The Woman Who Met Her Match

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘Well, there’s Legal Aid,’ Eric offers. ‘Everyone’s entitled to representation if it goes to a tribunal.’

  My stomach shifts uneasily. ‘How can someone like me take Geddes and Cox to a tribunal? They’re enormous!’

  ‘So?’ Eric frowns. ‘They still can’t ride roughshod over their employees. You hear about people winning unfair dismissal cases all the time. Don’t be afraid of taking them on. What are their reasons anyway?’ He snorts derisively. ‘I bet they’re calling it “restructuring”.’

  ‘No, they’re calling it, “You are too old.”’

  ‘For God’s sake, that’s ridiculous!’

  ‘That’s what I said,’ Pearl says vehemently, turning to me. ‘What about the Connaught-Joneses? Maybe they could help?’

  ‘Who are the Connaught-Joneses?’

  ‘Don and Romilly, the couple I worked for in Dubai. They’re both lawyers. They live about ten minutes’ walk away, actually – amazing apartment in a gated development, gym in the basement, a lift to take their car into another basement below that …’

  ‘I’m in the wrong business,’ Eric laughs.

  ‘Yeah, Don’s a criminal defence lawyer but I’m pretty sure Romilly’s area is employment, contracts, that kind of thing … I can check, if you like?’

  An elderly woman with a terrier greets Pearl and Eric before moving on.

  ‘But they’re seriously rich, aren’t they? I mean, they have two nannies—’

  ‘Plus their London nanny who won’t travel abroad, she’s terrified of flying …’

  ‘Okay, three nannies. They didn’t get that way by working for people like me.’

  ‘I don’t mean hiring them officially,’ Pearl says firmly. ‘I mean having an informal chat, that’s all. I can text Romilly, see if she’d be willing to give you a bit of advice. We’re meant to be meeting up anyway, they’re talking about taking me over to Australia in November …’

  ‘That would be great,’ I murmur, trying to quell the growing sense of dread in the pit of my stomach. All this lawyer-talk, the idea that I should go into battle with Geddes and Cox; it feels terrifying, and I wonder if I should be grateful for the chance – at my hoary old age – to embark on a new career in the stock cube world.

  We part company with Eric as we reach the swings.

  ‘Well, good luck,’ he says warmly. ‘Hopefully I’ll run into you sometime – or do pop into the shop. You know where I am. I’d like to hear how it’s all going …’

  I smile. ‘Okay – and thanks for the advice. I could probably do with some of those speciality gins actually.’

  He laughs and gives Rosie’s lead a gentle tug, and off they wander, his spaniel glancing back constantly, clearly not terribly delighted to be going home.

  ‘Nice guy,’ I remark, seeing him glance back, just briefly, before turning the corner and disappearing from sight.

  ‘Oh, yeah, Eric’s lovely.’ Pearl flashes a mischievous smile. ‘There’s something about him, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes, there is, definitely.’ We both smirk as we fall back into step.

  ‘And not just the fact that he owns an off-licence.’

  ‘No, it’s a plus, though,’ I chuckle. ‘You should ask him for a drink sometime. He seems friendly, interested—’

  ‘Interested in you, you mean,’ she teases, flashing a grin.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ I exclaim. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘The way he latched on when you talking about work – all attentive, giving advice …’

  ‘He was just being helpful,’ I say, laughing now, ‘and anyway, it’s you who’s friendly with him.’

  She shakes her head. ‘He’s not remotely interested in that way, and neither am I …’

  ‘Really?’ I study her face. ‘You wouldn’t just like something – you know … casual?’

  ‘No thanks. Not even casual at the moment because casual gets complicated and you know what? I’ve had enough of complicated for a little while.’ She grins, pushing back her short blonde hair. ‘It’s funny, but before Iain took up with Daisy – Christ, why am I talking like a Victorian lady? – I’d occasionally think, wouldn’t it be nice to be single? Like, when he’d forget to take the bins out and I’d have to chase the bin lorry down the street in the morning – in my pyjamas, always the most embarrassing ones – and I’d think, why the heck am I with this person? I mean, what am I getting from this?’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember the bin lorry dash.’ In fact, Pearl seemed to run their home single-handedly whilst childminding full-time, before she moved into lucrative, top-notch nannying with its frequent trips overseas. How lucky I felt, having a man like David, who was fully involved with family life. Until I’d got to know Pearl, it hadn’t occurred to me that there were still men around who had managed to glide into middle age without ever having acquainted themselves with a mop or a bottle of Fairy Liquid. Iain, so often inert in his armchair, crossword to hand, seemed like a throwback from the 1950s.

