‘Don’t mess about, baby, book
yourself in for a full gynae exam right
now,’ was Connor’s advice.
She dug an elbow into his ribs.
‘You need a hunky male personal trainer,’ Connor suggested, ‘or the suburban housewife’s tried and tested: a tennis coach.’
‘Oh
, I would . . . but not in the current economic climate.’
‘Aha.’
‘Anyway, how were the children?’ she asked.
‘They were fabulous,’ he assured her. ‘Lana’s still awake in her room I think, listening to her iPod, Owen is probably playing the guitar under his covers to impress his music guru.’
‘You met Ed?’
‘Oh yes, I’m nearly as impressed with Edible Ed as your children are.’
‘Ha. Edible Ed?’ She wondered how anyone could find Ed remotely edible, unless they were a dust mite.
‘C’mon,’ Connor insisted. ‘You’ve got to admit, he exudes a certain old school charm . . . but the “gaydar” says he’s not one for the boys.’
‘No . . . school rumour is he’s something of a ladies’ man, but I find it hard to believe. How’s your love life anyway?’
‘Oh, same old, same old,’ Connor assured her. ‘Absolutely nothing to report. Why does no-one want me?’ He pulled a tragically sad face which earned him another dig in the ribs.
‘So
The Manor
’s policeman remains “the most eligible bachelor in showbiz” then?’ she teased. ‘I dunno, Connor. You’re gorgeous, you’re on TV, you’re loaded –
maybe people are frightened by the curse of
Hello!
Maybe they don’t want to wake up and find themselves being interviewed by
Heat
magazine?’
‘Oh very funny.’
She looked at his handsome chin. She’d inherited Connor. He’d been Roddy’s best friend, but when Roddy exited stage left, he’d come over to her side.
Connor and Roddy had met on some low-budget film set in Romania. They’d been there for weeks, even though they were bit parts, first and second prince on the right or something. They’d hatched a plan to leave their noble, badly paid film and theatre careers, which didn’t seem to be going anywhere, and break into soaps: Roddy as a sexy baddie and Connor as handsome, hunky boy-next-door.
After extensive restyling by Annie, Roddy had emerged as crew-cut, leather-jacketed, slightly stubbly and wicked and had progressed from thug in
The Bill
to
a bad, newly returned brother of somebody in
EastEnders
. Meanwhile, a scrubbed-clean, rosy-cheeked, knitwear-clad Connor had landed the starring role in the Sunday teatime-slot nostalgic series
The Manor
. On the back of this, stage roles in the West End came rolling in.
‘How’s work?’ Annie asked.
‘Oh daaaling, it’s wonderful,’ Connor said at first, then added grumpily: ‘I’m never agreeing to go on stage again, it’s bloody drudgery.’
‘Ha! Bloody well paid drudgery,’ she said and stroked his jumper knowingly. ‘Eight-ply cashmere doesn’t come cheap.’
‘Give me telly any day. When are you coming to see me
on stage
anyway?’
‘Oh, well . . . very soon,’ she assured him, secretly thinking that musicals, even those by Noël Coward, weren’t really her thing.
‘Now . . . Connor,’ she began, since favours were being traded, ‘my gorgeous one?’ She linked fingers with him.
‘Uh-oh,’ he replied. ‘This sounds as if it’s going to be dangerous – expensive – or possibly both.’
‘I’ve got a favour to ask. Actually, two favours.’
‘You’ll definitely have to grovel. Preferably on your knees.’
‘How do you feel about camping? The tent kind?’ she added quickly.
Connor pulled a face: ‘I know everything about camping and nothing about tents.’
‘There’s this male-bonding, man-and-boy, orienteering event – men and their sons, or their nephews, or their friends’ sons even.’ She caught his eye, to make sure he understood. ‘And Owen has showed me a leaflet
for it, has been saying, about fifteen times a day: “Wouldn’t that be really good fun? Doesn’t that sound like a great place?” and so on. You know how much camping he used to do with Roddy . . . and I can’t think of anyone else who could take him. And it’s around the time of his birthday and—’
‘I don’t know anything about camping, Annie,’ Connor moaned. ‘And you can’t camp, so even if you were male . . . you’ll have to do something different. How about a spa weekend? I’d come on that.’
‘I hope you’re joking. Owen is going to be ten,’ she reminded him.
‘You’re never too young to groom.’
Annie gave a sigh: ‘OK, OK, I’ll let you off camping. But now you have to say yes to my next request.’
‘Hit me.’
‘You know it’s my mum’s retirement party next month?’
‘No! I don’t think your mother’s retirement was flagged up on my event horizon . . . but . . . so . . . would I be correct in thinking you’re about to utter the oh-so-flattering words: “plus one”?’
‘Connor?’ Annie snuggled up against him. ‘You could ask for favours in return for this.’
‘Favours?’ he wondered. ‘You can’t offer me sexual—’
‘Material,’ she clarified. ‘It’s worth at least two, maybe even three extra discount purchases from the Annie V Trading Station.’
‘Oh, thanks a lot!’ he said huffily, ‘I want free designer knickers or I don’t co-operate.’
‘I may be able to arrange that,’ she said, recalling a
pyramid of Calvin Kleins on three for two at TK Maxx.
