‘Oh dear,’ I say diplomatically.
‘What’s his name?’ She gestures to Basil.
‘Basil.’
‘Like Basil Brush, boom boom!’ I smile, and a woman’s voice shouts out from inside the pet parlour.
‘Taylor, can you come here and give me a hand please, love?’
‘Oops, better go, that’s my mum, she’ll be wanting me to sit on the reception desk and answer the phone while she finishes off Petula.’ I lift my eyebrows. ‘The Afghan,’ Taylor clarifies. ‘See you later.’
‘Yes, see you later. I won’t be long. And thank you sooo much,’ I grin, giving Basil a little tickle under his chin. ‘Be good now,’ I say to him.
I walk up to the entrance of Tindledale Books and I’m just about to push open the door, when a hand appears on the other side of the small square of glass, swiftly flicking the Open sign over, so it now says Closed.
But hang on! So, after all that palaver, I now can’t even go inside. Well, we’ll see about that. Feeling bold, and a bit cheesed off, I try the door anyway, and it opens so I quickly step inside. Ha! I’m in now, and isn’t the rule that once you’re inside a shop, there’s an obligatory bit of time left still to buy stuff before they close, or at least that’s what they say over the Tannoy in the Tesco Metro just off Lewisham High Road. And I should know, I’ve bombed in there many a time to grab a bottle of pink wine on my way home from work to console myself with while knitting in front of the TV.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? We’re closed. I’m locking up now,’ a gruff man’s voice says from behind a red Neoprene balaclava. He’s wearing a black leather biker jacket with tight, knee-padded leather jeans and has a shiny white crash helmet under his left arm.
‘Hi, I’m Sybs,’ I say, grinning pleasantly and sticking my hand out, figuring it best to break the ice right away in case he thinks I’m here to rob his rare, but very valuable book collection. Hardly, but the way he’s carrying on …
‘Syb?’ he repeats, with extra emphasis on the ‘b’, like my name is some kind of weird disease that he’s never even heard of.
‘Sybs, with an S,’ I press on. ‘From the train, remember?’ I add brightly, reckoning his mind must have just gone blank, seeing as he’s clearly in a massive hurry to leave.
‘The train?’ he huffs.
‘Last night, you left a …’ I pause, not wanting to say ‘flirty’ given his current mood, and desperately trying to ignore the swell of uncertainty that’s building in the bottom of my stomach. Oh God, maybe it wasn’t him after all. Maybe it was a prank, a silly joke. Gripping the strap of my bag tighter over my shoulder, I carry on, just wanting to get the conversation over with now. This is so awkward. ‘Um, that’s right, you left a lovely message on a newspaper for me,’ I mutter very quickly, wishing I had brought the paper with me now to show him, to point out that the phone number given with the message saying ‘give me a try’ is for his actual bookshop, so he doesn’t think I’m some kind of fruit loop – that it’s a perfectly sane conclusion to come to – that he was the one who wrote the message.
‘A what?’ he snorts, placing a gloved hand on the frame of the door, as if going to chivvy me out of his shop. ‘What are you going on about? Is this some kind of a joke? Did Rachel send you here to wind me up? Because if she did then you can tell her from me that it’s not funny.’ He’s practically shouting now. ‘And you can also tell her from me that I will never give up fighting for proper access – she won’t wear me down.’ His green eyes are flashing now, bearing no resemblance at all to the sparkly kind-looking ones that I saw on the train last night.
‘I, um, I er …’ I splutter, like an actual, proper idiot.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself, coming here all dolled up and trying it on with me. What are you? Some kind of a private eye? Or, oh I get it. Ha!’ He nods his head slowly as if the penny has just dropped and he’s worked it all out. ‘You’re one of those honeytrappers and you reckon you can seduce me into a compromising position – I bet you’ve got an accomplice hiding somewhere with a long lens camera to take pictures for Rachel to blackmail me with?’ And he does an exaggerated, almost absurdly comedic (in any other circumstance), left-then-right swivel of his head to see up and down the street behind me. ‘Well, I’ve got news for you sweetheart; you’re not my type.’ And I can see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down furiously as he attempts to choke down his anger. ‘Now clear off before I call my lawyer. You’re a disgrace. And quite clearly desperate.’ And he actually grabs the hood of my parka as if to physically turf me out.
