Chapter Thirty-Five #2
Topshop.
The black-and-white sign grabs my attention and stops me dead in my tracks.
I look at it, slowly registering. Oh, wow, this is it.
This is the famous Topshop that Cat was going on about?
Stella’s own personal Mecca? A place from which, according to both Cat and Stella, I will emerge a transformed person?
Well, c’mon, I gotta see this.
Wheeling my suitcase behind me, I step on to the escalator. As I ride downwards the thumping music gets louder, my adrenalin starts mounting, and the excitement starts building.
Reaching the basement, I’m greeted by a vista of clothes racks. On and on they go into a sort of fashion infinity. My nerve falters. I can’t do this alone. I need help.
I need Stella.
Digging out my phone, I quickly dial. Even though it’s only been a couple of days, it feels like ages since we last spoke. The phone connects and I listen to it ringing. She was due back from Mexico yesterday, so she should pick up . . .
‘Hello?’
‘Stella, it’s me, Emily.’
‘Em! Hey, when are you back? I got a phone call from Mr McKenzie saying not to come into work today. What’s going on? Is everything OK?’
‘Yeah, everything’s cool,’ I say, quickly reassuring her. I’ll tell her all about it when I get back. Right now there are more important things to tell her. Like I said, Topshop is Stella’s Mecca.
‘So did you hear from Spike?’
‘Sort of,’ I say, and then quickly change the subject. ‘What about you? Have you spoken to Freddy?’
‘Sort of,’ she replies, equally vaguely. ‘But I’ll fill you in when you get back. Hey, what’s all that music I can hear? Where are you? In a nightclub?’
I laugh inwardly at the very thought. Me? In a nightclub? You’d have more chance of seeing the Pope in a nightclub.
I don’t begin to explain that actually it’s only the middle of the afternoon here, and instead cut straight to the chase and say those little magic words: ‘I’m. At. Topshop.’
There’s a loud screech on the end of the line and I have to hold the phone away from my ear.
‘Em, that is so exciting. I am so fucking jealous!’ she’s now gasping. ‘Tell me, what’s it like? What’s it like?’
She’s almost hyperventilating.
‘Well . . . um . . . it’s big . . . and full of clothes .
. .’ I begin uselessly. Overwhelmed by the sheer volume of stuff, I cautiously venture further into the store, my free hand sort of trailing in wonder across racks.
‘. . . and they have these things that look like . . .’ I hesitate as I finger a woollen fabric that looks like a coat but is in fact ‘a cape,’ I finish.
‘A cape?’ shrieks Stella. ‘Oh, my God, they have those capes? I adore those capes. I’ve been coveting them online for weeks now –’ she breaks off to draw breath – ‘I would kill for a cape.’
‘Well, actually, that’s one of the reasons I called. I want to buy you a gift to say thanks for my dress—’
After the word ‘gift’ the rest of my sentence is drowned out by another scream.
‘A gift? For me? From Topshop?’ she says the words with a breathless awe.
‘Oh, Em, I don’t know what to say . . .’
‘Hey, look, you don’t have to say anything. I know you were my secret Santa.’
There’s a pause and then, ‘Your what?’
‘I know it was you who sent me that beautiful dress for the ball,’ I continue, absently looking through the rack of capes.
‘But I didn’t send you a dress,’ protests Stella, sounding puzzled.
Doubt flickers, but I brush it aside. ‘Oh, c’mon, Stella, I know it’s supposed to be secret, but you can admit it.’
‘Look, I really wish I had, but seriously, Em, it wasn’t me. In fact, I feel really bad as I didn’t get you anything and you got me that lovely scented candle.’
I stop flicking through the capes. I’ve had enough years of Stella’s fake phone-in-sick-to-work calls when she’s got a hangover to know when she’s not telling the truth. But this time she is.
‘But I left you a message thanking you.’
‘Oh, is that what that message was about?’ she says breezily. ‘I remember you mentioning something about a dress, but I could hardly hear what you were saying, so I just deleted it.’
My mind is rapidly going through my list of possible secret Santas. So far I’ve drawn a blank.
‘But if it wasn’t you, who was it?’ I demand. ‘I mean, who else is going to send me an amazing dress?’
