When in Rome... (7 page)

I think you develop certain patterns with people that get so ingrained, you can’t get out of them—like Candy never compensates and gets places a bit late. And even if I’m early when I leave to meet Candy, something always happens. Or maybe it’s just that I’m always so worried about what I’m going to wear that I end up changing ten times.

Take today. A girly catch-up and shopping trip round Oxford Street. So that’s jeans, maybe a nice top (wearing crap clothes when you’re shopping is very dangerous—shop assistants sneer at you and anything you try on looks better than what you’re wearing so you end up buying too much), and some cool flat-ish shoes. Flat because of all the walking. But not too flat because then my legs look stumpy and I won’t be able to try on anything that requires heels, which is pretty much everything. Plus also, flat shoes make me look about forty, unless they’re really pointed, in which case they’re so uncomfortable that they defeat the object of wearing flats in the first place.

Getting dressed isn’t usually this complicated for me. I manage to dress myself most days without a second thought. But Candy is one of those tall, thin, Gwyneth Paltrow types—blond hair, a constant light tan, and the ability to make a pantomime cow outfit look sexy. In fact, it’s worse than that. I know plenty of beautiful people, and they don’t make me react this way. No, with Candy, it’s the way she looks at my clothes and says things like “That skirt’s a really nice idea. So I guess you need some cowboy boots now to make it work. Shall we try . . .” and then lists a whole load of shops that sell cowboy boots, when I had got the skirt specifically to go with my trainers, or whatever I’m wearing. She talks about “looks” instead of outfits, and as yet I don’t think I’ve ever got a “look” right, in her opinion. But rather than accept defeat, I just keep on trying.

Today I think I’ve cracked it, though. Tod’s loafers—they’re comfortable, but they’re also Italian, and I once saw Elle McPherson wearing a pair, which demonstrates just how stylish they are. (If I’m really honest it was seeing Elle wearing them that got me extending my overdraft to buy a pair.) So with my black trousers and black turtleneck I think I’m actually looking quite Audrey Hepburn inFunny Face . A kind of beatnik Euro-chic look. Shit, I’m even talking like Candy now.

Luckily I get a cab without too much difficulty and am only ten minutes late. Candy is waiting for me outside Browns on South Molton Street. She is in combats, trainers, and a little pink T-shirt that sits just above her belly button, revealing an expanse of tanned skin. She looks me up and down when we’ve kissed hello.

“You look very formal. Have you been working this morning?” she asks.

This is not going to go well.

We decide to go for a coffee first. Last time I saw her, Candy insisted on drinking cocktails—“makes shopping so much more fun, don’t you think?”—but today she is ordering a large latte with extra cream. I decide to order the same thing—it’s sunny but windy outside and I need warming up.

We sit down in the Starbucks next to Office Shoes and I find that I am actually rather excited. I can’t wait for Candy to say “So tell me, what’s going on with you,” so that I can give a little smile and say “Oh, you know, the usual. Although, you know I bumped into Mike recently? Well, you’ll never believe it, but he’s been pursuing me . . .” She’ll probably squeal and fill me in on his side of the story (“He just called me up and asked how you were—said he’d seen you in the street and he just couldn’t stop talking about you”), and we can laugh about it. I can talk at length about the relative merits of David and Mike, and the problems that come with being so darn desirable. And then we can go shopping and buy some fabulous new clothes to go with my fabulous new heartbreaker image.

Our seats are by the window and the sun is streaming through the glass, giving the impression that it’s summer even though it’s barely April. The coffee shop is full of glamorous-looking people with huge numbers of shopping bags. I notice that none of them are from shops that I frequent—I don’t suppose Top Shop and Oasis bags really hold their own against Miu Miu and Fenwicks.

Maybe I should start buying designer clothes like Candy. I wonder if Mike would take me shopping with his platinum credit card and then I immediately feel guilty. David hates shopping, unless it’s for gadgets—he can happily spend four hours finding out just how many functions a television has, but try and get him into French Connection and he suddenly remembers how much work he’s got to do. But he is my boyfriend and I love him. There is no way I would ever go shopping with Mike. I’ll just max-out my own credit card like normal people.

