The Function to Breathe

Six

2015

As soon as I get to work the next morning I make myself a mug of tea, sit down at Jack's desk in the office as he isn't in yet and smooth out the piece of paper that Ricky wrote his phone number on. It is strange seeing his handwriting there in front of me and I find myself running my finger over the numbers before I dial. It looks exactly the same as it had done all those years ago, reminding me of when he'd written his parents phone number on the inside cover of my sketchbook a few days after I'd met him.

It takes him a while to answer and I wonder if I've called too early – maybe rock stars sleep until lunchtime – but just as I'm about to hang up he picks up the phone, sounding delighted when he realises it's me calling him. He's even more delighted when I say that I will have dinner with him tonight.

I've been wondering where he will want to meet; I'd prefer it to be on neutral territory rather than at his house or my flat. As soon as I say I will have dinner with him he offers to drive over to St Agnes and I tell him I'll meet him outside the gallery. For some reason I don't want him to come to my cottage, I don't know why. Maybe I think I can keep things a bit more distant and impersonal if he doesn't see where I live. I have no intention of seeing him again after this evening, I just need to get this over with and move on again.

I can't work out where would be the best place to take Ricky for dinner; there aren't that many places to eat in the town so I don't have a huge number of options. It has to be the right sort of place though; somewhere quiet but not too intimate, somewhere nice but not too fancy, somewhere hopefully he won't be recognised. I don't know if being recognised will bother him or not, but it will bother me. In the end Jack suggests a little bistro owned by his friend Susie. I don't know Susie and have never eaten there, but Jack assures me that it will be quiet and nice and that Susie will make sure we are looked after and not disturbed.

My second dilemma comes over what to wear, and here Tara comes to the rescue. She knows my wardrobe almost better than I do, immediately discounting about ninety percent of its contents without even looking. That ninety percent consisted mainly of my work clothes and my lazing around at home clothes. The remaining ten percent isn't very exciting; a couple of pairs of smart jeans, a couple of dresses, a silk blouse and an evening dress that has never been worn. I only bought the evening dress because it was in a sale at a ridiculously cheap price and even then Tara had to pretty much force me to buy it. Looking at the contents of my wardrobe it was hard to believe I'd been so interested in fashion that I'd wanted to make it my life. Everything I own is well made; good quality and stylish in an understated way, but it is hardly inspiring.

"I'll just wear jeans and this top." I say, pulling out a pair of dark, skinny jeans and the silk blouse. The blouse is ivory and very plain. I've only worn it a couple of times.

Tara rolls her eyes. "What are you trying to do Cat, bore him to death? I thought you were a fashion designer."

"I wanted to be one, I'm not one. There is a difference." I retort, feeling slightly annoyed but knowing Tara is right. The jeans are okay, but the blouse isn't good. It's almost certainly the most boring garment in the world. I wonder why I actually bought it; I don't even like it that much.

"Whatever," Tara mutters under her breath. "Lucky I bought this along then isn't it?"

She rummages in the paper carrier bag she'd arrived with and pulls out another blouse, this one much more stylish. Silk again, but this time dark green with a slightly gathered neckline and rows of tiny gold studs on the shoulders. The silk fabric has a lovely sheen to it and when I hold it up in front of the mirror I realise the colour looks perfect for me, bringing out the green in my hazel eyes.