Humbugs and Heartstrings

Catherine Ferguson

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2014

Copyright © Catherine Ferguson 2014

Cover photographs © Lisa Horton

Cover design ©Lisa Horton

Catherine Ferguson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © October 2014 ISBN: 9780008117269

Version: 2017-11-14

For Matthew

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Back Ads

Acknowledgements

About the Book

About the Publisher

Prologue

It has to be here somewhere.

I bend closer and yet another van hurtles past in the semi-dark, flinging spray all over me.

I’m not normally to be found scrabbling about in gutters on wet, murky late afternoons in October, risking a drenching from the vehicles swishing by.

But today, The Boss gave us a lecture on biros.

She said we’d probably have to start paying for our pens because she couldn’t be sure we weren’t using them for our own personal stuff. So then, of course, I was digging in my bag on the way out of work, and what should come flying out and roll away into the road, but my precious biro.

Suddenly I spot it, floating in an oily puddle, and as I’m bending to fish it out, something else catches my eye.

A crumpled ten pound note is skating along the pavement beside me.

Fascinated, I give the pen a shake, pop it in my bag and follow the progress of the queen’s head as it zigzags towards the hedge and snags on a lamppost. I glance around, expecting someone to rush up behind me and breathlessly claim it, but there is no one in sight. If it was a purse with money in it, I could take it to the police station. But what do I do with a ten pound note?

Ten pounds.

There’s no question how I’d use it.

Already I am imagining slipping my pass book under the glass and watching the cashier’s efficient, manicured hands processing the note. And afterwards, the pleasure of checking the growing balance in the Tim Fund and knowing I am inching slowly towards our goal.

A gust of wind frees the note from the lamppost and shuttles it on its merry way. And right at that moment, I am diverted by a flash of colour. A well-rounded woman in a bright orange tracksuit and lime green trainers puffs past on a bike, corkscrews of blonde hair escaping from her hood. Her mode of transport looks creaky, to say the least, and something about her red cheeks and slightly awkward posture tells me she’s brand new to this cycling lark. With a quick glance behind her to check for traffic (none), she suddenly starts pedalling furiously then freewheels with her legs out to the sides, shouting, ‘Whee-ee!’

A drop of rain plops onto my forehead and I glance skywards. I got wet walking into work this morning, resulting in a day of mad hair (think Kate Bush and ‘Wuthering Heights’) and the clouds are heavy with the threat of more rain.

Now I’ve lost the note. Oh, there it is, loitering at the car park entrance, as if it’s waiting for me to catch up.

Suddenly a vehicle roars out of the car park right in front of me and the driver brakes hard into a puddle. A bucket of cold rain-water rises up and slaps onto my thighs.

Out jumps The Boss.

Trousers clinging wetly, I bend down to rescue the money. But The Boss gets there first, trapping it neatly beneath a vintage Karl Lagerfeld heel.

‘Mine, I think.’ Snatching it up, she flashes me a dazzling – but entirely fake – smile.

I shrug as if I don’t care – and actually, I don’t think I do any more. It’s taken a great deal of practise but I’ve become fairly good at allowing her unpleasantness to roll over me. Does anyone like her, apart from her bank manager?

At the same time, I can’t help feeling a sneaky admiration for the woman’s stingy single-mindedness; her never-ending drive to acquire something for nothing. I mean, hello! Only The Boss could spot a freebie at ten paces from behind a car windscreen and get there in time to nab it.

It’s rumoured she goes to weddings with confetti on elastic.

But as I need to hold on to this job, naturally I couldn’t possibly comment …

Chapter One

‘You haven’t a ghost of a chance.’ Shona returns from the kitchen with our first caffeine hit of the day. ‘Here, get down, Bobbie, and let me do it.’

The desk beneath my feet sways scarily as I clamber off. It’s the flimsiest bit of flat-pack rubbish ever designed. We cobbled it together one lunch hour. (There were some screws left over, but we chucked them in the bin.)

Shona hands me the tray of mugs, pushes her oversized specs up her nose, hoicks up her long cord skirt and shoves it between her knees. Then she clambers up and, with a skill born of regular practise, surfs until she is steady, as the desk sways on an illusory ocean.

I watch, arms up ready to catch her, marvelling at what ‘Health & Safety’ would make of our ‘quirky’ work environment. It’s just as well a dodgy paint job from the last century has cemented the windows of our offices tight shut. One whisper of a breeze and I swear that desk would lift off on its spindly legs and float around the office like a dandelion clock.

The Boss never tires of pointing out that the desk actually cost her less than a box of the cheap print cartridges she buys (the kind that, if more than fifty per cent of them actually work, you feel chuffed out of all proportion).

