by Jenny Colgan
“Lizzie! You are working in a shop selling paintings! Sell me a painting! You are worse at this than you are at cleaning the big brass pot!”
“I hate cleaning anything bigger than me,” said Lizzie. “Uh. OK. Now, I have to write it down, then we send it to you . . . I think . . .” She disappeared under the desk and started ferreting about.
“This isn’t the kind of service I expect in an expensive Chelsea art gallery,” said Georges. “Is that your hat? I like it.”
Under the desk Lizzie smiled to herself. And found the invoice book.
“OK. What about this one?” She headed straight toward the smallest and cheapest, a tiny delicate seascape.
“That is the smallest! You think Georges Dos Santos takes the worst? Huh? No.”
Lizzie looked around desperately. Georges pointed at the far wall, to a painting of a canopy of trees over an avenue stretching along a desolate landscape, with only the hint of a steeple in the distance.
“I will take this one. I like it. It says the road is long, but shady. And at the end of it there is home. Very nice.”
“You’re quite the romantic when you get going, aren’t you?” said Lizzie.
“You’d better believe it,” said Georges.
“But I don’t understand,” said Penny. She was sitting on the sofa, hunched up, working her way through a box of tissues on her left and chocolates on her right.
“I think he was just doing a really nice thing for you,” said Lizzie. “I mean, the café can’t make that much.”
Penny looked confused. “Maybe it does.”
“I cash up the till. I’m telling you it doesn’t. Georges buys really good ingredients and has no portion control.”
“Well, that much is painfully obvious.”
“Be nice. He was trying to help you out.”
“Did you say he goes out all the time?”
“Yeah.”
“There you go, then. Maybe he does something else. Bets on the horses or something.”
“How would that make you rich?”
But Penny didn’t say anything. Her face crumpled up and she felt for the tissues again.
“Will’ll be so happy,” she moaned, “when he finds out he’s sold some paintings.”
“A big one too,” said Lizzie.
Penny sobbed. “And he’ll use the money to take out some bint, with diamond earrings and a tiny nose. I know he will.”
Lizzie patted her gently on the shoulder. “Are you any closer to deciding what you want to do?”
“Yes,” said Penny. “It’s the obvious thing. And everyone keeps telling me there’s nothing to it.” She sobbed harder. “I’ve got to wait five days to get the results.”
“Ah, well, no, you don’t,” said Lizzie, drawing the Boots package from her bag. “What does petty cash mean anyway?”
As Penny sat there, stunned, Lizzie stepped behind the coffee machine Georges had said he was finished with and let her take home. It was taking her quite a significant amount of time to learn how to use it and it was still liable to blast her with super-heated steam when she wasn’t paying attention.
“Oh God,” said Penny. “Either my life is a hundred percent ruined or . . . no, I think it’s a hundred percent ruined. I didn’t even know that it was possible to cry this much. How come I’m crying this much? I don’t think there’s any fluid left in my body. I’ve been squeezed dry, like an old lemon in last night’s Bacardi.”
Penny snatched the test from Lizzie’s hand and dashed out. A second later she reappeared.
“It’s the bloody crying! There’s no moisture left in my body, I can’t pee! There’s no water in me at all.” She grabbed a cup of Lizzie’s coffee and sipped it furiously. “Bloody hell. Right, back in a minute.”
Lizzie looked at the machine. As its pressure built up, the boiling water made a wheee! sound, as—from the bathroom—did Penny.
Chapter Nine
“I’m not pregnant!” Despite what she’d said about being drier than the Sahara, some new tears were dripping down Penny’s face.
“Great! I’m giving Georges his money back for that stupid painting he bought.”
“No, don’t do that,” said Penny, “Sloan’d kill me. Just tell Georges he has to burn it.”
Lizzie rolled her eyes. “Well,” she said. “No harm done.”
“No harm done?” Penny threw back the duvet she’d been sheltering under for days.
