Again?
Chapter Forty
The fashion show is in what appears to be the warehouse of a slightly run-down industrial estate, but the car park is full of high-end cars and women in impossibly high heels.
‘I’m glad I wore my shiny Louboutins,’ I tell Flick. I’d been a tad excited to find them in my closet and they do look rather amazing with the simple body-con dress I found hanging in the wardrobe, a note pinned to it in what I guess was Flick’s handwriting instructing me to wear it to the show.
She spins to look at me and almost crashes the car into the wall at the end of the parking space. ‘What did you say?’
‘Err … just that I’m glad I wore the shiny Louboutins. They’re so pretty.’ Part of me is playing the role of the woman I think Flick thinks I am, but part of me is genuinely taken by the shoes. It’s not every day you get to wear a pair of shoes that cost more than a holiday.
‘Is everything all right?’ she asks, switching off the engine and turning in her seat to look at me. My stomach drops at the look in her eyes. The one that says she might be looking at an alien. Or an imposter.
‘Yes,’ I manage to squeak.
‘Last week you were adamant you’d bought matt Louboutins and thought the idea of buying patent was ludicrous.’
‘But they are patent.’
She sighs. ‘Yes, Bethany. They are patent.’ Her voice says she thinks I’m an idiot. ‘I was with you when you chose them. We’ve been through this.’
‘But you said I bought matt ones?’
‘No.Yousaid you bought matt ones. You said you wouldn’t have chosen patent shoes as they might reflect your knickers. Which is ridiculous because of course we checked in the store that was absolutely not going to be a problem. And they are clearly patent.’
She isn’t making sense and it’s making my brain hurt. All this confusion over a pair of overpriced stilettos. ‘Four hundred pounds though.’ The words fall from my mouth before I can stop them. ObviouslythisBethany can afford them.
She looks like I’ve slapped her round the face. ‘Four hundred pounds? Er, 1990 called and it wants its prices back. Those were six hundred and forty-five and worth every single penny.’
‘Six hundred and forty-five.’ The amount sounds even more bonkers when I say it out loud. ‘Did I really pay th—’
She cuts me off. ‘They were a gift.’
Oh.
‘I was just trying to do something nice,’ she continues. But then she pauses and her face falls. ‘It was our anniversary.’ The last sentence is little more than a whisper.
I’ve really hurt her and I have no idea what to say to make things better. Except the obvious. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I know I can be a bit much,’ Flick says, a shy smile playing across her lips. ‘But you’re my best friend and I love you, Bethany. I’m so glad we came back into each other’s lives.’
I want to ask her how that happened. But … oh. ‘Six years,’ I say quietly. It’s a question but I don’t phrase it as such.
‘Six brilliant years.’ She grins back at me.
About three months after I broke up with Nick there was a school reunion. I’d got tickets in advance, planning on parading my attractive boyfriend and the fact I’d been offered funding for my PhD around. But without half of that equation I didn’t go and stayed home with a mountain of chocolate instead. Obviously here, in this world, I made a different choice and paid for it by being shackled to Flick for six years.
Eugh. I’m being a bitch and totally unfair. Firstly, she’s being really nice and sweet and she obviously has a lot of affection for this Bethany. And secondly, this Bethany must really like her back. I mean, we can be fools, but we aren’t hang-around-with-lunatics-for-six-years type fools. Or at least I don’t think we are.
‘I’m sorry, Flick. And you know I love you.’ I don’t really know what to say. I’m already out of my depth in this world and things are getting weird. In the end I decide to play the safest card. ‘I think I’m just a bit stressed, you know. Perhaps I do need a trip to Saint-Tropez after all.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ she replies. ‘Now, can we please go and get a drink? I’m parched.’
So, I know I said a fashion show wasn’t going to be my thing, but I have a surprisingly good time. There’s a free flow of sparkling wine and a thrum in the air like a tropical storm is about to break. It’s impossible not to embrace it and I find myself giggling with Flick in the back row as she gives me a running commentary of the outfits.
Flick is funny. Really funny. Like I’m almost going to wet myself funny. ‘And here we have a trend known as space-farer chic,’ she whispers behind her hand, so quietly only I canhear. ‘Characterized by a utility belt for all your blaster needs and featuring a very handy pouch for that third boob.’
I squint at the model and sure enough the dress they’re wearing does make it look like they have an extra breast. ‘VeryTotal Recall,’ I tell Flick.
