‘Tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow,’ Lola said firmly. ‘I’ll leave here after breakfast. And I’ll take you out to dinner tomorrow night. Thanks for asking me.’
She put the phone down, and gazed at the denuded apartment. Her suitcases were packed, the few personal items which she’d added over the years, were wrapped and sealed in two cardboard boxes. Everything else she’d left for the Marion family.
Lifting her favourite photograph of Nigel from the mantelpiece, Lola kissed it, then holding it tightly against her, slowly walked into the bedroom – hers and Nigel’s bedroom – for the very last time.
Chapter Five
The two weeks spent with Mimi had been an unmitigated disaster. Lola had never been so glad to see the back of Somerset in her life. However, it had given her a little time to adjust to the shock of being jobless and homeless, and had, in retrospect and however awful, been better than being lonely in Swansbury.
Not that she’d have the indulgence of being lonely in Swansbury any longer. The apartment would be up for sale by now, or even worse, be inhabited by Barbara Marion or one of the Marion offspring as a weekend retreat. Feeling the cold grief start to clutch in her throat, Lola steered her thoughts away from Nigel and their one-time home and concentrated on her driving.
The fortnight in Somerset would have been even more therapeutic if she’d been able to talk over her sadness with Mimi, she realized as she left Bath behind and headed towards the motorway. But Mimi had been too full of Howard’s suspected infidelity, this time in Geneva, and how women like Lola should be tarred and feathered and railroaded out of town.
Listening to Mimi’s constant self-centred bitchy whine, Lola had decided that she couldn’t blame Howard for playing away, and had also come to the conclusion that if more wives behaved like mistresses, then there would probably be a lot more happy marriages and far fewer divorces.
Not that she’d shared this nugget with her cousin, naturally. It would have been rude in the extreme, and Mimi’s grudging hospitality had at least served a purpose, but now the grieving and eventual healing would be down to her alone. Like everything else. Like the rest of her life. Alone.
It would be a challenge, at least. Something to get her teeth into. Worrying about survival was a whole new area for the four o’clock horrors to run riot in. The only immediate problem now, of course, she thought as she joined the stream of vehicles on the motorway, was where the hell was this lone existence going to be? Where on earth was she supposed to go next to face this challenge?
The M4’s Tuesday afternoon traffic was steady; three lanes of tin boxes beetling off to various destinations. Lola, cruising along the inside lane because there was no point in driving quickly to nowhere, wondered if any of them were as rootless as she.
She’d find somewhere cheap to stay tonight, then think about it all again in the morning. Prioritize, that was the thing to do. She’d always been good at prioritizing at Marionette Biscuits. Nigel had said so . . . She swallowed and blinked and again quickly changed tack. Prioritize . . . Okay ... Do it. Now. Think . . .
What did she really need? Easy: money and a roof over her head. A job and a home.
What if, she wondered idly, listening to Radio Two and sailing past the entrance to a service station, she could solve both her problems in one fell swoop?
What if – just supposing – she found herself a job that also provided accommodation?
The idea was suddenly so exciting that she found herself singing along to Smokie’s ‘Living Next Door to Alice’ without realizing that she’d even remembered the words. For the first time since Nigel’s death, Lola felt the numb hopelessness slightly thawing. Her spirits, while not exactly rising, had at least perked up.
The idea, just a glimmer, was already spreading tentacles. Her brain was racing. Yes, it was a possibility and one so simple that she couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t thought of it before.
Hotels . . . Hotels were bound to have lots of live-in jobs, weren’t they? She could buy a Daltons Weekly and a copy of The Lady and find a live-in job anywhere – anywhere at all. Hotels, or private houses, or pubs, or restaurants, or maybe nursing homes even . . .
Naturally there would be no references from Marionette Biscuits, and her age was definitely against her, so she could hardly expect to walk into a management position in her new job, but she could surely do something in return for bed and board? Cook? Clean? Care? Oh yes, she’d been good at caring . . .
