“Okay, darling. See you then. Love you.”
“Love you too, Mum.” And I do. I can’t stay mad at her for long. However hard I try.
I google the divorce question and find it can be as little as twelve weeks. Yikes. The way my mum and Charles are going, they’ll be married the day after. I shudder at the thought. PMA, Donna, you were going to have a more positive mental attitude. I was but I’m not sure what happened to it.
I’ve just shut the Google app when my phone goes again.
“Hi Izzy.”
“Oh dear. Is it that bad?”
“No.”
“Donna…”
“Just my mum.”
“Oh no. Not split up with Charles.”
“I wish. No, I don’t wish. That’s a horrible thing to say. I retract that.”
“You said it like you meant it. What’s happened?”
“It’s too long to say over the phone. Are you still up for coming out to play?” The thought of that makes me smile.
“You bet ya. Do you want to come to mine or me to yours?”
“‘Mine’ being William’s? And ‘yours’ being Duncan’s?”
“Er, yep. Although I do have to pop over to mine at some stage. Amanda’s texted me to say there’s some post. Mostly bills I think but I’d better check. I’ve not transferred my post and don’t really see the point. It’ll all just be stuff to do with the house anyway.”
“The advantage of only renting out rooms.”
“Indeed.”
“Shall I meet you there then and we can walk to… Romany? White Elephant? Heather’s? What do you fancy? Picturedrome?”
“Ooh… how about Heather’s for a drink and chat then White Elephant or Picturedrome for lunch.”
“Perfect. See you at yours at…” I look at my watch. It’s only half past nine so I’m hoping she says no earlier than eleven.
“Eleven for just gone elevensies?”
Great minds. “Perfect.”
“S’later.”
“S’later.” We know the norm is s’la’er but we’re both too well brought up to not pronounce our tees, even if we wanted to. It’s also the journalists in us. Always the Queen’s English.
So I have an hour to have a shower and get ready. Loads of time. Ooh, I’ve not looked at Facebook yet this morning.
Making it with literally a minute to spare, not that Izzy clock watches that specifically, I pull up outside her house. It’s a lovely little detached in a quiet sort of cul-de-sac that no one really knows is there. ‘They were using up a piece of land,’ she had explained to me once, ‘back in 1936.’
My flat’s modern and while the rooms in Izzy’s house aren’t big by any means, mine are tiny. It’s why I like the more open plan feel of Duncan’s house, and why I don’t come home very often. I do have to though this weekend so I’m prepared and have a few bits in my car boot that I won’t need for a while, clothes mostly.
Izzy opens the door as I walk up the driveway. Her front door is almost made entirely of lightly frosted glass which would freak me out, the fact that people can see in but also if someone shattered the glass, all they’d need to do is step over the white plastic frame. I don’t suppose the people who design or make these doors think about that but I do almost every time I visit. “Hey, Donna. Nearly ready.”
“No problem,” I say as I step inside and shut the door behind me. A woman calls Izzy’s name from upstairs. I hear, then see, a thud of bright pink Doc Marten-booted feet. In fact the woman, presumably Amanda, is dressed entirely in pink. Even the bow, clips and grips in her hair match, albeit in differing shades. If only I were half my age, as she isn’t far off, though probably late teens rather than mid. But I don’t remember being that bold when I was whatever age she is.
“Amanda, Donna, Donna, Amanda.”
“Hi!” Amanda thrusts out her hand and by the time she’s shaken mine, it almost hurts. She’s got an army major’s grip and as much enthusiasm as… Tigger, I suppose.
I put on my best smile and return her ‘Hi’. “Lovely to meet you. Izzy’s told me a little about you but more about what you do.”
“Yes, St Andrew’s. Love it. Not been there long but yes, I love it.” Her hair, which is plaited in two, very much like Kim Kardashian’s Double Dutch, and almost as long, is bobbing as she nods furiously. “I’m like a floater; different departments, wherever they need me. Only been in adolescence so far though. So much going on there. But it’s fab. And I get to go down to Workbridge for lunch, take one or two of the kids there sometimes. It’s amazing. Have you ever been?”
