for you to have a look at it if you’re interested.’
‘When?’
‘This evening, if you’re free?’
‘Here?’
‘Not here but – where would suit you?’
‘St John’s Wood.’
‘Carluccio’s, then?’
And that’s what we did. We met in Carluccio’s.
He did love the dress, as I knew he would. He loved the frothy abundance of delicate feathers, the innocent blue, the rich gleam of the satin. He thought it was perfect. We did an under-the-counter deal.
He was so pleased that he wrote a lovely letter to the store to commend me on my kindness, thoughtfulness and total dedication to my work. And as a result, I was dismissed for gross misconduct. It was ironic that after that moment of triumph, I lost my job.
Anyway – where that memory came from is the fact the sky, from the sofabed where I’m lying, perfectly matches the colour of that feathery cocktail dress.
I get up reluctantly and put the kettle on, swaddling it with tea cloths to muffle the sound of boiling because the longer my parents sleep in, the better, as far as I’m concerned.
I start thinking about the woman in Chanel and that look in her eye that said, aren’t we wonderful!
I’ve seen her twice, so I think she’s local. It’s possible I’ll see her again. She’s hard to miss.
Consoled by the idea, I quietly make myself a mug of instant coffee, black, and retreat to the sofa.
I can hear whispering and the creak of the bedroom floor, and slippered feet padding to the bathroom. I hear the bathroom door closing. After a few moments, the lavatory flushes.
I stare warily at the slowly opening door.
It’s my father.
‘Morning,’ he says, rubbing the bags under his eyes. ‘Your mother would like to know whether you’ve got Alka-Seltzer.’
‘Ah. I have.’ I’ve got a whole kitchen drawer dedicated to ailments of all descriptions. I’m very susceptible to the power of the placebo effect. Once I’ve bought something from the pharmacist, I miraculously find I’m cured of whatever it was that was bothering me. As a result, the Alka-Seltzer has passed its sell-by date, but I drop the tablets into a glass and add water.
‘Aren’t you working today?’
‘I have Mondays and Tuesdays off. They’re the quietest days.’ The tablets fizz and tumble merrily up and down in the glass, and my father takes them back to the bedroom.
I get dressed, put the duvet and pillows away, and rearrange the fruit bowl on the table, ready for breakfast.
I’ve taken the croissants out of the freezer, so I heat up the oven and make real coffee in the KRUPS coffee machine, because they both detest instant.
I can hear Lucy walking around in the flat above me. I’ve always liked the sound of neighbours – it’s friendly.
Next thing I hear is my shower switching on, and twenty minutes later my mother emerges and sits by the table. She stares out at the garden without looking at me to make it clear she hasn’t forgiven me for working on a market stall.
I feel the old sense of dread at her disapproval coming over me. But I can make it work, I know I can. I’ll prove it to her that I’ve made the right choices in life.
I make her a coffee and put the croissants on a baking tray while she continues to pretend I’m invisible. It’s quite nice, actually, not having to talk. Like breakfast in a silent order at a monastery.
My father comes in and drinks his coffee in silence, smiling at me a couple of times to show who’s side he’s secretly on while publicly showing his alliance to her. Not that I blame him; he has to live with her, after all.
They leave about ten and I hug my father and kiss my mother on her plumped-up, wrinkle-free cheek, then I wave them off feeling suddenly light-hearted at being free.
Once they’ve gone, I turn on my laptop and see that I’ve had some new orders in. A couple of the clients are names I recognise from my database and one is new. I wheel my clothing rails out of the utility room and into the lounge because the utility room is too small to stand up straight in.
I’m looping a price tag from a wooden hanger, when my contact lenses start to bother me. I blink. Everything seems hazy and my eyes begin to itch. I squeeze them shut and wonder if I’ve caught Lucy’s cold already. Is that possible? I go to the bathroom and drip Thealoz eye drops into my reddened eyes and feel much better. Back in the lounge, though, they get worse again. I look around. The room is strangely misty.
There’s a loud thudding overhead from Lucy’s flat. I hear her front door open and slam, and down the outside steps she comes, boom-boom-boom! And she’s thumping on my door with her fists. ‘Fern!’ she cries dramatically. ‘Fern, are you in there?’
I open it, standing well back in case she sneezes on me again. ‘What’s up?’
‘My flat’s on fire,’ she says breathlessly, eyes wide, damp hair clinging to her forehead. She’s wearing a black towel. That’s it. Just the towel.
‘Really?’
To confirm it, my smoke alarm goes off, so I grab my phone, trench coat and my red lipstick. After shutting the door to muffle the noise, we dash outside and up the steps into the street. We stand together on the pavement, hanging onto the black railings and staring at the house nervously, looking for flames.
A middle-aged man comes towards us with a black Labrador on a blue retractable lead. His eyes settle on Lucy, barefoot and clad in the black towel. Then his gaze rests on me for a moment and swiftly returns to Lucy before he politely passes us without a word.
‘Lucy, here, take my coat.’
‘No, thanks, Fern. It’s a better look to be standing outside a burning house wearing a black towel, dramatically speaking.’ She looks up at her window again and nudges me with her elbow. ‘Have you called the fire service yet?’
I put my hand in my coat pocket, feeling for my phone, and hesitate. Out here in the fresh air, the house looks perfectly normal and I happen to know that Lucy just loves a drama. Well, she would, being an actor. I can’t see any smoke or flames and I wonder if it’s burnt itself out already.
‘Lucy, how big is the fire, exactly?’ I ask her sceptically.
She stares at me through the damp blonde strands of her fringe. ‘What do you mean, how big is it? Fires spread, you know! They spread like wildfire. Hence the saying.’
‘Mmm. Mmm. What’s the difference between a fire and wildfire?’
‘Give me that.’ She grabs my phone from me and phones the emergency services.
Staring up at her sash window, I can now see grey smoke opaquing the glass and leaking out around the edges, fraying the sky above our heads. Down in the basement beneath it, I can see clearly into my lounge and my heart jumps a beat. ‘Hey! My clothes are in there!’
‘Don’t do it, Fern!’ she said, holding me back ineffectually with her free hand. ‘It’s not worth it!’
‘My stock! It’s all I’ve got,’ I say as I dash back down the stairs and let myself back into the smoke-alarm-screaming din of the house.
I’m just going in for the clothing rails, but once inside the flat, the noise sends my adrenaline up a notch. The atmosphere has turned from a haze into a smog. I look at the ceiling and see smoke rings coming out of the spotlights. I struggle to push the clothing rail through the door. The wheels brace themselves against the doorframe, reluctant to leave.
Above the scream of the smoke alarm I hear the duetting