I look over at Guy. I think I fell in love with him the moment he gave me the leather book, I was just too stupid to see it. ‘Maybe this is your something,’ he’d written, giving me a chance to change my life.
Guy parks and I tell him there are no meters or traffic wardens.
We enter the estate agents, now called Butler & Sampson. Today it’s busier, with many clients sitting at desks being shown houses on flash computer screens. The office has been modernized, with a plush carpet, fancy lighting and updated furniture. A plump blonde receptionist with spectacles perched on her nose asks if she can help us. I tell her I’m looking for Richard Hunter.
‘Richard left well over a year ago.’ She tells me she’s sure someone else could look after us. Why don’t we take a seat? She offers us both a cappuccino, which makes me smile.
I ask her if she has Richard’s contact details. ‘Do you know where he works now?’
‘We don’t normally hand out addresses I’m afraid,’ she states.
‘I know, but it’s really important I see him.’
She looks at me curiously.
‘He’s a very old family friend, but we’ve slightly lost touch,’ I improvise. ‘My father’s his godfather, and . . . look, I’ve driven all the way from London to see him.’
She taps her keyboard and scribbles his address onto a card.
Guy and I drive down one small winding road after another until we find ourselves in a village called Cerne Abbas. There’s no parking space on the main road, so Guy drops me off outside a delicatessen.
When I open the door a bell tinkles and I breathe in the smell of warm fresh bread, Tuscan salami, pâtés and roasted peppers soaked in olive oil. There are small tables covered in bright red tablecloths.
‘Hello, what can I get for you?’ he asks. He’s wearing a navy-checked apron and I notice that he’s lost weight. He looks happier and healthier.
‘Richard,’ I say, ‘it’s Gilly.’
He looks at me, a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
I give him a clue. ‘Gilly with a G.’
He smiles, slapping his thigh in recognition. ‘Gilly Brown! Of course it’s you! How did you find me here?’
‘I went back to your old office. I see you left?’
He nods. ‘As you wisely noticed, I wasn’t a very good estate agent.’
‘Terrible.’
‘Jaded,’ he corrects me. ‘You made me see that. I needed a change.’ He shakes his head. ‘I can’t believe you’re here. I’ve often thought about you.’
‘Me too. You should come to London, visit Dad,’ I suggest. ‘He’d love to see you.’
‘I’d like that. So, what’s your news?’
‘Well, I’ve put in an offer for a house in Cattistock and you can’t put me off this time.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘And you?’ I gesture to the shop. ‘This is great.’
He smiles proudly. It looks as if Richard found his something too.
‘I wanted to thank you,’ I go on to say.
‘Thank me? Why?’
‘You were right about me not moving out of London back then. I took your advice and started living again.’
‘Great. You see, I’m not totally useless,’ he adds.
‘I found a lodger.’
‘How did it go?’
‘It was good . . .’ I pause, ‘on the whole. Interesting.’
Though I’d thought about Jack very occasionally, at times when I was watching The Tudors or the radio had played one of the songs we’d sung during our drunken karaoke night, I hadn’t heard from him since Guy and I saw him that night at his mother’s house. Yet, out of the blue, just last week, he sent me some Stargazer tickets. ‘Take Guy,’ he’d written, with a picture of a happy face, ‘as I know how much he loves the show.’
‘He was Monday to Friday,’ I say, smiling at the note.
‘Monday to Friday? What’s that all about?’ Richard asks as the doorbell tinkles.
‘Well that’s an excellent question.’
‘Hang on,’ he mimes, returning to his post behind the counter.
‘Oh, don’t worry about them, they’re with me. ‘You remember Ruskin?’
‘Thanks for introducing the dog before me,’ Guy says.
I laugh as Richard whips round from behind the counter to greet Ruskin. ‘I don’t really allow dogs in the shop,’ he says, ‘but seeing as this one’s yours . . .’
Richard glances over to the man by my side.
I introduce them. Guy tells Richard we met dog walking.
‘I’m her every day of the week man,’ he says. Guy was threatening to say that all morning in the car. ‘You were lucky enough to get away with it once, don’t say it again,’ I’d said.
Richard looks bemused.
I hold out my left hand. ‘Guy’s my fiancé,’ I say proudly.
51
Our offer for the house in Cattistock is accepted. Guy and I are finally moving into the depths of the country-side tomorrow. We are frantically finishing packing, organizing delivery vans, sending out change-of-address cards and tying up loose ends in London. I have said tearful goodbyes to Nick, who’s now dating a woman called Amanda, who also has two children, to Matilda and Hannah, my father, to dear Gloria, and of course to Susie and Anna. I even said goodbye to Nancy, who, to my amazement is working now, discovering that being a shop girl isn’t quite so bad after all. There is just one final goodbye I need to say.
‘You take care of her, Hatman,’ demands Mari, followed by a piercing, ‘Basil! Over here now! Say goodbye to Ruskin!’
‘Come back and see us every now and then, won’t you?’ Walter says to both Guy and me. ‘Especially you, Gilly. No offence, Guy,’ he adds plainly, ‘but I’ve known this girl for five years.’
‘It won’t be the same without you both,’ Sam says, before turning to me. ‘Don’t forget us.’
‘Never mind about Gilly, we’ll miss Ruskin,’ Ariel finishes, before giving me a huge hug.
‘Come and stay any time,’ I tell them. ‘Promise me. Bring the dogs.’
