Читать книгу The Woman Who Met Her Match: The laugh out loud romantic comedy you need to read in 2018 - Fiona Gibson, Fiona Gibson - Страница 13

There’s no time to reply and, anyway, I haven’t the first idea how to respond. The summer he came alive? What does that mean? I hurry back into the store and find Nuala hovering at our counter.

‘Ah, here you are, Lorrie.’ She smiles tightly.

‘Oh, sorry, were you looking for me?’

‘No, it’s okay, you’re here now. Just wondering how things are going?’

Helena, who’s helping a customer to select a blusher, throws me a quizzical look.

‘Great,’ I reply. ‘We’re all hitting targets, the day cream and serum are going especially well …’ Nuala knows all this because our sales are carefully recorded and monitored. In her late thirties, authoritative but approachable and chatty with the team, she usually just drops by to ensure everything is tidy and just so. She might share some gossip from one of the other stores, and one of us will touch up her lipstick. Today, she doesn’t seem interested in any of that.

‘Just wanted to let you know,’ she starts, pushing back her sleek black hair, ‘we’re having a bit of a company meeting on Friday and it’s really important everyone attends.’

‘Oh, okay. What’s it all about?’

‘Just a little thing for all the counter teams in the south-east. There’s a hotel booked for it. You’ll receive an email but I wanted to see you personally …’ She clears her throat and glances around anxiously. Although she’s my boss, we have known each other for long enough to have developed a sort of friendship. However, today she is emitting definite don’t-quiz-me vibes.

‘Is it a training session?’ I ask.

‘Um, no, it’s not training. Well, not exactly.’

‘Come on, Nuala. Don’t leave us all hanging like this.’

She smiles tersely and her neck flushes pink. ‘Sorry, I can’t say anything else. It’s an early start, I’m afraid – 8 a.m. – and breakfast will be served. You’ll be back here by noon.’

I glance at Helena, and then back at Nuala. ‘You mean we’ll all be there? But what about the counter?’

‘Don’t worry,’ she says briskly. ‘I’m bringing in a team to cover things here. It’s only a few hours …’

‘A team? What d’you mean?’

‘Trainees. They’ll manage,’ she adds with uncharacteristic sharpness.

‘The counter will be manned by trainees?’

‘It’ll be fine, Lorrie. Trust me, please – oh, and you should all be in uniform for the meeting, that goes without saying …’

‘Yes, of course,’ I murmur, glancing down at my black La Beauté tunic with its white logo on the breast pocket. As if we’d turn up in T-shirts and jeans.

Nuala swipes her trilling phone from her shoulder bag and purses her lips at it. ‘Sorry, got to take this.’ She steps away, hair half-covering her face, already murmuring into her phone.

I look at Andi, an eager school-leaver and our newest recruit. She pulls a ‘what the hell?’ face, but there’s no chance to speculate, not with Nuala loitering nearby. Anyway, if something’s afoot, we won’t help matters by standing about gossiping.

I approach a customer, inviting her to try our new, ultra-light foundation, and fall into easy chit-chat as normal. ‘You’ll find it’s as light as a BB cream, while smoothing out imperfections …’

‘Oh, I’d like to try that …’

‘Could you hop on the stool for me and we’ll see which colour gives the best match?’

‘Great,’ the woman says. ‘The thing is, foundation always looks orange on me …’

Antoine flickers into my mind as I dab at her face with a cosmetic sponge. Antoine, with his orange-for-a-face profile picture, who reckons he ‘came alive’ in the summer of ’86.

‘Oh, that does look good,’ she exclaims, examining her reflection. ‘I’ll take it.’

‘Great, would you like me to cleanse it off for you?’

‘What, and look like my knackered old self?’ She laughs, oblivious to Nuala who’s still lurking close by, barking into her mobile now: ‘Yes, they’ll all be there. Of course I’ve said it’s compulsory …’

My customer trots away with her purchase, and I busy myself with tidying up my counter area, while trying to ignore a niggle of unease about all of us attending this meeting. The company is strict about holiday leave; many of our customers are fiercely loyal and expect to see a familiar face at the counter. In fact, I can’t remember a time when we have all been off at once.

