Charlie’s funeral is at Tuckwitt Church, 25th Jan, 11am. Please try to come. Also – a heads up – I may be using my Christmas present from you soon and ringing you, as I will need a friend’s cheerful voice. Your presence on the 25th is one of the few things about the day I will be looking forward to. Dress code: black and glamorous.
Love to you
Robin (and Charlie) xx
She turned the bag over in her hands and knew exactly how Charlie’s mother must have felt. She could quite happily have put it on her dressing table and stared at it for hours. It must be worth a small fortune.
‘I can’t accept it,’ she said. ‘It’s far too much.’
‘Yes you can,’ said Bridge firmly. ‘Charlie wanted you to have it and enjoy it, so you must. For him. So long as you promise you’d parade it. It will have made him happy to think he was giving it to you. I shall wear my scarf to the funeral and you must take your bag. If that doesn’t fit in with the dress code, nothing will.’
‘Do you really think I should, Bridge?’ she asked.
‘Absolutely,’ said Bridge. Charlie had an obvious soft spot for Mary. Who didn’t? Bridge only wished she had been like this young woman herself at that age: someone who recognised her own worth, who was brave and competent while still retaining a gentleness.
‘Then I’ll keep it.’
Bridge crossed to the fridge, took out a bottle of champagne. She always had a bottle in there waiting for an occasion. Once upon a time, she thought it would be the most glamorous thing ever to do, so now she did it.
She ripped into the foil, twisted the wire, covered the mushroom cork with a tea towel as she popped it so it didn’t fly off and break one of her very expensive glass lights.
‘We are going to drink a toast, to Charlie,’ she said, swooping up two flutes and filling them.
‘To Charlie.’
They chinked and drank, the bubbles raced down their throats.
Bridge looked at Mary as she drank; she had changed even in the very short time she had stayed here, was shedding a previous self like a skin. Tomorrow, Mary was going to have a consultation with Bridge’s hair stylist, Russ. Then they were both going shopping afterwards. Mary said she wanted a whole new set of clothes to match her new life: she was planning to buy something bright, something that would pull her out of the shadows.
Mary Padgett owned a Chanel handbag; Bridge would do her best to make sure her young friend never slid back into the shadows again.
Chapter 36
Mr Chikafuji was still giving Jack the runaround. He said, or rather his PA did, that he could not fit an appointment in to see Jack until August now. He persisted in being impossible to get hold of and his office was habitually lax in returning calls. Jack, in sheer desperation, took a leaf out of Luke’s book and suggested a video conference, but Chikafuji would not be pinned down even for that. But in that first week of the new year, a much smaller bakery chain in Japan had approached Jack asking to do business with Butterly’s. The MD, a Mrs Anmitsu, appeared as keen to start the ball rolling quickly as Mr Chikafuji wasn’t. Mrs Anmitsu didn’t have time for face-to-face meetings as she had a young family, so Jack and Mrs Anmitsu had trans-continental video calls and he realised he could conduct business quite adequately like that without having to stare into the whites of her eyes. Mrs Anmitsu was direct and completely devoid of bullshit so Jack took a chance that this Japanese bird in the hand was better than two in the Bonsai. He’d not only saved a lot of expense but time. And Jack was determined this new year to make sure that he had plenty of spare time in reserve – for life, and that he wouldn’t fill it with work. He didn’t want a life/work balance that resembled a see-saw with a toddler on one end and an eighteen-stone fully-grown bloke on the other. He wanted, as Luke had, as Charlie had found, balance.
Kimberley had been drafted over as a PA fill-in for Jack until he found a suitable permanent replacement for Mary. He couldn’t look at her without thinking of the snowwoman with the slit for a mouth, small bird-like eyes and blob for a nose. She wasn’t bad at the job, but she wasn’t – say it Jack, said a voice inside him – she wasn’t Mary. Not by a long chalk. Also, she seemed to have been morphing into a parody of Marilyn Monroe since she came back to work after the Christmas holiday and discovered that Mary had left. Kimberley had automatically presumed she was first in line for the position and was doing her level best to secure it, using all her feminine wiles. Her clothes had got tighter, her lipstick redder and she had started sashaying everywhere. Or trying to, which resulted in any drinks she was carrying being sloshed over the side of the mug and onto the linoleum.