‘Take her away Guy, before she gets too emotional,’ orders Mari, her own voice weakening. She reaches into her handbag to find her cigarettes.
‘It’s been fun,’ says Guy to our friends. ‘Thank you so much for allowing me into your circle.’
Guy guides me away but quickly I run back, hugging them in turn tightly. ‘I’ll miss you,’ I say.
As Guy and I walk home with Ruskin, I confide that I doubt very much they will come and stay with us. That’s the strange thing about dog-walking friendships. However strong they are, they exist only under the shade of the oak tree.
‘Except for us,’ Guy points out.
‘Except for us,’ I say.
Someone else will come along soon enough though, with his or her puppy, and take my place within the circle. That doesn’t mean I will forget them. I shall always treasure my mornings in Ravenscourt Park.
Guy and I reach the zebra crossing.
We both turn right.
52
Two years later
‘If you could sign here,’ I overhear our postman Nigel saying to Guy, before he asks if it’s my birthday. Ruskin is barking furiously at Nigel, as he does every day when he pushes open our front gate, carrying his bright red mailbag over one broad shoulder. Guy ticks off Ruskin, before shouting ‘Gilly! It’s here!’
‘Coming!’ I call from the bathroom, staring at the results. We’ve been trying for so long, so long. I turn on the tap, pour myself a drink of water, hand trembling, and take a deep breath before heading downstairs.
‘Gilly!’ Guy says impatiently again.
But I can’t help it. I rush back to the bathroom and look at it again, just to make sure.
Downstairs, I thank Nigel as he leaves. ‘No bills today, Mrs C,’ he says, heading towards the gate. ‘Don’t those raspberries look wonderful,’ he adds, gesturing to our fruit cage.
Guy
lifts the big brown box into the hallway. ‘Where?’ he demands.
‘Kitchen! Quick!’
Guy passes me the scissors and a small knife, like an assistant at an operating table I cut through the brown tape and rip open the box. I lift out one of the books.
It’s perfect. I hold it in my arms like a child. Mickey the Magic Monkey. The cover is an illustration of Mickey flying on his magic carpet, a young girl sitting by his side. This is my second book, but it’s just as exciting seeing it in print as my first. In many ways this book is more special.
I open the first page, dedicated to Megan Florence Brown. There is a small photograph of her sitting in her chair, dressed in her red velvet pinafore. Her memory will live on in this book.
‘What have you been doing?’ Guy asks again curiously. ‘I was calling you for ages.’
I start to cry. Silly really, but I can’t stop.
‘Gilly?’ he prompts. ‘What is it? The book looks great! What’s wrong?’
I turn to him, clutching his hand. ‘I’ve just done a test.’
‘Oh.’ His grip tightens.
‘I’ve just done a test,’ I repeat with a smile, nodding encouragingly.
‘Oh,’ he says, and it’s a very different sounding ‘oh’ this time.
He looks at me, tears now in his eyes, but still he hardly dares ask the question.
So I answer it for him.
Acknowledgements
Firstly, I’d like to thank Jane Wood and Jenny Ellis at Quercus. I have greatly valued your editorial input and enthusiasm, and look forward very much to continuing working with you.
Thanks also to Diana Beaumont. Diana was the first person to read Monday to Friday Man in its early stages and she really helped me shape the script. Thank you, D, for all your hard work and the support you have given me.
There are a few friends I’d like to thank for helping me with the research: Rebecca, for her insight into the television world, and Kim Whatmore for describing her landscape gardening work. Anna Callaghan: like Gloria in the novel, Anna is the best neighbour in town. Janet and her son Adam Cartlidge, whom I met in France, in Lourdes; Adam is a lovely writer and he sent me a poem largely based on my short story, ‘Mickey the Magic Monkey’. I shall always remember meeting you, Adam, keep well and carry on writing.
To Bernice Crockford, for being so open about losing her daughter, Alice. Bernice is an old family friend, and one of the most golden people I know. Bernice and her husband, Zek, are an example of how the toughest of times can bring people even closer together. I admire and love you both very much.
Thanks to Judy Niner, the managing director at www.mondaytofriday.com – a business that allows homeowners to advertise renting their spare rooms during the working week. ‘Monday to Friday’ is a great scheme, which has provided the inspiration for my novel and the title. May I just add that in the past I have rented my spare room out from Monday to Friday, but my lodgers have been professional and very straightforward – nothing like Jack Baker in this novel! I’m not sure whether I’m happy or sad about this . . .
To my dog-walking friends! To Nella, for her stories about the antiques world. To Tim, for inspiring Guy’s dress sense, particularly the hats. To John, for being John. To all my dog-walking friends, old and new: Caroline, Ashley, Connor, Duncan, Emma, Gareth, Janine, Tamar, Dons, Kaethe and Susan . . . thank you for our many lovely walks with coffees in Ravenscourt Park. But most of all to my handsome Darcy, my Lucas Terrier, who gave me the idea to write about park life in the first place.
To Mum and Dad, for always being there, and for all the love and support you give me.
Finally, I’d like to thank Charlotte Robertson, my agent at Aitken Alexander Associates. I find writing tough and lonely at times, but Charlotte has renewed my confidence in my work and in myself. Thank you, Charlotte, so much, for falling in love with Monday to Friday Man, and for never lacking the faith that we’d see it in print. I couldn’t have done it without you.
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