Christmas at Claridge's Page 7

Clem didn’t holler in response like she usually did, though. She barely even registered it. Instead, she slowly climbed of the bed and lowered her shoulder to the open door of Shambles’ cage, whereupon the bird walked in with particular dignity, her long red tail feathers sweeping behind her like taffeta ballgown skirts.

  Clem tried to do the same as she turned on her heel, but it was a hard look to pull off with ketchup on her chin, and she’d only just rounded the corner when the tears blinded her way and she had to hold the wall for support.

  ‘Shit, Clem . . .’ Tom called after her, and Clem heard the bed creak as he moved to follow her. ‘What did you have to say that for, Clo? It’s not like she doesn’t know . . .’

  ‘No, Tom,’ she heard Clover say to him in a low voice. ‘I’ve told her the truth, that’s all. She’s just sulking because she wants to be a Portobello Girl all her life. She’s spoilt, that’s her problem. You and your parents have indulged her for too long. You’re the one who’s got to leave the area altogether to release enough money to plough straight back into the company, keeping her job going when this whole sorry mess has come about because of her recklessness.’

  ‘That’s not strictly true, Clo. I should never have invested so much before we signed contracts—’

  ‘If she hadn’t ruined the bike, you would have headlined Berlin and won the Bugatti account. True or false?’

  There was a reluctant silence. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ Tom muttered eventually, although his voice sounded strange.

  ‘I am, Tom-Tom, you know I am. And who knows, maybe this will be the best thing that ever happened to her? You’re not doing her any favours shielding her from the consequences of her own actions, you know. It’s high time she started taking responsibility for her behaviour. She’s only got away with playing the wild child for so long because you’ve enabled her to.’

  ‘I just worry about her, Clo, that’s all. She’s not as tough as she makes out.’

  ‘No, she’s nowhere near as fragile as you think, Tom,’ Clover contradicted. ‘And the sooner you accept that, my darling, the better life will be – for all three of us.’ There was a heavy pause, and when Clover spoke again, her voice was lower, different. ‘And you know I can’t wait for ever, Tom. Please don’t force me into a decision I don’t want to take just because you won’t make the one you know is right.’

  Clem realized she was holding her breath as the bedroom fell silent. There it was, the ultimatum Clem had known was floating between them all in the ether: Tom had to choose between them. Clover had played her card at last.

  Clem rested her cheek against the wall, willing him to choose her, to look after her, just like he’d always done, ever since they’d been little, before everything had fallen apart.

  And as the silence grew, she felt her hopes lift. He wasn’t saying it. He wasn’t giving Clover the answer she wanted. She’d come on too strong; played it wrong. Clem knew her brother better than Clover, better than anyone. He was easygoing and amiable, everybody’s buddy, an honest, fair and good man, but he was no walkover. Clover had sorely misjudged him if she thought she could divide and conquer them. Clem and Tom shared a bond that nobody could break.

  But then she heard a low groan and the creak of the mattress springs as weight was shifted. Her centre of gravity dropped a foot as she realized what she was hearing, and a moment later a shoe, thrown across the room, slammed the door shut like a slam-dunk. Clem closed her eyes and sagged against the wall – the end of her world as she knew it had just begun.

  Chapter Seven

  Clem wandered down the road, getting in everyone’s way. Being a Saturday all the stallholders were in the throes of the busiest day of their week, calling out to each other for small change and shared mirrors as punters moved between them at a tortoise-like pace, their purposeful marches when they’d emerged at Notting Hill Gate tube dissipating as the stalls stretched out before them like the yellow brick road.

  The day was bright and approaching a shade of warm in the sunlight, but Clem felt cold, even in the destroyed leather jacket she’d grabbed from the sofa on her way out. She was still in the sweaty harem-style sweatpants and over-sized tee she’d worn running, and although they’d almost dried, her skin felt damp and chilled in them. Her hair was up in a scruffy, unbrushed ponytail, exposing her bare neck to the elements, and she wished she’d had the presence of mind to grab a beanie before she left. But she couldn’t go back to the flat now. She couldn’t bear to see the silent triumph in Clover’s eyes, or worse, the shame and disappointment in Tom’s.

  She knew Stella would be up to her eyes on the stall by now, but where else could she go?

