Cloudy with a Chance of Love (26 page)

There were a lot of gorgeous clothes in this shop. Not cheap, but gorgeous. And I found exactly what I was looking for. A slinky cream, mid length dress with a scoop neck and capped sleeves. There was only one slight problem though: it was four hundred and fifty pounds. I'd never paid that much for a dress before. Ever. Never mind. I'd keep looking – there were others here. There was actually a small rail of clothes other than white, or cream, or creamy white, at the back of the shop. I came across a not
quite
so show-stopping red number, at a not quite so heart-stopping ninety-nine pounds, which had most of my criteria, though the neck was a bit higher than scoop and it looked a bit long. Could I pull off a red dress? Would it be suitable? I decided I'd try it on, and see. If I looked like a chubby and ridiculous Jessica Rabbit, who should be anywhere
but
a graduation wearing it, then I wouldn't buy it.

I took it into the white, wooden changing room and locked the door. It had mirrors on all three sides (ugh! I hated that. I really didn't need to see a panoramic view of my bottom, in all its M&S white briefed glory – did anyone?) and the lighting was awful, as it invariably is. I looked like a jaundice victim who had been struck by some sort of meteorite. I looked flabby, dimply and terrible, with a huge arse. This changing room was
not
good for shattered self-esteem.

The sooner I got this dress tried on and I got out of here, the better. I pulled it off its padded hanger and tried to step into it. Hmm, no good - I couldn't get it over my hips. I had to pull it on over my head, instead, which was fine until it got to my boobs. Uh-oh. It was stuck. The whole thing ruched to a band of polyester stretched tight over my boobs, and was stuck fast. Zip. There was probably a zip that I'd
failed to notice. Where the hell was it? I caught, at the corner of my vision, a black jagged line crossing diagonally from ribcage to armpit, but realised it would be of no use to me. I'd never even find the end, let alone get it undone.

I needed help. I needed help or I'd be in this changing room, stuck in this dress, for ever. I was just going to stick my head out and ask for assistance, when I heard a familiar, throaty, smoker's laugh. I froze, my chest rising and falling like a ship's bow under its bright red synthetic constraint. Someone horribly familiar-sounding was standing outside my cubicle. I bent down – as best I could, with this straitjacket of a dress bunched round me and straining alarmingly – and had a look under the door. Oh no. It was Gabby. I'd recognise those faux-scuffed suede bootees anywhere. She loved
those
boots. She called them her
kickabouts
, but she knew she looked fantastic in them. I would have borrowed them, were my feet not about three times smaller than hers and about twenty centimetres wider.

‘Do you have this jacket in a ten?' she was saying, to one of the assistants. ‘The twelve is swamping me, I'm afraid.' So, she was just the same, I noted. No comfort eating for her, or doing that thing where you meet someone and you get all happy and comfortable and end up eighteen stone…

I felt sick seeing her again, to be honest, as I knew I would, but I was supposed to be seeing her
tonight
, not now. It had completely thrown me. I hadn't seen her since she ran off with Jeff – not
once
– despite living so close. Every time I drove through Wimbledon or stopped at a zebra crossing or traffic lights, I kept my vision strictly tunnel. I didn't want to look around me. I didn't want to glance left or right as I walked on pavements. If I walked past a
shop
, I didn't dare look in the window in case she was browsing inside. I should have known Wimbledon Village would be an absolute minefield; she loved these boutique-y shops. And here she was. Larger than life and standing right in front of me. Thank goodness there was a wooden, minimalist door between us.

‘I'll just go and have a look at what we've got out the back,' said another voice. ‘Is it the white, or the cream?'

‘It's the cream.'

‘No problem; I won't be a moment.'

Great. So Gabby was going to be standing outside my cubicle while she waited. I straightened up again, as much as I could. I was shaking. I felt like my week from hell was up and running again. The crush of all those disappointments – Ben, Dex and Will – lay heavy on my chest, and this bloody dress wasn't helping.