The Boss thinks my desk is hilarious.

She doesn’t have to stand on it.

Looking back, she’s always found other people’s misfortune mildly amusing.

‘That’s it.’ Shona climbs down, having temporarily ‘fixed’ the terminally knackered blind.

The headquarters of Spit and Polish cleaners are two cramped, interconnecting offices and a shared kitchen in a converted Victorian villa that looks fairly impressive until you get inside. I once heard The Boss describe it as ‘shabby chic’. She is only half correct.

‘She’s coming.’ Shona rushes to switch on her computer.

We hear heels on the stairs and The Boss makes her entrance, elegant in a new honey-coloured cashmere coat that is almost the exact same shade as her chic, cropped hairstyle.

She holds the coat out to one side and barks, ‘Twenty-five quid at a car boot sale!’ Then she marches into her office and kicks the door shut with a beautifully-clad foot.

‘And good morning to you, too,’ mutters Shona.

She shoots me an anxious glance. ‘Do you think she’s noticed?’

I shake my head. ‘The radiators are clay cold now. She won’t suspect a thing.’

‘Really? Because I’d already started job hunting.’

Shona had phoned me late last night in an uncharacteristic panic and, being an office key-holder, I’d dived out into the frosty night to put things right. I reasoned The Boss never had to know that Shona, working late to catch up on some filing and finding herself alone in a chilly office, had not only committed the punishable-by-death crime of turning on the heating but also, in an unusual lapse of concentration, had forgotten to switch it off before she left.

The Boss’s rules on temperature control are non-negotiable. The heating cannot creep above ‘minimum’ between the months of October and April except in extreme conditions, such as when our fingers turn black and drop off. The rest of the year, we rely on chunky cardigans draped over the backs of our chairs to combat the shivers.

People laugh when I tell them of her meanness, but Shona and I haven’t found The Boss amusing for quite some time. Not since the day she announced she was dispensing with pay rises because in such an uncertain financial climate, we should consider ourselves bloody lucky to be in work in the first place.

Behind The Boss’s door, there’s the sound of something crashing to the floor followed by a loud expletive.

Ella, our new junior, purses her perfectly glossed lips. ‘Stress.’ She shakes her head regretfully. ‘I’ll bring her some chamomile teabags. I’ve got a mountain of them at home.’

Shona and I exchange a grin. The only way The Boss would ever go near a herbal teabag mountain would be if she had to climb over it to get to the hard stuff (Death Wish Coffee, treble strength).

Ella, who was watching our antics with the faulty blind in mild disbelief, points a square, French-polished fingernail under my desk and says, ‘Isn’t that arrangement a little dangerous?’

Since Ella arrived two weeks ago, we are even more pushed for space. I am crammed into a corner with no electrical sockets, so I get by with a complicated series of extension cables that stretch out across the floor like sleeping snakes.

Our junior casts a censorious glance at The Boss’s door. ‘I mean, doesn’t she care about Health & Safety?’

Shona and I exchange a look.

Ella is right, of course. But Shona is probably thinking exactly the same as me: since when did teenage girls become so confident? And so obnoxiously superior. It almost makes me want to defend The Boss!

Ella stands up. ‘I’ll volunteer to sort it out.’ She straightens the skirt of her cute pink dress.

‘No, no,’ chorus Shona and I in alarm, all but leaping out of our chairs to restrain her.

Ella gives us the kind of bewildered and slightly pitying look my twelve-year-old brother gives my mum when she gets flushed and animated recalling her brush with Beatles mania. (She saw them perform live, back in the day, and loves to tell how she had to revive her friend Marjorie who overheated in her vinyl mini dress and fell down in a swoon.)

I smile cheerily at Ella. ‘Best leave it up to The Boss, eh?’

‘If you want to keep your job,’ I murmur, sitting down at my computer and clicking on the following week’s cleaning rota.

Thankfully, Ella – who comes direct from the New York catwalk each morning – sits back down again. Today she is wearing a tangerine fake fur over the pink dress and skyscraper ‘nude’ shoes which, she informed us helpfully yesterday, can make women with fat legs look an awful lot slimmer. She was looking at Shona’s rear end, snugly encased in brown cord trousers, when she said this. Luckily, Shona had her head in the filing cabinet and didn’t notice.

To be fair, Ella does look amazing. I mean, I am twenty-nine, but standing next to her, I resemble a middle-aged nun. Actually, no, make that a middle-aged nun’s mother. (And let’s be honest here, I might just as well take Holy Orders. At least then Mum might stop fretting about me not having a ‘chap’ in my life.)

