this rollercoaster of emotions. One minute I want him so much it aches, and the next I’m left feeling devastated.
I take a deep breath, inwardly wishing my feelings for Tom weren’t quite so obvious. I really wish I hadn’t been so stubborn now. I should have swallowed my pride and agreed to talk later when it was more convenient. Instinctively, I pull my mobile from my pocket and quickly glance at the screen, willing him to have been in touch. To explain everything. Make it good again. But nothing. Just a text message from Dad, all in shouty capitals with no full stops, but at least he’s trying. I bought him a mobile for his birthday a couple of months ago, and then he went on the silver-surfers’ course at the community centre to master the art of communicating effectively in the electronic age. He’s asking if I’ll come for a late lunch on Sunday, says he has a bit of news to share.
I glance up and my face immediately freezes. Kelly is looking directly at Zara. She was talking to her, not me. No wonder Zara is being frosty: she fancies Tom and wants him all to herself. And it explains why she’s so desperate to go to Paris. Probably thinks she’ll seduce him up the Eiffel Tower or whatever. Flaming cheek! My heart sinks.
Well, if she thinks I give up that easily, then she’s seriously mistaken. It’s taken me a long time to meet Tom. OK, he’s behaving a bit weirdly right now and, like Millie said, it was all very last-minute and I didn’t exactly give him time to say he was about to board a flight to Paris before I ran out of his office. And it’s early days and all couples have bumpy patches. But if Zara thinks she’s going to steal him away from me with her supermodel looks and endless supply of designer handbags, then she’s going to have a fight on her hands. If there’s one thing I learnt during my time in foster care, it was that you have to stand up to the likes of Zara.
I turn on my heel, and for the second time today, I leave the room as quickly and quietly as I can. Only this time, Eddie isn’t sitting outside to extend a consoling hand, and there aren’t any tears. Just a stunned realisation, deep down, that it might really be over between Tom and me. No chance of us making up. And no matter how much of a brave face I try to put on things with my fighting talk and bluster, if Tom doesn’t want to be with me, then, realistically, there isn’t much I can do about it. I can’t force him to want me. A shudder rattles right through me as a feeble sob catches in my throat.
The warm Christmassy smell of nutmeg and orange cocoons me like a comfort blanket as soon as I push open the door to Sam’s café. Instantly, I feel myself calming down. Whenever I come in here, it’s as though I’ve entered an oasis of calm, a stark contrast to the vibrant festive atmosphere just a few floors below.
I’ve just finished work and couldn’t face being on the draughty damp bus and then sitting at home all alone with a mince pie and custard to keep me company. Not when I could have been wearing black lace underwear and having incredible sex with a man who, only yesterday, I seriously thought might be the one. My happy-ever-after. I swallow before biting down hard on my bottom lip.
‘Hey, are you OK hun? You look frazzled.’ Sam appears, wiping her hands on a candy-pink-striped apron as she comes around the counter towards me.
‘Not really. You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.’ I pull a face and grip the strap of my handbag before hoisting it further onto my shoulder.
‘Well, you grab a booth and I’ll get us some cakes. They always make things better.’ She smiles and rubs my arm before heading off to the kitchen. Stacey, one of the waitresses, beckons me over to the best booth in the far corner, with full view of the café. Perfect for chatting and keeping an eye out to see who is coming or going.
‘Thank you,’ I say, flinging my bag down into one of the reclaimed train seats. Crimson red velvet, they’re arranged in booths of four around low tables, with frilly shaded lamps that radiate a golden glow to create an authentic steam-train carriage feel. It’s just like being in an old black-and-white film, or aboard the Orient Express, circa 1920, and very in keeping with the elegant Art Deco style of the nine-floor Carrington’s building.
Sinking down into a seat, I study the rich burgundy flock wallpaper, counting the sequence of the pattern before it repeats all over again, and I can’t help wondering if Kelly will want to rip it out and modernise everything. Install harsh strip lights and clinical tiled flooring, like some of the big chain stores up in London.
I’ve been thinking about things all afternoon in between serving seventeen customers. Mostly women, clutching paper lists as they try to get a head start with their Christmas shopping. I got so caught up in worrying about my wide-angled bottom being on TV that I didn’t actually stop to think about the real impact for Carrington’s of being in Kelly’s show. She changes things! Improves businesses, supposedly. But what if her idea of improvement is dire? What will happen then? Tom’s not even here to keep an eye on her. I can’t believe he’s disappeared at a time like this. I just hope the board know what they’re doing – surely Kelly will have to run big changes past them first?
Take the new pet spa next door – I bet she had to get authorisation to do that, she must have done. Well, if it comes to it, then I’m sure Tom’s Aunt Camille will step in and put a stop to it. She has in the past, when things have got out of hand.
I pull my phone out of my bag and check again. Still nothing. And then I realise that I don’t know how long the flight is. Tom might not even be there yet. He could be sipping champagne or having a deep-tissue massage in the business lounge, or whatever it is people do in there.
I’m contemplating sending him a text message, my finger is poised, when Sam appears and I realise that this really needs to be sorted out in person. Or at least in a proper telephone conversation. I resolve to call Tom later instead.
‘There. Get your laughing gear around this,’ Sam grins as she pushes a red velvet cupcake up to my lips. I manage a weak smile as I take the cake. After running my index finger over the buttercream icing, I pop it into my mouth. Mm-mmm. My favourite. ‘So, tell me all about it,’ she says, sitting down next to me and simultaneously sliding a three-tiered floral cake stand crammed with every cake imaginable onto the table. There is even a selection of macaroons – salted caramel, chocolate, pistachio, raspberry and vanilla. And Stacey appears with two enormous mugs of hot chocolate piled high with swirly peaks of marshmallow-topped cream. ‘I’ve dropped a nip of brandy in yours. Thought you could do with it,’ Sam says, giving me a cheeky wink as she takes a mug from Stacey and hands it to me.
‘Thank you. Do I look that bad?’
I smile at Stacey as she places the other mug on the table, before heading back to the counter to serve a couple of old ladies who are nudging each other and chuckling naughtily as they point to two gooey chocolate éclairs inside the glass display cabinet.
‘So, tell me all about it,’ Sam says.
‘I will. But first … I want to give you this,’ I pull the gift-wrapped parcel of three little Christmas-themed romper suits from my handbag. I called Poppy in Childrenswear, right after serving the fake customer and his son, and she had them waiting for me to collect on my way up here. She’s included a really cute rattle too. It has reindeer bells and pictures of snowflakes on.
‘Aw, thanks honey.’ Sam shakes the parcel, making the bells jingle. ‘Ooh, it sounds just like Christmas. Santa in his sleigh.’ Her eyes light up. I smile. I’m really pleased I got it for her.
‘So how are you feeling?’ I ask, flitting my eyes downwards towards her stomach.
‘Fine
