In My Sister's Shoes (24 page)

I put on the purple swimming-cap. ‘How can I possibly go out like this?’

‘There must be something nicer in there,’ he said, rummaging through the bag. He thrust the red scarf into my hand. ‘There now, a nice red scarf to match your dress.’

I put it on – all you could see were big white golf balls and clubs. Despite himself, Dad began to laugh.

‘This isn’t funny!’ I snapped. ‘This is my life! I can’t go. I’ll have to call Sam.’

My phone beeped. I went to grab it from Dad’s pocket and opened the message.
Hey gorgeous, pick u up at 7.30
.

Dad was reading it over my shoulder. ‘You can’t back out now,’ he said. ‘It’s seven already and you can’t let the lad down. Now, take that stupid thing off your head. Go and put on one of your own scarves, smile and you’ll be fine. No lad wants to look at a grumpy face. You need to encourage them, not scare them off.’

I had half an hour to do some serious work on my blotchy face, dry the wet patches on my dress and find something non-Sherylesque to cover my head.

When the taxi pulled up to the house at exactly seven thirty, I watched Sam get out and come to ring the doorbell. I heard Dad welcome him warmly. He had always liked Sam. They had bonded from the beginning over sport. When Sam had begun to write his column, Dad had always read it and, most of the time, agreed with his point of view.

At the top of the stairs, I took a deep breath, fixed the chiffon scarf round my head – it wasn’t ideal, but it didn’t look too bad – and walked down, knees shaking like a teenager’s on a first date.

Sam looked amazing in his tuxedo, which made me feel even more self-conscious. Eventually they paused in their heated debate about the sorry state of the Irish soccer team and smiled at me, although I could see Sam was a bit puzzled by the scarf – he had always loved myhair long and down.

As we were leaving, Dad leant over to kiss me and whispered in myear, ‘You look as glamorous as Grace Kelly in that scarf.’

‘Thanks,’ I said.

‘What picture did she win the Oscar for?’

‘
The Country Girl
,’ I replied.

‘That’s my Katie,’ said Dad, beaming. ‘Enjoy yourself and remember to smile. It’ll distract from the hair.’

28

In the taxi on the way to the awards, I felt awkward and shy. Sam chatted away and I tried to relax and enjoy myself, but I was self-conscious about the scarf and kept tugging at it. Eventually Sam stopped mid-sentence and said, ‘Why don’t you take the scarf off? It seems to be driving you mad.’

‘No, I like it. It’s part of my outfit,’ I lied.

‘I’ve never seen you wear one before.’

‘Yeah, well, you haven’t seen much of me in years. Besides, it’s very fashionable,’ I added, pulling it down to make sure my head was fully covered.

Sam shrugged. ‘OK, but for the record, I think your hair looks great down.’

‘Well, I think it’s nice like this.’ I was put out that he was making me feel worse than I already did… although he didn’t know he was because he didn’t know about the shaved head, so it was kind of a compliment.

While Sam paid the driver, I fiddled with the scarf some more, then climbed out and closed the door. The taxi drove off. I felt a tug and a wrench as my scarf, which had got stuck in the door, disappeared into the night.

‘
Fuuuuuuuck
!’ I screamed, putting my hands up to cover my head.

Sam started. ‘What the hell?’ he exclaimed.

Don’t cry, I urged myself. Not now.

‘I decided to cut my hair off,’ I said, trying to sound nonchalant, although my throat felt like it was full of stones.

Sam stared at the irregular tufts, sprouting every which way. ‘Are you telling me a hairdresser did that?’ he said, pointing to my head in horror.

He certainly knew how to make me feel like a piece of shit. ‘No, Gonzo did it.’

‘Derek’s friend?’ asked Sam, bemused. ‘Why on earth would you let him do that? He’s a lunatic.’

‘He’s grown into a very nice young man,’ I said, defending Gonzo for the first time ever.

‘Kate,’ Sam said, putting his hands on my arms and making me look at him, ‘what’s going on here? Why would you cut off your gorgeous hair?’

I tried valiantly not to cry. ‘Fiona’s fell out after her chemo so Derek and I shaved our heads in solidarity.’ Then I began to cry. ‘I know I look like a freak, but it meant a lot to her and it’ll grow back, I hope.’

Sam drew me to him and hugged me. He kissed my head and whispered, ‘That was an incredible thing to do.’

Now I was bawling and my make up was ruined. He handed me a tissue and I wiped the remaining traces of Lancôme off my face. ‘I’d say I look a right state now,’ I hiccuped.

