Dear Anybody

by Rosa Temple

  ‘You still up?’ she says and heads for the kitchen. I sheepishly follow her and I’m about to apologise for eavesdropping when Carey swings around.

  ‘There are things you will never understand and there are things I find really hard to talk about, Sydney. I just wish you’d respect my privacy.’

  ‘I know. I will. I’m sorry. We all have things we can’t say or don’t want to. I’m guilty of doing just that. I’d like to think we’re friends, Carey, but I just want you to know I’ll keep my nose out of your business.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But if we are friends and if you ever want to talk …’

  Carey turns her back to me and starts stacking the dishwasher.

  ‘Sorry, it’s the reporter in me,’ I say. ‘Can’t stop looking for the story. I don’t mean to be nosey. I just want to be helpful.’

  ‘Thanks, Sydney.’

  It’s really a thanks but no thanks. I want to ask Carey if she needs help with clearing up but I suddenly feel my presence is surplus to requirements.

  Back in my room I ponder the need to keep certain things secret and I think about the secret I’ve had to keep since the summer. It’s eating me up inside and I dread the day I have to face up to it. This is how Carey must feel. Maybe one day we’ll trust each other enough with the truth. But this is obviously not the time for sharing secrets.

  My pink notebook is sitting next to a pen on my bedside table, so I lean over to pick it up. I once wrote a date on the first page. I wrote it on the day I thought I would start my novel. Almost two years to the day. The blank pages are tatty around the edges. I stare out of my window trying to see a faint moon in the sky. Nights in the countryside are just so dark it’s hard to make anything out sometimes. I hear a hoot. A pair of owls begin conversing in the moonlight and, feeling a sudden burst of inspiration, I begin to write.

  Chapter 20

  The plan to let Damian know I like him too was foiled yesterday when I had to help Carey with her shopping. So, I decide to take the bull by the horns and show up early at his coffee shop. The hang around until after the lunch crowd dies down plan being overridden by operation Early Bird. When I arrive there’s only one person having breakfast in a corner of the coffee shop, the queues for freshly baked bread have died down and the number of customers coming in and out virtually non-existent. Perfect.

  I stand at the empty counter, flinging my hair off my shoulders and then back onto one shoulder. Then I try to smize sideways on to the swing door to the kitchen so that when Damian walks in he’ll have my good side. The left side. The side on which you can’t see that my nose slightly bends to the left. It’s only a slight bend that no one ever admits to being able to see, except Helena, of course. She never holds back. Also on my right side there’s small birthmark next to my ear that looks like a map of Tazmania that I normally cover up with concealer. I’d like to introduce my flaws gradually to Damian as he appears not to have any. My hair is behaving, thankfully. I was up particularly early and followed a How To Wear Make Up But Not Look Like You’re Wearing Make Up video on YouTube and managed to disguise my dark circles. I’d had a glass of warm water with a squeeze of lemon to start my Get A Flat Stomach in 7 Days regime (also on YouTube). Yes, I’m still overweight but I only had one morning to work with.

  I’m feeling good and wondering if I should pout, when the swing door flies open and I’m greeted by a stout woman with ruddy cheeks and dark, curly hair. In fact, it looks as if she recently removed her heated rollers and hasn’t brushed her hair yet.

  ‘Morning, my lovely. What can I get you?’ she says with a breezy sigh.

  ‘D-Damian?’

  ‘You want me to get you Damian? What for? Does he know you?’

  ‘Oh, no. I mean, yes.’ I flick my hair off my shoulder and stop posing. ‘I know Damian. He knows me. I was just wondering where he is.’

  ‘Off doing an errand. Back about lunchtime. Can I get you anything else?’

  ‘Er …’ I look at the cakes and pastries in the basket display on the counter. ‘I like the look of the doughnuts. Did Damian bake those?’

  ‘He does all the baking in here, my lovely. Doughnuts is it? How many?’

  I can’t help noticing a slight lift in this woman’s shoulders as if she has no time for me and wants me out of the shop.

  ‘I’ll take a couple. Do you think Damian will be serving at lunchtime?’

