Something to Tell You

by Lucy Diamond

  All this talk of parties reminded Paula that she still hadn’t got very far with her present-buying for Luke. There was something about working in the city centre and having all the shops on her doorstep that meant she rather took them for granted, always ending up in a panicked last-minute rush before birthdays and Christmas.

  Luckily, just as she and her mum parted ways, full of tea and scones, Paula’s phone flashed up a message from Matt: a photo of him posing with an electric guitar in the music shop. Present idea? read the caption.

  She smiled to herself. That husband of hers was a mind-reader sometimes. Perfect, she typed back. Then, because her mum’s words about flirting were still echoing around her head, and because she had been struck by a rush of warmth for Matt, she sent another message immediately afterwards. The present idea’s not bad, either, she typed with a winking-face emoji.

  Her phone rang in the next second. ‘Shall I buy it, then? I mean . . . it’s a bit more than our budget, but he’ll love it,’ Matt said. Then, with a rather sheepish air, he added, ‘I quite love it as well. Had a little go at “Stairway to Heaven” in the shop, I think the guy was impressed.’

  ‘I’m amazed he hasn’t asked you to be in his band,’ Paula said, rolling her eyes. The keys to the property she’d viewed earlier jingled in her pocket as she walked along, and suddenly the most outrageous idea popped into her head. Maybe her mum wasn’t the only one who could be a minx. ‘Hey, so you’re in town too,’ she said thoughtfully, remembering the thick, soft carpet in the living room of the gorgeous Georgian townhouse. Shag-pile by name . . . ‘Don’t suppose you fancy doing something a little bit naughty, do you?’

  ‘With you, always,’ he replied at once. ‘What are we talking?’

  ‘You buy that guitar,’ she told him, knowing how easily he could be sidetracked, ‘and then come and meet me.’ She gave him the address of the house, her fingers winding around the keys in her pocket. Now who was being awful? She could get sacked for this, if anyone found out. Ah, sod it. Sometimes you had to bend the rules for a bit of fun.

  He gave a whistle. ‘Paula Brent, I never thought I’d see the day,’ he said. ‘You want me to serenade you in a posh empty house – is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Something way filthier than that,’ she replied. She lowered her voice, making it breathily suggestive. ‘Hurry up now. I’ll be waiting.’ Then she quickened her step, feeling positively devilish. Oh my goodness. Was she really going to do this? Yes, she blooming well was.

  Barely had she put the phone back in her bag, however, than it rang again. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said, answering it with a laugh in her voice, ‘you’ve gone and bought yourself one as well.’

  There was a pause, and then an unfamiliar voice spoke – a voice that wasn’t Matt at all. ‘Um . . . Is that Paula’s phone?’

  Shit, and that was probably a client, and now she’d made a right tit of herself, she realized in the next moment. Not very professional. ‘Sorry, yes, this is Paula speaking,’ she said, trying to sound more sensible and businesslike.

  ‘Paula, hi,’ said the woman on the other end of the line. ‘This is Frankie.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‘Oh, wow, Frankie, hello!’ came Paula’s voice, sounding very northern and very excited. ‘God, I’m so sorry I answered the phone like that. I thought you were my husband, about to go crazy in a music shop. But it’s you. Hello! Sorry for babbling! I don’t seem to be able to stop!’

  Frankie laughed at the torrent of words pouring into her ear. Craig was giving Fergus his tea in the kitchen, and she’d seized the moment to escape into the bedroom with her phone. ‘That’s all right,’ she said, suddenly feeling rather shy, now that a connection had been made. ‘It’s not your typical phone call, I realize. Is this a good time by the way?’

  ‘Aargh,’ came the response. ‘Do you know, Frankie, I am actually on my way somewhere, so I’m going to walk and talk. Sorry if you hear any puffing and panting, I’m not the most athletic person in the world. But anyway! You got my message – thank you so much for ringing back. Your agent sounded dead suspicious of me, she must have thought I was a right weirdo.’

  ‘She was a bit surprised,’ Frankie agreed with another laugh. There was something so warm and friendly about the way Paula spoke, it instantly banished all the nerves that had been swirling about inside her. ‘How did you track me down anyway? I’ve been trying to write a letter to Harry, introduce myself properly, but I couldn’t find the words. I couldn’t believe it when Constance said you’d rung.’