‘You’re a vision,’ said Sam.

‘Oh, come on, you can cut the bullshit.’

‘OK, I’ve seen you look better, but every time I catch sight of your head I’ll be thinking of what a great thing you did.’

‘Do we have to go in? Couldn’t we do a runner and get smashed in a bar with dim lighting?’

Sam grinned at me. ‘No way. I’m showing you off tonight.’

‘I’m hardly a trophy at the moment. Maybe I can camouflage it with a napkin.’

‘Be bald and proud like Sinéad O’Connor.’

‘I look more like Kojak.’

‘Was that a wig you wore on TV?’

‘Yes, but Teddy and Fiona’s twins got to it.’

‘Teddy?’

‘The twins’ dog. God love him, they have him tormented – they keep shoving things up his backside.’

‘How’s Fiona and the rest of the family?’

‘Let’s see. Fiona is nearly finished chemo and gets sicker after each session. She won’t really talk about the cancer, and Mark is utterly useless and a selfish prick. Dad’s shagging my old gym teacher and Derek still thinks he’s a black man in a white man’s body.’

‘And you?’

‘I’m trying to help but I don’t know if I’m making a very good job of it.’

Sam put an arm round me. ‘It sounds like you need a drink.’

‘How about a vat of wine?’

‘As long as I can take advantage of you when you’re drunk.’

‘Help yourself.’ I grinned, perking up.

We sat up at the bar, flirting, for a blissful ten minutes before Sam suddenly went rigid.

‘Bollox,’ he muttered.

‘What’s up?’

‘Ex-wife.’

I turned around to see Nikki Jennings walking towards us. She hadn’t changed much since school – still blonde, big boobs and tan. I have to say she looked pretty great in a slinky turquoise dress that matched her eyes. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’ She laughed, bending over to kiss Sam, who recoiled. ‘Come on, Sammy, can’t we be friends?’ she asked, in a little-girl voice.

‘Is he here?’ Sam snapped.

‘Who?’

He glared at her.

‘Oh, you mean Richard,’ said the adulteress. ‘Of course he is, darling. He’s one of the main sponsors tonight,’ she said, running a manicured hand through her hair, which got caught in the enormous ring on her finger. Elizabeth Taylor had nothing on this girl.

‘Nice rock,’ said Sam, via gritted teeth.

‘I know. Isn’t it fabulous? Actually, honey, that’s why I came over. I wanted to tell you before you heard it from someone else. Richard and I are engaged.’

‘Isn’t that a little hasty? You haven’t got divorced yet so technically ‘you’re still married to me,’ growled Sam.

‘Richard said he couldn’t wait,’ she said, admiring her ring.

The cheek of her, I fumed. How dare she come over here and lord her engagement over Sam? I tried to bite my tongue, but as usual I wasn’t very good at it. ‘Is Richard the guy you had the affair with or is he someone new?’ I asked.

Nikki swung round to face me. ‘Who the hell – oh, my God, Kate?’

‘Yes. Hi, Nikki. Long time no see.’

‘What’s going on with your hair?’

‘Fancied a change. Long hair is so last year,’ I said staring at – and secretly coveting – her long locks.

‘Get a mirror. So what is this? Are you guys back together?’ she sneered. ‘God, Sam, you must be a glutton for punishment. She dumps you and eight years later you get back with her. Couldn’t you find any one new to go out with?’

‘Does shagging your boss entitle you to a promotion?’ I mused.

‘Who are you to judge me? You dumped Sam for your career. At least I did it for love.’

‘I was under the impression it was more for lust and money,’ I retorted.

‘Ladies,’ said Sam, ‘much as I’d love to sit here and listen to the reasons I got dumped twice, the dinner’s about to begin.’

Nikki stomped off to find Richard.

‘Sorry,’ I said, as Sam steered me into the dining room.

‘For dumping me eight years ago or for slating my ex-wife?’

‘Slating Nikki,’ I said, avoiding the dumping comment. ‘Why on earth did you marry her?’

‘Because she was so different from you,’ he said quietly, and my heart sank. I had still not been forgiven for going to London. I had my work cut out for me.

We sat down at a table with Sam’s fellow journalists, who slagged him about being nominated for Sports Writer of the Year. A key piece of information he had failed to mention to me.

‘Wow! That’s amazing, Sam! Well done,’ I said.

‘It’s no big deal.’

