Confessions of a Shopaholic
Page 28
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Quickly I take the phone off the hook and hide it under a cushion. Now she can’t get me. I’m safe.
“Who was that?” says Suze, coming into the room.
“No one,” I say, and force a bright smile. I don’t want to spoil Suze’s birthday with my stupid problems. “Just a wrong. . Listen, let’s not have drinks here. Let’s go out!”
“Oh,” says Suze. “OK!”
“Much more fun,” I gabble, trying to head her away from the phone. “We can go to some really nice bar and have cocktails, and then go on to Terrazza.”
What I’ll do in future, I’m thinking, is screen all my calls. Or answer in a foreign accent. Or, even better, change the number. Go ex-directory.
“What’s going on?” says Fenella, appearing at the door.
“Nothing!” I hear myself say. “We’re going out for a titchy and then on to sups.”
Oh, I don’t believe it. I’m turning into one of them.
As we arrive at Terrazza, I’m feeling a lot calmer. Of course, Erica Parnell will have thought we were cut off by a fault on the line or something. She’ll never have thought I put the phone down on her. I mean, we’re two civilized adults, aren’t we? Adults just don’t do things like that.
And if I ever meet her, which I hope to God I never do, I’ll just keep very cool and say, “It was odd what happened, that time you phoned me, wasn’t it?” Or even better, I’ll accuse her of putting the phone down on me. (In a jokey way, of course.)
Terrazza is full, buzzing with people and cigarette smoke and chatter, and as we sit down with our huge silver menus I feel myself relax even more. I love eating out. And I reckon I deserve a real treat, after being so frugal over the last few days. It hasn’t been easy, keeping to such a tight regime, but somehow I’ve managed it. I’m keeping to it so well! On Saturday I’m going to monitor my spending pattern again, and I’m sure it’ll have gone down by at least 70 percent.
“What shall we have to drink?” says Suze. “Tarquin, you choose.”
“Oh, look!” shrieks Fenella. “There’s Eddie Lazenby! I must just say hello.” She leaps to her feet and makes for a balding guy in a blazer, ten tables away. How she spotted him in this throng, I’ve no idea.
“Suze!” cries another voice, and we all look up. A blond girl in a tiny pastel-pink suit is heading toward our table, arms stretched out for a hug. “And Tarkie!”
“Hello, Tory,” says Tarquin, getting to his feet. “How’s Mungo?”
“He’s over there!” says Tory. “You must come and say hello!”
How is it that Fenella and Tarquin spend most of their time in the middle of Perthshire, but the minute they set foot in London, they’re besieged by long-lost friends?
“Eddie says hi,” announces Fenella, returning to the table. “Tory! How are you? How’s Mungo?”
“Oh, he’s fine,” says Tory. “But listen, have you heard? Caspar’s back in town!”
“No!” everyone exclaims, and I’m almost tempted to join in. No one has bothered to introduce me to Tory, but that’s the way it goes. You join the gang by osmosis. One minute you’re a complete stranger, the next you’re shrieking away with the rest of them, going “Did you hear about Venetia and Sebastian?”
“Look, we must order,” says Suze. “We’ll come and say hello in a minute, Tory.”
“Okay, ciao,” says Tory, and she sashays off.
“Suze!” cries another voice, and a girl in a little black dress comes rushing up. “And Fenny!”
“Milla!” they both cry. “How are you? How’s Benjy?”
Oh God, it just doesn’t stop. Here I am, staring at the menu, pretending to be really interested in the starters but really feeling like some utter loser that no one wants to talk to. It’s not fair. I want to table-hop, too. I want to bump into old friends I’ve known since babyhood. (Although to be honest, the only person I’ve known that long is Tom from next door, and he’ll be in his limed oak kitchen in Reigate.)
But just in case, I lower my menu and gaze hopefully around the restaurant. Please, God, just once, let there be someone I recognize. It doesn’t have to be anyone I like, or even know that well — just someone I can rush up to and go mwah mwah and shriek, “We must do lunch!” Anyone’ll do. Anyone at all. .
And then, with a disbelieving thrill, I spot a familiar face, a few tables away! It’s Luke Brandon, sitting at a table with a smartly dressed older man and woman.