  ‘Well, I found you on the video we got made for the party,’ Paula explained. Frankie could hear traffic behind her voice, then the pinging of a pedestrian crossing. ‘And do you know – we really look alike, us two! I saw you on the screen and thought it was me. Then I showed my friend and she recognized you from a magazine article, and then I just did some sleuthing and found your agent’s number.’ Now it was her turn to sound shy all of a sudden. ‘I hope you don’t mind me practically stalking you. I wasn’t sure how I felt about you turning up at first, but as soon as I saw you, it was like recognizing myself and I got a bit over-excited. I’ve got three brothers, see – no sister. Until now.’

  ‘I’ve never had a sister before, either,’ Frankie said. ‘Or a brother, come to that.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got three great big ugly ones now, unlucky for you,’ Paula told her, and they both laughed. ‘No, they’re all right, most of the time. Listen, though, I’m going to have to go in a minute – my husband’s on his way to meet me and, um . . .’ She trailed off for some reason.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Frankie said quickly. ‘We can chat properly another time. And meet up! If you want to?’

  ‘I would love that,’ Paula said. ‘Can you believe it, I’m forty-two and I’ve never been to London before. Not that I’m inviting myself down or anything,’ she added hastily.

  ‘You’re welcome at ours any time,’ Frankie told her at once. ‘Look, I know you’ve got to go, but just before we say goodbye – I hope I haven’t caused massive problems for your family. It really wasn’t my intention. I had absolutely no idea it was your parents’ anniversary party, or I’d never have blundered in like that. Are they . . . I mean, is everything okay?’

  ‘Er . . .’ There was a short pause. ‘I’m not gonna lie, it was a massive shock,’ came the candid reply. ‘To all of us. But I’ve just seen Mum for a catch-up and yeah, she’s getting used to the idea.’

  ‘Good,’ Frankie said. ‘And your dad? How does he feel?’ Her breath caught in her lungs while she waited for the response.

  ‘He’s one hundred per cent chuffed,’ Paula said. ‘Well, apart from the bit when Mum threatened to leave him, and all the rest of it – but even then, he was telling me he wanted to meet you, and how fab your mum was. He didn’t mention that to my mum, obviously, but . . . long story. So anyway, you’re fine by us. And don’t worry about turning up, like you did. I’m not sure a letter would have been any better. You’ve got guts – that’s a good thing!’

  ‘Thank you,’ Frankie said, and it was as if a weight she hadn’t even known was there had been lifted from her shoulders. ‘That’s really—’

  But Paula was laughing. ‘Oh God, here he comes,’ she said. ‘My husband, I mean. He’s practically sprinting up the road with this enormous box . . . what a chump he is, honestly. Listen, I’d better go. So bloody lovely to speak to you, though! I’m just made up, really I am. And we’ll speak again soon, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Frankie. ‘Lovely to talk to you, too. Bye, Paula.’

  She ended the call and flopped back on the bed, beaming up at the ceiling. Oh my goodness. What a gift of a conversation. What an absolute win! She had a sister, who looked like her, and sounded so nice and funny and friendly. She had a dad, who wanted to meet her, and who still spoke fondly of her mum – as well as three older brothers into the bargain. This whole extra helping of family that she hadn’t gone looking for, that had just c
ome her way. Maybe her mum had been right to break cover with her letter, after all. And maybe, despite her fears, Frankie hadn’t ruined her chances with the Mortimers, either.

  The door burst open just then and in rushed Fergus, with tomato sauce all round his mouth. ‘I had bersketti,’ he said happily, his word for spaghetti, which Frankie always found completely endearing.

  ‘I can see,’ she laughed. ‘Whoa – not on the bed, with those mucky chops, tomato-boy. Let’s go and clean you up.’ She jumped off to grab him, then scooped him up and twirled him around. ‘Oh, the world’s a good place, isn’t it, Ferg?’ she said, feeling insanely cheerful all of a sudden.

  ‘Yes, Mumma,’ he agreed. Then, as she stopped twirling, ‘Again! Again!’

