Maggsie McNaughton's Second Chance

by Frances Maynard

  Where are you? she texted. It was only five fifteen for God’s sake. Give me a chance. Stuk in, I texted back.

  I felt like something in a cage. Ridiculous when you think how often I been locked up before. But I’d been prepared for it then. I banged on the door. Funny I was calling out for help from blokes who were only one step away from cops.

  Darren and Mike, the security guards were called. One or other of them sat at the posh bint’s desk in Reception at home-time. Said Goodnight, Sir to all the men, and Goodnight, Miss or Goodnight, Madam to the women. (Primrose was a Madam and I was a Miss.) I’d never chatted to them. I wouldn’t trust anyone in a uniform.

  Footsteps. ‘I’m locked in!’ I shouted. I didn’t add, like I wanted to, You locked me in, you silly great berks.

  ‘Hey up. On my way.’ Mike’s voice. The older one. Had a grey ponytail and no hair at the front – not a good look. Jangle of keys.

  I was suddenly desperate for the toilet. I clenched every muscle in my body. Even squeezed my sandwich. Sardine and tomato on brown bread. Aud’s favourite.

  The Observer, with the Danish lady inside, was in my other hand. It was too big. Didn’t look natural. I prayed Mike wouldn’t look too close.

  The door opened. Mike’s forehead, there was a lot of it, was beaded with sweat, ‘Sorry, Miss. When I looked round earlier everyone had gone.’

  ‘I was in the storeroom.’ I pushed past him. Normally I’d have said and ruddy check next time, why don’t you? but I wasn’t going to hang around a second longer. ‘Have to rush.’ I headed for the stairs. ‘Meeting someone.’

  ‘Got to be carrying a copy of the Observer, have you?’ He jerked his chin at the paper, at the painting. ‘Blind date, is it?’

  I stared at him, blood draining from my face. Felt faint. I put my hand out to the wall. He was just behind, swinging his bunch of keys. The sound brought back being inside. Like an awful warning. I dropped the sandwich. I was panicking. What if he saw a bit of painting sticking out? Why was he right on my heels? I wanted to run. That’s what I normally did when a man in uniform was behind me.

  I took a deep breath and let it out slow. Picked up the sandwich. My ‘Ha ha’ came out unnatural. ‘It ain’t a blind date.’ I forced a smile, flashed him a quick glimpse of my teeth. ‘I’m meeting a girlfriend.’

  He wasn’t put off, in spite of my teeth. Sleazy git. ‘Oy oy! Like that, is it?’ Like I was a lezzer. He wiped the back of his neck with a hanky. I was setting a fair old pace and he had a big gut.

  Sod’s law the longest chat I’d ever had with a security guard was when I had a half-million-pound stolen painting under my arm. I hadn’t counted on him coming on to me.

  ‘Nah. It’s not like that. She’s an old schoolfriend.’ Yeah, right. Boarding school. One where you weren’t never let out.

  We were in Reception by then. Mike turned official. ‘Have a nice evening, Miss. Sorry I locked you in.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I called over my shoulder. The revolving door turned round and round. ‘Thanks.’ I was so pleased to be getting out I gave him a little wave with the hand holding the sandwich. Lost my grip on the paper. Dropped the whole ruddy Swiss roll, didn’t I?

  My hands weren’t big enough, that was the trouble. TJ laughed at them when I was cupping a cigarette, because they was so much smaller than his: ‘You have hands of a child.’

  I’d got narky when he’d first said it. Felt small, sub-standard all over again. Did he mean I was childish? No, he said, he only meant my hands looked cute. Pretty, he said.

  There’d been a bit on manicures in Woman’s World. (I worked out the word in the end, and some other tricky ones: cut-i-cle, a-cryl-ic gel. Buggers of words. Acrylic had the word cry in the middle, except, of course, it wasn’t said like that. That would be too easy.)

  I bought a packet of emery boards and a bottle of pale pink nail polish from the Co-op. Painted my nails one evening, when there wasn’t anything on telly. Never done it before. Aud turned up her nose at the smell and stalked off.

  TJ didn’t seem to notice so I don’t know why I bothered. And the polish wore off pretty quick anyway, with me at the dishwasher all day.

  So my small hands lost their grip. Soon as I dropped the paper, it began to unroll. One of the elastic bands had burst off.

