The Great Christmas Knit Off. Alexandra Brown
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in my lap instead.
‘Ah, I see. Well, then try to relax. You’re going to look great, I promise.’ He brushes his hand over my shoulder reassuringly.
Lawrence finishes and wraps my hair up in an enormous sunshine-yellow fluffy towel.
‘Make-up time, and then I’ll blow out your hair,’ he says, leading me over to a chair in front of the mirror. He opens a drawer as I sit down. ‘Now, shall I do the honours or would you prefer to do your own?’ I open my mouth, and then quickly close it again. In the drawer are billions of pots, tubes and tubs of all kinds of lotions, potions and scrubs. I’ve never seen so many beauty products in one place before, except the beauty hall at Selfridges, but even then I reckon Lawrence’s drawer could be a very serious contender on the hugeness scale.
‘Blimey, that’s quite a collection.’ I smile. ‘I don’t tend to wear very much make-up so I’ll just borrow some blusher and a touch of eye shadow, if that’s OK?’
‘Of course, help yourself and I’ll get some tea. Posh or normal?’ he says, his eyes dancing.
‘Er, what’s posh?’ I ask, hesitantly.
‘Well, we have peppermint, camomile, rooibos, Earl Grey and Lady Grey – now that’s really posh.’ Lawrence cocks an expectant eyebrow.
‘Camomile please.’
‘Good choice. Coming right up.’ He takes a bow, laughing as he leaves the room. I take the opportunity to look more closely at the pictures on the wall – they’re mostly of Lawrence in a variety of Shakespearean-looking costumes; velvet and brocade jackets with big billowy sleeves and a serious look on his face, with famous actors such as Ian McKellen, Patrick Stewart and Helen Mirren. The last one is him hugging Dame Judi Dench and they’re laughing like they’re best pals. How lovely! Lawrence has obviously had a wonderful career.
Lawrence returns a few minutes later with a silver tray holding a teapot, covered in a lovely spotty pink and purple cosy (handknitted), and two fine bone china cups on saucers. ‘To Sybs, and her mysterious secret admirer,’ he says, pouring the tea and handing it to me before carefully chinking his own cup against the side of mine. I glance up at him. ‘Oh dear, what is it? You’re not going to cry again are you?’ he says, pulling a face to lighten the mood.
‘No, no, of course not,’ I say, sipping at the grassy smelling liquid before glancing away.
‘What is it then?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I lie. So much for my grandstanding and feeling of lightness earlier on; I’m never going to make it through to the end of my year of heartache at this rate. I’m all over the place, upbeat one minute, then miserable for the other twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes in the day. And hot, boiling hot; maybe that’s the lack of sleep sending my hormones haywire. Or perhaps it’s just because I’m exhausted. How on earth do parents with new babies function? If I were the Queen, I’d put them all on the honours list followed by a nice long rest in a super king bed somewhere very, very quiet. Or maybe it’s the menopause, come early, just to hack me off even more.
‘Well, it must be something. Tears before breakfast and now you look like you’re bracing yourself for the first day of an IKEA sale instead of Tindledale’s hottest newcomer. Apart from your good lady self, of course.’ He winks and places his cup back on the tray before pulling up a chair alongside me.
‘Ah, thank you Lawrence.’ I manage a smile. ‘You mentioned a doctor earlier?’ I need some sleeping pills because there’s no way I’m going to make it through the weekend without them. This must be how inmates in dodgy prisons feel after months of sleep deprivation torture, only much, much worse.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, you’re not ill are you?’ he says, his face clouding with concern.
‘Well, not exactly, not physically anyway.’ I’m not sure a broken heart counts as an actual illness. ‘I’m just finding it hard to sleep at the moment.’ I take another sip of tea before glancing away.
‘And why is that, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Oh, I, um, I’m not really used to talking about it.’ And it’s true, I’m not. Cher has tried to make me open up, but I didn’t want to drag her down with my self-loathing and angst and perpetual analysing of my disastrous relationship with Luke. I must have gone over and over our time together a trillion times in my head looking for clues, something I missed, or didn’t do, or did do but did it wrong because if I did screw up, then how do I know the same thing isn’t going to happen again? I’ll go mad and be like Miss Havisham, cloistered away, wringing my hands over yet another ruined wedding breakfast! And let’s face it, nobody likes a Debbie Downer, so I figured it was best just to bury all the dark thoughts into my knitting instead of burdening my best friend with the metaphorical wah-wah-wah of a muted trombone sounding out after everything that comes from my mouth.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,’ Lawrence says gently.
‘It’s OK.’ I turn to look at him and take a deep breath. ‘It’s just been this way for quite a long time now …’ I hesitate.
‘Go on.’
‘Um, ever since my boyfriend failed to turn up to his own wedding.’ I smile wryly. ‘To me, I hasten to add.’ I pull a face and take another sip of tea, willing my bottom lip to stop trembling – what am I? Five years old? Sweet lord of heartache, I really need to get a grip, I can’t keep crying all over the place.
‘Ouch. Hmm, I guess that would do it.’ Lawrence tuts. ‘Well, it’s his loss!’ He stands up defiantly. ‘You know, I believe in fate, destiny, whatever you want to call it, and him not turning up happened for a reason. And do you know what that reason is?’ He has both hands on his hips now and a resolute look on his face.
‘Er, because he wants to be with my twin sister instead of me?’
Lawrence does a double take, then opens and closes his mouth before swallowing hard and carrying on.
‘Because there’s someone far better out there for you! Now, let’s get your slap on so you can go and find him. Trust me, after you’ve clapped eyes on Adam you won’t need a doctor. Oh no. Unless it’s to resuscitate you after you’ve fainted from sheer lust.’ We both laugh. ‘You know, I met my late partner, Jason, on a blind date. Well, kind of, it was a balmy Sunday evening, standing in line for the Saturday Night Fever wrap party at Studio 54. It was 1978.’ He pauses to take a sip of his tea. ‘Yes, back in the day, this was. Anyway, I couldn’t take my eyes off the vision standing right there in front of me, looking resplendent in peach cord flares and a chest-hugging top. He had that whole Shaft thing going on.’ I frown. ‘Oh, never mind, before your time, I guess. Well, I made a beeline for him on the dance floor. You should have seen it, Sybs. It was sublime – a strawberry-hued mural of the man in the moon, with his very own coke spoon twinkling and glistening under the disco lights. Dancing away making history we were.’ He closes his eyes for a second, looking like he’s savouring the nostalgia. ‘I was very young and naive,’ he offers, by way of explanation as I try and picture the scene in my head. It’s hard; I can’t imagine Lawrence ever being naive, not when he seems so assured and worldly wise. ‘So, after a few too many glasses of Midori, we had a snog and a bit of a fumble on one of the balconies, and then he ended up back at mine testing out my new magenta silk sheets. And the rest really is history. Marvellous.’ He drains the last of his tea before placing the cup back down on the tray. ‘Oh, don’t look so scared – you’ll not end up in Adam’s bed, no, this is the sleepy, quaint little village of Tindledale, not NYC in the hedonistic Seventies. Besides, you’re a far nicer girl than I ever was.’ Lawrence winks, and I take another mouthful of tea.
‘Ha!’ I grin, feeling relaxed; it’s great chatting to him and so nice to just hang out and drink tea – it’s been a while. All of my free time recently has been full of dark thoughts, with Basil and my knitting to keep me company. ‘It seems strange to be talking about dating, when not so long ago I assumed I’d be married by now and,