  ‘Probably. Or I might.’ She puts the doughnuts into a bag and places them on my side of the counter. ‘That’s a pound, my lovely.’ Stretching out her hand for the money she eyes me suspiciously. I quickly go for my purse and fiddle around in the change compartment before finding a pound coin. She barely allows my fingers to touch her hand as I drop the coin into it and then throws it at the open till. I’m at a loss now. I hadn’t anticipated a hostile assistant. In fact, I didn’t realise Damian had an assistant. I haven’t taken the doughnuts, so the assistant glares at me as if wondering why I’m still here. I make a mental note to tell Damian he should be careful about who he hires to work here in his absence. This woman has a serious attitude problem.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say popping the doughnuts into my tote. Not only have I failed again in my mission to ask Damian out but I’ve bought the most fattening things in the entire shop. I suck in my gut and attempt to say goodbye.

  ‘New around here, aren’t you?’ Curler woman asks. ‘Not seen you around and Damian hasn’t mentioned you.’

  ‘Should he have?’

  ‘Well, I’m his mother and he does tell me a thing or two about the people around here.’

  ‘Do you live in Bridley?’ His mother! What the hell? She’s too much of a dragon to have such a gorgeous son.

  ‘Oh, I live in Bridley all right. Keep myself to myself mostly. Up on Montsell Hill I live. That’s where I raised him. Single handed mind and, if I must say, I’ve done a pretty good job.’ Mrs Gallagher, as I now know her to be, folds her arms.

  ‘Oh I think you’ve done a remarkable job. Damian is a credit to you, always polite and kind. Good cakes.’ I laugh awkwardly, wanting to leave but can’t get my feet to comply.

  ‘He’s a good lad that one. Made a good job of this place and has his head screwed on. Got plans that one. Big plans.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure.’ What’s happening here?

  ‘Knows where his head is and doesn’t need distractions.’ Okay, now I see.

  ‘I’ve not known Damian long,’ I offer. ‘But I’m sure he doesn’t get distracted easily.’

  I wonder if Damian is worth all this aggravation. Maybe I should just leave it up to him to build up the courage to ask me out. Slip a note in my apple turnover or something, I don’t know. Or maybe I’d publish his letter in the Dear Vicky section and tell him that sometimes it’s hard for anyone to show their feelings if there are interfering parents in the mix and that maybe the object of his affection is interested but can’t see a way past his possessive mother.

  ‘Well,’ I say, finally able to turn away from her impossible glare. ‘Just let Damian know I was here would you?’

  ‘You can tell him yourself,’ says a voice from the shop door.

  It’s Damian, holding a wooden tray of fresh produce in his arms. A small van with the coffee shop logo is parked outside, hazard lights on and the back doors open.

  ‘Oh,’ I exclaim. ‘Your mother said you wouldn’t be back until this afternoon.’

  ‘No, Mum, I told you I was just off to do some shopping, back in a bit.’ Damian puts the tray of food down and lets the door close. He smiles in that warm and charming way of his and it crosses my mind that perhaps he was adopted – by a dragon. I can feel his adoptive mother breathing fire on my back.

  ‘Did you want me for anything in particular?’ Damian asks. He looks very hopeful as he waits for my answer.

  ‘I would have asked if I could buy you breakfast had you been here,’ I say. His mother clears her throat, probably of smoke. ‘But that’s a bit silly. You would have ha
d your breakfast already, right? You must be up at four in the morning, at least.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ he says. ‘I could do with a bit of a break now if you have time. Coffee?’

  ‘I do, actually,’ I say purposely not looking behind me. ‘I just bought some doughnuts to have with coffee.’ I wave my tote at Damian.

  ‘I’ll get you a side plate and you can eat in. Is that okay?’

  The plan is afoot. I grab a table as far from the counter as I can, away from Damian’s mother who is watching me even as the one diner from earlier is paying for his meal. I watch as Damian carries in the rest of his shopping and pours us both a coffee. He serves himself a large Danish pastry and puts my doughnuts onto a plate with a napkin. Once we’re settled at the table I look up at the counter. Mrs Gallagher hasn’t budged from her spot but proceeds to out-stare me from the other side of the counter. In fact, a woman has come in for some rolls and Mrs Gallagher serves her with her eyes on me the whole time.