  I was on my knees in a flash. The revolving door was circling behind me, panting at my heels. Why was it only me that had problems with automatic doors? They had it in for me, I swear. Wanted to squeeze my guts out, or suck me back inside, or spring open on a body in a lift.

  I scrabbled at the newspaper pages. They were getting looser every second. Beginning to flap in the whoosh of warm air from the door.

  Next minute Mike was over. ‘You alright there, Miss? Got a mind of its own, your paper.’

  ‘Ha ha.’ I showed my teeth again. ‘It’s a bit awkward to carry.’ My voice was a squeak. I rolled up the paper. Got it under control.

  ‘Bigger than what you are, that is.’ He stood over me, rocking on his heels.

  I got up. My heart was thumping, telling me to run. My next ‘Ha ha’ came out snarlier than I’d meant it to. He didn’t seem to notice. Men like him didn’t. Stood there laughing at his own wit. My phone beeped.

  ‘That’ll be your mate,’ he said.

  Too right. I nodded. ‘Cheerio,’ I said. (Cheerio? Where did that come from? I’d never said Cheerio before, but I was under stress.) Tucked the paper under my arm and strolled down the street.

  Soon as I got swallowed up by the crowd of people going home, I got a pace up. For once I was glad everyone walked so fast in London.

  35

  Woman’s World, 24 October 2018

  A Cake to Remember!

  The coffee shop was packed. Louise was stood at a table by the window, peering out.

  ‘Where have you been? I was imagining all sorts of scenarios.’

  Her straggly eyebrows tangled themselves together when I told her about the security guard. Tutted like she couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been.

  That got on my wick for a start. I’d done well getting away from Mike. Done well getting the painting! My heart had been going like the clappers all day. I’d had to sneak about, climb shelves. The painting was here, thanks to me. It was me that had taken all the risks. (Course, I thought a lot more about that later.)

  ‘Act naturally,’ she hissed, without hardly opening her mouth. Her eyes flickered to the tables around us. ‘Don’t draw attention to yourself.’

  Ruddy cheek. I wasn’t exactly dancing on the table. She was the one with the loud voice. The one that took up so much space. I handed over the Observer Swiss roll. Slumped back in the chair at getting shot of it.

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ she brayed, putting it into her designer bag. ‘Yes, I’ll read that review you mentioned.’

  I ask you, did I look like the type of person who read reviews, whatever they were, in posh papers? The type of person who mentioned things. That was drawing attention, if you asked me.

  I’d had to ask Ruby what the word observer meant. She’d got excited I might be trying to read the ruddy thing. Looked disappointed when I said there weren’t enough pictures.

  Louise shoved her bag under the table. The poor Woman Reading was in the dark again. I wondered if her book was about science. A medical book, maybe. About cancer drugs, even. Fanciful, I know, and even more so as it turned out.

  ‘I’ll get these.’ Louise bent to fish out her wallet. Hissed, ‘We’ve got to make it look like we’re really meeting up.’ Then, too loud again, ‘What would you like to drink?’

  Silly question. What I would have liked was a can. Or four. What I asked for was a hot chocolate. Added, because it was a sort of celebration, ‘A big one. With whipped cream. And a flake,’ I called out as Louise started towards the counter, her frown reappearing.

  I was suddenly hungry. I’d been too het up, lunchtime, to eat anything. And Louise was paying, and she said act natural, and I was naturally greedy. �
��And a piece of cake. Please. Gat-oh.’

  Gateau. There’d been a recipe for a ‘Coffee Gateau’ in last week’s Woman’s World. I’d had to ask Ruby how you said that and all. It’s the French word for cake. (French looks even harder to spell than English, if you ask me – and that’s saying something.)

  Louise checked her wallet while she waited in the queue. She came back with a bad-tempered expression and a tiny little coffee, black, for herself. She had to go back, with a tray, for what I’d ordered. Gave me a lot of satisfaction, that did.

  The gateau was lime and coconut. Lovely and light and moist. I forked up a load of it while Louise took a tiny sip of her coffee. Under the table the Danish lady had her cup of tea. ‘How long will the you-know-what take to sell?’ I asked Louise.

  ‘Oh, well . . . these things take time.’

  I stopped, fork in mid-air. ‘Enid ain’t got much of that, though, has she?’

