Then there’s a song called “Girl Who Broke My Heart,” but she’s got “French lips, French kisses, French soul, French heart.” So I’m guessing that’s not me either.
I’d better not be the inspiration for the woman in “Twenty-third Century,” because it says, “What will you learn from her?” and the answer is, “Hate, only hate, twisted hate.” Which isn’t exactly very cheery.
In fact, none of Craig’s music is cheery. It’s quite thrashy and shouty, and the lyrics are depressing. It’s far better to watch his videos with the sound off. (I probably won’t mention that to him.)
I’ve also followed him on Instagram, and he’s pretty cool. He doesn’t ever seem to wear anything except leather, ripped T-shirts, studded boots, and stubble. His Instagram feed is full of photos of him in smoke-filled bars with girls lounging about—and all the girls are very beautiful, with nose rings and tattoos and electric-blue eye shadow. He always did like parties. I remember that. When we were going out, I went to more parties than in the whole of the rest of my life. I don’t think I did a single bit of work.
Even when we weren’t partying, we kept pretty extreme hours. I remember we used to stay up way into the night, burning joss sticks, lying on the floor, and staring at the ceiling. Craig would play the guitar softly and talk about South American politics, which was really important to him. I didn’t know that much about South American politics—but I was doing a Spanish module at the time, so I would casually drop in Spanish phrases like “¡Qué pena!” I felt special, as though we were solving the world’s problems, along to a great acoustic soundtrack—
“Excuse me!”
An elderly woman’s voice penetrates my memories and I blink into reality. I’m standing on Jermyn Street, surrounded by Christmas shoppers, blocking the entrance to a shop. Oops.
“Sorry!” I say, and as I step away I feel a stab of guilt. OK, I need to stop thinking about my ex. Focus, Becky, focus. Christmas shopping is my task; I’ve taken the day off especially. Christmas shopping.
I take a few steps forward, looking around all the decorated shop fronts, getting myself back in the zone. There are twinkly Christmas lights all around, which helps, and I can hear “Last Christmas” being piped from somewhere. (I love that song.)
Last night I skimmed through a few holiday magazines, which really got me in the mood. God, I love glossy-magazine land. You turn the pages in a happy stupor, staring at amazing decorations and women laughing while they drink champagne in sparkly tops, and you think, Oh my God, I want all of this and I definitely need a new sequined top and I hope Mum buys that Christmas pudding with the orange inside.
But this year, of course, it’s me buying the Christmas pudding. I’m in charge. I sometimes feel a little weak at the responsibility that has been handed to me. However, thankfully, the magazines were full of useful tips—for example, the “must-have tree ornament” this year is a silver llama with glittery hair and world peace embroidered on its side in pink. To be honest, I hadn’t realized there was such a thing as a “must-have tree ornament.” But there it was in every magazine, so I’ve ordered six. We’re going to have the most on-trend tree ever!
The magazines also said you should book your supermarket delivery early, so I did that too. In fact, I did it twice. I’ve got one delivery arriving on December 23, with the turkey and all the important stuff—and then a second one on Christmas Eve, in case I forget anything. Talk about organized!
I was getting a bit wired, but then I read this brilliant article called “Don’t Try to Solve Ten Problems at Once!” It said the answer to stress-free Christmas shopping was prioritizing and doing one thing at a time. So today I’m focusing again on one simple task: find a present for Luke.
But what?
I feel so uninspired. I’ve already been round all the department stores and, OK, I’ve seen nice things—but nothing that made me think, Yessss! So then I came to Jermyn Street, because that’s menswear central, isn’t it? Only now that I’ve wandered about a bit, I realize that all the suits need to be tailored, which is too complicated….
Ooh. Hang on a minute.
I stop dead and stare upward. I’ve just spotted the most amazing dressing gown in a window. It’s navy blue, decorated all over with cheetahs, and it looks like it’s made of some gorgeous silk. It looks like the kind of thing a movie star would wear. In a movie called The Dressing Gown.
I enter the shop, which is called Fox and Thurston and has lots of waistcoats and boaters and jaunty socks. There’s a section at the back with dressing gowns, and I head there straightaway. And there it is! It looks even more sumptuous up close, and Luke could definitely do with a new dressing gown.