  I think Damian picks up on how uncomfortable I am with his mother around and turns to her.

  ‘Mum you might as well get going now. WI meeting this morning wasn’t it?’

  She doesn’t answer.

  ‘You’ve got jam and car boot sales on the agenda, haven’t you?’ he prompts.

  Mrs Gallagher looks at her gold wristwatch.

  ‘’Spect I should be getting off, then.’

  She disappears behind the swing door and I hear banging and clattering. I try to bite, daintily, into a doughnut. Mrs Gallagher blusters out from the kitchen into the shop front in a maroon coat with a black fur collar and marches to the door.

  ‘Don’t go sitting around all day when there’s work to be done,’ she declares and leaves the coffee house with a loud rattle of the bell above the door.

  ‘Don’t mind Mum,’ Damian says. He leans over to me and dabs the side of my mouth with his napkin. ‘Sugar,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, Damian.’

  ‘Er, sugar. You had icing sugar on your mouth. Messy things to eat, doughnuts.’

  I immediately start brushing away at my face. Damian laughs.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re all good.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. But I’ve become so self conscious I suddenly lack the courage to ask Damian anything, let alone ask him out. I’ve made a lousy impression on his mum, now Damian thinks I’m a messy eater.

  ‘I got the feeling you wanted something?’ Damian says after a moment of silence. We’re the only two in the coffee shop and it’s the perfect opportunity. I know he likes me so all I have to do is make it clear the feeling is mutual. Simple, but I’m paralysed by self-consciousness. I’ve been out of the dating game so long I should have prepared something to say. Maybe while I was doing that make up tutorial. This sort of thing comes naturally to Helena. I’d watched her several times flirting with men, just for fun, to get something she wanted or just to prove to me she could. I try to summon up even an ounce of her sass.

  ‘Look, Damian,’ I say. ‘I know we haven’t known each other long, so it’s a bit hard for me to say what I’m about to say.’

  ‘Just come out with it.’ Damian replaces his coffee cup and shuffles his chair in closer. Our knees touch. The feel of his body reminds me of my intention to drive out feelings for Rob.

  ‘It’s just that, we seem to have really hit it off as friends, so I was just wondering if …’

  Just then the door flies open and Mrs Gallagher appears, out of breath, as if she’s been running, and marches up to our table.

  ‘I just thought, Damian,’ she declares completely blanking me. ‘Why am I standing waiting for that slow old bus to take me to Didsmore when you have a perfectly good van and I’m running late.’

  Damian looks at his watch and then at me.

  ‘But Mum the shop is open and I’m on my own.’

  She gives a sidewards glance in my direction.

  ‘It’ll take you minutes. Just put a sign on the door. You won’t be busy until lunch anyway.’ She stomps to the door, holding it open as she taps a foot.

  Reluctantly, Damian eases himself out of his chair.

  ‘I’m really sorry about this,’ he sighs.

  ‘Oh, that’s fine.’ I get up and gather my bag. ‘I’ll catch up with you some time. Soon I hope.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Damian goes to collect his key from the kitchen. In the meantime Mrs Gallagher and I are doing a step to the left followed by a step to the right at the door as I try to exit the shop with an ounce of dignity.

  ‘Bye,’ I say to her when she finally moves aside. She nods and closes the door only narrowly missing the heel of my shoe as I leave.

  I walk slowly to work looking over my shoulder to see Damian let his mother into the passenger side of his van. Is it really worth all the hassle, I ask myself? Then I take in Damian’s large, muscular build and I know it’s worth it. Very much so.

  I wonder how we’ll ever get an opportunity to talk in private. I could get the message across in the Dear Vicky page, as I said, but Bridley Green won’t be published for a couple of weeks and I want to see Damian sooner rather than later. Then I remember. There’s a barn dance advertised in the What’s On page in the magazine with refreshments provided by Damian’s Coffee House. Jenna said she was going, maybe I could tag along or ask Carey to come with me.