  ‘Hey, Clem!’ a raspy voice called out. She looked up to see Katy grinning at her from her flower stall, swaddled in her signature WWII army officer’s overcoat, Doc Marten boots and a mothballed pompom hat that had seen better days. ‘You look like I feel. Good night was it?’

  Clem felt the smile climb across her face automatically as she wandered over. ‘Fake it till you make it’ was her motto, and she was the queen of faking it. ‘Yeah! Top.’

  A tired-looking woman with a baby in a papoose strapped to her chest drifted over to the stall and started looking at the calla lilies, one of Katy’s priciest items at £8 a stem. Katy widened her eyes fractionally – hopefully – at Clem, and Clem shuffled further out of the way so as not to dissuade the lady from browsing.

  ‘Let me know if I can ’elp you at all.’ Katy smiled at the woman, blowing into her hands which, as ever, boasted raw pink fingers. Clem found herself thinking how much warmer Katy would be with a wrap of sheepskin around her hands – maybe done up as wrist warmers or fingerless gloves, so that she could still keep her fingers free? ‘So, what was it last night then? Or rather, who?’ She winked.

  ‘Just some bloke I met. Drinks in the Star,’ Clem smiled, zipping up her jacket as the nip in the shadows began to bite.

  ‘The Star? Heavy on the tequila then.’

  ‘Is there any other way?’

  ‘I don’t know how you do it. Out partying all night and looking fresh as a daisy next morning.’

  ‘You deal with daisies and we both know they bear no resemblance to me first thing in the morning. How’s Scott? Anything come up for him yet?’

  Scott was Katy’s live-in boyfriend. He’d been made redundant from his job at a printers’ in Queen’s Park, and Katy needed to sell a lot of calla lilies to make their rent each week. Stella had told him to buy a job lot of T-shirts, print them up and she’d sell them on the market for him, but Katy kept saying, unless they found a cache dumped in one of the bins, they couldn’t afford the upfront costs.

  ‘Nah, although Pip in Bee Me thought they needed someone on rounds at the post office, so I’ve just texted him to get out of bed and get down there sharpish.’

  The woman browsing wandered off and Katy let out a weary sigh. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Still quiet for you?’ Clem asked, looking at the tourists and day trippers thronging around them, picking up mismatched silver spoons, crumbly books and polyester lace dresses. She looked back at Katy. Clem always thought she was so pretty – tall and fine-boned with clear blue eyes and an elegant nose; her mouse-blonde hair was stringy and always hung limply, tucked behind one ear, but rather than diminishing her in any way, it just lent her a natural, un-made up air. She always looked like she needed a good hot meal, though, and today she looked not just cold, but drained too, boasting the same pinched expression Tom was currently wearing.

  ‘Yeah, but it ain’t so bad,’ Katy managed with the convincing brightness she was known for locally. ‘The Christmas wreaths did so well they’ve given me some breathing space. And I reckon everyone’ll cheer up once the daffs start coming in.’

  ‘Of course they will. Everyone loves daffs.’

  ‘Did you see Portobello House has planted their boxes with my snowdrops? They look dead pretty. So there should be a bit of interest from that.’

  ‘Totally,’ Clem nod
ded. ‘And once Mum and Dad are back from St Lucia, they’ll want something bright and colourful for the hall – you know what my mum’s like.’

  ‘I do indeed,’ Katy grinned, winking at her. ‘Caribbean, hey? How the other half live. I could do with a bit of sun on my bones. I feel like it’s been raining for months.’

  ‘And yet you never get ill. It’s amazing. You’re out here in all weathers, day after day, whilst I’m practically sitting on the radiator in the office. Simon thinks I’m nesting eggs.’

  ‘Bet he’d like to keep you warm,’ Katy cackled, blowing into her hands again and shuffling her feet to keep the blood moving.

  ‘Nah, he’s over it now. He’s been at close quarters for too long now. He’s seen just how dysfunctional I am.’

  ‘Maybe he’d like to be your personal salvation.’

  Clem rolled her eyes, closing the topic down. ‘Anyway I was just off to see Stella and get some lunch. Wanna join us?’

