Goodbye, Jimmy Choo

by Annie Sanders

  “You mean now?”

  “If you can. You did say you could work at short notice.” Me and my big mouth. “It’s quite unusual for us to supply temps to a surgery, but in the circumstances they had no option but to call us, and most of our regulars have been struck down with the bug too.”

  Trying to sound efficient, and covering up her panic about what on earth she was going to do with the children, she wrote down the details and promised she’d be there as fast as was humanly possible. She then phoned Izzie who still sounded like death warmed up. “Oh, Maddy, I’m so sorry, I still feel lousy, Jess is off and Marcus is coming down with it, too. You can bring them all over here if you like . . .”

  “No way—that’s the last thing you need. I’ll cope—somehow!”

  Frantically looking for inspiration, and Florence’s My Little Pony comic she was whining she needed, Maddy’s eye fell on the parish magazine. Could she fall on the mercy of the good vicar’s wife in her hour of need?

  Janet Grant bustled in ten minutes later in her duffle coat, sensible boots, and bobble hat from under which poked out a thatch of wiry graying hair. “Don’t panic, Maddy. I’m sure I can manage. You must be Florence,” she said to the sulky-looking little girl who was hiding behind her mother. “You’ll tell me where everything is, won’t you? I’ve even brought some Play-Doh from the playgroup box—we can do that, can’t we?”

  Maddy heard a wail of tears as she slammed the front door and ran to the car. She scraped away as much of the ice from the windscreen as she could with the edge of a cassette tape box, and by the time she climbed back into the car, the crying had died down. “God bless Janet Grant,” she muttered. “I promise I’ll go to church more often.”

  The surgery was pandemonium when she finally got there at nine. Unanswered phones were shrilling; the waiting room was full to bursting with pale, coughing patients, most of whom, it seemed to Maddy’s untrained eye, would have been better off in bed with a glass of Beecham’s Powders. A lone receptionist was trying to juggle the queue waiting at the desk demanding appointments with a GP. She almost hugged Maddy when she told her she had come from WorkWorld. “I’m Margaret, practice manager. Just chuck your coat there and answer the phone, can you? Tell them that we are completely full up today, if they have the flu to stay warm and drink lots of fluids, and if they are bleeding to go to the emergency room.”

  Over the next two hours Maddy must have answered about fifty calls. By eleven, surgery was running seriously late, the computer had crashed twice, and Maddy had inadvertently booked a vasectomy patient into the well-woman clinic. She had never had much patience with ill people, and when she told a particularly persistent caller to “stop making such a fuss, it’s only flu” she got a very old-fashioned look from Margaret.

  By eleven thirty she was gasping for a cup of coffee and a fag. “Any chance I can see Dr. Fellows today?” said a friendly voice across the desk.

  Maddy was just about to brush her off, when the speaker, a rather smartly dressed, elderly women in her sixties, suddenly said, “Didn’t I see you at the Christmas Fayre at Ledfinch Manor?”

  Maddy smiled. “Yes, that was me. Did you buy much?”

  “Oh, lots. Do all my Christmas shopping there. Bought some of your cream actually—terrible whiff, but it’s good stuff, isn’t it? I’m a mad keen gardener—in the local club, you know, dahlias my speciality—but since using your cream my hands have never been so soft. My friend Sylvia put some on her corns and they just went! Fantastic!” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’m here about my piles. Do you think it would work on them too?” and they both roared with laughter.

  “Oh I’m so pleased—not about the piles I mean. You could always give it a try. Do tell your friends about it, won’t you?”

  “I already have, my dear. They want to know where I got it. Do you sell it locally?”

  “We’re hoping to. I’ll let you know, Mrs. . . . ?”

  “Bates. Lally Bates. I think I live near you. You’re at Huntingford House, aren’t you? Thought so. It’s looking marvelous. Terrible state it was in and you’ve done wonders. Look, put me in with Dr. Fellows when you can, and why don’t you come to a WI market with your pots? They’ll go down a storm.”

  Maddy had made her an appointment, and had waved her good-bye, when Margaret came over. “Mrs. Hoare,” she said with a face like thunder, “it is one thing to waste precious time chatting with patients when we are so busy, but quite another to recommend ointments without a doctor’s approval, especially for something as personal as”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“hemorrhoids. I’d appreciate it if you would just do the job.”

