‘Ah, I thought I recognised this little hero. There, there, Rory.’ She leaned down and kissed his grazed knee with her full cherry lips, before facing Stella. ‘All better now.’
Good god, that smile! Stella felt her stomach lurch, like she’d just dropped six feet.
‘Yes, thank you, I must have lost sight of him for a moment, thank you so much,’ said Stella.
‘It’s no problem. He’ll be fine. Perhaps some chocolate, and all will be forgotten.’
‘Ah, the joys of being a toddler! Your tragedies are so easily corrected. Thank you again.’
Coco didn’t leave. She stood there, her Mediterranean beauty out of place in that grey concrete jungle. She giggled and began to play with Rory and her two charges. Her full red lips set off her white teeth, and her bright green eyes glowed as she laughed. Stella just watched in admiration. Coco reminded her of a wild bird, of what it would be like to be free and young. A wave of sadness swept over her as she felt a pang of loss of her own sense of fun and identity.
She turned to Stella and chirped, ‘I see you look as happy to be here today as you do most days. I think this must be your idea of hell.’
‘What, no, no not at all,’ spluttered Stella, oddly thrown by her directness. ‘It’s all a bit monotonous. I just need a pick-me-up, nothing a coffee couldn’t fix. You probably don’t have to come here every day!’
‘You are only truly blessed when you can find the face of God in a square foot of concrete. I see you here nearly every day, but you are often in a dream world so you never see me. Live in the moment, Stella. Don’t let life be something you wish away. But if it’s a coffee that will fix it, let me buy you one,’ Coco said, resting her hand enticingly on Stella’s arm and smiling mischievously, which was fortunate as it almost made up for the sanctimony.
‘Oh, you are very kind, but maybe not today. I haven’t even showered. I look a mess, and I’m probably not very good company. Besides, I am sure it is me who owes you a coffee! Maybe another day.’
‘OK, I understand, maybe tomorrow. We could probably cheer each other up. Come on, kids! Raymondo! Fleur!’ Coco yelled across the playground. ‘Let’s go!’ They ran to her without hesitation. She knelt down and kissed Rory on the top of his head, laid her hand again on Stella’s arm and sashayed away, her pert bottom flicking from side to side as she gave one child a piggyback and chased the other.
Who the hell is that girl, thought Stella. She was certain she’d never seen her there before. She was happy, hot and opinionated, and quite frankly, invasive of personal space. It was so unusual, un-London. Stella liked it. Feeling like she’d missed out on something, she scooped up her now-sulking child and dragged him down to the high street to her favourite coffee shop for a full fat latte and a muffin. Nothing mattered but to fill the void with super-fast carbs. The consequences would come later and she would deal with them then. It wasn’t like Jake was going to notice the increasing rolls of flab around her stomach. They hadn’t had sex in so long she barely remembered what a penis felt like. She could of course go to the gym, she thought, like all those uptight Yummies who turn up every morning in their gym gear, on their way for a coffee (she often wondered if they actually went to the gym or just strutted around in trainers and leggings to make people like her feel crap about themselves), or for a run, which people promised would be a cure for body and soul, but why should she? This muffin made her feel better, right now, and that was all that mattered. Rory didn’t agree. He threw his half-eaten croissant to the floor. His mischievous laugh was infectious and they giggled together.
Chapter Eight
Dixie
It had been five days since Dixie got back from New York. Not a word from Freddie. She was preoccupied with this thought as she fought off the jet lag. The time she generally spent on Tinder was now spent wondering why she’d heard nothing. Not even the courtesy of a text. Christ, he hadn’t even shown enough initiative to find and follow her on Instagram. He was either not playing by the rules or he’d lost interest. At different levels she knew both to be true. Perhaps she should have been more demur about the finger-banging, but what the hell, she’d enjoyed it, and so had he. She reminded herself that she was not some passive doll, that she could write her own rules. Dixie Dressler waits on no man.
She texted, ‘Thanks for the finger-guided tour of the back streets of NY. I know a few alleyways in London I could show you. How about Weds at 8 p.m., Dover Street Wine Bar? Dix x’.
And then she sat and waited.
And waited.
She bit her nails and checked her phone to make sure her text had gone, had been delivered. It had.
And then when she couldn’t bear it any longer, she threw on her trainers and went for a run along the river. She ran like a banshee. She was now furious with herself for sending the text. Her neediness shamed her. He was obviously still so messed up about the death of his wife, he was never going to be available for anything more than side-street shenanigans. She should have known it would never come to anything. Good men didn’t want women like her. Breathing heavily as she climbed the stairs back to her flat, she resolved to put him out of her mind. She had plenty going on. They’d both got what they wanted. A New York dalliance.
Peter kept a small family office off Regent Street. She smiled at the girls on reception as she strode towards the lift. She was wearing her red Alexa Chung heels and they made the most satisfying clack on the marble flooring. She was late, she was busy, and she was feeling much more herself.
One of the girls called her over. She couldn’t remember her name. ‘Dixie, it looks like you have an admirer!’
On the desk was the most enormous bunch of red roses she had ever seen. An envelope contained a simple card, ‘So glad you decided to text. I thought maybe it was game over. Thursday, south-west corner of Red Lion Square, 7.30? Fx’
She actually felt giddy, a torrent of emotions flooded through her. She felt herself blush. She never blushed. She chose to ignore his assumption that Thursday was just as easy for her as Wednesday, but she admired his confidence. Maybe there was something there. Maybe Freddie was someone a bit different. Maybe they could write their own rules.
‘So who is it, Dixie?’ demanded the receptionist. ‘Who is “F”?’
‘How do you know what the card says?!’ asked Dixie.
She shrugged and held up her hands in innocence.
‘You’re outrageous, and it is none of your business,’ she laughed.
As she manoeuvred the bouquet into the lift, she found herself smiling. Unfinished business, you’re right there, she thought, and pinched her legs together. Only forty-eight hours to wait, she thought, and we’ll really start to find out what that devious Freddie is all about.
On Thursday night Dixie left work earlier. She was excited. As she had sat at her desk, she had doodled every possible outfit combination. Sketching her clothing options, picturing things, helped her process her ideas. She had always used her sketching as a way to process her emotions. Her mother had died when she was young, and when her distant cousin, the great Aunt Pearl, had taken her in, her aunt had taught her to use it as a coping mechanism, and she had never looked back. Too slutty, too cool, too smart, too sexy, too Madonna-ish, too Elizabeth I, too Elizabeth II, too Amy Shumer, too fashionista, she’d thought as she ran through all the options. So in the end she settled on one of her favourite mini dresses, tights and some knee-high boots. Sexy, figure-tested combination.