A Little Love

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘She’s an attractive lady,’ was the young woman’s opener. ‘I love that red hair thing she’s got going on, and that’s a good suit. She’s got a great pair of legs, classy.’

  Pru looked straight ahead and tried to appear oblivious. The compliment, however, rang inside her head like a klaxon.

  ‘You’ll look as good as her when you’re old,’ her partner said with certainty, then kissed her loudly on the mouth.

  ‘I so won’t!’

  ‘Don’t be daft! You will, you’re gorgeous.’

  Pru smiled against the rim of her cup, enjoying the shared intimacy. And then came the words that wiped the grin off her face.

  ‘I won’t because I’m married and I’ve got three kids. You will all wear me down and totally knacker me out. That woman is not married, there’s no wedding ring and she certainly doesn’t look like a mum. Mums are never that neat or that smart and you don’t get time to sit alone and enjoy a coffee! She’s in no rush because there is no one waiting for her, wondering where she is or what’s for tea. No, I’m telling you, she looks that good because she is single and childless, the lucky cow. Probably spends her time being pampered and booking her next holiday!’

  Pru’s tears had sprung almost without warning. It was as if she had been given access to a secret dossier about herself. Suddenly she saw herself as others must – a lonely fifty-year-old woman. There would be no baby to coil its tiny fingers around hers, holding on for all it was worth because she was its mummy and it never wanted to let her go. There would be no pretty white wedding for her; no husband would beam at her over his shoulder as she walked towards him under a glittering canopy of stars. Before, there had always been a flicker of hope, a grain of belief that someone would want her. Sitting at the table, that tiny flicker was snuffed out. She resolved then and there that she would buy herself the most beautiful diamond she could find. A sign that although she might not be a wife or mother, she could afford the trinkets, the twinkling markers that often went with those roles.

  Now, sixteen years later, she often touched the bauble for comfort, like a talisman, to remind herself of everything she had built. But it wasn’t working today.

  She took a deep breath and glanced once more around the marquee, craning her neck as if trying to locate someone. This was one of those days when to have an ‘other half’ on her arm would have made all the difference. The extravagant buffet was curling on a table at the far end and everyone seemed to be communicating via squeals and slaps on the back. Pru felt the beginnings of a headache. Despite having spent years paying close attention to what her smart clients wore and said in order to fit in at even the finest London addresses, she was out of her comfort zone by about sixty miles. There was something about these country affairs that gave her the collywobbles. Her nan had always told her, ‘People is people, Pru, we all shit through the same hole!’, but that didn’t really help on days like this.

  It had all started soon after she and Milly had moved into Kenway Road. There had been one memorable evening when she’d decided to try out her cut-glass accent for the first time. ‘Who’s for a cuppa?’ Milly had yelled from the kitchen.

  ‘I would love a cup of tea, please, Milly!’ Pru had replied, enunciating every syllable as best she could.

  There was a moment of silence as Trudy and Milly turned to look at Pru.

  ‘What the bloody hell was that?’ Milly laughed.

  Undeterred, Pru stuck her chin out. ‘I want to speak properly; I don’t want to sound like ElizableedinDoolittle any more. And I’ve been thinking, if we’re going to have a posh bakery up west, we need to sound a bit more, y’know, posher.’

  Milly stared at her cousin in disbelief. ‘That’s it! You’ve finally lost the plot, girl. People will come to Plum’s because we make the best bloody cakes in London, not cos of how you talk!’ She raised her eyes to the ceiling.

  But it was Trudy who took her seriously. ‘Sometimes, Pru, becoming a new person is the only way to shake off the old one. But be careful – you don’t ever want to lose yourself completely. Take it from one who knows, that would be the saddest thing imaginable.’

  Pru watched as Trudy’s eyes pooled with tears, the only time she would ever see this. She stored her friend’s words in her head; she didn’t ever want to lose herself completely.

