“Cressida Langton” bit at all. It could be for anyone. It could even be for me . . .
My fingers start to scratch away at the polish. Maybe my knocking over the polish was fate’s way of telling me to open the letter. Like it’s my destiny or something.
Except it isn’t, I remind myself firmly. If it’s anyone’s destiny, it’s Cressida’s, and unfortunately she’s missed out. And I am not interested in someone else’s mail, even if it has really nice handwriting on it. I purposefully walk over to the bin and place it firmly inside.
But then I get to wondering whether I’ve made the right decision. By throwing away the letter, am I throwing away an opportunity? All her life my mother has dreamt of being one of the glitterati. From what I’ve read of
Vanity Fair,
Becky Sharp would have opened a letter like that in a shot, and she’s doing all right for herself as far as I can see.
Five minutes later I retrieve it. God, this is agonizing. It’s like having a bar of chocolate in the fridge when you’ve just given it up for a month. And I’ve never been able to give chocolate up for more than a day. Half a day, actually. As soon as I think about giving it up, all I can think about is the delicious sweet taste melting in my mouth.
But that doesn’t mean I’m going to succumb this time.
I put on a CD and walk into the kitchen to pour myself another glass of wine. My hips start to sway slightly as Kylie gets into her stride on my stereo. “I just can’t get you out of my head,” I sing softly along to the music. Then my hips start to sway a bit more and I put my glass of wine down so that I can move my arms around a bit. “Ha na na,” I sing, as I dance around my living room floor. Jesus, I really must get out more.
I wonder what sort of music they play at Canvas. Not Kylie, I’m sure of that. God, I hope it isn’t too obscure and impossible to dance to. I want to let my hair down and have fun, and I’ll never be able to if it’s too cool—I just can’t imagine Julie doing the YMCA routine. Oh, God, I’ll probably make a total fool of myself, and they will all realize I’m not really a city slicker like them—I’m just a country bumpkin who sings “I Will Survive” whenever the karaoke machine gets wheeled out.
I wish I was more confident. Chloe doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks of her, and I’ve always really admired her for that. But I do care what people think of me. Particularly in London.
Still, at least I’m going out finally. And I can handle a cool Notting Hill club, no problem. My eyes rest on the Soho House program again. I just need to be more like Cressida, I tell myself. Cool and sophisticated.
Feeling much better, I turn up the music and dance my socks off for the rest of the evening.
3
Monday goes by without any major incidents. Laura decides not to come in, so we’re all a bit more relaxed, although Julie does get me to clear out the stockoom. I guess you need those little protocols that establish the pecking order—back at Shannon’s it was making the tea that determined whether you were junior or “going somewhere”; here it’s clearing out the stockroom. Still, in many ways I’m enjoying the lack of responsibility.
I manage to make a couple of sales, too, though most of my commission is going to go toward that bloody Missoni dress Laura accused me of ruining, and before I know it, Julie’s cashing up.
“So, you coming out?” she asks me. I nod, relieved that she remembers she invited me. You just never know with Julie.
“Great. I’ll call Lucy.”
She picks up the phone and as she dials I can hear her long red talons tapping. “Lucy? Yeah, it’s me. We’re just finishing off here, so d’you wanna come over and get your glad rags on?”
She puts the phone down and looks at me. “So what do you fancy wearing tonight? A bit of Prada? Maybe a cheeky Moschino number? Anything but Westwood—I’m wearing that dress and I’m not having
My fingers start to scratch away at the polish. Maybe my knocking over the polish was fate’s way of telling me to open the letter. Like it’s my destiny or something.
Except it isn’t, I remind myself firmly. If it’s anyone’s destiny, it’s Cressida’s, and unfortunately she’s missed out. And I am not interested in someone else’s mail, even if it has really nice handwriting on it. I purposefully walk over to the bin and place it firmly inside.
But then I get to wondering whether I’ve made the right decision. By throwing away the letter, am I throwing away an opportunity? All her life my mother has dreamt of being one of the glitterati. From what I’ve read of
Vanity Fair,
Becky Sharp would have opened a letter like that in a shot, and she’s doing all right for herself as far as I can see.
Five minutes later I retrieve it. God, this is agonizing. It’s like having a bar of chocolate in the fridge when you’ve just given it up for a month. And I’ve never been able to give chocolate up for more than a day. Half a day, actually. As soon as I think about giving it up, all I can think about is the delicious sweet taste melting in my mouth.
But that doesn’t mean I’m going to succumb this time.
I put on a CD and walk into the kitchen to pour myself another glass of wine. My hips start to sway slightly as Kylie gets into her stride on my stereo. “I just can’t get you out of my head,” I sing softly along to the music. Then my hips start to sway a bit more and I put my glass of wine down so that I can move my arms around a bit. “Ha na na,” I sing, as I dance around my living room floor. Jesus, I really must get out more.
I wonder what sort of music they play at Canvas. Not Kylie, I’m sure of that. God, I hope it isn’t too obscure and impossible to dance to. I want to let my hair down and have fun, and I’ll never be able to if it’s too cool—I just can’t imagine Julie doing the YMCA routine. Oh, God, I’ll probably make a total fool of myself, and they will all realize I’m not really a city slicker like them—I’m just a country bumpkin who sings “I Will Survive” whenever the karaoke machine gets wheeled out.
I wish I was more confident. Chloe doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks of her, and I’ve always really admired her for that. But I do care what people think of me. Particularly in London.
Still, at least I’m going out finally. And I can handle a cool Notting Hill club, no problem. My eyes rest on the Soho House program again. I just need to be more like Cressida, I tell myself. Cool and sophisticated.
Feeling much better, I turn up the music and dance my socks off for the rest of the evening.
3
Monday goes by without any major incidents. Laura decides not to come in, so we’re all a bit more relaxed, although Julie does get me to clear out the stockoom. I guess you need those little protocols that establish the pecking order—back at Shannon’s it was making the tea that determined whether you were junior or “going somewhere”; here it’s clearing out the stockroom. Still, in many ways I’m enjoying the lack of responsibility.
I manage to make a couple of sales, too, though most of my commission is going to go toward that bloody Missoni dress Laura accused me of ruining, and before I know it, Julie’s cashing up.
“So, you coming out?” she asks me. I nod, relieved that she remembers she invited me. You just never know with Julie.
“Great. I’ll call Lucy.”
She picks up the phone and as she dials I can hear her long red talons tapping. “Lucy? Yeah, it’s me. We’re just finishing off here, so d’you wanna come over and get your glad rags on?”
She puts the phone down and looks at me. “So what do you fancy wearing tonight? A bit of Prada? Maybe a cheeky Moschino number? Anything but Westwood—I’m wearing that dress and I’m not having
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