Lost (Arielle Lockley Series Book 2) (13 page)

‘It’s called what?’

I sigh, though I am amused.

‘Compost cat!’ Obélix says this as if it’s the most normal name in the world for a cat. I get his reasoning, but still...

‘Why is it called Compost cat?’ Tabitha asks. Lydia is shaking her head in disbelief.

‘Because I found him in a compost heap!’ Obélix answers, like it’s the most obvious reason to explain the cat’s name and we’re all idiots for not figuring this out for ourselves.

We’re in the studio upstairs at Tabitha’s, having a birthday lunch, and it’s now the day after Ob arrived with Compost cat, as he’s called him. The rug, thank goodness, looks as good as new after Mr Wyatt worked his magic this morning. I made him promise not to mention the incident to Piers, and a new fish slice has been ordered from John Lewis, along with a pooper scooper.

‘You’re seriously going to call your cat Compost?’ Tabitha shoots a look at me.

‘Yes!’

That was Ob. ‘No,’ I firmly state. ‘No, I am not. I don’t even know if we’re keeping this cat as I’ve yet to speak to Piers about it with the time difference.’

‘You have to keep him!’

‘You can’t just gift someone a cat, Ob.’ I sigh.

‘She’s right,’ Lydia agrees. ‘Giving someone an orchid to look after is bad enough, never mind a cat!’

‘But his microchip is registered to you guys, and I got him especially for you.’

I have to confess, I do want to keep this cat, but I have to ask Piers. It’s his home, too, and the cat will be our responsibility. He is the cutest little thing though, and I’m already smitten. Give it another day and I’ll be completely in love.

I didn’t even want to leave the house to come out for lunch because of the cat, and he’s why I’m dressed down in ripped jeans and an it-needs-to-go-to-the-dry-cleaners light grey cashmere jumper which, embarrassingly, has a small curry stain on it. I was too busy playing with the cat to get ready properly.

Ob has the excuse that he’s Ob – he’s wearing a salmon pink jumper which clashes hideously with his hair; I really should take him shopping – but both Lydia and Tabitha have made an effort leaving me feeling a bit frumpy and wrong.

Tabitha is wearing a colourful green and white graphic-print tunic dress from Marc by Marc Jacob’s – I don’t know how she’s not freezing because it plunges down to her boobs and sits above her (bare) knees; Ob is struggling to keep his eyes away – Lydia is rocking a completely different look, but looks just as stunning. She’s wearing a pair of fitted purple trousers with a statement big brass button as the fastening, and giant turn-ups. She’s teamed those with a sheer butter yellow pussycat blouse, bronze-coloured Chelsea boots, and an armful of bronze bracelets – she looks fierce. If Nigel could see her now, he’d be kicking himself; though, if we did see Nigel now, Tabitha would be kicking him out. Git.

It’s my birthday though, and I can dress how I want to, but I’m going to have to factor cat games into my morning routine so I don’t leave the house looking like someone who didn’t sleep in their own bed the night before and who had to throw on their dirty clothes... if we keep him, that is.

‘We’ll see, Ob,’ I say. ‘I have to talk to Piers. Now, tell us about Jade please. Has there been any progress?’

Ob goes bright red. Ha, I bet the answer is no.

‘OK,’ I say kindly. ‘Lydia, what’s happening with you?’

‘You’re not dragging me into these sorts of conversations. My lips are sealed!’

I shoot her a look.

‘How about you Tabitha? How’s your love life?’

Instantly I regret the question. This is
Tabitha-Rose Cuthbert-Nightingale
I’m talking to, whose supposed love-life is always splashed across the tabloids. I can’t believe I’ve just asked her this insensitive question, but would it be odder if I’d asked everyone else and not her?

She smiles tightly, and I feel like the biggest cow ever. ‘Oh, you know, the usual.’

‘And boy do we know!’ Lydia trills.

Ouch. I can’t believe she’s just said that. Tabitha, however, doesn’t even respond to her, and I admire her for keeping her cool. I’m certain that I would be shouting at Lydia right about now if I was Tabitha; Lydia has been making catty little remarks ever since she got here. None were as direct or as obvious as that last one though.

‘I’ll just go and get your cake,’ Tabitha says quietly, standing up from the table.

