“No,” I say consideringly. “No, I can believe that. It’s a bit different from Scotland, isn’t it? Much more… frantic.”
“Absolutely!” he exclaims, as if I’ve said something very insightful. “That was just it. Too frantic. And the people are absolutely extraordinary. Quite mad, in my opinion.”
Compared to what? I want to retort. At least they don’t call water “Ho” and sing Wagner in public.
But that wouldn’t be kind. So I say nothing, and he says nothing — and when the door opens, we both look up gratefully.
“Hi!” says Suze, appearing at the door. “Tarkie, you’re here! Listen, I’ve just got to get the car, because I had to park a few streets away the other night. I’ll beep when I get back, and we can whiz off. OK?”
“OK,” says Tarquin, nodding. “I’ll just wait here with Becky.”
“Lovely!” I say, trying to smile brightly.
Suze disappears, I shift awkwardly in my seat, and Tarquin stretches his feet out and stares at them. Oh, this is excruciating. The very sight of him is niggling at me more and more — and suddenly I realize I have to say something now, otherwise I’ll disappear off to New York and the chance will be lost.
“Tarquin,” I say, and exhale sharply. “There’s something I… I really want to say to you. I’ve been wanting to say it for a while, actually.”
“Yes?” he says, his head jerking up. “What… what is it?” He meets my eyes anxiously, and I feel a slight pang of nerves. But now I’ve started, I’ve got to carry on. I’ve got to tell him the truth. I push my hair back, and take a deep breath.
“That jumper,” I say. “It really doesn’t go with that waistcoat.”
“Oh,” says Tarquin, looking taken aback. “Really?”
“Yes!” I say, feeling a huge relief at having got it off my chest. “In fact… it’s frightful.”
“Should I take it off?”
“Yes. In fact, take the waistcoat off, too.”
Obediently he peels off the jumper and the waistcoat — and it’s amazing how much better he looks when he’s just in a plain blue shirt. Almost… normal! Then I have a sudden inspiration.
“Wait here!”
I hurry to my room and seize one of the carrier bags sitting on my chair. There’s a jumper inside which I bought a few days ago for Luke’s birthday, but I’ve discovered he’s already got exactly the same one, so I was planning to take it back.
“Here!” I say, arriving back in the sitting room. “Put this on. It’s Paul Smith.”
Tarquin slips the plain black jumper over his head and pulls it down — and what a difference! He’s actually starting to look quite distinguished.
“Your hair,” I say, staring critically at him. “We need to do something with that.”
Ten minutes later I’ve wetted it, blow-dried it, and smoothed it back with a bit of mousse. And… I can’t tell you. It’s a transformation.
“Tarquin, you look wonderful!” I say — and I really mean it. He’s still got that thin, bony look, but suddenly he doesn’t look geeky anymore, he looks kind of… interesting.
“Really?” says Tarquin, staring down at himself. He looks a little shell-shocked, but the point is, he’ll thank me in the long run.
A car horn sounds from outside, and we both jump.
“Well — have a good time,” I say, suddenly feeling like his mother. “Tomorrow morning, just wet your hair again and push your fingers through it, and it should look OK.”
“Right,” says Tarquin, looking as though I’ve just given him a long mathematical formula to memorize. “I’ll try to remember. And the jersey? Shall I return it by post?”
“Don’t return it!” I say in horror. “It’s yours to keep, and wear. A gift.”
“Thank you,” says Tarquin. “I’m… very grateful, Becky.” He comes forward and pecks me on the cheek, and I pat him awkwardly on the hand. And as he disappears out of the door, I find myself hoping that he’ll get lucky at this party, and find someone. He really does deserve it.
As I hear Suze’s car drive away, I wander into the kitchen and make a cup of tea, wondering what to do for the rest of the afternoon. I was half-planning to do some more work on my self-help book. But my other alternative is to watch Manhattan, which Suze taped last night, and would be really useful research for my trip. Because after all, I need to be well prepared.
I can always work on the book when I get back from New York. Exactly.
I’m just happily putting the video into the machine when the phone rings.
“Oh, hello,” says a girl’s voice. “Sorry to disturb you. Is that Becky Bloomwood, by any chance?”
“Yes,” I say, reaching for the remote control.
“This is Sally,” says the girl. “I’m the new secretary at Morning Coffee. We met the other day.”
“Oh. Erm… yes!” I wrinkle my brow, trying to remember.
“We just wanted to check on which hotel you’re staying at in New York, in case we need to contact you urgently.”
“I’ll be at the Four Seasons.”
“Four… Seasons,” says Sally carefully. “Excellent.”
“Do you think they might want me to do a report from New York or something?” I ask excitedly. That would be so cool! A special report from New York!
“Maybe,” says Sally. “And that’s with a Mr… Luke Brandon?”
“That’s right.”
“For how many nights?”
“Erm… thirteen? Fourteen? I’m not sure.” I’m squinting at the telly, wondering if I’ve gone too far back. Surely they don’t show that Walker’s crisps ad anymore?
“And are you staying in a room or a suite?”
“I think it’s a suite. I could find out…”
“No, don’t worry,” says Sally pleasantly. “Well, I won’t trouble you anymore. Enjoy your trip.”
“Thanks!” I say, just as I find the start of the film. “I’m sure we will!”
The phone goes dead, and I walk over to the sofa, frowning slightly. Why did Sally need to know whether I was in a suite? Unless — maybe she was just curious.
But then I forget all about it, as Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue suddenly crashes through the air, and the screen is filled with pictures of Manhattan. I stare at the television, utterly gripped. This is where we’re going! In three days’ time we’ll be there! I just cannot, cannot wait!
'Little Ridings'
34 Copse Road
Eastbourne
Sussex
21 September 2000
Dear Rebecca:
Thank you for your letter and good wishes. I am thoroughly enjoying my retirement, thank you.
I am sorry to hear that you are having such difficulties dealing with John Gavin. May I assure you that he is not a heartless android programmed to make your life miserable. If you ever were cast out on the street with nothing but a pair of shoes, I’m sure he would be concerned, rather than “laugh evilly and walk away.”
If you persevere with your good intentions, I’m certain your relationship with him will improve. You have every ability to keep your accounts in check, as long as your resolve remains steady.
I look forward to hearing how you get along.
With very best wishes,
Derek Smeath
