When I got upset with Luke, he pointed out that I've never met his parents, either. But I have once—although very briefly. And anyway it's not the same thing, because his family lives miles away, and it's all much more complicated.
To be honest, I find Luke's family setup just a tad weird. He's got a dad and a stepmum in Britain who brought him up with his two half-sisters, and whom he calls Mum and Dad. And then he's got his real mum, Elinor, who left his dad when he waslittle, married some rich American, and left Luke behind. Then she left the rich American and married another, even richer American and then . . . was there another one? Anyway, the point is, she lives in New York. So of course I haven't met her. And the rest of his family is in Devon, not exactly handy for a quick Sunday lunch.
I said all this to Luke and I think he got my point. And at least he's making the effort to come on this little holiday. It was Mel, actually, who suggested the weekend idea. She told me Luke hadn't had a proper holiday for three years—and maybe he had to warm up to the idea. So I stopped talking about holidays and started talking about weekends away—and that did the trick! All of a sudden Luke told me to set aside this weekend. He booked the hotel himself and everything. I'm so looking forward to it. We'll just do nothing but relax and take it easy—and actually spend some time with each other for a change. Lovely.
I want those clementine shoes.
Stop it.
I take another sip of coffee, lean back, and force myself to survey the bustling street. People are striding along, holding bags and chatting, and there's a girl crossing the road with nice trousers on, which I think come from Nicole Farhi and . . . Oh God.
A middle-aged man in a dark suit is coming along the road toward me, and I recognize him. It's Derek Smeath, my bank manager.
Oh, and I think he's seen me.
OK, don't panic, I instruct myself firmly. There's no need to panic. Maybe once upon a time I would have been thrown by seeing him. I might have tried to hide behind a menu, or perhaps even run away. But that's all in the past. These days, Sweetie Smeathie and I have a very honest and amicable relationship.
Still, I find myself shifting my chair slightly farther away from my LK Bennett bag, as though it hasn't got anything to do with me.
“Hello, Mr. Smeath!” I say brightly as he approaches. “How are you?”
“Very well,” says Derek Smeath, smiling. “And you?”
“Oh, I'm fine, thanks. Would you . . . would you like a coffee?” I add politely, gesturing to the empty chair opposite me. And I'm not really expecting him to say yes—but to my astonishment he sits down and picks up a menu.
How civilized is this? I'm having coffee with my bank manager at a pavement cafe! You know, maybe I'll find a way to work this into my Morning Coffee slot. “I myself prefer the informal approach to personal finance,” I'll say, smiling warmly into the camera. “My own bank manager and I often share a friendly cappuccino as we discuss my current financial strategies . . .”
“As it happens, Rebecca, I've just written a letter to you,” says Derek Smeath, as a waitress puts an espresso down in front of him. Suddenly his voice is more serious, and I feel a small lurch of alarm. Oh God, what have I done now? “You and all my customers,” he adds. “To tell you that I'm leaving.”
“What?” I put my coffee cup down with a little crash. “What do you mean, leaving?”
“I'm leaving Endwich Bank. I've decided to take early retirement.”
“But . . .”
I stare at him, appalled. Derek Smeath can't leave Endwich Bank. He can't just leave me in the lurch, just as everything was going so well. I mean, I know we haven't always exactly seen eye to eye—but recently we've developed a really good rapport. He understands me. He understands my overdraft. What am I going to do without him?
“Aren't you too young to retire?” I say, aware of the dismay in my voice. “Won't you get bored?”
He leans back in his chair and takes a sip of espresso. “I'm not planning to give up work altogether. But I think there's a little more to life than looking after people's bank accounts, don't you? Fascinating though some of them have been.”
“Well . . . yes. Yes, of course. And I'm glad for you, honestly.” I shrug, a little embarrassed. “But I'll . . . miss you.”
“Believe it or not,” he says, smiling slightly, “I think I'll miss you too, Rebecca. Yours has certainly been one of the most . . . interesting accounts I've dealt with.”
He gives me a penetrating look and I feel myself flush slightly. Why does he have to remind me of the past? The point is, that's all over. I'm a different person now. Surely one should be allowed to turn over a new leaf and start again in life.
“Your new career in television seems to be going well,” he says, taking a sip of espresso.
“I know! It's so great, isn't it? And it pays really well,” I add, a little pointedly.
“Your income has certainly gone up in recent months.” He puts down his coffee cup and my heart sinks slightly. “However . . .”
I knew it. Why does there always have to be a however?
“However,” repeats Derek Smeath. “Your outgoings have also risen. Substantially. In fact, your overdraft is now higher than it was at the height of your . . . shall we say, your excesses.”
Excesses? That is so mean.
“You really must make more effort to keep within your overdraft limit,” he's saying now. “Or, even better, pay it off.”
“I know,” I say vaguely. “I'm planning to.”
I've just spotted a girl on the other side of the road, with an LK Bennett bag. She's holding a great big bag—with two shoe boxes in it.
If she's allowed to buy two pairs of shoes, then why aren't I? What's the rule that says you can only buy one pair of shoes at a time? I mean, it's so arbitrary.