‘Of course it is. Being recognized by your peers is a
really
big deal.’

‘I haven’t won it. I’ve only been nominated.’

‘It’s still brilliant.’

‘So, what’s the deal with you guys?’ slurred Tim, the sub-editor, knocking back his fifth glass of wine.

‘Kate’s an old friend,’ said Sam. ‘She lives in London, but she’s back in town for a few months so we’re catching up.’

Old friend? I was crushed. Since the run-in with Nikki, the flirting had stopped and Sam seemed preoccupied and distant. Was it because he was upset at seeing his ex-wife flaunting her lover, or was it because she’d reminded him of why I’d left? Whether or which, the stupid cow had ruined the mood. But I was determined to get the flirting back, so I poured Sam another large glass of wine and batted my eyelids at him.

Slowly he began to loosen up, and when the dinner was coming to an end, they announced the final award of the evening – the Sports Writer of the Year award. You could have heard a pin drop. My palms were sweaty with anticipation and I prayed he’d win. Sam, on the other hand, seemed calm and composed.

‘And the winner is – Sam Taylor.’

Sam stood up, beaming, and the whole place erupted: he was a very popular winner. As he posed for photos holding the trophy, his editor, sitting to my right, commented on how richly deserved his win was.

‘He’s very talented, isn’t he?’ I agreed.

‘I’ve been in this business forty years and I’ve never come across anyone else who writes about sport the way he does. He brings it alive. A couple of the English papers have tried to poach him, but he’s stayed loyal to us, which is rare, these days.’

‘I had no idea he’d been offered jobs in London.’

‘Several times, but he turned them all down.’

‘Why?’

‘Says he loves the passion about sport in this country and the fact that Gaelic and hurling are still amateur sports, untarnished by salaries and sponsorship deals. He has a point there. You’ll not get the passion we have for sport here in many places.’

‘But wouldn’t it be good for his career to go?’ I asked.

‘Depends on what you’re looking for. His talent is recognized here and he comes and goes as he pleases, gets to choose which events he covers. And he has no problem getting interviews. Sure in London you’ve to stand in line to interview the big sports stars, and you’re lucky if you get ten minutes. He’s a very big fish in a small pond here. I suppose that’s better than being one of a shoal over there.’

‘But wouldn’t it be a real achievement to make it in London?’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s harder and there’s more competition,’ I said.

‘There’s plenty competition here. Why make life hard for yourself when you’ve a great set-up, doing what you love and being recognized for it?’

He had a point. Why was I so impressed with success abroad? What was wrong with success at home? Why chase something elsewhere when you already have it in your lap?

While I was musing on this, Sam arrived back and everyone descended on him to congratulate him. When he broke free of a particularly long clinch with one of his female colleagues, he came over to me. I hugged him. ‘Well done. You so deserve it. Everyone’s thrilled for you. None of the other winners got half the applause you did. I’m very proud to be your date,’ I said, deciding to forget that he’d referred to me earlier as an old friend.

‘Would my date like a glass of champagne?’ he asked, holding up one of the many bottles that had arrived at our table, post-win.

‘Yes, she would.’

As he was pouring, I tapped his arm. ‘Sam, do you recognize this song?’

He shook his head.

‘It’s 50 Cent. I think we should dance.’

‘I told you – I can’t dance to this stuff. There’s no rhythm.’

‘Maybe the problem is you don’t have any rhythm.’

‘Or that I’m not sixteen and find it hard to dance to a guyroaring about guns and ho’s.’

‘Derek worships him.’

‘Well, then, it’s time to get him help.’

‘OK, what’ll get you on the dance floor?’

“‘Baggy Trousers” by Madness.’

I groaned. ‘I
can’t
ask the DJ to play that. Give me something else.’

‘OK –U2’s “With or Without You”.’

I looked at him. It was my favourite U2 song.

‘I’d like to dance with you to that one. It brings back good memories.’

I sprinted up to the DJ and begged him to play it. He refused. ‘Sorry, love, I was told not to do a slow set.’

I leant over and grabbed his arm. ‘Listen to me. I haven’t had sex in almost a year but my ex-boyfriend is here and if you play this song I really think my luck might change. Please don’t deny me this.’

‘Fair enough. I’ll play it next and hopefully he’ll ride you senseless.’

We danced, but although I gave Sam at least twenty opportunities to snog me during the song – to the point at which I had a crick in my neck from looking up – he did nothing.

‘Is it the hair?’ I asked.

‘No.’