  Maddy kept her head down for the rest of the day, and finally left at six thirty when the last patient had coughed and snuffled his way out of the surgery door. She had a feeling she wouldn’t be asked to help out tomorrow, but she’d done nine hours, so the pay would be better than a poke in the eye.

  Janet had clearly done sterling work. The children were bathed and in pajamas when Maddy let herself in the front door, the house smelt of baked biscuits, the kitchen was pristine, and the table was strewn with pictures they had drawn or painted and interesting collages using dried pasta and string.

  “Janet, I really don’t know how to thank you. You have been a brick.”

  “Oh, Maddy, think nothing of it,” she replied as she shrugged on her duffle coat. “I’m delighted I’ve been able to help, especially when I know you’ve had such a tough time. Bereavement is so difficult and debilitating. If you would like to join one of our Wives Fellowship meetings we’d love to have you. Just coffee and a chat. Lots of fun. Anyway must go—but Nick and I are there to help whenever we can.”

  Tired and emotional after her long day, tears welled up in Maddy’s eyes and she planted a kiss on Janet’s cheek. With a surprised look on her face, Janet disappeared into the night.

  She tucked the children into bed, administered Calpol and Olbas oil, changed out of her clothes into her pajamas, and went down to make herself a piece of toast. As she waited for it to pop up, she turned on the answering machine which flashed three messages. They were all from Pru. She listened, rewound, and listened again, then she picked up the phone and dialed Izzie’s number.

  “It’s me.”

  “Hiya. I was just going to call you,” mumbled Izzie, her voice still thick with cold. “How did you get on?”

  “Don’t ask. I think I’ve been fired. But listen. We’ve got a problem.”

  Her heart pounding with panic and disbelief, Maddy recounted what Pru had said in each increasingly excited message. She heard Izzie squeal.

  Chapter 9

  First thing next morning, Izzie reported for duty. The combination of shock, panic, and excitement at Maddy’s news seemed to have blasted away the lingering symptoms of her flu, and she was positively hopping from foot to foot as she let herself into the house.

  “Flood of inquiries? Is that really what she said? What are we going to do?” she demanded. “Two hundred pots! We can’t possibly come up with that much balm in three days. We haven’t got any pots for a start, no centpertuis, no lavender, no wax. The only thing we have got is Jean Luc’s olive oil!”

  Maddy shook her head helplessly. “I’ve been up all night thinking it through. It’ll certainly take more than just the two of us this time. We’ll have to get help. And I haven’t managed to get hold of Jean Luc yet, though I’ve been trying his number all night. He’s going to be gobsmacked when we tell him how much more centpertuis we need!”

  Izzie looked momentarily disconcerted. “Isn’t he answering his phone? Didn’t he go home last night?”

  Maddy eyed her cautiously. “No, I don’t think he did. He’s left the answer phone on, and he’s not picking up his mobile.”

  Trying to look nonchalant, Izzie set to work loading the dishwasher and making coffee, while Maddy ran through the possibilities she’d come up with for helpers over the next few days. “I know Crispin’s at a loose en
d at the moment. I feel terrible about it. He’d pretty much banked on working for us for the next six months, and he’s only got bits and pieces of other work lined up. Thanks.”

  She took the coffee Izzie offered and patted the seat next to her. “Look, I’ve started to make a list. I haven’t asked anyone yet—I wanted to check it out with you first. What do you think?”

  Izzie peered at the piece of paper. “Janet Grant, yes, and she’d be brilliant with the kids, wouldn’t she? Who’s Lillian? I don’t think I’ve met her. I could ask Marcus, too. I’m sure he’d help us out.”

  “Mmm,” replied Maddie quickly. “I wouldn’t want to get in the way of his photography, and you might need him to pick the kids up if we’re really pushed. But we could keep him in reserve. Lillian was Simon’s secretary at Workflow Systems. She’s a bit shy but terrifically efficient.”

  “But, Maddy, we can’t pay them. We’re going to be stretched enough as it is to pay for the ingredients and the packaging and everything. Are we just going to ask them to do it as a favor? You could offer Crispin your body, but I don’t think Janet or Lillian would be too keen!”