  ‘And now,’ Pearl continues, ‘I realise I was right all along. About being single, I mean. It actually suits me. I like not having to pretend to enjoy the box sets someone’s obsessed with – just because they want company when they’re watching TV – and I love never being mad about the bins.’ She beams at me. ‘Anyway, what about you? You haven’t told me what happened with Antoine! Come on, I need to know …’

  We stop as Toby strains towards a scattering of pale, fat chips. ‘Tell you what,’ I say, ‘I really should get back and knock some dinner together. Don’t suppose you fancy coming over and I can tell you all about it?’

  By the time we’re back at my house, Pearl is up to speed with the Soho kisses, the Serpentine kisses, the kiss outside Antoine’s boutique hotel before he flew back to Nice … many, many kisses, all recounted, I realise now, in the fervent, frankly obsessive tones of an infatuated teenager. Have things really not moved on since 1986?

  ‘It’s like a film, isn’t it?’ Pearl enthuses, leaning against the sink. ‘First loves reunited. God, Lorrie, how exciting. It’s meant to be!’

  I laugh. ‘One of those films where it all, inevitably, goes horribly wrong and there’s actually a wife at home …’

  She pulls a face. ‘Oh, come on, you don’t really think that, do you?’

  ‘Of course not. And yes, there was something … magical about it, I suppose. Sort of … fireworksy, you know?’ I start to lift components for the dinner from the fridge – half a roast chicken, potato salad, some greenery, a bowl of guacamole, all knocked together by Stu – whilst filling Pearl in on the other aspects of my time spent with Antoine: the ambling and chatting and picnicking, the meanders around Soho simply to stretch out our time together.

  ‘He wants me to visit him in Nice,’ I add as the front door opens.

  ‘Really? Well, you absolutely must go. You have to see him again …’ She turns and greets Stu as he clatters in. ‘Hey, I hear Parsley Force is taking the world by storm, one clump of chervil at a time!’

  He laughs bashfully and pulls off his jacket, leaving an uncharacteristic fine grey wool scarf looped around his neck. ‘It’s doing pretty well, I suppose. We can’t believe it sometimes – how reluctant people are to go to the shops …’ He turns to me. ‘So, what were you two just saying? Who should you definitely see again?’

  ‘Um … Antoine,’ I say brightly.

  I wait for a reaction – a comment on how obsessed I am, or at least an eye roll – but it doesn’t come. Instead, he merely says, ‘Oh, right!’ in an oddly jovial manner, and bends to fuss over Toby who’s sniffing around our kitchen. ‘How are you, little man? Fancy a bit of chicken?’ He tears a sliver of meat off the bird and requests Toby to sit – which he does, obligingly – and pulls off the scarf, perhaps forgetting why it’s there in the first place.

  With a laser-like instinct Pearl spots the offending mark immediately. ‘What’s that bruise, Stu?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he says, quickly turning away.

>   She snorts with laughter. ‘Bit long in the tooth for neck decorations, aren’t you?’ She sniggers some more while Stu protests okay, yeah, it’s pretty hilarious, can we now please let it lie? ‘I’ll never be able to let this lie,’ she announces, greeting Amy as she wanders in with her swimming kit bag slung over her shoulder, followed swiftly by Cam. Thankfully, the kids have either failed to notice the love bite, or are so horrified that they cannot bear to speak of it.

  As we all sit down to dinner, out it all comes about my terrible meeting this morning, and the fact that Sonia clearly wants me out. Naturally, everyone is aghast.

  ‘You can’t let them get away with this,’ Stu asserts, echoing Eric’s opinion earlier.

  ‘What about the French ladies?’ Amy asks, dark eyes wide with concern. ‘Can’t they stick up for you?’

  I shake my head. ‘I doubt if they’re even involved anymore. Anyway, I don’t want you worrying, okay?’ I muster a smile. ‘There must be something else I can do, if it comes to that …’

  ‘’Course there is,’ Cam says, patting my arm very sweetly before I switch the conversation to the more cheering topic of Parsley Force.

