by Jules Wake
‘I’ll be work–’ Christelle had never done puppy dog eyes in her life. She worked on pure logic but there was a shadow of sadness about her and a sudden blinking that made me pause and say, ‘That’s probably a good idea.’
‘We could leave late on Friday, miss the traffic and then we’d have the whole of Saturday. I could pick you up straight from work. What time do you finish?’
‘Depends on the production but around ten-thirty, eleven.’
She smiled and straightened up, losing the sad uncharacteristic droop. ‘I’m glad that’s all sorted. Now, I was thinking a nice cashmere sweater for Dad and he’s been wittering on about learning coding, so a colleague at work recommended a book for him. Oh…’ She looked down at her phone which had begun to ring, ‘I need to take this. Will you excuse me?’
‘Yeah. It’s fine.’ Her formality drove me nuts. I was her bloody sister for God’s sake, not an effing client. She scooped up her phone and disappeared out of the door, where I watched her pace with considered steps backwards and forwards through the window.
I picked up my Kindle Fire that I never went anywhere without and luckily it seemed to be the one thing that evaded my negative electrical force-field. My idea of hell was not having a book to read. I’m not sure what made me do it, but I logged onto the free Wi-Fi to check my emails and nearly dropped it when I saw I’d got a response to my earlier one.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Loo Rolls
Dear Matilde
The sequel is good but if you want something of a similar ilk, how about High Fidelity by Nick Hornby. It’s about a man who’s crap at relationships too.
Regards
R
P.S. - Would that be that same parallel universe in which Arsenal can play?
It made me smile and by the time Christelle reappeared I’d downloaded High Fidelity.
‘Sorry about that. A client I’ve been trying to get hold of for a few days.’ Any hint of sadness was vanquished as back-in-business Christelle swept back to the fore.
‘OK, coding book and sweater for Dad, skin care set for Mum. Do you want me to get them and you can pay me back?’
‘I hate to be mean but could we perhaps go lamb’s wool rather than cashmere on the sweater for Dad? And set a budget.’
‘Don’t worry, if you can’t afford it now, you pay me back later when you can.’
‘I can afford it.’
Just because her income bracket outstripped mine by several thousand a month didn’t mean she should contribute more. Pride stopped me saying that things were a bit tight this month because Felix still owed me two months’ share of the household bills.
‘Well, we can worry about that later.’ She gave me a blithe smile and glanced at her mobile phone; it reminded me of a cheeping canary clutched in her hand. It never shut up. She took a long swallow of Cappuccino. ‘I’ve got an appointment with Sir Charles Whitworth’s solicitor. I’m going to have to go in a minute.’
‘Me too,’ I said. ‘Pietro D’Angelis waits for no woman.’ My rare name drop sent her eyebrows shooting upwards in satisfying startlement.
‘What? The Pietro D’Angelis?’
‘Yes.’
‘You do his make-up? Seriously?’
‘Yes.’ I sat quite still, contrary to the smug inner squirming, surprised by my petty attempt at one-upmanship. The truly sad thing was that Christelle wasn’t name dropping or trying to score points. That was her world in the same way the theatre was mine.
Usually I gave little away about work. As the black sheep of a high achieving professional family, I preferred to keep my triumphs to myself. Obviously putting a bit of slap on a singer wasn’t quite in the same realm as saving a company billions of pounds in pay-outs in a wrongful dismissal case.
‘Wow. He’s really famous. Isn’t that a bit, you know, daunting?’
I laughed. ‘Not now, but,’ I leaned forward, to whisper conspiratorially, ‘the first time, I thought I might poke his eye out, my hand was shaking so much!’
She laughed too and then both of us stopped, stalling in a well-this-is-not-like-us moment of shared confusion. Jumping up to her feet, Christelle gathered her phone, her bag and her gloves, leather ones that matched her bag and shoes, both a bold kingfisher blue, which I hadn’t noticed before.
We peeled off in opposite directions with a quick kiss on each cheek, back to our other worlds.
Chapter 5
Everyone caught in the unexpected evening sleet wore a coat of dandruff as they hurried into the tube station, casting worried looks up at the sky. They had nothing to worry about, as this was not proper snow. I’d grown up in Yorkshire on the edge of the Dales and so I knew all about wading to school through drifts up to your thighs.
As the damp bodies started to warm up,the smell of wet dog permeated the packed tube on the Northern Line. I was wedged between a man in a Che Guevara khaki jacket, stained dark with the rain and a girl in a heavyweight rain-coat that rustled with every jolt and bump of the train.
Unable to get enough elbow room to read my book, I twitched like a smoker desperate for a light.
Despite my unknown email correspondent being a Liverpool supporter, he had good taste in books. I’d started High Fidelity a couple of days before and was loving it.
