‘You don’t know anything about me,’ said Issy, which she realized made her sound dramatic and stupid, but she didn’t care. She glanced around for her other shoe. ‘I have to go.’
Graeme looked at her, shaking his head.
‘Fine.’
‘Fine.’
‘You’ll ruin everything,’ he said.
Issy picked up the shoe. She wanted very badly to throw it at him.
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ she muttered, as she jammed it on and tottered out of the door, berating herself, once again, for being such an idiot.
Issy rushed home, shaking. All she wanted to do was get out of these stupid clothes. The flat was silent, but not empty. She could sense Helena around somewhere; feel her disapproval (and Shalimar perfume) wafting in her direction. Well, she didn’t have time for that now. She had a meeting at the bank, had to sound clever and professional and get a business plan, even though she’d been up half the night with the biggest wanker in bloody London. She was getting the keys later on that day, giving her a few weeks to spruce up and get ready for business so that they could open for the ‘spring trade’. Which sounded optimistic, she thought. Bugger it, bugger it.
Now, what to wear? She pulled open her wardrobe, looking at the array of non-attention-grabbing work suits she’d accumulated. The grey pinstripe? Graeme had always liked it, he thought it looked like sexy secretary. Issy had always wanted to be one of those fashion-y looking girls with the lovely slim top halves, who could wear vests without bras and drop waists. She was never going to be one of those girls, she realized. But she didn’t like to dress to emphasize her figure. Helena on the other hand had turned it into an art.
She pulled a white shirt closer. Shirts never seemed to fit properly. Sensing someone behind her, she turned round. It was Helena, holding two cups of tea.
‘Don’t knock,’ said Issy. ‘It’s only my flat.’
‘Do you want tea?’ said Helena, ignoring her.
‘No,’ said Issy. ‘I want you to stop wandering into my room uninvited.’
‘Well, sounds like last night was romantic.’
Issy sighed. ‘Shut up.’
‘Oh God, that bad. I’m sorry, love.’
It was hard to stay angry at Helena for long.
‘It was fine,’ said Issy, taking the tea. ‘Fine. I don’t want to see him again anyway.’
‘OK.’
‘I know I’ve said that before.’
‘OK.’
‘But this time I mean it.’
‘Fine.’
‘I am fine.’
‘Good.’
‘Good.’
Helena looked at her.
‘Are you going to wear that for your meeting?’
‘I have a business now. I have to look the part.’
‘But that’s not your part. You’re a baker now, a professional, not someone who carries a folder about while checking Facebook every five minutes.’
‘That’s not what my old job was, actually.’
‘Yeah, well, whatever.’
Helena reached into her cupboard and pulled out a lightly sprigged dress and a pastel cardigan.
‘Here, try these on.’
Issy looked down. Her head felt too full to concentrate.
‘You don’t think it’s a bit … twee?’
‘Darling, you’re running a cupcake bakery. I think you have to make your peace with twee. And anyway, no I don’t. I think it looks pretty and approachable and it suits you, which is more than you can say for porno-secretary.’
‘This suit isn’t …’
Actually, thought Issy, glancing in the mirror, perhaps it was time to get rid of this suit. Dump that stupid office once and for all. And that stupid man … She tried to keep her thoughts away from that particular track, and got changed.
In the new outfit, she did look nicer – younger and fresher. It made her smile.
‘There you go,’ said Helena. ‘Now you look the part.’
Issy glanced at Helena, who was wearing a deep green square-cut-neckline ruched top.
‘What part are you dressing for?’
Helena pouted. ‘Flame-haired Renaissance goddess, of course. As usual. You know that.’
Issy was nervous going to the bank, extremely so. She’d explained this was just a preliminary chat and they’d said fine, but still it felt a bit like having to go in and explain away her overdraft, just as she had done in college. Graeme liked to check his statements every month and call them up the second he found something he disagreed with. She didn’t feel like doing that very often.
‘Um, hi,’ she almost whispered, as she entered the beige-carpeted hush of the bank. It smelled of cleaning products and money. At that moment she would have preferred the armour of her grey pinstripe.
‘Can I speak to Mr …’ she checked her notes, ‘Mr Tyler.’
The young girl behind the desk smiled distractedly and leaned forward into her telephone, buzzing her through. Being on the other side of the security barrier was a little disconcerting; open-plan desks were scattered around, with people peering at computer screens. Issy glanced about her, just in case there was any gold visible.
She didn’t see anyone who looked like a Mr Tyler, so she sat down nervously, picking up and replacing a magazine about the bank, too anxious to read anything, letting her fingers fiddle with the pages and hoping she wouldn’t have too long to wait.
Austin Tyler sat in the head teacher’s office, feeling like he was in some kind of déjà vu. It was exactly the same room he used to sit in, kicking his scuffed Start Rite shoes against the chair when he was getting told off for running through the bushes, or fighting with Duncan MacGuire. There was a new headmistress – quite a young woman, who said, ‘Call me Kirsty,’ when he’d much rather call her Miss Dubose, and perched on the front of her desk instead of sitting imperiously behind it like Mr Stroan used to do. Austin, frankly, preferred the old way; at least you knew where you stood. He glanced sideways at Darny and sighed. Darny was staring at the floor crossly, with a glint in his eye that said whatever was coming, he wasn’t listening. At ten years old, Darny was smart, determined and absolutely convinced that anyone ever telling him what to do was in severe breach of his human rights.
‘What is it this time?’ asked Austin. He was going to be late for work again, he knew it. He ran a hand through the thick, unruly reddish-brown hair that was flopping over his forehead. Time for another haircut too, he noticed. As if he could possibly find the time.