There surely would be umpteen live-in places where her age would be a definite advantage, and her housekeeping skills appreciated? Somewhere where she could lose herself and her past and channel all her loving into looking after other people – other people who would relish her company as Nigel had done, but differently, of course. There would never be another emotional entanglement. Having loved as deeply as she and Nigel had done, she knew she’d never fall in love again. But caring . . .
As with all sudden, exciting and brilliant ideas, Lola now itched to put it into immediate action. Cursing for not stopping off at the service station, booking herself in for a night or two at the Travel Lodge which was all she could afford, and buying a paper to search through the small ads, she drummed her fingers on the steering wheel – this time to the beat of The Sweet – and wondered if she should leave the motorway at the next exit. Or should she stay on until Reading? No, a million doubts could creep in between here and Reading. She’d leave at the next junction and take her chances.
She could pick up a Daltons Weekly and the most recent edition of The Lady in the next town, find a room for the night, ring round any suitable vacancies, and start her new life within what – probably not more than a day or two?
Yes! Yes! Yes! Lola pressed her foot down, and headed almost happily towards the next slip road.
Stirwell Newtown was pretty unprepossessing. Small and grey, it appeared to have fallen into disrepair around the time that breeze block architecture was all the rage. As far as Lola could make out, the double-yellow-lined high street offered just one depressed row of single-storey shops. On closer inspection she noticed that most of them were either boarded up or had metal bars on the windows: obviously to deter looters or to stop the staff escaping.
Lola shivered. At least she wouldn’t be starting her new life here. All she needed from Stirwell Newtown was a couple of magazines, maybe a cafe where she could grab a coffee, then she’d rejoin the motorway, find somewhere to stay in Reading overnight, and plan her next move.
As well as lacking hospitality, Stirwell Newtown also seemed pretty short on car parks. Probably, Lola decided, having driven round a bleak and miserable one-way system twice, because no one in their right mind would ever want to stop here.
Eventually finding an un-yellow-lined gap between The Marrakech Kebab House which was closed and the 8 ’til Late which wasn’t, Lola parked alongside an industrial sized wheelie bin and a Fiesta on bricks. Nervously, she glanced around for potential joyriders, and not spotting any made sure the hatchback was securely locked, and hurried into the convenience shop.
Cornucopia wasn’t the word. The high shelves and narrow aisles were stacked with every commodity known to man. A group of rather dispirited-looking and overweight women in leggings and leather jackets were milling round the sweets and crisps with their noisy offspring, while even more of the same were queuing at the tiny post office counter. Lola groaned. It was obviously child benefits day – and the 8 ’til Late had one harassed assistant who seemed to be dividing his time unequally between the shop and the post office.
Bursting with impatience now that she had a plan in mind, she forced her way through a gridlock of buggies and shopping trolleys towards the newsstand. There were no copies of The Lady on display, so picking up the last Daltons Weekly, Lola joined the queue and listened to several older customers cheerfully discussing whether tins of chicken jalfrezi would be an adequate substitute for steak and kidney pudding for the old man’s tea.
In her p
ast life, Lola would have listened and smiled and stored up the conversation to repeat to Nigel that evening. Since his death, one of the hardest things to bear had been the lack of someone to talk to, to share these nonsensical snippets with. In those first few desolate weeks, she’d wondered if she would ever be normal again. But now, this live-in plan, this grain of an idea, had somehow managed to make the numb, gin-filled days of early mourning seem distant, almost as though they had happened to someone else.
In this hot and overcrowded convenience store, she realized that she was possibly going to survive. Nigel, she knew, would have been proud of her.
By the time she’d reached sight of the counter, she was aware that she was the subject of some speculation by the leggings brigade. With their uniform bleached hair and dark roots and their down-turned mouths, they were staring covetously at her black silk trousers and red cashmere jacket, rather like an avid lepidopterist might gaze greedily on a Queen Alexandra’s Birdwing.
Lola avoided their eyes. She understood how they felt. She watched happy couples with the same naked jealousy.
Fifteen minutes later, clutching her Daltons Weekly, Lola emerged triumphant from the 8 ’til Late. To her relief the hatchback was still where she’d left it – only now it was surrounded by people.
