying on a pair of maternity jeans. ‘Plenty of room for Cupcake to grow into them,’ she adds, holding out the enormous elasticated waistband like a super slimmer in one of those ‘post-weight-loss’ pictures.
‘They look nice on the legs, are they comfortable?’ I say, diplomatically.
‘I suppose so, but I’m not sure they’re me. I don’t really do “nice”.’ Sam wrinkles her nose and I giggle.
Carrington's at Christmas Page 47