The Single Girl's To-Do List (9 page)

‘Anything you think would work.’ My heart raced at the idea that being a short-arse would be paying off for the first time ever, and at the sight of all the different colours being pulled from the racks out front. For someone who only really wore monochrome, this was like taking couture LSD. I saw ice blues, pale yellows, jade greens, stripes, spots, florals and solids, all coming my way.

‘Most of these are vintage.’ Shop Girl transferred the outfits from her arms to the hanging rail in my changing boudoir. ‘But there are a couple of new pieces as well. There’s nothing too out there, it’s all very wearable, I promise.’

Apparently she could see the fear in my eyes.

‘I’ve just never worn anything so pretty before,’ I blushed. It was shameful. ‘I don’t know when I’d wear it.’

Shop Girl looked as if she understood. Or at least as if she really wanted to make a sale.

‘Every day when I get dressed, I think, what do I wish would happen today? And I dress for that. I’d never forgive myself if Johnny Depp walked by and asked me to join him in Monte Carlo for the weekend and I was wearing jeans. I would totally get over being in the queue for a lottery ticket in high heels.’

You couldn’t argue with the woman, really.

‘I’ll be outside, give me a shout when you’re done.’ She closed the door behind her and left me and Emelie alone to play dress-up.

‘Get this one on before I buy it first.’ Em threw the sky blue silk at me. ‘It might be the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.’

Disappearing behind the curtain and trying not to be too ashamed of my old underwear, I slipped into the new dress. The sensation of the cool silk against my skin combined with the sight of my bouncy bob in the mirror was enough to draw out a gasp. The dress was beautiful. My hair was beautiful. My big dark circles and dull skin were not beautiful. But still.

‘Oh Rach.’ Emelie stuck her head around the curtain. ‘You look like a girl.’

‘Thanks,’ nothing like a backhanded compliment to make you bounce up and down with joy. ‘I feel like a girl. It’s weird.’

But some sort of girl-instinct kicked in and, before I knew it, I couldn’t stop twisting backwards and forwards at the waist, making the dress flare and kick out. I was like a little girl in her birthday frock. Not that my mother had ever put me in a birthday frock for fear of me scratching out her eyes. Even though I was the older sibling, I’d spent most of my childhood in Paul’s hand-me-downs. Jeans were much more practical for climbing trees and riding bikes. It was a mystery to everyone how I’d ended up as a make-up artist. Made total sense to me; I’d been living vicariously through my models for years but now I was done with vicarious living. Time to give actual life a go.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I said to the mirror as much to Emelie. ‘I just can’t imagine wearing it.’

‘What’s to imagine?’ She snapped a pic with her phone. ‘You’re wearing it. Now take it off and get the yellow one on.’

Emelie and the world’s best shop assistant had a point. Just because I’d never worn a dress down to Tesco before didn’t mean I couldn’t start now. Probably wouldn’t pop down to the post office in the floor-length emerald green silk gown Em was admiring at that second, but I could see myself chowing down on a tuna niçoise at Pizza Express in this cute little sundress.

‘Oh, look at you,’ Shop Girl reappeared at the door. ‘Betty and Joan all rolled into one.’

‘We’re not doing
Mad Men
references right now.’ Em drew a finger across her throat. ‘But you’re so right.’

Betty and Joan all rolled into one? That was a lot of pressure on a girl who wasn’t even a Peggy twelve hours ago. The stress must have registered on my face.

‘Try on the stripes.’ Shop Girl pointed at a black and white number hanging on the rail. ‘Your friend and I can pick out some shoes.’

Without even knowing, she’d used Emelie’s magic word. That girl would leave me to burn in a fire at the first sniff of a kitten heel. Alone for the first time since I’d GI Jane’d myself, it was strange not to have the buzz of reassuring chatter around me. And it was even stranger to see myself with new hair, a new dress, a new look in my eyes. Time for another professional appraisal. The hair certainly looked better and the dress really did fit me wonderfully. The full fitted skirt was sympathetic to the Christmas weight around my thighs (Christmas weight I was still carrying around in August) and gave me a waist that really wasn’t there. The colour, a pale dandelion yellow decorated with tiny white swallows, was so delicate, and the fitted bodice, with its tiny little tie-up straps, would really only work on someone who didn’t have much in the way of boobs, e.g. me. At last, a reward for suffering the nickname ‘Two Backs Summers’ all through Year Eleven. I could honestly say, in this dress, I looked pretty. And since the biggest compliment I could pay any of my old outfits was ‘I’m not naked’, that pretty much meant I was sold. On pretty much everything.