Looking severely rattled now, Nuala finishes her call and turns to address us again. ‘I meant to say, one or two counter staff might be asked to stand up and do a little talk at this, er, thing. It’s nothing to panic about—’

‘Really? What kind of talk?’ I try to keep my voice level.

‘Oh, you know, just a quick, spontaneous thing. The essence of what La Beauté is all about …’

I study her face. Her pale blue eyes look tired, and her lipstick has worn away.

‘Any idea who’ll have to do this?’ Helena asks.

‘Honestly, I have no idea. But I think we should all be prepared, okay?’

‘So we should prepare, even though it’s meant to be spontaneous?’ I smile to show I’m fine with this, but Nuala’s mouth remains set in a tight line.

‘Really, it’s nothing to worry about. All they want to see is a real passion for the brand …’

‘Who’s they?’ I ask.

‘Oh, just the head honchos, you know …’

I frown, confused by her vagueness; I know most of senior management by name. Her phone trills again, and she waves quickly, her glossy heels clacking as she marches away from our counter, past clusters of perplexed-looking assistants from the other counters, towards the revolving front door.

Andi widens her eyes at me. ‘That sounds scary. I hate public speaking. I always feel like I might actually throw up.’

‘It’s no big deal,’ I say, affecting a breeziness I don’t feel, ‘and it’ll probably be good for us, whatever it is. Just a little team get-together to keep us all on our toes.’

*

The upstairs room in the pub that Helena reserved for her birthday gathering has been double-booked. So we’ve been bundled in with a crowd of incredibly loud twenty- somethings who seem surprisingly inebriated, considering it’s only 7.30 p.m. Crammed around a too-small table, we all ooh and ahh as Helena opens her presents, enthusing over each one in turn. However, the larger group dominates, their choice of music pumping relentlessly from a speaker above my head.

‘He says it was all moving too fast,’ shouts a girl from the other party, inches from my ear. ‘And now I hear he’s moved in with that woman. You know the fat one who’s, like, thirty?’

I glance around, and she casts me a look of disdain as if I have no business being here at all.

‘Oh my God,’ gasps her friend, flicking her tussled blonde hair. ‘The one with skirt up her arse, cellulite on display?’

Helena’s sister Sophie catches my eye across the table and grimaces.

‘Yeah, don’t know how he can stand seeing her naked.’

Our nondescript meals are brought by a glum waitress, and bear all the hallmarks of having hopped straight from freezer to microwave. I poke at my bland Thai curry, wondering when thirty was deemed ancient and whether I can get away with slipping off home pretty soon.

The two girls are still positioned right beside our table where they are continuing their annihilation of this unnamed woman. ‘She must be at least a size fourteen,’ the blonde one remarks.

‘Yeah! God, it’s disgusting. It always amazes me how some women allow themselves to get to that size.’ I look down at my bowl, my appetite having waned, my curry watery and tepid. After our initial sterling efforts, our group seems to have given up on making ourselves heard above the din. Even Helena looks as if her spirits are sagging.

As our plates are cleared, I reflect that, at some point, Mum stopped mentioning my ‘puppy fat’, declaring instead, ‘You’re lucky, you can carry off your size because of your height.’ Which made me feel like some vast ocean liner: strong, sturdy, reliable in high seas.

More people are crowding into the room now, jostling our table and shouting over our heads. The waitress seems to have forgotten that we’ve ordered another round of drinks, and I find myself yearning to be spirited home to Stu and the kids.

‘Let’s go somewhere else,’ Helena says in frustration.

‘Good idea,’ remarks Sophie as the bill is plonked on our table, without the extra round of drinks. As we divvy it up, I make my excuses for a quick exit and hug Helena and Andi goodbye. That’s one bonus of growing older; there’s no shame to be had in ducking out early.