‘I’ll give you a hand!’ says Obélix. He has no chance with Tabitha but, regardless, he follows her down the stairs. It gives me the ideal opportunity to have a stern word with Lydia.

‘Lydia,’ I hiss. ‘What was that about?’

‘Oh, lighten up, Arielle. It was a joke!’

‘How was that funny?’

‘Protecting your new bestie, are you?’ Lydia sneers.

‘What’s that supposed to be mean?’

‘Oh, come on.’

She stands up and looms over me. I push my chair back.

‘It’s been Tabitha this, and Tabitha that, for weeks now. I’m surprised you’ve not been snapped and put in the papers as her latest victim, sorry, love interest.’

Clearly she missed the London Fashion Week story.

‘That’s completely uncalled for,’ I defend. ‘She’s been a–’

‘What’s that? A true friend? Clearly something I’m not. Don’t you get it? You’re just a little toy project of hers. She’ll dump you when she gets bored which, let’s face it, will be quite soon going on the amount of men she sleeps her way through. You think Nigel treats you with disdain? Wait and see how Tabitha will eventually treat you. She’s in a whole different league to Piers and Nigel.’

She grabs her coat and bag. ‘Happy birthday, Arielle. Enjoy celebrating with your
friend
,’ she snaps at me, before stomping down the stairs.

I’m sat here in shock. Do I go after her and face a scene downstairs, likely in front of Tabitha, or do I ignore her? Just because I have a new friend, it doesn’t mean that Lydia is no longer my friend. I can have more than one friend!

When Ob and Tabitha come back upstairs a few minutes later with my cake and remark on the missing Lydia, I just shrug at them. What can I honestly tell them about what Lydia has just said to me?
Nothing
, that’s what. I’ll let her cool down, and I’m sure she’ll be in touch to apologise once she’s realised that she was a bit of an idiot just then... 

‘I feel so awkward saying this,’ I begin. Tabitha pulled me to one side when Ob and I were leaving, and I couldn’t really refuse to talk to her.

Whilst Ob heads home to check that the cat hasn’t destroyed the house, I’m stuck behind having to explain Lydia’s actions to Tabitha.

‘But she’s just–’

‘Being a bitch?’ Tabitha fills in.

We’re hovering by the door of Tabi’s, which is empty at this time of day as it’s the lull between the afternoon and evening crowds.

After a delicious lunch of Coke-braised pork ribs smothered in fiery chilli to start with, followed by lobster mac ’n’ cheese for the main event, I’m ready to go home and veg out. I was that stuffed that I only managed a small piece of my birthday cake, a gorgeously rich red velvet cake, but Ob has taken the rest home for us to gorge on once we’ve come out of our food coma. Sod the cake itself; I could eat cream cheese frosting all day long.

I laugh nervously. I don’t want to bad-mouth Lydia to Tabitha because, in a way, that would make Lydia right. I would be protecting my new friend over Lydia, the friend who gave me a place to stay when Piers kicked me out and I had no one else to turn to. But, that doesn’t mean what Lydia said was fair or true
. So awkward
.

‘It’s–’

‘It’s OK, Arielle. I just wanted to say that you shouldn’t worry about earlier. I got the impression that you would be, and there’s no need. I’m used to people worse than Lydia thinking of me being a certain way when I’m not. There’s no harm done.’

The way she says that so dismissively fills me with anger. Not at Tabitha, but at Lydia. Who is Lydia to judge Tabitha when she doesn’t even know her properly, and won’t give her the opportunity to be known? If Lydia wants to believe everything she reads in the tabloids about Tabitha then she’s stupid.

Tabitha did a really nice thing organising lunch for the four of us, and she wouldn’t hear of us giving her any money for our food and drinks. She didn’t have to treat us to lunch, but she did, and she especially didn’t have to buy me a present. She gave me a gorgeous set of personalised Smythson Panama notebooks – one for wedding planning, one for pop-up planning, and one for bits and bobs; I never knew I needed luxury stationary in my life until today – Lydia didn’t even give me a card. 

‘You take care of yourself, OK? And enjoy the rest of your birthday.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, hugging her. ‘And thanks once again for lunch and my present. I really appreciate it, and I’m–’

‘Sorry about Lydia? Stop saying sorry! You have nothing to be sorry about, OK?’

