There was number nine, Surfer Chick, a rangy chestnut, her jockey in black and white, coming easily up to the first fence and sailing over, gaining a good length in the process. The sense of mounting excitement, the thrill of watching the beautiful animals doing what they’d been bred and trained for, even the smell of the wet, crushed grass being churned into mud under the galloping hooves, was just the same as it had been when Dad used to take Perdita and me with him to the races, before Mum refused to let us go any more.
I only hoped that the sick feeling of disappointment and regret wouldn’t be the same, too.
It wasn’t. Number nine did her thing, winning comfortably with Tommy’s horse just scraping into third and the favourite nowhere.
Martin was elated. ‘We’ve got a prodigy here, chaps! I won two grand! Come on, Tansy, give us your tips for the rest of the afternoon.’
I sat back down at the table and drank more wine and studied the racecard some more. Suddenly, I was having fun. The women had drifted off again and were discussing which Harley Street surgeons did the best anti-ageing treatments while they drank their coffee, but I didn’t feel left out any more, even though Renzo was deep in conversation out on the balcony, apparently oblivious to my new-found stardom. But it was okay: I was laughing, sparkling, being admired. If he looked over in my direction, that was what he’d see.
My tip for the next race came in second; for the one after, it won. Martin, Tommy and their friends tried to persuade me to accept a share of their winnings, but I refused. I didn’t want their money, especially not money they’d come by like this. I knew I was getting lucky, that my knowledge was rudimentary at best, but for the moment I seemed to be having a charmed afternoon.
I was studying the runners for the final race, the numbers blurring slightly from all the wine I’d drunk, when Renzo came over.
‘I’m sorry to deprive you of your tipster, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘but we must go. Thanks for the hospitality, Tommy.’
I stood up, startled, while he shook hands and clapped backs, and then said goodbye and thanked everyone too, and put on my coat.
It was almost dark now, and a thin drizzle was falling as I hurried behind Renzo through the car park. He didn’t slow down for me, even though I was unsteady on my high heels and he had our only umbrella.
When I got to the car, he’d opened the door for me but already got in himself, and started the engine. Before I’d fastened my seatbelt, he pulled away, tyres screaming on the wet tarmac.
‘Is everything okay?’ I asked. ‘Thanks for today, I had a great time.’
But he said nothing, putting some Italian pop music playlist on the stereo and turning the volume up loud.
I hunched in my seat, knowing I’d annoyed him but not knowing why. I did know, though, that there was no point trying to talk to him about it now, not while he was driving, anyway. The rain was thundering on the windscreen, the wipers flailing against it, the car’s fat tyres swishing great waves of water up around us. The lights on the motorway flashed by. I pressed my feet forward again, hard, but this time I let my eyes close, and quite soon, in spite of my fear, I fell asleep.
The squeal of tyres coming to a stop and the jerk of the seatbelt against my shoulder woke me. Blearily, I straightened up and looked around. We weren’t in the white stucco-lined street where Renzo’s flat was; we were in Hackney, outside my house.
‘Get out,’ Renzo said.
‘But what…?’
‘I don’t want to talk about this now. I’ll call you in the morning. And don’t ever make me look a tit in front of work people again. Okay?’
I stumbled out of the car, rummaging for my keys as he pulled away with another scream of rubber. Besides the cold, the rain and my parched, sour-tasting mouth, I was conscious of one overwhelming thing: the fear that he wouldn’t ring the next day like he’d said.
But it was okay. He did.
Twenty-Five
I stood in front of the mirror in my bedroom, as I’d done so many times before, getting ready. I applied primer, foundation and concealer. I highlighted and contoured and stroked blusher over my cheekbones. I dusted coral-coloured eyeshadow over my eyelids, then carefully drew liquid liner over the base of my lashes. I put on two coats of mascara and powdered and waxed my eyebrows. I considered a couple of false eyelashes, but my hands were shaking so much I knew that would end badly.
