Armani Angels (17 page)

‘We're going shopping.'

Gemma, bleary-eyed, looked up over a pile of documents towering on her desk to see Chantelle in her office doorway teetering on a ridiculously high pair of cork platform pumps.

‘Oh, we are so not.'

‘OMG. We so are! I haven't seen you in, like, ages. And this party thing of yours, we have to sort it out. I'm dead worried about you and I miss you.'

‘So shopping's going to fix all that, is it?'

‘Totally. You know, all the spring stuff's on sale and if you just pop out for an hour and buy yourself a nice little get-up, you'll feel a million quid.'

Gemma couldn't help but laugh. Ignoring Chantelle was like trying to ignore a puppy.

‘But, Chantelle, I can't – I have to go back to New York and I've got meetings back to back and a load of work to catch up on until then.'

‘New York in autumn? You'll definitely need a nice frock then. Tart yourself up a bit for the handsome Mr Blakely. Come on.'

Chantelle, ignoring her friend's protests, picked up Gemma's handbag and walked to the door. She looked back over her shoulder at the dumb-struck Gemma.

‘You coming or wot?'

Gemma groaned. This was the last thing she needed, although she had to admit she did need a bit of the positive energy from her friend.

‘All right, you got me.' Gemma stood and picked up her denim jacket.

Chantelle spun back around, assessed her friend's appearance and put her hands on her hips. ‘What are you like?' she demanded.

‘What?' Gemma looked down at the outfit she was wearing that was obviously causing Chantelle distress.

‘What's with the “I've given up on life” ensemble you've got going on here, my darling?' Chantelle said. ‘Denim jacket, leggings . . . Oh. My. God. As I live and breathe, running shoes. What's happened to you?'

‘Oh, it's okay,' Gemma said defensively as she realised just how slack she looked. ‘I don't have to see clients today.'

‘But, darling heart, you have to see yourself,' Chantelle said, flicking her long fingernails at the full-length mirror on the far wall. ‘How can you bear it?'

Gemma shrugged and pushed past her friend to the hall.

The women made their way through IQPR's bustling main corridor to the lift.

‘I just don't need to frock up now that I don't see clients. And besides, I'm so busy that planning outfits every morning seems like a waste of time.' They entered the elevator. Gemma smiled in greeting the head of accounting who looked her up and down in a similar manner to which Chantelle had just done.

‘Outfit planning is never a waste of time,' Chantelle lectured her sternly. ‘And what's more, my gal, the occasional smear of lippy wouldn't kill ya.'

She scrabbled in her enormous Miu Miu bag and produced three options.

‘Here, take one and put it on. I'm not about to be seen in public with you, tuckshop mum and all.'

Gemma, sheepish, smiled and grabbed the palest of the three offered and swiped it around her pout. ‘I can't believe I'm so addled I left my make-up purse at home.' She turned to Chantelle. ‘There, is that better?'

‘Barely.' Chantelle grinned back at Gemma. ‘You'll keep.'

By the time they hopped out of the cab at the corner of Toorak Road and Chapel Street, Gemma felt quite pleased she'd bowed to Chantelle's bossiness. It was good to be out and doing something other than worrying.

‘Which way then?' Chantelle asked, pointing with one hand up the hill to the more traditional stores and with the other hand towards the funky boutiques of Chapel Street.

‘Oh, let's not go up Toorak Road. I want to avoid running into Mercedes,' Gemma said and they headed south down the fashion mecca that was Chapel Street, South Yarra.

‘Oh, yeah?' Chantelle enquired, her little steps hindered by her enormous shoes as she tried to keep up with Gemma's more comfortable stride.

‘She's being so weird. Did you hear she got a new nose?' Gemma said.

‘Hear about it? You can't help but hear about it: she tweeted every step of the blooming way.'

Gemma cringed at her own slackness – she hadn't tweeted in absolutely ages and she knew more than anyone that that was social media death.

‘Really, did she say where she got the nose shape from?'

