Chapter 23
I used to love working in central London in the days when Ed and I had our flat in Balham, not far from where his parents lived.
When I got ready each morning, I relished putting on my armour, silky blouses and red lipstick, feeling like Melanie Griffith in Working Girl.
We no longer worked for the same company by then – I’d moved to a head office role for another department store – but we would walk to catch the Tube together, then go our separate ways at the station.
I’d spend every lunch hour gazing in the windows of its upscale boutiques, selling everything from vintage art and hand-crafted furniture to luxury tableware and bespoke rugs.
I’d play a mental version of ‘shop’ – like I had as a child when I’d set up a pretend store and make Jeff buy various tins from the food cupboard.
Only now, I’d study the storefronts and curate entire collections of accessories and design pieces, romantically imagining what I’d sell in one of these units if it were ever up to me.
Unfortunately, I won’t have time for browsing today. I’ve been summoned to London for a meeting at Barisian Group headquarters along with several other key members of staff. But I managed to get an early train so that I can meet Ed’s mum Terri beforehand.
We’ve arranged to meet in a little café near Blackfriars, not far from the Barisian building, and she’s already there when I arrive.
She stands up and waves at me from across the room, with that huge smile on her face that looks so like her son’s that it occasionally brings a lump to my throat.
When she approaches and wraps me into a hug, it strikes me that it’s no wonder Frankie loved snuggling up with her when she was little.
She has the kind of big, soft arms that make any embrace feel like being wrapped in a duvet.
‘Oh, it’s so good to see you, darling,’ she says.
‘The feeling’s mutual, Terri,’ I reply, with a big smile. ‘How are you? You look fab.’
‘Well, I’m enjoying my retirement, I must say. I thought I’d be bored stiff but it’s amazing what you can fill your time with.’
The next hour passes in a happy blur of coffee and catching up. She tells me about how Ed’s brother John has a new girlfriend, and that Ed’s dad has signed up for painting classes.
‘Are you serious?’ I say, taken aback at the last one. Gilbert worked for London Underground for forty-two years and never struck me as especially artistic.
‘I’m afraid so,’ she says, chuckling at my reaction. ‘He loves it but I’ve told him if he expects me to put his pictures up in the living room he’s got another think coming. So, have you heard from Frankie recently?’
‘Yes, she’s having the time of her life,’ I tell her.
‘I could tell. She called me when she got to Paris,’ she smiles. ‘I’ve never heard her so excited.’
‘She certainly seems to be enjoying it so far. Not sure what the stress is doing to my blood pressure, of course . . .’
She gives me a sympathetic look. ‘It must be hard for you. You won’t be the first mum to be worried sick about their daughter going off travelling. Plus, the two of you have been through a lot together.’
I lower my eyes briefly. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Well, we all have.’
I already know that seeing Terri will be the highlight of my day and, though I walk away feeling lighter on my feet, it doesn’t last.
The moment I step inside Barisian’s glass-fronted building and see the one lonely soul behind a desk, my visit takes on an automatically ominous nature.
The reception is huge and cavernous, more suited to the entrance of NASA than a retail company.
I’m the first of the Fable & Punk staff to arrive so perch on a fashionably uncomfortable sofa until the others get here, and we’re directed up to the fifth floor.
‘Oh well, let’s get this over and done with,’ sighs Aurelie, under her breath.
‘Angus seems to think we have nothing whatsoever to worry about,’ Oliver says.
We both look at him, entirely unconvinced.
Once upstairs, one accountant after another takes turns to talk about profitability, momentum and synergies.
We are then introduced to a guy whose job title is ‘Chief Transformation Officer’, though sadly this has nothing to do with makeovers.
Instead, he tells us that some market research into Fable & Punk is underway and the results will provide the backbone for future changes.
I am the last of our contingent to be released from the building, by which time I’ve been immobile and on my backside in an over-warm room for hours.
The balls of my feet are throbbing, my joints feel stiff from lack of movement and, though a quick sniff confirms that my armpits aren’t too obnoxious, they are definitely on the turn.
I’d intended to work on the train home, but as I head down the carriage, it’s immediately clear that this will be a challenge. I’m not saying I expected the Orient Express, but nothing ever prepares me for the scrum of the 19.07 from King’s Cross.
On the first off-peak journey on any given weekday evening, I know from bitter experience that a seat will be hard to come by.
Everyone is on this. Women in business attire.
Men in jeans. Hen parties, day-trippers and, in one memorable case earlier this year, someone en route to a Star Wars convention dressed as Chewbacca.
I find a coveted table seat and momentarily feel like I’m winning at life.
But I’m joined by a man who devours his Upper Crust baguette like a caveman and two young women singing along to a tinny medley of Rihanna songs, played from an iPhone.
About thirty minutes into the journey, I hear a lady across the aisle mention she’s from Switzerland, a place I once read has the best trains in the world.
I feel like leaning across and apologising on behalf of my entire country.
Eventually, I give up on the laptop and take out the gin in a tin I bought in Marks & Spencer before I boarded. I’ve been holding out for as long as possible, but now fully understand why the main protagonist on The Girl on the Train was an alcoholic.
When I finally get home, the first thing I do on entering the house is to unstrap my bra.
I have no idea when underwires got so uncomfortable.
Is this a midlife thing? I used to happily spend the day with my breasts trussed up in a Wonderbra, but now look forward to the moment I get to lie on the sofa and unhook it like I used to anticipate Christmas.
I still feel sluggish the following day, when I’m confined to my home office for a series of Zooms, before tackling my overflowing inbox and all the action points that I brought back from Barisian HQ.
I’m trying to decipher one I wrote down – something about unlocking a next-level synergy – when Gavin texts me to confirm our date, an ‘arms day’ at Pure Fitness.
He’s very sweet. And it will do me good to get out.
But that still doesn’t stop me glancing out of my bedroom window onto the tennis club.
I haven’t set foot in it since the fun tournament eleven days ago.
I don’t know how I am suddenly unable to bear leaving it this long without picking up a racquet.
It’s not a lot of time, really. So why do I feel like a junkie, desperate for my next fix?
I feel almost resentful, like I don’t know what to do with myself.
And, worse, there’s no chance of me setting foot in the club until the weekend, thanks to two men’s league fixtures tonight.
At 5.30pm, too bleary-eyed to look at another email, I quickly check Find My iPhone to reassure myself that Frankie is still in Italy, and I’m about to go to the fridge to see if I’ve got enough for a stir fry, when my doorbell rings. I open it to find Lisa on my step, in a state of high anxiety.
‘We’re desperate,’ she says, urgently.
‘What?’
‘The Women’s B team. We were on our way to play our second away match when Mandy had to pull out. She’s been called to her mum’s nursing home.’
‘Oh dear. Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘Apparently it happens a lot and Mandy’s sure it’ll be fine, but she can’t not go. So we’re a player short.’
I take this information in silently.
‘I know what you said, so I’m not going to beg. Look, it’s up to you. I do mean that,’ she says, though I can’t help noticing she’s sweating now. ‘But you probably already know what I’m going to ask here . . .’
I start to chew my lip.
‘Also, you should know that we all completely understand if you feel you can’t do this. This is not your problem! By the same token . . . everyone would love it if you were there. This team feels like it’s missing something without you. You’re one of the gang.’
‘Lisa, honestly, I—’
‘Okay, scrap what I just said,’ she interrupts.
‘Which bit?’
‘The bit about not begging. Please, Jules. Your team needs you.’