As far as fashion goes, I have always been drawn to black, ever since my fat teenage days. Black is so generous and forgiving, skimming over lumps and bumps and giving the satisfying illusion of a sleek outline. Of course, I don’t just wear black. I also like white and all colours in between – namely, many shades of grey. Icy grey, pastel grey, blue-grey, charcoal grey. My colour palette of choice means I can dive into my wardrobe in the morning, pull out any combination of garments and know, without doubt, that I will co-ordinate nicely.

I had a brief flirtation with eye-catching, peacock colours in my mid-twenties when I was at my slimmest, working in London and partying practically every night. I had the world at my feet; a dazzling future ahead of me. I was going to take the art world by storm with my quirky glass sculptures.

It was an optimism that lasted for about five minutes. The evidence of my youthful naïvety is now folded up and packed away in a trunk in Mum’s garage.

I don’t bother with make-up now, except for a touch of mascara and blusher, which I only wear because otherwise, with my pale complexion and dark hair, I look like I might have died during the night. I no longer waste money on hairdressers so my locks just keep getting longer and I twist them in a ‘messy up-do’ as it’s now called. Actually, I had this ‘style’ before it became fashionable. It takes me about twenty seconds to wind my hair up and skewer it with a big wooden pin, although admittedly by three o’clock it is usually falling down enough to genuinely warrant the term ‘messy’.

I glance at Ella, who’s been tasked with reorganising the office, a job Shona never has time to tackle. Sorting out paper clips and tidying filing cabinets is not exactly glamorous work. Ella is seventeen and earns pennies but she behaves and talks as if Alan Sugar is in the room and might, at any moment, spot her potential, point that knobbly finger of his and say, ‘Ella. You’re hired.’

Actually, I have a sneaky respect for her. In any other organisation, her youthful enthusiasm and fluent use of corporate jargon might combine to take her places.

But her prospects here are, regrettably, zilch.

A good boss educates and encourages her employees, finds each person’s unique talent and makes sure her staff feel valued and respected.

The Boss subscribes to none of the above.

Making money is all she cares about these days – and the thing is, she’s very, very good at it. As she keeps on telling us. Of course, she has her exhaustingly successful family to thank for setting her up in business in the first place.

The McGinleys are all high-achievers. Mr McGinley’s electronics company floated on the Stock Exchange last year and his wife is an extremely successful barrister. Brother Max has followed in his mother’s footsteps and Carol’s sister, a dentist, lives in Los Angeles and crafts perfect smiles for B-list celebrities. Carol, the youngest of the three, is following in their workaholic footsteps with her cleaning gold mine.

She started up the company three years ago and we are now the premier domestic cleaning company in the area. Everyone I talk to has heard of Spit and Polish. And to be fair, The Boss has worked her butt off to make it happen, grafting late into the night and most weekends, and making shameless use of her parents’ business contacts to bring in work.

She employs an odious little man called Gerry Flack to do her accounting. He’s overly moist, believes he’s everyone’s intellectual superior and is a master at slithering his way through tax loopholes while staying just this side of prosecution. The Boss regards Gerry as second only to God and she guards the financial records jealously, locking them away in a desk drawer. Even Shona has never clapped eyes on the lucrative results of our hard work. We joke that The Boss thinks she’d have a staff rebellion on her hands if we found out the true scale of her wealth.

My dad died when I was sixteen, leaving Mum with me and my unborn baby brother. Cash was always tight – most of our clothes came from charity shops – and I was aware from a very young age that life wasn’t always fair and that it was the people with money who wielded the power.

We have living proof of that here every day, sitting in the adjoining office.

Poor Ella has no idea what she’s let herself in for.

The Boss has grown even narkier of late. She has developed a way of ‘putting wood in t’hole’ (as they used to say in this part of the North) that borders on legendary. Her door slams shake the building, reverberate through your abdomen and encourage flakes of peeling paint to hurl themselves off the walls in surrender. Most days, Shona and I tiptoe around on eggshells with our shoulders up to our ears.

My friend, Fez, says I should just tell her to stuff her job. He keeps banging on about how pointless it is being creative if I’m not planning to actually create. But glass-blowing or painting watercolours isn’t exactly going to pay the rent, now, is it? It would take years to get established and how would I exist until then?

No, far better to concentrate on keeping The Boss sweet so that I can hang onto my job, however mundane it might be, and eventually get Tim his operation. And as I keep saying to Fez, The Boss isn’t all bad. She’s consistent, which is a good thing. There are never any nasty surprises because she’s consistently horrible. So you know exactly where you stand with her (and also where you’d prefer to stand, which is in the solicitor’s office next door because at least it’s warm in there).

