Read Online Can We Still Be Friends by Alexandra Shulman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alexandra Shulman
Ads: Link
found it on a crowded rail in a Christian Aid shop a year ago when she had seen the silver glinting and pulled it out to discover a dress that fitted perfectly. She always felt the better for wearing it. She couldn’t remember a time when it had not exerted its lucky charm, but perhaps putting herself in the hands of such superstition would be tempting fate tonight.
The untidy heap of clothes on the floor was evidence of Annie’s excitement. She started to pick them up, looking anew at their possibilities. Her collection of belts and necklaces was tied to the white ironwork bedpost and on the corner of a pine dressing table stood the cache of antique perfume bottles which had travelled with her since before university. She’d started collecting them at school, loving the way that even their names invoked sophistication – Je Reviens, Mitsouko, L’Heure Attendue – luxurious with their bevelled edges and cut-glass stoppers. She sprayed her wrists and neck with Cinnabar, noticing that there were still several inches left in the oriental-looking bottle that Sal had bought her, as asked, in Duty Free.
By the time Jackson contacted Annie, she was convinced he would never call. The morning after the Stuart debacle, Sal had woken early and, quickly restored by the night’s sleep and severalmugs of coffee, had shared Annie’s news about meeting Jackson with exactly the right amount of enthusiasm – even attempting to eat one of the over-ripe peaches that still sat in their basket on the table in front of them as she questioned Annie on the details.
‘How old is he, do you think?’
‘I don’t know. Working it out from what Tania told me, I guess maybe thirty – something like that. Much older than us. He’s amazing-looking. You’d probably say he was too good-looking.’
At university, the girls had spent many an hour debating the appearance of each other’s admirers or fancies, concluding that there was something suspicious about textbook good looks, particularly after Annie had suffered an unfortunate one-night stand with a chisel-jawed boy blessed with the looks of a plastic Mattel doll.
‘You know how I love men’s forearms?’ Annie continued, conjuring up her memory of Jackson at the studios. ‘He had the best – long and tanned. I noticed them when he was unloading the car.’
Sal received this information with an amused grin. ‘I thought it was the hands that counted. Did you check them out?’
‘Don’t be gross.’ Annie got up and walked over to the telephone, lifting the receiver to hear the dial tone then replacing it in its cradle.
‘It’s working.’ Sal tilted her chair back against the wall, tapping ash into one of Annie’s large shell ashtrays. ‘Otherwise, how would Stuart have rung? Jackson didn’t call while I was there yesterday, Annie. He will. I promise you. He’s obviously obsessed.’
It was one of Sal’s winning qualities as a friend that she could be relied upon to look at any situation optimistically, always convinced that anything any of them would or could do was right. If plans were thwarted, it was always because of the actions of someone else. The fault was never theirs. Her loyalty was unquestioning.
And she was right: he did call. That morning at work, everybody was seated at their desks and the phones were permanently ringing. There was a bit of a crisis on, Lee informed Annie as soon as she gotin. Kremlin, a new vodka bar off Sloane Square, was holding its opening party the same night as the Torrington event for Chelsea Bridge.
‘Keep your distance from the Führer this morning, she’s in a right pickle,’ Lee had hissed over the desk at Annie.
‘Crazy idiot. We’ve had the date down on the Restaurant Register for at least two months. What does he want to go head to head for?’ Tania announced to the room, her palazzo pants flapping as she stomped around. She picked up the phone on Lee’s desk to call Mark Fitzherbert, the restaurant PR and
The untidy heap of clothes on the floor was evidence of Annie’s excitement. She started to pick them up, looking anew at their possibilities. Her collection of belts and necklaces was tied to the white ironwork bedpost and on the corner of a pine dressing table stood the cache of antique perfume bottles which had travelled with her since before university. She’d started collecting them at school, loving the way that even their names invoked sophistication – Je Reviens, Mitsouko, L’Heure Attendue – luxurious with their bevelled edges and cut-glass stoppers. She sprayed her wrists and neck with Cinnabar, noticing that there were still several inches left in the oriental-looking bottle that Sal had bought her, as asked, in Duty Free.
By the time Jackson contacted Annie, she was convinced he would never call. The morning after the Stuart debacle, Sal had woken early and, quickly restored by the night’s sleep and severalmugs of coffee, had shared Annie’s news about meeting Jackson with exactly the right amount of enthusiasm – even attempting to eat one of the over-ripe peaches that still sat in their basket on the table in front of them as she questioned Annie on the details.
‘How old is he, do you think?’
‘I don’t know. Working it out from what Tania told me, I guess maybe thirty – something like that. Much older than us. He’s amazing-looking. You’d probably say he was too good-looking.’
At university, the girls had spent many an hour debating the appearance of each other’s admirers or fancies, concluding that there was something suspicious about textbook good looks, particularly after Annie had suffered an unfortunate one-night stand with a chisel-jawed boy blessed with the looks of a plastic Mattel doll.
‘You know how I love men’s forearms?’ Annie continued, conjuring up her memory of Jackson at the studios. ‘He had the best – long and tanned. I noticed them when he was unloading the car.’
Sal received this information with an amused grin. ‘I thought it was the hands that counted. Did you check them out?’
‘Don’t be gross.’ Annie got up and walked over to the telephone, lifting the receiver to hear the dial tone then replacing it in its cradle.
‘It’s working.’ Sal tilted her chair back against the wall, tapping ash into one of Annie’s large shell ashtrays. ‘Otherwise, how would Stuart have rung? Jackson didn’t call while I was there yesterday, Annie. He will. I promise you. He’s obviously obsessed.’
It was one of Sal’s winning qualities as a friend that she could be relied upon to look at any situation optimistically, always convinced that anything any of them would or could do was right. If plans were thwarted, it was always because of the actions of someone else. The fault was never theirs. Her loyalty was unquestioning.
And she was right: he did call. That morning at work, everybody was seated at their desks and the phones were permanently ringing. There was a bit of a crisis on, Lee informed Annie as soon as she gotin. Kremlin, a new vodka bar off Sloane Square, was holding its opening party the same night as the Torrington event for Chelsea Bridge.
‘Keep your distance from the Führer this morning, she’s in a right pickle,’ Lee had hissed over the desk at Annie.
‘Crazy idiot. We’ve had the date down on the Restaurant Register for at least two months. What does he want to go head to head for?’ Tania announced to the room, her palazzo pants flapping as she stomped around. She picked up the phone on Lee’s desk to call Mark Fitzherbert, the restaurant PR and
Similar Books
