by Rosa Temple
I’ve managed to attract the attention of the guys discussing football. They’d moved on to the subject of the video game, Fortnite, and have been trying to engage me since I sat down. They’d each tried to chat me up and find out more about me. They’re all at least ten years my junior and seem harmless enough.
‘Haven’t seen you around here before.’ It was like a line from a book called How Not To Chat Up Women, if such a book existed, but after being blanked by the gorgeous Eddie I start to welcome the friendly banter.
In a little while, I’ve become a little too friendly with the footballers and I’m accepting a lift home with one of them. He claims to live right next door to the magazine offices so, and probably because I’m close to inebriation, it seems like a win-win situation.
‘Forget it, Ricky, she isn’t going anywhere with you.’
The voice is friendly and appears from nowhere. In my drunken attempts to fit into Bridley life I must have made acquaintances with everyone at Frankie’s. Except this person.
‘That’s right,’ I say unable to separate my words. ‘I not going anywhere with you, Ricky.’ I point into the chest of the person who is saving me from a night with the very short and broad, Ricky. ‘I’m going anywhere you go.’ I blink several times, trying to focus, and find myself looking into a pair of light brown eyes above a freckled nose and a smiling mouth. Her lips are coated in daring red lipstick which makes her pale skin ghostly white. But thank goodness she is on the ball. I was just about to go home with a football hooligan called Ricky.
The woman with the red lipstick unwraps my arm from around Ricky’s neck and straightens me up to standing on both feet.
‘Am I going with you?’ I ask the woman.
‘I think you should,’ she says in a sensible voice close to my ear. The music has gone up a few decibels and the light fixtures above seem to be swimming and weaving above her chestnut coloured hair. ‘I’m Carey. I’ll get a taxi and I’ll drop you off.’
‘No, no, no, you can’t,’ I say. ‘I don’t live in a drop off zone. I’m at the Travelodge at Ledscombe.’
‘Then how on earth did you find yourself here?’ Carey asks.
I put my finger over my lips as if it’s a secret to the rest of the bar.
‘She’s new,’ Ricky says. ‘Claims she works on Bridley Green. Editor.’
‘Is that her bag?’ I hear Carey say but I don’t remember anything after that.
Chapter 10
My eyes open to half mast. I can see a thick, white duvet by my face as I lay on my stomach. The smell of coffee wafts in from somewhere and there’s an uncanny silence around me. My first thought is that I’ve been kidnapped. Kidnapped by someone who knows a good coffee and likes Egyptian cotton. I know I’m not at the Travelodge because there the room has a certain smell and I can’t see the hotel room door with the Do Not Disturb notice hanging from the door knob as I turn to my right.
But who the hell is my abductor? The handsome barman? No, I’m sure he spent most of his time flirting with the red head in the low V, t-shirt. How obvious was she? The footballer? The whole football team? I blink several times to un-stick my eyes. I open them fully and lift onto my elbows. My captor’s lair comes into view. Nice wall paper. The room is large. On one wall, there are two square casement windows with blinds that are partly shut. Rolling onto my side I see an antique looking wardrobe and dressing table and the door is ajar. I’m not locked in then. There is no sign of life coming from the corridor. Maybe whoever lives here has gone to work. Although I haven’t quite come down to earth and I don’t have all my bearings, I’m pretty sure it’s a weekday and that there’s somewhere I have to be.
I ease the duvet off and sit up. I’m still in my clothes but no shoes. I spot them and my jacket and bag on a chair by the window. Getting up, slowly, because slow is the only way I can move, I push my feet into my shoes. Strangely they feel a size too small but I scrunch my toes in all the same, picking up the rest of my things as I leave the room.
The quiet continues as I walk into the upstairs hallway. There are four other doors off it, all of them ajar but one. There doesn’t seem to be anyone upstairs but me. Whoever lives in this house has good taste. Nice clean lines, no clutter and tasteful black and white prints of places I don’t recognise line the walls all the way down to the ground floor hallway. The large front door has stained glass windows. Maybe last night I was wandering around the village, drunk, and I’ve been picked up by the vicar. A very trendy vicar who shops in Ikea because I recognise the table by the front door as coming from there.