Finally, yippee, enough people got off at Charing Cross and I dropped into a seat. By the time the doors closed, chapter two had absorbed me.
By Waterloo, I was deep in 70’s suburban life.
Kennington came and went.
Clapham North arrived as I was mid-snigger, and way before I was ready. Stuffing my book away and leaving the summer of ’76, I only just got out of the doors in time to join the stream of bowed bodies battling up the escalators into the bitterly cold night where, surprisingly, the tiny pinpricks of barely-there snow had turned into full on flakes, curling and floating down like feathers I still doubted it would settle.
With Felix away for the night, I could carry on reading. Making myself baked beans on toast, I stood stirring the pan of beans with one hand and my kindle in the other and ate my tea, flicking the pages on the touch screen with my fingers.
The washing up was left as I curled up on the sofa, the TV on for background noise, and carried on reading, completely hooked.
Temptation sizzled on the edge of my fingertips.
With half an eye on a very old episode of Spooks on the telly, I swapped to the email app on my Kindle.
Ever since I’d finished the last chapter, I’d been mentally composing the message.
I was just being polite. Letting a fellow reader know how much I was enjoying his recommendation.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Book
Thanks for the recommendation. High Fidelity is fab. Love it, although I got some strange looks on the tube on the way home. Kept laughing out loud. Just what I needed on a filthy winter night.
Thanks, again
Tilly
My finger hovered over the send button. Was this the sort of jump in feet first type of thing that Alison meant? But where was the harm?
The only downside I could think of was that he might think I was stalking him? Would he care what I thought? But then he did recommend the book.
If it were me, I’d be delighted to hear someone liked a book as much as I did.
Then again, he was a bloke.
I groaned out loud. I was giving myself a headache. It was just an email. He’d read it, raise his eyebrows, think it’s that dumb girl who sent the virus, delete it and think no more about it ever again.
Then again … He might just appreciate the feedback.
The argument in my stupid head was getting out of hand. I went with the ref’s decision and pressed the send button. Done. No regrets.
Putting down my Kindle, I went back to Spooks where things on the screen were tense. MI5 were about to save London for the fi
fth time that series.
An onscreen flash on my Kindle two minutes later interrupted a terse exchange between the head of division and one of his trigger-happy minions – I’d got mail.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: High Fidelity
I’m glad you’re enjoying it. One of my favourites. And also a great film.
Phew, he didn’t think I was some deranged lunatic stalking him.
Have you seen it? Not often you can say that, when they abandon a perfectly good English setting. Can’t understand that? Why didn’t they leave the record shop in England? In fact, why do film and TV companies have to fiddle with settings? The Killing? Life on Mars? Have we made an English Friends? Mates? CSI - Southampton? Thankfully High Fidelity survived. I’d recommend it if you haven’t seen it. One of those rare films that translates well from a book.
R
OK, he had a point with the setting thing, but plenty of other books survived celluloid translation. With tongue firmly pressed in cheek I typed,
To:[email protected]
From:[email protected]
Subject:High Fidelity
Dear M
I think that perhaps being a Liverpool fan might have addled your brain. Loads of good films from books:
What about Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility, Bridget Jones’ Diary, Atonement?
M
An email came right back
To:[email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject:High Fidelity
What no car chases?
I giggled. He was starting to sound a lot less grey cardie and slippers.
To:[email protected]
From:[email protected]
Subject:High Fidelity
Ok then, what about:
The Bourne Identity, Casino Royale, Patriot Games!
Yet another new message.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: High Fidelity
Depends on the Casino Royale. First or second. Bet you’re one of those girls who fancies Daniel Craig, although Lazenby is the cult James Bond.
He had no idea.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: High Fidelity
Daniel Craig!!!! No thank you. Timothy Dalton, every time!
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: High Fidelity
Words fail me.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject:High Fidelity
What’s wrong with him?!
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: High Fidelity
The only positive thing I can say is that he had one of the best Bond girls.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: High Fidelity
Which one?
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: High Fidelity
The blond cello player – they sledged down a mountain in her cello case. I’ve never read any Ian Fleming? Have you?
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: High Fidelity
Yes, but not sure I should admit it. I read quite a few Bond books when I was a kid (very precocious reader) – totally (very) unsuitable for a twelve-year-old.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: High Fidelity
He did write Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: High Fidelity
And you think that’s a suitable title for a kid’s book? Although I loved the musical at the Palladium. Bet you’re not a musical man.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: High Fidelity
I saw Oliver once. Definitely not a suitable title for a kid’s book although at that age I was going through my Sci-fi phase. More Isaac Asimov and Ray Bradbury.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: High Fidelity
Sci-fi … Oh dear. Just when I was starting to think … Although I have read The Time Traveller’s Wife.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: High Fidelity
Time Travellers Wife! That’s not Sci-fi.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: High Fidelity
How come? It’s about a man that zips back and forth in time. He might not be Dr Who but how can that not be Sci-fi?