Saving him the bother, I immediately yank myself free, turn sharply and run as fast as I can.
And keep running.
I can’t get away from his bookshop and Tindledale High Street quickly enough. My heart is pounding so hard it’s making my chest ache and I can hear the sound of blood pumping in my ears as tears spill onto my cheeks.
I’ve just made it to the war memorial when the spur of the left Dolly boot catches on something and I’m propelled forward. I end up face-planting the snow. Thank God it’s the middle of winter and it’s already dark so nobody can see me – the stupid, ridiculous, and quite clearly desperate stranger down from London who is obviously going to end up ancient and decrepit and all alone with just her knitting and a trembly old dog to keep her company. And it won’t be Basil, my lovely, loyal companion, oh no, because he’ll be long dead by then. Oh God. I squeeze my hands into fists and will myself to get a grip, but the feeling of disappointment, rejection and humiliation, all over again, just like that day in the church, is indescribable. Crushing is the best I can come up with. I just want to curl up and howl and then die right here in the snow, with my burning, pathetic, desperate cheeks mere centimetres away from Kitty’s sad candle and holly wreath memorial.
But I can’t. I have to get up. I have to walk. I have to carry on.
And what am I going to say to Lawrence? He’s bound to ask how my trip to Tindledale Books went, to see the elusive, mysterious, and now, as is extremely evident, rude, dismissive, aggressive, belligerent, misogynistic – and I’d even go as far as adding in a wanker and a bellend – newcomer, that is Adam!
I eventually make it back to the B&B after walking and half running and stumbling all the way from the High Street in the thick snow. I couldn’t face taking the bus and risking everyone staring at the ‘girl down from London with tears in her eyes and rivulets of mascara all down her face’.
Thankfully the reception area is empty and Lawrence takes one look in my direction before flying out from behind the counter. He throws his arms around my shoulders and hugs me tight, almost winding me in the process. His kindness makes my chest heave and tears spill down my face all over again. I just cry. A full-on meltdown. Bawling until I’m exhausted and the heaving subsides into a whimpering tremble.
‘Hush, it’s OK.’ Lawrence rubs my back with the flat of his palm.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say in a quivery voice, pulling back and feeling stupid – it’s not like it’s the first time I’ve made a fool of myself after being rejected, but I haven’t cried like this in years, not since Jingle my basset hound died – I didn’t even cry like this after the ‘wedding that wasn’t’, but perhaps that’s the whole problem: I’ve kept everything crammed inside me, tried to put a brave face on, just like I always do. Jingle was my first dog – Dad got her for me from the dog shelter and I had wanted a dog of my own for so long, but she got run over by a speeding 4×4 after Sasha left the front door open when she was in a hurry to be first in the queue for the ice-cream van. ‘Your cardigan, I’ve ruined it.’
‘What, this old rag? Meh!’ Lawrence throws his hands up in the air dismissively. ‘A good dry clean is all it’ll need,’ he adds, generously, especially as I can see a streak of smoky eye shadow daubed right across one shoulder. ‘Come on into the warm, you’re shivering.’
And then I realise.
‘Basil! Oh my God, I’ve left Basil be
hind,’ I yell, and a fresh wave of panic flies through me. And another torrent of tears pours down my cheeks. I immediately turn to leave and run back up to the High Street.
‘Hey, hang on!’ Lawrence stops me by grabbing my hand. ‘OK. Now take a deep breath and calm down. Tell me where you left him.’ I do as I’m told. ‘Right. I’ll call the pet parlour and sort it out. Don’t worry; he’ll be fine there. Trust me, Taylor adores dogs, she’ll not let anything happen to him.’ He smiles kindly.
‘But they’ll probably be closed by now, and then what will they think of me?’ I babble, remembering that Closed sign appearing in the bookshop window. I should have known better. I should have just left there and then, instead of hanging around like a spare part, just like I did as a bride at the altar! The feeling lingers.
