like a lot of women. She walks across the foyer and is within a foot of me. She is pointing a plump finger at me: she’s so agitated she is actually shaking and as a result the strap of her handbag keeps slipping down her shoulder. Each time it does this she stops for a second and hitches the strap back on to her shoulder. Smart mac. Gucci bag. Where do I know this woman from?
‘The people who write the letters – do you know what motivates them? Have you the slightest idea?’ I look at the security guard and make it clear that I want him on standby. Whoever this woman is, she is obviously buoyed up by Christmas spirit(s). ‘I don’t suppose you do. You obviously love yourself so much you can’t love anyone else enough to be made vulnerable.’
As I can’t believe I know her, I consider it a near impossibility that she knows me. Even my best friends would be reticent to claim they know me. So what right does she have to draw such conclusions? Cast such aspersions?
Still, she’s right.
She isn’t shouting or threatening, but her powerful anger is obvious. She’s controlling the menace, but only to show me she can. I mentally run through my Filofax and index cards. Finally I place her.
‘I know you. It’s Libby, isn’t it?’ I hold out a hand for her to shake. Libby was on one of our early shows. She’d suspected her fiancé still had a thing for his ex. She’d been right. I remember Libby because she had had such lovely taste. I remember her showing me her wedding dress and the brides-maids’ dresses; they’d been exquisite. Yes, lovely taste, except in men, that is.
She nods curtly. ‘I was scared but I was with him. Now I’m scared and alone.’
I touch her arm. She smells of teenage perfume which reminds me of Fairy Liquid. I doubt this is Libby’s because of her impeccable taste. I suspect that she went for a quick one after work and with the combination of gin and Christmas songs on the jukebox she has become maudlin. I imagine her mates geeing her on to come and track me down to tackle me. One or two of her really good friends will have tried to stop her. On noting her determination they’ve done the next best thing – doused her in their perfume.
‘He’d have left anyhow,’ I comfort.
She starts to sob. ‘Would he? Would he?’
The receptionist gives her a cup of tea and the security guard leads her to the settee. She’s telling them how lonely she is. I think she should be evicted from the building, but as it is Christmas I won’t report the lax approach of the receptionist or the guard. I head towards the door.
‘Merry Christmas, Libby,’ I shout. I pause, waiting for her to wish me a Happy New Year.
She doesn’t. Instead she grips my arm and asks, ‘Have you ever looked in the mirror and been disappointed with your reflection?’ I turn to face her and she meets my gaze. ‘Well, I loathe mine.’
7
It’s New Year’s Eve. I have two things to celebrate this evening. One, Christmas is over. I’ve watched The Sound of Music with my mum and I’m now Julie-Andrews-free for another year. And two, it’s not the millennium. That was hell. The horrible expectancy of it all. I started planning my millennium New Year’s Eve in February 1997, as I was terrified that I’d choose the wrong option for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I couldn’t decide. Cottage in the Cotswolds? Black tie in Vegas? Beach in Mauritius? There was just too much choice and every one of them with its advantages. It wasn’t simply a question of enjoying myself. I presumed that I’d manage to pull that off just about anywhere, but I soon came to realize that wherever I chose said something about me. Did I want to say Vegas or Cotswolds? Did I want glitz or serenity? In the end Josh, Issie and I had a posh dinner at Issie’s house. Josh cooked, I provided the champagne. Issie’s contribution, besides the venue, was that she managed not to have her heart broken. A first for a New Year’s Eve, at least in my memory. We then drunkenly walked up and down the River Thames, getting crushed by the crowds and watching the fireworks and the backs of several million revellers. It was great. Now, in a blink of an eye, it’s New