  As Stu regales Pearl with tales of the more bizarre items he’s been called upon to deliver, it strikes me that this is my family now, the one I’ve made for myself, and I really couldn’t ask for anything more.

  Amazingly, Pearl is not only familiar with, but has actually tasted pule cheese. ‘The Connaught-Joneses had it delivered when they were in Dubai. It’s one of the most expensive cheeses in the world, made from Balkan donkeys—’

  ‘It’s made from donkeys?’ Amy exclaims.

  ‘Well, their milk, obviously, and there are only about a hundred of the right kind of donkey, and that’s why it’s so expensive.’

  Cam and Amy look amazed.

  ‘I like the stuff with the orange skin,’ Amy announces and we all agree that, really, food poncery has shot off the scale, and what could be better, really, than a simple roast chicken like this?

  ‘Especially when I do it,’ Stu remarks.

  I nod, setting my cutlery down on my empty plate. ‘I have to admit, you are the best roaster of chickens I’ve ever known.’

  ‘And that,’ Stu says with a teasing grin, ‘is the most touching thing anyone’s ever said to me.’

  It’s almost 11 p.m. when we see Pearl out, yet she shrugs off the suggestion that Stu should walk her home. ‘What, when I have this little man to protect me from harm?’ she laughs. Toby, no more threatening than a hot- water-bottle cover, looks up with adoration in his eyes.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure …’ At the sound of his phone trilling from the kitchen, Stu races to retrieve it, leaving us alone on the doorstep.

  ‘So,’ Pearl prompts me, ‘what d’you think about going to Nice?’

  I smile, turning the possibility over in my head. I am on gardening leave. Amy is going to Portugal tomorrow, and Cam is perfectly capable of looking after himself. There is not one reason why I shouldn’t go … unless Antoine has had a change of heart? Now, that would be humiliating … ‘I’ll see,’ I murmur. ‘Stu will probably think I’ve completely lost my mind.’

  Pearl frowns as she loops Toby’s lead around her wrist. ‘It’s not about Stu, though, is it?’

  ‘No, of course it’s not.’

  ‘Do what’s right for you. That’s what’s important …’

  I laugh, inhaling a lungful of cool night air. ‘Sonia Richardson said something like that this morning.’

  ‘Yes, but the difference is, I mean it.’ We hug, and I watch her making her way along our well-kept terraced street with its shuttered windows, pausing as Toby sniffs at a doorway.

  Turning back into the hallway, I climb our stairs and curl up on my bed with my mobile and compose a text. Hi Antoine, I know this is very short notice but I have an unexpected week off work and could come to visit you this coming weekend. Would that be okay, if I can book a flight for Friday?

  I roll over onto my back, gaze fixed upon the ceiling rose, vaguely aware of Stu heading out into the night. The kids are still pottering around; they are often up later than me these days. I have friends with older children, and when I realised this happened – that their offspring no longer trotted obligingly to bed at 8 p.m. – the concept seemed terrifying. What if these crazy young people decided to make chips, or poked knives into the toaster? Of course, none of that happened because they were virtually grown-up, as mine are now. In reality, there’s just amiable chatting downstairs, then music played at a respectfully low level in Cam’s room.

  My phone pings. That’s wonderful news! I have some time to take off. Please let me know when you’re arriving and I’ll be there to meet you at the airport. So looking forward to seeing you again, A x.

  I smile and pull on my pyjamas, bringing my laptop into bed with me – not to ogle his Facebook photos this time but to book a flight to Nice. Then, despite Nigel Wareing’s folder of documents currently sitting on my bedside table, I drift away happily, knowing that the day after tomorrow I will be back in the arms of the frankly – and Frenchly – delectable Antoine Rousseau.

  It feels, as Pearl put it, as if it was meant to be.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Amy is leaving for Portugal. On this hot and heady Thursday afternoon she leaps out of our car and hugs Bella. Ours looks like a dented boot sale toy compared to the Kentons’ enormous vehicle. Their vast silver beast occupies two parking spaces and is currently being loaded with suitcases by Gerry, Bella’s rugby-loving father.

  ‘Call us any time, Lorrie,’ Cecily insists, chivvying her kids to do up their seatbelts while dispatching orders to Gerry to go back inside to fetch the iPad and remember to turn on the burglar alarm.

  ‘Thanks so much for taking her,’ I say. ‘She’s been counting the days.’