‘I owe you, Bobbie.’ Shona whisks the tie from her brown bushy ponytail, gathers the rebellious bits that have gone AWOL and, with a snap of elastic, gets the troops under control. ‘Your midnight dash probably saved my life.’

I grin. ‘Honestly, it’s fine. And anyway, she seems to have other things on her mind this morning.’

Shona spins round. ‘What other things?’

‘I’ve no idea. But I notice she’s wearing the Chanel blouse, and yesterday she told me to hunt out the coffee machine.’

‘Oh, Lord. I knew something was up.’

I laugh. ‘She’s probably just drumming up new business.’

‘Yes, but the coffee machine?’

‘Hmm, you’ve got a point.’ I bite my lip thoughtfully. Important client or not, the only coffee on offer here is the instant brown powder that comes in an industrial-size tin from the Cash and Carry. (The first sip makes you shudder but it’s any port in a storm when you need your morning caffeine fix.)

‘Plus,’ says Shona darkly, ‘she’s been really secretive lately.’

‘How?’

She shrugs. ‘Phoning people directly instead of shouting through to me to do it. Surviving on fags. And snippy. Really snippy.’

‘So what’s new?’

A roar from next door makes us both jump.

‘Shona-a-a-a-a? Is this crap meant to be coffee? If I’d wanted dishwater, I’d have asked for fucking dishwater!’

As bosses go, Carol McGinley is a complete and utter nightmare.

It’s hard to believe that, until a few years ago, she and I were as close as best friends could possibly be.

Chapter Two

‘Bobbie? In here!’

The Boss bellows like a drill sergeant in a corny movie and I rise to attention.

I know better than to hang around when I’m summoned.

I go into her office and sit down, studying her curiously as she checks something in an ancient ring binder file. Her green eyes are bruised with shadows. Not that this is anything new; these days she always looks like she’s a week behind on sleep.

At last she looks up. ‘I need you to book me a hotel.’

‘A hotel?’ I can’t help sounding surprised. The Boss never stays in hotels. She never goes anywhere, just works all the time.

She grabs her fags and lights up.

‘Yes, a hotel.’ Her tone is rich with sarcasm. ‘You know, one of those things that looks like a house but bigger.’ She draws on the ciggy as if it’s a life-saver and blows smoke all over me. ‘I’m in London overnight. I’ll need a room.’

She shoves her desk calendar at me. A Saturday several weeks ahead has been circled furiously in red.

‘It’s a party. I’ve got to be there,’ she says, her tone suggesting that, given the choice, she’d rather be pretty much anywhere else in the known universe.

‘What’s the do in aid of?’ I’m taking my life in my hands, asking such a personal question.

‘Seventieth birthday.’ She scowls. ‘My father’s.’

I nod. ‘That’ll be nice?’ It’s a probing question more than a statement of fact.

‘No, it won’t. Actually, ‘party’ is the wrong word for it. It’ll be a gathering of his business cronies under one roof with the potential for making more money.’

‘Right. But at least you’ll see your family.’

She ignores this, draws hard on her fag and blows the smoke out, sideways this time. ‘They’re all booked into the hotel where the function is. I’d rather be somewhere else.’

She slaps a sheet of paper on the desk in front of me. ‘I’ve written down my requirements. I do not want an economy hell hole that looks like a block of council flats and where you’re expected to bring your own soap. And where the walls are so thin you can hear the guests in the room next door shagging all night.’

I bristle slightly. ‘There’s nothing wrong with budget hotels.’

‘Maybe not – if you’ve never stayed anywhere else,’ she says pointedly, knowing I never have. ‘I’ll have had a really stressful day. I will want to crash in a chic, comfortable room, go for a swim and a sauna, and eat in a decent restaurant.’

She points her ciggy at me. ‘I do not want to choose from a menu that’s the size of a protester’s placard and is laminated for ease of wiping, okay?’

‘Well, there are plenty of small, boutique hotels in London.’ I shrug. ‘You’ll be spoilt for choice.’

‘Er, hang on a sec. Before you start splurging my cash, I am not paying’ – she grabs the list of requirements and scribbles something at the bottom – ‘any more than that.’ She stabs the figure and I glance at it and nod, assuming she’s mistakenly missed off a nought.

‘Fine. Except you’ve missed off a nought,’ I tell her cheerfully.

‘No. I haven’t.’ Her icy green stare challenges me to argue.

I look at the figure she’s prepared to pay and shake my head. ‘No way.’ It will just about cover the cost of a sleeping bag and a hot dog.

