Chapter 24
Amanda is picking through the rails in an adorable little vintage shop.
Celia’s neighbourhood is hardly Fashion Central – there are no designer stores, no high street chains – but in fact this is better.
On this crisp Sunday morning the area is buzzing and she is enjoying herself thoroughly with a firm aim in mind.
To see Celia transfixed by that movie – as thrilled as a child – did something peculiar to Amanda’s heart. She is aware of having become blasé over the years, of movie premieres in grand venues seeming pretty ordinary to her now. And yesterday’s outing gave her something of a mental shake-up.
‘I’ve never tried an umami ,’ Celia had announced in Jack’s bar.
Amanda had had to stop herself from explaining that it’s not a thing, but a taste – deep and dark and intensely savoury.
A taste that everyone’s been aware of for, what, a decade or more?
Everyone except Celia, it seems. But then Jack had explained it all in a breezy, friendly way, and she had appeared to be genuinely fascinated.
Wow, really? I never knew there was this ‘other’ taste. Amazing!
Celia needs taking in hand, Amanda decides, eager to build on the success of their day out.
Not just the film and the drinks but Celia chatting away to Jack, actually losing her guardedness (alcohol helped, of course) for that short time in the cosy bar.
And then, out in the street, announcing that she was going to follow that man and the girl, which she did – right into that restaurant choc-full of hyped-up kids!
Amanda wouldn’t have dared to venture in there.
She doesn’t tend to eat in places where rowdy families go.
Laminated menus give her the serious ick (she shudders at anything wipe-clean) and she has no wish to be confronted by a cream-slathered dessert with a lit sparkler sticking out of it.
Yet Celia, clearly on a mission, had marched right in – and no, she did not need Amanda to come in with her! She’d wanted to do this alone.
Amanda had loitered on the pavement outside, hardly believing that this was the Celia she’d known since the first day of primary school.
The Celia who’d seemed so stiff and uncomfortable at Amanda’s wedding, to the point she’d wondered what had possessed her to invite her oldest friend.
With that upbringing of hers – boozy mum, dad waltzing off to Wales with some other woman without a backwards glance – she has only ever wanted to blend right in.
If only she’d believe it, she has huge potential to change her life, Amanda muses.
Amanda loves a project, something to throw herself into wholeheartedly, especially if it also makes her feel as if she’s doing some good and contributing to society instead of ‘just’ being a fluffy fashion person.
That’s how many people see her, she’s patently aware of that.
Her most recent TV slot fulfilled that need in her – especially when she advised brave firefighters and A&E doctors on how to dress properly.
And in the absence of any work offers to lure her back to London, she has decided that this will be her project now. Project Celia.
As Amanda continues to browse the rails, she toys with the phrase in her mind.
Her gaze lights upon a shimmery ivory maxi skirt, and a muscle tweaks in her lower back as she plucks a blue cashmere scarf from a shelf.
Thankfully she and Celia are sharing Celia’s double bed now (Amanda fears that no amount of Reformer Pilates will undo the damage of having slept on that terrible pull-out bed for three nights).
She plans to stay a few more days – another week, max.
That should be plenty of time to completely make over Celia’s wardrobe: to do a real Look for a Lifestyle on her.
Amanda also hopes to persuade her to get a decent – proper – haircut, having learned that Celia has been trundling round to some woman’s flat for a ‘dry trim’ virtually since the Domesday Book was written.
That sums it up really, she decides. Celia has Domesday hair. Well, not for much longer.
Now Amanda finds a gorgeous angora short-sleeved sweater, so soft to the touch she can barely feel it, and an adorable cream ruffled top.
She intends to present her friend with these pieces and show her how to style them.
They could even do a little photo shoot with her phone. A video, even. That’d be fun.
When Amanda’s career was at its peak she was often asked for style tips for magazine features.
‘My wardrobe staples’, that kind of thing, and where she liked to shop.
Back then, when she was more flush financially – and not propping up her lazy arse of a husband – a small clutch of designer labels were her go-to.
But she didn’t want to seem elitist or lacking in imagination so she’d fib and say, ‘I love picking up vintage pieces on my travels.’
In fact, Amanda’s travels amount mainly to holidays at luxury Ibizan resorts, and she’s never had the time nor inclination to rake through rails of other people’s musty old stuff.
Now, however, she is loving her explorations around the various small, thoughtfully curated vintage boutiques around Glasgow’s Southside.
So gentrified is this neighbourhood, abundant with independent coffee shops and bakeries, that she could almost imagine living back here.
However, she expects Ollie will be lining up lots of work opportunities for her from his South Kensington office and she needs to be in London for that.
There is also the small matter of her potato-printing twit of a husband. Their messages have been curt since she left in a hurry, announcing that she needed to take some time out. ‘Fine,’ Jasper had said. ‘My work’s pretty all-consuming right now.’
