“It’s not that important,” I mumble.
“I don’t believe that,” he says nicely.
Oh, now I feel awful. I glance up — and thank goodness, it’s my stop.
“Good luck,” I say, hastily getting up. “I really hope you get there in time.”
As I walk along the pavement I’m feeling a bit shamefaced. I should have got out my 120 quid and given it to that man for his baby, instead of buying a pointless scarf. I mean, when you think about it, what’s more important? Clothes — or the miracle of new life?
As I ponder this issue, I feel quite deep and philosophical. In fact, I’m so engrossed, I almost walk past my turning. But I look up just in time and turn the corner — and feel a jolt. There’s a girl coming toward me and she’s carrying a Denny and George carrier bag. And suddenly everything is swept from my mind.
Oh my God.
What if she’s got my scarf?
What if she asked for it specially and that assistant sold it to her, thinking I wasn’t going to come back?
My heart starts to beat in panic and I begin to stride along the street toward the shop. As I arrive at the door and push it open, I can barely breathe for fear. What if it’s gone? What will I do?
But the blond girl smiles as I enter.
“Hi!” she says. “It’s waiting for you.”
“Oh, thanks,” I say in relief and subside weakly against the counter.
I honestly feel as though I’ve run an obstacle course to get here. In fact, I think, they should list shopping as a cardiovascular activity. My heart never beats as fast as it does when I see a “reduced by 50 percent” sign.
I count out the money in tens and twenties and wait, almost shivering as she ducks behind the counter and produces the green box. She slides it into a thick glossy bag with dark green cord handles and hands it to me, and I almost want to cry out loud, the moment is so wonderful.
That moment. That instant when your fingers curl round the handles of a shiny, uncreased bag — and all the gorgeous new things inside it become yours. What’s it like? It’s like going hungry for days, then cramming your mouth full of warm buttered toast. It’s like waking up and realizing it’s the weekend. It’s like the better moments of sex. Everything else is blocked out of your mind. It’s pure, selfish pleasure.
I walk slowly out of the shop, still in a haze of delight. I’ve got a Denny and George scarf. I’ve got a Denny and George scarf! I’ve got. .
“Rebecca.” A man’s voice interrupts my thoughts. I look up and my stomach gives a lurch of horror. It’s Luke Brandon.
Luke Brandon is standing on the street, right in front of me, and he’s staring down at my carrier bag. I feel myself growing flustered. What’s he doing here on the pavement anyway? Don’t people like that have chauffeurs? Shouldn’t he be whisking off to some vital financial reception or something?
“Did you get it all right?” he says, frowning slightly.
“What?”
“Your aunt’s present.”
“Oh yes,” I say, and swallow. “Yes, I. . I got it.”
“Is that it?” He gestures to the bag and I feel a guilty blush spread over my cheeks.
“Yes,” I say eventually. “I thought a. . a scarf would be nice.”
“Very generous of you. Denny and George.” He raises his eyebrows. “Your aunt must be a stylish lady.”
“She is,” I say, and clear my throat. “She’s terribly creative and original.”
“I’m sure she is,” says Luke, and pauses. “What’s her name?”
Oh God. I should have run as soon as I saw him, while I had a chance. Now I’m paralyzed. I can’t think of a single female name.
“Erm. . Ermintrude,” I hear myself saying.
“Aunt Ermintrude,” says Luke thoughtfully. “Well, give her my best wishes.”
He nods at me, and walks off, and I stand, clutching my bag, trying to work out if he guessed or not.
ENDWICH BANK
FULHAM BRANCH 3 Fulham Road
London SW6 9JH
Ms. Rebecca BloomwoodFlat 24 Burney Rd.London SW6 8FD
17 November 1999
Dear Ms. Bloomwood: I am sorry to hear that you have glandular fever.When you have recovered, perhaps you would be kind enough to ring my assistant, Erica Parnell, and arrange a meeting to discuss your situation.Yours sincerely,Derek SmeathManager
ENDWICH — BECAUSE WE CARE
Three
I WALK THROUGH THE door of our flat to see Suze, my flatmate, sitting in one of her strange yoga positions, with her eyes closed. Her fair hair is scrunched up in a knot, and she’s wearing black leggings together with the ancient T-shirt she always wears for yoga. It’s the one her dad was wearing when he rowed Oxford to victory, and she says it gives her good vibes.