Conditional Love

by Cathy Bramley

  I groaned. It was my turn to cook tonight and due to my distracted mental state, I had forgotten to go shopping.

  At my stop a group of people, in twos obviously, jostled against me as I tried to disembark. I was barely clear of the last step when the bus trundled off through a puddle, sending a spray of black slush up the back of my red wool coat.

  Marvellous. And this coat was ‘dry-clean only’.

  How could snow, so white, so pure, so beautiful, turn so vile in only a few hours? It was clearly a metaphor for a love gone sour. I huffed up the steps towards home, cross with the world.

  The Victorian house we lived in had long ago been split into flats. I let myself in and I flicked through the mail on the communal post shelf. No scented envelopes, huge bouquets of flowers or small square boxes with ‘To Sophie Stone – love of my life’ on them then? No? Thought as much.

  Tears welled up in my eyes and I brushed them away. Actually, why shouldn’t I have a good cry? I was sad, might be properly sad for weeks come to think of it. I had loved Marc, had even dared to think that he was the one. He was so big and strong and protective. And he was exciting.

  OK, I never knew what he was up to, or when I was going to see him again, but no one’s perfect. I had been so proud to walk into the pub on his arm, watching the way other girls turned their heads to stare.

  For a moment, I considered sliding down the wall to the floor and succumbing to my sorrow. But it looked draughty and very public, far better to get home and let my lovely flatmates cheer me up.

  I began the ascent to flat four, sniffing the air hopefully on the off-chance of catching any tantalising aromas. Nothing. I waggled the key in the lock and pushed my way into the tiny hall.

  ‘Oh babes, are you OK? I’ve been worried about you all day.’ Jess threw her arms round me, crushing me to her bosom.

  ‘I’m fine.’ I swallowed hard, lying through my teeth, and pulled back to examine my plumptious flatmate. ‘Why are you wearing a toga?’

  Jess tutted. ‘It’s not a toga, it’s a chiton,’ she replied, enunciating slowly as if talking to one of her pupils. She examined herself in the mirror and then twirled round in her voluminous white sheet. ‘I’m doing Ancient Greeks with Year Five.’

  I peered at the sheet. ‘Is that mine?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry.’ She pulled a face and lifted up the excess, which was dragging on the floor. ‘Mine are all tiny and a bit – revealing.’

  Despite my crushing melancholy, I managed a smirk at the image of her generous figure being unleashed on a class of innocent ten-year-olds.

  ‘That would be inappropriate,’ I agreed.

  ‘Ah, thanks, babes!’

  To my credit, I only baulked slightly as Jess began hacking at the bottom of the sheet with a pair of scissors.

  Right, food. As it appeared that no one felt sufficiently sympathetic to let me off dinner duty, I made my way into our uninspiring kitchen.

  Three bunches of flowers had taken over the sink. I peeked at the gift cards stapled to the cellophane. Each of them bore messages to Miss Piper, supposedly from children, although I suspected there were more than one or two single dads who had a soft spot for their offspring’s voluptuous teacher.

  ‘Not jealous, not jealous,’ I muttered under my breath as I scanned the contents of the cupboards for dinner ingredients.

  The fridge revealed nothing much except a pack of Marc’s chicken breasts. They were slightly grey and slimy and was I imagining it, or did they have a stain of abandonment about them? I shuddered and wrinkled my nose. Despite the lack of alternatives, there was no way I was going to cook them. I took a deep breath and dropped them in the bin.

  There was nothing else for it; it would have to be three-tin-surprise. Not my favourite; in fact no one was fond of it. I had gleaned all my culinary talents from my mother; it hadn’t taken long. She was to cooking what Heston Blumenthal was to hairstyling: a total stranger. This particular concoction was like playing Russian roulette with your taste buds and suited my mood perfectly.

  ‘Any more news from the incredible hulk?’

  Emma stood in the doorway, chewing on the end of one of her long red plaits. In her overalls and stripy t-shirt she looked like an over-sized Pippi Longstocking.

  I took a deep breath and shook my head.

  This was Emma being sympathetic. Her tongue would be bitten to shreds with the effort of not blurting out, ‘I told you so.’

