The Exchange

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I had to admit, it sounded a lot more tempting than the local Starbucks. Of course, I knew I could easily find a dancing job in one of the Soho clubs, and earn a very good wage once tips were factored in. But that was all part of the life I was trying to leave behind, if only temporarily. I enjoyed performing in many respects, but there were equally aspects that I wasn’t so happy about. This was my chance to find out what I wanted.

‘OK,’ I said, trying not to sound reluctant. I was interested in the job, but I wasn’t so thrilled that it would mean meeting up with Tatiana. I was uncomfortable with the thought of what I’d done with her boyfriend at Kyle’s the night before, of course, but I was also mistrustful of Tatiana herself. There was something calculating about her – more than a suggestion of ulterior motives to her apparent kindness.

‘Great,’ she said faux brightly. ‘What we could do is meet for lunch in Holland Park, and then drop by the boutique and see if Lulu is free for a chat? Or I might actually give her a call now, to check she hasn’t already got anyone and to let her know we’ll be calling in.’

‘Sounds good to me. Just let me know where and when.’

‘Well, how about Julie’s, at 1 p.m?’

‘Fine, I’ll see you there,’ I said, opening my laptop to find out the street name.

‘See you there,’ came Tatiana’s voice, and again it struck me that the honey of her tone masked something infinitely less sweet.

I was just about to put the phone down when she spoke again. ‘Oh Rochelle,’ she said, as if it were an afterthought. ‘Do make sure to dress up in your finest, won’t you?’

‘Sure,’ I said, but as I replaced the receiver I was already grimacing, wondering if I was doing the right thing.

***

I walked down to Holland Park, through the hipster throng of Notting Hill Gate itself. I was still getting my bearings, and in such fine weather, it was pleasant to take my time, to breathe in the spring air and ogle the buildings, which got increasingly impressive the further I descended the hill towards Holland Park. On either side of me rose white-fronted mansions bedecked by wrought-iron latticework, and fronted by immaculate gardens. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how much they may cost, or who might earn the kind of money to buy and then maintain them.

I came to the street I needed, took a right off the main drag. Julie’s appeared on my left and I approached the front door a little self-consciously. I had dressed up, but not because Tatiana had virtually ordered me to. The truth was, I loved it, and I knew also that I would feel crappy if this shop she talked about was brimming with gorgeous antique clothing and accessories. There’s nothing worse than shopping somewhere lovely and then catching sight of yourself in a mirror and realising you’re looking daggy.

I’ve never been a jeans and a sweater type of person. From the earliest age I would sneak upstairs to raid my glamorous maternal grandmother’s wardrobe, to slip on her oversize shoes encrusted with diamanté, to swathe myself in her real-fur stoles. Then I’d sit down in front of her three-mirrored dressing table and dab at my face with her powder-puff before coating my mouth with a slick layer of her lipstick. This was the ’70s, and the colour I remember applying most often was a vibrant orange. I never did my eyes, but I’d dab at her little pots of navy and silver shadows with my fingers and rub them over the backs of my hands to test out the effects.

That carried on, but while I still love dressing up, I’m not swimming in money, and I party too hard, and sometimes I realise the effect I achieve is more Courtney Love on a bad day than offbeat starlet. Today, however, I was Courtney in Versace: a bit ruffled, but sexily so. I’d teased out my ringlets a bit, and my nude-beige dress, knee-length and covered with appliqué white, pink and scarlet flowers, was actually quite downplayed. My lipstick and eye make-up were correspondingly muted.

As I walked in, Tatiana gestured from a table. I had to admit it, she looked good, her platinum-blonde hair offset against an expensive white trouser suit. Silver bangles and a heart pendant at her throat twinkled unobtrusively.

‘Rochelle,’ she said, standing up and walking around the table to kiss me on both cheeks. Her hands clasped my shoulders firmly, in a gesture I felt was a little territorial. I wriggled free, sat down. She did so too. I busied myself opening and scanning the menu; I knew it was rude, but suddenly I wasn’t in the mood for this. Whatever this may be. And of course I felt pretty shifty about what had happened with Morgan.

‘It’s great to see you again,’ she said, leaning across the table and thus forcing me to look up and meet her gaze. ‘What an unexpected pleasure that it be so soon. I’m almost glad my friend cancelled now. Old friends are great, but it’s always nice to make new ones – to extend one’s circle. Don’t you think?’

On her breath I caught a whiff of wine, and looking down I saw that she had almost downed a large glassful while waiting for me. It wasn’t for me to judge, but I did find that noteworthy given that we’d all been drinking the night before – and also given that I hadn’t arrived late, for once in my life.