  Paula’s words sang around Frankie’s head for the whole evening, and even the next morning she could feel a joyful spring in her step, a new positivity about facing the day. You’ve got guts, Paula had said warmly – admiringly, even! – and every time Frankie thought about this, she felt as if a genetic connection was twanging gently between her and her mother. Kathy had always been the gutsy one, going out on a limb if she felt strongly about a cause, a firm believer in doing the right thing, even if you were afraid. Maybe Frankie was more like her mum than she’d dared hope after all.

  Silly, wasn’t it, how you could be so pleased by another person’s throwaway compliment? Sometimes that was all it took to set the tone of the day, though. Because not only did Frankie make an effort and stand at the hob, stirring a pan of creamy porridge for everyone’s breakfast first thing, but then she decided to get on top of the mound of recycling that had been neglected in recent weeks. ‘Ferg, come and help me with the paper,’ she called, dragging the wicker basket out from the side of the sofa, where they dumped old newspapers and letters and other assorted pieces of paper. She didn’t even get cross when, in a fit of mischief, he plunged both hands into the pile and threw a load of it into the air, yelling, ‘It’s snowing!’

  Maybe it was some quirk of fate, some little test for this new-found gutsiness of hers, but it just so happened that as she was picking up all the many receipts and old envelopes and other scraps now littered about the carpet, her gaze snagged on some handwritten numbers on one particular piece, and then she realized she was staring at Julia’s contact details, left the first time she’d appeared at the flat. Craig must have discarded the paper into the basket in a we-won’t-be-wanting-THIS sort of gesture.

  Coincidence? Or Fate intervening? Who could say, but Frankie found herself thoughtfully tucking the paper into the back pocket of her denim skirt all the same. Just in case it was needed.

  The Julia situation was still bubbling away beneath the surface, needless to say. Despite Frankie’s protestations, Craig had sent his spiteful mother-bashing column to his editor, Vicki, who had promptly phoned him in concern. ‘You know we can’t print this,’ she’d said. ‘Come on, Craig, she’s a real person, we don’t want a lawsuit on our hands.’

  So that was that particular disaster avoided, thank goodness, and Craig had written something charming instead about how he and Fergus had made biscuits together, and how Fergus hadn’t wanted to eat the one he’d made shaped like a train, and how they were going to enjoy watching it grow mouldy over the weeks, in the hope that it would end up as blue as Thomas the Tank Engine. But Frankie knew that all those nasty words about his ex were still there, inside her partner – and if they hadn’t made it into print this time, then they could very well end up being shouted at her in person across a courtroom. Which was not something to look forward to, either.

  Get in touch when you want to discuss this like an adult, Julia had said, or something along those lines, when she’d first rocked up at the fiat. And yet nobody had really behaved like an adult since then, opting instead for juvenile point-scoring and petulant name-calling. Craig might not want to speak to his ex, but maybe she could, Frankie thought, remembering the phone number in her pocket. If she was gutsy enough. Was she?

  ‘Just going to take the recycling down,’ she called, having loaded up the council-provided bag, without a huge amount of help from Fergus. Then, on impulse, she grabbed her phone too, her mind racing. Should she? Well, could she really make things any worse? she wondered as she lugged the bag down to the ground-floor communal bins. She’d felt so sidelined by Craig throughout this process, so unconsulted, when he hadn’t once asked her opinion. And yet, from her position as onlooker, she couldn’t help thinking he was making an absolute pig’s ear of it all.

  Down in the courtyard, she dumped the recycling into the correct bins, then stood there in the sunshine, trying to decide what to do. Sod it, she thought after a few moments. Yesterday with Paula had gone well – it had proved that when women just got on with stuff together, you could sort anything out. And so, before she could change her mind again, she walked away from the stinking bins, perched on a low brick wall and dialled Julia’s number. You’ve got guts, she reminded herself. That’s a good thing!

  ‘Hello?’ she heard after the third ring.

  It was weirdly similar to yesterday’s call, really – Frankie’s heart in her mouth, her palms suddenly clammy, hoping she was doing the right thing by phoning. ‘Julia, this is Frankie,’ she said politely. ‘I was wondering if maybe the two of us could meet up and talk.’

