Rumours and Red Roses

by Patricia Fawcett

Ever since she had broken up with Terry, even though it had been the right thing to do, Becky had felt down in the dumps, with the future looking increasingly bleak. She was a born saver, had managed somehow to put together a few thousand in a savings account, but that was for emergencies, her backup. She was fed up of scratching around. Even though she had a steady job, it didn’t pay that well and she still couldn’t afford to move into her own place. Unless she won the lottery, there was no hope of that happening in the near future. Living at home with her mum, even though there was loads of room with just the two of them, was not ideal for a woman in her thirties. And, although she hated to admit it, her mum was right in a way. She was not getting any younger and it was no longer quite so easy to meet a man. The options were closing in on her.

  She checked her watch as the staffroom door flew open and her colleague Marina rushed in. Marina’s chestnut-brown hair was cut into a perfect structured style, silky smooth with never a hair out of place.

  ‘What a shitty morning I’ve had. I hate kids,’ she said with a shudder. ‘I’m never having any. Motherhood is overrated in my opinion. I can’t believe that child I’ve just had in. I mean to say, school shoes are school shoes, aren’t they? Crap style, black and boring. Her mummy kept asking the little cow if she liked them and she kept on shaking her head. What sort of question is that? My mummy never asked me. I just had to wear whatever she bought me. On second thoughts, I don’t believe she ever took me shoe shopping. I used to go with Nanny. I know …’ She smiled at Becky’s little snort of disbelief. ‘My upbringing wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. At least your mum stayed around. She didn’t shoot off at the first opportunity to shack up with a guy half her age. She even stopped sending birthday cards after the first year. At the last count, she was somewhere in Switzerland. God alone knows where and do I give a shit.’

  ‘No, well …’ Becky floundered, never knowing what to say when Marina uttered these indiscretions about her family, whether to sympathize or simply laugh it off as Marina seemed to do. They were a funny lot and no mistake. She had never realized before that there were so many goings on in Marina’s world. She had always thought of her own upbringing as colourful with Uncle Alan taking root for a few months before disappearing but Marina’s mum made her mum seem like the reverent mother.

  Marina worked part-time, Friday and Saturdays only, and she did not take the job remotely seriously. Behind her back, some of the other girls scathingly called her a posh bitch but, because she liked her, Becky didn’t join in. This job was all a bit of a lark for her, but despite that, despite the fact that Marina did not really need the money but was just doing it because her father had threatened to stop paying her allowance unless she did something for a while, Marina was still immensely likeable. Being a shoe fanatic, forty-two pairs at the last count, working with shoes was her idea of heaven.

  ‘Now, Becky …’ She poured herself a cup of coffee, black no sugar. ‘Put that book away. You are coming to a drinks party at my place next Friday, like it or not. You’ve got to get over that Terry guy. You were wasted on him. You could tell that a mile off. You’ve got to raise the stakes, believe in yourself a bit more. You’re not your average scrubber,’ she added cheerfully. ‘I can’t think what you’re doing in a job like this. You’re a very bright girl, a hell of a lot brighter than I am anyway. I can’t think when I last read a book, trashy romance or otherwise.’

  Guiltily, Becky rammed the book, definitely fitting into the category of light-hearted reads, back into her bag. She very nearly started to offer excuses but stopped herself. Marina only ever read glossy fashion magazines or Hello!-type ones.

  ‘Why didn’t you go to college, get some qualifications?’ Marina asked, checking her perfect nails for imperfections.

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘Because I couldn’t be arsed,’ Marina said with a yawn. ‘And Daddy never pushed me. I sometimes wish I had. I could have been a businesswoman, a lawyer perhaps. I would wear one of those gorgeous smart suits, understated but sexy, of course, and I would wear my hair up, tone down the make-up and have all the executive guys drooling over me. I might pick up a barrister.’

  Becky smiled. ‘It’s not too late,’ she said.

  ‘There is a problem. I’m thick, darling, and I’m totally unable to concentrate. I couldn’t pass an exam if my life depended on it. But it’s not too late for you, though. You could do it, couldn’t you? You could become a mature student.’

  ‘Well, thanks a bunch,’ Becky said, dwelling on the ‘mature’.

