The Sunshine Cruise Company Read Free Page B

darling!’
    The two women embraced, Julie hoping the last blast of Chanel she’d given herself had masked the lingering reek of ammonia and institution. (It had been almost the last of the Chanel too, the small bottle she’d nursed carefully since Susan gave it to her two Christmases ago.)
    ‘Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t get parked anywhere. Where did you park?’
    ‘The little one, across from Debenhams?’
    ‘Oh, right.’
Good. Across from Debenhams. That’d be a left out of the restaurant then. Julie needed to know this.
    Susan was signalling to the waitress now who, as arranged, was coming into view with an ice bucket containing a bottle of Moët & Chandon. She placed it on the table with a flourish.
    ‘Oh God, champagne! Susan!’
    ‘My treat.’
    ‘It’ll have to be, love.’
    ‘I mustn’t have more than two glasses though. I’ll be plastered. You’re still coming to the party tonight, aren’t you?’
    ‘Yeah, of course. Ethel too.’
    ‘Oh God. Will she behave?’
    ‘You know Ethel …’
    Susan
did
know Ethel.
    Julie had brought her to their Christmas drinks party last year. She’d drunk six snowballs, lit a cigarette
in the kitchen
, then propositioned one of the boys working for the catering company in the downstairs bathroom before turning the music off and singing an – admittedly very tuneful – a cappella version of some rugby song, something called ‘Barnacle Bill the Sailor’ (Susan remembered a couplet that went
‘You can sleep upon the mat. Oh, bugger the mat you can’t f*** that.
’ She’d thought Jill Worth was going to faint) before Julie wheeled her into the conservatory where she passed out.
    As the waitress cracked the cork and Julie settled herself, fussing with napkin, cutlery and menu, Susan decided she couldn’t wait any longer, certainly not until the end of the meal. ‘Oh bugger, look, here, darling. Happy birthday!’ She placed the box on the table.
    ‘Christ,’ Julie said.
    ‘Openitopenitopenit …’
    ‘God! OK! Hang on …’
    Julie started fiddling with the bow as the waitress finished pouring the champagne. ‘I’ll give you ladies a few moments with the menus. And happy birthday by the way!’
    ‘Thank you!’ Julie said.
    ‘Come on!’ Susan squeaked, clapping her hands together.
    With a riiiip Julie tore the paper off. She saw the hallowed words immediately, inscribed right there on the glossy box: CHRISTIAN LOUBOUTIN.
    ‘Oh, Susan.’
    Another squeak from Susan.
    Julie removed the top from the shoebox as carefully as an archaeologist might remove the lid from a sarcophagus. There they were – classic black, open-toed, the famous red soles seeming to almost glow.
    ‘Oh fuck,’ Julie said.
    ‘I know it’s a bit OTT but it
is
your sixtieth and they were on sale and you are the only woman our age I know who still has the legs to carry them off and –’
    Susan stopped jabbering. Because she saw that, across the table from her, Julie’s eyes were beginning to brim. And these did not look like the expected joyous tears of gratitude either. They looked like something else entirely. And Julie was
not
a crier. ‘Julie, are you –’
    ‘No. Please. Just give me a minute. I don’t want my mascara to run.’ Julie fanned at her face with one hand while taking fast, shallow breaths, her eyes craning upwards, as though trying not to look at the tears forming in the ducts below.
    Susan glanced nervously around the restaurant. This wasn’t going at all as she’d imagined it would. After a moment it looked like Julie had it under control. She took a long draught of champagne and gazed at the shoes sadly.
    ‘What’s the matter? I thought you’d love –’
    ‘I
do
love them, Susan. They’re gorgeous. It’s just … where am I going to wear these? Now. At my age. Mopping up at the home?’
    ‘Come on, love. It’s only temporary. It was all you could get.’
    ‘Or running for the bus? Sitting in that bloody flat on a Friday night?’ Julie