by Fiore, Rosie
‘It’s mostly under your hair, so you should barely be aware of a scar,’ said the doctor, pulling off her gloves. ‘Now I know you’ve had a bad bang on the head and you feel pretty rotten. I don’t think you’re concussed, but it’s best if someone keeps an eye on you for the next twenty-four hours.’ She looked meaningfully at Fraser.
‘Oh, it won’t be him,’ said Holly cheerfully. ‘He has to get back to his wife.’
The doctor was far too professional to say anything, but Holly saw her press her lips together disapprovingly. She suddenly felt awful. Had she made Fraser look like a faithless bastard, in A&E with his battered floozy on Christmas morning? She looked over at him, and saw that he too had his lips pressed tightly together, but it was because he was trying not to laugh out loud. She noticed that he had a very appealing twinkle in his eye when he smiled. He pulled himself together.
‘Shall we get you home? We wouldn’t want your turkey to be all dried out.’
‘Indeed we wouldn’t. I like a nice moist turkey.’ Holly said, getting up, and for some reason, that set them both off, and they left the A&E chortling together.
As they drove back to David’s house, Fraser said, ‘So what do you do? For a living, I mean.’
‘I work in kids’ clothing. I supply the clothes for a new shop in North London. I design and make some, and source the others. If you’re ever in that neck of the woods, do pop by. Finlay would love it. It’s like a combination play area and clothes shop, especially for boys.’
‘Sounds scary.’
‘Well, I think it’s pretty cool.’ She pulled her wallet from her pocket and extracted a business card, which she put on his rather dusty dashboard. ‘Well, if you’re ever passing …’ she said, ‘or your wife is, you should check it out. Or she should. I know it’s unlikely, but if you ever do visit London …’ She needed to stop talking. She was beginning to ramble. It must be the blow to the head. It couldn’t be that she was attracted to this man – he was someone else’s husband, for heaven’s sake. She had to get a grip. She closed her mouth firmly and vowed not to speak again for the rest of the journey. There was an odd and awkward pause and she was aware of Fraser glancing sideways at her.
‘Where is your shop?’ he asked.
Damn. Now she had to speak to answer his question. ‘East Finchley. The address is on the card,’ she said.
‘That’s not a million miles from me,’ he said. ‘I live in Acton.’
‘But I thought …’
‘Finlay lives with his mum. We’re separated. I’m only here for Christmas Day.’
Well, that was a very interesting turn of events, thought Holly. But before she could ask any questions, they pulled up outside David’s house.
Fraser insisted on taking her inside and speaking to the whole family. He gave them some advice on painkillers and on what symptoms to look out for should Holly become unwell. He apologised to Holly again, and to the family for disrupting their Christmas Day. They all seemed charmed by him, and Judith, who had been sitting quietly by the window, surprised them all by smiling and saying, ‘Do stay for a drink, Dr John!’
He turned to look at her, and crossed the room to shake her hand. ‘You must be Holly’s mum,’ he said, smiling gently. ‘I see her in you.’
‘I am.’ Judith’s smile was almost girlish.
Fraser took her hand. ‘I’m very sorry I can’t stay. I wish you well, all of you. Have a good Christmas.’ And he was gone.
When Holly went through into the living room, Miranda made a fuss of her and insisted she sit down in a comfortable chair. She dashed off to get Holly a cup of sweet tea. Martha came over, shyly at first, and then, emboldened, peered at the stitched cut on Holly’s head. Eventually she clambered on to the arm of the chair and proceeded to give Holly an almost forensically detailed examination. She kept saying, ‘Is it sore? Is it very sore?’ with a small child’s ghoulish fascination.