‘Are you kidding me? It's all she goes on about. You have noticed how much she's dressing like you, haven't you?'

‘What?' Gemma stopped and turned to face Chantelle. ‘That's crazy. Of course she doesn't dress like me; she's got her own style. She's way more Versace than I am.'

‘Oh, really? How does that explain her big spend-up at Armani the other day then?'

‘Oh, pshaw, that doesn't mean she's dressing like me.'

The girls walked into the first funky-looking boutique on the strip. High-end dresses in pastel shades shimmered on the stainless-steel rods. Accessories tempted as they draped from display shelves that were affixed to the ceiling. They flicked through the offerings, feeling the fabrics, assessing the shapes.

‘What about the hair then?' Chantelle demanded. ‘Go and tell me she didn't cut herself a bob
with
fringe several months ago.'

‘Well, I had noticed, but . . .'

‘She's a copycat. She's that desperate for your attention. It's quite spooky, really.'

Gemma pulled a silk rose-patterned number off the rack and looked at it. ‘So nanna chic, put it back,' Chantelle said. Gemma held out another two for Chantelle's opinion. ‘Nope, geek chic and freak chic, pick again.' Gemma rolled her eyes then spied a taupe linen sleeveless dress that flared at the waist and fell to the knee. Chantelle approved. ‘Try it on,' she ordered.

While Gemma was in the change room, she continued to chat with Chantelle who lolled on the wall outside the curtained space.

‘So how about you? How are you going? Are you going out tonight?'

‘Yep, I've got a date,' Chantelle's voice came through the curtain.

‘Who with? Are you still seeing that guy with the boat?'

‘Who, Donald? Nah.'

‘Is he the one who took you to Vue de Monde a while back?'

‘No, that was Walter.'

‘So is he your latest squeeze?'

‘No, I'm not seeing him either. I mean, I haven't stopped seeing him. It's nice, you know, having these lovely guys take me out, look after me.'

‘So who's tonight's date?' Gemma asked as she struggled with the zip on the dress.

‘Frank – you know him, he used to work at IQPR back in the day.'

‘Frank Smithson? Chantelle, he's ancient. He's got grandkids, for God's sake.' Gemma turned to examine the back of the dress in the fitting room's mirror.

‘He's not got grandkids. Anyway, he's only fifty-five.'

Gemma poked her face through the curtain to look at her friend.

‘You really like the old guys, don't you? Is it . . . I mean, don't get me wrong, but are you trying to find Ed again?'

‘That's mad, Gemma, why would I do something like that? I just like them a bit mature. They treat me so well, better than the young bucks who don't have no manners.'

‘But what do you have in common with these guys old enough to be your father?'

Chantelle shrugged. ‘They like to talk about themselves; I'm a good listener. I dunno, it works. Get out here and show me the frock.'

Gemma closed the curtain and fussed with the neckline of the dress. She was concerned about Chantelle and her preference for older men. Surely these guys were only interested in having a hot body on their arm, rather than a real relationship, and it seemed Chantelle was continually looking to replace the dad who had abandoned her. She knew that Chantelle's dad had left the family when she was only a kid and it was devastating to see how that continued to affect her friend.

She wanted to talk to Chantelle some more about this, but now wasn't the right time. She decided to change the subject. But it continued to dwell on her mind.

‘So, do you really think Mercedes is copying me?'

‘Nah, I think it's even worse than that,' Chantelle said. ‘I think she wants to
be
you.'

Gemma, happy that the dress was fitting well, pulled back the curtain and looked at her friend.

‘What does that mean?'

‘Ooh, nice. Here, put these shoes on.' Chantelle handed a pair of tan leather cork high heels to Gemma before she answered. ‘Yah, she's like totally wanting the whole Gemma life; I've been watching her in action, I have. She's been doing it for ages.'

‘Why haven't you mentioned it before?' Gemma asked from the stool in the change room as she struggled with a small gold shoe buckle.

‘'Cos it sounds so daft, innit? But daft is as daft does, you know. She's been going to your functions as you.'