  “Oh I don’t know. Janet wears comfortable shoes, and she practically has a mustache.” Maddy smiled wickedly. “No, I’ve thought about that already. It’s only going to be for a couple of days. We’ll have to offer them payment in kind—a kind of barter thing. For a start, we’ll feed them—that goes a long way with Crispin, I can tell you. He could eat toast for England! I thought I could offer Lillian some of my clothes—well, you should see the stuff she wears—and I’ve got too many jumpers, you said so yourself. Not sure about Janet—maybe she’d be satisfied if I offered my soul—but she did ask if she could take foliage from the garden for the church flowers. I may have to offer her a whole tree for this, but I reckon it’d be worth it!”

  “What about me? What can I offer?”

  Maddy waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “I’ve thought about that too. You can offer Jean Luc some irresistible incentive to get us some more of that sodding centpertuis. I warn you, he drives a hard bargain!”

  Izzie fidgeted, looking down. “If he’s been out all night, he might not be very interested in anything I have to offer. You’d better play the cousin card. I think that would—”

  The phone interrupted her, and Maddy answered. “Jean Luc! At last. Where have you been? Izzie and I were worried!”

  Izzie flapped her hands and mouthed a silent “noooo!” at Maddy, who turned away, laughing, and lapsed into French. “C’est pas vrai? Toute la nuit? Cinq? Tu doit-être crevé. Ah, oui, on s’inquiétait, Izzie et moi. Izzie surtout.” She paused and laughed knowingly. “Demande lui toi-même! Je te la passe.”

  And she passed the phone to Izzie. What the hell had that been all about? She took the phone cautiously and found herself speaking rather stiffly. “Hello? Jean Luc?” Even to herself she sounded embarrassingly English. “Yes, we were wanting to ask you for some more centpertuis, please.”

  “Izzie? It’s really you?” His voice sounded warm and smiley, and in spite of herself, Izzie felt her stomach clench. Get a grip, girl. “Wonderful to hear your voice. I feel better already, but I’m sooo tired.”

  “Well, um, we need quite a bit this time. About four times as much, actually.”

  “Oh, non! My poor back! It is only just recovering now. I am sooo out of condition, I think. But for you two, I will do it.”

  “The thing is,” she gabbled on primly, “we need it very fast this time. We have to have the stuff made up in three days, and more of those little pots. Two hundred actually.”

  “Non! Tu plaisantes! You are joking! Oh, Izzie, I can’t bring it over this time. I’m all tied up here. You know how it is—no one else will do but me. But I’ll make the phone calls—there’s a wholesaler in Grasse. I’ll make some time to dig up more centpertuis this morning before I go back to bed.”

  Izzie’s back was growing more and more rigid as the conversation went on. “Yes, well, we’d be very grateful,” she concluded frostily. “If you could let us know where we can source the pots, we won’t have to trouble you again. I’m sure you must be exhausted after last night.”

  “Oh, yes! But it was so exciting. Every time is like magic. I’ll send you both photos.”

  “Jean Luc, I’m really not sure I—”

  “They are so adorable. I have two of them here. One white, one black.” He paused theatrically. “I’ve got five altogether now.” He started to laugh, and suddenly she got the feeling she was the butt of some joke she didn’t quite understand. “And more on the way. The sweetest little lambs you ever saw.”

  “Oh! Lambs. Of course, lambs. It’s lambing time!” She laughed, relief pouring into her. “Jean Luc, it’s so great to hear your voice . . . Yes, I wish I was too . . . of course I would . . . I can’t wait . . . Yes, of course . . . Me too . . . Now off to bed with you, young man! You’ve got to be in good shape for digging up the centpertuis for us!”

  God! I must get a grip, she chided herself. I’m a married woman.

  A few hours later, the troops had been rallied. Of course, Lillian had had no trouble finding temping work in Oxford, but by a stroke of fortune was free for the day and agreed readily to drive over to Maddy’s at lunchtime. Izzie sat back in admiration as she listened to Maddy laying on the charm to persuade her. She’d missed her vocation, this woman: she’d have got a first-class honors in schmooze.