Candy has arranged herself delicately over her chair. She is looking amazing. Her cheeks are pink, her skin is glowing, and her blue eyes are gleaming. I resolve that I will only try clothes on in shops with separate changing facilities.

I wait for her to start talking, but strangely, she’s silent.

“So,” I begin. “How’s things?”

She’s about to start talking, when, before I can help it, I interrupt with “Seen much of Mike?”

It’s no use. I just can’t wait for her to tell me about her life. I’ve been bottling this Mike thing up for days, and I need to talk about it. I try to sound nonchalant, but unfortunately the question comes out a bit quickly, with a little bit too much emotion attached.

Candy looks up sharply.

Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say. I’ve got to impress upon Candy that I am over Mike, but that he is obviously not over me. Far from it. Maybe I should try a different tack.

“I mean, well, you’re friends, aren’t you?” I mutter, trying to make out that there was no significance to my question. I don’t want to just tell her about Mike. I want her to ask. I want her to drag the facts out of me.

“So how are you?” I ask again.

“George, look, I’m sorry we haven’t seen each other for such a long time. I’ve been really busy at work and . . . well, you know. The things is, I kind of brought you out under false pretenses today,” she begins slowly.

Oh God, Mike’s here, I think. He’s asked her to get me out so that he can spend the afternoon with me. I look around, but can’t see him.

Candy is staring into her coffee.

“The thing is, George, I’m pregnant.”

Okay, I was not expecting that. “Pregnant? Candy, I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone!”

It occurs to me that I wouldn’t really know.

“How . . . how did it happen?”

Candy sort of snorts and stares at me. “George, I don’t think I need to go into that level of detail do I?”

“No, sorry, of course not. I just . . . it . . . I’m just surprised, that’s all. So, are you, I mean, do you think you’ll . . .”

“Keep it?” she asks. “Oh yes, definitely. But I don’t know. I haven’t told my parents yet. I haven’t dared.”

I can see why she’s scared. Candy’s parents are completely terrifying. Even my mother is scared of them—she met them once at a party and couldn’t get away quickly enough. They are like your worst nightmare headmistress and headmaster rolled into one. And they certainly aren’t the sort to embrace single motherhood. Her mother went into a complete decline when Candy had her belly button pierced; the prospect of a baby would probably finish her off.

“So who’s the father? Do you think you’ll get married?”

Actually this is really cool. I could be godmother or something. A bad thought comes into my head and I try to push it out with little success. Candy will get stretch marks. Well, I told you it wasn’t a nice thought. But it’s true, isn’t it. She might even get fat and not be able to lose the weight. Okay, Georgie, focus on the real issues here. This isimportant .

“I don’t really want to say who the father is, actually, if that’s okay,” Candy is saying, still staring into her coffee cup. “He’s . . . well, he needs time to get used to the idea, obviously. But we’re really in love and stuff. I mean, he adores me.”

Wow. Candy pregnant. I can hardly believe it. And even if she doesn’t get married, all her friends are so loaded that at least she’ll be okay financially. I’m sure she will get married, though. Ooh, I could be a bridesmaid. I resolve to be a really good friend and listen to everything Candy says—if she gets married, she’s bound to have really lovely bridesmaids dresses. And, obviously, I want to be there for her on her special day. Bridesmaids generally get presents, too, don’t they?

“Are you going to give up work if you keep it?” The only reason I can ever think of for having a baby is all the time off work you get. Actually it’s quite a compelling one. Although you’d also need a nanny, wouldn’t you, otherwise you’d spend all your free time having to look after a baby instead of doing nice things. But if Candy doesn’t get married, who’s going to pay for the nanny?

“Work?” says Candy thoughtfully, as if it’s something she hasn’t even considered. “Oh, I’m sure I won’t have to work.”

I look at her uncertainly.

“I mean even if . . . well, even if we didn’t get married, which I’m sure we will, I’m sure Daddy would increase my allowance if I needed it,” she continues.

“Really?” I’d forgotten about Candy’s allowance.

“God yes. He’d hate it, of course. But he’d definitely make sure we had enough money. . . .”

