I glance at Sam, feeling a bit awkward and waiting for her cue as Alfie presses the notes into my hand.
‘OK. If you insist.’ Sam grins at me as she reaches up to give Alfie a kiss.
‘Thank you,’ I say, knowing from previous experience there’s absolutely no point in arguing with Alfie. I was sixteen when he first tried to give me money one Christmas. I refused, of course, only to find it inside my coat pocket when it was time to return to Nanny Jean’s. I hid it inside a book in my locker at school, and later used it to buy a duvet when I moved to the bedsit.
‘My pleasure. Have fun girls,’ Alfie says, pulling the door open.
Once we’ve finished waving goodbye and Alfie’s roared off in his Aston Martin, I reach inside my handbag, pull out a little gift bag and swing it in front of Sam. Her eyes light up like a child’s. I’m so pleased I could get it for her.
‘Happy Birthday lovely.’ I lean forward, and give her a big birthday kiss on each cheek. She peers into the bag.
‘Thank you honey.’ She lifts out the box. As she opens it she lets out a little squeal.
‘It’s gorgeous, how did you know that I’ve always wanted one of these?’ she says, holding the rainbow crystal Shamballa bracelet against her wrist.
‘Lucky guess. Or maybe it was the trillion hints you’ve been dropping.’ I can’t help teasing her. She’s like a big kid when it comes to birthdays, and not just her own. On my last birthday, she thoroughly spoilt me with a weekend in Barcelona that she had meant to be a surprise, but that she just couldn’t resist telling me about beforehand.
‘Was it really that many times? I’m so sorry, how boring,’ she says, handing me the cocktail. I take the mini rose-pink macaroon from the side of the glass and take a bite before quickly slurping a big mouthful of liquid through the silver bendy straw as we walk along the hallway and into the kitchen.
‘Mmm, what’s in this? It’s heavenly,’ I say, my mouth full of the luscious concoction.
‘It’s a secret recipe. Do you like it?’
‘Like it? I love it.’ I laugh, letting the liquid linger in my mouth. ‘I’m ravenous. I’ve only had a Wispa since breakfast time.’
‘There’s a lasagne in the oven if you want some, with no garlic in it of course. Just in case you pull. I’m determined to find you a Valentine’s date,’ Sam says, with a cheeky grin as I swing myself up onto the granite-topped breakfast bar and kick off my wedges.
‘Oh go on then, just a little bit though, not one of your monster helpings,’ I reply, hoping she ignores my half-hearted instruction. Sam is a fantastic cook. The year she spent at the culinary school in Paris was definitely worth it, even if she didn’t think so at the time. She spent months begging Alfie to let her go on a round-the-world cruise instead, but he was having none of it; said if she was serious about cooking then she needed to learn properly, luckily for me and my rumbling tummy.
‘Don’t tell me, another diet. Georgie, why do you bother? You know they don’t work. And I bet Wispas aren’t allowed.’ She snorts at me with disapproval. It’s OK for her, she’s one of those lucky people who really can eat whatever they want and stay slim.
‘Well, I lost six pounds doing No Carbs Before Marbs,’ I say, swinging my legs and flexing my crumpled toes.
‘So why are you doing another diet then? It’s not like you even need to lose weight. I’d love to have your gorgeous hourglass figure. Very Marilyn Monroe. Oooh, it’s the bombshell, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe,’ I smile coyly.
‘Well I hope so. And are you are all set for tonight? Nathan said he’ll see us there … with a few friends,’ Sam says, quickly changing the subject.
‘What did I say about trying to fix me up?’ I ask, pretending to be cross.
‘I don’t know, couldn’t hear … remember?’ Sam replies, flippantly.
‘Well I hope his friends are an improvement on the last batch of that – whatever his name was – guy you were seeing before Nathan.’
‘Trust me, if they have a fraction of the hotness that Nathan exudes, then you’ll have no complaint, that’s for sure.’
‘Cor, I’m not sure I can wait.’ We both laugh. I already feel more cheerful, looking forward to a good evening out. ‘And thanks for picking up my dress for tonight. I can’t believe I forgot to bring it with me this morning.’ I’d been in such a mad rush when I got up that I dashed out with only my shoes, make-up and Velcro rollers, so I had to make a mercy call to Sam and plead with her to bomb over to my flat on the other side of town.
‘No problem. That’s what BFFs are for. Follow me.’ I grab the bowl of lasagne from the worktop and take a forkful – it tastes divine. I then follow Sam as she runs off into her baby-blue-coloured dressing room with Sylvester, her chubby cat named after his striking resemblance to the cartoon version, springing along behind her.
As I enter the room I see Sam standing by one of her wardrobes. She’s beaming.
‘This is your gown for this evening, madam,’ she says, sounding like a camp fashion stylist. My gaze follows her outstretched arm towards the wardrobe door as she flings it open to reveal a vintage halter-neck investment dress hanging on the inside of the door.
‘Where did you find this?’ I ask, running my hand down the silky material.
‘In the back of your wardrobe, screwed up in a ball. It still had the price tag on it. Honestly, this dress is gorgeous,’ Sam says, indignantly.
‘Oh Sam, you shouldn’t have. I can’t wear it, I’ll never get into it,’ I whine, with trepidation, as the memory of trying to squeeze into it comes flooding back. ‘Besides, it’ll smell all musty, won’t it, having been scrunched up in the wardrobe for years,’ I add, panic mounting at the thought of wedging my curvy bits into the ultra-clingy dress.
‘I got it cleaned for you. So don’t worry about that.’ Sam waves her hand dismissively.
‘But where’s my dress? The one I planned to wear tonight? It was hanging on the back of the bathroom door,’ I say. ‘So I wouldn’t forget it,’ I then add, lamely.
‘Oh, that old rag. Trust me, this dress is reeeem,’ she says, in her best TOWIE voice, as she gestures her hand in a circular movement over the front of the dress. ‘Just try it … with this miracle suit thing.’ And she pulls a surgical-looking square of Lycra from behind her back and dangles it in front of me. Grabbing the pork-chop-coloured monstrosity from her, I scrutinise it. I think it is what is laughably called a ‘body-shaper’. It’s minuscule but I decide to give it a go. I don’t have much choice, unless I want to go clubbing in my black top and trouser work combo, complete with Carrington’s name badge, the pin of which has bent somehow, making it impossible to remove.
‘Right, out of the room, I want to see if I can wedge myself into this. Which I imagine is going to be some feat, which I’d rather not attempt with you standing there.’
‘Fantastic,’ Sam shrieks, and claps her hands together. ‘Just shout if you need a hand,’ she adds.
‘No