A couple of hours and one awkward conversation with the credit-card company regarding ‘unusual activity’ later, Emelie and I fell through my front door, heavy on shopping bags and light on cash.

‘What do you want to do now?’ Em asked, cheeks flushed with the fever of her own spending spree. ‘Dinner?’

‘Nope,’ I yelled from the hallway. ‘Matthew, bin bag.’

Without stopping to take off my shoes, I marched straight into the bedroom and pulled open my wardrobe door. I was a woman on a mission. Jeans. T-shirts. Baggy jumpers. Old dresses that were too big, too small or just OK. Not a single thing I’d want to be seen out in should I run into Ryan Reynolds down the post office. Which meant they all had to go in the bin. Where was the point in chopping my hair off, going red, buying enough new dresses to clothe India and then falling back into old, sloppy, knackered habits? With one swoop, I scooped all my old clothes into the bag Matthew was holding open, before moving on to the drawers. I didn’t flinch once. There wasn’t a single item that tugged at my heartstrings and begged to stay. Nothing sentimental, nothing so pretty it begged for a second chance. Every single item accepted defeat gracefully. It didn’t take long before everything baggy and saggy and slightly grey was gone, replaced by a rainbow of pretty dresses, each and every one worthy of an A-list lover. It was a miracle.

In the living room, Matthew had worked a miracle of his own. By the time Emelie and I arrived home, the locks had been changed, all of the photos had been taken down and every single thing of Simon’s was stashed in bin bags in the basement. If only he was down there with them. It was impressive; the place was spotless. Turned out I actually owned a vacuum cleaner. You learn something new every day …

‘You really do look great.’ Matthew made me do one more spin in the last outfit of my impromptu fashion show before patting the seat next to him on the sofa. I really didn’t want to sit down: my new hair had made me slightly hyper. ‘I love it.’

‘It’s not too Cheryl after the divorce?’

‘Not even,’ he reassured me. ‘You feel all right?’

‘Good actually.’ I looked around the room trying to work out what had been hidden away. It was strange, like playing that party game when your mum takes something away from the tray and you have to remember what’s gone but you can’t see it, you just know something is missing. ‘Honestly, really good.’

‘Hold that thought,’ he lied. ‘So, while you were out, Simon called.’

And just like that, I felt like shit again.

‘Did you speak to him?’ I tucked my hair behind my ears. Dress schmess.

‘He wasn’t really up for a chat.’ He immediately brushed my hair out from behind my ears. ‘He wants you to give him a ring.’

‘Right.’

I peered down at my shoes. I needed new shoes to go with my new hair. And a new boyfriend to go with my new shoes. And we’d fall madly in love, get engaged and have a baby and then bump into Simon at a mutual friend’s barbecue and he would realize what a mistake he’d made because I was so wonderful and then he would throw himself off a bridge. Now who could I get to have a barbecue?

‘You don’t have to call him,’ Matthew interrupted my fantasy. ‘I could call him. Or you can just text him or something.’

‘Or I could call him and tell him what a massive bastard he is,’ Em shouted from the kitchen. I could hear the kettle whistling already. She was ever so good. ‘Please let me call him.’

‘No, I can do it,’ I stood up. And sat back down. And stood up again. ‘I can call him.’

There was no question as to whether I physically had the ability to call him, but the mental strength? Turned out to be something else altogether. As I dialled the number, I started to feel a little bit sick. But it had to be done. Not calling him now I knew he’d been in touch meant it would just be hanging over my head. My pretty red head. I could do this. Redhead Rachel could absolutely do this. Emelie delivered my cup of tea and Matthew sat beside me on the sofa, a warm, heavy hand on my shoulder. It was only a phone call. Just because the last words we’d exchanged were during awkward break-up sex that I’d thought was awkward reunion sex at the time, why would this be strange?

‘Simon speaking.’ He answered, as always, on the second ring.

‘S’me.’

Eloquent to the last.

‘Rachel?’

My voice was a little bit quieter than I would have liked but I wasn’t crying. Because I had red hair. Redheads didn’t cry. Probably.

‘Yep, Matthew said you called?’

If only we had videophones. He couldn’t even see how amazing I looked. Actually, this was an iPhone, we did have videophones … could I still hang up and call back?

