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'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 chequebook. 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
Flat2
4 Burney Rd
London SW6 8FD
23 March 2000
Dear Ms Boomwood
Thank you very much for your application for a Bank of London Easyfone 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 9Jl-I
Ms Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd
London SW6 8FD
24 March 2000
Dear Ms Bloomwood
I am writing to confirm our meeting at 9.30 am on Monday, 27 March, here at our Fulham office. Please ask for me at reception.
I look forward to seeing you then.
Yours sincerely
Derek Smeath
Manager
ENDWICH BECAUSE WE CARE
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? Should I be somewhere else by 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? Di
Pizza. I had pizza. And who was I with, again? In… out. In… Tarquin. Out.
Oh God. Tarquin.
Leafing through chequebook. 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 toothmugfuls. 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. Somehow 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. And I threw it in the bin. God, I'm a disaster. I don't deserve to live. I head to the 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 and 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 chequebook. If only I hadn't been so stupid. It was all going so well. He really liked me. We were holding hands. He was pla
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.
Instead of which… what?
I have debts up to my eyeballs. I have a meeting with my bank manager on Monday morning. I have no idea what I'm going to do. No idea at all.
Miserably I take a sip of coffee and unwrap my little chocolate. I'm not in the mood for chocolate, but I stuff it into my mouth anyway.
The worst thing – the very worst thing of all – is that I was actually starting to quite like Tarquin. Maybe he isn't God's gift in the looks department, but he's very kind, and quite fu
And the way he didn't tell Suze what he'd seen me doing. And the way he believed me when I told him I liked dogs and Wagner and bloody violinists in Malawi. The way he was so completely, utterly unsuspicious.
Oh God, now I really am going to start crying.
Roughly I brush at my eyes, drain my cup and stand up. Out on the street I hesitate, then begin walking briskly again. Maybe the breeze will blow these unbearable thoughts out of my head. Maybe I'll feel better in a while.
But I stride and stride, and I still feel no better. My head's aching and my eyes are red and I could really do with a drink or something. Just a little something, to make me feel a bit better. A drink, or a cigarette, or… I look up, and I'm in front of Octagon. My favourite shop in the whole world. Three floors of clothes, accessories, furnishings, gifts, coffee shops, juice bars and a florist which makes you want to fill your entire home with flowers.
I've got my purse with me.
Just something small, to cheer me up. A T-shirt or something. Or even some bubble bath. I need to buy myself something. I won't spend much. I'll just go in, and…
I'm already pushing my way through the doors. Oh God, the relief. The warmth, the light. This is where I belong. This my natural habitat.
Except that even as I'm heading towards the T-shirts, I'm not quite as happy as I should be. I look through the racks, trying to recreate the excitement I usually feel at buying myself a little treat – but somehow today I feel a bit empty. Still, I choose a cropped top with a silver star in the middle, and put it over my arm, telling myself I feel better already. Then I spot a rack of dressing gowns. I could do with a new dressing gown, as a matter of fact.