“NO HARM DONE? My relationship is completely screwed up . . . which was obviously going nowhere now I come to think of it, you’ve made me realize my new friends don’t necessarily want the best for me, and it’s made me give up drinking. How can you call that no harm done?”
“Well, at least I won’t have to deal with your rude creepy boss anymore,” said Lizzie, sitting next to Penny and patting her gently on the arm.
“Sloan isn’t creepy,” said Penny. “Not as long as you give him plenty of Midori to drink.” She heaved a great sigh. Hot dogs, hot dogs, hot dogs. Pff. “What do you think it was with the tits?”
“The power of positive thinking,” said Lizzie.
They sat in silence for a while.
“I just . . . you know, I thought for one tiny minute . . . just when I was on that bus to Will’s house. I wondered what it would be like, you know. Me and him in—” she cast around—“in a nice apartment. With a little baby.” She snuffled again.
Lizzie comforted her. “You hate babies.”
“I don’t hate babies. I just didn’t want to be another one of the Evergreen Estate girls, you know? I just didn’t want three babies, by nineteen, with different dads, and nowhere to put them and no money and not able to do anything with them and dressing them in England shirts and things. Those are the babies I didn’t want.”
She looked at Lizzie, blinking rapidly.
“And when I saw Will’s place . . . it was such a dump, Lizzie, honestly. It made this place look like the Ritz. And I thought, even if he wasn’t a gold-digging bastard, Liz . . . even if he’d been nice and good and kind and everything—I still wasn’t sure I could do it. I still wasn’t sure I could have the baby and live in that shithole and have absolutely fucking nothing all over again when I’ve had absolutely fucking nothing up until now.”
Lizzie patted her gently on the arm again.
“Does that make me a bad person? I’m sick of it, Lizzie. I’m sick of scrimping on every fucking thing, then I look at what Brooke has got and what Minty’s got and what bloody Sloan has got and just feel like shit all the time.” Penny shook her head. “I’m sick of being poor. And that makes me just as bad as him, Liz.”
A quiet week limped into a quiet weekend—Lizzie stayed on at the gallery (in case Will came in, but he didn’t), until Saturday, when Penny forced herself out of the house (“I can’t help it, Lizzie, I’m starting to smell of old lady”) to the amateur pole-dancing night Brooke and Minty were going to in Shepherd’s Market.
“Come with us, Lizzie,” Penny had said. “I’ve got to get back on the horse and you . . . you’ve got to get on the horse. Come on. I’ll pay. To say thanks.”
“You want to take me pole dancing to say thank you?”
“It’s something to do. And apparently lots of men go.”
“I’ll bet they do. No thanks.”
Penny had sighed. “Up to you then.”
The club had been great fun, full of daft girls up for a laugh. Penny had watched Brooke and Minty carefully though, especially Brooke. She watched how she refused every other drink, and encouraged other people on to mischief while never getting out of control herself. They’d been pleased to find out she wasn’t pregnant, although Penny suspected Minty wouldn’t have been that fussed. And now Brooke was pointing out the chaps to her.
“Look,” she said. “Always check the watch. If it’s too big it’s almost certainly fake.”
“And the shoes,” said Minty. “They must be wearing shoes, not trainers. If there are tassels on them that means middle management a
nd golf. Run, run, run.”
“OK,” said Penny. She’d had a couple of vodkas on her shrunken tummy and was feeling defiant.
“And the car,” said Brooke. “That’s important. You want flashy but not too flashy. If it’s too flashy he’s probably been saving up for it since he was six and still lives with his mum.”
“After all,” said Minty after a pause. “You did try falling in love, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” said Penny.
“And, did it work?”
“It bloody didn’t.”
“Exactly. Darling, you’ve got to go for what lasts.”
“Money,” said Brooke. She raised her glass. “To fun and money. And, darling, can we have a teeny tiny word about your miniskirt?”
Penny didn’t look like their other friends, and Brooke had privately wondered about her, but Minty had never met anyone who hadn’t been to boarding school before and was prepared to take Penny on trust. “She’s probably from one of the minor counties,” she’d said to Brooke sympathetically. “Somerset or somewhere equally preposterous. We should feel sorry for her really.”