‘Yes. Way. Now go and organise it. Please.’ She flashes me a fake smile. ‘And I want it sorted today.’

With a feeling of dread I return to my desk and go online to research hotels.

It’s a hopeless task because how will I ever find anything to suit her miserly budget?

I spend the next few hours making embarrassing, abortive calls to reservations staff, who are incredibly nice at first – until I mention the budget. I can almost hear the goodwill evaporate, like water droplets on a hot oven ring, as they switch from ‘helpful’ to ‘hang on, is she taking the mick?’

By four o’clock, I’m so brassed off, I start cutting to the chase as soon as someone picks up, as in, ‘Hello. You’ll probably think I’m a complete nutter but … ’

There’s absolutely no point telling Carol I’m having no success because she’ll only stand her ground and make out that it’s my lack of ability that’s the problem. Plus she’ll enjoy my discomfort.

I glance anxiously at my watch. My brother’s been suffering from a bad chest infection. I promised Mum I’d collect his medication and take it round to her tomorrow, on my way in to work.

But the chemist’s closes at five-thirty and I’m down to the final hotel on my list.

My very last hope.

Punching in the number, I offer up a silent prayer that this time I’ll speak to someone who is at least a little sympathetic to my plight. I will offer to bake them muffins, read them a bedtime story – God, I’ll even send hard cash – if they will only give me what I need. Then I can get the hell out of here for another day.

It rings – smile and look positive! – and it rings.

It keeps on ringing.

Then it rings some more.

With each electronic shriek, an iron band of frustration tightens around my gut, increasing my sense of panic.

‘For God’s sake, what kind of a place is this?’ I drum my fingers hard on the desk, tensing my ear muscles against the phone shrieks. ‘Christ, have all the staff taken the same day off?’

Shona and Ella are frowning sympathetically at me.

I am so incensed it doesn’t immediately register that the phone has stopped ringing.

So, as it filters through my jangling head that someone is actually speaking, I am simultaneously yelling, ‘Bloody fucking stupid bastard of a hotel!’

There is a deafening silence at the other end.

And then a man says, ‘Well, you know, that’s not how we’re currently described in the Good Hotel Guide.’

My heart leaps with horror.

Oh, buggery bollocks!

Heat envelops me, I am sweltering like a greenhouse in high summer. What do I do now? Hang up?

Then I think of Carol, hatchet-faced, drumming her fingers, expecting a miracle.

This man is my last hope. I’ll just have to grovel.

‘Gosh, I do apologise.’ I pull out my T-shirt neckline and desperately waft some cool air in. ‘I’m – er – having rather a stressful afternoon and it all got a bit – well … ’

‘Too much?’

‘Exactly.’

He laughs. ‘Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. We’ve all been there. Try squeezing a tennis ball.’

‘Sorry?’

‘That’s what I do when I feel like leaping off a cliff. You’ve got to put a hole in it, obviously.’

‘A hole,’ I repeat, feeling somewhat bemused. ‘Yes. Of course.’

‘Works wonders. Honestly. You should try it.’

His voice is deep and oddly soothing, and my panic subsides a little.

‘So what’s stressing you out? Is your goldfish ill? Or is your boss giving you a hard time?’

I’m about to laugh wearily and say, ‘Spot on!’ Then I think: No, I’ve got to be nice about Carol. She has to sound like the perfect hotel guest.

‘The Boss?’ I take a deep breath and cross my fingers. ‘Oh no, she’s great. Firm but fair. Always puts the welfare of her staff before profits. And she particularly asked me to book her a stay at your hotel. We’ve heard – er – fabulous reports.’

I can see Shona giving me funny looks. But I don’t care. I’ll tell as many porkies as required in order to bag a deal and get out of here.

‘Right, well, we’ve obviously got a lot to live up to. So let’s see what we can do for you.’ His tone is laced with humour. He sounds so laid-back, I can’t imagine him ever needing to leap off a cliff.

I gulp. ‘There’s – er – just one thing. The Boss has a budget.’

‘Of course. Fire away.’

I close my eyes and mumble the figure.

There’s a brief silence.

Then he laughs.

Roars with laughter, in fact, and my heart drops into my boots.

I stare murderously at Carol’s door.

I knew it was useless.

‘I’m glad you’re amused,’ I say primly, when Reservations Guy has stopped clutching the desk, wiping his eyes and falling off his swivel chair. ‘I, on the other hand, don’t find it in the least bit funny. Thank you for your time. Goodbye.’

I hang up, my dignity in shreds, and punch ‘bargain hotels London’ into Google with so much force, it comes out as ‘bqrghain hireks Libdon’.