“Who was that?” says Suze, coming into the room.
“No one,” I say, and force a bright smile. I don’t want to spoil Suze’s birthday with my stupid problems. “Just a wrong. . Listen, let’s not have drinks here. Let’s go out!”
“Oh,” says Suze. “OK!”
“Much more fun,” I gabble, trying to head her away from the phone. “We can go to some really nice bar and have cocktails, and then go on to Terrazza.”
What I’ll do in future, I’m thinking, is screen all my calls. Or answer in a foreign accent. Or, even better, change the number. Go ex-directory.
“What’s going on?” says Fenella, appearing at the door.
“Nothing!” I hear myself say. “We’re going out for a titchy and then on to sups.”
Oh, I don’t believe it. I’m turning into one of them.
As we arrive at Terrazza, I’m feeling a lot calmer. Of course, Erica Parnell will have thought we were cut off by a fault on the line or something. She’ll never have thought I put the phone down on her. I mean, we’re two civilized adults, aren’t we? Adults just don’t do things like that.
And if I ever meet her, which I hope to God I never do, I’ll just keep very cool and say, “It was odd what happened, that time you phoned me, wasn’t it?” Or even better, I’ll accuse her of putting the phone down on me. (In a jokey way, of course.)
Terrazza is full, buzzing with people and cigarette smoke and chatter, and as we sit down with our huge silver menus I feel myself relax even more. I love eating out. And I reckon I deserve a real treat, after being so frugal over the last few days. It hasn’t been easy, keeping to such a tight regime, but somehow I’ve managed it. I’m keeping to it so well! On Saturday I’m going to monitor my spending pattern again, and I’m sure it’ll have gone down by at least 70 percent.
“What shall we have to drink?” says Suze. “Tarquin, you choose.”
“Oh, look!” shrieks Fenella. “There’s Eddie Lazenby! I must just say hello.” She leaps to her feet and makes for a balding guy in a blazer, ten tables away. How she spotted him in this throng, I’ve no idea.
“Suze!” cries another voice, and we all look up. A blond girl in a tiny pastel-pink suit is heading toward our table, arms stretched out for a hug. “And Tarkie!”
“Hello, Tory,” says Tarquin, getting to his feet. “How’s Mungo?”
“He’s over there!” says Tory. “You must come and say hello!”
How is it that Fenella and Tarquin spend most of their time in the middle of Perthshire, but the minute they set foot in London, they’re besieged by long-lost friends?
“Eddie says hi,” announces Fenella, returning to the table. “Tory! How are you? How’s Mungo?”
“Oh, he’s fine,” says Tory. “But listen, have you heard? Caspar’s back in town!”
“No!” everyone exclaims, and I’m almost tempted to join in. No one has bothered to introduce me to Tory, but that’s the way it goes. You join the gang by osmosis. One minute you’re a complete stranger, the next you’re shrieking away with the rest of them, going “Did you hear about Venetia and Sebastian?”
“Look, we must order,” says Suze. “We’ll come and say hello in a minute, Tory.”
“Okay, ciao,” says Tory, and she sashays off.
“Suze!” cries another voice, and a girl in a little black dress comes rushing up. “And Fenny!”
“Milla!” they both cry. “How are you? How’s Benjy?”
Oh God, it just doesn’t stop. Here I am, staring at the menu, pretending to be really interested in the starters but really feeling like some utter loser that no one wants to talk to. It’s not fair. I want to table-hop, too. I want to bump into old friends I’ve known since babyhood. (Although to be honest, the only person I’ve known that long is Tom from next door, and he’ll be in his limed oak kitchen in Reigate.)
But just in case, I lower my menu and gaze hopefully around the restaurant. Please, God, just once, let there be someone I recognize. It doesn’t have to be anyone I like, or even know that well — just someone I can rush up to and go mwah mwah and shriek, “We must do lunch!” Anyone’ll do. Anyone at all. .
And then, with a disbelieving thrill, I spot a familiar face, a few tables away! It’s Luke Brandon, sitting at a table with a smartly dressed older man and woman.