Lizzie was so bored by Sunday lunchtime—Penny wasn’t up yet—that she’d started moving piles of things around slightly. She realized this was strictly verboten, but her grandmother certainly didn’t seem to be getting any better or look like she was coming back, and she could always move them again later, and if she could just get to the window to clean it, the whole place would look better immediately.
She surprised herself by getting into the work, and having vigorously had a go at the window, she decided to attack the sink unit too. There was something satisfying about lifting up endless layers of gooey gunk, which somehow suited her mood, and as she swilled yet another bucket of soapy water down the drain she felt a little better, so she wasn’t really paying attention when the doorbell rang.
Assuming it was the girls downstairs looking for sparkling water (“You still drink milk? I think milk is common,” “Yuh, all dairy is definitely common”), or the young gentleman callers on the girls downstairs who often got confused (Minty thought locking men out was a hilarious prank), she went to answer it without taking off her rubber gloves or removing the old pair of tights she’d wrapped around her head to keep her curls out of her face, singing a Sugababes song to herself rather tunelessly.
“Hello,” said Georges.
Lizzie nearly dropped the mop.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. Georges stared at her.
“Hello. Welcome, traveler, to my home, where I shall show you kind hospitality and shower you with warmth, as I am a human being with normal human instincts, even when, as now, I resemble a frog wearing a pair of tights on top of my head.”
Lizzie flushed.
“Well,” she said. “It’s a reasonable question.”
Georges was wearing a suit again, but a different one this time, a lighter-weight khaki that made him look darker than ever. His bushy eyebrows came together.
“And I was taking my little sister to Mass, then she wants to go to Topping Shop. Is that enough or do you need a paper signed by many expert witnesses and the mayor? And I need to know if you are coming back to work tomorrow or will I have to get Marina to work instead, which I think will cost me much money in Topping Shop.”
“Come in,” said Lizzie. She was extremely pleased to see him, although mortified by the way she was dressed. “Would you like some coffee?”
“I’m very hungry,” said Georges.
“Cheek!” said Lizzie. “I cook for you all week and now you want me to cook for you for free!”
“You look to me,” said Georges, “well, you dress like that . . .”
“You are the most sexist dinosaur in the world.”
“I am not,” said Georges. “If I was sexist I would say, ‘You do not look like you are dressed for cleaning and cooking, you look like you always dress like that and are a sad girl.’”
“Is that what you would say?” said Lizzie. “In that case you certainly get no breakfast.”
“Ah, but when you smile . . . everything lights up and is happy again.”
Lizzie couldn’t help it. She smiled.
“See! Now any man would forget tights on head. What do you have? Eggs? Peppers?”
“Yup,” said Lizzie proudly.
“We will have Portuguese omelette,” said Georges. “It is like Spanish omelette, only good and not filthy and covered in rat hair and evil Spanish blood. Sit down. Where is your unfortunate sister?”
“I’m here,” said the voice, not nearly as weak and tear-stained as it had sounded before. Penny rounded the doorframe of her bedroom and Lizzie nearly gasped. She hadn’t been privy to Brooke and Minty’s little directional fashion chitchat that Penny had taken to heart, so the effect was completely out of the blue.
Penny looked different. She looked dewy, and clear-eyed, with shiny pink lips and rosy cheeks. She was wearing a billowy, expensive-looking white shirt and a pair of soft faded jeans. Her bare feet were still quite brown, and the toes were perfectly manicured. She looked fantastic, like a black-and-white photograph of an American film star romping on the beach. Where was the fake tan? The five layers of mascara? Even the nails were shorter.
Lizzie’s gaze darted to Georges. Sure enough, his eyebrows, which always betrayed exactly what he was thinking, had shot up.
“Penny,” he said, and there was a new softness in his voice, “I should not know but I do know and I hear that congratulations is in order. You look like motherhood is going to suit you. Having a baby is always a wonderful thing, even if it is not always in the best of circumstances, no?”