  She had never been a huge fan of Marc. I had tried to explain many a time that Marc was a free spirit. ‘Freeloader, more like,’ Emma had commented during a previous debate on his qualities as a boyfriend. I prayed Emma wasn’t going to start another character assassination tonight; I didn’t have the energy.

  ‘Do you think this is infected?’ Emma loomed over me suddenly, thrusting a finger in my face. A red slash contrasted sharply with the white skin, wrinkly where a plaster had been.

  ‘Urgh, I don’t think so.’ I winced, grateful for the change of subject. ‘How did you do it?’

  ‘On a metal file at work.’ Emma replaced the plaster.

  ‘The thing is, I’ve had a bit of a stiff jaw today too.’

  I looked at her blankly, trying to make the connection. ‘So?’

  ‘I’ve Googled it and I think I might have tetanus.’

  I bit the inside of my cheek. Last week, she had convinced herself she had appendicitis and had been writhing about on the sofa until, after a vicious bout of wind, she sheepishly pronounced herself cured.

  Emma had been my best friend since college. She had been doing an art foundation course and I was studying A-levels.

  She had been taller, louder and brasher than me at sixteen. I had been hovering timidly on the edge of college life until she plucked me out of the shadows and tucked me under her wing. I had been there ever since.

  Now she was a self-employed silversmith with a studio in a trendy part of Nottingham. The stuff she designed ranged from contemporary fruit bowls through to intricate one-off pieces of jewellery. Ironically, the only jewellery she wore was a shell she’d found on Newlyn beach while surfing, threaded onto a piece of leather.

  ‘I forgot.’ Jess bounded into the room, her auburn bob now adorned with a headdress made from bay leaves stuck to a bra strap. ‘A letter came for you.’ She placed an envelope reverently on the kitchen table. ‘It looks important.’

  I abandoned the tins quest immediately, my heart beating furiously as I grabbed the letter. That was why there had been no post for me downstairs; Jess had already brought it up. Hallelujah, all was not lost. Visions of Marc filled my mind – pen in hand, eyes swimming with tears as he realised what a terrible mistake he had made this morning.

  Hold on a minute. If this letter had come in the post then it must have been sent before he dumped me. So maybe he sent the card yesterday, when he was still my boyfriend? Boyfriend! I loved that word. Perhaps it was all just a silly misunderstanding and…

  ‘It’s from a firm of solicitors,’ said Emma, reading the franking label over my shoulder.

  Solicitors? I frowned, trying to quash my nerves. Why was it I automatically felt guilty even though, as far as I could remember, I had done absolutely nothing wrong? It was the same when I passed through the ‘Nothing to Declare’ channel at the airport; I would blush, let out a high-pitched giggle and start making jokes about the two thousand cigarettes in my bag. I didn’t even smoke.

  ‘Hey! You don’t think Marc has done something dodgy, do you, and implicated you in it?’ said Emma, wide-eyed.

  Jess gave her a sharp look. ‘It might be something nice,’ she suggested. ‘Go on, open it!’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, trying to think positive, ‘it could be um…’

  Emma nudged Jess and winked. ‘I know. It’s a restraining order from Gary Barlow’s people!’

  Jess giggled and they linked arms, started swaying and launched into the chorus of ‘A Million Love Songs’.

  I smiled, grateful that they weren’t
bickering for once. The two girls were more than flatmates; they were sisters, Jess being the elder by two years. I loved them both dearly even though most of the time I had to act as adjudicator in their disputes. They treated me like a third sister, which in practice meant that Jess clucked over me and Emma teased me mercilessly.

  I prodded Emma in the ribs. ‘I should never have told you about that letter.’

  When I was sixteen and could stand the pain of unrequited love no more, I had written to Gary Barlow, care of his record label, and bared my soul. Never got a reply, of course. But I lived in hope.

  ‘Oh my Lordy,’ I continued. ‘Listen to this. “Dear Miss Stone, Whelan and Partners have been appointed… blah, blah, blah… writing to inform you that you are a beneficiary in the last will and testament of Mrs Jane Kennedy. Please contact this office at your earliest convenience. Yours, blah, blah, blah.”’

  I plopped down into a chair, dropping the letter onto the table. The sisters grabbed it and re-read it.

