‘Soap.’
‘Yeah, soap,’ Lucy echoes. ‘You can’t go wrong with soap.’
I’m pretty sure you can, even if it is expensive. But for now, it’s all I’ve got.
‘So, when are you seeing Gordon again?’ Lucy asks, delving through a flowery display.
‘He’s got a tight schedule, but he’s sorting something out.’
‘I suppose you’ll be swanning off to New York all the time now.’
‘Maybe.’ I pick up a hand-made bar, light blue with a whale at its centre. ‘That’ll do for someone.’
I choose two more: one with a starfish, the other a shell. When I’m finished, I look up, focussing straight on a man at the next table, and an uneasy feeling surges through my gut. There’s something not quite right about him. He’s well-dressed, not one of Boyd’s obvious lackeys, and he’s currently examining a tub of body butter. But that’s not the issue.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lucy murmurs absently.
‘For what?’
‘Being a bad-tempered cow.’
I raise an eyebrow, surprised she’s finally chosen to apologise here. Maybe it’s the calming effect of aromatherapy oils.
‘I don’t blame you.’
‘But we’ve never fallen out like this.’
‘I know. And we won’t do it again.’
I take another peek at the man. I’m sure I’ve seen him before. I just can’t put my finger on the exact place.
‘I didn’t have such a bad time,’ Lucy admits, picking up a bar of soap and sniffing it. 'Most of it was a blast.’
‘Most of it?’
‘My chaperon was fucking gorgeous.’
I pull my best ‘Wow, what a surprise’ sort of face.
‘He took me everywhere. Round the Statue of Liberty in a helicopter, up the Empire State Building, ice-skating at the Rockefeller. I can’t complain.’
But she will. In fact, she’s already building up to it. Her eyebrows have sunk and her bottom lip’s sticking out. I look over her shoulder, relieved that Mr Familiar’s moved on now. He’s over at the far end of the room, talking to an assistant. Placing a hand on her back, he guides her out of the department.
‘He was lovely. Bloody fit,’ Lucy goes on. ‘And I thought he fancied me. And then we went out on Sunday night and …’
‘And?’
‘Nothing.’
She chucks the soap back onto the table, causing the whole display to wobble. I wince.
‘Careful.’
Ignoring my plea, she picks up another bar and carries on talking, this time in some terrible sort-of-American accent. ‘I’m so sorry, Lucy. Oh my gahd, this has been so rad and everything, but I need to take a rain check.’ She wafts the soap in the air and scowls. ‘And off he pops. No number. Nothing.’
I can’t help smiling. No shenanigans, as promised. Clive’s going to be relieved.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re smiling at my bad luck. That’s a foul thing to do to your friend.’
‘Sorry.’
She throws the second bar of soap back into the display. It wobbles again.
‘Gordon’s a crap name by the way, much worse than Clive.’
Ooh no, she shouldn’t have done that, shouldn’t have mentioned the ‘ex.’ Her bottom lip begins to tremble.
‘I’m fed up with being single.’
‘It’s never bothered you before.’
‘Well, it’s bothering me now. I’m twenty-seven and I want a relationship. And not with Shih Tzu Man. I thought … I thought … Clive …’
No, no, no. Not again. I thought the New York experience might have eased the pain, but it only seems to have made things worse. Her eyes have reddened, and tears have made an appearance. Biting her lip, she picks up yet another bar of soap, and I’d say there’s a distinct possibility this one’s going to end up being hurled across the shop. Eager to avoid a scene, I move around the table, prise it out of her hand and put it back in place.
‘It’s not fair,’ she sobs.
‘Lucy. Just be patient. One day, the right man’s going to show up. He’s out there waiting for you.’
And his name, I’d like to add, is Clive.
‘Yes, but he won’t … he won’t be like Clive.’
No, he won’t be like Clive at all … because he actually will be Clive.
I roll my eyes, suspecting she’s about to launch into one of her ‘I really miss him’ rants and decide it’s time to make an exit.
‘Come on.’
I guide her to the till, identify myself as the prospective owner of the tea set and biscuit tin, present the three bars of soap and settle in for a wait. I’ve just about managed to kid myself that the Clive crisis has passed, when it starts up again.
‘He didn’t mind it when I tried to cook.’ Watching my hoard of presents reappear on the counter, she blinks away a tear. ‘He always tried his best to eat it. And he didn’t mind the mess. I think he was the one, Maya. We could have got married. We could have shopped here for bits. But now it’s just you and me.’ She begins to sob again. ‘You and me.’
Shrouding the teapot in bubble wrap, the woman behind the counter eyes up my friend, clearly deciding she’s a lunatic.
‘Calm down.’
‘I can’t.’ She wipes the back of a hand across her eyes. ‘I’ve lost so much. He was lovely. Really funny. And bloody good at sex.’
‘Oh …’ I gasp.
I really don’t want any further information on that particular matter. I check on progress with the wrapping. The teapot’s done, and now the assistant’s making a start on the cups. Only she’s slowed down a bit, and there’s a mischievous glint in her eyes.
‘You don’t need to wrap them so carefully,’ I tell her, waving a hand.
‘But they’re lovely.’ She smiles slyly. ‘We don’t want them chipped, do we?’
‘Very attentive,’ Lucy continues, oblivious to her audience. ‘Know what I mean?’
I open my mouth, and close it again,