A second later, the phone rings, and when I snatch it up, a familiar voice says, ‘Let me lessen your stress. As I said, I’ll see what we can do for you.’

I sit bolt upright. Reservations Guy. ‘Oh. Right,’ I mutter hoarsely. ‘Er, that’s great, thanks.’

‘Give me your email address.’ He sounds like he’s smiling. ‘The name’s – er – Ronald McDonald. I’ll get back to you. Oh, and look after that goldfish.’

I laugh and give him my details, feeling a whole lot better.

A minute later, I pop my head round The Boss’s door. ‘Job’s a good ‘un.’

‘It bloody better be,’ she yells after me, as I skip out and grab my coat.

Chapter Three

I’m in such a hurry to leave, I don’t even notice the rain.

All week, the weather reporters have been banging on about a spectacular storm that will sweep north, arriving just in time for today’s commuter exodus.

Luckily, I thought to wear my new raincoat this morning – the one I fished out of a bargain bin at a camping shop. It’s fairly obvious why no one wanted it. The last time swirly orange and purple Paisley pattern was on trend, I probably wasn’t even alive. Plus it’s a large size and therefore swamps me. But it’s functional, and that’s what’s important.

As I emerge from the chemist’s, the sky turns spookily dark and thunder crashes overhead. A fork of lightning splits the sky and big fat raindrops begin to splat onto the pavement. Everyone hurries to get somewhere.

I glance anxiously upwards. The clouds are black and menacing, like giant angry gods. Raincoat or not, I’m going to get soaked.

Remembering the teashop Shona keeps raving about, I hurry down the next side street and dive thankfully through the door. I flump down in a seat by the window of Frankie’s Tearoom and observe the storm with wonder for a moment. Rain is now lashing against the windows and it’s so black out there it could be midnight.

I shrug off my coat and glance around to gauge the clientele. There are pearls and stiff perms in abundance. This is clearly an establishment that embraces old-fashioned values: white tablecloths, low lighting, waitresses in black with frilly white aprons, and exotically-named teas that arrive with a strainer on the side. It’s the sort of place where you plan what extravagant cake-y treat you’re going to have well in advance. Beneath the glass case I spy luscious-looking cherry bakewells, scones bursting with sultanas and generous slabs of something gooey and chocolatey. Shona says she comes here for a bit of peace and sanity on days when The Boss is being narky. On that basis, I’m surprised Shona isn’t the size of a modest bungalow.

It’s a maelstrom outside. Cars are crawling; pedestrians keep their heads down, buffeted by the storm. But it’s safe and warm in here, behind the glass.

I order a pot of Earl Grey and watch a man dash from newsagents to van with a paper over his head.

The waitress delivers my tea and I am just about to bring out my book when the door opens and in bursts an amply-fleshed middle-aged woman in a strawberry-patterned mac. She shakes the raindrops from her thick, honey blonde hair and glances around expectantly. When her eyes settle on me, she bustles straight over, her generous hips almost divesting an alarmed couple of their starched tablecloth and jam pot.

With no preamble whatsoever, she says in a loud and cheerful Welsh accent, ‘This is probably going to sound a bit strange but can I interest you in a tea leaf reading?’

My heart sinks.

I glance quickly around. An older couple in the corner are looking over with unconcealed interest.

Oh God, of all the people in here, why do I have to be the one lumbered with Mrs Whacko?

‘No thanks.’ I give her an apologetic smile. ‘I don’t have any cash on me.’

She looks shocked. ‘Oh, Heavens, no, you misunderstand me. I’d be doing it totally for free. I’m still learning, see. Started night classes last week down the college.’

‘Oh, right. Well, that would have been lovely,’ I tell her regretfully, ‘but I have to go in a minute.’

‘But it’ll only take a minute.’

Of course it will. Silly me.

Her smile is so warm and eager, I really haven’t the heart to refuse.

There’s something slightly familiar about her but I can’t think what.

She drops her green velvet shoulder bag on the table and unbuttons the mac to reveal a bright yellow blouse, rugby forward’s arms and an eyeful of cleavage that quivers when she moves like a nearly-set custard.

‘Miriam Cadwalader.’ She holds out her hand.

‘Roberta Blatchett.’ Her hand, when I shake it, is surprisingly small with neat, with hot-pink lacquered nails. ‘But everyone calls me Bobbie.’

Mrs Cadwalader gives her hands a gleeful rub. ‘Right, Bobbie, love, let’s get right down to it.’ She draws her chair closer to the table with several high-pitched screeches of wood on wood and more customers turn to peer in our direction. Completely oblivious to the stir she is causing, Mrs Cadwalader flicks through a notebook filled with big curly handwriting.