  ‘I’d love to, but I daren’t leave. Ron’s flat out today.’ Katy jerked her head towards the neighbouring stallholder, who was selling tights, socks and scarves like they were going out of fashion – the weather forecasters had predicted a cold snap. ‘He won’t be able to deal with any customers I might get, too. Although there’s not much hope of that on the strength of things so far! But I’d better stay here, just in case.’

  Clem rubbed Katy’s arm reassuringly. ‘Well, I’ll bring you a treat on my way back, OK?’

  ‘You’re a doll. Thanks, babe.’

  ‘Oh, and before I forget, it’s Tom’s birthday next Thursday. Can you get me in some of those orangey flowers he liked last year?’

  Katy thought for a moment. ‘Freesias, weren’t they?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Great, no probs. How many d’you want?’

  Clem shrugged. ‘Put something gorgeous together for me. And don’t spare the horses.’

  Katy pointed at her and gave another wink. ‘I owe you.’

  ‘No. You really don’t.’

  Clem let the sluggish current eddy her along, raising a hand or nodding her head as familiar faces called out in greeting, but she stopped short of chatting again. Her problems might not be as pressing as Katy’s – sleeping on the street wasn’t the threat hanging over her; it was not sleeping on this street that had her running scared – but the fragile happiness she knew was at shatter-point. Tom was giving up on her, she could feel it, and that meant she was truly alone now.

  As she headed north past Elgin Crescent, a guy with dreds was standing in one of the traffic islands playing the metal drums and bringing the Caribbean to North London. Clem’s thoughts wandered to her parents and what they might be doing at that moment. They had jetted out yesterday for their annual winter sojourn in St Lucia; her mother couldn’t stand the cold.

  Clover had been right, of course. Clem knew her parents would fall over themselves to help out, no doubt stumping up the cash for her to put a deposit down on a flat, or giving Tom the money directly to invest in the company. But Tom’s pride meant he would never take it, and although Clem had long since given up the notion of having any pride in herself, she wouldn’t take her parents’ money either.

  The vintage fashion stalls under the railway bridge and canvases in Portobello Green were mobbed, as usual, as teenagers, stylists and students considered Norwegian jumpers, Edwardian tea dresses, Mod parkas and every trend, epoch and era in between.

  Clem stopped at the French bakery stall and bought three chocolate-filled crêpes and hot chocolates, paying a pound extra for one of the girls to run down with one for Katy on her stall.

  Skirting the crowd altogether, Clem climbed over the generator wires and stray chairs that lay between the stalls at the back, pushing through the black Spanish lace curtains that marked the ‘walls’ of Stella’s domain.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Stella asked immediately, handing over change to another satisfied customer and making eye contact with the next. ‘Sixty love.’

  Clem handed Stella her lunch and sat dejectedly on the upturned bucket, taking a half-hearted bite of her crêpe.

  ‘Clover finally did it. She did the “her or me” thing. Tom’s moving in with her.’

  ‘No!’ Stella gasped in horror, startling a Japanese student who almost leapt across the road in fright. ‘Sorry not you, duck. That top’s forty quid.’ She looked back down at Clem, who was absently squidging the chocolate filling of the crêpe as if it were toothpaste in a tube. A thought occurred to her. ‘Does that mean I can move in, then?’

  Clem hoiked up her eyebrows. ‘Yeah. If you can buy the flat off Tom.’

  ‘He’s selling? That’s a bit bloody drastic, isn’t it? Why can’t he just rent out his room? That flat’s the best investment ever.’

  ‘Because he needs to release the equity to refinance Alderton Hide. Things are even worse than I’d thought. The company’s on the brink of collapse.’ She sighed.

  ‘Shit. What are you going to do?’

  ‘What can I do? I’ll have to get a place on my own.’

  ‘Crap.’

  ‘Yeah. It is.’ Clem noticed a chunky woollen sleeve hanging down the back of the trestle table. ‘I’m frozen; this jacket’s useless. Have you got anything I can put on? I left the flat in a bit of a hurry. Clover’s celebratory sex noises were more than I could take.’

  ‘Ugh, rolling in Clover . . .’ Stella murmured, rummaging in one of her giant Ikea bags under the table and pulling out a copper-coloured cable-knit floppy beret. ‘Here, try that.’

  Clem rammed her ponytail in it and pulled it down over her ears. ‘Ooh, that’s better.’

  Stella regarded her for a moment before tipping the beret fractionally to the right. ‘Perfect.’