With Miranda and family in the room, the mood lifted a little and Christmas lunch was a reasonably jolly affair, marred a little for Holly by the fact that she was sitting opposite her mother, whose pathetic demeanour was beginning to get right on her nerves. The food was delicious, but Judith pushed hers around her plate without actually eating any of it. Knowing her, she was probably offended that Desiree had cooked the entire meal without her help or advice. It was such an attention-seeking ploy that Holly wanted to shake her. Once David had polished off a bottle of good claret, he proceeded to regale the company with the story of Holly’s femme-fatale appearance at the party the previous evening. At first Holly thought Desiree must have had a good whinge to him, but it turned out the most corpulent and unattractive of David’s professor friends had rung up asking for Holly while she was at the hospital, and had made it clear to David what a hit she had been with the men at the party. Paul, Miranda’s husband, joined in the teasing, and Holly tried to smile and take it in good part, but her head was aching and all she really wanted to do was crawl into bed. She couldn’t drink any alcohol, because of the blow to her head and the painkillers, and as result, the afternoon seemed very long. As soon as the kids had opened their presents after lunch, she made her excuses and went up to her room. Miranda called after her that she would check on her every half an hour, but Holly didn’t care. She slipped between the sheets with a sigh of relief and closed her eyes.
As she dozed off, it occurred to her that there would be worse things than crawling into bed with handsome Doctor Fraser John. Just for a cuddle, of course. She hoped very much that he might take her up on her invitation and pop by the shop, or even just ring her. Well, well, well. Maybe she was back in the game. It had turned into a rather interesting Christmas after all.
11
HOLLY NOW
‘New year, new energy, new changes!’ Holly announced, spreading her arms wide as she came through the door on the first trading day after the Christmas break.
‘Aren’t changes new by definition? Isn’t that tautology?’ said Jo, glancing up from the sheet of paper she was looking at.
‘Tautology? Is that the study of taut, muscled male bodies?’ said Holly, bounding over and kissing Jo on the cheek. ‘Happy new year, m’dear.’
‘And to you.’
‘Speaking of changes … new glasses?’
‘Not new – first glasses. I’m devastated. I’ve never needed them before. Suddenly, over Christmas, I realised I couldn’t read the instructions on a packet of fish fingers, and when I read anything else I had to hold it really far away. Lee made me go and get my eyes tested. And here we are: Grandma Jo.’
‘No, not so much grandma, more sexy librarian, I’d have said. What do you think, Mel?’ Mel had just come in from the back room, carrying a stack of folded T-shirts.
‘About what?’
‘Jo’s glasses.’
‘Glasses? Oh. Are they new? Did you not have them before?’ said Mel. She sounded distracted. She looked round for somewhere to put the T-shirts.
‘Everything okay, Mel?’ asked Jo. ‘How was your Christmas?’
‘Oh, it was okay,’ said Mel, sounding none too convinced. ‘Same old, same old. It was lovely, but Serena’s dad got it into his head that it was appropriate to give her a laptop for Christmas.’
‘A laptop? Wow. She must be thrilled.’
‘She was. So thrilled that she hasn’t come out from behind it for more than ten minutes since she got it. We had to prise it out of her hands to make her join us for Christmas dinner.’
‘I suppose you have all the parental controls things set up on it.’
‘Well, yes – our friend Hamish was there and he works in IT, so he set it all up.’
‘Should be fine then, shouldn’t it?’
‘Should it? I mean, I’m a computer moron. I use email a bit, but I’m not on Facebook or Twitter or anything. I wouldn’t have a clue what sites she’s going to or what she’s doing.’
‘I don’t know a lot,’ said Jo, ‘but I think if your mate set controls, there
’ll be a limit to what she can access. Did he give you passwords and stuff?’
‘Yes. He asked me for ones I could remember, so I’ve got all that written down and tucked away in my underwear drawer. I know she’d never go looking in there.’
‘What does she say she’s doing?’ asked Holly.
‘Oh, you know, chatting to friends, playing games, watching videos on YouTube …’
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ said Holly soothingly. ‘Probably useful for homework and stuff. Just give her a little talkingto. Tell her never to share personal information like her phone number or where she lives with anyone she doesn’t know.’
‘I can tell her,’ said Mel dubiously, ‘but to be honest, telling Serena things hasn’t got me anywhere for a while.’ She tried to smile. ‘So how were your Christmases? Holly?’