  As Pru continued to hover near the exit of the marquee, she couldn’t help but wonder if she had done just that. With her tangerine leather clutch bag in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other, she smiled and tapped her fingers against her glass in time to the music, as though she was having a fabulous time.

  The marquee was huge – Billy Smart’s Circus on Clapham Common sprang to mind. It was, as per Bobby’s prospective mother-in-law’s instructions, festooned with colour-coordinated bunting, strings of coloured lights that looped back and forth across the roof and a glitter ball suspended over the wooden dance floor that would put Times Square in the shade. The whole event had been a mere ten weeks in the planning and if Pru was being honest, she couldn’t wait for it to be over. She dreaded to think about the level of detail and discussion that would go into the actual wedding if this were just the engagement party.

  It wasn’t that she disapproved of William in any way – far from it. He made Bobby happy and that was everything. But the prospect of having to endure cosy meetings with the excitable Isabel, who had spent the whole of lunch shrieking, clapping and tutting at the slightest provocation, was more than she could bear. Over an after-lunch coffee, taken at their vast kitchen table, Pru had listened politely to Isabel’s dilemma with downsizing; apparently a smaller kitchen wouldn’t go amiss.

  ‘There have been countless times when my meals have been ruined – it’s such a struggle coordinating the hob, range, fridge and microwave with so much space in between,’ she trilled. Pru had nodded sympathetically. It must be hell. ‘From one baker to another, I don’t mind telling you that this vast room plays havoc with my meringues!’

  Pru had then sat in silence as Isabel and Bobby debated whether ivory or jade bows would be best on the backs of the chairs and was it too much to insist that the centrepieces of gerbera and gypsophila were wired to make sure they didn’t droop, before being adorned with a single green butterfly? On and on it went, each detail seemingly more over-considered than the last. She didn’t understand how these things could be so important to the success of a wedding, but apparently they were.

  Pru was used to this level of detail – her clientele were discerning, rich and picky. But she found it odd that Bobby – her flesh and blood, whose nan had toiled in a munitions factory on the night shift and had had all her own teeth pulled at eighteen to avoid dental bills; whose own dad had died practically homeless – fell so easily into the role of spoilt cow. It was her own fault, she knew.

  William’s wider family were nice enough. She had been introduced to several distant cousins and a couple of school friends and army chums who all had names that would have guaranteed a good beating had they grown up in her neighbourhood. Piers Parkinson-Boater being the first one that leapt to mind. Although, in fairness to Master Parkinson-Boater, one of William’s closest friends, he had been pleasant and seemed to take a genuine interest in her as Bobby’s nearest and dearest. He’d offered to get her a drink and had even enquired about the opening hours of Plum’s, promising to bring his mum for a cuppa and a slice of cake, if he was passing.

  ‘Yes, that would be nice. Are you often passing by?’ Pru had asked.

  Piers had looked at his rather large feet. ‘No, not really and not for a while. I’m off on tour actually.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re a soldier too? Where you going?’

  ‘The usual: somewhere hot, dangerous and dusty.’ He shrugged as a nervous flicker crossed his brow.

  ‘Well, you take care of yourself, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘Unlike Wills I didn’t manage to land a desk job. I always seem to find myself in grim corners, where the jobs are ra
ther mucky.’

  ‘Well, thank God you do, it keep us all safe.’

  Piers grinned at the compliment. ‘And when I get back, I’ll be sure to pop in.’

  Lovely. Of the others whose acquaintance she had made that afternoon, each had in turn shaken her hand and muttered ‘How d’you do,’ before exiting sharpish in search of similarly monikered beings of the same age and opposite sex, with whom they could sit and compare notes about who they knew in common and in which county.

  A swell of linen, silk and tanned, sculpted limbs now crowded the dance floor and Bobby was in her element. Every time Pru glimpsed her, her left arm was extended, French-manicured fingers splayed, and a different pair of eyes was scrutinising the weighty bauble that sparkled on her hand. She was so happy to be loved. Life and luck were determined by the turn of a coin – Pru of all people knew that. Had she not insisted on staying in touch with her beloved Alfie, Bobby would have ended up in care.