I smile sweetly. It’s so unfair. Why can’t I have a nice trust fund or something? I feel the beginnings of Candy-envy creeping up through my body. I used to get this all the time—being friends with Candy is not good for anyone’s health. But I realize that I now have a really good way of dealing with it. I just picture Candy with stretch marks and a large stomach and I start to feel much better. It’s like the old technique for giving presentations: imagine everyone with just their underwear on. Except this image is actually going to happen.

“What about the father? Is it one of your investment banker admirers? Is it someone I’ve met? And are you going to have a huge big wedding? Oh, Candy, tell me,” I beg, but she shakes her head.

Instead, I slurp my coffee while Candy tells me about a house she’s seen in Kensington (a flat is just not suitable to have a baby in) and about schools in the area, great clothes shops for pregnant women and the possibility of having a quick tummy tuck after the birth—naturally I advise against it.

I keep looking for an opportune moment to tell Candy about my stuff, but somehow the fact that after all this time Mike seems to really fancy me doesn’t really warrant much airspace when Candy’s about to become a mother.

I look at my watch. We’ve been sitting in the coffee shop for nearly an hour now and I know more about pregnancy than I ever thought possible. Certainly more than I want to know. Surely it must be okay to talk about Mike for a bit now. Actually, Candy would probably really appreciate me changing the subject and talking about something other than babies. But how can I gradually introduce Mike into the conversation?

“So, anyway,” I venture, “it looks like Mike is up to his old tricks again!” Hmmm, not really what I was looking for, but it’ll have to do.

Candy looks at me strangely. “Meaning what, exactly?”

“Well, I think he might want me back,” I say gleefully, delighted to finally get an opportunity to tell my story. “I mean, he’s been calling and e-mailing, and then we went out for a drink last night and he was all over me! Nothing happened, of course—I’m, you know, with David now, but it’s a funny old world isn’t it!”

It’s all come out wrong. I wanted her to tease the facts out of me, and only suggest that Mike has been flirting with me. But at least I’ve opened up the subject for discussion. I look up at Candy expectantly, waiting for her to tell me to stay away from Mike so I can explain that this time it’s him doing all the chasing and that actually I’m notreally interested, but instead she just says “You went out last night?”

I suddenly remember that Candy may be cross on behalf of David. She did introduce us, after all. And the last thing I want is for her to say anything to him. God, why didn’t I think of that before?

“Well, it was more of a chance meeting really,” I say uncertainly, backtracking furiously. “We just had a quick drink. You know, for old time’s sake.”

Candy looks at me accusingly. “There’s nothing in it,” I say quickly. “I think Mike’s just made a real success of things and is realizing too late that it’s no fun if you haven’t got anyone to share it with.”

It feels good to be saying this. I have wanted to be able to say this ever since Mike walked out on me. I’m not entirely sure it’s true, but it’s near enough.

Candy does not look pleased. “Georgie, I thought you were going out with David? Or have I missed something here? For God’s sake, you go for one drink and now you think he wants you back? When are you going to grow up and realize that Mike is just not interested in you and never was?”

It’s obviously bad timing. I shouldn’t have brought up my men issues. Candy is pregnant, and that’s far more important than my stupid ruminations on whether or not my flirting with Mike is completely wicked or just a bit of innocent fun.

But doesn’t she realize that Mikeis interested in me? That things have changed? I’m going to have to leave the subject, but I wish she’d been there. You know, to see that he was all over me. That I wasn’t just imagining it.

“I’m sorry, Candy, I didn’t mean it, really. Of course I’m going out with David, and I’m completely over Mike—you know that. It’s not my fault if he calls, though, is it?”

I give her a smile, but am disconcerted to see that there are tears in her eyes. God, what have I done?

“Candy, honestly, forget it, it’s nothing,” I say hurriedly. “Look, I’m sorry I even brought it up. You haven’t even told me when the baby’s due or about names or anything! We could go to Mothercare or something!”

But it’s too late. Candy is gathering up her things. “Candy?” I look at her in alarm. Is she really that upset? Can pregnancy hormones make you that temperamental?

“Look, I’m really sorry, George, I’ve got to go now,” says Candy, sniffing. “I . . . I’m just a bit emotional, you know. It was nice seeing you, and I’ll give you a call. Okay?” She gets up and starts walking out of the coffee shop very quickly.