Jack sipped the coffee she had just brought him – too weak, too much milk – and wondered if Mary had seen the entry he wrote in the House of Quills red diary yet. If she had, what had she made of it? What could she make of it? What was she supposed to even do about it? It was as weak as this awful coffee. He hadn’t even specified a time, or what the arrangements were. Why didn’t he write, ‘Firenze, 8pm, Jack will pick me up at home’, direct and strong – well, in so far as writing a sneaky note in a diary went. Why hadn’t he bitten the bullet and asked her outright if she’d like to go out to dinner with him? Why hadn’t he been a ship that sailed out of the harbour into an open sea of uncertainty, in pursuit of the treasures of excitement, pleasure, love, instead of sending out a rubber dinghy with an idiot pilot to act as scout?
Jack picked up a biscuit from the plate, a choice of a bourbon finger, a garibaldi and a malted milk. Mary knew he hated those, would have put a pink wafer, a jam ring and chocolate digestive on the plate. He’d barely noticed her when she was here and yet he felt her loss deeply now. Butterly’s just didn’t run the same without her, like a machine that functioned perfectly and all the cogs got the credit for it, until the oil dried up and the real master of operations was uncovered.
A knock on the door. Kimberley’s boobs entered a moment before she did. He tried not to look at them, but it was difficult as they took up a good portion of the office.
‘Someone’s just dropped off a parcel for you,’ she said and put it down on the desk. He caught a blast of scent newly applied, heavy and cloying. Mary’s fragrance was light, like a summer flower garden on a warm, balmy evening. Funny, he didn’t even realise he remembered it enough to compare.
‘Thank you, Kimberley. Have a nice weekend.’
But Kimberley didn’t leave, just continued to hover until he was forced to look away from his screen and up at her.
‘Er, I was just wondering about the prospect of this position being permanent,’ she said. ‘Now Mary’s left you in the lurch.’
He felt a mini flare of annoyance on Mary’s behalf and decided, on the spur of that moment, to do something about it, as the opportunity had arisen.
‘Why don’t you sit down and I’ll interview you for it now?’ said Jack.
‘Really?’ Kimberley smiled and Jack thought her mouth looked strangely like a letterbox.
She sat in the chair at the other side of his desk after wriggling her skirt down, back straight, ready to convince Jack of her suitability.
‘So,’ began Jack, ‘we can skip a lot of the preliminaries and get straight to the nitty-gritty. How long have you been working for Butterly’s?’
‘Four years and three months. I came from an agency for a part-time position originally but was taken on as full-time permanent staff almost immediately.’
‘And what do you see as the difference between working for me as opposed to working in finance?’
‘I’m a qualified PA,’ she answered, as if that was self-evident. ‘I’ve been waiting for an opening for a long time in my chosen field. I want to do what I was trained to do. I have qualifications in typing and shorthand and I am a competent audio typist and diary keeper. I can work by myself without the need for supervision and as a team member. And, as you ask for me personally to fill in on such occasions whenever your regular PA is absent, it would be easy to presume that my servi
ces are satisfactory to your exacting standards.’
Clearly, Kimberley had learned this by rote in preparation for such a dialogue, thought Jack.
‘So you think you’re a team player,’ said Jack, tapping his pen against his desk. He really did have to address this point all guns blazing, felt a bubble of mischief fizzing in his voice box.
‘I most certainly am. And I’d be a wonderful ambassador for the company.’
Right into my hands, thought Jack.
‘And if I… for instance, asked you to procure a suitable gift for a client, in order to impress them, how would you be able to cope with that particular duty?’
Kimberley beamed, tossed a newly highlighted curl back over her shoulder.
‘I’d be very confident. I have a good eye for quality and I love shopping.’