  Marina laughed. ‘Why don’t you?’

  She just didn’t get it, did she? How could Becky afford to take time off work? When one of the girls had left recently because she was expecting, Marina had fluttered a twenty pound note in the collection box making Becky feel unbearably mean when she added a fiver.

  Becky could hardly tell her the truth that, even though she could have got into the arts course over in Manchester with one hand tied behind her back, she hadn’t wanted to leave her mum stranded. The pair of them needed each other, like it or not. Her mum could get terribly depressed when she was alone. She had taken her husband’s death hard, been worryingly out of it for months afterwards, even to the extent of going out without her make-up on. Becky, even as a little girl, had noticed the difference. And then one day, just like that, she seemed to snap out of it and Becky had never been so relieved to see her appearing at breakfast all dolled up and smiling.

  Becky, only a child at the time, caught up in her own grief, had never quite realized the extent of her mum’s but from then on things bucked up and, on the surface at least, her mum was cheerful enough. Shortly after that, Uncle Alan had appeared on the scene. Becky had not thought it the least odd that he should move in and sleep in her mum’s room, in the big bed. That was what grown-ups did.

  The walls were thin in their house, paper thin, which was why she had never taken Terry back there. He had rented his own place, a one-bed flat, but they had intended to move to a bigger place when they got married. He was an electrician and had earned quite a decent crust and, to be fair to him, he had lavished quite a bit of money on her. He had been generous with material things but short on emotional commitment.

  ‘It really is time you got over him,’ Marina’s voice broke through her thoughts. ‘That Terry guy.’

  ‘I am over him. It was me who broke it off, remember? Sorry, Marina, but I don’t think I’m up for a party,’ Becky said, smiling to soften the blow.

  ‘Why not? Have you got something else on?’ Marina kicked off her shoes and wiggled her toes. ‘Don’t you dare tell me you’re washing your hair or doing your nails.’

  Becky laughed. ‘No, but I’m getting a bit long in the tooth for your sort of parties, Marina.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Are you sure that’s the only reason? I’ve asked Jane and Aisha and that gorgeous black guy from the record shop. It’s a real mixed crowd. Don’t go all snobby on me, Becky.’

  ‘I am not snobby,’ she said at once, even though it had crossed her mind that, whilst she and Marina got on fine as work colleagues, she was way out of Marina’s life league and it was maybe wise not to get too close socially. The way Marina spoke for one. It ought not to matter in this day and age when even people on television had regional accents but it sort of mattered a little. It mattered to her. She felt a touch out of her depth with Marina.

  Marina was only in her mid twenties and she already had her own place, a roomy first-floor flat in a trendy area at the bottom of the hill out of town with a view of the river. What Becky would give to have something similar but she didn’t hold it against Marina, although the fact that Marina was also very pretty and drove a brand new shiny little car, a present from her doting daddy, was harder to take. Becky had passed her driving test years ago but had never owned a car, partly because she couldn’t afford to blow all her hard-earned savings and partly because she was still nervous behind the wheel.

  ‘As I keep telling you,
there will be a real mix of people there. My oldest brother Nick is coming up from London for the weekend.’

  ‘Is he the financial guy who’s forty and gay?’

  ‘Right. His partner’s had to go off to the States for a month so poor Nick’s all alone and feeling fragile. He needs cheering up. But, apart from that, there might be someone coming whom I particularly want you to meet. He’s called Simon and he’s just like you, not a party animal. He took a lot of persuading before he said yes and I’m still not convinced he’ll turn up. I’ve had to resort to getting his mother on the case. She says she’ll persuade him.’

  ‘I don’t care if she does. No matchmaking.’ Becky grimaced. Marina meant well but her idea of the ideal man was not quite the same as Becky’s. ‘I’m not coming if you’re going to start trying to palm me off with somebody. That’s really embarrassing.’

  ‘I’ll be terribly discreet. Hang on there before you write him off. He’s thirty-nine and such a darling.’ Marina grinned. ‘I’d have him myself but he thinks I’m just a child. He was at school with Nick and he’s a bit at sea with the girls. I can’t think why. He’s not bad-looking. And, no, he’s not gay.’