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: High Fidelity
O.K., I admit it, I’ve never read it but doesn’t sound very SF to me.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: High Fidelity
HAVEN’T READ The Time Traveller’s Wife. Shame on you, a) it’s beautiful and b) it’s beautiful.
I forgot you’re a bloke!
Think you should broaden your horizons and read TTTW – it’s very original. Failing that you could always try the other Nick Hornby classic – Fever Pitch.
I grinned at that one. He might take offence at reading about Arsenal doing the double and winning the league cup and the FA cup in 1992 and he probably wasn’t a Colin Firth fan either, so wouldn’t appreciate the film version quite the way I had.
This might have gone on all night, except the phone rang at nine.
‘Hey missus, it’s me.’ Felix had been away for several days and was staying in some posh hotel in Brighton. A trip which had been extended by an additional day.
‘Hi.’
‘You all right?’ asked Felix, bouncy as ever.
‘Yes. Sorry, long day.’ I tried to sound a bit more with it, and not as guilty as I felt. I’d only been talking to someone on line, I hadn’t done anything wrong, but I knew I wouldn’t mention it to Felix. ‘How are you? When are you coming home? And is it snowing down there?’ Lifting the curtain, I was disappointed to see that only a few flakes danced across the sky, battling against a brisk wind. There was no sign of the light scattering that had settled earlier.
‘Not a speck here. I might stay here for ever. I could get used to this hotel. Five stars is right up my street,’ he enthused. ‘Might bring you some towels. Lovely, white fluffy ones.’
‘Felix! You can’t do that.’
‘People do it all the time.’ His voice took on a wheedling tone.
‘No! Don’t bring the towels home.’ You had to be literal with Felix at times.
‘Means we could put something else on the wedding list.’
‘At our age, do you think we need one?’ Not that we had got anywhere near arranging a wedding list. We occasionally referenced having one but never did anything about it. A bit like the wedding.
‘Be a shame though.’ He paused. ‘I fancied one of those space-age Philippe Starck orange-squeezers.’
‘They’re too War of the Worlds. I wouldn’t want one in the kitchen. I’d love one of those teas-made things. We should go for things we’d never buy for ourselves.’
‘Or use!’ said Felix scathingly. ‘You’re not one hundred and three.’
We both laughed.
‘We don’t need a wedding list,’ I said. We had pretty much everything we needed.
‘Of course we do. Isn’t that the whole point of getting married?’ He stopped. ‘Maybe we’d better call it off then.’
Silence filled the airwaves.
‘So how did—’
‘— the presentation went well.’
We interrupted one another.
‘Oh good.’
‘What have you got lined up on Friday?’ Felix paused. ‘Would you mind if I stayed down here another night? Save having to battle through the traffic.’
‘Aw, Felix. I’ve got an early finish on Friday, I thought we could do something together for a change.’
‘I’ll make it up to you.’
‘You’d better. I’ve got to see the IT guy that day. I’ll need cheering up after that.’
Felix burst out laughing. ‘So will he. I hope they’re paying him danger money.’
Chapter 6
I kept chuckling to myself at this morning’s email response to my suggestion to Fever Pitch as I rounded up my notes and sketches. There’d been email silence for nearly a week and I’d assumed it marked the end of the on-line conversation, but it seemed I was wrong.
Before I could respond, I was sucked into the day’s work. Jeanie wanted an update of where we were at with all the hairpieces for the corps de ballet and both of us had to prepare for a make-up design meeting for Romeo and Juliet with the Ballet Director and Head of Costume, which meant making sure I had a complete cast list and details of their colouring along with the notes from Costume.
Vince seemed full of beans. One minute he was running to get coffee for everyone, the next offering to redo the rota for the following production in three months’ time, then he would settle at the wig he was making and then dart up to wash a few brushes. The whole time he kept his distance from me.
I took time to grab a coffee and took one into Jeanie’s office.
‘What the hell is the matter with him?’ she asked, eyeing Vince over the rim of her coffee mug with deep suspicion.
‘Seriously?’ I peered over at him, busy texting now. ‘He’s obviously got a hot date tonight.’ Although normally we’d have been subject to all his hopes and fears by now. Vince longed for true love and undying loyalty. A complete romantic.
Jeanie sighed. ‘Who is it this time? I worry about that boy.’ Her fingers rubbed an invisible stain on the side of the china mug. ‘Needs to settle down. He’s getting a bit too old for all this promiscuity.’ She’d been in the business a long time. Even though it was less prevalent these days, too many of her friends had died of Aids in the late eighties.
