Stella carried on raging and Paul allowed himself to listen with half an ear. Mentally, he reviewed his plans for the weekend – coffee with Stella, an afternoon shopping for work clothes, dinner with Steve and his girlfriend later (which hopefully wouldn’t involve another cringingly embarrassing attempt to fix him up with one of her workmates), and then squash tomorrow followed by a Sunday afternoon viewing. He didn’t mind working on a weekend; in the property business it had to be done. And Paul consoled himself with the thought that if he did have a girlfriend she wouldn’t be too happy about this at all. Yet another reason to be grateful for his fancy-free lifestyle.
He settled back with a smile, watching Stella’s face get redder and redder. She was going to give herself a coronary if she wasn’t careful. Relationships? No thanks.
***
Paul is looking at me with an amused expression on his face. As I’ve just been recounting my long list of grievances against Lipsy’s feckless father, I don’t think amusement is entirely appropriate. I tell him this in no uncertain terms – and am even more pissed off when his smile gets wider.
‘What is so bloody funny?’ I demand, starting to feel a little hurt now. Normally Paul is right there with me when I indulge in a John Dean hate-fest – he despises the man, with good reason.
‘Nothing,’ he says, laughing. ‘Nothing really. Just … it doesn’t matter.’
‘No, go on! What?’
‘I was just thinking, that’s all. That relationships aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, are they? And, well, that I really am very happy being single.’
‘Oh, God, me too!’ I enthuse quickly. Too quickly – Paul gives me the old raised eyebrow. ‘No, I am! Really. I’m happier now than I’ve ever been and I
so
don’t have time for a man in my life right now.’
‘Really.’ Paul nods solemnly. I can see he is humouring me and I find this intensely annoying. ‘So what was that date with your neighbour about the other night?’
He has me there. I have no choice but to come out fighting. ‘Just because I go on dates,’ (the plural being a gross exaggeration) ‘doesn’t mean I’m looking for a
relationship
.’ I fix him with a steely gaze and go for the jugular. ‘But at least
I
can actually get a date.’
The look on Paul’s face makes me cringe. I’ve gone too far. Why am I being such a bitch to him? All he’s done this past week is offer huge amounts of support and advice, on everything from my rubbish finances to the rebuilding of my house. And here I am insulting him. Nice going, Stella.
I am about to apologise when, thankfully, Bonnie shows up and the mood lightens considerably. She has this effect, does Bonnie; she’s a little ray of Scottish sunshine in Milton Keynes’ sometimes gloomy atmosphere.
‘Hey you two, who’s died?’ she says, slipping her frame into a tub chair and setting down a tray piled high with cake, coffee and biscuits. How can such a small person have such a huge appetite?
‘How’s Marcus?’ I ask quickly, steering the subject in a direction loved-up Bonnie can’t resist.
‘Ah, just great.’
I tell you, she positively glows when she talks about him. If it wasn’t for Bonnie, my faith in humanity would have died a long time ago. This woman does everything with such enthusiasm that if you spend enough time with her it can’t help but rub off on you.
Bonnie turns her radiance on Paul. ‘Last night he surprised me with a special meal. Jamie Oliver eat your heart out, my Marcus is a super-chef. When I came in from work he’d filled the bathroom with candles and run me a bath, scented bubbles and everything. Have you ever heard anything so romantic?’
‘No. I can’t say that I have,’ Paul says, sounding distinctly nonplussed.
All that stuff I just told Paul about being happier than ever before and having no time for a man isn’t exactly true, as much as it pains me to admit it. I’d love to have a man like Bonnie’s Marcus. Not actually Marcus, you understand, but somebody like him. I wonder why I felt the need to lie to Paul. I’ve never kept anything from him before. So why do I suddenly have the urge to present a false front?
Not that I think I convinced him for a minute.
Paul’s reaction to Bonnie’s romantic little story was so sour I feel the need to try and make up for it. ‘Bonnie, that’s just so wonderful!’ I gush. ‘He ran you a bath? With candles and bubbles? I’d love someone to do that for me, I really would.’
