Rose decided to walk straight to Cecconi’s from the office to get one of the good tables. It was one of those rare restaurants close to the office that opened for breakfast and stayed so for the rest of the day.
Minnie would always sit in one of the corner tables whenever she went, the same table often occupied by Firehouse editors and publishers, and sometimes the cover stars too. It was the perfectly positioned spot for people watching while face-down in a bowl of pasta.
Today, though, it wasn’t busy. There were a few tables of stiff men in even stiffer suits circled around teacups filled with espresso that looked like toys in front of their wide frames. One woman in her mid-thirties was sitting alone at one table, drinking a black coffee and reading a magazine. Rose looked closer and noticed the font of the interiors title at the top. It was the current issue, August, which featured an interview with a couple in their mid-forties whose names Rose couldn’t remember. But she could vividly picture their home: decked out in mid-century antiques and rugs the wife had flown in from India, it was the kind of flat Rose had always fantasised about living in. The walls were a range of shades, light greens and sapphire blues. The furniture was leather, corduroy and plaid. None of it made sense and yet, somehow, piled all together, it worked. Calm among chaos.
Rose had spent all of yesterday trying to shake off what happened over the weekend with Ben. The whole thing was mortifying. She’d explained she was just too drunk and needed to get home. He looked absolutely terrified but nonetheless asked for no further explanation, got dressed, and helped her order an Uber. It was a measured response considering she’d screeched like a wild animal the second he put his tongue inside her. When they got downstairs, Paul and Marco were dancing in the living room to ‘Blurred Lines’ of all things, the others must have been taking ketamine in the bathroom. Thankfully, it didn’t seem like anyone had heard Rose.
She quickly said goodbye to Ben, kissing him on the cheek and saying ‘See you soon’ knowing she would never see him again. When she woke up on Sunday morning, all she felt was shame and regret. She had a long, hot bath, and threw everything she’d worn last night into the washing machine. She sent a thank-you message to Luna, who was one of those people that always had fifty unread messages on WhatsApp and didn’t reply to anything within one month. When she did reply, it would probably be with another invitation to another dinner party that Rose would politely decline.
It had been particularly difficult getting out of bed that morning. Hence why Minnie’s instruction to spend the day with Clara was a welcome ask. The alternative would have been sitting at her desk pretending to write a press release for the September issue of MODE and watching videos from Milo’s tour. They had become impossible to avoid; she was always seeing stories about him during her morning research rounds. Half of the articles were about dramatic things that had happened at the gigs, like a couple getting engaged, or someone fainting in the crowd. The rest were about who Milo was rumoured to be dating. Apparently, he’d recently been ‘getting to know’ a twenty-four-year-old Spanish model with legs the size of Rose’s arms.
Clara arrived hunched underneath a white silk blazer, which she wore over a pair of white flared jeans and a white poloneck jumper through which you could see a cream lace bra – La Perla, presumably. It was the kind of outfit Rose would never even consider wearing, mostly because of how dreadful she was at washing white clothes. One drawer in her bedroom had become a graveyard of pale pink and purple clothes that had once been white. Whenever she wore lipstick, which was not as often as she’d like, it would wind up staining something somewhere.
Two of the waiters were nudging each other in the corner; Clara didn’t seem to notice. Though it was hard to tell where she was looking, underneath a pair of huge rectangular sunglasses with interlocking gold Gs on either side. She smiled at Rose, flashing her even white teeth as her glossy lips curved into an almost smile.
Rose noticed the smell of cigarettes that had been masked with sweet perfume lingering on Clara’s shoulders when she leaned in to hug her.
‘It’s so good to see you,’ Clara said as she shuffled into the seat opposite Rose, putting her hands underneath her thighs.
‘You too,’ she replied.
‘I hope you know I really wanted to do the show,’ she said, sunglasses firmly staying put.
‘I know you did,’ Rose replied. ‘But we don’t have to talk about that now. Let’s just have a chat and eat something delicious.’
Clara smiled. ‘That would be great.’