I plugged in my curling wand and, while I waited for it to heat, surveyed my wardrobe, pulling out one summer dress after another, looking at them and putting them back again. Nothing felt right. I didn’t feel right. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
So many times over the past months, I’d imagined what this meeting with Renzo would be like. I’d be at home and hear a knock on the door, and when I opened it he’d be standing there, his arms full of flowers and his eyes full of tears.
Or, as I’d hoped would happen back in February when I first started hanging out with Felicity and Pru, our eyes would meet across a crowded room. I’d be wearing something fabulous, my hair loose and glossy down my back, my nails perfectly manicured, which they never were in real life. He’d cross the floor towards me, our lips curving into identical smiles as we realised we were feeling exactly the same feels, and he would take me in his arms and lead me onto the dance floor to the sound of soaring violin music.
Or maybe our encounter would be more random. I’d be walking along a rain-slicked street somewhere at twilight, wearing knee-high boots, a cream trench coat and a beret to keep the drizzle off my hair. This version of events must have been heavily influenced by art-house French films, because when I pictured it I was always carrying a baguette in a paper bag (which I had to edit out of the picture, knowing the rain would make it go all soggy). I’d hear feet hurrying up behind me and Renzo would appear, putting up a huge red umbrella to shield us both, taking my arm and saying, ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’
But now it was happening, and it wasn’t like any of the pictures I’d painted in my mind. It was Saturday evening, and we’d arranged to meet for a drink in a pub near Renzo’s flat. Just an ordinary pub: the sort of place where tourists go when their feet are aching from walking and their arms are burning from carrying bags from John Lewis and Primark, and they need a bit of a sit-down while they work out how to get back to their hotel. I’d suggested it in desperation, when he’d called me to say he was back from his work trip, and was I free to meet up, because none of the flash places where we’d usually been together felt right.
I turned back to the mirror, remembering Felicity’s words: You’re arm candy, Tans.
That was what I’d wanted: to be a girlfriend Renzo could show off, a woman who was always perfectly dressed, perfectly made-up, with perfect hair and a perfect figure. However far I felt the reality of my appearance was from that ideal, it was what I’d aimed for. I’d wanted him to see that, and I hadn’t cared if it wasn’t the real me.
In fact, I’d actively tried to conceal the real me from him: the Tansy who worried about not being good enough, about being found out. The Tansy who paid for each and every one of our posh meals out not with money, but with punishing workouts in the gym next day and barely any food. The Tansy who’d decided that the only future that would work for her was to marry a rich man to escape the shameful poverty of her past and the grinding skintness of her present.
I turned away from the mirror again, and then I went to the bathroom, soaked two cotton pads in make-up remover and cleaned every scrap of the cosmetics I’d so painstakingly applied off my face. I unplugged my curling wand and tied my hair back into a ponytail. I put on an old yellow-and-white-striped T-shirt dress and battered white Converse.
And then, avoiding my reflection altogether, I went downstairs. I wasn’t sure whether this was the real me, or whether the Tansy who’d spent three hours getting ready for a date was. Somewhere along the line, I realised, I’d lost her – or maybe I’d never found her in the first place.
But
my navel-gazing musings were interrupted. Josh was in the kitchen, Freezer winding around his legs and mewing as he unpacked groceries from a reusable nylon carrier bag.
For the past couple of weeks, I’d done a pretty excellent job of avoiding him. I’d spent a lot of time in my bedroom, listening for his footsteps on the landing, waiting to hear the front door close before I emerged. When I came home from work or from Chelsea’s mum’s flat in the evening, I’d gone straight up to my room if I saw lights on downstairs.
‘Going out?’ he asked, unnecessarily.
I nodded. ‘So you don’t have to,’ I said, a bit sarkily.
‘I wasn’t going to,’ he replied. ‘I do live here. For now, at least.’
I considered giving a Do what you want, it’s all the same to me shrug and swishing out of the door. Then I realised how ridiculous it was to carry on like this. Josh and I had been friends. We’d been a lot more than friends, too, for that one night. And my duplicity and dishonesty had spoiled it. My desire for Renzo, and my hang-ups about my past, had made me treat him appallingly, and I regretted it more than I could say.