Amanda and my mum would get on well, although they’d only get a word in if they spoke over each other. “I have a couple of times. Café, charity shop. It’s great.”
Amanda smiles. “I love the ethic. Such a great ethic. You know they do printing too. Fabulous. And they involve so many of their guests.”
Everything about Amanda is ‘fabulous’ and I’m sure if I spent much time with her I’d be back to my old self but for the moment, I need Izzy love. She’s looking like a spare part, so I conclude proceedings. “It was lovely to meet you, Amanda.”
“And you.” She gives my hand another firm shake, which is fine as I’ve not quite got the feeling back from the first time.
Chapter 74 – Some Izzy Love
We’re lucky, given it’s a Saturday and a nice day, that the outside space isn’t being used when we get to Heather’s. It’s a cosy coffee shop and very popular with locals and passers-by, and a glance through the window shows the tables inside are full. Just as well it’s not raining, although there’s a huge red umbrella to protect us had it been.
It’s my turn to pay so I go in and there’s a buzz, as well as the inevitable warmth, about the place. I know a lot of writers say they go to coffee shops because they like the noise and they’d certainly not be disappointed here.
Heather’s husband Bungle is at his computer by the café’s right wall and he’s half chatting to one of the customers about the local council – often a debate whenever I’ve been here with Izzy. Bungle’s sort-of-Mohican is bright orange today. I think it was blue last time. That in itself is a talking point, that he’s ‘on trend’, not that it would have been his intention.
Izzy and I are not eating until later so I order a chai tea latté and Americano but get lured by the gorgeous cakes and I’m about to order a muffin to share when Bungle switches from the other customer to me.
“I’ve got a story to tell you about your chai tea latté.”
I turn to face him. “Oh?”
“There’s a lady came in here a few weeks ago, over from Mumbai, asked if we did chai tea lattés. I said we did and Heather…” He points to his wife, as if there’d be any doubt as to who he was talking about. “…did the honours. The woman tried it and said, ‘Oh my god, I’ve been in Northampton for six months and I’ve been looking everywhere for a chai tea latté just like we have it at home.’”
“Wow.”
“I know.”
We look at Heather who blushes.
“And,” Bungle continues, “she’s been back several times. Each time says ‘it’s just like we have it at home.’”
“I shall get Izzy to report back to you.” I point outside to the only person sitting under the closed red umbrella, as if there’d be any doubt as to who I was talking about.
Heather smiles, still looking a little embarrassed. Bungle grins with pride. They’ve been married a few years and look like they’re still very much in love. I can only hope that Duncan and I will be so happy.
I return to Izzy, forgetting about the muffin, and I’m mid-flow telling her all about my mother when Heather comes out with our drinks, which reminds me about the muffin but I remember what Bungle said to keep that in my mind so it doesn’t disappear. “I’ve not told her yet,” I say to Heather, “but will.” Heather nods politely and goes back inside.
“What was that?” Izzy asks as the door closes so I tell her everythin
g Bungle told me, almost word for word. “Oh how sweet. I’d better have it while it’s hot then.” Izzy takes a sip but winces. “Maybe not that hot.”
I continue telling her about last night and this morning until we’re up to date.
“Wow,” is all Izzy can say as she takes a large just-right mouthful of latté.
“I know.”
“But why would Leah do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t know her but you just don’t do that.”
“I know.”
“Even in an emergency, you don’t give out personal details. Isn’t there a procedure to follow? Wouldn’t she at least have given the information to your mum?”
“But how would she know she’s my mum? At least she knew Charles, albeit vaguely.”
“Because your mum would have given her enough information about you.”
“Which she’d probably given Charles.”
“Okay, fair point. Strange though, isn’t it. Would you trust him with the rest of your mother’s life?”