“What about your other finances?” Derek Smeath is asking. “Do you have any store card bills, for example?”
“No,” I say with a tinge of smugness. “I paid them all off months ago.”
“And you haven't spent anything since?”
“Only bits and pieces. Hardly anything.”
And what's ninety quid, really? In the greater scheme of things?
“The reason I'm asking these questions,” says Derek Smeath, “is that I feel I should warn you. The bank is restructuring somewhat, and my successor, John Gavin, may not have quite the same relaxed approach which I have taken toward your account. I'm not sure you're aware quite how lenient I have been with you.”
“Really?” I say, not really listening.
I mean, suppose I took up smoking. I'd easily spend ninety quid on cigarettes without even thinking about it, wouldn't I?
In fact, think of all the money I've saved by not smoking. Easily enough to afford one little pair of shoes.
“He's a very capable man,” Derek Smeath is saying. “But also very . . . rigorous. Not particularly known for his flexibility.”
“Right,” I say, nodding absently.
“I would certainly recommend that you address your overdraft without delay.” He takes a sip of coffee. “And tell me, have you done anything about taking out a pension?”
“Erm . . . I went to visit that independent adviser you recommended.”
“And did you fill in any of the forms?”
Unwillingly, I drag my attention back to him.
“Well, I'm just considering my options,” I say, and put on my wise, financial-expert look. “There's nothing worse than rushing into the wrong investment, you know. Particularly when it comes to something as important as a pension.”
“Very true,” says Derek Smeath. “But don't spend too long considering, will you? Your money won't save itself.”
“I know!” I say and take a sip of cappuccino.
Now I feel a bit uncomfortable. Maybe he's right. Maybe I should put £90 into a pension fund instead of buying another pair of shoes.
But on the other hand—what good is a pension fund of £90? I mean, that
's not exactly going to keep me in my old age, is it? Ninety measly quid. And by the time I'm old, the world will probably have blown up, or something.
Whereas a pair of shoes is tangible, it's there in your hand . . .
Oh, sod it. I'm going to get them.
“Mr. Smeath, I have to go,” I say abruptly, putting down my cup. “There's something I have to . . . do.”
I have to get back there as quickly as possible. I pick up my carrier bag and drop a fiver on the table. “Lovely to see you. And good luck in your retirement.”
“Best of luck to you too, Rebecca,” says Derek Smeath, smiling kindly at me. “But do remember what I've said. John Gavin won't indulge you in the way that I have. So please be careful with your spending.”
“I will!” I say brightly.
And without quite running, I'm off down the street, as quick as I can, back to LK Bennett.
Perhaps strictly speaking I didn't exactly need to buy a pair of clementine shoes. But what occurred to me while I was trying them on was, I haven't actually broken my new rule. Because the point is, I will need them.
After all, I will need new shoes at some point, won't I? Everyone needs shoes. And surely it's far more prudent to stock up now in a style I really like, than to wait until my last pair wears out and then find nothing nice in the shops. It's only sensible. It's like . . . hedging my future position in the shoe market.
As I come out of LK Bennett, gleefully grasping my two shiny new bags, there's a warm, happy glow all around me, and I'm not in the mood to go home. So I decide to pop across the street to Gifts and Goodies. This is one of the shops that carries Suze's frames, and I have a little habit of going in whenever I pass, just to see if anyone's buying one.
I push the door open with a little ping, and smile at the assistant, who looks up. This is such a lovely shop. It's all warm and scented, and full of gorgeous things like chrome wine racks and etched glass coasters. I sidle past a shelf of pale mauve leather notebooks, and look up—and there they are! Three purple tweed photo frames, made by Suze! I still get a thrill, every time I see them.
And oh my God! I feel a sudden zing of excitement. There's a customer standing there, and she's holding one. She's actually holding one!
To be perfectly honest, I've never actually seen anyone buying one of Suze's frames. I mean, I know people must buy them, because they keep selling out—but I've never actually seen it happen. This is so exciting!
I walk quietly forward just as the customer turns the frame over. She frowns at the price, and my heart gives a little flurry.
“That's a really beautiful photo frame,” I say casually. “Really unusual.”
“Yes,” she says, and puts it back down on the shelf.
No! I think in dismay. Pick it up again!
“It's so difficult to find a nice frame these days,” I say conversationally. “Don't you think? When you find one, you should just . . . buy it! Before someone else gets it.”
“I suppose so,” says the customer, giving me an odd look.
Now she's walking away. What can I do?
“Well, I think I'll get one,” I say distinctly, and pick it up. “It'll make a perfect present. For a man, or a woman . . . I mean, everyone needs photograph frames, don't they?”
The customer doesn't seem to be taking any notice. But never mind, when she sees me buying it, maybe she'll rethink.
I hurry to the checkout, and the woman behind the till smiles at me. I think she's the shop owner, because I've seen her interviewing staff and talking to suppliers. (Not that I come in here very often, it's just coincidence or something.)
“Hello again,” she says. “You really like those frames, don't you?”
“Yes,” I say loudly. “And such fantastic value!” But the customer's looking at a glass decanter, and not even listening.
“How many of them have you bought, now? It must be about . . . twenty?”
