We had already zapped a stunning set of dinner plates, a cake stand, a set of magenta napkins, pepper and salt pots, place mats, table runners and more. Now Amy was hesitating over a ceramic pestle and mortar.
‘What do you even do with it? Which bit is the pestle and which is the mortar?’
Amy’s forehead wrinkled at my question. ‘Well, you grind stuff in it.’
‘What stuff?’
‘Small stuff that needs to be made smaller . . . ’ Amy sounded unsure.
I picked it up and turned it over in my hands.
‘My grandma had one,’ Amy said, ‘Although I think she might have just kept small change in it.’
Grandmother.
That prompted her. I felt my grip on the ceramic tighten, my knuckles whitening.
‘Oh, that reminds me . . . ’ she began.
I felt my stomach drop, my throat dry up. I licked my lips, turning away. ‘Maybe a pestle and mortar would be worth getti—’
‘Did you bring her brooch?’
I thought I might drop the pestle and mortar.
‘Maybe you should get a KitchenAid. I’ve always wanted a KitchenAid,’ I said, my voice suddenly an octave higher, faster too.
‘Lottie?’
I placed the pestle and mortar back on the shelf in front of me with shaking hands. ‘Mary Berry uses one, doesn’t she, I think, I mean, if she doesn’t I imagine she would want one . . . ’
‘Have you got the brooch?’
I really couldn’t avoid it. I closed my eyes, ready to turn around.
The shop assistant reappeared. ‘Are you both all right? Finding everything you need?’
Amy ignored her. ‘Lottie . . . ’ Her voice was low, a warning. I felt tears prick the back of my eyes. Oh God.
‘More time needed?’ she asked, oblivious to what she had walked in on.
I turned to face Amy, palms up, appealing already. ‘I’m so, so, sorry, I . . . ’
The shop assistant was still standing next to us, her stuckon smile faltering as she started to sense the tension.
‘Did you just leave it at home?’ Amy asked.
Maybe I should have leapt on that chance to escape the inevitable but my face couldn’t hide it. I felt it crumpling, slowly shaking my head side to side. ‘I . . . I’m so sorry. I went back, I called, I . . . ’
The shop assistant attempted to make her exit. ‘Well, I see you have things in hand so I’ll just . . . ’ She cupped a hand to her neck as Amy took a step towards me.
‘You didn’t even get it,’ Amy whispered, her whole face draining of colour, her free hand curling into a tight fist.
‘I . . . I meant to, I . . . ’ What could I say? I knew there was nothing that could give me a good reason. This wasn’t court, I couldn’t argue my way out of it.
‘I can’t believe it.’ She raked two hands through her hair, her voice loud in the high-ceilinged room, seeming to bounce off every shiny surface. ‘You knew, Lottie, you knew it had to be that day.’
She was pacing up and down. The shop assistant stifled a cough into a hand. ‘I could have rung someone else. If I’d known I could have . . . God, why did I even . . . ’
The lady brought her hands together, her voice bright and hopeful. ‘I’ll be over here then, I’ll just . . . ’ She seemed to hover in between us, really not sure of the etiquette, or maybe concerned Amy might start throwing pestles and mortars at me.
‘ . . . trust you? What was I thinking? Recently you’ve been so caught up in yourself you don’t have time to think about anyone else. I’m amazed you found the time to squeeze me in today.’
The words hurt, fired at me in a sarcastic rush as Amy revved up, in her stride now. I felt the tears on my face freeze, heard the accusations levelled at me, felt unable to do anything but stand there, hating the shop assistant for not leaving, noticing two of her colleagues staring from over at the till.
‘Do you even care? I told you that brooch was special. My mother and my grandmother wore it on their wedding days . . . ’
Amy’s words started to break up, choked by tears. I hadn’t seen Amy cry in years, she was always impossibly stoic. I felt nausea swirl in my stomach, feeling any fight I might have had leak out of me. She was right. I had completely messed up. I hadn’t thought about her.
‘If you want any further assistance . . . ’ The assistant looked on the verge of tears herself, stepping backwards, palms up as if we were two quite dangerous animals and she shouldn’t show her back to us. She melted away, heading to the till and the other two women staring at us. They all started whispering.
Amy had grown quiet, the plastic white bleeper held limply by her side.
I took a breath. ‘I’m going to try everything I can to get it back before the wedding,’ I said in a quiet voice, tinged with my desperation. God, why had I messed up? I was causing Amy this pain so close to her wedding. Amy, who had always been such a loyal, steadfast friend to me: sending me flowers when I broke my wrist, paying my rent one month when I’d spent all my money on the deposit for a new flat, inviting Luke and me away to her parents’ Majorca holiday home, treating me like a sister.
‘Don’t bother,’ Amy said slowly, all the anger seeped out of her. She couldn’t meet my eye. ‘Don’t bother to do anything else. I don’t want you to.’
‘But the woman . . . maybe she’ll be back soon, maybe I could—’
‘Lottie, I don’t want you to do anything.’
‘But I think—’
‘I don’t want you to be my bridesmaid.’
I heard the words seconds too late, feeling all the breath leave my body as she said them. She met my eye now, a steely determination I had seen in her before, knowing she had made up her mind. She had looked the same when she told me she was going to be a teacher, when she said she was going to run the London Marathon. When Amy committed to something she did it, she was amazing. She was my amazing best friend. I felt a terrible ache deep inside me.
‘I . . . ’ Now my eyes were full of tears. I couldn’t help it, aware still of the hush in the shop, the shop assistant and her colleagues half-heartedly pretending to stack shelves, wipe down surfaces, neaten stock, all the time snatching glances across at us, wondering what had befallen our happy party of two.
‘Just go,’ Amy said, folding her arms, no more emotion in her voice, her face set, her voice brisk. She looked every inch the no-nonsense deputy headmistress.
I nodded, not trusting myself to open my mouth and speak, stumbling away from her in the direction of the lift, almost sending a row of egg cups reeling as I blinked tears out of my eyes. ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ I whispered, feeling a terrible blackness inside me, a hole. I had done this, I deserved this.
I jabbed at the lift, hating the wait, aware of Amy watching behind me, other shoppers staring, wondering what had happened. A flushed-face couple in the middle of a joke appeared as the doors opened, the woman’s face changing as she took in the tears spilling down my cheeks, my hunched shoulders.
‘Are you—’
I stepped in past her, not wanting to talk, just stabbing the buttons to get away from the place. The couple moved away and the last thing I saw as the doors closed on me was Amy’s face, cheeks glistening, mouth set in a line, watching me leave.