‘What? God, that's just wrong. What if she does something? I'll get a terrible reputation.'

‘No, it's not like that; she actually acts like you. You know, decorous and the like.'

‘You think I'm decorous?' Gemma laughed.

‘Yeah, with a bit of racehorse mixed in: a bit high-strung and skittish and all.'

‘Thanks a lot. Well, she's got to stop that right now. I know she's been annoyed at me for not taking her, but she can't go instead of me. How on earth did that start happening anyway?'

Chantelle had the decency to look a bit guilty.

‘My fault, I suppose, just a little bit. Remember that mad book launch I sent her to? Well, I heard from the author she posed as you. Poor, sweet Mary Patterson, she was most disappointed when she found out she'd been duped. It turns out Mercedes seems to enjoy being you and has been doing it ever since.'

‘Oh, jeez,' Gemma said. ‘That was pretty funny though, sending her to that awful book launch. I was cross at the time, but she deserved it.'

Gemma stood up and went to the mirror to look at the outfit. ‘Well, I have been thinking lately she's dangerous and I'd better back off. I need to steer clear of her. But, God, I need my highlights done and can you imagine what hell would break loose if she found out I'd had someone else do them?'

‘Oh, lordy, that's just not a thought worth bearing,' Chantelle agreed.

‘So, how do I look?' she asked Chantelle while twirling in front of her.

‘Now
that
is Gemma chic. You look divine. Get it.'

Fuji Sushi Bar was packed with hungry office workers. Gemma and Chantelle squeezed onto two stools at the far end of the bar.

They ordered mineral water from the waitress, although Chantelle had to be talked out of champagne. ‘But I'm ordering crayfish sushi and you can't have crayfish without champagne,' she'd whined.

‘You can,' Gemma said simply. ‘Besides, you don't drink alone, remember, and I have a huge workload if I ever get back to the office.'

Chantelle sulked for as long as her attention span would allow it – all of thirty seconds – then another thought popped that one right out of her cerebral cortex. ‘Sooo, tell me all I need to know about Peter Blakely.'

‘What? Peter? Oh, we're just colleagues,' she said breezily, ‘end of story.'

‘Oh, really?' Chantelle looked at her with a smirk plastered across her glimmer-powdered face.

‘You do realise you've mentioned his name three times on this shopping trip alone. I know what it's like, my darlin'. Just saying his name out loud makes you feel giddy.'

Gemma studied her friend while Chantelle jumped at her phone's trill. ‘Ooh, new follower,' she said and began a flurry of taps in response.

For all her silliness and frippery Chantelle was a clever woman with keen insight. Very few people really appreciated her empathy and thoughtfulness. Chantelle turned back to see her friend studying her.

‘Wot?'

‘How do you know that?' Gemma whispered, realising it was the first time she'd admitted her feelings, even slightly, out loud. She looked around as though her emotional infidelity could be revealed to the whole room.

‘It's just so blindingly obvious,' Chantelle said. ‘If someone says, “Peter Blakely called,” you come over all woozy and goosy and smiley and all.'

‘Do you think it's obvious to everyone?' Gemma asked, worried she'd betrayed her own innermost thoughts.

‘No, darling, it's okay.' Chantelle's smile was replaced with a look of concern as she patted Gemma's forearm. ‘It'd only be obvious to a true friend, someone who really knows you.'

‘Like you,' Gemma said.

‘Yeah, like me,' Chantelle replied and smiled gently.

‘So what am I going to do?' Tears welled up. A fat one overflowed and plopped onto her denim jacket pocket. Chantelle handed her a napkin.

‘Tell me about it.'

‘I'm so confused. Do I like Peter because he's not Stephen? Do I like him because he's a million miles away and not a threat to my marriage so I can afford a little fantasy leeway? Or, do I like him because he's so wonderful?' God, that last one felt brilliant to verbalise. To finally say those words out loud. To admit it to herself was like opening the doorway of a silo that was filled to the brim with chaff. It flowed forth, free, silken, spilling in all directions.