‘Ooh, are you going?’ she mouthed, pointing at his car and then the road ahead. He stared at her through the window and ignored her. ‘Are you going?’ She shouted this time, as if he might be able to hear over the hum of traffic, the beep of horns, the roar of engines and through the two sturdy panes of glass that separated them. ‘For the love of Jesus,Are you Leaving?’ she roared,and knocked on her window with her knuckles. The man wound down his window and shook his head, before looking down at his phone. ‘Beanie-wearing dickhead!’ she yelled.
This was what London had reduced her to, hating and abusing a stranger who was doing no more than going about his business, and yet was on the receiving end of her sharp tongue as her adrenaline surged, her muscles bunched and her irritation flared, all because she could not park her massive car. She hated how ugly she had sounded, acted. It was, she knew, a result of how stressed she was about the business. It wasn’t that they were against the wall, nothing like that, but still it was a worry, this drought. Gallow and Fitch was her thing, how she measured her success, and she could not imagine a life without it.
With her phone resting under her chin, she punched a call to Guy, as she did at sporadic points throughout her day; he was a big part of her routine. In a traffic jam, bored at lunch, waiting for clients to show up to a viewing, she called Guy. Wanting to share something funny or irritating, she called Guy. Theirs was an easy and comfortable friendship. It was much to her relief that any fleeting embarrassment over his admission of love had been just that, fleeting, and they had thankfully put it behind them the minute they returned to London.
She started speaking the moment he answered.
‘Can’t park the bloody car!’
‘Good morning to you too.’
‘We’ve got Mr Whatshisname coming in about the Hartington house,’ she reminded.
‘I’m well aware. Clara has the coffee machine primed and we even have croissants.’
‘Don’t you start with sodding croissants.’ She shook her head and stopped her car, eyeing a space that she knew was at least twofeet too short, but that didn’t stop her staring at it, wishing that the cars either side had only shifted up and down a bit.
‘Am I to assume that you didn’t get out of bed on the sunny side of the street this morning?’
‘I just need to park the car! There’s not a single space!’ she boomed.
‘Well, thank goodness you called me, as I can make that happen from here in the office. Just a second while I grab my magic wand.’
‘Why is it always when I’m in a hurry!’ she whined.
‘There’s never a parking space. Difference is, when you’re not in a hurry you care a little bit less.’
‘You might be right.’ This was what her friend did, offered the voice of reason, calmed her with his logic. It was mollifying and maddening in equal measure. She didn’t know how his wife, Ada, put up with it. Ada, who had snared the former self-proclaimed lifelong bachelor and was about to give birth to their first child. Ada who didn’t work outside the home, liked pretty things, and cooked from scratch for the husband she adored. It was strange for Ashleigh that Guy’s wife was not one of her friends, not one of their gang or someone who had been introduced, a friend of a friend of a friend. She was instead an unknown who Guy had fallen for hard and fast. Ashleigh would have to admit to feeling the tiniest bit of trepidation when he’d announced he was getting married, not wanting their relationship to change.
‘Doesn’t she get bored, Gigi?’ she’d asked Guy when he’d announced that his wife-to-be would more than likely be staying at home to look after the house, the kid they planned for, and the Dachshund called Ben they doted on. The Dachshund called Ben with his own wardrobe that included a tiny Sherlock Holmes coat, deerstalker, and pipe. Nuff said.
‘No, or tired.’ He’d let this hang, and she’d felt the weight of exhaustion on her bones, having spent the day rushing fromappointment to appointment in heels more appropriate for sitting; her head throbbed, and she needed a shower.
‘Huh!’ She’d given a wry laugh, wishing for a brief moment that she could be more Ada.
‘And while we’re on the subject ...’
What subject?She had been a little confused by his segue.
‘Ada would prefer it if you didn’t call me Gigi. She doesn’t like the name, not for me, because, because ...’ He sounded nervous and very much like he was reciting practised lines.
‘Because what?’ she prompted, wondering what else Ada didn’t like.
‘She says it’s exclusionary, of a time and place when she wasn’t there.’
‘But she wasn’t there!’ Ashleigh had pointed out the obvious, wondering what Archie would make ofthis.
‘Exactly.’
‘But it’s your school nickname, long before uni, before me.’
‘Ash.’ The way he said her name sounded very much like the old Guy, like Gigi, who was sweet and funny and not so stressed he tied himself in knots trying to please his rather demanding wife. ‘Please.’
Her heart lurched for him. He sounded under pressure and the last thing she wanted was to add to that.
‘What about if I just don’t call you it in front of Ada? Would that work?’
‘Yes,’ he sighed. ‘That would work.’