We both turn as Paul chokes violently on his latte, and as I’m the closest I reach over to thump him on the back. I only do this because I think it will help, but I guess I’ve got it confused with getting a fish bone stuck in your throat or something. The look Paul gives me says, yes, I definitely got it wrong.
His face is red with the effort of coughing and I decide he deserves the pain – he is clearly trying to stifle yet another laugh at my expense. I’m thinking of a suitable retort when Bonnie squeals and grabs my arm.
‘Marcus is here!’ she says, as though she’s announcing the second coming.
Paul and I duly turn our attention to the man weaving his way towards us. He has a small boy in tow and they noisily pull up two more chairs, scraping them across the wooden floor in a way that sets my teeth on edge.
‘Hey guys, what you up to?’ Marcus beams at us and then leans over to give Bonnie an affectionate kiss.
The boy is about eight, and really is the snottiest child I have ever seen: chronic rhinitis apparently. Poor kid. He has a tissue permanently clutched in his fist and you have to watch out for the killer sneezes. They can take your toupee off.
‘Marcus and I are going to get Cory a birthday present today. Aren’t we, Cory?’ says Bonnie sweetly. She holds out her hand to ruffle his hair and he promptly sneezes all over it. Atta boy.
Paul stands up suddenly. ‘I have to be going too. Nice to see you again, Marcus. Cory.’ The three lads shake hands the way men do, even the little boy. So sweet. ‘Have a good rest of the day,’ Paul says, and then, ‘See you, Stella.’
And just like that he’s off. Now, call me a bit thick but when we arranged to meet for coffee I had the distinct impression we were also spending the day together. I distinctly remember the words “shopping” and “lunch” from somewhere in the conversation. Perhaps I imagined it. But before I can say anything he is hot-footing it out of Café Crème as though his arse is on fire. Some friend!
I don’t know where the sinking feeling comes from. It’s not like I’d been looking forward to seeing him or anything – I see him every bloody day of the week, for goodness sake.
Deciding that I must be more depressed than I realised, I turn to Bonnie and Marcus for help. Maybe they’d like some advice on what to buy an eight-year-old for his birthday. But I can tell immediately that I won’t get a look in from that quarter. The three of them are wrapped so tight there’s no room in the package for a slightly bored mate with an afternoon free. I am truly happy for Bonnie that she’s found a great bloke. I just hope there are one or two left out there for me. Well, just one will do, of course. I’m not greedy.
As Bonnie and her ready-made little family disappear into the throngs in the shopping centre, bound for toy shop heaven, I decide to treat myself to another cappuccino. I think I deserve it. I think I’m coping fairly well with everything that’s going on at the moment. I have a plan (to renovate my house) and a list (of all the things I can’t live without) and I even have a mission (to stop my daughter falling into a pit of teenage sex and depravity). Not bad going for one week.
What I don’t have, however, is a scrap of spare cash, and at least two of the above require stacks of it. Or possibly all three, as my daughter is as susceptible to being bought as any sixteen-year-old. What I need is money. Money for paint and rollers and carpets and kitchen units. Money for my ever-increasing debts and my drastically decreased wardrobe. Money, money, money.
What I need is a miracle.
What I need is a second job!
I’m about to pay for my coffee when I notice the sign above the till. “Friendly, outgoing staff wanted for evenings and weekends. Apply within.”
Yes! That is it. I will get a job here, at my favourite coffee shop. It won’t solve all my problems immediately but it has to be a start. And it also has to be fate – I didn’t notice the sign the first time I was at the till because I had been trying to get Paul’s attention. And if he hadn’t left me here all alone I wouldn’t have come back to the counter and I wouldn’t have seen the sign. Fate.
Funny thing, fate. I’ve never really believed in it before. But I guess when you’ve got virtually nothing left and your life is pretty much in tatters, even the most random thing can seem to have a special meaning. I put on my most engaging smile and ask to see the manager.
Chapter 6
As I’m creeping down the stairs on Monday morning, trying to get out of the house without being noticed, I hear my mum crying in the kitchen. I pause, freeze-frame style, one hand resting lightly on the banister, all my weight balanced on my left leg. A memory from childhood reminds me that two of the stair treads creak near the bottom, so when I move forward I do so even more carefully. Down the hall, past the dining room, holding my breath and tiptoeing, I try hard to block out the sound of low sobbing.