‘Can I help you with anything?' It was the voice of another assistant. And she was talking through the door of the cubicle, to me. Oh no. I couldn't answer her. Would Gabby recognise
my
voice? Well, why wouldn't she? We'd talked for hours and hours over the years. She could probably recognise my voice in an audio police line-up of thousands (should such a thing exist). Oh Gabby, Gabby, I thought, not for the first time. How could you have done this to me? My best friend, with my husband. The ultimate betrayal. And if I utter a single word you'll know I'm behind this door and I've got a dress stuck over my head and I really don't want you seeing me right now – you're supposed to be seeing me tonight when I'm resplendent and done up and gorgeous and dignified… not a sweaty wreck who's been grappling with polyester and a cut-on-the-bias side seam.

‘Hello?' said the shop assistant. Oh go away, go
away
, I willed her. ‘Are you okay in there? Do you need assistance?' She sounded a bit worried now. I'd have to answer or they'd be kicking the door down and Gabby would get to see me in my full, knicker-ed glory. She'd already kicked me in the teeth and taken my man – I really didn't want her recognising the same knickers I'd had for twenty years.

There was only one thing for it. I lowered my voice and put on what I hoped was a Scottish accent.

‘Fine, thanks.' It was terrible, but so what? After the farce that had been my week, what did it really matter?

There was a pause.

‘Okay. Just shout if you need me for anything.' Oh, phew, I'd got away with it. And then the other assistant must have come back with the jacket, as I heard Gabby say, ‘Thanks, I'll try it,' and come into the cubicle next to mine. Oh god. It was only a jacket – it wouldn't take her very long to try it on; I had approximately two minutes to get this bloody thing off and get out of here. I yanked it. The zip tore – really loudly. I managed – with not inconsiderable effort – to get it off my head and stuffed back on the hanger. Then I put on my socks, my camisole vest, my jeans (all twizzled round the legs as I tried to yank them up), my long-sleeved layering top and my jumper, stuffed my feet into my boots, and grabbed my coat and scarf and flung open the door.

‘Any good?' said the smiling shop assistant.

‘I'll think about it,' I muttered, in cod Scottish.

It was only when I got outside that I realised I'd left my new boots in the changing cubicle and had to hide a humiliating ten minutes down an alley round the side of the shop – by an abandoned bicycle and a weeing dog – until Gabby came out, swinging three large paper bags. I watched her walk down the street, swinging those bags and then suddenly felt incredibly stupid. Why was she sauntering down the street, swinging new purchases, not a care in the world, while I cowered down a grubby side-alley with a bike and an incontinent dog? I'd done nothing wrong! I should be out there, my head held high. Swinging
my
stuff… Sauntering… What the hell was I doing? I must be mad.

I marched straight back into that shop, retrieved my boots from the changing room and bought that gorgeous and hugely expensive cream dress.

Chapter Nineteen

The temperature had already risen and the wind was picking up, as I left my house. There was no sign of Will tonight, although his car was parked on the drive. Despite my earlier desire never to clap eyes on him again, I almost wished he was at his window, seeing me go down my drive and into the taxi, where Freya was waiting. He knew I was going to her graduation tonight and I wouldn't have minded him seeing me in my new dress, because I felt so good in it.

It was
structured
cream jersey – I think they call the material ‘scuba' or something as it resembles the fabric of a thinner wetsuit – and it didn't just hug my curves, it rubbed them down, buffed them up and then cooked them dinner. It had a low-ish scoop neck that sat at just the right point, showing just the right amount of cleavage, and those slightly off-the-shoulder cap sleeves that hide those horrid bits at the top of your arms. It made me look as though I went in at the waist and had fantastic boobs. Plus, my bum looked amazing. You could rest three bottles of port and a cheese dome full of stilton on it, but it looked amazing.

This dress had been worth every penny.
I
was worth it.

I'd added a bling-y necklace and earrings, and a gorgeous chocolate-brown wool cape with a fur trim that I'd found at the bottom of one of the boxes I still hadn't unpacked. After a good shake, and a hanging up in the bathroom while I took a steamy, scented bath, the cape looked more than serviceable. I felt good. What a shame Will hadn't see me. What a shame things would never be the same with him.

‘You look nice, Mum,' said my daughter, as I got into the cab.

