The Other Woman(45)

‘Is this really necessary, Seb?’ I laughed. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to handcuff me as well?’

‘That’s not really my thing,’ he said.

‘Is there anyone else here? Hello? Hello?’ I called.

‘We’re on our own, you bloody fool.’ He laughed. ‘Any idea where we might be going?’

‘I’m hoping for a hedonistic paradise in Ibiza, but knowing you lot, I’ll probably end up on a pottery course in the Shetland Islands.’

He untied the blindfold once we were on the M25 and, as soon as I worked out we were heading west, I knew that Gatwick airport was a possible destination. And by the time we veered left onto the M23 slip road, it was either that or Brighton.

I envisaged the inside of my suitcase, its contents looking like I was heading to a festival in an unpredictable British summer. Boots, sarong, a mac, and denim shorts were the last thing I threw in as I panic-packed, not knowing whether I was going skiing, sunbathing or somewhere in between.

‘What if I haven’t brought the right stuff?’ I implored Seb, turning to him.

‘Don’t worry, it’s all been taken care of,’ he said mysteriously. It had all been taken care of by whom? If it were left to Pippa, she’d have ferreted in the depths of my wardrobe and found the items that I vowed to get back into some day, those jeans from when I was nineteen, which I refused to believe had seen their last wear. The fact that they were two sizes too small and hideously old-fashioned, with their boot-cut bottoms and fly buttons, seemed lost on my ever-optimistic pride. If, God forbid, Mum had had a secret root through, she’d have picked the floral playsuit and the wrap-over cardigan, which had been bought in a fit of pique in the end-of-summer sales. Both had the tags still on, because both made me look like a twelve-year-old.

I groaned. ‘Please tell me you asked Adam for inspiration, at least. If anyone has any idea of what I like or what suits me, he’d be the first person to go to.’ I looked pleadingly at Seb, but he just smiled and turned to look out of the window as the distinctive orange flash of an EasyJet tailgate flew low over the field beside us.

I was blindfolded again as the car pulled into the drop-off area outside the south terminal. ‘I can’t imagine security is going to let you get away with this,’ I mused, as Seb pulled it tight. ‘This takes people smuggling to a whole other level.’

He laughed as he guided me through the entrance tunnel and into the departures concourse, my hearing heightened to the buzz of excited travellers all around me. We veered left, and then off to the right, before we came to a halt when it was suddenly deafeningly quiet.

‘One, two . . . three!’ shouted Seb, as he pulled the blindfold off. I stumbled as the cheers and catcalls propelled me backwards. My eyes couldn’t quite focus on all the faces that were milling in front of me, their wide grins looming, like caricatures of themselves.

The bundle of people was upon me, ruffling my hair and offering air kisses. I couldn’t begin to ascertain how many were there, let alone who they were.

‘Hey, here she is,’ called Pippa.

‘Oh bless, she looks like she’s going to cry,’ said Tess, my work colleague.

I spun round, disorientated, desperately trying to match all the faces to the voices, the thousands of pixels floating in front of my eyes slowly beginning to form real features.

‘Oh, darling, you look shell-shocked,’ said Mum, laughing. ‘Are you surprised?’

‘I can’t believe how many of you there are,’ I said.

‘There’s nine of us,’ said Pippa. ‘Well, there was, but now there’s ten.’

I raised my eyebrows questioningly.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she mouthed.

I looked around the bustle, my eyes settling on Pammie. It was no big deal. After talking to Mum, I’d resigned myself to her being there. There was no real way around it.

‘It’s okay,’ I whispered to Pippa, but she looked away, her face fraught with tension.

And then I saw her. Just standing there. Her blonde curls bouncing around her shoulders, a simpering, almost pitying smile playing across her full lips.

Charlotte.

My heart felt like it had come to a standstill. Like a hand had reached inside my chest and squeezed the last beat out of it.

Everything around me seemed to stop: the noise, the light, the air, all I could see was her, as she came slowly towards me with outstretched arms. She could only have been three or four steps away, but my brain was computing everything in slow motion and it seemed to take an eternity for her to reach me.

‘Hello, Em,’ she whispered in my ear as she embraced me, a waft of fresh citrus encircling us. Jo Malone’s Grapefruit was obviously still her signature scent.

‘It’s been such a long time. Too long. Thank you so much for including me in your celebrations.’

The last time I had seen Charlotte, she was naked and straddling my boyfriend, Tom. I’d never got that image out of my head, yet my mind had gone some way to protecting me, by only recalling the shock on their faces and the stereotypical covering up with a sheet. I’d eventually found it laughably ironic that I’d seen both of them naked more times than I’d had hot dinners, yet they’d deemed it necessary to mask their upper bodies rather than extricate their genitals from one another. Which, let’s be honest, were the two parts that were the deal-breaker. He was still inside her, no doubt not quite so firmly, when I walked out again.