Liberated into the humid July night, I make my way towards the tube, finally getting a moment to consider Antoine’s ‘the summer I came alive’ declaration. How am I supposed to respond to that, and why is he telling me now? Perhaps he was just hit by a wave of nostalgia, as I am occasionally. Only mine tend to feature David and the children, the four of us together, on a holiday or at Christmas, or just lazing around the house on a rainy Sunday afternoon. Sometimes, I miss him so much it causes an actual ache.

As light rain starts to fall, I step into Tesco Metro where I select packets of chilli and lime rice crackers to satisfy Cam’s copious late-night snacking. Amy favours cheese – the pricier varieties, naturally – and it’s as I approach the dairy section that my mobile rings.

‘Hello?’ I reach for a wedge of Brie.

‘Hi, Lorrie. It’s Ralph—’

‘Oh! How are you?’

‘Great. Look, I hope this isn’t a bad time …’

‘Um, I’m just shopping actually …’ And didn’t I explain last Sunday that we wouldn’t be meeting again? I drop the cheese into my basket, confused as to why he’s calling at all.

‘Right,’ he says.

‘Ralph, you did get my text, didn’t you? After our date, I mean?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he blusters. ‘Yes. Sorry. I’m just calling because, uhh …’ There’s some anxious throat-clearing. ‘I think I owe you an apology.’

‘Really? What for?’ The cake thing, he must mean.

Feeling generous, I select the smoked cheese Amy likes, the one with the terracotta-coloured skin.

‘Oh … everything really,’ he says with an awkward laugh. ‘Mentioning Belinda, for one thing. I’m not sure what I was thinking. That’s not what one does on a date, is it?’

‘It’s okay to talk about your ex,’ I say lightly, ‘and I did ask. Don’t worry about it.’ It’s slightly less okay to infer that I’m a cake-scoffing heifer, not that I care about that now …

‘… And going on about the art,’ Ralph continues. ‘Obviously, they weren’t your cup of tea, those wound paintings, the Thomas Trotter installations …’

‘Well, they were interesting.’

‘No, I’m sorry. You must have found me a colossal bore …’

‘No, not at all,’ I say, firmly, making my way down the aisle.

‘You’re very kind, Lorrie. Anyway, what I wanted to say is, I was terribly nervous on our date. Does that sound pathetic?’

‘No, of course not. It’s nerve-racking, this online dating business, strangers thrown together like that. But look, Ralph, I’m in Tesco, I really must get on and—’

‘The thing is,’ he interrupts, ‘I was pretty taken aback when I saw you.’

I stop and frown. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘Oh, please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re really not like you appear in your photo …’

‘Aren’t I?’ Neither are you, Mr-dig-out-a-pic-from-the-90s!

‘No. I mean, your photo’s lovely, of course – that’s why I contacted you in the first place. But in real life you’re much more, er …’

Oh, God, what now?

‘… You’re beautiful!’ he exclaims.

I blink, wondering whether I’ve heard him correctly. ‘Erm … that’s very kind of you, Ralph …’

‘No, I mean it. I think I was rather bowled over, and when I’m nervous I sort of … oh God, this is awful, I am sorry, but I wanted to impress you, I suppose.’

Something in me softens, and then I realise I’m doing it again. At the gallery it was poor, bereaved Ralph. Now it’s poor, nervous Ralph. I must get a grip before I find myself agreeing to another date just because I feel sorry for him. ‘Well, thanks for explaining,’ I murmur.

‘That’s okay. Just thought, if I cleared the air, you might agree to meet me again, just for a coffee or something—’

‘I’m sorry, but no,’ I say firmly.

‘Ah. Okay.’

‘But there is something else,’ I add. ‘Something I’d like to say about our date, if that’s okay.’

He coughs. ‘Oh. Yes, of course.’

‘It’s about the cake thing.’

‘The cake thing? I’m sorry, I don’t—’

‘Remember when we were in the cafe?’ I cut in, emboldened now. ‘You said something that came across as rather rude, actually.’