You may think it heartless, ignoring someone so obviously upset. But I have to. I can’t afford to let her into my head at the moment. This very morning I made the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror while I cleaned my teeth (usually I do it by feel alone), and the sight was really quite disturbing. Familiar but strange, like a friend who suddenly reinvents herself and you know she’s different but you can’t quite work out how.
But in my case it was the opposite – like being
un
-invented.
I concluded, after much scrutiny, that my life-long policy of trying to avoid emotional problems at all costs was definitely better for my looks and I vowed to return to it immediately. So, you understand, my looks, my health – my entire future happiness – prevent me from going to my mum at this moment.
And I nearly make it out of the house with this intention intact.
Nearly, but not quite.
When I reach the front door I catch an extra loud sob and an involuntary hiccup. Silently cursing my weakness, I turn on my heel and walk calmly back towards the drama.
The kitchen in my parents’ house is an overly large farmhouse-style indulgence. My mother sits at the enormous wooden table with her head bowed low, arms stretched in a wide circle as though hugging something. She is dwarfed by the oversized ladder-back chair and looks early-morning rough in her favourite fluffy dressing gown.
She doesn’t notice me at first, which gives me time to take in the source of her anguish. As if I didn’t know already. She has surrounded herself with photographs: images of the family, staged scenes from long-ago holidays, awkwardly posed pictures of Billy and me as children with fake smiles or genuine frowns. But most of the photographs, unsurprisingly, are of my father.
One picture in particular I have seen her crying over many times before. This one has him frozen in time on the day they met. It is a story she loved to tell us when we were kids, and I remember the faraway glaze that would mist her eyes when she got to her favourite part.
Margaret Foster – known to her friends as Maggie – worked in a bookshop in a pretty village called Stony Stratford, on the outskirts of what had just been designated the new city of Milton Keynes. It would be another ten years until the magnificent shopping centre opened, so Howard Hill had to order his college books from the local shop: titles like
The A to Z of Plumbing
and
Careers in Construction
. Hardly the stuff to turn a girl’s head, but my mum says she fell for him straight away. By the time he asked her to lunch it was a done deal.
On the way back to the bookshop, Howard nipped into a photo booth. He tried to cajole Maggie to go inside the booth with him but she thought this too forward. She did, however, accept one of the photographs with his telephone number and address scrawled on the back, and gave him her own number on a bookmark.
She still has the photo, and is clutching it now, gazing out of watery eyes at the likeness of her husband thirty-eight years ago. Did he keep the bookmark? Somehow, I doubt it.
I walk up behind my mother and place a protective arm around her shoulders. She sinks into me as though melting. I am surprised when, instead of becoming more intense, her tears subside quickly. She still clings to me though, until my back is stiff from bending.
After a while I stand up straight and push her hair back from her face. She has continued to have it expensively dyed the copper red of her youth, with expertly placed lowlights and highlights. It suits her. One day soon I’ll remember to tell her.
‘Cup of tea?’ I say, and see, with a degree of discomfort, that she visibly relaxes. No reprimand from Stella this time. Is that really what she thinks? Is that what she expects from me?
She nods in agreement to the tea and begins to gather up the photographs, returning them to their black leather box. All except the passport photo; this she brings over to the sink where I’m washing out a cup.
‘He was so handsome, wasn’t he, back then?’ she says softly, holding out the picture like a talisman.
I put the cup down on the granite worktop with a bang, harder than expected, making both of us jump. My fingers are clenched around the handle so tightly I can feel my nails digging into my palm. I should have seen that coming. She never passes up an opportunity to go on at me about my dad. Why don’t I go and see him? Why did I take what happened so personally? Questions that I couldn’t have made it plainer I have no intention of answering. Ever. Now she’ll make a scene, more tears and recriminations.
Slowly, I uncurl my hand and walk across the kitchen to the fridge. My mother watches me carefully. I can feel her eyes boring into the back of my head, feel the weight of all the words she wants to say.
‘Skimmed or semi?’ I ask, turning to show her the choice of milk.