  ‘Bloody hell, Sophie!’

  ‘Who’s Jane Kennedy?’

  I stared up at them, feeling a bit dizzy. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’

  ‘A mystery benefactor!’ squealed Jess. ‘How exciting!’

  ‘Come on, think! A relative, old friend of the family maybe?’ demanded Emma, flapping the letter in front of my face.

  I racked my brains and shrugged. ‘Doesn’t ring any bells. Perhaps they’ve got the wrong person. Unless she’s from my dad’s side of the family.’

  I shuddered. If that was the case, there was a whole new set of problems heading my way. Was it bedtime yet? Today had gone on far too long for my liking.

  ‘Well, at least that solves the issue of dinner,’ announced Emma gleefully, delving into the top drawer for the menus. ‘Takeaway – Sophie’s treat!’

  ‘Hold on a minute!’ I protested, ignoring for the moment the fact that my heart was practically thumping its way out of my chest. ‘I’ve probably inherited a button tin or a scrapbook or something. I’m not going to count my chickens until I find out what, or even who, I’m dealing with.’

  ‘Now, now, Sophie, calm down.’ Jess patted my arm and gave me a reproving look. ‘Today has been a difficult day for you. Marc finishing with you on Valentine’s Day is bound to knock your confidence. You’re probably going over and over it in your mind, trying to work out where you went wrong.’

  ‘Where she went wrong?’ screeched Emma. ‘The guy is an idiot! Anyone could see that relationship wasn’t going anywhere. Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? He comes round scrounging for money for a stupid second-hand car business and when she, quite rightly, says no, hey presto, a few days later, he moves on to find some other sucker!’

  ‘Er, hello, I am here, you know!’

  The day was rapidly turning into a farce. All I really wanted was to crawl under the duvet and cry myself to sleep. Was that too much to ask? Now there was this weird letter to deal with, which would probably turn out to be a hoax and in the meantime, Emma and Jess, far from doling out tea and sympathy, were making me feel much worse and forcing me to spend money in a frivolous manner.

  ‘Sorry, babes. Emma, get the wine out.’ Jess smoothed my curls, in a gentle, motherly way.

  That was more like it. A bit of TLC.

  ‘All I’m saying is that the day might have started badly, but that this letter,’ Jess stabbed at it with a sharp pink nail, ‘might be the start of a whole new adventure.’ She lowered her voice and fixed my eyes with hers. ‘This could be the key to your happiness.’

  ‘Exactly. So let’s drink to it.’ Emma plonked a large glass of wine in front of me. ‘Come on,’ she added, grimacing at my miserable expression, ‘it’s Valentine’s Day, none of us have got a date and we are the very definition of tragic spinsterhood. You wouldn’t deprive us of a teensy reason to celebrate, would you?’

  ‘Huh,’ I muttered, ‘you sound like Mum. It’s all very well for you and Jess with your normal family childhood, but growing up with a ‘celebrate each day as if it’s your last’ philosophy is not as easy as you might think. Remember that time I told you about when we had to do a moonlit flit after she’d spent the rent money on tickets to see Take That?’

  I sighed. It had been worth it; that concert was one of the best nights of my life.

  ‘I take exception to being described as normal,’ said Emma haughtily. ‘Anyway, get your purse out, Stone, mine’s a chicken chow mein.’ She handed me the Chinese takeaway menu and stared at me until I caved in and picked up the phone.

  three

  First into the office for once. Excellent. I could wallow in self-pity, exhaustion and general confusion undisturbed for a few minutes.

  I pressed the button marked ‘tea’ and the drinks machine churned out a cup of scalding grey sludge. I took it ungratefully and crossed over to my desk. While the computer was starting up, I checked my phone for the gazillionth time since getting up. Still no texts or voicemails from Marc.

  My heart literally ached from missing him so much. Texting him had always been part of my morning routine. He didn’t used to text me back, but it was more difficult for him, in the noisy market, serving customers. He probably couldn’t even hear the phone. A thought struck me suddenly. What if he was missing me? He could be tying himself in knots with regret and was too proud to admit it. I could just send him one short text. Give him the opening he needed.

  Emma would absolutely kill me.

  I won’t tell her.

