One Small Mistake(15)
Margot laughs. ‘Astute.’ Her smile is wide and bright and brilliant. ‘Aren’t you supposed to congratulate me?’
It takes me a beat. ‘Yes!’ I say. ‘Oh my god, of course. Congratulations!’ And even though I’m still confused and shocked and feeling like I just stepped off a merry-go-round, I leap up and hug her, banging my knees against the table. Margot calls the waiter over and orders a bottle of champagne to celebrate and I can’t believe it. I can’t. I just can’t. ‘I didn’t know you were writing a book,’ I manage, trying not to make it sound like the accusation it is. ‘How did this happen?’
‘Well, it’s not really my book, it’s my mother’s. I don’t know if her publicist contacted the publishers or if it was the other way around, but, basically, Mother’s been commissioned to write about her life, her international career as the first Filipino model to walk for Chanel and how she paved the way for other Filipino models just like her.’ She takes a breath. ‘I wanted to tell you the second we got the offer but thought I should wait until we signed the contracts this morning. The publishers want to release the book next year, in time for the thirtieth anniversary of Mother’s Chanel runway.’
She’s still talking but I can’t hear her over the sound of blood pounding in my ears. I smile. I smile so widely I imagine the skin at the corners of my mouth tearing like wet tissue paper, but I can’t stop because I’m her friend and it’s my job to be happy for her. ‘But how do you fit in?’
The waiter returns with the champagne and pours us two glasses. Margot raises hers. ‘Shall we?’
And even though I’m still not sure what’s going on, we clink glasses and exclaim ‘Cheers!’ but my impatience is growing. ‘So how do you come into all this?’ I ask again, casually, like I’m enquiring after the weather and not at all like I want to scream, ‘ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS? HOW. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK?’
‘Well …’ She tucks a strand of inky hair behind her ear and sits up a little straighter. ‘My bits are about what it was like growing up with an international model for a mother and why I left modelling to go to university. At first, I was like, no way, I can’t write a book, you know? But then I read Mother’s chapters and they’re just so good. I actually got goosebumps reading about her being robbed at gunpoint in Berlin, even though I’ve heard the story a thousand times. You know, the police never did recover all the stolen jewellery. It’s weird to think someone could be walking around out there wearing my mother’s original engagement ring.’
No wonder she’s glowing; it’s not orgasms, it’s success. It’s a book deal. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted.
‘Isn’t this exciting?’ she squeals.
I nod. Why do I feel like she’s stolen something from me? Why can’t I just be happy for her without the dizzying jealousy? Why do I have the overwhelming urge to push my chair back and scream until my throat is raw?
‘What changed your mind about co-writing the book?’ I laugh, hoping it doesn’t sound as bitter as I feel.
She pours us both a second glass and orders a round of martinis from a passing waitress. ‘Harriers said they’ll give me an aid, you know, like a ghostwriter.’
Colour drains from my face. ‘Harriers?’ I whisper, too stunned to create any real volume. Harriers, who sent gushing emails about my manuscript, who led me on for months only to crush me underfoot.
‘It’s incredible,’ she says. ‘They’re huge, right?’
‘The hugest.’
‘Apparently, stories based on true events are the in thing.’
The waitress returns, placing our martinis on the table. ‘Yeah, I know – Lara said.’
‘Oh god, yes! You didn’t tell me how your meeting went.’ She leans forward, eager. ‘So?’
I stare down at my martini; lemon peel floats in the glass like a yellow scab. I don’t know if I can bring myself to tell her the truth after hearing she’s just been handed something I’ve worked for, which feels so far out of my reach it may as well be on the fucking moon.
I take a sip of my martini and the yellow scab brushes against my lips. ‘It went fantastically,’ I hear myself lie. But then, a pretty lie is always better than an ugly truth.
‘You got a deal?’ Her voice is breathy with excitement.
I force a smile. ‘Well …’
Margot squeals so loudly, the couple next to us jump and the woman shoots us a dirty look. ‘Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod. This is perfect. Perfect! We can have a joint party to celebrate. Don’t worry, I’ll plan everything. To be honest, I’ve been planning your book party ever since you told me you were writing one. I even found the perfect present.’ She is beaming at me, a smile filled with so much warmth it’s like sunlight, but I’ve never felt so cold. ‘Why didn’t you say so earlier?’
I swallow. And breathe. And swallow again. The stab of regret and guilt is instant. Margot is genuinely ecstatic for me and my non-existent success. I don’t deserve her. ‘We haven’t signed contracts,’ I hedge. ‘It can all fall through until the contract is signed.’ This is what I’ll tell her when I’m feeling stronger. I’ll just say there is no book deal because Harriers pulled out. Yes, that’s what I’ll tell her because I’m already the biggest arsehole I know, and lying to get out of another lie has to be better than humiliating myself with the truth. Until then, I’ll find a way to be happy for Margot. Even if it’s the last thing I do.