Gemma Townley - When in Rome...

I grab my bag and run outside.

Of course I’m late. I’m always late for Candy. I haven’t seen her for years and it’s still the same old story. With Mike, it was always me who was on time and him who was late. With David, we pretty much get to places the same time. With my mother, well, she’s either really early or really late, or one of us doesn’t turn up at all.

I think you develop certain patterns with people that get so ingrained, you can’t get out of them

—like Candy never compensates and gets places a bit late. And even if I’m early when I leave to meet Candy, something always happens. Or maybe it’s just that I’m always so worried about what I’m going to wear that I end up changing ten times.

Take today. A girly catch-up and shopping trip round Oxford Street. So that’s jeans, maybe a nice top (wearing crap clothes when you’re shopping is very dangerous—shop assistants sneer at you and anything you try on looks better than what you’re wearing so you end up buying too much), and some cool flat-ish shoes. Flat because of all the walking. But not too flat because then my legs look stumpy and I won’t be able to try on anything that requires heels, which is pretty much everything. Plus also, flat shoes make me look about forty, unless they’re really pointed, in which case they’re so uncomfortable that they defeat the object of wearing flats in the first place.

Getting dressed isn’t usually this complicated for me. I manage to dress myself most days without a second thought. But Candy is one of those tall, thin, Gwyneth Paltrow types—blond hair, a constant light tan, and the ability to make a pantomime cow outfit look sexy. In fact, it’s worse than that. I know plenty of beautiful people, and they don’t make me react this way. No, with Candy, it’s the way she looks at my clothes and says things like “That skirt’s a really nice idea. So I guess you need some cowboy boots now to make it work. Shall we try . . .” and then lists a whole load of shops that sell cowboy boots, when I had got the skirt specifically to go with my trainers, or whatever I’m wearing. She talks about “looks” instead of outfits, and as yet I don’t think I’ve ever got a “look” right, in her opinion. But rather than accept defeat, I just keep on trying.

Today I think I’ve cracked it, though. Tod’s loafers—they’re comfortable, but they’re also Italian, and I once saw Elle McPherson wearing a pair, which demonstrates just how stylish they are. (If I’m really honest it was seeing Elle wearing them that got me extending my overdraft to buy a pair.) So with my black trousers and black turtleneck I think I’m actually looking quite Audrey Hepburn inFunny Face . A kind of beatnik Euro-chic look. Shit, I’m even talking like Candy now.

Luckily I get a cab without too much difficulty and am only ten minutes late. Candy is waiting for me outside Browns on South Molton Street. She is in combats, trainers, and a little pink T-shirt that sits just above her belly button, revealing an expanse of tanned skin. She looks me up and down when we’ve kissed hello.

“You look very formal. Have you been working this morning?” she asks.

This is not going to go well.

We decide to go for a coffee first. Last time I saw her, Candy insisted on drinking cocktails

—“makes shopping so much more fun, don’t you think?”—but today she is ordering a large latte with extra cream. I decide to order the same thing—it’s sunny but windy outside and I need warming up.

We sit down in the Starbucks next to Office Shoes and I find that I am actually rather excited. I can’t wait for Candy to say “So tell me, what’s going on with you,” so that I can give a little smile and say “Oh, you know, the usual. Although, you know I bumped into Mike recently?

Well, you’ll never believe it, but he’s been pursuing me . . .” She’ll probably squeal and fill me in on his side of the story (“He just called me up and asked how you were—said he’d seen you in the street and he just couldn’t stop talking about you”), and we can laugh about it. I can talk at length about the relative merits of David and Mike, and the problems that come with being so darn desirable. And then we can go shopping and buy some fabulous new clothes to go with my fabulous new heartbreaker image.

Our seats are by the window and the sun is streaming through the glass, giving the impression that it’s summer even though it’s barely April. The coffee shop is full of glamorous-looking people with huge numbers of shopping bags. I notice that none of them are from shops that I frequent—I don’t suppose Top Shop and Oasis bags really hold their own against Miu Miu and Fenwicks.

Maybe I should start buying designer clothes like Candy. I wonder if Mike would take me shopping with his platinum credit card and then I immediately feel guilty. David hates shopping, unless it’s for gadgets—he can happily spend four hours finding out just how many functions a television has, but try and get him into French Connection and he suddenly remembers how much work he’s got to do. But he is my boyfriend and I love him. There is no way I would ever go shopping with Mike. I’ll just max-out my own credit card like normal people.

Candy has arranged herself delicately over her chair. She is looking amazing. Her cheeks are pink, her skin is glowing, and her blue eyes are gleaming. I resolve that I will only try clothes on in shops with separate changing facilities.

I wait for her to start talking, but strangely, she’s silent.

“So,” I begin. “How’s things?”

She’s about to start talking, when, before I can help it, I interrupt with “Seen much of Mike?”

It’s no use. I just can’t wait for her to tell me about her life. I’ve been bottling this Mike thing up for days, and I need to talk about it. I try to sound nonchalant, but unfortunately the question comes out a bit quickly, with a little bit too much emotion attached.

Candy looks up sharply.

Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say. I’ve got to impress upon Candy that I am over Mike, but that he is obviously not over me. Far from it. Maybe I should try a different tack.

“I mean, well, you’re friends, aren’t you?” I mutter, trying to make out that there was no significance to my question. I don’t want to just tell her about Mike. I want her to ask. I want her to drag the facts out of me.

“So how are you?” I ask again.

“George, look, I’m sorry we haven’t seen each other for such a long time. I’ve been really busy at work and . . . well, you know. The things is, I kind of brought you out under false pretenses today,” she begins slowly.

Oh God, Mike’s here, I think. He’s asked her to get me out so that he can spend the afternoon with me. I look around, but can’t see him.

Candy is staring into her coffee.

“The thing is, George, I’m pregnant.”

Okay, I was not expecting that. “Pregnant? Candy, I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone!”

It occurs to me that I wouldn’t really know.

“How . . . how did it happen?”

Candy sort of snorts and stares at me. “George, I don’t think I need to go into that level of detail do I?”

“No, sorry, of course not. I just . . . it . . . I’m just surprised, that’s all. So, are you, I mean, do you think you’ll . . .”

“Keep it?” she asks. “Oh yes, definitely. But I don’t know. I haven’t told my parents yet. I haven’t dared.”

I can see why she’s scared. Candy’s parents are completely terrifying. Even my mother is scared of them—she met them once at a party and couldn’t get away quickly enough. They are like your worst nightmare headmistress and headmaster rolled into one. And they certainly aren’t the sort to embrace single motherhood. Her mother went into a complete decline when Candy had her belly button pierced; the prospect of a baby would probably finish her off.