‘Oh, Freya, you look
amazing.
'

She really did. She was in the customary black gown. She had a mortar board on her lap. The sight of those two things alone made me want to burst into tears of pride. She'd done it. My girl. She was
graduating
.

‘Like it?' she asked, picking the mortar board up and waving it around. She'd told me a few months back you're not allowed to throw them in official graduation photos any more – health and safety, apparently; they Photoshop the mortar boards back in afterwards – but I'd told her she must throw it as often as she could and
I
would take photos, on my phone. I was going to take lots and lots of photos.

‘I
love
it. What are you wearing underneath your gown?' I asked.

She gave me a flash. ‘My black taffeta.'

‘Oh, beautiful!' Then she held up one leg for me to admire – it was adorned with sheer navy tights and very smart navy court shoes.

‘See!' I said, ‘You don't always have to wear rainbow leggings and those huge, hessian jumpers.'

‘They're not hessian, Mum, they're mohair. And you know I wear smart stuff to work.'

‘I know,' I smiled. I was definitely back in full ‘mother' mode – Eddy from AbFab was waving goodbye. ‘Whatever. You look amazing. And look at your hair!' It was in a beautiful fishtail plait that went over one shoulder.

‘Hannah did it for me.'

I'd heard a lot about Hannah. She was Freya's best friend.

‘She's very clever.'

‘Yeah. She knows her onions.'

I'd been looking forward to this time alone with my daughter, as once we got there, there wouldn't be much chance, and I'd have the whole Jeff and Gabby thing to have to deal with. Plus I hadn't seen much of her lately. Freya hadn't even had time to come and see my new house. Well, she'd looked round it with me before I'd bought it (I'd used a different estate agency to Jeff's, of course), but not since I'd moved in, although, actually, there wasn't much difference except now it had more stuff in it. Next week, I promised myself, I was going to get cracking with the renovations and the rest of the decorating – I'd get a man in or a woman, several if need be, whatever it took – and I'd get it done. As lovely as my time painting with Will had been, and it had been so lovely (
stop it! stop it now!
), I didn't need a neighbour to help me; I could organise things myself. Then I'd get Freya to come over and see it in its new glory. And then I'd have my housewarming party.

‘Ring road or the A3?' called out the driver.

‘Ring road,' I said. ‘Please.' Didn't he know? Perhaps he didn't have The Knowledge – perhaps he just had a Vague Comprehension…

‘I'm so proud of you, Freya.'

‘Don't start, Mum.'

‘I
want
to start – I
am
proud of you! You're so clever and so, so brilliant, far more brilliant than either me or your father – especially your father.' I winked. She smiled. ‘And if I want to tell you so, then I shall.'

‘Thanks, Mum. Hey, are you going to be okay, tonight?' she asked. ‘With Dad and Gabby being there.'

‘Yes, darling.' I took her hand and for once she let me, without squirming away. ‘I was a bit of a wreck there, for a while, but I'm really okay now. I think I'm strong enough to face both of them.' I squeezed her hand. ‘I'm sorry I was such an awful mother for such a long time.'

‘You weren't, Mum. Honestly,' said Freya, giving my hand a squeeze back. ‘You couldn't have been anything other than how you were. Your husband left you for your best friend!'

I winced. It still hurt. It would always hurt. It must have hurt Freya, too, what her father did.

‘It took me a while to get over it,' I agreed. ‘But it's all behind me now. I'll be perfectly civil to them both… but I can't promise I won't stick my tongue out behind their backs at least once.'

Freya laughed then added, in a soft voice, ‘All things considered, I think you've done really brilliantly, Mum.'

‘Left at these traffic lights, or do I hang a right?' asked the taxi driver. Oh for goodness' sake, we were trying to have a moment here!

‘Thank you, darling,' I said to Freya, and I removed my hand from hers as it was now beginning to squirm, just a little. ‘And it's a left,' I said to the cab driver.

‘So, what happened with the date?' Freya asked. ‘The middle-aged landscape gardener?'

‘Ha. He certainly doesn't see
himself
as middle-aged. I think that's part of the problem.'

‘How do you mean?

‘He turned out to be a kind of Peter Pan boy-about-town and too much of a drinker and a player, really. Not for me,' I added.