  ‘It sounds like he needs somebody to mother him,’ Becky said with a sigh. ‘Forget it, Marina. I can’t be bothered with the hassle of starting all over again. And with my track record …’

  ‘Third time lucky. Now, look, you …’ Marina was like a dog with a bone and by the end of the break she had managed to get what she set out to get: a qualified acceptance.

  Irritated that she could be so easily manipulated, Becky was certain she would live to regret it but she hadn’t been out in ages, since everything had gone pear shape with her love life, and if nothing else she needed a break and an excuse to buy something new.

  No dressing up, Marina had specified, just jeans with heels and a fancy top will do. That sounded ominous – just jeans – and would definitely mean a new pair, Tesco’s finest very likely because she was strapped for cash this month after chipping in to an over-the-top electricity bill. Her mum wore jeans but they were a scary size ten and there was no way she could fit her ampler shape into them.

  The silver shoes on their glass shelf stared accusingly at her when she returned to the shop floor. They had spanking great heels and glittery bits along the top strap.

  Cinderella slippers.

  They were utterly gorgeous and, because she had nice slender feet, one of her better features, the shoes would look a lot better on her than the girl who had bought a pair this morning.

  All afternoon she fought with her conscience and her common sense.

  Silver shoes had to count as the least necessary item in any girl’s wardrobe. They were totally insane and utterly impractical. A little girl’s dressing-up dream and a big girl like her really ought to have more sense.

  By the end of the day, she had bought them.

  THREE

  BECKY HAD BEEN wearing the shoes round the house as often as possible to try and break them in a little and so now, getting out of the taxi outside Marina’s flat, she felt fairly confident she could walk in them in a grown-up fashion.

  ‘Move with the shoe,’ her mum had advised, watching her teeter about the house. ‘How many times have I told you not to wear flats so much? You get out the rhythm of it, wearing flat shoes. With high heels, it’s like being in a skid in a car. I’ve nearly gone arse over tip more times than I care to remember but I’ve never ever actually fallen.’

  As her mum had never driven a car, Becky took that advice with a pinch of salt. Go with the shoe? What did that mean? The silver shoes had met with her mum’s approval. She thought they were utterly gorgeous too but they were too big for her so she wouldn’t be borrowing them. Becky had borrowed a short black velvet jacket from her though, to complete her outfit, one of her mum’s rare elegant pieces. She couldn’t fasten the buttons across her chest but that did not matter.

  ‘You’ll knock ’em dead,’ her mum had said, fiddling with her hair before she set off. ‘You should get Ivana to shape the back more, love.’

  ‘She never listens,’ Becky said, touching it self-consciously.

  ‘Will you be back tonight?’ Her mum yawned. ‘Or have you got a hot date?’

  ‘No.’ She blushed, feeling sixteen again under her mum’s amused gaze. ‘Marina’s threatening to fix me up with somebody so it might end up a complete disaster in which case I’ll be back early.’

  It was a starry night and she looked upwards as she waited for Marina to answer the door. She hated starry skies. Starry skies reminded her always of another night. She shivered, even though it was not cold, as the door rattled and Marina’s shape materialized on the other side of the glass.

  ‘Becky!’ Marina drew her inside. ‘You look fantastic. You’re the first one here.’

  ‘Am I? Sorry.’ Becky shrugged off her mother’s jacket and Marina, wearing tight designer jeans and a scooped-neck cerise sweater, hung it up. Becky reflected ruefully that she had never perfected the art of arriving at the right moment, making her mother wait two whole weeks over her due date before putting in an appearance and never hearing the last of that.

  Clutching a drink and finding herself somewhere to sit in the rhubarb-and-cream coloured sitting room, she waited for the other guests to arrive, wishing now that she hadn’t come. Looking round, she realized with some surprise that Marina hadn’t bothered to tidy up for her guests or perhaps this was it, tidied up, which posed the question, What on earth had it looked like before?

  ‘Sorry for the chaos,’ Marina said, popping in and reading her mind. ‘I’ve been left in the lurch by my cleaner. Mind you, she had a good excuse. She’s been rushed into hospital, poor darling.’

