Chapter Three
Then of course there’s the contemporary stuff, like this book by a new writer that’s been number one on the New York Times bestseller list for the last six weeks that I’ve been dying to read.
‘You’re going to spend the holidays in England. In the freezing cold. With some Jane Austen book club?’ asks Stella, interrupting my thought process.
‘It’s not a book club, it’s a specialist tour. And it’s for literature lovers,’ I correct primly, quoting the flyer.
Scooping up a blob of hummus on the end of a baby carrot, Stella looks at me with undisguised despair.
She’s come over with the excuse of borrowing my flat-irons, which I’ve never used and are still in their box, to take to Mexico.
But now, nearly a whole tub of hummus later, I realise it’s all been a ruse – she’s here to try to get me to change my mind.
And she’ll stop at nothing.
‘You know what that means, don’t you?’ she continues, munching loudly, her chin resting on her black Lycra-clad knees.
Reluctantly turning away from a pile of paperbacks on my bedside table, I make a start on my sock drawer. ‘No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me,’ I say stiffly, bundling socks into little balls.
‘Kooks,’ she says matter-of-factly, throwing me a look.
I pause mid-sock-ball. ‘What do you mean, kooks?’
‘You know. Weirdos. Misfits. Old people.’
Aghast, I stare at Stella. ‘I can’t believe you just said that.’
Oh, OK, so I’m not really shocked, but being her boss I have to at least appear to take the moral high ground here.
‘Well, think about it. What kind of people want to spend the vacations with a bunch of strangers, talking about books?’
‘I do,’ I gasp, offended.
Stella throws me a look of pity.
‘I happen to like books. I’m the manager of a bookstore, remember? Does that make me a kook?’ I ask haughtily.
Stella scrapes another baby carrot round the sides of the plastic tub to get the last of the hummus. ‘No. You were a kook anyway.’ She smiles, licking off the excess.
Throwing a velvet cushion at her, I turn back to my bookshelves to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything.
‘Forgive me if I’m being stupid, but are you actually going to take any clothes on this trip?’ asks Stella after a moment.
‘Of course,’ I reply indignantly. ‘I just haven’t gotten round to that bit yet.’
Actually, to tell the truth, I haven’t really given the clothes bit much thought. After all, I’m only away for a week.
‘And it’s not as if I’m going to need that much,’ I point out in my defence.
‘But you’re going to need some.’
I turn round to see Stella eyeing my luggage with suspicion.
‘I don’t see any in here yet, and it’s already quite full,’ she continues doubtfully, before suddenly flashing me a smile, ‘Don’t tell me! You’re planning a trip to Topshop the moment you arrive.’
‘What’s Topshop?’
Stella looks at me in disbelief. ‘What’s Topshop!’ she cries. ‘Topshop is my holy place.’
I look at her blankly.
‘Never mind, you wouldn’t understand,’ she sighs, shaking her head. ‘Clothes are obviously not a priority.’ She looks pointedly back at my luggage.
‘OK, OK, point taken,’ I say huffily. ‘Maybe I need to bring a bigger bag.’ Reaching under my bed, I tug out my old suitcase on wheels and flip it open. ‘See. Plenty of room.’ Hastily I decant my books into it and turn to my closet.
I tug out a couple of sweaters. One is pink mohair with glittery bits round the cuffs and is sort of my fun sweater – you know, for having a snowball fight or something.
Not that I’ve had a snowball fight since I was about ten, but it was featured in a magazine in one of those photoshoots where the models are rosy-cheeked and twinkly-eyed, and wearing mini-skirts and stripy tights.
A look I’ve never managed to achieve, being a total fashion flunky.
Every season I think about it – for about five minutes – and then put on my old jeans I’ve had for years.
My other sweater’s a black cashmere turtle neck.
I bought it in some fancy designer boutique one January as part of my resolution to be more stylish after Stella, with typical subtlety, had pointed out that ‘Books might be your passion, but you can’t fuck a paperback.
’ Even in the sale it set me back a fortune.
I thought it would make me look smart and elegant, but to tell the truth I feel really boring in it. Like I’m an accountant or something.
I hold up both sweaters for Stella’s opinion. ‘Pink or black?’
She peers at them with a disapproving fashionista’s eye. ‘Definitely the pink,’ she says after a moment.
‘But the other one’s cashmere,’ I point out.
‘So?’ Stella shrugs.
Being a couple of years younger than me, Stella has not yet reached the age when you read Vogue at the hairdresser’s and crave to be one of those celebrities who, when interviewed about what essentials they buy for their winter wardrobe, reply casually, ‘Cashmere in bulk.’ She’s still happy with an acrylic mix.
‘It’s boring.’ She yawns dismissively.
