The Shoestring Club
Read The Shoestring Club Online
Authors: Sarah Webb
This book is dedicated to my dear friend and fellow writer, Martina Devlin
The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.
The Man in the Arena,
from a speech by
Theodore Roosevelt, 23 April 1910
In June I screamed for two days solid.
It all started on a quiet Sunday morning. I was standing behind the till at Shoestring, my sister Pandora’s designer swap shop, flicking through a copy of
i-D
magazine and minding my own business, when Pandora handed me a cream envelope.
‘This was in the postbox outside,’ she said. ‘Must have been delivered last night.’
I looked at the envelope suspiciously. Plush, expensive looking, my name –
Julia Schuster
– carefully handwritten in sky-blue ink across the middle.
I relaxed a little. A final warning from my credit card company was unlikely to come in such smart packaging. Then I peered at it closely. The script looked familiar but I couldn’t quite place it. Wish I had. I would have thrown the whole wretched thing in the bin unopened. Or burned it.
‘Take it.’ Pandora thrust the envelope into my hands. ‘Some of us have work to do,’ she added with a sniff and then walked off. I rolled my eyes behind her back. Pandora was in one of her moods and I’d spent most of the morning trying to avoid her.
Curious, I ripped open the envelope and pulled out the letter which had been wrapped around an invitation card. I unfolded it and read the Dear Jules at the top. Only then did it come to me – of course – it was Lainey’s neat, prissy handwriting. Bloody nerve. My stomach clenched at the mere thought of Lainey Anderson. But being terminally nosey, I had to read on.
Dear Jules,
I know we haven’t spoken since the morning after the party and I’m still SO sorry about all that. I hope your head is OK. Those stitches must have hurt.
You’re totally right, I should have told you about me and Ed beforehand. The night of his birthday do was a rubbish time to announce it. But when you got back from New Zealand, Ed made me promise to keep quiet for a few weeks, said you needed time to process everything. I guess after that the right opportunity never came along and, to be honest, I was a bit scared of what you’d say. And the longer I left it, the harder it got.
I hated sneaking around behind your back, Jules, believe me. And I feel even worse now that you’re so upset. But at least there was no one in the toilet to hear you screaming at me that night. I genuinely had no idea you’d take it so badly. You told me you were completely over Ed, that you had no idea what you’d ever seen in him.
OK, I understand how you must have felt, being the last person to know, and I swear the proposal came as a complete shock to me too – I genuinely had no idea he was going to fall on his knee like that, in front of everyone! But you know Ed, he loves a bit of drama. At least Kia was there to catch you when you fainted and take you to the hospital.
Please answer your mobile, Jules, I really need to talk to you. I rang the shop but Bird went all funny and refused to put you on the line, said you were distraught and that she’d shoot me with her air rifle if I went near the shop or ever tried contacting you again. (Does she actually own one by the way? Or any sort of gun? I wouldn’t put it past her!)
I rang back loads of times and eventually managed to get Pandora who said you were shaken but as well as could be expected in the circumstances; that the scar on your head would heal even if the scar on your heart would be there for all eternity. (Everyone in your family’s so melodramatic, Jules, but I do love them for it!)
Look, I know you and Ed have oceans of history – I was the one who picked up the pieces every time you guys argued. But that was a long time ago, things change, people move on.
Anyway, I guess you need some space right now, but we’ve been best friends for ever and I really want you there at the wedding. And Ed feels the same way too. I know you’re unlikely to want to be a bridesmaid after everything that’s happened, but if you change your mind the offer’s still there.
Please, please, please say you’ll come! It won’t be the same without you. I’ll try calling in to the shop again. I’m not giving up, we’ve been friends for too long and I don’t want to lose you. Besides, who’s going to help me find the perfect wedding dress? My sisters will probably put me in some sort of hideous meringue.
Please forgive me! I miss you, Jules.
Love always,
Lainey XXX
There was a smiley face over the ‘i’ of her name and I stared at it, practically growling. I pulled the thick cream invitation and RSVP card out of the envelope and ran my fingers over the embossed gold writing. Classy.
My eyes started to well up and I blinked the tears back furiously, grabbed a pen and scribbled across the RSVP card:
Never! I’d rather die. You have got to be kidding me, Lainey!
Then I ripped the invitation in half, which wasn’t easy as the card was ultra thick, threw it on the floor and stamped on it. Lainey and Ed. My best friend and the love of my life – together, for ever. It was really happening.
And that’s when I started screaming.
By August, Lainey had eventually stopped ringing my mobile several times a day, leaving contrite messages. So I was caught out on Saturday evening when I snatched up my iPhone and gave a cheery ‘Yello?’ before checking the number first.
‘Jules!’ she said. ‘Finally. Please don’t hang up.’
‘Too late,’ I yelled, my hands shaking so much it took me a second to click the end call button.
I sat on the edge of my bed, quivering with rage. My phone rang again but I let it go straight to messages. Then . . . silence. I picked it up, willing myself to delete the message without listening, but it was no use. I had to torture myself.
‘Hi, Jules.’ Lainey gave a nervous laugh. ‘Look, you have every right to put the phone down on me. But I just wanted to tell you that I’m seeing my sisters tonight, to talk about my hen night. Karen and Kia are organizing it. Maybe you’ll think about coming – the date hasn’t been set yet, but it won’t be for a while. I know I’m not your favourite person right now, but I hope you’ll get in touch soon. Um, well, I guess that’s it then. I miss you, Jules. Bye, love you . . .’
Hen party. If things were different, I’d be the one organizing Lainey’s hen for her. I knew I had no right to feel annoyed, I was the one not speaking to
her
, but it still hurt. I erased the message, stood up and checked myself out in the mirror, determined to block Lainey from my mind. I stared at my reflection. Vintage black, blue and green 70s Missoni minidress I’d found in Pandora’s shop, teamed with a pair of pale blue Meadham Kirchhoff beaded platforms. I threw my favourite black biker jacket over the dress and smiled. Perfect. I grabbed my bag and went downstairs for a swift glass or two of wine before Rowie collected me in a taxi. My nerves were still jangling from Lainey’s call but I wasn’t going to let it spoil my night.
Rowie is actually one of Pandora’s friends from fashion college. Now she owns her own boutique in Sandycove, Baroque, where I also work. She used to be a real party girl, but now only goes on the razz when her Danish boyfriend, Olaf, is at some car rally or other in the bog lands. He’s decent enough and I guess attractive in that clean, blond Nordic way that does nothing for me, but very intense and rather boring.
But even after many, many drinks I still couldn’t get Lainey’s niggling voice out of my head.
‘I miss you, Jules.’ ‘Love you.’
Really, Lainey? If you love me, why did you betray me? Answer that.
Now it’s Sunday and I’m standing behind the till at Shoestring again, head dipped, elbows resting on the wood, trying not to think about my raging hangover or Lainey Anderson.
‘Julia, what are you doing? If you’re reading magazines on my time again, I’m docking your wages, understand?’
I look up and groan. Pandora is striding towards me, a stark white dress-carrier the size of a body bag clutched against her chest.