‘I can’t actually talk at the moment,’ he sounded tired. ‘I’m busy now. I called you an hour ago.’

‘Well, we could maybe get a coffee later or something?’ I replied before I lost my nerve. That’s what people who weren’t about to slash their wrists because their boyfriend had callously abandoned their five-year relationship did, wasn’t it? Coffee. Coffee or gin. Or whiskey. Mmm, whiskey.

‘Or a drink?’

‘Tonight?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Tonight.’ Was it me, or did he sound a bit annoyed?

‘Can’t. Busy.’ Definitely sounded a bit annoyed.

This was an interesting turn of events.

‘Right, because Matthew said you wanted me to call you back.’ I tried to control my increasing rage. Redheads had fiery tempers; this absolutely was not my fault. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I’ll email you tomorrow, I’m at the cinema,’ he hissed. ‘And I’m going away on this work thing tomorrow so it’ll be the afternoon probably.’

He was at the cinema? He was at the bloody cinema? He had run out on me
and
stolen my toothpaste and now he was at the cinema? Couldn’t help but wonder what he was seeing.

‘I don’t want an email, I want you to talk to me.’ Red Rum. Red Rum. ‘What is going on, Simon?’

‘Look, I’m hanging up,’ he upgraded from a bit annoyed to pissed off. ‘I just wanted to stop round and get some stuff but it’s a bit bloody late now. There’s nothing to talk about.’

‘There’s nothing to talk about?’ Ooh, that was a bit shrill. ‘Five years together, you suddenly up and decide you’re done with it and there’s nothing to talk about?’

‘Rach, we’re not getting back together,’ he replied. ‘There’s no point trying to get me out for a drink, thinking I’ll change my mind and come home. So just give it a rest.’

I was actually lost for words.

But Simon clearly wasn’t. ‘I’m twenty-nine. I don’t want to “talk about it”,’ he ranted. For someone who didn’t want to talk to me, he seemed to have a lot to say right now. ‘I don’t want to go to Sainsbury’s because it’s Saturday; I don’t want to have tea with your mum because it’s Monday, and maybe, I don’t want to get married, knock out two kids and die from complete and utter boredom. Now I’ve got to go, I’ll email you tomorrow or we’ll talk when I get back.’

I hung up before he could and handed my phone to Matthew.

‘What a knob.’ Matthew tightened his grip on my shoulder. ‘What a complete and utter knob.’

‘Calm down, Matthew, he can’t talk, he’s at the cinema,’ I replied with bitter sarcasm.

I didn’t know what to do with myself. I could call back but he’d probably just turned his phone off. I could go to every cinema in London and check every single screen until I found the bastard, but then what? Obviously there was always physical violence but I’d heard that was never the answer. Even if it did feel like it would give me some degree of satisfaction.

‘I know what to do.’ Em passed me a cup of tea and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. I held both for a moment. Whiskey was the last thing I needed but I’d seen
Mad Men
. Or at least some of
Mad Men
. Redheads didn’t drink tea when they were angry, they drank whiskey. ‘Get your laptop.’

I pulled out my ancient MacBook, inherited from Paul two upgrades ago, and passed it to Em before alternating sips of tea and bourbon. Hmm, interesting. Tennessee Tea. Probably wouldn’t catch on.

‘Matthew here has done a fabulous job of getting all knob-head’s stuff out of the flat but now it’s exorcism time.’

‘Are we going to burn his stuff?’ I asked hopefully.

‘We’re not going pyro just yet.’ She opened up the computer and brought up Facebook. ‘We’re going to erase him.’

‘You’re going to kill him?’

‘Not quite,’ she replied. ‘You’re going to wipe him out of your digital existence. You don’t want to be logging in and seeing his face every two seconds. Oh. Ah.’

‘What’s up?’ Tetley’s and Jack Daniel’s actually went together better than I’d expected.

‘He’s sort of beaten me to it.’ She turned the screen to face me.

Simon Mitchell is no longer listed as being in a relationship.

Simon Mitchell is now listed as single.

I couldn’t stop staring.

‘He’s changed his relationship status on Facebook?’ I said. ‘What is he, fourteen?’

‘You’ve got quite a lot of messages.’ Matthew pointed to the little red icon at the top of the screen. ‘Maybe we need to go on a bit of a PR offensive.’

‘No.’ Another swig. ‘I’m not lowering myself. I just want him gone.’