Conversation with Clara was remarkably easy so long as Rose only spoke about herself. She was far more inquisitive this time than the last, quizzing her on art college, her relationship with Minnie, and how she landed her job at Firehouse. She asked about the flat, Luce, her mother, her father. All of it. Every time Rose tried to turn the subject onto Clara, she’d bat it away, somehow managing to bring the subject back to Rose, like a Tory MP being asked about the single market on the Today programme.
There was a stiffness surrounding Clara that morning. Every inch of her body was covered by clothing or accessories; all Rose could see was her mouth and nose. Her sunglasses were so oversized she couldn’t even see her eyebrows.
‘Are you dating anyone at the moment?’ Clara asked, taking a sip from her second soy cappuccino. Her fingers were trembling.
‘No, I’m not dating anyone,’ she replied. Rose had not told anyone about Ben or Jake. It made it easier to pretend nothing had happened at all.
‘How are things with your boyfriend?’ Rose asked.
Clara took a short breath and let out a small noise that sounded like an attempt at laughter. But it came out as more of a whimper. She lifted her hand and wiped something away underneath her sunglasses. Her wrists were small and delicate, like a child’s. Rose noticed that Clara wasn’t wearing any jewellery, her bare fingers and neck suddenly starkly different to how they appeared on Instagram, often dripping in various jewels she had been paid to promote.
‘Is everything okay?’ asked Rose softly, leaning in towards Clara.
‘Sorry,’ replied Clara. ‘I find it really hard to talk about him. I also haven’t slept in a while.’
Rose desperately wanted to tell her that she had also not slept, to confide in someone about what had been going on. But that would only raise further questions – and, frankly, today was about Clara.
‘That’s okay. We don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to.’
‘No, it’s fine. I’m actually fine. Gosh, sorry. I’m so embarrassed,’ she said, tossing her head as if to shake off the moment of vulnerability.
Rose waited for Clara to ask her something else, not wanting to probe any further. But Clara allowed the silence between them to linger, re-positioning her sunglasses and taking a few shallow breaths.
‘I don’t think it is fine, Clara,’ said Rose finally.
Whether it was having her experience validated by a stranger, or something about the way Rose acknowledged what was so obviously happening right in front of her, this prompted something in Clara.
She took her sunglasses off, revealing porcelain skin and glassy eyes, and took a deep breath. ‘I know I need to leave him,’ she began. ‘I know that things are bad. Actually, I think they’re very bad. I know that now. I do.’ Her tone was flat and monosyllabic in the way it is when someone reads aloud from a piece of paper. ‘But sometimes, Rose. Ugh, God, sometimes they are also wonderful. When things are going well with us, it feels as if I’m living this stupidly perfect life. I have this man who adores me, showers me with compliments and gifts and all the love I could ever want.’
Rose nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘I have everything!’ Clara said, eyes wide now and looking directly at Rose’s. Her pitch was higher, louder, manic. ‘Do you know that I can snap my fingers and get any designer bag I want in a few hours?’ she said. ‘I can’t remember the last time I bought an item of clothing. Or a pair of shoes. Or a tin of sodding lip balm. I can’t remember the last time I went to a restaurant I wanted to go to. Or a holiday I didn’t have to post on social media about. All of it is just … given to me. For no reason other than a number next to a ridiculous username I made up after a night out in my early twenties.’
Her arms moved furiously as she spoke, illustrating her every word with a different physical flourish. Rose steadied her hands on the table just to make sure she didn’t knock something off it.
‘It’s the dream life,’ she continued. ‘I don’t deserve it. No one does. And Mark … he just …’ She paused. ‘You know he asked me to marry him?’
‘Really? When?’
‘Last year. Technically, we’re engaged. And when he asked me, I swear to God it was the most romantic thing anyone has ever done.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Paris. At the Hotel George V. Roses, champagne, the whole thing. It was a total stock image proposal but I absolutely adored it. Then later that night, we had an argument. I can’t even remember what it was about. But eventually he grabbed my hand, yanked the engagement ring off my finger, called me a “dumb cow” and walked out.’
‘Do you talk to your friends about any of this?’ asked Rose.
‘No. None of them even know we got engaged. I couldn’t tell anyone; it was too humiliating.’ She took another deep breath and leaned in towards Rose. ‘You have to understand, I really don’t talk to anyone about this.’
‘Why not?’