Casually, I examine it, but I can’t see a price tag. So I swiftly move away and get out my phone. My new rule in posh shops is: Don’t ask the price but google it. Then you can gulp in private, instead of under the snooty gaze of an assistant.
I call up the website for Fox and Thurston and click on Unique Dressing Gowns. I scroll down various dressing gowns and suddenly spy the navy one. It’s called Cheetah Cloud, and it’s made from handwoven Chinese silk, and it costs…
What?
I stare at the figure in disbelief—£4,000 for a dressing gown? No way. The belt on its own is £350, I notice, and I clamp my lips tight so I won’t giggle. Who wants a dressing gown belt on its own?
“Hi!” A very thin, pretty girl with swooshy blond hair is approaching me with a smile. “Can I help you?”
For a split second I don’t quite know what to say—but then a brilliant idea hits me.
“Oh, hello there,” I say in a businesslike way. “My name’s Becky Brandon, née Bloomwood.” I extend a hand. “I work in brand representation. Would you be the right person to talk to on a business matter?”
The girl’s eyes widen and she says, “I’d better get Hamish.” A few moments later, a bearded guy dressed in red chinos and a striped waistcoat comes striding up to me.
“Hamish Mackay,” he says. “I’m the manager. How can I help you?”
“Hello,” I say, shaking his hand confidently. “My name’s Becky Brandon, née Bloomwood. I’m a brand ambassador consultant, and I just wondered who your brand ambassadors are currently?”
“Right,” says Hamish, shooting me a curious look. “As far as I’m aware, we don’t have any brand ambassadors.”
“Really?” I feign shock. “You know, all the big brands have them. I think it’s shortsighted not to avail yourself of this wonderful opportunity.” I can see Hamish opening his mouth to protest, so I quickly press on. “Luckily enough, I have a client on my books who’s available and I think would make a very fine ambassador for you. Very good-looking, very dapper, very high profile in the world of finance. He’s exactly who you need right now.”
“I’m sorry, what is this?” says Hamish, looking puzzled.
“It’s an arrangement,” I explain smoothly. “All you would supply is a few items of clothing, maybe a suit and dressing gown, for example, and in return he would wear the clothes in a variety of high-profile situations. It’s a win-win. Works every time.”
There’s a pause as Hamish peers at me. Then he says, “What’s your name again?”
“Becky Brandon, née Bloomwood. I can take an item or two with me now, if that’s easier,” I add casually, reaching for the dressing gown. “Why don’t I do that and send over the paperwork later? I know this particular gentleman has some very high-profile events coming up, and you’ll definitely want him to be wearing these garments.”
“A dressing gown?” says Hamish incredulously, eyeing it in my arms. “How’s he going to wear a dressing gown at a high-profile event?”
Oh. I hadn’t quite thought that through.
“Well…what is a dressing gown these days?” I retort boldly. “Call it a dressing gown, call it a smoking jacket—”
“It’s not a smoking jacket,” Hamish interrupts me. “It’s a dressing gown.”
“All the old rules are over,” I continue, ignoring him. “My client might sling this garment casually over his black tie…he might go for the dress-down look…he might layer it over a coat….”
“Layer a dressing gown over a coat?” says Hamish, looking repulsed.
“Why not?” I say defiantly, trying not to picture the moment where I tell Luke he has to layer a dressing gown over his coat.
“That’s a very expensive garment,” says Hamish, removing the dressing gown from my arms. “Please don’t touch it anymore. What’s this guy’s name?”
“Luke Brandon of Brandon Communications,” I say proudly, and something clicks in Hamish’s eyes.
“So this guy’s your husband?”
Drat. I should have taken a pseudonym.
“Perhaps he is,” I say, lifting my chin. “But that’s irrelevant. We’re utterly professional—”
“And you’re just trying to score some free clothes,” he continues, unmoved.
I stare at him, offended. Free clothes? What a nerve! They should be delighted that Luke would wear their clothes.
“It seems you fatally misunderstand the principles of the brand-ambassador concept,” I say loftily.
“No, I think I understand exactly.” Hamish seems amused. “Nice try.”
Hmph. He’s not going to give me the dressing gown, is he? I might as well quit while I’m ahead.
“Well, if that’s what you think,” I say with my most dignified air, “then I will leave you, always wondering what could have been. Always thinking: Was Luke Brandon our perfect brand ambassador…? You will repent at leisure for giving up this opportunity; I can only pity you.”