  Marina had a cleaner?

  ‘Shall I …?’ Becky stood up, attempting to move a collection of DVDs from the sofa to a more suitable place. ‘If I pop these on top of the shelf …’

  ‘For Christ’s sake.’ Marina laughed. ‘Leave them. Nobody will give a fly’s fart. Stop fussing and have your drink. You look great, Becky. You really do. Just relax, please.’

  She tried her best, taking a few calming breaths, perching on the very edge of the squashy pale pink sofa, feeling as tight as a coiled spring. Marina was nice with no airs whatsoever but this party wouldn’t be her scene, she just knew it, and she would end up on the edge of everything, sitting there quietly listening in and not participating. The new jeans fitted well but she felt she might as well have a label on them announcing them to be Tesco’s own, on the reduced rack at that, to add insult to injury.

  ‘I’ve had no luck with Simon. His mobile’s switched off,’ Marina told her in a whispered aside as the room suddenly started filling up. ‘He’s a real workaholic, that’s his trouble. His mother said she would do her best but she couldn’t promise anything. He’s up to his eyes apparently. Sorry, darling.’

  ‘That’s OK.’ Becky smiled even though, for some insane reason, she felt a touch disappointed. She knew blind dates were ridiculous things and this could not even be classed as one of those but Marina had been building this man up for the last few days, making him out to be James Bond material at the very least, and she was curious to meet him.

  ‘What beautiful shoes!’ A girl with smoky-edged eyes, a nose-ring and purple nails sat down beside her. She was wearing an empire-line top and looked as if she was pregnant. ‘Hi there. I’m Caroline. Caroline Drummond-Hall.’

  ‘Hello. I’m Becky. Becky Andrews.’

  ‘Marina and I were at school together. Were you at Pallom Grange too?’ Thankfully, she did not wait for an answer. ‘I’m in advertising now, a mere minion, I’m afraid, but I live in hope. I’m on the prowl.’

  Becky smiled warily. She had to get over this, this stupid belief that these people, Marina’s gang, were better than she was although, if this girl asked, she might just skirt over where she had actually gone to school. The local comprehensive had slipped way down the list these days and even in her day it
had been no great shakes.

  ‘I absolutely adore those shoes.’ Caroline was looking once more at Becky’s feet. ‘Where did you get those from? Do tell.’

  Becky told her and the girl squealed in delight. ‘Isn’t it a hoot? Marina works there. Did you know?’

  ‘Yes. I work there too,’ Becky told her.

  ‘Oh, I see. So you are the colleague who was coming along this evening.’ Caroline smiled still, gamely, but the cooling in her voice was obvious. ‘How wonderful!’

  It clearly wasn’t wonderful, Becky could tell that from the way she glanced round the room to find somebody more interesting to talk to. But then not everybody was like Marina, who was now back in the hall opening the door to a late arrival. Left momentarily alone as the girl callously abandoned her, sitting nearest to the door opening on to the hall, Becky could not help but overhear what Marina was saying in an excited girly voice.

  ‘Simon Blundell … thank God you made it. You really kept me guessing you naughty man. Wow, you look good tonight. Love the shirt. Where the hell have you been hiding yourself recently?’

  ‘I’ve not been hiding, Marina. I’ve just been very busy.’

  Before she even saw him, Becky fell for the voice. She went for voices in a big way. His was a voice destined to murmur sweet nothings and it was a long time since a man had done that to her. Terry had been Mr Wham-Bam Action, a man of few words, sweet ones passing him by.

  She leaned forward slightly from her chair in the corner of the room so that she could catch a glimpse of this man through the half-open door, a first glimpse. First impressions, her mum always said, counted for everything. Trust your instincts. If you don’t like somebody at first glance, you’ll never like them so it’s a waste of time spending time over them.

  ‘Now, Simon, no arguments. I want you to meet this girl.’ Marina had shunted him nearer to the door and lowered her voice but not enough and, straining to hear the words then wishing she hadn’t, Becky sat up straight, wishing the floor would swallow her up there and then. Marina had promised not to make it obvious and here she was, practically pleading with the guy. ‘She’s called Becky Andrews and she works with me.’