  ‘How much?’ The Japanese girl was pointing at Clem’s head.

  Stella looked down at her. ‘Thirty for the beret. It’s hand-knitted.’

  The Japanese girl nodded and opened her purse again. Meanwhile, Stella whipped the hat off Clem’s head.

  ‘Oi!’ Clem protested

  ‘Shurrup,’ Stella murmured. ‘I’ve got another one in the bag.’

  Clem sighed and waited for her ears to be covered again. This time the beret was silver grey. ‘Thank you,’ she said pointedly, making her own little adjustments, just as she heard Stella say, ‘Thirty.’

  She looked up, but too late, the beret was whisked straight off her head.

  ‘Hey!’ she protested again as the hat was bagged up and handed over.

  ‘Sorry ’bout that.’ Stella reached back down into the bag and pulled out a fake-fur deerstalker. ‘Here you go. You’ll be safe in that. Can’t sell these for love nor money.’

  ‘Finally,’ Clem pouted, giving the hat an extra tug down and returning to her crêpe, which was now as cold as her nose. ‘So what d’you think I should do? I could try and get Clover off the scene. I reckon I’d be good at revenge.’

  The hat was whisked off her head before she’d even finished the sentence.

  ‘Oh you’ve got to be kidding me!’ Clem scowled, standing up and staring down at the customers, who were all eyeballing the furry deerstalker in the lucky punter’s hands.

  ‘Holy cow, you’re my lucky talisman.’ Stella giggled. ‘Here, put this on.’ She was holding out an olive green parka with a fake-fur lining and matching-trimmed hood.

  ‘No. I don’t want to,’ Clem retorted, crossing her arms belligerently. ‘I’m freezing. I’m still sweaty from running earlier.’

  ‘Which is why you should put it on.’

  ‘Why? You’ll only take it off me again.’

  ‘It’s not my fault if people want to look like you. Put it on, you daft nana.’

  Looking at everyone suspiciously, Clem shrugged on the coat. She’d barely tipped up the hood before Stella casually said, ‘A hundred and forty.’

  Instantly, arms shot forward with bank notes clutched tightly in their hands.

  ‘I’ll give you one fifty,’ cried one
of the girls further back in the crowd.

  Stella looked across at her – eyes wide with surprise – and Clem burst out laughing. She had to. It was ridiculous. Beyond ridiculous.

  After that, they had some fun with it, running the stall as a fashion show auction. Clem put something on, Stella gave an opening number and the customers vied and bid until almost everything on the stall had gone.

  ‘My God!’ Stella wheezed with laughter as she packed up several hours later – not that there was much left to pack. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Some kind of fashion flash mob?’ Clem groaned. She was exhausted, although no longer cold, and the crowd’s adoring attention had restored her spirits after Tom’s rejection.

  Stella plonked herself down on the spare bucket and looked across at her friend, as though seeing her for the first time.

  ‘What?’ Clem asked nervously, as Stella scrutinized her. ‘Don’t say I’ve got chocolate on my face now?’

  ‘No. I’m just trying to pinpoint exactly what it is about you that attracts people.’

  ‘Oh thanks.’ Clem laughed nervously.

  ‘I don’t mean it like that, you numpty. I’m your biggest fan, you know that. But what one thing is it, do you think? Is it your eyes? Your hair? The fact that you’ve got legs as long as ladders?’

  ‘I think it’s girls just having some fun and getting carried away,’ Clem replied dismissively.

  ‘No, no, there’s something else, Clem. I made more money showing my designs on you today than I usually do in a month of markets.’

  ‘Drinks are on you, then.’

  ‘I’m serious. Other women admire and envy you. If you’ve got it, other women want it.’ Stella patted her knee. ‘You can be my own personal cash cow.’ She grinned. ‘From now on, I’m not just going to pin my designs on you, I’m going to photograph them on you, too. Make a look book showing how everything should be worn and pin them up here.’

  ‘If you like,’ Clem shrugged, finding a last, stray deerstalker underneath the trestle table. She spun it on her hand. ‘But your designs wouldn’t sell if they weren’t any good, Stell, not even if Kate Moss wore them. You’re a brilliant designer. I mean, look at this hat. It’s a really flattering style. It looked good on everyone who tried it.’