I look around the airy hallway. There are stone slabs underfoot and an expensive looking rug leads from the door to the first room. The door to this room is open wide. It’s a vast living room decorated in grey, black and white. Grey sofas, black stained wood and white walls with more of those photographs. There are no curtains on the tall windows through which I see a line of trees and signs of a narrow road beyond them. It’s unnerving that the place is so quiet but at the same time I get a feeling of safety here, a serenity and calm that I haven’t felt in a long time.
It comes to me, all too suddenly, that I’m supposed to be heading a meeting with the staff at the office and that’s where I should be now. I check my watch. Shit. It’s ten, fifty-three. I’m late. Very late. I shouldn’t have started a new job until I was mentally and emotionally ready. An AA meeting or two would’ve been a start. I’d promised Mum I’d sober up. I’d promised me I would. I curse myself for already reverting back to the butter eating, drunk I had become in my attempts to get over Rob.
Mum had given me a jolly good talking to. She’d made me promise to stop all the binge drinking and focus on my future. I’d given her my word and had gone back and forth on that word several times. The drink helped me forget but it’s also messed with my brain cells. Christ, I don’t even know how I ended up in this gorgeous house. Standing in someone’s hallway, clueless, is proof that I either can’t keep a promise or that I have a serious alcohol problem.
I contemplate whether the owner of the house intended for me to have some of that delicious smelling coffee before I went on my way. I do need something to supercharge me.
‘So you’re up then?’
The woman emerging from the kitchen is instantly familiar and I return her infectious smile.
‘Oh, it’s you. This is your house,’ I say, mastering the flipping obvious once again. ‘I have to apologise for getting so drunk. I got a bit carried away.’ I aim my thumb at the front door. ‘Thank you so much for putting me up last night. I suppose I should be going.’ My cheeks redden. What an impression I’ve made on this chic woman with the light brown eyes and very pale skin. She’d worn vibrant red lipstick the night before and I remembered how alert she’d seemed. Like a bird looking out for the cat who’s ready to pounce. She’d seemed ready for anything. This morning there’s no red lipstick and her hair is unkempt.
‘Fancy a coffee before you go? I can warm some up for you,’ she says. Thankfully.
‘I’d love a coffee.’ I let the strap of my bag drop from my shoulder to my elbow and follow her to the kitchen.
The kitchen is like a showroom or a designer kitchen you’d find in an episode of Grand Designs. I’m enticed and curious about this woman whose name I can’t remember for the life of me.
‘Take a seat,’ she says and I choose a high stool by the island counter in the centre of the kitchen. ‘Carey,’ she says turning and pointing at her chest. ‘In case you forgot.’
She is a beautiful mind reader and because of her tasteful house I know the coffee is going to be exquisite.
‘Thank you,’ I say as Carey hands me a patterned, ceramic mug of steaming coffee.
‘Milk?’
‘No, black is just fine.’ I take a sip and close my eyes, revelling in the taste.
Carey has propped herself onto the stool next to mine. She crosses her legs and our knees almost touch. She has a delicate frame, despite how strong and togethe
r she comes across. Carey is shorter than me and a lot more toned and fit. I feel like the Before to her After and so I turn my attention to the contents of my mug to stop me staring at her.
‘So, Sydney,’ she says, elegantly placing her mug on the counter. ‘I have to ask. How did you find out about the job on the magazine and why Bridley? I mean apart from Happy Hour at Frankie’s, who, just so you know, doesn’t actually exist. There is no Frankie. It’s just the name the owner came up with.’
‘Well, that sounds weird enough to be true of this place. But,’ I put the mug down. ‘The truth is, I don’t know what I’m doing here. I mean, I had nothing else going for me and I was offered the job. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t like my workplace, I mean, not that I know much about it. For the most part I’ve either been … well let’s just say I’ve been under the weather. But the people seem nice.’