I stuff both in my suitcase. She’s right – the pink is much nicer – but I have to bring the black with me to justify spending that much. Even if it just passes back and forth across the Atlantic without even leaving my suitcase I’ll feel better. And I might wear it.
No, you won’t, Emily. You’ve had it for three years and you’ve never worn it. It makes you look like Auntie Jean.
Oh, shut up.
Turning back to my closet, I try deciding what else to take. God, I hate packing. I’m crap at it. I have no idea what to take.
Giving up with any pretence of choosing, I chuck in lots of basic stuff – T-shirts, jeans, sweatshirts – then try to zip it up.
But the zipper won’t budge. Seeing my plight, Stella untangles her legs from beneath her and joins me.
Together we bump up and down on the lid, wiggling our butts and grunting a lot. Finally I zip it up. Just.
‘Right, that’s it. All done.’ I stand back and look at it with satisfaction. ‘What about you? Have you packed already?’
‘Yep. I did a major splurge at this really hip new store in Greenwich Village,’ she enthuses, idly looking through all the bottles of nail polish on my dresser.
‘And then I found these amazing beach cover-ups. I’m taking a different one for every day that I’m going to just throw on over my bikini and flip-flops.
’ Unscrewing a lid, she paints a thumbnail, holds it to the light, then wrinkles up her nose in distaste and screws the lid back on.
‘I’ve got my whole look planned. It’s a sort of fusion between Miami Beach and Ibiza. ’
‘But you’re going to Mexico,’ I point out, puzzled.
‘Honestly, Em, it’s a fashion term,’ she gasps, shaking her head in despair. ‘Oh, and of course I’ve packed condoms,’ she adds nonchalantly, in the way people always do when they’re dying for you to ask them about it. Usually I’d ignore it, but this time I am dying to know.
‘Condoms?’ I repeat, slightly shocked. ‘But what about Freddy?’
‘What about him?’ she says innocently, picking up a copy of The Time Traveller’s Wife from my dresser and leafing through it. Trust me, if ever there was suspicious behaviour, this is it.
‘I thought something might be happening between you two.’
‘Why, because we’re married?’ she teases. ‘You know that was purely so he could get his papers. He’s adorable and I love him to bits, but he’s so not the right guy for me,’ she says decisively. ‘And I’m so not the right girl for him.’
‘Why not?’ I persist.
‘We’re complete opposites,’ she says simply.
‘I’m a vegetarian, he eats salami for breakfast. I’m untidy, he’s a neat freak.
I like to stay up late, he’s in bed by nine thirty every night as he has to be at the bakery for four a.m. We’d drive each other crazy if we were really a couple.
’ She fidgets with her wooden bangles, rolling them up and down her forearm in agitation.
‘Look, Freddy’s the sweetest person in the whole world, and he’ll make someone a wonderful boyfriend, but not me. ’
Grabbing my big, fluffy, mohair scarf, I turn to face her. ‘Well, I think you’d make a great couple,’ I persist.
‘Oh, Em . . .’ Stella shakes her head pityingly. ‘Get real.’
‘I am real,’ I reply indignantly.
‘No, you’re not, you’re a romantic,’ she dismisses.
That’s the second time Stella’s called me a romantic this week, and it’s beginning to grate.
‘I’m also a realist,’ I point out righteously.
Stella throws me a look that says purlease.
‘I am,’ I repeat feebly.
‘And this from the girl who wants to date Mr Darcy.’
Feeling my cheeks burning, I stalk over to my hand luggage to start packing that.
‘Who, might I add, you told me was fabulously wealthy,’ adds Stella, picking up my brand-new copy of Pride and Prejudice, which I bought to take with me on this trip.
My old one has been read so many times it’s falling apart.
‘I mean, c’mon. Let’s be honest. That Elizabeth Bennet was only interested in Mr Darcy because he was an aristocrat and had that big fuck-off estate wherever it was . . .’
‘Pemberley in Derbyshire,’ I prompt. Earlier I gave Stella a little potted synopsis of the novel, though I don’t remember it sounding like this.
‘. . . trust me, she would never have even looked at him if he’d lived in a tiny apartment above a bakery.’ Sighing, she puts down my book and absently picks up my itinerary. ‘Ooh, look, you’re going to a New Year’s Eve ball,’ she says, perking up. ‘Groovy.’
‘I know, great, huh?’ I smile, relieved to be changing the subject. Padding into my tiny bathroom, I open my cabinet and begin haphazardly chucking stuff into a sponge bag.
‘So what are you going to wear?’
‘Wear?’ I pause mid-chuck, feeling my frisson of excitement disintegrating at the thought of being hauled in front of the fashion police.
‘Please tell me you have a dress,’ hollers Stella sternly.
I shut the door of the bathroom cabinet and look at my reflection in the mirror: shit.