I tried, anyway. I said, ‘You’re not planning to move out, are you?’
‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ he said. ‘This was only ever going to be a temporary thing, anyway, while I found my feet.’
‘Please don’t,’ I blurted out. ‘Not unless you want to, anyway. I mean, not on my account. Look, I behaved horribly, and I owe you an apology.’
He grinned, and for a second I saw the old Josh. ‘I was going to say the same thing.’
I walked towards him, the wooden floor feeling a bit unsteady under my feet – or maybe it was my legs themselves. Josh was unwrapping a piece of steak and putting it on a plate, and Freezer’s mews increased in intensity.
‘You did nothing wrong. It was me. I…’
Josh shook his head. ‘I overreacted.’
We looked at each other for a long moment. There was something between us still, an awkwardness that I supposed would always be there; an awareness of what had happened between us, that we could never make un-happen.
I said, ‘I guess I’ll see you later.’
‘Sure. Going anywhere special? You look nice.’
My stomach lurched violently as I remembered where I was going. For the past few moments, I’d all but forgotten Renzo.
‘Just into town. I’m meeting someone.’
‘I see,’ he said, and I knew that he did see.
Half an hour later, I was in the pub, a glass of white wine sweating on a coaster in front of me. I was trying not to gulp it too fast, which was hard because my mouth was as dry as if I’d been eating mattifying face powder. Every time the door opened, my heart hammered. But when at last I saw him, hesitating outside, his eyes glancing down at his phone and then up at the sign, doubtful that this could possibly be the right place, I felt a strange calm descend over me – a stillness, a sense that everything, after all, was going to be all right.
He saw me and opened the door, his face lighting up with one of his megawatt smiles.
‘Renzo.’
‘Tansy. Babe. It’s good to see you.’
‘It’s good to see you, too.’
We stood and looked at each other as if we’d never get tired of it.
I said, ‘Can I get you a—’
He said, ‘I’ll just go to the—’
And we both laughed, the awkwardness dissipating a bit. He went to the bar, came back with a bottle of Peroni and sat down opposite me.
For a few minutes, we talked about nothing much. I asked him how work was going and he said it was tough out there, the markets were so volatile. He asked me the same question and I shrugged and said things were the same as always, really. This wasn’t strictly true – Barri and the Luxeforless management team had been closeted in a meeting room for most of the past week, rumours were flying about what was going on and there seemed to be a strangely tense, feverish atmosphere in the office, although I’d put that down to my own anxiety about seeing Renzo.
Then I said, ‘I’m sorry things didn’t work out with you and Felicity.’
‘I’m not,’ he replied. ‘Sono cose che capitano. These things happen. I mean, she’s a lovely girl, but I knew for a long time that things weren’t right. You know, when you’re seeing someone and it just doesn’t feel authentic? Maybe you don’t. You’re so genuine, Tansy, it’s one of the things I always – anyway, it didn’t feel like a real relationship, somehow. Does that make sense?’
I took a gulp of wine, hoping I wasn’t blushing. Genuine, me? I prayed he would never find out that I’d been having a fake relationship all of my own.
Until it wasn’t fake any more, niggled my mind.
‘I guess so,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay.’
‘Never been better,’ he said, although there were lines of tiredness around his eyes that suggested otherwise. ‘What about you? How’s it working out with Bruce, or whatever his name is?’
‘Josh.’ I ignored the implication that because he was from Australia, he must be called Bruce. ‘Not so good. We’re not together any more. It was never really a serious thing.’
Saying it out loud felt like a betrayal, whether of myself or of Josh I wasn’t sure.
‘Well,’ Renzo said. ‘So here we are.’
‘Here we are,’ I echoed, and we smiled at each other again.
Then Renzo’s face went all serious and still again.
‘I need to say a few things to you,’ he said. ‘Will you listen? Hear me out?’
I nodded.