Carey’s smile opens up again.
‘Let me say, you’re lucky the job brought you here. It’s a lovely little village with some beautiful country trails if you’re into that sort of thing. Amazing scenery. You obviously like the countryside or you wouldn’t have come here. From London, right?’
‘That’s right. The big smoke where my career went up in smoke and so did everything else.’ I look at Carey whose big eyes widen, wanting to know more. I’ve said too much. I don’t want to give the wrong impression. ‘I should get going. I called a meeting and I’m not there for it myself.’ I jump off the stool. ‘I know that sounds really bad but I’m finding it hard to settle here. I still don’t have anywhere to live, if you can believe that.’
‘Yes, I can actually. There isn’t a lot of movement property-wise around here. I was lucky to get this place when I did.’ Her eyes sweep around the kitchen as she gestures with her hand.
‘Your house is gorgeous.’
‘Well, it was a bit of a project. I can show you pictures of what it looked like before. The owners were really old and their grown-up kids sold it to release capital. The previous people live just outside the village now in lovely little bungalow. Easier for them to cope with.’
‘But it’s a really big house. I mean, for just you. If it is just you.’
Carey blushes a deep shade of crimson. She drops her head and her hair completely masks her face. She’s like a tortoise retreating under a shell.
‘Yes, it is just me.’ She jumps off her stool. ‘I like space.’
‘I don’t need a lot of space and I still can’t find a place to live.’ As I put on my jacket, wondering how I managed to get it back and lose my bag of wine and snacks, Carey snaps her fingers and I jump.
‘You’ll stay here,’ she says. ‘You’re right. It is big for just me. I could do with a house mate. I keep myself to myself and I’m away for work a lot, but you’re very welcome to live here. Even if it’s until something better comes up.’
Something better? Than this palace? Is she serious? All I want to do is kiss her. But I haven’t brushed my teeth and we don’t know each other that well.
‘That sounds like a wonderful idea,’ I say doing my best impression of being cool. ‘If you’re sure. I mean I won’t be a fall down drunk, not anymore, and I will be getting a wage for this job so let me know what you want for rent.’
‘It won’t be that much. I don’t have a mortgage or anything. Something for bills I suppose.’ She shrugs her shoulders like a woman for whom money is no object. I glance around the kitchen and take in the white goods. They’re not shabby at all, in fact the cost of them was probably worth as much as my whole flat back in Kilburn. This Carey person is loaded. I’m so tempted to stay and ask her what she does for a living, who she is and where the hell did she find the money to do this place up to such a high standard, but I’m running far too late and becoming later.
‘If you’re really sure about this, Carey, I can get my bags from the Travelodge and come back tonight after work.’
‘I’ll be here,’ she says with smile. ‘But I’ll give you a key, anyway.’
Carey walks me to the door and that’s it. I’ve found somewhere to live. She hardly knows me, didn’t ask for references, and she’s giving me the key to her snazzy house.
‘I’d better put your postcode into my phone before I go,’ I say. ‘If I’m going to find you later. I have no idea where I am and how far it is to the magazine from here.’
‘About a ten-minute walk.’
I could cry with joy.
Carey works a front door key off a bunch she pulls from a drawer in the table by the door. Outside, on the front step, she directs me to the office.
As quickly as I can, still wearing yesterday’s clothes and carrying a full bladder, I hoof it over to the office. I wonder if there’s a shower at work, and toothpaste. I look along the country track and spot the Bridley Green building a few feet away. I compose myself at the front door and push it open.
Chapter 11
For the second time in a row I show up for work smelling of booze and looking dishevelled. It’s lucky I haven’t actually seen Alexandra since arriving as she might have seconds thoughts about me and send me packing. I sneak in and run up the stairs before I see anyone but Beth catches me halfway up the stairs.