  ‘Huh! Glad to see at least someone at their desk.’

  I jumped at the sound of my boss, Donna Parker, head of The Herald’s advertising department, striding across the office, her trademark platinum hair glinting like a beacon.

  ‘You’d better be a bit more focussed today,’ continued Donna, pausing briefly at my desk. ‘You were a complete waste of space yesterday.’

  To be honest, I was impressed that she had noticed any difference. Let’s face it, I was never especially enthusiastic.

  I immediately started to shuffle a pile of papers on my desk, desperately trying to conceal my mobile. I laughed gaily. ‘Oh yes, Donna, I’m completely on top of everything. Been here ages already.’

  Donna raised a perfectly arched eyebrow and bore her skeletal frame onwards towards her office, leaving a trail of Poison behind her – the perfume, that is. I wafted the air in front of my nose. She used it to mask the smell of Benson and Hedges. I didn’t have the guts to tell her it didn’t work.

  At least she had gone. On top of the new neat pile of papers was the envelope from the solicitor, reminding me why I was in early.

  Receiving that letter was one of the most curious things that had happened to me in years. I would need to ask for some time off to get to the bottom of this Jane Kennedy mystery.

  I contemplated my approach. Judging by this morning’s mood, it wasn’t likely to go down well at all.

  Coffee. That would soften the blow. I scuttled back to the drinks machine and this time selected the brown sludge labelled Cappuccino.

  It would be fair to say that relations between Donna and us, her long-suffering team, didn’t run smoothly. Part-time Maureen referred to her as Cruella de Vil. Jason said she was an acid-tongued, bullying witch who did nothing except wine and dine advertising clients over long lunches. I wasn’t quite so disparaging, although I did see their point. There was a touch of The Devil Wears Prada about her, but I couldn’t help but admire her steely glare; I could never keep it up like she did, day after day.

  Donna was in her late fifties and rumour had it that she had clawed her way up from secretary in a time when the newspaper industry was almost exclusively male, lunch was two pints in the Nag’s Head and you couldn’t see from one side of the room to the other through the smoky fug.

  That probably explained the ruthless management style and relentless ambition. But Donna seemed permanently stressed and angry. If that was what success did for people, I was happy to be languishing in the ranks of the
terminally unambitious.

  Knocking and poking my head round the office door failed to draw a response so I coughed and stepped inside. The plastic cup was doing nothing to protect my fingers from its two thousand degree contents.

  ‘Excuse me, Donna,’ I said, aiming for a recently bereaved tone.

  Still nothing.

  I placed the scorching hot liquid on the desk in front of her.

  ‘There’s been a death in the, er…’ Where was the death exactly? Family? Family friend? Friend’s family? I wished I’d rehearsed this properly, I sounded like a contestant in front of Ann Robinson: ‘You are the weakest link, goodbye.’

  I tried again.

  ‘Someone close to me has died and I’ll need some time off this week to sort out the will and everything.’

  Not strictly the truth, but I could hardly say I needed time off to see to the affairs of a complete stranger, could I?

  ‘Oh no!’ muttered Donna, pinching her lips together like a duck-billed platypus. The perfume was even more cloying in this confined space. I could feel my eyes starting to water, which wasn’t altogether a bad thing given the circumstances.

  ‘Thank you, it has come as a complete shock,’ I began. That bit was certainly true.

  ‘The restaurant supplement is due to go to print on Friday and we’ve still got five slots to fill, plus the main sponsor is quibbling about his space allocation. This is terrible timing, terrible… If it’s absolutely unavoidable,’ she added sourly, ‘keep it brief and you’ll have to make the time up.’

  She fixed me with her beady eyes and flicked her head, indicating that the meeting was over. Sometimes that woman really did herself no favours at all. I dropped back into my chair, clenching my teeth, and reached for the solicitor’s letter.

  Five minutes later I had booked an appointment with Mr Whelan for Thursday afternoon.

  four

  A smiley female receptionist ushered me through to a small office with an exceptionally high ceiling.

  ‘Mr Whelan will be with you shortly,’ she whispered in hallowed tones, as if I’d been granted an audience with the Pope. She pointed to a chair, swivelled round on her court shoes and left.