Page 11 of The Fall-Out

JUNE 2008

It was half a year before I saw Patch again, at least in the flesh, although he appeared regularly in pictures on Zara’s Facebook feed. Along with Abbie, Rowan and Kate, the five of us had added each other as friends and had arranged to meet up the following month while our boyfriends played football. Although nowhere near a fucking football pitch, obviously, Kate wrote.

And so the second meeting led to a third, and soon it was clear that the Girlfriends’ Club was a thing. I can’t remember who came up with the name first, but whoever did, it stuck, even though Andy complained that it was a classic example of reverse sexism, surely in contravention of the Equality Act, and what were we going to do next, have jam-making competitions like the Women’s frigging Institute?

Outside of the monthly meetings, I saw my new friends sporadically but increasingly frequently. Kate and I met for lunch in the City and she gave me excellent advice on dealing with a difficult colleague at work. Abbie, Rowan and I went to a French art-house film together, although none of us could understand it so we sacked it off halfway through and had a boozy brunch instead.

I went on a few more dates with Stu before mutually calling it a day after an awkward chat during which we both edged towards admitting that although we liked each other, we didn’t like each other that way – translation: didn’t like each other enough. I got promoted at work and became Executive Assistant to one of the partners. I went on holiday to Tenerife with friends and had sex with a handsome, drunk Spanish man on the beach.

Summer turned to autumn. At work, everyone was back from holiday with renewed energy and the release of the quarterly financial results led to a frenzy of additional work as everyone geared up for year-end. I was working long hours, trying to do my best for Nerine, my new boss, and was relieved that she seemed pleased with me. But it left little time for socialising – I was getting back to my flat after nine most nights (the second Wednesday of the month excepted) and often having to take work home on weekends too.

So when I received a surprise text from Zara asking if I was free the following Saturday, I read it with excitement and then doubt.

Then I made up my mind. Work could wait until Sunday. Sleep was for the weak. And Zara was in some ways the most fascinating of my new friends, with her glamorous job in fashion and her impossibly handsome boyfriend. So, without knowing what she was going to suggest, I agreed.

Naomi:

Great!

She messaged back.

Zara:

Meet me at Notting Hill Tube station, 10a.m.?

I was intrigued and puzzled, but no further details were forthcoming, so I turned up as arranged and waited for her in the street outside the station. It was a gorgeous late September day, still properly warm although the leaves on the plane trees were just beginning to turn. I was wearing a cotton skirt, denim jacket and boots – an outfit I’d dithered over for ages before realising that whatever I wore, I’d never look as effortlessly stylish as she did and so there was no point worrying about it.

Sure enough, she emerged from the Tube wearing a high-necked, sleeveless brocade mini dress, a squashy leather jacket slung over her shoulders and dark glasses obscuring most of her face. My breath misted them up when she leaned in to kiss me.

‘Hello!’ she cooed. ‘Isn’t this the best fun?’

I smiled. ‘I don’t know – you have to tell me what we’re doing first.’

‘We’re going shopping,’ she announced. ‘It’s Patch’s birthday next month and I’ve decided to have a few people round. It’s going to be a surprise – he gets back from Aberdeen that evening and he was going to stay at mine for the weekend. I’m thinking balloons, a banner with his name on – all the tacky stuff. But I’ve got nothing to wear, and I needed help.’

‘That sounds amazing. But you’ve asked the wrong person. Rowan would have been a much better personal stylist than me.’

‘I doubt even Rowan would have been up for a shopping trip with a four-week-old baby,’ Zara said. ‘Besides, I wanted you.’

Feeling a little glow of pride at having been chosen, even if I was only the second choice, I followed Zara into a vintage shop, an Aladdin’s cave of sparkling lurex, embroidered silk, velvet in jewel colours and even a few forlorn-looking furs draped over a dressmaker’s dummy at the back.

‘This place is the business.’ Zara moved over to a garment rail and began rifling through the contents. ‘When you’re buying second-hand, the trick is to always come to areas where you could never afford to live. Rich people have amazing clothes – especially the dead ones.’

I laughed. ‘How do you know whether things will fit? I mean, sizing’s changed so much. Wasn’t Marilyn Monroe a size sixteen?’

Zara snorted. ‘Of course she bloody wasn’t. She was tiny. I reckon that’s a lie fat women have made up to feel better about themselves. Anyway, you can always get things altered. Seam allowances used to be so much more generous. How about this?’

She pulled something off the rack. It was a long-sleeved, short-skirted dress with a zigzag pattern in psychedelic shades of purple, yellow and green.

‘It’s… it’s quite full-on,’ I said. ‘But if anyone can carry it off, you can.’

‘Not for me, for you.’ Zara pushed it into my hands. ‘It’s original Biba, I’d lay money on it. Try it on.’

Bewildered, I followed her pointing finger to a curtained-off corner of the shop, tugged off my clothes and pulled the dress over my head. Even in the dim light, I could see that it worked. The colours made my hair look brilliant red instead of dusty copper. The bodice made my waist look tiny and the hem finished at just the right point, making my legs look endless. My freckled arms – my least favourite body part – were concealed by the sleeves.

I pushed the curtain aside and emerged to find Zara hovering outside.

‘It’s all right, isn’t it?’ I asked, beaming.

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