‘Morning, Sydney.’ She’s on the top landing. Her voice is bright and sing-songy. She looks as if she might break into a chorus of “Oh What A Beautiful Morning” and birds might appear and flutter around her blond plaits. Then she clocks the bags under my eyes and tries to disguise a tiny gasp of shock. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes, yes. Fine. Why wouldn’t it be?’ I try to pat down my hair and straighten my jacket. ‘I’m sorry I’m so late. I was trying to sort out my accommodation problem.’
I join Beth at the top of the stairs. Her navy dress has tiny white flowers printed all over it and her powder puff pink cardigan looks hand knitted. Her shoes are of the sensible kind, clumpy heels and a buckle.
‘I didn’t realise you had an accommodation problem,’ she says looking concerned. ‘That would explain a lot.’
I start marching to one of the offices and stop. I turn and start marching to another of the offices and stop again. Beth points down the corridor.
‘Your office is there, Sydney. The one at the very end.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You know you said you wanted a meeting this morning,’ she calls after me just before I close my office door.
‘Yes?’ I call back.
‘Should we have it now, do you think?’
‘That’s a good idea. Call everyone together and we’ll meet in an hour. In the meantime, could you pop out and get me some cleansing wipes, toothpaste and a jumper?’
‘Coming up.’
You have to love Beth. Not only does she come back with all the things I asked for, and even though the jumper comes from a place called Brionny’s Wool Emporium and is coral pink, Beth has also bought me a smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel and a hot cup of tea.
Two hours later I’m ready to take this meeting. I don’t know what I’m going to say but I know it has to be dynamic. I have to let the staff know that we’ll be turning the magazine around and bringing it kicking and screaming into the present century. I only hope they’ll all be on the same page as me.
*
Surprisingly and quite luckily, everyone is up for the idea of changing some of the pages in the magazine.
‘This all sounds great, Sydney, I like your ideas,’ says Jenna. ‘I never liked the Pets Page anyway.’
Like her cardigan, Beth’s cheeks had turned powder puff pink when I said we’d be axing her column.
Jenna continues. ‘And I don’t mind saying goodbye to the Fashion Page.’
Instead, Jenna has come up with a brilliant idea of doing a Brides Section. She’s engaged to be married next year and her plan to talk about all the local services, giving mention to local venues and blogging about the things to do and things to avoid for a new bride are brilliant. The section will run all the way to spr
ing, when she gets married, and would give us plenty of time to come up with another idea to fill the slot after her wedding. By then it won’t be my problem. I would have left for London with an editor job on my CV.
‘That just leaves the Agony Aunt page,’ says Beth.
My heart sinks. I hadn’t noticed an Agony Aunt page.
‘Well maybe that should go, too,’ I say. ‘Agony Aunts are bit passé in my opinion. We tried it on my last paper but it never really worked out.’ Just when I think I’m on an axe everything roll, the buzzing excitement filling the room turns to icy silence in a heartbeat.
‘I’m sorry, am I missing something?’ I ask as everyone in the office stares at me. It’s as if I’ve just revealed there’s no Santa to a bunch of three years old.
‘What is it?’ I prompt. We’ve already crunched ideas through lunchtime and in the back of my mind I’ve been thinking about nipping over to my hotel, taking a shower and then checking out so I can drop my things round to Carey’s before she changes her mind.
‘It’s just that page,’ Beth says at last. ‘It’s sort of the reason most people read the magazine in the first place.’
‘You mean everyone here has loads of problems? Like, more than anywhere else in the country?’ I say in disbelief. What problems could there possibly be in such an idyllic setting? Lots of green, woods, forests, hills with grazing cows and sheep. Not to mention Happy Hour at Frankie’s.
Jenna clears her throat.
‘That page is the page that connects people around here. The thing is, Bridley is small, as you probably know. People around here communicate through that page, they reach out to others and they pass on information. It’s like a jungle telegraph without the jungle. Am I making sense?’
‘Are you telling me that rather than people telling their neighbour or their wife or their friend they have a problem with them, they tell the Agony Aunt?’ I can’t believe this.