  Pru blinked away the image that formed in her head and turned her eyes heavenwards. ‘Look at her, Alfie! I couldn’t be any prouder. She’s doing fine, our beautiful girl, she’s doing absolutely fine.’ This she addressed out through the marquee entrance, to the blue sky and the full trees that surrounded the adjacent paddock and large lake.

  ‘It’s the first sign, you know.’

  His voice came from over her shoulder. She swung round to face the man, who wore a sharp grey suit and pale pink shirt. He was about her age, handsome and with thinning grey hair that was slightly too long and pushed back over his tanned forehead. He had twinkly blue eyes and the skin around them was crinkled, suggesting he laughed a lot.

  She brushed invisible creases from her lime-green linen shift and ran her tongue over her front teeth, in case any lipstick or lettuce had lodged there.

  ‘What’s the first sign of what?’ She wrinkled her nose, confused.

  ‘Talking to yourself, the first sign of madness.’ He sipped at his glass of red wine and nodded his head as though they were mid conversation.

  ‘Blimey, I always talk to myself; it’s the only way to get any sense in our house. And anyway, I wasn’t talking to myself; I was talking to my little brother, Alfie.’

  ‘Oh, I feel rather foolish, I thought you were alone.’ The man looked to the left, then popped his head outside the marquee. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Where’s who?’

  ‘Your brother, Alfie, the one you’re talking to?’

  ‘Oh, he’s dead,’ Pru said quite matter-of-factly. ‘But that doesn’t stop me talking to him.’

  He hesitated. ‘I talk to my wife, Ginny. She’s dead too.’

  ‘Does she ever answer you?’ Pru cocked her head to one side, fascinated to hear his response.

  ‘Yes. Yes she does.’ He smiled. ‘Or at least I hear her response. Maybe it’s simply what I think she would say or maybe I dredge her words from a memory and cobble together an answer from all the conversations we had over the years. But that’s the same thing really, isn’t it?’

  Pru nodded. ‘Yep. I suppose it is.’

  ‘Does your brother answer you?’ The man put his hand on his hip, slipping it under his jacket and revealing a slight paunch.

  Pru’s voice was quieter now. ‘No. No, he doesn’t. But I see his face smiling at me as though he is pleased to hear my news. Mind you, he never could get a word in edgeways so that shouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Do you picture his face from when he was young or the last time you saw him? I only ask because when I converse with Ginny, she is in her mid thirties, but she was actually nearer fifty when she died.’

  She had to think about this. ‘That’s strange, isn’t it? I wonder why that is. I haven’t really considered it before, but with Alfie it’s the face he had the last time I saw him, only happy, content, better.’ She avoided the words ‘clean’ and ‘sober’, though they fluttered on her tongue.

  ‘Do you know, I have never told another living soul that before.’ He gave a small cough and looked anywhere other than her face.

  ‘Well, your secret is safe with me. I think lots of people do it, I know it brings me great comfort.’

  The man took a gulp of his wine. ‘I don’t know why I talk to my wife a lot, I really don’t, stupid really. It’s probably habit.’ He shook his head, embarrassed.

  ‘Probably. I think it’s nice to ask for her advice or just keep her in the loop.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes, otherwise she’s really gone, hasn’t she, if you stop talking to her. At least that’s what I think.’

  He held out his hand. ‘I’m Christopher, by the way. Christopher Heritage.’

  ‘Oh!’ Pru recognised his name. ‘You’re the MP thingy. William’s uncle.’

  ‘Yep, the MP thingy, that’s me.’

  ‘I’m Pru. Roberta’s my niece.’

  ‘Hello, Pru. She’s a lovely girl – we were introduced earlier. Although why she wants to get mixed up with a mob like this I’ll never know!’

  ‘Oh, Gawd, don’t say that, you’ll get me worrying! Everyone seems lovely.’ Even if I do feel like a fish out of water.

