cutting her off like a bridesmaid on speed. She didn’t seem to suspect and I felt worse as we worked each other up into a fever of hysterical excitement. Maybe I could get her so excited she wouldn’t remember at all? Brooch amnesia?
Even on the way to meet her, the supposed handing-over of the beautiful antique family heirloom brooch, I didn’t have a plan. Like I somehow thought the brooch might magically appear in my hand, as if I was suddenly a character in Harry Potter and could just summon it from the air. I closed my eyes and muttered, hoping when I opened them to see it lying on the chewing-gum-spattered pavement, twinkling. ‘Hello, Lottie,’ it would sparkle, ‘you haven’t screwed up completely: here I am to save the day.’
I had also spent way too many hours trawling Etsy believing I might be able to somehow pass off any old antique brooch as the antique brooch, taking it along with me and then practising my best surprised face, ‘What do you mean, this isn’t the one? This is what the woman gave me. I am disgusted, appalled, nay, horrified’ (pause for dramatic hand to chest). I knew that lie would be busted the moment ever-efficient Amy tracked down the poor woman back from visiting her family to bawl her out. And she could always tell when I was lying anyway. Like the time I told her I hadn’t snogged Garry Peel outside the men’s loos of a nightclub, or when I told her I’d never eaten foie gras. She just knew.
I stood outside the glossy John Lewis store, breathing slowly in and out. Stay calm, Lottie. Stay calm. You are here to help Amy choose her wedding presents. This is exciting. Just keep talking to her about presents, constantly distract her with sandwich-makers and crystal jugs in different shapes. Ask her a lot of questions about the thread count she wants in a summer duvet. Maybe she won’t ask. Maybe she won’t remember. Maybe by the end of today she’ll still like you.
I felt too hot in my jeans and cotton shirt as I pushed my way inside, weaving round prams, people clutching bags of shopping, others pausing to browse the make-up counters. I headed to the lift, feeling my palms dampen with every step. My bag was hideously, horribly empty. I regretted not buying something from Etsy. Anything seemed better than producing nothing.
Amy was, of course, already in situ, looking relaxed and lovely in an orange shift dress which made her dark skin look even smoother and more gorgeous. Her hair was glossy under the lights and she gave me an enormous grin as the lift doors opened, holding up a small white plastic item. ‘It’s for bleeping stuff. I can’t believe Will didn’t want to do this with me,’ she said, stepping across to give me an enormous hug and then stepping back to bleep me.
I swallowed, all ready to break down in confession. I was a terrible person, I would do anything I could to fix it, I really was desperately sorry, I was still leaving messages for the woman in the shop in an attempt to salvage things . . .
Before I could say anything, however, a glowing, impossibly skinny woman with a strawberry-blonde ponytail descended on me, her straight white teeth flashing as she welcomed me to the store. ‘You must be Amy’s partner— Oh, I’m sorry’ – she held up a manicured hand – ‘my colleague is calling me back, hold on.’
The shop assistant moved away so I had time to turn to Amy, a perplexed look on my face, other thoughts fading.
Amy shifted her weight from one foot to another. ‘Oh, I was a bit embarrassed that Will didn’t want to come, so I panicked and said you were my partner . . . just go along with it, all right?’
The lady was returning and I hastily nodded before tucking my arm into Amy’s and resting my head on her shoulder. ‘I am.’
‘You are . . . ?’ The lady tipped her head to one side in question.
‘Amy’s partner,’ I announced in a loud voice, following it up with a strange giggle I had got from somewhere. ‘She’s wonderful. I’m so lucky,’ I gushed. ‘I never thought I would find someone who would just get me, you know . . . ’
I could just hear Amy whispering, ‘Too much,’ as I stroked her forearm with one finger.
I trailed off.
‘I’m . . .