‘I know I don’t deserve it. After how I treated you, I wasn’t expecting you to agree to see me at all.’
As if, I thought. But I didn’t say anything.
‘You see, it came as a shock to me, what you told me. All the time we were seeing each other, I thought – I knew – you were different from the other girls I’ve been out with. You don’t care about material stuff, or about money.’
I flinched, knowing exactly how wrong he was about that.
He carried on, ‘You took me bowling on our second date, for God’s sake. Do you remember that?’
I nodded silently. I remembered every detail of that evening – of course I did. How the muscles in Renzo’s back had bunched and flexed as he sent the ball hurtling down the wooden lane; how, when it had veered off into the gutter, he’d turned to me, briefly furious, and then laughed. How he’d shouted encouragement when I got a strike, even though it meant I’d beaten him. How we’d eaten greasy burgers afterwards and I’d wiped a smear of ketchup off his chin with my finger.
‘It was just a small thing, but it made me see what being with you could be like. You were so funny, so fresh, so natural.’
I sipped some more wine, finding it hard to meet his eyes. If only he knew how long I’d spent that evening perfecting the ‘no make-up make-up’ look, or that the ripped jeans I’d scrounged from the sample cupboard to wear retailed for four hundred pounds. If only he knew I’d had to flog them on eBay afterwards.
‘And so when you told me… When you told me what you’d been doing, it was like you were talking about another person,’ he went on. ‘Someone cynical and cold. Someone who used men for money. And I’d never thought of you as being like that.’
Because I’m not like that, I wanted to protest. But then I remembered what it had been like, when I’d first started doing the work that had later come to feel so demeaning and, later, so frightening. In the beginning I’d felt a kind of triumph: They’re paying me to sit here and talk to them! They’re paying me because they want to look at me! If I can make money being looked at, I must look okay. If I can make more, I must look great!
It was only later that I’d come to realise that wasn’t what it was about. Not at all. It wasn’t about me, or even about what I looked like. It was about something different – some kind of weird power dynamic that I wasn’t sure I fully understood yet. And some deep need of my own – a
need for validation as much as for money – which I understood even less.
I remembered Travis, who’d become first a regular in my webcam room, then later frighteningly obsessed with me, and a knot of shame curled tighter inside me, reminding me that it had always been there. Almost always.
But I’d promised Renzo that I’d hear him out, and anyway, I had no words to articulate the thoughts that were whirling frenziedly through my head, so I just nodded again.
‘Whenever I saw you, after that night – and it felt like I saw you all the fucking time – it hurt me so much,’ he said. ‘I felt like I’d lost something so precious to me. I missed you, Tansy.’
He reached his hand across the sticky varnished table and I hesitated for a second, then reached mine over to meet it.
‘I missed you, too.’
‘I was seeing Felicity, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you.’ He pressed his hand to his eyes. ‘Was it the same for you with Br— with Josh?’
I shook my head, because of course it hadn’t been the same at all. But I said, ‘Kind of.’
He went on as if I hadn’t spoken.
‘At your birthday party, and even before, at that gig where I saw you, it was like you were the centre of everything. Così bella, so happy, so confident. You didn’t need me. God, that hurt.’
Not as much as you calling me a whore hurt. The thought surprised me with its vicious intensity, but again I said nothing.
‘I talked to your sister that night,’ he said.
‘What?’ I couldn’t help blurting out.
‘Perdita. She’s lovely, so like you. I asked about your family, what it was like growing up in Cornwall by the sea.’
The knot in my stomach twisted again, growing so tight I thought I might be sick. When the hell had Renzo and Perdita even spoken that night? It must have been when I was dancing with Josh, oblivious to everything else. I remembered the text she’d sent me the next day: Oh my God, I was so pissed! Fear I made an utter tit of myself. And how I’d replied, far later than I should have, assuring her that it was all fine, because by then I hadn’t the headspace to think about anything except Josh and how cruelly and unfairly I’d treated him.
It's Not You It's Him: An absolutely hilarious and feel-good romantic comedy Page 29