Hopefully there wouldn’t just be XXLs and XXSs left.
‘Big family gathering for the retirement?’ he wondered.
Annie nodded: ‘I don’t want to go on my own. I mean, obviously Lana and Owen are coming, but I want someone there just for me.’
He stroked her hair, then let a smile break over his impressive features. ‘Will there be ageing aunties?’ he asked.
‘At least three. Maybe four.’
‘Ooh, I do like a tipsy ageing aunty, that’s my core fan base, you know . . . Wild drunken dancing?’
‘Definitely. A live band apparently because it’s a Scottish-themed ceilidh evening. In fact,’ she sat up and grinned at him: she had just had one of her best ideas of the day, ‘I’m going to hire you a kilt.’
‘A kiltie?’ Connor grinned back, revealing perfect – and laser-treated – teeth. ‘Oh yes, Annie, yes! One of those black leather ones?’
‘Whatever turns you on, darlin’.’
‘A black leather kiltie with nothing underneath?’ In a passable Sean Connery purr, he added: ‘Moneypenny, how can I rrrefuse? And what will my delectable date for the evening be wearing?’
‘Now that is a good question,’ Annie replied.
Chapter Six
Paula on parade:
Genuine Asian hair extensions, braided (Blaxx salon)
Spray-on black Gucci dress (The Store’s sale preview)
Fuchsia thong (Brick Lane market, three for £1)
A ‘Hollywood’ wax (Blaxx)
Orange and fuchsia striped false nails (Blaxx)
Orange suede Jimmy Choo stilettos (mates’ rates at Annie V’s Trading Station)
Est. cost: £805
‘What’s on special offer at Asda?’
‘Delia, girl, you’re in early, aren’t you?’ On spotting the bustling, well-upholstered figure of the floor’s cleaning lady, Annie had checked her watch and noted that it was still an hour and a half till closing time.
‘I’m tidying out my cupboard,’ Delia explained. Annie found this hard to understand, as Delia kept the neatest cleaning cupboard in the Western world. The frayed mops were carefully rinsed out, squeezed and hung to dry; the cloths were pegged up on their own little washing line and the bottles of industrial cleansers and polishes were always wiped down and lined up on the shelves with all the labels facing outwards.
‘Then I’m planning a little shop for myself.’ Delia’s gleaming dark face split with a giggle which set her short shiny wig jiggling. ‘No point working here if I can’t spoil myself from time to time.’
Stepping close to Annie, she asked, ‘I take it we’re still OK with our little arrangement?’
‘We certainly are,’ Annie assured her, trying not to imagine what Donna would think of it.
On the very rare occasion when Delia bought something from The Store, Annie put it through the till under her name because she was entitled to a 20 per cent staff discount, whereas Delia, employed by a subcontracted cleaning company, was not. An injustice Annie was delighted to subvert. ‘What are you buying?’ she couldn’t help asking.
‘Oh, I’m going to enjoy myself looking for a while, then I’ll come to you with my extravagances,’ Delia chuckled and gave Annie’s arm a squeeze, her chubby, dark brown hand adorned with five short, but beautifully lacquered plum fingernails.
‘Trying anything on?’
‘Oh no, you know me, Annie, I only shop for clothes at Harvey Nichols!’ came Delia’s reply with a hefty wink. ‘Anyways, I couldn’t get my big butt into anything you sell.’
‘Yes you could,’ Annie protested. ‘Look, look, girl, just over here we have—’
But Delia cut her off: ‘Stop your sales pitch right there, you devil woman,’ she said, waggling a fingertip. ‘I’m not falling for it. I know just what I’m buying and first off, I’m walking my butt to lingerie.’
‘Oooh!’ Annie teased. ‘Something fancy?’
Delia gave her great rattling, throaty, chest-clearing laugh at this. Now her gold hoop earrings were jangling. ‘Oh yeah . . . I’m gonna make some lucky man’s day,’ she chuckled. ‘See you later.’
Annie watched Delia walk off in the direction of the underwear department, still chuckling and swishing her substantial derrière from side to side just for Annie’s benefit.
Delia had three jobs, four children and one cramped council flat on the very outer reaches of Isleworth. She had to take three buses to make it in for her 6 a.m. start
every weekday morning. The bags under her eyes were
like two broad sweeps of kohl, except they looked irremovable. Delia would have to be knocked out for a month to make any difference to those.
Considering her personal circumstances, she was allowed to be the most grouchy, bitchy, irritable person in the world – like many other members of the cleaning, not to mention sales staff – but Delia remained stubbornly happy and upbeat. Maybe
there was inextinguishable Caribbean sunshine in her soul or maybe it was her devout Jehovah’s Witness religion and the Power of Prayer.
Delia was always busy on Annie’s behalf: ‘I’m praying for you and yours, baby. Don’t even try telling me not to.’
Annie, almost as much as Delia, understood that when life handed you a bum deal you either had to get up, put on your face, pull back your shoulders and make the best of it, or else go under.
The phone in the Personal Shopping area began to ring, so Annie answered.
‘Annie? Hi, it’s Dale. You busy?’
‘No-one in at the moment,’ she told him.