  I look at her family and sense a snag of – what exactly? Envy? Probably, yes. It’s not the car, the immaculate three-storey townhouse, or even the Kentons’ holiday villa on the Algarve that I covet. It’s being part of the excitement as they all jostle and joke, revving up for an adventure, finally silenced by a strident Cecily as she smooths back her dishevelled hair and shouts, ‘Right, you lot! Shut up for a minute or we’ll forget something vital.’ She beams at me. ‘Sure you don’t want to squeeze in?’

  ‘Thanks,’ I laugh, ‘but I’m going away myself tomorrow – to Nice.’

  ‘Nice? Oh – that’s where Gerry and I had our first weekend away. God, that feels like a lifetime ago. What a beautiful city – lucky you.’ She hugs me, and I manage to gather up Amy and hold her tightly before she slips away and hops into the car.

  Although the kids know I’m going away – and that I’m visiting Antoine – it’s of little concern; now there are no hilarious stories about derelict teeth or stinky tweed jackets, they seem to have lost interest in my dating endeavours. I have yet to tell Stu, and am aware that I’m actively putting it off, but never mind that now because Amy is waving, and Cecily and Bella too, and in a blur of yelled goodbyes, they’re off. A lump forms in my throat as I watch them disappear around the corner. They’re only going for a week, but it still feels like a wrench to see my daughter heading off so happily. With a sharp pang, I realise it’s those family holidays with David that I’m missing right now.

  I drive home, wondering whether parental unease about separation ever leaves a person. As I park close to my house, I take a moment to reflect that, if Cam decides to apply for a sound engineering course out of London, he might be leaving soon for good – and Amy will follow and then, well, it’ll be just Stu and me.

  ‘Hi,’ I call out as I let myself into the hallway.

  ‘Hi,’ Stu replies from the kitchen. I find him standing by the sink, looking rather awkward, clutching a mug of coffee. ‘Amy get off okay?’

  ‘Yep, without a backwards glance,’ I say, smiling. ‘So, er …’

  ‘So, um …’ We both stop, and I frown at him.

  ‘Everythin
g okay?’ I ask lightly.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he says quickly. ‘I, um, noticed your boarding card – you left it on the coffee table …’

  ‘Oh.’ I sense my cheeks burning. ‘Yes, I was going to tell you. Just haven’t had the chance—’ I go to fill the kettle, splashing the front of my top with the cold tap.

  ‘You don’t need my permission, Lorrie.’

  I turn and meet his gaze. His eyes are guarded, his mouth a flat line as he plonks his mug on the table. ‘No, I know that. But of course I was going to mention it …’

  ‘So, tomorrow, eh?’

  ‘That’s right …’ My scalp prickles with unease.

  ‘Well, I think it’s great!’ He forces a smile and thrusts his hands into his jeans pockets. Leaning against the cooker now, he has the demeanour of an awkward teenager being forced to make conversation with his friend’s mother.

  ‘D’you really mean that?’ I venture.

  ‘Yeah. I mean, why shouldn’t you go? After all that crap you’ve had at work lately …’ He tails off. ‘Anyway, I have something to tell you too, and I’m sorry – I know it’s shitty timing …’

  I frown. ‘What is it?’

  He exhales loudly. ‘Look – the last thing I want to do is leave you in the lurch, so I’ll pay rent until you find someone. I know you’ll say no but I insist, okay? It’s the least I can do—’

  ‘Stu,’ I cut in, ‘what are you talking about?’

  He meets my gaze, and now my insides seem to knot tightly together as I realise what he’s trying to tell me. ‘It’s just … with Bob’s new place. It’s a hell of a mortgage he’s taken on. He just mentioned it in passing, and we thought it’d be, I don’t know, maybe handier if I moved into his spare room?’ He looks down at the floor.

  I stare at him. ‘Handier? Handier for what?’

  ‘Well, you know – for business stuff. Getting the website set up, the blog, all that stuff he’s always going on about and giving me a hard time for not doing …’ It’s an excuse, and we both know it. They have managed perfectly well so far. They have phones, for goodness’ sake, and Bob only lives a couple of miles away. Communication is possible. ‘It’s been great living here,’ Stu continues, cheeks flushing now, ‘and this is a fantastic house – so handy for everything, five minutes’ walk to the tube …’