  Julia gave a low chuckle. ‘Interesting,’ she replied, sounding amused as she dragged out the syllables. ‘I take it Craig doesn’t know about this?’

  ‘Um . . . no,’ Frankie admitted.

  ‘Even better. Ooh, this will sound good, won’t it – even his girlfriend is plotting against him. Bad luck, Craig!’

  Frankie found herself gritting her teeth. What was it about this woman and her ability to put words in your mouth, words that you did not want spoken for you? ‘It’s not—’ she began defensively, but Julia was speaking over her.

  ‘I’m only messing with you. Yeah, sure we could meet. You’re good cop, I take it, going to offer me a sweetener, while he grunts and growls, as bad cop?’

  Again Frankie cringed at how tacky this sounded – and how near the knuckle it actually was, too. She assumed Julia was teasing her, but the subject of Fergus felt too precarious to be teased over. ‘Look, I only want to talk—’ she began, before being interrupted a second time.

  ‘I know. I’m kidding. Well, I think I am, anyway. So, where are we meeting? I’d invite you to mine, but I’m staying with a mate in Highbury and it’s a bit of a shit-hole, to say the least. But we can hook up somewhere in Upper Street, maybe? If you’re paying, that is. You practically need to sell a limb to buy yourself a latte in some of those places.’

  Was she reading too much into this or did Julia sound kind of manic? Frankie thought in alarm, already wondering what she was letting herself in for. ‘Okay,’ she said, trying to keep her cool. ‘How about Barney’s at midday?’

  ‘I will see you there,’ said Julia.

  With a click, the line went dead and Frankie stuffed the phone back in her pocket, a queasy sensation curdling her stomach, along with the fervent hope that she hadn’t just set herself up for an almighty own-goal.

  ‘I’ve got to go and see Constance,’ she lied to Craig, on re-entering the flat. ‘I’m going to head out soon, if that’s okay. I’ll just put on a bit of slap and change this top.’ Her heart was thumping as he nodded absent-mindedly, her fingers clumsy as she sorted through the hangers in the wardrobe to find something nice to wear. Lying to Craig, meeting Julia behind his back – she was playing with fire, she knew it. But sometimes you just had to take a risk, right?

  That’s my girl, said Kathy in her head, as Frankie slipped a short-sleeved apple-print blouse over her head and spritzed perfume on her neck and wrists. She was doing this for Fergus, she told herself firmly, walking through the sunny streets to the Tube station a short while later. Which was why she was determined not to screw it up.

  That said, she almost bottled out of their meeting when she emerged from Highbury a
nd Islington Tube station and made the short walk towards Barney’s Café. It seemed insane, all of a sudden, that she was behaving in such a cloak-and-dagger manner, being so underhand. She was jeopardizing her entire relationship here – and not just with Craig, because with Craig came Fergus. She was totally laying herself on the line, and for what? Because a half-sister she’d never actually met made a passing remark about her being gutsy? Was she really that impressionable that another person’s opinion could cause her to act with such recklessness?

  Oh Lord. Put it that way, and she wanted to screech to a halt right there on the pavement, put her hands up and say Whoa! Just a minute. What the hell?

  But some dogged instinct drove her on nonetheless, step after step, until she was pushing open the door of the café and gazing around, adrenalin racing through her veins. Fight or flight, fight or flight . . . Wait. Julia wasn’t even there. She let out her breath in anticlimax and made her way over to the counter.

  The café was moody, with dark-painted walls and framed posters of classic album covers, but there was a cosy feel about the place too, due to the soft, bashed-up old sofas and mismatched chairs. The man behind the counter wore dungarees and cool glasses and was reading The Collected Plays of Brecht while perched on a three-legged stool. He seemed irritated to be interrupted by Frankie ordering an Earl Grey tea.

  She retreated to a dingy corner with her mug, feeling increasingly agitated with every minute that ticked by. Five past twelve. Ten past twelve. Was Julia even going to show, after all this? Would it be just another of her mind-games? But then at quarter-past twelve, in she sauntered at last. True to form, she ordered a macchiato at the counter and said, ‘She’s paying’, with a dismissive jerk of the thumb at Frankie. Which was one way to call the shots, Frankie thought wryly, getting out her purse.