‘Well, on Christmas morning I got whacked on the head by a boomerang hurled by a handsome doctor and ended up in A&E.’
‘Of course you did. Is that a euphemism for something rude that you young people do that I wouldn’t understand?’
‘No, I really did. I took my brother’s dog for a walk and got brained by a boomerang. Look.’ Holly lifted her hair and showed them the scar. She’d had the stitches out the day before, and the scar was a neat, but still livid, red line.
‘Good grief,’ said Jo. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine. It made Christmas more interesting and slightly less deadly than it might have been. I tell you something though. If I’ve learned anything this festive season, it’s that I have to get out of my mother’s house. She’s drooping around like a wilting lily and it’s driving me completely mad.’
‘I don’t know how you’ve stuck it for so long,’ Jo observed. ‘I know I couldn’t go back and live with my parents now. I did it for a while after uni, and it was a nightmare. Once you’ve lived independently, it’s hard to go back.’
‘I think I was in such a state when I first arrived back from South Africa, I didn’t really think about it. But it’s definitely time. I thought I might look for somewhere in this area. Where would you recommend?’
‘Well, you want somewhere where it’ll be easy to get to and from work, with reasonable access into town, I should think,’ Jo said.
‘And I guess somewhere not too expensive,’ Mel chipped in.
‘Exactly,’ Holly said. ‘I’d like a place of my own, even if it is just a studio. I think I’m getting too old to share.’
‘Hang on a sec,’ said Jo, dashing into the back room and coming back with the local paper. ‘We can have a look in here. Even if there isn’t anything you like, you can get an idea of prices and locations, and maybe pick up the names of a few estate agents.’
‘Shouldn’t we be getting ready to open up?’ asked Holly.
‘Things are actually pretty much ready,’ Jo said. ‘I came in yesterday to get things organised. I’ve set up all the sale rails and repriced everything. All we have to do is unlock the door and hope the hordes descend. Now come on, let’s find you a flat.’
They went through every page of the property supplement, and at the end of the exercise, Holly felt really down. Anything in East Finchley, Muswell Hill or its environs was right out of her price range. Places towards Finchley Central weren’t cheap either, and if she thought of going further out, to Colindale or Edgware, transport links became more of a problem. Perhaps she would have to consider a flat share after all.
The day was pretty quiet, and they certainly weren’t overwhelmed with customers. By mid-afternoon, Jo was beginning to get a bit antsy, so Holly sat down at the computer and designed a simple and bright sales flyer. She called Jo into the office to see the design. ‘I’ll go to the print shop and get a few hundred run off, and then I’ll walk around and pop them through people’s doors.’
‘Thanks,’ said Jo, patting her on the shoulder. ‘That’s a great idea.’
An hour and a half later, Holly began working her way up and down the residential roads that led off the high street, slipping a leaflet through each door. It was already dark, a crisp and clear January evening. She admired the big old houses as she walked along: the few where the curtains were not closed revealed warm, beautifully decorated interiors. As she reached the end of one road, she came upon an entrance to a pretty park. Now this would be a great place to live, she thought. In the next road along, she began working her way up one side of the road when a flash of yellow on the opposite side caught her eye. It was a hand-lettered sign Sellotaped on the downstairs window. ‘Top-floor flat to let. One bedroom,’ it said, and below, ‘Enquire within.’
Holly didn’t hesitate. She crossed the road and knocked on the door. The house was old. The outside hadn’t been recently renovated like the houses either side of it, but it was clean and well kept. There was a tidy front garden with rose bushes, and the front door was a dark bottle green with an old-fashioned rippled glass panel. At first it seemed as if there was no one home, although she could see lights on inside. But after a longish wait, she saw someone walking slowly towards the door. It creaked open, and Holly saw an elderly man. He seemed very old, maybe eighty or more, and extremely thin. He didn’t look frail though, and he had a strong, angular face and eyes that looked at her sharply.