‘Work!’ Amanda tried – and failed – not to laugh scathingly at that.
At some point she’ll have to figure out whether there is anything worth saving, or if she’ll have to admit to having made a colossal mistake.
However, she doesn’t want to dwell on that now, and she certainly doesn’t plan to tell Celia any of this.
Her friend has enough on her plate – but it’s not even that, not really.
Amanda is ashamed of what’s become of her home, her career, her life.
She can’t stop Celia travelling down to see her – Amanda doesn’t own the rail network, nor London – but the thought of her witnessing what’s really going on, with her paint-splattering-Laughing-Cow-stabbing husband is more than she can bear.
Project Celia, she hopes, will distract her from all of that for a little bit longer.
At the shop counter she hands several pieces to the young red-haired assistant. ‘I think I know your face,’ the girl says. ‘Yes, I’ve definitely seen you somewhere before.’
‘Just one of those faces, I guess.’ Amanda smiles.
She leaves the shop, browses in a couple more and buys a box of Syrian pastries, gooey with honey and terribly naughty, but she can’t resist. Should she buy a little gift for Logan too?
Something to persuade him that she’s a nice person, a good person – to at least try to bond with him a little before she leaves?
Used to making an impression, it bothers her that he has barely acknowledged her presence these past two weeks.
As if she were no more significant than a draught gusting in from an open window.
She wanders into a novelty gift shop, wondering if he’d find a squashy fake poo-stress reliever funny or useful (she’s certainly sensed stress waves emitting through his closed bedroom door).
What about a funny wig? An edible jigsaw?
A thing where you press your hand or face or presumably any other bodily part into a Perspex tray of nails to make an impression?
‘Oh, they’re great,’ remarks the neatly stubbled man, pausing from arranging a selection of resin jewellery. ‘Everyone loves those.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ she fibs, deciding that Logan is the kind of person who doesn’t care about making an impression on anything, nor indeed anyone.
Heading back to Celia’s now, laden with bags of vintage clothes and the box of pastries, she stops to check her phone. It’s not only Jasper she’s cross with right now, but Ollie too. Isn’t he supposed to be managing her career? What exactly is he doing to earn his 10 per cent?
She sets down her bags on the pavement. I could call him, she decides. She doesn’t care that it’s a Sunday because he is always available to her at any time of day or night.
Amanda makes the call. As it rings she pulls her shoulders back and sweeps a hand through her long blonde hair, readying herself.
‘Amanda?’ He sounds taken aback.
‘Ollie, Hi. Hope you don’t mind me calling…’ Hope I’ve interrupted your steaming roast beef lunch, is what she means.
‘No, it’s fine! It’s great. How are you?’
‘Great,’ she says. ‘I’m up in Scotland, actually. Been here a while.’
‘Really! I assumed you must be away…’ As if he has been keenly aware of the lack of communication between them. ‘Having a little Highland break?’
‘No, I’m in Glasgow,’ she says tersely, ‘looking after a very dear old friend.’
‘Oh. Oh gosh. I hope things aren’t too stressful…’
‘It’s been… pretty bad,’ she murmurs.
A pause settles. ‘Oh, darling. That must be hard.’
‘ So hard.’
Ollie clears his throat. ‘Anything I can do?’
You could get me some work, you goon. ‘There’s nothing anyone can do for her, unfortunately,’ she says, almost relishing her new persona of deathbed companion.
‘That’s terrible! Can I ask… how old she is?’
‘Forty-three.’ Same as me, Ollie. That difficult in-between age.
‘That’s awfully sad. Well, I do hope she pulls through.’
‘That’s all we can do. Hope.’ So immersed is Amanda in her role that she’s wondering what Celia’s last wishes might be, and if she’d prefer burial or cremation. Would Logan know? Then, to fill the pause, as Ollie has clearly run out of things to say to her, ‘So, has anything come in for me?’
‘What? Oh, uh… couple of packages, I think. I’ll ask Millie to send them on…’ She doesn’t mean gifts, for fuck’s sake. Not the stream of outfits and beauty freebies that still come her way via Ollie’s office.
‘I mean work things, Ollie. Jobs. Anything coming up?’
‘Um, not at the moment but—’ She hears a sipping sound.
He is drinking! Quaffing a fine pinot noir, probably, while her career swills down the drain!
‘But you’ll be the first to know when there is something,’ he adds in a brisker tone.
‘Anyway, darling, I’ll let you go. I’m sure you have a lot to get on with.
It’s so great you can be there at this difficult time… ’
‘That’s what friends are for,’ she says tightly.
‘Of course.’
‘So you will let me know if any jobs—’ she starts. But Ollie has ended the call.