“Well, he was only really phoning to tell me you’d left your umbrella behind,” says Suze. “Apparently one of the waiters came rushing out with it. But of course I asked him how the date had gone. .”
“And. . and what did he say?”
“Well,” says Suze, and gives a little shrug. “He said you’d had a really nice time — but you’d pretty much made it clear you didn’t want to see him again.”
“Oh.”
I sink down onto the floor, feeling rather weak. So that’s it. Tarquin did see me leafing through his checkbook. I’ve ruined my chances with him completely.
But he didn’t tell Suze what I’d done. He protected me. Pretended it was my decision not to carry things on. He was a gentleman.
In fact — he was a gentleman all evening, wasn’t he? He was kind to me, and charming, and polite. And all I did, all throughout the date, was tell him lies.
Suddenly I want to cry.
“I just think it’s such a shame,” says Suze. “I mean, I know it’s up to you and everything — but he’s such a sweet guy. And he’s had a crush on you for ages! You two would go perfectly together.” She gives me a wheedling look. “Isn’t there any chance you might go out with him again?”
“I. . I honestly don’t think so,” I say in a scratchy voice. “Suze. . I’m a bit tired. I think I’ll go to bed.”
And without meeting her eye, I get up and slowly walk down the corridor to my room.
BANK OF LONDON
London House, Mill Street, EC3R 4DW
Ms. Rebecca Boomwood
Flat 24 Burney Rd.London SW6 8FD
23 March 2000
Dear Ms. Boomwood: Thank you very much for your application for a Bank of London Easifone Loan.Unfortunately, “buying clothes and makeup” was not deemed a suitable purpose for such a substantial unsecured loan, and your application has been turned down by our credit team.
Thank you very much for considering Bank of London.Yours sincerely,Margaret Hopkins Loans Adviser
ENDWICH BANK
FULHAM BRANCH 3 Fulham Road
London SW6 9JH
Ms. Rebecca BloomwoodFlat 24 Burney Rd.London SW6 8FD
23 March 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood: I am writing to confirm our meeting at 9:30 a.m. on Monday 26 March, here at our Fulham office. Please ask for me at reception.I look forward to seeing you then. Yours sincerely, Derek Smeath Manager
Fifteen
I HAVE NEVER IN my life felt as terrible as I do when I wake up the next morning. Never.
The first thing I feel is pain. Exploding sparks of pain as I try to move my head; as I try to open my eyes; as I try to work out a few basics like: Who am I? What day is it? Where should I be right now?
For a while I lie quite still, panting with the exertion of just being alive. In fact, my face is growing scarlet and I’m almost starting to hyperventilate, so I force myself to slow down and breathe regularly. In. . out, in. . out. And then surely everything will come back to me and I will feel better. In. . out, in. . out.
OK. . Rebecca. That’s right. I’m Rebecca Bloomwood, aren’t I? In. . out, in. . out.
What else? Dinner. I had dinner somewhere last night. In. . out, in. . out.
Pizza. I had pizza. And who was I with, again? In. . out, in. .
Tarquin.
Out.
Oh God. Tarquin.
Leafing through checkbook. Everything ruined. All my own fault.
A familiar wave of despair floods over me and I close my eyes, trying to calm my throbbing head. At the same time, I remember that last night, when I went back to my room, I found the half bottle of malt whisky which Scottish Prudential once gave me, still sitting on my dressing table. I opened it up — even though I don’t like whisky — and drank. . well, certainly a few cupfuls. Which might possibly explain why I’m feeling so ill now.
Slowly I struggle to a sitting position and listen for sounds of Suze, but I can’t hear anything. The flat’s empty. It’s just me.
Me and my thoughts.
Which, to be honest, I can’t endure. My head’s pounding and I feel pale and shaky — but I’ve got to get moving; distract myself. I’ll go out, have a cup of coffee somewhere quiet and try to get myself together.
I manage to get out of bed, stagger to my chest of drawers, and stare at myself in the mirror. I don’t like what I see. My skin’s green, my mouth is dry, and my hair’s sticking to my skin in clumps. But worst of all is the expression in my eyes: a blank, miserable self-loathing. Last night I was given a chance — a fantastic opportunity on a silver platter. I threw it in the bin — and hurt a really sweet, decent chap, to boot. God, I’m a disaster. I don’t deserve to live.
I head to King’s Road, to lose myself in the anonymous bustle. The air’s crisp and fresh, and as I stride along it’s almost possible to forget about last night. Almost, but not quite.
I go into Aroma, order a large cappuccino, and try to drink it normally. As if everything’s fine and I’m just another girl out on a Sunday for some shopping. But I can’t do it. I can’t escape my thoughts. They’re churning round in my head, like a record that won’t stop, over and over and over.
If only I hadn’t picked up his checkbook. If only I hadn’t been so stupid. It was all going so well. He really liked me. We were holding hands. He was planning to ask me out again. If only I could go back; if only I could play the evening again. .
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about what could have been. It’s too unbearable. If I’d played it right, I’d probably be sitting here drinking coffee with Tarquin, wouldn’t I? I’d probably be well on my way to becoming the fifteenth richest woman in the country.