Had there been an accident? No, thank God, there was no sign of a crumpled body, no ambulance, only a sort of low-loader lorry pulling up to the wheelie bin. The jostling crowd took no notice of her at all. Shivering suddenly, sure that she had just intercepted Stirwell Newtown’s junior mafia attempting to break into her car, Lola pushed her way through the throng.
‘Excuse me! Is there a problem here?’
‘Oooh, lah-di-dah!’ A bearded youth in a fluorescent orange jacket pulled a face. ‘Yeah there is, if this is your car.’
‘It’s my car. And what’s the problem?’ Fear made Lola’s voice rise imperiously.
The bearded youth looked scornful. ‘Don’t you come over all Princess Anne with me, love. Can’t you read?’
Realizing that there were three fluorescent orange jackets amongst the clutch of anoraks and shell suits, Lola’s heart plummeted. Traffic wardens! There were no double-yellows. She’d checked. She hadn’t seen any no parking signs . . . Bugger! A parking ticket was all she needed. She had so little money . . .
‘Sorry? Are you telling me –’ She edged closer and looked at her car. ‘Oh my God!!!’
Her hatchback had been wheel clamped.
The leggings brigade, joined by the elderly Chicken Jalfrezis, had now drifted from the 8 ’til Late and had swelled the ranks of the interested spectators. Lola, panic rising in her throat, shook her head. ‘There must be some mistake.’
‘No mistake, love.’ The second of the fluorescent jackets jabbed towards a notice pasted to the wheelie bin. ‘Wheel clamping zone. Vehicles illegally parked will be clamped and towed away. Retrieval £500. Which bit of that don’t you understand?’
Five hundred pounds! Lola pressed her lips together to stop the scream escaping, then opened them slowly, trying to sound friendly. ‘No, I mean, I’m here now, so all you have to do is unclamp it and I’ll just drive off and –’
‘What you’ll just have to do,’ the third fluorescent joined in on cue, ‘is get your arse down to the compound with your five hundred smackers.’ He looked over his shoulder and nodded towards the driver of the lorry. Take her away, Sam!’
Lola watched in horror as some sort of grappling hook was attached to the hatchback’s rear bumper and the lorry started to winch the car towards the road.
‘All my stuff’s in there!’ She grabbed the nearest fluorescent arm. ‘Everything! You can’t take my belongings!’
‘You can get ’em when you collect the car, love. You pays your five hundred quid, we unlocks the clamp, and you get everything back.’
Lola hurled herself towards the car. ‘I want my suitcases! You’ve got no right to do this! No right at all!’
‘We’ve got every right, sweetheart. You parks in the wrong place and along we comes and we clamps your car. Easy enough to understand, I’d say.’
The winch was winding up with fearsome clanking noises, hauling the hatchback on to its front wheels. Frantically, Lola tried again to leap for a door handle.
A shell-suited arm pulled her back. ‘Leave it, love. It ain’t worth it.’
‘But my things! Everything! My car!’ Lola blinked back angry tears. ‘They can’t take it.’
‘Bloody fascists,’ the owner of the shell suit agreed. ‘Sets ’emselves up. They’re not from the council, you know, they’re private cowboys. Sits round the corner, waiting for someone who don’t know their game and bingo. Just like taking sweets from a baby.’
The crowd was swelling by the minute. It was probably the most excitement Stirwell Newtown had seen in years. A couple of the leggings and dark roots contingent had joined the shell suit and were now haranguing the lorry driver.
‘Let her get her stuff out, you big bully!’
‘You’re scum, you are!’
The shell suit nodded her frizzy perm in Lola’s face. ‘Tell you what, love. You’d be better getting off down to the compound, dishing out your dosh, getting your car back and forgetting this. They don’t take prisoners, these boys.’
Lola sketched a smile. The advice was probably well-meant even though it was nothing that she wanted to hear. There was no point in fighting the battle here. It was awful, but she’d cope. She’d have to cope. She couldn’t afford to pay five hundred pounds, but there was no choice. Without the car there could be no live-in dream. No future.
She clutched at the arm of the nearest clamper. ‘The, um, compound. Where is it exactly?’