I nod. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

‘Bye,’ she calls, as I walk out of Tabi’s and head down the King’s Road to go home.

I pass the bridal boutique – my dress is no longer in the window, so I resist the urge to linger – and I’m only ten metres from my front door when my bag starts to vibrate. I pull out my phone, wedge it between my ear and shoulder, and try and find my house keys before I remember I gave them to Ob.

I’m thrilled to see Piers’ name on the screen. I was expecting a phone call from him a few hours ago.

‘Pony! There you are! You will never guess what–’

An American accent interrupts me. ‘Sorry, no, this is Dean.’ He clears his throat nervously.

‘OK,’ I say slowly. I’m assuming Dean has Piers’ phone because Piers has somehow lost it. ‘Have you found my fiancé’s phone, Dean? He’s staying at–’

‘No, no. I work with him.’

‘Oh, OK.’

Why is Dean phoning me on Piers’ phone? Where is Piers? My heart is beating manically, and I feel nauseous. I start walking faster to reach the door, and knock sharply on it. I want to be inside; I don’t want to be on the street having this conversation.

‘Can you tell me why you are calling me, Dean?’ I ask.

‘What’s up?’ Ob mouths at me, as he opens the door and clocks my stricken face. I shake my head and point to the phone.

I follow him into the house, where he flops on the floor and starts to give the cat belly rubs.

‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.’

‘What do you mean?’ I say in a voice that sounds shrill. ‘Is Piers OK?’

Ob jumps back up, and leads me to the sofa where I sink down on it in a daze.

‘He passed out earlier today and is in the hospital. They are–’

‘What do you mean?’ I interrupt. ‘Why’s he in the hospital? Why hasn’t Piers phoned me to tell me this? What’s really happening?’ I demand.

Ob reaches over and squeezes my free hand, clearly clocking something is up from my hysterical tone. Dean probably thinks I’m a complete oddball, but I am freaking out here. Please let Piers be OK; please let him be fine.

‘He’s pretty out of it, but he’s fine, honestly. He wasn’t even going to tell you, but–’

‘HE WASN’T GOING TO TELL ME THAT HE’S BEEN ADMITTED TO HOSPITAL,’ I screech. ‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN? WHY WOULDN’T HE TELL ME THIS?’

And why
wouldn’t
Piers tell me this? If he’s blacked out enough for him to be taken to the Emergency Room, then that sounds pretty serious to me. Surely he should share that news with me, his fiancée? My breathing feels funny, so I try to take some slow and deep breaths. In and out. Inhale, then exhale.

‘Look, ma’am,’ Dean says, sounding pretty hacked off, probably because I have just screamed at him madly. The cat shot off at my shouts and is probably hiding in his cat box, desperately hoping Ob will take him back to his safe compost heap.

Being called ma’am by Dean stops me from firing off more questions at him, though the downside is I want to start laughing hysterically at the Americanism of all this:
Ma’am
. Who does he think he is talking to –
the Queen
? No one has ever called me ma’am. It might be my birthday today, but I’m not
that
old.

‘I’m only the messenger,’ Dean continues. ‘And I know no one ever wants to receive this type of phone call, but Piers asked me to call you because it’s your birthday. He knew you’d be worried if you didn’t hear from him today. All I know is that he blacked out this morning, they brought him here to run some tests, and they are now keeping him in overnight for observation. I just said I’d fill you in, OK?’

‘Right,’ I say in a tiny voice. ‘Well, thank you. I just–’

‘Goodbye,’ Dean interrupts me curtly.

He hangs up the phone, probably relieved that he can stop talking to the crazy English lady, even if this crazy English lady has many more questions she’d like to ask.

Why would you hang up like that when you’ve delivered bad news? Did he hang up because he didn’t want to tell me the extent of what’s wrong; or, does he genuinely not know what’s wrong? Why can’t I speak to Piers?

With all these thoughts swirling in my head, I burst into hot messy tears.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ Ob asks, rubbing my arm. His hands are so rough and calloused that it makes me wince, though I appreciate the gesture.

‘I have to go,’ I sob, pushing him away from me and darting up off the sofa. ‘I have to go to America. Right now.’

This is the worst birthday ever.