‘I dunno,’ replies Stella impatiently, and I can imagine her now, sitting on her bed, phone wedged underneath her ear, desperately wanting to get back to her cape conversation. ‘Your fairy godmother?’
I’m about to do a ha-ha-very-funny-type laugh when I remember something Miss Steane said to me at the ball: ‘What a pretty dress. The colour suits you. It brings out the colour of your eyes.’
At the time I didn’t think much about the attention Miss Steane was paying me, but now, on reflection, she had shown a lot of interest in my dress. And then there was that funny way she looked at me . . .
No, this is ridiculous. Why on earth would my tour guide be going around buying me a ball gown, for Godsakes? I mean, I’m not Cinderella. Why would she want me to go to the ball? I flash back to our conversation.
‘A friend bought it for me as a Christmas present.’
‘How very fortunate. I’m sure you will be a huge hit with the gentlemen tonight.’
‘Oh, I’m not looking to meet anybody.’
‘Nonsense. To quote Jane Austen: “To you I shall say, as I have often said before, ‘Do not be in a hurry, the right man will come at last.’”’
At the time I felt as if she was referring to Mr Darcy, but I suppose she could have been referring to Spike . . .
Shit. I’ve done it again. Thinking about Spike when I promised myself I wouldn’t.
Right, that’s it. No more of this dress nonsense.
I’ll have to get to the bottom of that mystery later.
Firmly I turn my attention back to Stella, who’s still hanging on the line with bated breath.
‘OK, so what size are you in a cape?’ I ask her.
Theres a squeak, and then she launches into, ‘Well, actually, I’m a size zero, but that’s in the US. In the UK they have an entirely different sizing chart . . .’
I end up buying Stella the cape and three pairs of Union Jack underwear.
I also buy myself a few things. But I don’t even try trusting my own judgement.
Even without Stella’s reminder that I am a fashion flunky, I know better.
Instead, I get myself one of the store’s personal shoppers.
A personal shopper! I didn’t even know there was such a thing!
And now look at me! I think, staring happily at my reflection as I ride back up the escalator.
I have a neck. A waist too. And all these wonderful clothes that mix and match.
I’m wearing one of the outfits my personal shopper picked out for me, a pair of skinny jeans (yes, me, in skinny jeans!), a pewter-coloured jumper (see, I’m practically British now.
I’m not going to use the word ‘sweater’ ever again), a pair of cute black ankle boots with these little cuffs that sort of turn over and the most adorable bright canary-yellow pea-jacket.
I would never in a million years have chosen it, but it looks really cool and I’ve already had a few admiring glances.
I think about Stella and smile to myself as I imagine her reaction.
She is going to freak out. She’s going to think I’ve had a style transplant, not a vacation.
I emerge into Oxford Street a new – albeit poorer – woman. OK, so now what? I hesitate. I could grab something to eat, except I ate all those cucumber sandwiches and I’m not really hungry. Or maybe I could go to an art gallery, but then, like I said, I’m not really in the mood to look at paintings.
Or you could go see Spike.
My stomach doubles over and I feel a sort of tugging in my chest. I’ve been trying not to think about him all day, but the voice pops into my head loud and clear.
I ignore it. Alternatively there’s always having a mooch around some bookstores.
Maybe Charing Cross is near here somewhere and I’ve always wanted to go, ever since I read the novel, 84 Charing Cross Road.
He works in London. The offices of the Daily Times can’t be far. You could jump in a cab.
Stop it. I am not going to see Spike. There’s no point. Like I said, I’m just going to forget about him.
Except my memory has other ideas. Pressing play on the tape recorder in my head, I hear Miss Steane’s voice: ‘Prejudice can be a terrible thing, Emily. As can pride. You know, Jane Austen always made her heroines feisty. They stuck by their principles, went after what they wanted, were not afraid to admit when they were wrong. Not doing anything can be worse than doing the wrong thing.’
Up ahead I can see a black cab heading towards me, its yellow light on. I watch as it gets closer and closer. Any minute now and it’s going to whizz right past me.
I stick out my arm. At the very last moment the cab swerves deftly to the kerb and, quickly tugging open the door, I scramble inside.
‘Where to, love?’
The driver looks at me in his rear-view mirror.
My heart is thumping. I feel almost sick with nerves.
‘The Daily Times, please.’