  ‘Well,’ Louise coughed, her coffee going down the wrong way. ‘They’re keeping her stable at the moment. That’ – she pointed a shiny red fingernail under the table – ‘will pay for those extra drugs she needs. They’ll kick-start, um, her immune system. Like, cure it, once and for all. Yes.’ She put down her little cup. It was nearly empty.

  I spooned up some cream from the top of my hot chocolate and rolled it around my mouth.

  Louise’s eyes tracked my spoon. ‘How long since you heard from Enid?’ she asked, swallowing.

  ‘She’s written to me a few times.’

  ‘Recently?’

  My eyes prickled. ‘Not for a month or so. I don’t suppose she’s felt up to it.’

  Louise set down her empty cup. ‘You don’t . . .’ She shook her head. ‘No.’

  My spoon stopped. ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘You don’t write to her, do you? I know you said you’d been doing some reading, studying. But, a letter . . . well, you know.’ She gave a little laugh.

  Arrogant cow. Who did she think she was? Trying to put me down. I stabbed the gateau with my pastry fork (Pastry fork! Get you, I could hear the girls back at the house jeering). Wished the gateau was Louise’s hand. ‘I have written to Enid. Eleven letters, actually. I can write.’

  ‘Oh.’ Louise’s eyebrows went up. She didn’t look none too pleased, even though we’d never heard the end of her Art History degree. ‘Only I remember you struggled with that sort of thing.’ Another laugh. ‘Took you an hour to read a single paragraph, didn’t it? Goodness knows how Enid had the patience.’ She tapped her coffee spoon against her empty cup. ‘Doesn’t mean you’re not bright, of course.’

  Stuck-up cow. I was the one working for a posh design company, even if it was in the kitchen. I was living independent, not relying on Pa. Fat chance I’d ever have been able to do that with my dad. She’d done more time than I had. My eyebrows were shaped and defined. I hadn’t gone up loads of dress sizes.

  I clenched the pastry fork. Had an urge to storm off. Didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing she’d got to me, though. Hadn’t finished the cake or the hot chocolate neither. (It was a good cake but I never fancied gateaux after.) I put the fork down. Conjured up Snappy, that I’d thought I’d retired. He was clawing to get down. I imagined him snapping at Louise’s suede jacket. Ripping off the embroidery.

  I didn’t need his help. I knew what Louise was doing. Trying to make me feel small. Well, I wasn’t going to let her. Rise above, I told myself. Something Enid used to say, when a couple of girls, inside, had given her stick about her chest. Gone on about Page Three and that. Couldn’t do that now, could they, with poor Enid flat-chested? Keep focused, Maggsie. Enid’s why you’re here.

  I licked some strands of coconut off my fork. ‘What happens now then? Do you send the money to Enid? Shall I write and tell her it’s coming?’ Be nice to give her a boost. She needn’t know where it had come from.

  ‘No, no, no.’ Louise shifted on her chair. They were little gold chairs. Fitted me perfectly. None of me overflowed the sides. ‘No need. No. It won’t be easy selling a stolen painting, you know.’ She was back clattering with her spoon again. It got on my nerves. ‘It has to be done privately, you see. Secretly. That’s what takes the time.’

  ‘You done this before?’ Something I should have asked earlier. Let’s face it, I should have asked loads of questions earlier. You probably would have.

  ‘Oh, yes, yes.’ The spoon fell onto the saucer. ‘Pa’s an antiques dealer. Art and antiques. I’ve . . . networked for him before. Found the right market.’ She seemed in a bit of a hurry now. Turned to unhook her suede jacket from the back of the chair.

  How do you network from prison, I wondered, but didn’t ask. Should have. The only question I did come up with was feeble: ‘You are going to let me know, aren’t you, soon as you done it?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I’ll text you. Keep your voice down.’ The zip on her jacket got stuck halfway. She struggled with it, then gave up. I hadn’t quite finished my gateau – it was a huge portion – but she was already on her feet. Rude, that. Looked like she couldn’t get away fast enough.

  ‘Do it quick, though.’ I pointed my pastry fork at her. ‘We don’t know how much time Enid got.’

  Louise had to push some chairs in to squeeze by. At the door she turned round sudden to give me a wave. Like she’d suddenly remembered I was there.

  Somehow I’d thought pinching the painting would be an instant cure for Enid. Like magic. Silly, I know. Childish. People thought I was like that anyway because of my size. But everybody’s childish sometimes. When you really want something.