  ‘Oh, they are lovely, all of them. But it’s all a bit predictable, isn’t it, marrying an army officer, buying a farmhouse with an Aga, getting a chocolate Labrador called Max and spending weekends in Devon. Don’t you ever wish she’d go and climb the mountains of the Himalayas or backpack around Brazil and work in conservation?’

  ‘Good God, no I don’t! She gets lost if she has to go south of the river, let alone climbing Himalayan mountains. Anyway, it’d be a bit tricky in her Jimmy Choos, they’d get stuck in the mud. And actually, all I want is for her to be happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, for her to be happy and safe, and with William I think she is.’

  ‘You’re right, of course. Don’t listen to me, I’m just an old cynic. A lifetime in Westminster can do that to a man.’

  ‘What is it you do in Westminster? I mean, I know you are one of the erm…’ She rolled her hand as if this might help find the words that evaded her. She knew his face and his name but didn’t have a clue as to his role. ‘I’m sorry, I’m a bit rubbish at politics and all that stuff. I mean, I go and put my cross every four years by the best-looking candidate, but other than that it’s all a bit of a mystery to me.’

  ‘Don’t apologise; actually it’s a blessed relief. I’ve spent the whole afternoon answering questions on where these young bucks should invest next and can I give them a clue about interest rates when all I wanted was a large glass of plonk and a vol-au-vent. It’s been bloody hard work.’

  ‘Sounds it.’

  ‘I’m the Chief Whip.’ He stated this with gravitas, as if it would mean something to her.

  ‘Well, what a coincidence, so am I! If there’s a bowl of cream that needs a good lashing, they call on me! I’m a baker.’

  Christopher laughed. ‘You’re a baker?’

  ‘Yes, I’m Pru Plum.’

  ‘Oh, Plum’s! I know it, yes of course! Actually, I think Isabel did tell me. You’ve got that swanky place in Mayfair, with a little shop where you can get a coffee and a cream cake for an arm and a leg!’

  ‘That’s the one.’ She smiled.

  ‘Well I never. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Pru Plum.’

  ‘And you.’

  Sir Christopher Heritage put out his hand and took hers, shaking it gently yet firmly. And it was in that moment, as his fingers grasped hers and their palms lay flat against each other, that Prudence Plum felt something new, something that she had never felt before. It washed over her from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. It left her feeling breathless, awkward and glowing with excitement and it was something that at sixty-six years of age, she had doubted she would ever feel.

  ‘Can I get you a refill?’ Christopher pointed at her empty glass.

  She nodded, unable to speak.

  He took the glass from her hand and walked towards the bar. ‘Back in a mo, don’t go anywhere.’


  I’m not going anywhere, I’ll be right here, waiting…

  Pru looked skywards and laughed. ‘Blimey, thank you, Alfie!’

  And then she heard it, loud and clear, his response, for the first time ever. ‘You’re welcome!’

  Christopher came back with two glasses of champagne as the band struck up ‘Bye Bye Blackbird’, an up-tempo version that couples bopped to on the dance floor. Men twirled girls, who squealed and fell into the arms of their beaus, wobbling on legs that were one part champagne and two parts mojito.

  ‘Fancy a dance?’ Christopher asked as his cheeks coloured.

  ‘Oh…’ Pru was taken aback. ‘I don’t know.’ She bit her bottom lip, concerned about the practicalities, like having to jiggle, sober, in front of this stranger. Where would she leave her handbag and would he have to touch her?

  ‘You don’t know?’ He sipped at one of the glasses.

  It was Pru’s turn to get a little flustered. ‘No, I mean, I do know, yes!’

  ‘No, you do know, yes? You’ve rather lost me, I’m afraid.’

  Pru laughed. ‘I would like to dance with you—’

  ‘Good,’ Christopher interrupted. He set the champagne flutes down on one of the little bar tables that were dotted around the marquee.

  ‘But I’m not sure I can,’ she finished.

  ‘Why, are you afflicted in some way? Let me guess, arthritic joints? Gammy leg? Two left feet?’