About the Author
Alexandra Potter was born in Bradford, Yorkshire. She has lived in Los Angeles (which inspired her second novel) and Australia where she worked on Vogue and Cleo (and did rather too much sunbathing). She has also worked as a features writer and sub-editor for women's glossies in the UK including Elle, Morel, OK! and Vogue. She now writes full-time and lives in Notting Hill, London. Her previous novels are what's New Pussycat and Going La-La.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
How would you feel if you were stood up? Embarrassed? Upset? Pissed off?
Juliet was all three. Sitting conspicuously by herself at a table for two in a fashionable bar-cum-restaurant in Soho, she glanced self-consciously at her watch nearly 7.30 and tried to ignore the pitying glances of the cosy couples around her. She was going to kill Will. Being stood up was bad enough, but by her boyfriend.
She d been waiting for over half an hour, which didn t seem like a long time when she was curled up at home on the sofa watching Sex and the City one minute it was the opening credits and Sarah Jessica Parker was stumbling around in a tutu, the next it was all over and the commercials were on but it was a completely different storyline when she was marooned in the West End in a brand new pair of killer heels and a dress that should read do not wear unaccompanied next to the dry-clean-only instructions. The outfit was meant to get Will s attention, not that of the minicab driver, the workmen on the corner with their hard hats and hard-ons, and the suited cityboys at the bar.
Draining the lukewarm dregs of her house speciality cocktail she toyed with the idea of another round. She d already finished off the complimentary olives and she didn t even like olives, nasty bitter bloody things read the Evening Standard from cover to cover, including the boring pink bit that came in the middle, and sent text messages to everyone she could think of on her mobile. Now it was make her mind up time. Should she order another drink and give Will ten more minutes? Or go home, put a bunny on the boil and lie in wait for him with a bread knife?
Juliet stabbed her last remaining ice cube with her straw. Feeling as she did right at that moment, she was sorely tempted to go for the bunny option. But instead she did what every female does in times of emotional crisis. She called her best friend.
The answering machine picked up immediately. Hi, you ve reached Trudy Bernstein designs . . . Email, faxand mobile numbers followed, plus an entire electronically piped verse of Chaka Khan s I m Every Woman that seemed to go on for ever. Finally there was the beep to record. It s me, pick up the phone, hissed Juliet.
She knew Trudy was at home screening her calls. She d been doing nothing else since she d met her new fling, Fergus, three weeks ago. Not that she was trying to avoid him: on the contrary, she was desperate to see him. But she didn t want him to know that. A firm believer in playing hard to get, Trudy wanted Fergus to think she was a cool, independent woman with a hectic social life, not a mass of insecurities who stayed in every night, glued to the phone like an elastoplast waiting for his call.
Trying to hide from the inquisitive stares of the other diners, Juliet pressed her mobile to her mouth, hunched her shoulders and sank like the Titanic into the depths of her coat. And tried again: Trudy, this is really important . . . Her pleading voice wavered as she locked eyes with the alarmingly hirsute waiter leaning against the bar. Juliet winced she could smell his Kouros aftershave from where she was sitting and dived back under her sheepskin collars. For Godsakes Trudy, I know you re there . . .
How do you know? A sudden voice gasped indignantly. I could be at some wild party, taking shitloads of drugs, drinking endless supplies of champagne, being chatted up by dozens of fabulous men . . . Hearing Trudy s unmistakable New York accent Woody Allen with a twist of Rhoda s Brenda Juliet felt her panic being swallowed up by immense relief. In fact she didn t think she d ever been so relieved to listen to one of Trudy s neurotic monologues. But you re not at some party, she interrupted.
She was cut down.
Gee, thanks a lot. Is there really any need to hammer home the abysmal reality that I m alone, I m wearing sweatpants, and the only drugs in my possession are junior-fucking-aspirin?
Trudy stopped, suddenly aware of silence on the other end of the line. Jules? Are you still there?
I m not sure. Is it safe?
There was a sigh. Trudy s temper evaporated as quickly as it had ignited. Oh gawd, I m sorry, Jules. What s up? Don t tell me you ve had another row with Will.
Not yet.
I thought he was taking you out for dinner.
So did I.
A pause, and then a yelp as the penny dropped. You cannot be serious! Trudy could do a pretty good impersonation of McEnroe circa Wimbledon 1981 when she wanted to.
Do you hear me laughing?
Where are you now?
At the restaurant.
Ohmygawd. You re there by yourself?
Juliet didn t answer. She was beginning to regret the phone call. The idea was supposed to be that Trudy would make her feel better, not even worse.
Where the hell is Will?
I don t know.
There was another Ohmygawd, as oblivious to her discomfort, Trudy continued. What s the matter with him these days? He s acting like such an asshole. I thought tonight was supposed to be a big deal. For Christsakes you ve been looking forward to it for weeks . . .
Months, corrected Juliet. In fact, make that six months. Ever since Will started up his bloody landscape gardening business we haven t had a night out. She fingered the hem of the dress she d bought especially for tonight, a luscious raspberry red swathe of silk embroidered with tiny flowers that emphasized all the right bits, and tried not to think of the price tag. Unless of course you count the movies.
What? Sitting in the pitch black, not speaking for two hours, scoffed Trudy. I d hardly call that going out.
Will does.
Need I say more . . .