‘Stirwell Oldtown. Five miles down the road.’
‘And how do I get there?’
‘That’s your problem, love. Mind, my brother runs the only taxi service in Stirwell, so I usually gives him the business . . . Oh, and another thing, when you’re booking your cab you’d better make sure you’ve got enough cash.’
Lola blinked. Cash? She hadn’t got more than fifteen pounds in her purse – probably all of which would go on the taxi fare. ‘I’ve got a cheque book and –’
‘Bet you ain’t got a cheque card what’ll guarantee five hundred quid, though, have you, love? We only takes cash. No cash, no car. Oh, looks like we’re away! See ya!’
The three fluorescent clampers leapt into the lorry cab, and Lola watched the nightmarish scene in mute fury as her hatchback disappeared into the cold grey gloom.
The show over, the crowd drifted away. Even her rescuer in the shell suit and bad perm had vanished. Letting out a shuddering breath, Lola wondered if she’d wake up in a minute and find this was yet another awful dream. Alone in a strange town, her car and all her worldly possessions whisked away, and no chance of ever seeing them again.
The sense of loss and bewilderment swept over her, and she dashed at the tears with the corner of the Daltons Weekly. All the euphoria of earlier had seeped away. If only she hadn’t had the stupid live-in brainwave! If only she’d kept going on the motorway! If only –
‘Here!’ A taxi drew up alongside, and a replica of one of the fluorescents leaned from the window. ‘Understand from our Pete that you wants a lift to the old compound, right? And that you’ll be stopping off at a couple of hole in the walls, right? Better hop in, sweetheart . . .’
Against her better judgement, Lola hopped. What a scam! Keeping it in the family with a vengeance. Too weary and worried to care, she sank back in the unpleasant plastic seats and allowed the unsavoury Pete’s unsavoury brother to whisk her away.
The clamping compound was, as Lola had feared, miles from anywhere. Well, miles from anywhere except a run-down high-rise estate and a landfill site. Towering wire fences surrounded row upon row of cars, some of which looked as though they’d been in situ for years.
Having parted with thirteen pounds to the taxi driver who had driven off with a triumphant blare of 19
80s air-horns, Lola staggered across the cracked and broken concrete towards a lone Portakabin.
Inside, it was fuggy with cigarette smoke and stale air, and lit with one bare light bulb. The man behind the desk was unkempt, unshaven, and possibly unwashed.
‘I’ve come to collect my car.’
‘Got the cash, have you?’
‘Yes.’ She’d had to make visits to two cashpoints and drawn half from her bank account and half from the building society. The taxi driver had added on waiting time.
‘Name. Address. Registration number. Ownership details. All on this form.’ The man behind the desk pushed a piece of paper and a ballpoint pen towards her. ‘If it all tallies with Swansea, you pay the cash over and you get your car and a receipt. Okay?’
Lola nodded, her hand shaking as she filled in the details, including Swansbury as her address. She didn’t think ‘no fixed abode’ would further her cause. Fear was rapidly being overtaken by anger. She’d been conned and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. All she wanted was to reclaim the car and get as far away from this godforsaken place as quickly as possible.
She pushed the form and pen back across the desk. ‘Okay. We’ll just check this out. A coupla phone calls. Hang on.’
The man shuffled out of sight behind a screen and Lola hung. And hung.
Fifteen minutes later he reappeared. ‘Bit of a problem here. Don’t all tally.’
Anger was definitely in the ascendancy now. ‘Crap! I might look like a cabbage but I’m not that green! Just let me have my car back. I’ve got the money. I’ve –’
‘It’s not your car, though, love, is it?’ The man tapped the biro against his nicotine-stained teeth and stared again at the piece of paper in his hand. ‘Not unless your name is Nigel Marion, which –’ he let his gaze roll insolently up and down her body, ‘I’d say it isn’t.’
Oh, shit. Lola closed her eyes. Nigel had, he’d said, on the advice of the Marionette accountant, always registered her cars in his name – for the company tax concession. Bugger, bugger, bugger . . .
Tickled Pink Page 6