‘What about… someone within the company? An important member of staff for instance?’
‘The same,’ said Kimberley. ‘I’d make an informed match of product to person.’
‘You wouldn’t, then, buy a frumpy, insulting present for a woman in her early twenties.’
A pause. ‘Don’t think so.’ That smile not quite so sure now.
‘Or buy her a bottle of old lady perfume, a tartan shopping bag, a headscarf square for her or… jellied fruits?’
Kimberley’s face went from porcelain to traffic-light red faster than his Maserati went from zero to sixty.
Jack continued. ‘And if a member of staff was going through a particularly hard time in their personal life and I asked you to send them an email enquiring if they had any idea when they’d be returning to work, always mindful of the sensitivity of the situation so that they were in no doubt their welfare was considered… need I go on?’
Kimberley gulped, once, twice, opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, carried on colouring forward to puce.
‘I thought not. I need to be able to trust a PA absolutely, the way I trusted Mary. You see, Kimberley, I can’t tell you how good Mary was at her job, how brilliant, how perfect because she did it so well, I didn’t notice until she stopped doing it. Ironic isn’t it? She was too valuable to be let down in the way she was by Butterly’s and I wouldn’t want that to happen to any member of my staff again. I bear the responsibility of not writing to her myself when her father died, or buying her Christmas presents that reflected her worth instead of leaving it to someone else who put chagrin above duty to me. It was totally remiss of me to delegate in both cases, but still… I think you can guess where I’m going with this. Have a nice weekend. You’ll be returning to finance on Monday, I’ll organise a temp to fill in until I can find a permanent replacement for Mary, because I don’t think you’re quite what I’m looking for.’
Kimberley got up, her face reddening further, which Jack didn’t think was possible. She looked not unlike a radish with high blood pressure and he appeared to have killed her sashay stone dead.
Jack smiled as the door closed. If only Mary had been here to witness the moment of revenge on Kimberley that was hers by rights. If only she could feel the regret that was sitting like a jagged boulder inside him so she could savour her revenge on him too. He should have stood by that slit-mouthed snowwoman and said, ‘Look Mary, I don’t want you to take any other job because you are the cleverest, most intuitive, best person I know and I don’t want to imagine you not being in my life. I want you to accept a whopping big pay rise because I think you’ve more than earned it, and much more than that, I want to take you out to dinner because I think you’re fucking gorgeous and I wish I’d kissed you when we were carol singing.’
But he hadn’t, he’d shaken her hand and wished her well. His head fell into his hands and he groaned aloud. What a plonker.
He wondered what she was doing now, how she was faring working for Bridge who had been a PA herself and would recognise her worth without having to be starved of it first. He sighed, logged out of his Mac and remembered the parcel Kimberley had brought in. A rectangular box wrapped in brown paper, a handwritten address in beautiful script. He opened it up to find a note stuck to a brown box, bearing the insignia of a gold knight on horseback, the word BURBERRY underneath.
Dear Jack
I hope this finds you well.
I’m afraid to inform you that my wonderful Charlie passed away on the day we all left Figgy Hollow. He whispered away in his sleep, his end was peaceful, happy but always too soon. His funeral is on 25th January, 11am at Tuckwitt Church (dress code: black and dashing) and I would love for you to be there with us.
Charlie left me instructions to send you a gift for you to use, but also another for you to read. There’s a note on the title page. Another one of his ‘Rules of Life by a Man who Lived Well’ and he did live very well, Jack.
Your presence on the 25th will be a light spot in a dark day and I do hope you can make it and the Figgy Hollow Six can be reunited for the last time.
Fondest regards
Robin (and Charlie) x
Jack made an audible ‘ah’ of sadness. News that wasn’t unexpected, of course, but he’d hoped that Charlie was still with Robin, living out his last days in comfort and kindness. He opened the box to find a folded cashmere scarf with a repeating pattern of an equestrian knight logo. Sitting on top of it was a copy of Persuasion, the old battered one that he’d brought down from his room on Christmas Eve so Charlie could read it. He opened it to the title page and read.
