I find what I’m looking for almost at once, a trilogy of novels by Simon Sebag Montefiore, set in Russia during the war. I don’t know what Rich is writing about but for some reason I imagine a World War Two epic. He loved history at school. While I’m there, I pick up a book on gardening for Jenny. For David, the latest doom-and-gloom analysis of the economy. I take a quick look on the 3-for-2 table for Izzy but she’s not really a reader. Plus I’ve already got her present. I framed a picture of us in our early twenties, one of those rare ones where we both look nice, even though I’m slightly out of focus. I know she’ll like the frame; it’s a silver Vera Wang with a pretty bow in the corner. I’m planning on having them on my wedding list. I grab another sticker book for Tilly and take the books up to the counter. Armed with two distinctive yellow Selfridges bags, I make my way up to the children’s toy department, where I have it on good authority (Jules got the press release) that there’s an American Girl concession.
I smell it before I see it. Selfridges have cleverly positioned the pop-up next to a sweetshop, and the cloying smell of chocolate and melted sugar hits my nostrils as soon as I turn the corner. The American Girl awning makes the shop’s front windows look like a dress rehearsal. Glittery snow falls over an alpine village, complete with ski lifts, polar bears and snowball fights. There’s even fake snow piled up outside and a red carpet winding off the main shop floor. Inside the shelves are packed with rows of dolls in every colour, each clad in the latest winter fashions. In one corner, shop assistants do the dolls’ hair, while in another, there’s a spaceship almost as tall as I am. It’s a world away from the Barbie-or-Cindy choice Izzy and I grew up with. I can’t wait to see Tilly’s face when she opens it.
I got the idea when I was round at the Waverlys’ a few months ago and Tilly had a friend from nursery over. The friend had an American Girl doll with her and both girls were obsessed by it. Jules confirmed the dolls are the hottest playground commodity going. When Izzy suggested that I might want to buy a basket or a bell for the bike they’re getting Tilly, I told her fine but I had other ideas. I want this to be a surprise.
Tilly’s a girly girl like her mum so I gravitate towards the girls with long hair and dresses. There are dolls in cheerleader costumes, dolls that are dressed up for prom and ones that ice-skate. In the end, I’m torn between two. The first has long blonde hair, wide green eyes and looks not dissimilar to Tilly herself. She’s wearing a skirt and jacket suit combination and carrying a briefcase, like the working-girl doll she’s supposed to be. The other has dark hair and a fringe. In jeans and a hoodie, she’s plainer but she has a dog on a lead that looks like Missy. Tilly loves Missy. I pick the dolls up and hold them side-by-side. If I squint a little, they look a bit like Izzy and me. Same types; Izzy all suited and booted and me slumming it. That decides it. I pick up the dark-haired doll and join the huge queue at the counter. If you don’t choose yourself, how can you expect anyone else to?
6.28 p.m.
The drumroll thump of Missy’s tail is the only thing that greets me when I get home. Ed must be working late. I consider going for a run but the programme Rob’s set has me going tomorrow morning so I open the fridge instead. It’s like investigating a crime scene; drips of old food and what looks like the decaying carcass of old fried chicken at the back. I need to be more like Izzy, planning my meals at the beginning of the week. I call Ed and see whether he wants to get a takeaway when he gets back.
‘Hey, sweetie.’ I flip the lid of the bread bin. A pair of crumpets that have seen better days. ‘What do you want for dinner?’
‘Er.’ There’s static on the line. It sounds like he’s outside. ‘Did I not mention I’d be back late tonight?’
‘You didn’t say.’ There goes our evening of watching Christmas movies together. Since Ed got made partner last year his hours seem to have doubled. I shouldn’t complain, though; it’s not as if he’s enjoying himself. I cross the hallway into the sitting room and settle myself on the sofa, trying to ignore the stripes of grey paint on the wall above the TV. One of these days we really need to decide which colour we’re going to paint this room.
‘Sorry, last-minute client dinner –’ more static ‘– be a late one, but don’t worry, I know we’ve got dinner tomorrow. I’ll make sure I’m not too wrecked. I want to be on good form for you before I go away.’
‘No worries.’ Perhaps I’ll get a takeaway on my own. I’m about to hang up when I hear someone giggle in the background. It sounds like…
‘Is Izzy with you?’
‘She is indeed. We started going through some of the CS accounts so I flicked her a message to see if she could pop in. Then when the dinner got pulled together, it made sense for her to join. Do you want to speak to her?’
‘No, you’re all right. I’ve got to go. Try not to wake Missy up when you come in.’
‘I’ll be as quiet as a slightly tipsy mouse. Love you.’
I find myself frowning at the phone after Ed hangs up. I know it’s stupid to feel jealous. She wouldn’t mind if I spent the evening with Rich. Looking the way she does, she wouldn’t have to. I don’t like Ed’s co-workers so it’s not as if it’s an evening I want to be on anyway. But Izzy’s always complaining how busy she is. Ed only had to ‘flick over’ a message and she dropped everything. I sent Izzy three text messages today. She hasn’t replied to a single one.
Eight
Friday 21 December
6.52 p.m.
I stare into the dregs of my drink and think about ordering another. Given the time Ed crawled in last night, I have a feeling he’s not going to be up for a big night. He didn’t even stir when I got up to go for a run and he spent so long in the shower I thought he might have fallen asleep. I look at the door again but aside from the sturdy bouncer fiddling with his earpiece, there’s no movement. At least I’ve got a seat. This place is down a side street off Bank station and when I eventually found it, there was a crowd of people milling outside. They must have all been leaving though because inside is quiet. The ceilings in the restaurant are high and vaulted – I read online that the restaurant was an old merchant bank until a few years ago – and there are a few couples dotted around underneath them. But the bar area is darker. Besides me, there’s only one guy, in his mid-fifties with a perma-tan. He looks a bit like David Dickinson and he keeps glancing over. The velvet French Connection dress I’m wearing is more low cut than I realized. I wonder if I should ask to go straight to my seat. I’d feel less conspicuous if I was sitting at a table with a white starched tablecloth instead of at a dimly lit bar. I finger my engagement ring pointedly and decide to wait it out. I’m probably imagining things.
I’m on the verge of ordering another drink when I see Ed framed in the doorway at the top of the stairs, a stressed look on his face and his laptop case slung over one arm. I try to get his attention. Izzy mastered the art of wafting her hand through the air in the sixth form common room. I, on the other hand, shoot my arm into the air like a rescue flare.
‘Sorry I’m late.’ Ed shucks off his coat and deposits his laptop case on the hook under the bar. ‘One of our American clients didn’t seem to grasp we’re five hours ahead and that it was most definitely close of business. Do you want another drink? I’m getting a scotch.’