‘If sex ruins a situation, you’re doing it wrong.’
I laugh.
‘I just think you need more time,’ she offers, referring to Noah.
Desperate not to talk about him and sink into a misery hole, I look away. She takes the hint.
‘Anyway,’ she says, brightening, ‘if you don’t want Jack, can I play with him?’
‘Absolutely not.’
She smiles. ‘Fine, keep him. You’ve ruined him for the rest of us anyway.’
‘Aren’t you monogamous now?’
Her dark eyes glitter. ‘Monogamous, not dead.’
The waiter comes over and we order another round of drinks. Margot reads through the menu, trying to decide. She looks happy. Like there’s a light beneath her skin, giving her an ethereal glow. I’m about to ask what her new skincare regime is but then I remember the answer is probably just: ‘I’m in love and living with my boyfriend and having tons of hot, sweaty orgasms.’ And no matter how much money is in your account, you can’t buy that and rub it on your face. Not even from Space NK.
‘How’s Gabriel?’ I ask.
Her smile is wide, the way it always is when he’s mentioned. ‘He’s back from Paris tonight. I’ve missed him. I’ve missed him so much.’
I smile back, happy she’s happy. February last year, with the champagne gold of the winter sun spiralling in through the high arched windows of her apartment, she said, ‘Elodie, I’ve fallen for him. I think I’m in love.’ She stressed the word like it was woven by magic, but I’d heard it a thousand times before; Margot changed her lovers as often as she changed her underwear. Give it a few more weeks and she’d be over him and under someone else.
That was almost sixteen months ago.
‘Sure you don’t want to exchange him for Jack?’ I tease.
‘We’ll see.’
The waiter returns with our drinks order. When he’s gone, she says, ‘I actually have some news.’
I’m at the age now where this statement usually means one of two things. I glance down at her left hand but there’s no shiny engagement ring there. Then my eyes flicker to her stomach and I wonder if she’s pregnant.
‘I’ve got a book deal!’
Chapter Four
26 Days Before
Elodie Fray
I blink. What the actual fuck? I stare at Margot, trying to work out if this is a joke. Or a nightmare. Around us, conversations rise and fall, a couple nearby clink their glasses and a woman on the table next to us is laughing, squealing like a pig. ‘But you’re a wedding planner.’
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?’