  It’s a plan. A third plan. But a brilliant one. If anyone told me six months ago I’d be excited about going to a barn dance in a village hall that starts at six o’clock on a Saturday evening, I would have laughed in their face. But I’m excited about this one. I make a mental note to ask at the office what one wears to barn dances in village halls. I have about a week to prepare.

  Chapter 21

  Jenna assured me that no one wore gingham and chewed on straw at barn dances and that if I dressed smart casual I’d be fine. I decide on a pair of jeans, stretch jeans so I can go for it in the two step and the square step and all the other steps that Jenna and Beth were going on about.

  When I left London I’d grabbed as many of my clothes from the flat as I could. Not everything matched up as I discovered when it came time to repack and leave for Bridley. I decided I’d pull out some of my pre-university clothes from the box in the bottom of my old wardrobe, thinking I could do a mix and match with everything I had. As it turned out I was right not to have given my old clothes to charity because amongst them is a checked shirt. It would be ideal for a barn dance, corny as hell but so are barn dances.

  On the evening of the barn dance, which Carey doesn’t fancy going to, I put the checked shirt on. I twist in front of the mirror to check out the rear view. Okay, so the shirt is extremely tight across my back. I needn’t have bothered ironing it because my back fat is pulling the fabric enough to smooth out any creases. It pulls so much at the seams, though, I know it won’t hold together for one of the two steps in a barn dance let alone any attempt to do the square dance. The buttons are gaping down the front, my bra is on display and so are several roles of flesh running down my middle. I pull out a fitted Lycra top and put that on instead, covering it over with the checked shirt but with buttons undone. Next, a large pair of silver hooped earrings, ankle boots, a quick tousling of the hair and my look is complete.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come?’ I ask Carey who is in front of the television with a tub of Haagen Dazs. Since her dinner party, Carey has been very quiet. In fact, I wasn’t always sure she was in the house at times she was that quiet. She hasn’t been out on a shoot and I never hear her on the telephone discussing work. I only ever see her in passing and each time she is eating. I know comfort food when I see it. The dinner party has changed her. She had been her usual breezy self until then, now she seems distant and reflective.

  ‘Positive,’ she says, turning to me. ‘I went to the last barn dance, it was good. I think you’ll enjoy it. It’s as quaint as anything. Totally brilliant.’

  ‘So why not come along? You can bring your ice cream,’ I say laughing.
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  ‘No, I don’t think I’ll be much fun. Got a few things to mull over.’

  I want to tell her that all she ever does these days is mull but I know better than to probe into Carey’s affairs. It’s clear there are things she doesn’t want to share and over the weeks I’d learned not to push it. I guess the reporter in me is always trying to uncover a secret or two. Some people don’t mind that, others just think I’m being nosey. I guess Carey belongs to the latter of those groups.

  ‘Well, all right then. I’m off. I’ll see you at ten.’ I smirk to myself at how ridiculously early the barn dance starts and ends but as I get to the village hall I realise why that is. It’s a family event. There are children running up to the hall with their parents. Some of them veering off to the side of the hall where a patch of green is home to a couple of rusty swings and a pond. A couple of boys are kicking a football, goalposts marked out by a large stone and a sweater. I notice quite a few of Bridley’s elderly population, too. One, a liver-spotted gent who looks fast asleep, is being pushed into the hall in a wheelchair and a little woman with a humped back is shuffling in with a walking stick.

  ‘Would you like me to help you up the slope?’ I ask as I catch her up.

  ‘Who me, dear?’ she asks coming to a standstill and looking up at me through double thick glasses. They look as if they might fall off her delicate face.

  ‘Only if you think you need a helping hand,’ I say not wanting to offend. She smiles at me, sweetly, and hooks a small arm around mine. She holds on to my sleeve with her wrinkly hand and continues to shuffle.

  ‘Very kind of you,’ she says as we make it into a small foyer at the front of the hall. Here, two busty women are sitting at a desk with a cash box in the middle of it.

  ‘Did you have advance tickets?’ one of them asks me.

  ‘Er, no, should I have had?’ I peek through the double doors leading into the main hall as someone exits and see about three people dancing in the middle of it. It’s hardly a sell out.