‘That’s what I said, isn’t it? Anything you like. I’ve got far too much. Mel won’t want it. I might as well give it to someone who appreciates it.’
‘Well, maybe just for today.’
Natasha studied the contents of both boxes and chose a leaping emerald leopard encrusted in diamonds, or possibly glass, and a pair of matching earrings. It was extravagant and outlandish, but it looked cool on the vintage suit.
Finally, she presented Isabel with her own gift, a silver feathered fascinator she had picked up at Harvey Nichols ten years ago. She had never worn it herself and never would, but it was perfect for the old lady.
Isabel stood up and, taking Natasha’s hand, led her back into the spare room so they could both look at themselves in the full-length wardrobe mirror. They made a striking pair. Natasha tall and polished in her figure-hugging suit and platform shoes, Isabel inches smaller in low heeled pumps but still with the commanding presence of an ageing star. Her eyes gleamed with excitement.
At the front door she stopped, turned back to Natasha and tugged a large ring off her finger. It was another emerald setting, and this time it was obvious the diamonds were real.
‘Try it,’ she insisted.
‘I couldn’t possibly wear your ring.’
‘Nonsense. It will look wonderful on your long slim fingers. And ideal with the outfit. Anyway, it’s too big for me now. I’m worried it might fall off.’
‘Well, just for today.’
The ring fitted perfectly. To Natasha at that moment it felt that not only had she met Darcy Black, she was Darcy Black.
They took a taxi to the station where they sat in the bright morning sunshine, waiting for the train. It was already hot, and Natasha felt overdressed and sweaty in her suit. What had looked stunning in the privacy of Isabel’s spare bedroom might not look so stunning in the outside world where people wore shorts and jeans. It was a bit Margaret Thatcher. Did she look ridiculous? Were people staring?
Then came a twinge of hunger. She had forgotten to bring a snack. There was nothing to buy on the platform and there would be nothing on the train. What a fool she was. She had felt too sick to eat much breakfast and since then she’d been preoccupied with Isabel, allowing herself to focus on someone else, losing her grip on her own needs. Even when working she was better organised than this.
The train was due in a minute. If there were no delays they’d be in Victoria by eleven forty-five. She would buy something there. Her reader was in her bag and she took it out. It worked through her clothes and she was practised at running it over her upper arm without drawing attention to herself. But this morning she felt self-conscious. Yes, people were staring. She not only looked absurd but was behaving strangely. More importantly, the blood glucose level was dropping fast. She would need to eat soon.
A crowded train pulled in. They were forced to sit separately. Added worry. She’d need to be sure not to lose Isabel in the crowds when they got to the station.
Through the window the low houses and warehouses of south London gave way to the glassy office blocks and apartments of the centre. She continued to feel both sick and ravenous. Could it be the pregnancy? Was that why she was hungrier? Why her blood sugar had dropped more than usual? She hadn’t been able to eat much at breakfast. It was a cruel irony that just when you needed food you couldn’t swallow it. Was that what pregnancy would be like? Despite the heat of the carriage she felt cold inside at the thought. She couldn’t have a baby. It was impossible. It would interfere with everything. Her phone was ringing. Luke of course.
‘Hi, babe,’ she said. ‘I thought you were off to the pub.’
‘Not yet. It’s hours till kick off. I just rang to check you were OK.’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘You were a bit funny at breakfast.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘When are you back?’
‘Five-ish. Listen. I can’t talk now. We’re just pulling into Victoria.’
In fact, they were held at signals. She put away her phone. She wouldn’t tell him. She would have an abortion. He would never know.
Passengers were already getting up and moving towards the doors. She joined them, stopping next to Isabel and leaning down so that she could hear.
‘I need to get some food at Victoria,’ she told her.
Isabel looked unhappy. It was obvious she was a woman who didn’t like her carefully made plans to go awry. ‘But we’ve booked a table at the restaurant.’
‘Just a snack. I told you. I’ve got type 1 diabetes.’
‘Goodness. Is it serious?’
‘It’s fine. I just need something to eat.’
‘You don’t look diabetic. I mean, not fat or anything.’
‘Or a drink. Then we can go to lunch.’
The explanation seemed to satisfy her, and she replied, ‘Of course, darling. Don’t you worry. I’ll look after you.’
The train was pulling into Victoria. Brakes squealed, carriages shuddered, slowed down, stopped. Passengers were rushing to get up, heaving luggage from overhead racks, pushing their way to the door. Isabel stood up to join them. Natasha was about to follow her when two young women on the other side of the aisle jumped up and shoved themselves forward. More people joined the queue to get out and soon the only sign of Isabel was the occasional glimpse of the silver fascinator bobbing in the gap between their heads. Natasha edged down the aisle steadying herself on the little knobs on the top of the train seats. Her platform heels made her feel enormous. She was practised on stilettos, but these were weird, like walking on stilts.
She was shaking as she stepped down from the train to the platform and the clatter and chaos of London crashed over her. Sweat poured from her body dampening the silky fibre of the stupid Eighties suit which clung to her back, her breasts, her stomach. She must reach the concourse. Must find food or drink. If only she’d worn something sensible, jeans, trainers. There were cafes in the distance but there was no way she could run in these useless shoes. And anyway, she hadn’t the strength.
The symptoms were familiar; the fog where thoughts started and faded like unfinished sentences. Stray notions flared up like flames in embers. She would make an appointment with the doctor tomorrow. She would get rid of this baby. She couldn’t look after it. She was not fit to be a mother.
Then, through the crowd and the fog she spotted Isabel waiting at the barrier. Memory clicked in and she located the tickets in the side pocket of her bag, handing one to Isabel who passed through the gate with ease. When she tried to insert her own into the slot, it stuck. Travellers were surging past through the other exits. The dizziness was getting worse, the fog drawing in again. Beyond her on the concourse, standing out like a lighted window on a dark night, she could see a Whistle Stop shop. She called to Isabel.
‘Get me a Coke. Or a Pepsi,’ adding, ‘not Diet Coke.’ But the thud of feet and rush of bodies drowned her voice and she wasn’t sure if the words had got out.
If she didn’t eat soon, she would pass out. Isabel was no use and Luke was far away. Her legs were too weak to take her much further, but diabetics didn’t wear placards announcing their condition. All she had was a wrist band, too discreet for anyone to notice until it was too late. The only thing she could do was wait, leaning on the barrier, hoping a railway employee would find her and let her through. Eventually a young man in a Hi-Viz jacket took her ticket, and the gate slid open. She staggered through, looking for Isabel who seemed to have been swallowed by the crowd.