‘Er, hello,’ she said. ‘I saw your sign in the window. Is the flat still available?’
‘Who are you looking for?’ said the man. ‘You and a bloke? You and three kids? A friend and ten other friends?’
‘No, just me. Me and … well, me. I work around the corner.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I’m the designer and clothing buyer for Jungletown, the children’s clothing shop.’
‘And you get paid a proper salary?’
‘I do.’
‘I’d need to see evidence of that. Boyfriends?’
‘None right now, and never more than one at a time.’
She rather liked his blunt, almost rude manner. He clearly wasn’t going to let her through the door if he didn’t like the answers to his questions.
‘And where are you living now?’
‘With my mum in Ealing. I lived in South Africa for ten years, and came back to the UK six months ago.’
He peered at her for a long moment. ‘All right. You can have a look,’ he said grudgingly, and opened the door wider. There was a small hallway area, and then two matching doors, side by side. They were both smooth, golden wood, not painted or varnished, but oiled, with old-fashioned, gleaming brass doorknobs. Holly stepped into the hallway. The old man took a key from a hook on the wall and unlocked the right-hand door. As he pushed it open, he suddenly turned back to Holly. ‘You’re not in a band, are you? Or an orchestra? I’m not having a bloody violin screeching above my head at all hours.’
‘No. You might sometimes hear a sewing machine, but that’s about it.’
He nodded, and stumped off up the stairs. Holly followed him.
The staircase was the same oiled wood as the door, with a satin-smooth banister rail. Although it was dark, the street lighting revealed that there was a jewel-coloured stained-glass window on the landing. They got to the top of the stairs and the old man flicked a light-switch. The flat was simply beautiful. There were two big rooms, simply decorated, with high, pressed steel ceilings and polished wooden floors. The period details had been carefully restored. There was a small kitchen, newly refitted with blond wood cupboards and a granite countertop. The bathroom had floor-to-ceiling tiles in a dove grey and elegant fittings that looked brand new. It didn’t look like a rental property at all; it looked like someone had spent time and money to make a beautiful home. Holly stood in the middle of the living room and looked around. She would love to live there, but she knew straight away it would be way out of her price range. The old man watched her, and waited for her to say something.
‘It’s lovely. Just lovely,’ she said. ‘What an amazing renovation job.’
‘I did it all myself,’ said the man, and for the first time, the gr
uff edge was gone from his voice and there was a hint of pride. ‘My wife and I bought this house in 1963, and we lived here all our married lives. She died two years ago. Nearly fifty years we had together.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, you’re not sorry. Of course you’re not. You never knew her.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘Yes, well. The kids couldn’t get on my back fast enough to sell the place and move to a “retirement community”.’ He spat the last two words as if they tasted bad. ‘But I wasn’t having any of that. Still, the house was too damned big, so I thought, what if I make it into two flats? I’ll live downstairs, take in a tenant upstairs, make a bit extra to top up the pension, and really piss my kids off.’ He cackled at the thought. ‘I’ve been in the building trade all my life, so I just tackled each room like a project. And I think it looks all right.’
‘It looks more than all right. It’s stunning.’ Holly looked around the living room again. It wasn’t just that the flat was beautiful; it had a warm heart. He might be a gruff old bugger, but the love he had felt for his wife, and the pride in his craftsmanship, shone through in every detail.
‘I can’t believe you’re not fighting off prospective tenants.’
‘You’re the first to have made it through the door,’ the old man said. ‘I’ve had a few I just didn’t like the look of, and at least three that were bloody estate agents.’
‘Estate agents?’
‘I’m not having some poncey little twat called Farrell with mirror shades and two phones and a BMW earning commission on something I can manage myself.’
At this, Holly burst out laughing. ‘The Farrells of the world don’t stand a chance against you.’
He smiled. ‘That’s right. What’s he going to earn commission for? I can get a lease form in WH Smith’s. If something breaks, I’ll fix it. If you don’t pay your rent, I’ll change the locks.’
