don’t have any energy left to make a positive out of the evening. Honestly, all I want to do right now is stick to Plan A: dig my pyjamas out of one of the boxes, pop open the champagne so I can scoff the lot myself without having to worry about finding any glasses, and – oh, heavenly bliss, after the day I’ve endured – curl up in front of Breakfast at Tiffany’s (or Tea at Tesco’s as Olly calls it, in honour of our first meeting) on my iPad.
‘Thanks, Olly, but I’m really tired. I think the best thing is to get an early night.’
‘Ooops, sorry.’ Jesse makes a beeline in the direction of the front door. ‘You don’t want a third wheel around at this time of night. I’ll leave you two to it.’
‘Us two?’ I blink up at him. ‘God, no, no, me and Olly aren’t—’
‘We’re not together, mate,’ Olly interrupts, firmly. ‘I’m fairly sure Libby meant an early night on her own.’
‘Ohhhhh … OK, I just thought … still, I’ll be on my way, anyway.’
‘Thanks again, Jesse. You really must let me buy you a drink, I’m really grateful …’
But he’s already gone.
‘Sorry about that,’ says Olly, not meeting my eye. Which is understandable, because the Mistaken Thing is rearing its mortifying head for the second time tonight – twice more than it normally does in the space of months or even years – and I know he’d like to put it back in its box as fast and definitively as possible. ‘I’m not sure where he got that idea. But in all seriousness, are you sure you’re going to be OK here tonight? I mean, you don’t even have anything to sleep on.’
‘Yes, I do. What’s the point of having a colossal sofa if it can’t double up as a bed for the night?’
‘Well, if you’re sure … look, why don’t I come over tomorrow night and help you unpack, then we can talk more about what you’re going to do next? I’ll even cook you a slap-up dinner, how about that?’
‘In this kitchen?’
‘Oh, ye of little faith. Have you forgotten that time I cooked an entire three-course meal in Nora’s student bedsit? With only a clapped-out old microwave and a single-ring electric hob?’ He casts an eye over my minuscule ‘kitchen’. ‘This is professional-standard by comparison. I’ll do you a nice roast chicken. Easy as pie. Oh, and I’ll even make a pie, come to think of it. A pie of your choosing. Lemon meringue, apple and blackberry … your pie wish is my command.’
‘That’s lovely of you, Ol, but let me cook for you, for a change. As a thank you for all your help.’
‘Er …’
‘Oh, come on! I’m not that bad a cook! I can rustle up a tasty stew.’
‘Can you?’
I give him a Look.
‘OK, OK … well, that would be lovely, if you’re sure, Libby,’ he says, looking pretty un-sure himself. ‘And I’ll bring that pie for dessert.’
‘Thank you. For everything, I mean.’
‘Any time.’ He leans over and gives me a swift – very swift – kiss on the top of my head as he gets to his feet. ‘You know that.’
I can’t help but feel a bit empty, when I’ve closed the door on him and have the flatlet to myself again.
Well, to myself and the Chesterfield.
Which, now that we’re alone together – me and the Chesterfield, that is – is just making me feel sadder than ever. I mean, look at it: after its moment of glory on screen, whenever that was, it’s done nothing but moulder away in Uncle Brian’s storeroom ever since.
‘Well,’ I say to the sofa. ‘Everything’s all turned to shit, hasn’t it?’
The sofa, unsurprisingly, has nothing to say in reply to this.
‘I mean, let’s just look at my life, shall we?’ I go on, squeezing round the sofa’s bulky back and picking up my wine bottle from the melamine counter (because if I’m starting to chat to the furniture, then I really, really must be in need of a drink). ‘Because it’s not as if things were exactly terrific this morning, before I lost my job, half of my flat and half of my hair.’ My voice has gone rather small, and very wobbly, so I’m extremely glad that I’m only talking to the sofa, even if it might also be an early sign of impending madness. I hate getting upset in front of real people. No: not just hate it: I just don’t do it. Won’t do it. Haven’t done it, I’m stupidly proud to say, since I blubbed in front of Olly and Nora the first day I met them, at the New Wimbledon Theatre, when my waster of a father cancelled my birthday plans at the last minute. ‘It’s not as if I was making a big success of myself.’
I unscrew the cap, take a large swig, and then another, and then I squeeze my way round the back of the Chesterfield so that I can plonk myself down on one of its doggy-smelling cushions. Then I reach for my bag and dig around to find my iPad. I balance it on one of the sofa’s wide arms – one thing its bulk is useful for, I suppose – and then I go to my stored movies, and tap on Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
Because the only way I’m ever going to make it through tonight without drinking all this wine on my own, ordering the largest pizza I can find at Bogdan’s takeaway, scoffing down the entire lot and then – inevitably – drunk-dialling my horrible ex-boyfriend Daniel, who will be just as distantly condescending as he was for the majority of our short relationship, is if I’ve got Audrey to get me through.
I suppose it’s one (and only one) thing I have to be grateful to my father for: the movies. For the way the movies make me feel. For the rush of mingled excitement and serenity that I feel when I settle into the sofa, now, to the orchestral strains of Moon River. And look at Audrey: just look at her. Gliding onto the screen, her beautiful face impassive behind those iconic Oliver Goldsmith tortoiseshell sunglasses, her body moving with dancer’s grace in that black dress. And then there’s that offbeat pearl-and-diamanté necklace and matching tiara, which look precisely like the kind of thing a little girl would pick out of their grandmother’s jewellery box to play dressing-up with, and which – despite Dad’s irritation – were precisely the things I was most dazzled by, when I first watched the movie with him, as a nine-year-old. Those glittering jewels made me think, back then, that this otherwordly being must surely be some sort of princess, and they’ve not lost any of their magic now that I’m two decades older.
Which reminds me: Nora’s bridal necklace.
I haul myself up from the Chesterfield – no mean feat when you could lose a double-decker bus or two down the back of these cushions – and s-q-u-e-e-z-e my way back round it to get to the ‘kitchen’, where most of my boxes are sitting, waiting for me to unpack them. My bead-box will be at the top of one of them, somewhere … yep, here it is, with Nora’s necklace neatly folded inside. In my mind’s eye it was always meant to look like something Holly Golightly might window-shop on one of her jaunts to Tiffany’s, but I don’t know if it’s quite there yet. I’ve strung some gorgeous vintage beads along a plain necklace cord – mostly faux pearl, with the occasional randomly dotted silver filigree – either side of this delicate but dazzling diamanté orchid I found in a retro clothing store in Bermondsey one rainy Saturday when I’d accompanied Olly over there to a food market. The
