“Oh God.” Suze stares at me unhappily. “That’s kind of what I thought too. Only I saw cropped chinos and a bandanna.”
We lapse into silence, and I find myself picturing Tom snogging a girl in cropped chinos and a red bandanna. Then I change the bandanna to a horrible green one and make her nose bigger, because she’s too attractive. Then I make her chinos really unflattering and have her picking her nose. God, she’s gross. Why would Tom prefer her?
“It might not be that,” I say at last. “Maybe they just had a fight.”
“Yes.” Suze seizes on this. “I mean, the strain of waiting for an adoption must be so stressful.”
“So stressful,” I agree. “And they’re all on their own out there, without any support….Anyway, I thought I might take Jess out for a drink. Will you come too? Then she might relax and tell us what’s up.”
“She’s not very talkative,” says Suze dubiously. “And does she even drink?”
“All right, we’ll go to a cooperative and eat fair-trade oats,” I say a bit impatiently. “The point is, she’s all bottled up right now. We can help her open up and share her pain.”
I feel quite an expert on listening to marital woes after my session with Steph. I can see Suze and myself sitting at a table, eating oats and holding Jess’s hands as she falteringly explains her predicament and weeps and then says, “But being with you girls helps me so much, especially you, Becky.”
I mean, she doesn’t have to say, “Especially you, Becky.” She just might.
“Poor Jess,” says Suze, as I take off my trench coat. “I’ve always thought—” She breaks off midstream, and I look up to see her staring at my distressed-tweed outfit. “Oh my God, Bex. What happened to your suit?”
She doesn’t seem quite as impressed by my customizing as I’d hoped. In fact, her tone sounds suspiciously close to horror.
“Oh,” I say self-consciously, tugging at my frayed jacket. “D’you like it? I thought I’d play around with it.”
“You did that yourself? On purpose?”
“Yes!” I exclaim defensively. “I customized it.”
“Right,” says Suze, after a long pause. “Er…great!”
She watches as I change out of my trainers into my black riveted boots, and her eyes get even bigger. “Wow. Those are…fierce.”
“Do you like them?” I say, suddenly alert. Does Suze want these boots for Christmas? I have only just bought them, but, then, that’s what Christmas is all about: giving. “They’d really suit you,” I add generously. “D’you want to try them on?”
“No!” says Suze, recoiling. “No, thanks! I mean, they look great on you, but…”
“Becky, dear!” Irene bustles up, eyeing my suit with alarm. “My goodness, what happened to your clothes? Did you get into an accident?”
Honestly. Does no one around here recognize the edgy look?
“It’s distressed,” I explain, a bit tetchily. “It’s fashion.”
“I see,” says Irene faintly. “Very modern, dear. Oh, your boots.” She claps a hand over her mouth.
“Have you got blue dye in your hair?” demands Suze, peering incredulously at my head.
“Yes.” I shrug casually. “You know I like to mix things up. Live life dangerously.”
It wasn’t actually that dangerous: It’s washable nontoxic blue hair dye for children. But that’s not the point. I saunter casually over to the mirror, trying to balance on my spiky heels, and stare at my reflection. I don’t look like an uncool suburban mum, that’s for sure. I look like…
Well, I don’t look boring, anyway.
* * *
—
It’s a fairly slow morning, and by eleven o’clock my feet are killing me, although I would never admit it to anyone. Just as I’m thinking I might sneak off for a KitKat, a group of women arrives in the gift shop, all very well dressed and holding copies of A Guide to Letherby Hall. They must have been round the house.
“Well, I didn’t think much of the Long Gallery,” the one with the blond ponytail is saying as she looks at a row of multicolored tweed jackets, and I stare at her indignantly. How can she say that? The Long Gallery’s brilliant. It’s got loads of amazing paintings and sculptures, which I’m totally intending to learn about one day. Thank goodness Suze isn’t in earshot—she’d be really hurt.
“The Rodin was interesting,” ventures her dark-haired friend, but the mean blond woman rolls her eyes.
“Clichéd,” she says disdainfully.
Clichéd? She’s clichéd.
I want to say something rude to her, but of course I can’t. My feet are agony and I’m feeling pissed off, but both Suze