  Crispin had been run to ground, and it only took the word “lunch” for him to drop everything. Janet had bustled over after taking the local primary school children for hymn practice, and had arrived in a cloud of patchouli and dog hair. One of Izzie’s superdeluxe shepherd’s pies had been liberated from the freezer and was soon steaming seductively on the table in front of them. As Izzie dished out, Maddy addressed her battalion, explaining the situation, offering terms, and trying her darndest to be persuasive.

  “So the thing is, we absolutely have to get the balm to Pru’s office in London by Wednesday afternoon at the latest. That way, she can get the samples out to journalists on Thursday, ready for editorials in weekend editions of the paper. And I’m afraid that means it’s going to be all hands to the pump as soon as we get the ingredients and the pots—probably tomorrow morning—Jean Luc is organizing that.”

  There was a nail-biting silence.

  Janet was the first to wade in with gushing enthusiasm. “Even if it means working all night, I’ll sign on the dotted line straight away. I think this could be rather fun! And you don’t need to worry about a whole tree—but if I could make free with my secateurs among your shrubbery, I’d be very grateful. I’ve got my eye on that Camellia williamsii. Can’t wait to get going on that lovely glossy bush of yours!”

  Crispin, Izzie, and Maddy all suddenly studied their plates with ferocious concentration.

  “I don’t know anything about cooking or stirring or anything,” said Crispin through a mouthful, and trying to wipe the smile off his face, “but I can help with loading up and you can use my van for delivering the stuff.”

  Two down, one to go. Everyone turned to look at Lillian. She was hesitant. “I’ve got to be in the office during the day tomorrow, but if I come over as soon as I’ve finished, I’ll gladly help, er, Maddy! And . . . well, I’ve always admired your chic, so if you’re quite certain about those jumpers . . .”

  Maddy and Izzie exchanged triumphant glances as their odd assortment of guests tucked in with relish. A rather fine Château Léoville-Barton from Simon’s cellar added to the party atmosphere, and discussions turned to practicalities. Soon Lillian was showing her form.

  “We, er, we do have a terrific amount to do. Is there anything we could be getting on with before the pots and the ingredients get here?”

  Izzie groaned. “Well, there is, but I’m afraid no one can do it but me! I’ll have to do four hundred hand-lettered labels—two hundred for the front, two hundred for the back—so I’d better get cracking!”

  “Hold
on a minute, Izzie,” Lillian interrupted, flushing slightly at her boldness. “I could help with that. If you can give me one of each type of label, I could scan them at work tomorrow and print out as many as you need. I’m sure no one would notice.”

  “Lillian, you’re a genius!” shrieked Maddy. “But will you have time?”

  Lillian shrugged modestly. “Oh, Maddy, I get my work done so much faster than all the other team assistants there, I’ve got bags of time on my hands.”

  “Lillian, I could kiss you. I’ll double your jumper allocation for that!” Izzie quickly found Lillian the labels she had been using to copy from, and Lillian left shortly afterward, beaming in her new mint-green pashmina.

  Back in the kitchen, Janet gathered up her bags. “What are the other ingredients you need, apart from the stuff your cousin is sending?”

  “Not much really,” explained Maddy. “That’s the beauty of it. It’s actually quite a simple recipe. Just beeswax, centpertuis, olive oil, which we’ve got, and lavender. That’ll be the problem.”

  “Lavender? Is that all? Good heavens, I’ve got a good friend, met her at the peace camp at Greenham actually.”

  Maddy and Izzie exchanged incredulous glances.

  “She runs a holistic health center in Wales, and they make some of their own remedies and oils. They’ve got fields of lavender there and I know they dry it. Shall I give her a call?”

  “You lifesaver! If you could, that would be great. We could go and collect as much as she could spare us—today, if you could arrange it.”

  “Well, maybe that’s something I could do,” chipped in Crispin, “if you could fix me up some sandwiches for the journey.”

  “I’ll pack you a proper Famous Five picnic,” Izzie promised. “Hard-boiled eggs, as much fruit cake as you can eat, ham sarnies and . . .” they all joined in, “lashings of ginger beer!” And laughing as they left, Crispin and Janet, an unlikely alliance, planned his route to Wales for the lavender mercy dash.