Love is a risky, frightening business. What if it doesn’t work out? But my goodness – WHAT IF IT DOES! Be as brave as a knight in matters of love, my dear Jack, and read this book from cover to cover for guidance.
With my kindest wishes
Your friend Charlie Glaser x
It wasn’t Jack’s usual sort of read, but he would, for Charlie. Maybe he’d see why he and Mary had been discussing it so fervently. Mary again. All roads led back to Mary.
The notepad full of Charlie’s nuggets of wisdom sat in his office drawer. Occasionally he would hear them, read out in Charlie’s voice: Meet the requirements of your requirements. And the one about the ships in harbours had been branded onto the folds of his brain.
Jack closed up the office, he would not be coming back until Monday. He was switching off the phone, having lunch with Roman and Georgie tomorrow, moseying around an antiques fair on Sunday. He drove his Maserati home, parked up in front of his super plush dream house and pushed open the front door, switched on the lights. It had felt even emptier recently, more echoey. It was a beautiful house, but a lonely shell, not unlike himself. He wished he had someone to share it with, share himself with. And he could not get Mary Padgett and her blue-green eyes out of his head, nor the joie de vivre that hung around her like the best sort of perfume.
In short, he didn’t just miss Mary, he really missed Mary.
Chapter 37
Luke walked into the house to find Carmen in the kitchen cutting tags off baby clothes.
‘I know, I know, I shouldn’t buy before the baby comes,’ she said, ‘but just a few. Look.’ She held up a tiny white cardigan with ducks for buttons. ‘Isn’t it cute? I can’t wait.’ She pressed her hand to her stomach and addressed the growing bump. ‘Are you listening, baby? Mama has clothes for you.’
Luke gave her a kiss. He loved everything about this woman: her accent, her scent, the feel of her, the look of her. He couldn’t wait to marry her and they could make plans now the divorce was finally underway. It was weird how much spiritually lighter he felt not having the strain of it playing like a constant annoying backing track.
‘Oh, Luke, there is some post for you. It came this morning.’ Carmen reached over and handed him a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. The address was handwritten in elegant scroll. Inside was a black box with a designer logo – the head of Medusa.
‘Versace?’ said Carmen, her chin resting on his shoulder. ‘Who has been sending you expensive presents?’
Inside the box was a note, and under it an elegant black wallet, again
bearing the head of Medusa in gold, at the bottom right-hand corner.
My dear Luke
I hope this finds you well.
I have bad news. I’m afraid my wonderful Charlie sadly passed, not long after we waved goodbye to you. It was quick and peaceful, which in time will bring me some comfort I’m sure, but not at the moment. His funeral is at Tuckwitt Church, 11am on 25th January, dress code: black and smart. Please come, let us all be the Figgy Hollow Six for the last time.
Charlie asked me to send this wallet to you. He bought it but never used it. He always said he intended to give it away to someone whom it would suit more than him. The Medusa logo is very interesting because she had a gift of making people fall in love with her and making it almost impossible for them to unlove her again. You are as magnetic as she, Charlie said. We both grew so very fond of you in our short time together.
Please come and say hello to me on the 25th, and say goodbye to Charlie.
With my very best wishes
Robin xx
‘Oh no,’ said Luke, shaking his head regretfully. ‘That’s so very very sad. Charlie died.’
‘Ah, I’m so sorry, Luke. You will go to the funeral of course,’ said Carmen.
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ said Luke.
25 January
Chapter 38
The weather couldn’t have been more different than it was a month to the date ago. After the coldest December for many years, England was experiencing the mildest January on record. The sun had been bright in the sky since the new year and had fooled the bulbs of snowdrops, hyacinths and crocuses to pop out early from the soil. The trees were sprouting leaves and blossom buds were forming; the grass was verdant after being so hydrated. The day of Charlie’s funeral could have been one of spring May, not mid-winter. Only more of the same was forecast.
I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day Page 30