Taking my hand, Lawrence walks me around behind the counter and through the velvet curtain to a drawing room. There’s an enormous floor-to-ceiling Christmas tree in the bay window, covered in twinkling fairy lights and sparkly baubles, and there’s a big squishy-looking sofa in front of an open log fire that smells all woody and comforting. He steers me towards the sofa and gently pushes me down before lifting up my left foot and easing the Dolly boot off. He repeats the process with the other leg and then after helping me out of my parka, slipping off my mittens and unravelling the Kermit green scarf from my neck, he smooths a soft cream cashmere blanket over my knees.
‘Now, wait here. I’ll be back in five minutes. Promise.’ And true to his word, Lawrence darts off to call the pet parlour, returning exactly five minutes later, according to the dark wood grandfather clock standing in the corner, the pendulum of which ticked off the seconds precisely.
‘OK. It’s fine,’ Lawrence says on his return. ‘Amber, she’s Taylor’s mum, wasn’t fazed at all, said it happens all the time, people get distracted or delayed so their pooches spend a bit of time in the doggy-day-care section, in other words, their cosy cottage kitchen with the furnace-like Rayburn and the battered old sofa to curl up on. Apparently, that’s where Basil is right now, next to Taylor; they’re watching that Christmas film, Elf, together, on her laptop. Amber said you can collect him anytime, just press the bell when you get there, really hard, because it sticks sometimes and doesn’t always ring. And she also said that she’s sure Taylor would be delighted to have him snuggle on her bed if you wanted to leave it until tomorrow to pick him up.’ I manage a feeble half-smile.
‘Thank you,’ I say, feeling slightly relieved. ‘But I shouldn’t leave him there all night; I’ll collect him later,’ I add, panicking now at the prospect of venturing back into the village. I dread to think how many people witnessed my embarrassing scene earlier by the war memorial.
‘I can always collect Basil after tonight’s panto rehearsal,’ Lawrence says, as if sensing my unease.
‘Ah, thanks, but it’s OK, you’ve done so much for me already. I’ll go and fetch him.’ I grin bravely, figuring I’ll just have to laugh it off if anyone mentions me lying in the snow in the middle of their village – they can think I’m the crazy looper down from London who got overexcited, having probably never seen real snow before, just the dirty, dog poo-streaked sludge usually found in suburban streets.
‘Well, if you’re sure.’ He pats my arm before throwing another log on the fire. ‘So, tell me what happened.’
And I do.
When I pause to take a breather, having told him all about the hideous encounter with Adam, plus a bit more about my relationships with Sasha and Luke, May the fourth and the whole Star Wars thing, right through to the situation at work with Jennifer Ford going AWOL after having frittered away £42,000 of taxpayers’ money that I most likely just handed over to her, Lawrence hands me a tumbler.
‘It’s mulled wine, take a little sip.’ I hesitate and he gestures towards the glass adding, ‘It tastes delicious – sweet and sharp like a liquid blackberry crumble.’ Doing as I’m told, I let the flavour linger on my tongue and it tastes cinnamony too and feels warm in my throat, radiating down my arms and through into my stomach. I can feel my body starting to relax. Inhaling sharply and then exhaling long and hard, it’s like the Nurek Dam has just burst inside me.
There’s a long silence while Lawrence looks at me and I’m sure I spot the glisten of a tear at the corner of his left eye. He pushes a finger in behind the lens of his glasses.
‘Damn lashes. You know, I have to be very careful with them, but it’s so much easier than keeping taking them off just to put them back on again for the next dress rehearsals. Top up?’ He jumps up and grabs a jug from the Art Deco-style sideboard and I must be mistaken; probably a speck of log dust from the fire has caught in his eye.
‘Um, no thank you. This is enough,’ I say, taking another mouthful of the delicious mulled wine. I don’t want to end up getting plastered and quite possibly making an even bigger fool of myself by going all maudlin and Miss Havisham on him. Lawrence places the jug back down, picks up a bottle of vodka and quickly mixes himself a martini. Using a cocktail stick, he plucks a stuffed olive from a jar and pops it into his glass before joining me back over on the sofa. ‘I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t off-load on you like this.’ I avert my eyes towards the fireplace.
‘Listen Sybs, would you mind if I gave you some advice?’ He swivels his body to face me square on.
