“No, I’m fine, thanks! I’ll just wait here at home. At my home.” I put a proprietorial hand on the doorknob. “See you soon!”
I watch the car disappear, then wheel round to Fabia. “I thought you weren’t in! OK, we need to get going. I’ve got the stuff for you. Here’s the bag, and the top….” I hand her the carriers.
“Great.” Her eyes focus on them greedily. “Did you get the shoes?”
“Of course!” I say. “My friend Danny got a model to bring them over from Paris. Danny Kovitz, the designer?”
As I produce the box, I feel a dart of triumph. No one else in the world can get hold of these. I am so connected. I wait for Fabia to gasp or say, “You’re incredible!” Instead she opens the shoe box, peers at them for a few moments, then wrinkles her brow.
“These are the wrong color.” She puts the lid back on and pushes them toward me. “I wanted green.”
Is she color-blind? They’re the most gorgeous shade of pale sage green, plus they have Green printed in big letters on the box.
“Fabia, these are green.”
“I wanted more of a…” She waves an arm. “Bluey-green.”
I’m trying really hard to keep my patience. “Do you mean…turquoise?”
“Yeah!” Her face brightens. “Turquoise. That’s what I meant. These ones are too pale.”
I do not believe it. These shoes have traveled all the way from Paris via a fashion model and a world-famous designer and she doesn’t want them?
Well, I’ll have them.
“Fine,” I say, and take the box back. “I’ll get you the turquoise pair. But I really need to get into the house….”
“I don’t know.” Fabia leans against the door frame and examines a drawn thread on her sleeve. “It’s not that convenient, to be honest.”
Not convenient? It has to be convenient!
“But we agreed on today, remember? The people from Vogue are already here!”
“Couldn’t you put them off?”
“You don’t put Vogue off!” My voice rises in agitation. “They’re Vogue!”
She gives one of her careless shrugs, and all of a sudden I’m livid. She knew I was coming. It was all planned. She can’t do this to me!
“Fabia.” I lean close, breathing hard. “You are not wrecking my only chance to be in Vogue. I got you the top. I got you the bag. I got you the shoes! You have to let me into this house, or…or…”
“Or what?” says Fabia.
“Or…I’ll phone up Barneys and get you blacklisted!” I hiss in sudden inspiration. “That won’t be much fun if you’re living in New York, will it?”
Fabia turns pale. Ha. Gotcha.
“Well, where am I supposed to go?” she says sulkily, taking her arm off the door frame.
“I don’t know! Go and have a hot-stone massage or something! Just get out!” I shove my suitcase into the house and push past her into the hall.
Right. I have to be quick. I snap open my case, take out a silver-framed picture of me and Luke at our wedding and put it prominently on the hall table. There. It looks like my house already!
“Where is your husband, anyway?” says Fabia, watching me with folded arms. “Shouldn’t he be doing this too? You look like some kind of single mother.”
Her words hit me unawares. For a few seconds I don’t trust myself to answer.
“Luke’s…abroad,” I say at last. “But I’m meeting him later on. At six o’clock. At the viewing platform at the Oxo Tower. He’ll be there.” I take a deep breath. “I know he will.”
There’s a hotness in my eyes and I blink fiercely. I’m not going to disintegrate.
“Are you all right?” Fabia stares at me.
“It’s just…quite an important day for me.” I get out a tissue and dab my eyes. “Could I have a glass of water?”
“Jesus.” I can hear Fabia muttering as she heads toward the kitchen. “It’s only bloody Vogue.”
OK. I’m getting there. Twenty minutes have passed, Fabia has finally gone, and the house is really feeling as though it’s mine. I’ve taken down all Fabia’s photographs and replaced them with ones of me and my family. I’ve put B and L initial cushions on the sofa in the living room. I’ve arranged flowers in vases everywhere. I’ve memorized the contents of the kitchen cupboards and even planted some Post-it notes on the fridge, saying things like “We need more organic quinoa, darling” and “Luke — remember Couples’ Qi-gong on Saturday!”
Now I’m hastily decanting some of my own shoes into Fabia’s shoe cupboard, because they’re bound to ask me about my accessories. I’m just counting how many pairs of Jimmy Choos there are, when the doorbell suddenly rings, and I jump in a flurry of panic. I shove the rest of the shoes into the cupboard, check my reflection, and head down the stairs with trembling legs.
This is it! All my life I’ve wanted to itemize my clothes in a magazine!
As I reach the hall I do a quick recap in my head. Dress: Diane von Furstenburg. Shoes: Prada. Tights: Topshop. Earrings: present from Mum.
No, that’s not cool enough. I’ll call them…model’s own. No, vintage. I’ll say I found them sewn into a 1930s corset which I bought from an old atelier in a backstreet in Paris. Perfect.
I swing open the front door, plastering a bright smile on my face — and freeze.