I think about him. I’ve never felt it so intensely and that has to mean something. Maybe he still is my one. And if there’s a glimmer of a chance that he is, then I can’t just give up. Some people search a lifetime looking for their one, so I should count myself lucky that he’s here, right under my nose … well, in Paris to be exact, if I really want to get picky about it.
‘So go for what you want. Grab him with both hands—’
‘One on each bum cheek.’ I snort.
‘Exactly. Don’t let her steal him away from you. Call him.’
‘OK. I will.’ I swallow hard.
‘Promise?’
‘I promise. Now, can we please change the subject?’
‘Yes,’ Sam says, decisively. ‘I’m going to have one of those 4D scans.’
‘Fab.’ I smile.
‘It is.’ Sam tries not to laugh again as we attempt a sensible conversation.
‘Err, what is a 4D scan?’
‘I have no idea. But Jenny – works in Greggs up by the station, you know, the one whose husband is in Afghanistan?’ I nod. ‘Well, she’s pregnant as well and due a few months before me.’
‘Ahh, that’s nice,’ I say, wondering how she managed it. Last time I bumped into Jenny on the bus, she said Tony was away on another tour.
‘They got lucky during his last R&R,’ Sam explains, as if reading my mind. ‘Anyway, she gave me the number of a clinic over by the golf course that does a whole range of different scans, and they give you a DVD to take away. And if you sign up for the pay-per-view scheme, you can even go in and watch the baby whenever you like on their fifty-inch plasma screen. It’s just like being at the cinema, she said. I’m so excited and I can’t wait to see little Honey Moon Taylor making her debut. Wonder if she’ll give me a wave,’ Sam squeals, and I give her a big hug.
‘Oh me too. When can you tell if it is actually a girl?’ I ask.
‘I’m not sure. But I just know there’s a girl in here.’ Sam rubs her tummy. ‘At least there’d better be. I’m seeing gorgeous little dresses and Hello Kitty everywhere, not Bob the Builder and mountains of mud.’ Sam rolls her eyes.
‘And what about Nathan?’
‘Ahh, he says any child is a gift and he just wants them to be happy and healthy. Me too, of course … but a girl would be really nice,’ she quickly adds.
‘Hmm, well I hope little Honey has more luck than me with men,’ I smile wryly.
‘Oh, you’ll be fine. Just call him.’ Sam stands up and starts clearing the table. I help her carry the cake stand and mugs over to the counter. ‘Let me know how it goes,’ she says, pushing open the swing door to the kitchen with her hip. I follow and place the mugs in the dishwasher, and the cake stand on the side, knowing how Sam likes them hand-washed instead.
‘Will do.’ I give her a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘Oh, one last thing – do you know what a shaman is?’
‘A whaat?’ Sam shrugs and pulls a face. ‘Can you eat it?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I smile.
‘Then I’m not interested. Why do you want to know?’
‘Just something I heard earlier.’
‘Is it important?’
‘No!’
Waving, I push though the swing door and take a deep breath before leaving the café and heading towards the staff lift. I’m going to call into Masood’s shop, and then ring Tom later because, it’s like Sam said, I’m a grown, confident woman. I say it over and over as a mantra inside my head while doing my absolute best to ignore a raft of sabotaging thoughts about mince pies and custard with ten Benson thrown in, while Zara boards an aeroplane bound for Paris wearing the teeniest-tiniest string bikini she can find.
Seven shopping weeks until Christmas
It’s Sunday morning and I’m admiring my gorgeous new big hair in the light-bulb-framed mirror and wondering if it might be just a bit over the top for a sales assistant. But Kelly insisted and who am I to argue? Besides, I secretly love my new hair extensions. I’ve gone from having a wispy brunette bob to mid-length luscious hair with caramel and honey highlights that swings back into place whenever I shake my head. I’m like something out of a L’Oréal advert. And I’ve had my teeth whitened, which was excruciating by the way, but sooo worth it as I now have a proper gleaming Hollywood smile.
Annie is sitting next to me and we’re in the makeshift dressing room down in the basement, which has been adorned with paper chains and tinsel so it feels really Christmassy, especially when Michael Bublé starts singing ‘It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas’ on the radio. Kelly had an old stockroom cleared out and furnished with a row of chairs, mirrors and little changing cubicles. Every surface is crammed with cosmetics, packs of fashion tape, hair paraphernalia and continental breakfast platters, piled high with pastries and fruit, courtesy of Sam’s café. An enormous clothes rail runs the length of the room, crammed with virtually all of Womenswear’s stock, and an assortment of divine heels from Footwear. And I’m sure I spotted a pair of red lacquer-soled Louboutins nestling at the back – I sooo hope I get to wear them.
‘See you later, Georgie,’ Annie says, as Millie arrives to take her off somewhere.
‘Yes, will do, and good luck,’ I call out over my shoulder.
My mobile buzzes with the arrival of a text message. I quickly check the screen, hoping it’s from Tom, but it isn’t. I sag in disappointment on seeing that it’s another message from Dad. Not that I don’t like hearing from Dad, I do. I really do. Our relationship is great now and he’s really getting the hang of texting; he wants to know if I prefer carrots, cauliflower cheese or both with my roast dinner later on. I still don’t know the news he wants to share – he wouldn’t say when we spoke on the phone yesterday, said it’s best kept until he sees me – but it must be something important if he’s actually cooking. It’s not his forte. I tap out a reply and end it with a kiss followed by a heart icon – Dad will love it, inserting icons into a message is next on his agenda to master.
My finger hovers over the text message stream between Tom and me, and as I read the last four that I sent to him on Monday evening, right after seeing myself on TV, I cringe all over again. And like I have a trillion times – at least – since then, I ponder on sending him one last text.
After my chat with Sam in the café, I’ve tried calling Tom, several times in fact, but his number does an international ringing tone before going straight to voicemail, leaving me wondering if he’s actually avoiding me on purpose. I’m reluctant to leave a voice message for fear of umming and ahhing or generally making a fool of myself by sounding desperate. I’m not sure I could bear it if he didn’t call back. I decide to go ahead and text him instead. I’ve typed out:
Hi Tom hope you arrived