Rather than contradict him raucously, Penny gave a shy smile.
“It was a mistake,” she said, sitting down demurely on a chair and looking at Georges, eyes wide. “A silly mistake, I suppose.”
Lizzie was incredulous. What was this with the “I suppose?” She’d just had the most narrow escape of her life!
“I am sorry,” said Georges. “Maybe you are a little sorry too, no?”
Penny tilted her head in a Princess of Wales fashion, craning to see if she could get a glimpse of Georges’s watch.
“Maybe,” she said. Maybe nothing, thought Lizzie. What had happened to Penny? What was she up to?
“I am going to cook you a good meal,” said Georges, leaping up.
“Wow,” said Penny, looking straight at him. “I love a man who can cook.”
Georges disappeared into the depths of the kitchen annex, occasionally making disappointed noises as he pulled out antiquated and shockingly dusty kitchen appliances.
“What are you up to?” hissed Lizzie to Penny. “I thought you were getting over your heartbreak by being all sluttish and stuff.”
“I was,” said Penny, making her downcast face again. “But you know, Lizzie, I think I’ve changed. I think this happening has made me see things differently.”
“Differently how?”
But Penny just smiled infuriatingly and padded over to the kitchen.
Georges was cooking with his usual élan, tossing the pan, letting the bread hop out of the toaster, and doing five things at once.
“That’s amazing,” said Penny, watching him as if he was the most wonderful thing she’d ever seen.
“It’s not that amazing,” said Lizzie. “I can do it.”
“Not like that though.”
“Yes, I can. It’s just every time I offer to make you something you say, oh, boohoohoo, or you go and be sick or something.”
“Don’t be silly!” said Penny. She laughed a tinkling little laugh that sounded a lot like Brooke. “You’re such a joker.”
“Is Lizzie a joker?” said Georges, his bottom lip overlapping his top lip. “This is interesting. I did not know this.”
Lizzie went to the bathroom to take the tights out of her hair. Then she decided that taking the tights out of her hair would be a really obvious thing to do and they would probably both pass
comment on it so she’d better not take them out in case . . . well, in case Georges . . . anyone . . . thought something of it. She rubbed under her eyes in the mirror to get rid of any old mascara tracings, which seemed to congregate there, and took a scout around for Penny’s makeup, but couldn’t see any trace of it, the hoarding witch.
Penny’s peals of laughter echoed from the sitting room just as Lizzie knew that if she hid in the bathroom any longer everyone would assume the absolute worst.
“This is delicious,” Penny was enthusing, scooping up the omelette and—this was a first in a while—actually putting it in her mouth. “You’re so clever.”
“I listened to my mother,” said Georges, grinding some black pepper.
“So did we,” said Lizzie. “That’s why I was such a bad cook.”
“But you get better,” said Georges. “That is the important thing. And you work hard. That is good too.”
“So,” said Penny, looking mildly discomfited to find the attention moving off her, “you bought Will’s painting.”
Georges shrugged. “I like paintings.”
“You didn’t have to do it.”
“I know.”
“It’s quite expensive.”
Georges shrugged.
“I wanted to say thank you. I know it was kind of for me.”
“Not at all. I like paintings.”
“Do you buy many paintings?”
“Sometimes.”
Georges glanced at her, his face unreadable. Penny changed tack.
“So, how long have you been running your lovely café?”
“Well, my father started running it when I was a boy . . . I came here when I was twelve, and I helped him with the shop. Then he retired and went back to Portugal.” He pronounced it “Por-too-gal.”
“Uh-huh,” said Penny, forking her food into her mouth.
“So I opened a few more shops, you know. It was good, my dad was happy when the business grew. And he could build a house in Portugal for my brothers and buy land for my mother to have her horses, and he was very happy about that.” Georges smiled even when he thought about it. “So, you know, poor old Georges, I have to stay here and work and always open the cafés and work hard just so my mother can have horses, and my sisters can have these designer clothes, huh? It is a dog’s life.”
