'What do you think?' I said.
She looked at me appraisingly. 'Very edgy,' she said.
'Just what I wanted.'
A brush was flicked round my neck and over my face, the mirror was tipped so I caught every variation of my new profile, I was handed my jacket and posted into the outside world, where tiny flakes of snow whirled through the gathering darkness. My head felt weirdly light. I kept seeing myself in shop windows and being startled. I bought a giant chocolate-chip cookie and ate it while I made for the shops.
For the past three years, I've dressed pretty smartly. It was part of the job and I guess I got used to it. Suits. Skirts and jackets and sheer tights, with an extra pair in my bag in case they got snagged. Things that were tailored and trim. So now I used up the rest of the money that Sheila had lent me, and then rather a lot more, on a pair of baggy black trousers, several T-shirts, some leather biker boots, a hooded, fleecy sweatshirt, black as well, a long stripy scarf and a black woollen hat, some warm gloves. I nearly bought a long leather coat, except I didn't have enough money left, which was probably fortunate. But I did have enough money for six pairs of knickers, two bras, several pairs of thick socks, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and some lipstick, mascara, deodorant and shampoo.
I stood in front of the long shop mirror. I turned round slowly, looking at myself over my shoulder. I lifted my chin. I was no longer Abbie the businesswoman, hair drawn up in a sleek bun and sensible shoes. I looked thin and almost feral, with sharp
T2T
collar-bones. The new black clothes made my face seem paler than ever, though the bruise on my cheek had faded to a jaundiced yellow stain. My hair was spiky and the colour of birch wood I thought I looked a bit like an owl. And about sixteen, a schoolgirl. I smiled at myself, the newness I saw there, and nodded. 'Good,' I said, aloud. 'Perfect.'
Six
'Christ!' said Sheila, as she opened the door.
'What do you reckon?'
'It's certainly a change of image. I hardly recognized you.'
'That's the general idea. Can I come in, then? I'm freezing out here!' Icy flakes were landing on my cheeks and nose, trickling down my neck. My new haircut was flat and wet.
She stood back and let me into the warmth. 'Sure. God, you look.. .'
'What?'
'I dunno. Younger.'
'Is that good?'
'Yes,' she said dubiously. 'You look littler, too, somehow. Tea? Drink?'
'Drink. I bought us some beer.'
'Thanks, but you shouldn't have bothered.'
'Don't thank me. It was your money. I'll be able to pay you back soon, though, when my credit card is sent to Terry's, which should be any day.'
'Whenever. That reminds me, Terry rang.'
'Here?'
'No, Sadie's. He thought you'd be there. So Sadie rang me to say that Terry says can you go and collect this big bag he forgot to give you yesterday, with all your mail and stuff. And the rest of your clothes.'
'Fine. I'll go tomorrow.'
'Or he'll throw it away.'
'Charming. I'll go now.'
'Now? Don't you want something to eat? We're having these friends round. A couple, very nice, he works with Guy and she does something with antiques, I think. Nothing smart, just the four of us. Or five, that is,' she said bravely.
'It's OK, Sheila. Four's a better number. Maybe I'll be back for the cheese course.'
'No cheese. Lemon tart.'
'You made lemon tart?'
'Yes.' She looked self-conscious and virtuous at the same time.
'Save some for me. Can I use your phone to book a cab?'
'Of course. You don't have to ask.'
I kissed her on both cheeks. 'You're being very nice to me. I promise I won't stay here for long.'
It costs a lot of money to go across London in a taxi, make it wait, then come all the way back again. I watched the meter nervously as it clicked into double figures. I'd had 257 this morning, from Sheila and Guy and from the bank, but after my haircut and shopping spree and various coffees and cabs, it was down to seventy-nine. By the end of the evening I'd have about sixty again.
The lights were on in our flat. Terry's flat, that is. I rang the bell and waited, then heard footsteps running down the stairs and a light went on in the hall.
'Hello?'
'Hi, Terry.'
'Abbie?' He peered at me. 'What have you gone and done to yourself ? Your hair, it's -'
'Gone. I know. Can I come in and collect my stuff? I'm in a bit of a hurry. A cab's waiting.'
'I'll go and get it. I've put everything in bags. Wait here.' He turned and dashed back up the stairs again. But I wasn't going to wait in the freezing cold, so I followed him and we arrived simultaneously. There was a lovely smell coming from the flat, garlicky and pungent. On the table was a bottle of wine, but only half drunk, two glasses, two plates of chicken covered with sprigs of rosemary and whole garlic cloves. That was my recipe, my standby. Candles that I'd bought. A woman was sitting there, twiddling her glass, her long fair hair falling forward and shining in the soft light. She was wearing a charcoal-grey suit and had tiny gold studs in her ears. I stood there in the doorway, in my baggy trousers, with my tufty hair, and stared at her.
'I'll get all your stuff,' said Terry.
'Aren't you going to introduce us?'
He muttered something and disappeared.
'I'm Abbie,' I said brightly to the woman.
'Nice to meet you,' she said faintly. 'Sally.'
'Here.' Terry dragged in two bin-bags with my remaining clothes, then put a bulging plastic bag of mail into my hands. He was red-faced.
'Must go,' I said. Then I turned to the woman. 'Do you know what's odd? You look rather like me.'
She smiled, polite but incredulous. 'I really don't think so.'
They were still on the fish when I backed into the kitchen, dragging my bags after me.
'Abbie, back already! This is Paul and Izzie. Are you going to join us?'
'Hi.' I could tell by the way Paul and Izzie looked at me that they'd heard the full story. 'Don't worry, I'm not really hungry. I'm going to go through my post.' I lifted up the splitting plastic bag. 'Get some clues, eh?' They all laughed nervously and glanced at each other. Sheila flushed, and leant forward to refill their glasses.
'I'd love some wine, though.'
Most of the post was junk, January sales catalogues, stuff like that. There were two postcards: one from Mary, who was in Australia for the whole of the month; one from Alex in Spain. He must be back by now. I wondered if he'd heard. There were two invitations to parties. One had been and gone, but one was this weekend. Maybe I'd go to that, dance and flirt, I thought, and then, But what shall I wear? And what shall I say? And who on earth would flirt with someone who looked like a vagrant schoolgirl? Perhaps I wouldn't go, after all.
There was a strange, formal letter from Laurence Joiner at Jay and Joiner's, confirming that I was on unpaid leave, but that my pension and National Insurance would still be paid. I frowned and put it to one side. Clearly I needed to go into the office sometime. Maybe tomorrow.
Then there was a bank statement. At the beginning of the month I had been a glorious and uncharacteristic 1810.49 in credit but now I had only 597 left. I squinted at the row of figures. What on earth had I spent 890 on, on 13 January? Fuck, those must be the clothes that Robin had told me about. What on earth had possessed me? I must have been drunk or something. And I didn't even have the clothes to show for it. Then, three days later, I'd