  I’d got the painting OK. If I had a bigger chest I’d be flashing my Wonder Woman top now. Enid was due out soon. Once we’d bought her the special drugs she’d be right as rain, wouldn’t she? She’d be bustling up a gangway to Romania.

  I could see her, a few months down the line, swimming in the crystal-clear waters of that Romanian lake, pine trees reflected in the water. Swimming on her back, nude, splashing, smiling. The two sewn-up lines on her chest, where her boobs had been, pink and healed.

  I saw the photocopy, shining in the boardroom. Nobody realizing it was a copy. Ever.

  Saw myself with my promotion. My pay rise. Treating TJ to Madame Tussauds. Saw myself contacting Alastair. Him not turning away or scarpering. Saw myself taking him somewhere posh to eat – blow Pizza Hut, we’d go to Pizza Express.

  Sometimes I thought I had too much im-ag-in-a-tion (eleven poxy letters, same ending as ed-u-ca-tion) and sometimes I thought I hadn’t got enough. If I’d had more I might have worked out what would happen next.

  36

  Woman’s World, 31 October 2018

  Confident Colour – New Ways with Your Hair

  Taking the painting had gone OK. You’ve got to admit I’d done well. Done well for Enid. I was in-vin-ci-ble now. That had been in last week’s Woman’s World, on the fashion page. ‘Feel invincible in this autumn’s must-have – the military coat!’ I had to look up invincible, obviously. Means unable to be defeated. Yeah, that was me. Funny, it had the name Vince in it, or nearly. Mum had had a fly-by-night boyfriend, one of the ones between Dad and Dougie, called Vince. He’d waited in the lounge once while Mum was primping upstairs. Trodden on a half-eaten tray of chips sticking out from under the sofa. Tapped the sofa arm and got something sticky on his hand. Never saw him again.

  Seeing as I was on a roll I changed my hair colour. Been going off having it so dark. Wanted a more natural look.

  Mind you, it would take a while to go back to ginger. Bleaching out black makes your hair like straw. But growing it out means looking like a racoon. So I’d have to buy a dark brown colour at the Co-op and do the roots with that. Move on to chestnut once most of the black had gone. The whole thing would be low-key. Tasteful. Once I’d got back to ginger I might put in a few blonde highlights round the front. Going blonde doesn’t mean going soft.

  You might laugh at me glamming myself up. But it’s another way of making your presen
ce felt, isn’t it? A positive way.

  Kasia cut three inches off the ends for me. She often had a read of my Woman’s Worlds, to keep up with the hairstyles. She copied one she’d seen, did a good job, even put in a bit of shaping at the back. She used to be a hairdresser, used to have her own salon back in Russia. Only bad men over there kept asking her for money. In the end it wasn’t worth carrying on.

  We chatted while she got the sides even. She couldn’t get a job as a hairdresser over here, not even just shampooing. That’s when she’d started working as an escort.

  All that was behind her now, though. Her no-good pimp – ‘He just like money. Better off on my own’ – had long gone. Moved up north after she’d got shot of him. Last she’d heard he was living in a caravan, picking cauliflowers. She said he’d leant around in doorways because he had a bad back. I pictured him now, bending over rows of cauliflowers, day after day, in the rain, his woolly hat getting soaked, bleak fields all around, his back going with the bending. Nobody hearing him hiss, what with the noise of the rain.

  Kasia snipped into my fringe. There was a new ring, gold, on her right-hand ring finger. Bought by her Russian sugar daddy. She was fed up with him, though, in spite of the rings. Had to do stuff with him she was tired of doing. She was tired of men bossing her about, full stop. Anyone would be. She was going to go into cleaning instead, she said.

  I looked up, at her nails, all shaped and shiny and perfect. At her rings. I couldn’t see her scrubbing.

  ‘Lady in Co-op already ask me if I do cleaning. She tell friend. One day I have own agency. I employ other girls. I tell them what to do.’

  Yeah, she’d be good at that.

  Amazing Ruby hadn’t cottoned on to what Kasia had been up to when I first came. Inexperienced, see. Blind. Plus Kasia had whipped out a little foreign dictionary from her handbag whenever Ruby was around. Made out she was practising her English. ‘I want get good job. Help people.’ The only people she’d helped were men. But Ruby had took it all in.

  Trudie knocked on the bathroom door. Saw the hairdressing set up and said she could hang on for five minutes. Chatted a bit from the doorway. Nodded at Kasia being tired of men.