‘Really?’ He sounds aghast.

‘Yes, you said, “You’re obviously a girl who very much enjoys her cake.”’

A small silence hangs between us. ‘Oh. Was that impolite?’

‘A little, yes.’

He sighs audibly. ‘I’m so sorry. I meant it as a compliment actually. It’s very attractive, you know, seeing a woman enjoying her food, tucking in with gusto …’

‘Really?’ I say, laughing now.

‘Yes. Women these days – the ones I work with at least – it’s all tiny trays of sushi for lunch, or maybe a dip and some crudités …’

‘I’m not a crudité sort of woman.’

‘No, I can see that.’

‘Because I am a larger woman, you mean …’

‘Well, yes, although I’d rather use the term curvaceous …’

Those few forkfuls of Thai green curry sit uneasily in my stomach. ‘Pardon?’

‘Or perhaps I should say voluptuous,’ he adds, and there’s a catch to his voice now that makes me shudder.

‘Perhaps you shouldn’t,’ I remark.

‘I meant it as a compliment. You’re very attractive. The way you carry yourself, your body …’

I frown, aware that his breathing has taken on a rasping quality. ‘I’m not sure I’m comfortable with—’

‘… When we interacted with the art,’ he adds. ‘I noticed it then, especially …’

‘I beg your pardon?’ I have stopped by the laundry detergents.

‘When we – you know – tried on that jacket. It was rather …’

‘Rather what?’ I bark, flinging a bottle of fabric conditioner into my basket.

‘It was, you know … quite stirring. I enjoyed interacting with you, Lorrie …’

It takes me a moment to process this. ‘You mean in an art way? You were stirred by the art?’

‘No, by being in such close … proximity to you. You see, when we were pressed up together I couldn’t help but notice your marvellous figure …’ Oh my God. ‘I’m sorry,’ he goes on, sounding a little breathless now. ‘You see, since Belinda left, I haven’t actually been physically close to anyone at all …’ I am standing dead still. An elderly woman gripping a gigantic pack of loo roll gives me a quizzical look. ‘… And there we were, so close together, and it was rather …’ His breath catches.

‘Stirring?’ I snatch a three-pack of yellow dishwasher sponges from the bottom shelf.

‘Well, yes.’ There’s a sharp intake of breath, then another.

‘Are you jogging, Ralph?’

‘Jogging? No, no, I’m still at work—’

‘But it’s nearly nine o’clock!’

‘Yes, I often work late,’ he pants. ‘Busy, you know. And I’ve been thinking about you. Been thinking how much I’d like to, uh, get to know you better—’

‘You sound out of breath,’ I cut in. ‘Are you ill?’

‘No, no—’

‘Are you saying all this in front of your colleagues? Or are you the only one left in the office?’

‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m being discreet …’

I frown. ‘Are you under your desk?’

‘No, no …’ His voice, I realise, has an echoey quality, as if he’s in a small enclosed space. ‘I’m in the gents’ actually.’

‘Oh!’

‘Bit of privacy,’ he adds as it dawns on me what he’s actually doing.

‘Are you in a cubicle?’

‘Yes. Yes, I am.’

‘And what are you doing exactly?’ I ask sharply.

‘I’m just thinking about our date, about me and you all buttoned up together in that jacket …’

Oh, dear lord. ‘For God’s sake, Ralph. Do you know how vile this sounds? How completely creepy it is to talk to a woman in this way?’

He makes a choking sound. ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t help—’

‘I think you can help yourself actually,’ I snap, ‘unless you’ve stumbled into the office loo and your trousers and pants fell down and your hand has accidentally clamped itself around your penis.’

I end the call, plunge my mobile into my pocket and stride up to the nearest available till, dumping my basket with a clatter onto the counter. The girl at the till gives me a startled look, and the customer at the next till – a huge bear of a man clutching a box of frozen toad in the hole – swings round to stare.

‘Good on you, darling,’ he says with a throaty laugh. ‘You bloody give ’im what for.’