‘Er, sure, go on,’ I reply over-brightly but feeling uneasy inside. He takes hold of my hand and gives it a little squeeze.
‘If there are things in your life that aren’t working well for you – that are making you sad – well, then you must find a way to be brave and deal with them; action is always better than inaction, I find.’ He pauses, and an ominous silence follows while I wonder if I should call Gina at work, face my demons and find out what’s going on, instead of just wallowing in self-pity and oblivion. It’s not going to change the outcome, I know that now, and I feel like a coward, running away again, just like I did on that day in the church: that’s not how grown-up, confident, thirty-something women carry on when faced with a challenging situation at work. Lawrence finishes his drink and bites the olive from the stick. I take another mouthful of the mulled wine, pondering some more on what he’s just said.
‘I wish it were that easy, Lawrence.’ I feel dim, as if there’s a key to it all out there that everyone else knows about apart from me, but I can’t just flick on a happy switch when most of the time my heart feels as if it’s shattering all over again. And I’ve even started getting physical pains, like someone is piling up bricks on my chest, one on top of the other, to squeeze the air right out of my body. Every time it happens, it makes me feel panicky and I can’t breathe.
‘In that case it’s just not bad enough,’ he says kindly, but firmly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, my dear, where do I start?’ He pulls out a silver-embossed cigarillo case from his cardigan pocket and lights one up before walking over to a window and opening it an inch or so; the breeze of cold, crisp air is refreshing against my tear-stained, flushed cheeks. I finish my mulled wine and Lawrence takes a couple more puffs before carrying on. ‘OK, here’s an example.’ He makes a circle in the air with his cigarillo. ‘Me, growing up in a New Jersey suburb, an effeminate little Jewish boy with a passion for “prancing about on stage”.’ He pauses to do sarcastic quote signs with his fingers. ‘And all this, living amongst a community of Mafia wannabes hollering to all and sundry to “keep off their lawns. Or else.”’ He rolls his eyes upwards. ‘Think homemade prison tatts … on their faces. Tear drops. The works.’ He pulls a mock-scared face before puffing some more on his cigarillo. ‘Tough, yeah?’ he adds, his American accent getting stronger as he gets fired up. I nod. ‘But I had good, resilient, Jewish parents who loved me and who had witnessed and experienced first hand how prejudice can persecute humanity and scar one’s soul. They were survivors, immigrants from Berlin, strong. So one afternoon when I got home after school with yet another bloody nose, trashed shirt and sneakers stolen at
the hands of the playground bullies, my parents were there waiting for me. My mother stood in front of me in her apron, hands on hips and looked me straight in the eye. She asked me if it was bad. I nodded, and she asked me a second time, and I nodded, and then she said, “But is it bad enough Lawrence, is it bad enough?” And you know what? I nodded and told her, “Yes, it’s bad enough.” And she said to me right there and then, “So you change it.” The following day we left. Everything, not that we had very much, suitcases, boxes … all of it was loaded into a U-Haul trailer and we went and lived with Dad’s sister, my Aunt Hana, over in Manhattan. You know, Mom had been asking me that question every single day since I’d started at that hateful school a whole year earlier.’
He takes a few more puffs of his cigarillo before throwing another log on the fire, his eyes flicking to me and away again.
‘Oh, Lawrence, I’m so sorry!’ I wish I’d managed to contain myself now. My self-pity feels pathetic compared to what his family must have endured all those years ago. I should have kept my mouth shut. Kept my battered, broken heart to myself.
‘Don’t be, I’m not telling you this to make you feel sorry for me, quite the opposite. You see, what happened had happened, and I learnt right there and then, standing in the kitchen in front of my mother, that we can’t change the past – but we can choose not to let our past experiences define our future ones. When you get to the point of “enough is enough” then you’ll know – and that’s when you’ll let go of the past. And that’s when the fun starts.’ A naughty smile dances on his lips. ‘A whole new future to be excited about. You’ll see – you can live whatever life you want to live. Be and do whatever you want. Reach for the stars. Heal your heart and achieve your dreams – when you free yourself to feel the passion for life and look forwards instead of backwards.’ He laughs and nods firmly to emphasise his point.
The Great Christmas Knit Off Page 12