What? My attention snaps back to the shop owner. What's she saying?
“Or even thirty?”
I stare at her in shock. Has she been monitoring me, every time I've been in here? Isn't that against the law?
“Quite a collection!” she adds pleasantly, as she wraps it up in tissue paper.
I've got to say something, or she'll get the idea that it's me buying all Suze's frames instead of the general public. Which is ridiculous. I ask you, thirty! I've only bought about . . . four. Five, maybe.
“I haven't got that many!” I say hurriedly. “I should think you've been mixing me up with . . . other people. And I didn't just come in to buy a frame!” I laugh gaily to show what a ludicrous idea that is. “I actually wanted some of . . . these, too.” I grab randomly at some big carved wooden letters in a nearby basket, and hand them to her. She smiles, and starts laying them out on tissue paper one by one.
“P . . . T . . . R . . . R.”
She stops, and looks at the letters puzzledly. “Were you trying to make Peter?”
Oh for God's sake. Does there always have to be a reason to buy things?
“Erm . . . yes,” I say. “For my . . . my godson. He's three.”
“Lovely! Here we are then. Two E's, and take away one R . . .”
She's looking at me kindly, as if I'm a complete halfwit. Which I suppose is fair enough, since I can't spell Peter and it's the name of my own godson.
“That'll be . . . £48,” she says, as I reach for my purse. “You know, if you spend £50, you get a free scented candle.”
“Really?” I look up with interest. I could do with a nice scented candle. And for the sake of £2 . . .
“I'm sure I could find something . . .” I say, looking vaguely round the shop.
“Spell out the rest of your godson's name in wooden letters!” suggests the shop owner helpfully. “What's his surname?”
“Um, Wilson,” I say without thinking.
“Wilson!” And to my horror, she begins to root around in the basket. “W . . . L . . . here's an O . . .”
“Actually,” I say quickly, “actually, better not. Because . . . because . . . actually, his parents are divorcing and he might be changing his surname.”
“Really?” says the shop owner, and pulls a sympathetic face as she drops the letters back in. “How awful. Is it an acrimonious split, then?”
“Yes,” I say, looking around the shop for something else to buy. “Very. His . . . his mother ran off with the gardener.”
“Are you serious?” The shop owner's staring at me, and I suddenly notice a couple nearby listening as well. “She ran off with the gardener?”
“He was . . . very hunky,” I improvise, picking up a jewelry box and seeing that it costs £75. “She couldn't keep her hands off him. The husband found them together in the toolshed. Anyway—”
“Goodness me!” says the shop owner. “That sounds incredible!”
“It's completely true,” chimes in a voice from across the shop.
What?
My head whips round—and the woman who was looking at Suze's frames is walking toward me. “I assume you're talking about Jane and Tim?” she says. “Such a terrible scandal, wasn't it? But I thought the little boy was called Toby.”
I stare at her, unable to speak.
“Maybe Peter is his baptismal name,” suggests the shop owner, and gestures to me. “This is his godmother.”
“Oh, you're the godmother!” exclaims the woman. “Yes, I've heard all about you.”
This isn't happening.
“Now, perhaps you can tell me.” The woman comes forward and lowers her voice confidentially. “Did Tim accept Maud's offer?”
I look around the silent shop. Everyone is waiting for my answer.
“Erm . . . yes, he did! Actually, I think I'll pay by cash.” I fumble in my purse, and plonk £50 on the counter. “Keep the change.”
“What about your scented candle?” says the shop owner. “You can choose from vanilla, sandalwood—”
“Never mind,” I say, hurry
ing toward the door.
“Wait!” calls the woman urgently. “What happened to Ivan?”
“He . . . he emigrated to Australia,” I say, and slam the door behind me.
God, that was a bit close. I think I'd better go home.
As I reach the corner of our road, I pause and do a little rearranging of my bags. Which is to say, I put them all in one LK Bennett carrier, and push them down until you can't see them. But it's not that I'm hiding them or anything.
I'm kind of hoping I'll be able to scuttle into my room without Suze seeing me, but as I open the front door, she's sitting on the floor of the hall, parceling something up.
“Hi!” she says. “Did you get the shoes?”
“Yes,” I say brightly. “Absolutely. Right size, and everything.”
“Let's have a look then!”
“I'll just . . . unpack them,” I say casually, and head toward my room, trying to keep relaxed. But I know I look guilty. I'm even walking guiltily.
“Bex,” she says suddenly. “What else is in that bag? That's not just one pair of shoes.”
“Bag?” I turn as though in surprise. “Oh, this bag. Erm . . . just a few . . . bits and pieces. You know . . . odds and ends . . .”
I tail away guiltily as Suze folds her arms, looking as stern as she can.
“Show me.”
“OK, listen,” I say in a rush. “I know I said only one pair. But before you get angry, just look.” I reach into my second LK Bennett bag, slip open the box, and slowly pull out one of the clementine sandals. “Just . . . look at that.”
“Oh my God,” breathes Suze, staring at it. “That's absolutely . . . stunning.” She takes it from me and strokes the soft leather gently—then suddenly her stern expression returns. “But did you need them?”