Staring at her thick, curly hair, I suddenly remember where I’ve seen her. She’s the woman on the bike in the bright orange tracksuit!

I watch her with a mix of amusement and wariness as she runs her finger down a list. I assume it’s a step-by-step ‘how to’ guide.

I’ve managed to get myself on a fairly even keel since the disaster that was London and Bob the Knob. My life is fine now. There are no great surprises, of either the nice or nasty variety. I do my laundry on Monday nights and my ironing on Wednesdays. I trek to the local supermarket on Saturday afternoons, buying just enough to fill a decent-sized rucksack before going home for ‘treat night’ which involves a long soak in the bath, a glass of wine and a good movie. And that is exactly the way I like it, thank you very much. I do not want to hear that I will travel to foreign shores, meet the man of my dreams and move house.

And I do not believe for one second that future events can be gleaned from the remnants of my cuppa.

Mrs Cadwalader seems very nice. But tea leaf reading at night class? The course organisers must be laughing all the way to the Bank of Gullible Fools and People With More Money Than Sense.

She reaches for my cup, swills it round and deftly tips the tea into the saucer. Then she peers at the contents.

‘You have a lovely man,’ she says, looking up and beaming at me.

‘I do?’

Her smile slips. ‘You don’t?’

Just what I thought. It’s a complete load of bollocks, just like all the other ‘clairvoyant’ pedlars of hocus pocus, who encourage poor hopefuls to part with their cash.

I shrug apologetically. ‘I’m afraid not.’ Unless you count Bob the Knob, of course, who – even after three years – is still moved sometimes to phone up begging me to take him back, which is ridiculous on a number of levels but particularly because he lives three hundred miles away in London. (Ten pints and a kebab seems to be his tipping point these days. Cue copious outpourings of guilt, over-the-top declarations and a surfeit of wind from both ends.)

Mrs Cadwalader grabs the cup and frowns into its depths. ‘Oh, hang on.’ Her brow clears. ‘That’s because he hasn’t arrived yet.’

‘Ah!’ I suppress a smile. ‘So will he be along any time soon?’ I ask, looking at my watch. ‘I think they close at six.’

‘Hard to tell,’ she murmurs. ‘But I do see a turkey. Hang on, is that a kangaroo? No, definitely a turkey.’

A laugh escapes. I can’t help it. ‘A turkey? Really? Alive or dead?’

‘Can’t be specific. But what I can tell you is there’s definitely a storm brewing.’ She laughs and raises her hands to the tempest that’s currently giving the High Street a good battering. Then she bends to the cup. ‘Yes, a storm brewing around a lifelong friendship. A girl you’ve known since schooldays?’ She frowns and peers closer. ‘It’s all a bit of a mess, really.’

‘Isn’t that just the tea leaves clogging together?’ I suggest helpfully. I’m not at all sure I like where this is going.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ says Mrs Cadwalader, whose irony radar is obviously either on the blink or still in the shop. ‘You were close as sisters, you two. But not any more. Ooh, she’s a sad, sad person.’ She looks up. ‘Any of that ring a bell, dear?’

Surprisingly, it does – and as guesses go, I have to admit, it’s genius. Mrs Cadwalader can’t possibly know about Carol and the Cold War that broke out between us several years earlier. Frosty relations have since grown icier than a neglected chest freezer.

‘She’s sad, all right,’ I mutter.

Mrs Cadwalader nods in sympathy. ‘You let each other down.’

I sit forward abruptly. ‘Er, I’m sorry, but you’ve got that completely wrong.’

‘Have I, dear?’

‘Yes!’ Self-righteous indignation rises up in my chest. ‘Carol let me down. End of story.’

Mrs Cadwalader places her soft, plump hand over mine and says gently, ‘Except it’s not the end of the story for your friendship.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’ I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel stupidly close to tears.

Why am I getting emotional about a strange woman’s ramblings? Carol and our friendship are history. There is no going back, not after the way she’s treated me.

‘Three – um – ghosts will come to your rescue.’

‘What?’

Mrs C looks up worriedly then gives her head a little shake. ‘No, that can’t be right. Does that sound right to you?’

I shrug expansively, completely lost for words.

She means well, I’m sure. But the last thing I need is my past raked over and a farcical tale about ghouls coming to sort it all out.

She smiles. ‘Silly me. They’re not ghosts at all. They’re messengers! Three messengers.’

Oh, that’s all right, then.

I have to hand it to her. She’s very entertaining. Either she’s a really good actor or she genuinely believes that the guff she’s spouting is actually going to happen.

