Cathy Kelly - Just Between Us

She quietly made her way to the coffee machines and poured herself a cup, then, because it would seem rude to go and sit by herself, tentatively sat at the edge of the circle and listened. Pia (ground floor, Clinique counter) was keeping the group enthralled with tales of what happened next, after Tomás, he of the melting foreign accent, had told her she was beautiful enough to be a model.

‘It’s not as if I haven’t heard that before,’ Pia said without arrogance. She was stunningly beautiful after all. Skin like caramel silk, doe eyes and the grace of a ballerina. Men must surely always be telling her how beautiful she was, Holly thought wistfully.

‘But he really is a photographer,’ Pia went on.

The group were impressed. Men pretending to be photographers in order to chat up Pia was nothing new. One actually turning out to be a photographer was a surprise.

‘Which one was he?’ inquired Rebecca (ladies’ hosiery). ‘Not the tall, older guy? I noticed him talking to you but then I went to the mezzanine for a smoke with Leo and we ended up there for ages.’

‘The tall one, yes. He’s Hungarian,’ Pia said dreamily. ‘I thought you’d given up smoking, anyway?’ she added.

Rebecca grinned. ‘You know me: two drinks and I’m scabbing cigarettes from everyone.’

‘Oh yes, and what went on in the mezzanine with Leo?’ demanded Fiona (millinery). ‘It can’t be the same I-never-want-to-see-you-again Leo, can it?’

Rebecca’s grin widened. ‘Same story as with the cigarettes,’ she said wickedly. ‘Two drinks and I forget all my good intentions.’

They all laughed.

‘I was talking to your Tomás earlier, Pia,’ Fiona pointed out. ‘He never said he was a photographer.’

‘He was probably lying,’ Pia said easily.

Fiona, Rebecca and Pia all smiled. Men. What were they like?

‘What about you, Holly?’ asked Rebecca kindly, dragging Holly into the conversation because it wasn’t nice to let her hang on the edge. ‘Do anything interesting last night?’

‘I was at a school reunion,’ Holly said shyly.

The other girls smiled but the languid Pia looked unimpressed. School reunions were very far down her list of exciting events. Real parties involved rock stars, possibly a footballer or two, and at least one gossip column photographer recording the event for posterity.

‘I’d never bother going to a school reunion,’ said Pia. She eyed Holly speculatively, her cool gaze reminding Holly of Lilli the night before. Pia and Lilli were like sisters under the skin, Holly thought. Both keen to gauge a person’s success by the wrong standards.

Holly wished she could say something witty in return but, as usual when faced with people like Pia, words failed her. She smiled weakly, knowing she looked like an idiot.

Fiona began talking about some fabulous new high-heeled boots she’d bought that looked madly expensive even though they weren’t. Everyone nodded respectfully at this. Cheap, fashionable stuff that looked expensive was a favourite topic of conversation because none of them were on very good salaries despite their glitzy lifestyles.

‘Oh, you won’t believe the new shoes I got on Monday.’ Rebecca held the floor.

Holly drank her coffee and flicked through the old magazine that somebody had left on her chair. She couldn’t concentrate on it because she was wondering why she was such a wimp.

She drained her coffee and got to her feet, her movements graceful. Say something, she told herself, say something. ‘Better go back. See you.’ Oh well, it was better than nothing.

She’d just left the canteen when she realised she’d left her cigarettes on the table and doubled back to pick them up. Which was when she overheard them talking about her.

‘Do you believe that about a school reunion?’ asked Pia in a poor-dear voice. ‘I certainly don’t. In fact, I don’t think she has a social life at all. She’s a total oddball, really. She never has a word to say for herself.’

Hovering outside the canteen door, Holly was shocked into immobility.

‘She’s shy,’ protested Rebecca.

‘Well, I think she’s just rude,’ Pia continued dismissively. ‘Or stupid. Somebody should tell her. I’d kill myself if I was as dumb as she is.’

‘Don’t be such a bitch, Pia,’ said Rebecca. ‘Not everyone’s as confident as you.’

‘I don’t understand shyness,’ Pia said haughtily. ‘If you stammer, you can get that sorted out. If she’s shy, why doesn’t she go to classes or something? There’s no excuse for that type of thing.’

‘Poor thing. And I don’t think she ever has a boyfriend. I know, why don’t we introduce her to someone?’ suggested Rebecca. ‘That might give her a bit of a social life.’

‘Waste of time.’ Pia was scathing.

Outside, Holly’s face burned with embarrassment and pain. Blindly, she hurried to the staff stairs, and raced down to the basement and the comfort of the children’s wear department. Taking deep breaths to try and stop herself shaking, Holly leaned against the wall hoping that her legs wouldn’t let her down. How could they let Pia say such awful things? Grimly, Holly thought of all the things she’d like to say to Pia if only she had the courage. She’d show her. She’d get a bloody fantastic life together and make Pia jealous of her, she would.

Like all the best tear-stained plans of revenge, by evening, Holly’s thirst for retribution had vanished and she simply felt miserable and lonely. It was Friday night and as she walked slowly through the streets to catch her bus, she felt convinced that everyone else on the whole planet had exciting pre-Christmas party plans while she was going home alone for a date with Ben and Jerry.

Her mobile buzzed and, for once, she managed to find it in her bulging shoulder bag before the caller had given up.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi Holly,’ said Joan. ‘Spill the beans. How did last night go?’

‘’kay,’ said Holly despondently.

‘What’s wrong?’ demanded Joan. ‘You sound like Cinderella when the pumpkin coach hits the dust.’

‘Nothing’s wrong.’ Holly couldn’t bear to have this conversation in the middle of the street. She might burst into tears, which would undoubtedly give Pia more ammunition for the ‘Holly Miller is an anti-social nutcase’ theory. Her phone began to crackle. ‘The signal’s bad here,’ she yelled at the phone but it was too late. She’d been cut off. Feeling more wretched than ever, she switched the power off.

Joan and Kenny were both going out that evening, so she wouldn’t see them until the morning. She’d tell them about the awful incident in the canteen then. But not now.

Her flat was in a crumbling Victorian monstrosity that had been built onto so many times, the original architect would never have recognised it. It was situated on Windmill Terrace, a long, winding road made up of a strange mix of vandalised old tenements and sprawling Victorian houses which canny property developers were doing up in advance of the area being gentrified. When that happened, Holly’s landlord would undoubtedly eject all his tenants out onto the street and sell up. Holly was crossing her fingers that this wouldn’t happen until she had saved money for a deposit on a flat of her own, although that prospect was still a long way off. Her current apartment was one of two on the second floor. Across the hall was Joan and Kenny’s flat, a much bigger, two-bedroomed establishment with its own miniature balcony, a bathroom with a cracked roll-top bath instead of the shower Holly had, and a kitchen that was never used for anything except making coffee and toast. Kenny and Joan had moved in two years ago, at the same time as Holly, and once they’d discovered that she loved to cook, they turned up at hers at least twice a week looking hungry. Consequently, they pooled the food money and treated their floor like one big flat, with Holly in charge of cooking. Joan, who as a student had the best working hours, did most of the grocery shopping, while Kenny took care of the laundry and ironed. Holly was dangerous with an iron because of her ability to singe holes in all her most precious garments. Anyway, she knew she’d never be able to get knife-edge creases into trousers the way Kenny did.