‘Heed the messengers’ advice and both your lives will be … er … ’ – she leafs urgently through her notebook, finally finding the right page – ‘enriched beyond measure!’

Homework complete, she sits back and beams at me, as if she deserves a gold star and a lollipop.

‘Well, thank you for that.’ Now is definitely the time to make my exit. ‘I’m – er – not a huge believer in this kind of thing.’

Mrs Cadwalader gives an understanding nod. ‘Neither was I, dear. But since I left Brian, I’ve been opening my mind to a whole host of different things.’

‘Brian?’

‘My ex.’

‘Oh.’ I glance at her vacant ring finger. ‘Didn’t you love him?’

‘No, I did not.’ She grows even more Welsh in her indignation. ‘Well, he never appreciated me, did he? Never really talked to me.’ She purses her lips. ‘He had to have his meal on the table at six on the dot otherwise he would sulk for days.’

‘How awful.’

‘It was, it was.’ She stares bleakly into the distance for a moment.

Then she snaps to, with a smile. ‘So anyway, I put up with it for all those years and then one night, I said, “You know what? You can bugger off, Brian.” I mean, getting the veg to the precise level of tenderness at the same time as the meat is practically impossible. It was doing my head in keeping to his tight schedule and trying to make him happy. So I threw down the tea towel and I said, “Brian, you’ll have beans on toast tonight or lump it!”’

I nod admiringly, remembering Bob the Knob’s delightful little ‘quirks’.

‘Well, of course he went off it, didn’t he? Threw me out of the house. So I went to a really posh hotel with his credit card and called my friend, Doris. Then you know what we did?’

‘What?’ In spite of myself, I’m intrigued.

‘We went to the bar and drank our weight in brandy.’

She sits back with a little smile and her eyes go all dewy. ‘Great friend, Doris. So supportive. Kept knocking them back even though she’s actually a port-and-lemon-once-a-month kind of girl.’

‘Just the sort of friend you need in a crisis,’ I say, suddenly thinking that’s exactly what Carol would have done for me. Once upon a time.

Mrs Cadwalader nods. ‘How true. Doris, bless her. Couldn’t get back on the stool that second time, she was laughing so hard.’

‘Sounds like a great night.’

‘Oh, yes. We did the can-can in the restaurant and the waiter refused to join in. It’s all a bit of a blur after that.’

‘And Brian?’

‘Well, he’s moved his secretary in!’ Her eyes are wide with disbelief. ‘So I said to him, “Brian, you’re a walking cliché and by the way, I’ve never had an orgasm in my life, but watch this space.”’

‘But you’re okay now?’ I picture her hot on the trail in her quest for the big ‘O’.

She leans forward and lays her hand on my wrist. ‘Oh, I’m more than okay, girl. I’m fabulous! I’ve always been a bit psychic so I decided I’d try to make a career of it. Use my natural, God-given talents, so to speak. The sky’s the limit, really. If you’ve got a dream, go for it, that’s what I say!’

I nod, slightly cowed by her exuberance. When was the last time I felt that excited about life? Too long ago to remember.

‘Anyway, I gotta go now, bach.’ She gathers up her things and peers anxiously outside. ‘I’ll have to make a dash for it. Meeting Doris. We’re going on the prowl. Panthers, we are!’

‘Don’t you mean ‘cougars’?’ I chuckle, as she stands up and shrugs on her strawberry mac.

She spins round and points at me. ‘That’s it! I knew panthers didn’t sound right. By the way, bach, I forgot to say. The first messenger will arrive tonight.’

I nod sagely. ‘I’ll get the kettle on, then.’

She winks at me, slings her bag over her shoulder – almost swiping the vase of fake sweet peas from the next table – and bustles off. Colliding with an elderly couple coming in, she steps back and waves them in with an extravagant flourish.

I sit for a minute, slightly dazed. It’s a bit of an anti-climax now that she’s gone. I imagine she has that effect on everyone she meets.

A genuinely lovely woman.

But Carol and I friends again?

And a ‘lovely man’ on the horizon?

I really don’t think so.

She got the turkey spot on. But that’s hardly genius. It’s Christmas in less than two months’ time.

I peer into the darkness to check if the rain has stopped. It has, so I go over to the counter and pay for my tea. As I’m leaving, I happen to glance over at my table in the corner.

On the wall behind my chair is a poster advertising the local amateur dramatics’ production of A Christmas Carol. There sits Scrooge, looking spooked in nightcap and gown, a motley crew of phantoms at his back.

I leave the café, chuckling to myself.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

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