“Mmm…”
“She said they were doing it because they cared, or something like that?”
“Looking out for me, yes.” I take a mouthful of my Americano.
“It was a very sweet thing to do; to ask Duncan to give her away.”
“But she could have asked me for his address.”
“And you would have asked why.”
I can feel myself frowning. “Probably.”
“But she wanted it to be a surprise.”
“So she said.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
Even more frowning. “What do you mean?”
“If she’d told you ahead of time, you would have blabbed. You couldn’t keep something like that a secret. You’d have been straight on the phone to Duncan and blabbed.”
My frowning turns into mock shock. “I’m wounded, Isobel MacFarlane, that you would think such a thing.”
“It’s absolutely true.”
I swallow another mouthful of Americano. “And you’re absolutely right.”
And there, my mother is instantly forgiven. Charles a little less so as he did the underhand deed but he did it for her, so yes, maybe he’s not that bad after all.
Izzy takes our empty cups inside and reports back to Heather that it is indeed a fabulous chai tea latté. She returns with a square cake-box shaped paper bag.
“Mmm… what have you got there?”
“A couple of slices of self-indulgence for our afternoon tea.”
“Ooh… what flavour.”
“For me to know and for you to find out.”
“Same or different?”
“Different.”
“Ooh…”
Resisting the… whatever they are, because I have no choice, until afternoon tea, we hit the three charity shops along the Kingsley Park Terrace. This is Izzy’s old stomping ground so she knows, and chats to, each manageress in turn. First up is the bright and airy Extra Care. Nadia’s in today and immediately smiles at Izzy.
I’m not sure I know any shop well enough for any of the members of staff to recognise me which makes me feel a little sad but Nadia smiles at me, mouths a ‘hello’ and I immediately feel welcome. I only know her name, apart from the badge I see she’s wearing, because Izzy told me ahead of time.
Nadia knows Izzy loves audiobooks and texted her in the week that she’d put some by so not only a trip to Kingsley to collect the post. It’s worth coming just for this as Nadia goes into the back room and comes out with a stack of about a dozen multi-CDs. Izzy’s had quite a few previously but only passes on a couple.
She pays for them but I know she’ll lend them to me, via a memory stick, when she’s recorded them on her computer and brings them back for Nadia to resell – the ultimate recycling. We usually end up buying more of the authors’ books so not wholly naughty and I’m sure most writers, while, yes, wanting to sell gazillions of books, write to be read. Izzy’s talked for months about writing a novel, and says she’s planning it, yet I don’t think she’s got past writing the title. Not that I can remember what she said it was going to be called.
Laden with several bags of shopping: the audiobooks, clothes (most from the British Red Cross), and a fabulous pair of long black cowboy boots for Izzy (courtesy of Age UK), we head for the White Elephant for lunch. We debate popping to hers to drop off the shopping but agree that we might not walk back again. Plus lovely as she is, we’d end up getting Amanda-d.
“Aren’t they men’s?” I ask when Izzy tries her boots on again. We’ve sat at a table near one of the doors to the pub’s rear garden, an orange juice and lemonade in front of me, diet Coke in front of Izzy.
“They are but they look okay, don’t they?”
“They’re gorgeous.” They’d drown me as Izzy has boats for feet, as the saying sort of goes. We both struggle to get nice shoes, even new in shoe shops, which is a bit ridiculous given that Northampton’s known for its shoes, men’s mostly, and why the football team is The Cobblers.
“Aren’t they a bit big though? Aren’t you an eight?”
“Eight and a bit usually so I have to get a nine and these are tens but pretty small so extra thick socks and they’ll be fine.”
“Cool. Food?”
“Absolutely. Eat, drink and be pretty darned merry.”
Being a Greene King pub there’s almost too much choice, but we finally settle on a Hunter’s chicken for Izzy and chicken and bacon salad (less than 350 calories!) for me, helped by being from the ‘two pub classics from £10.99’ section. We do love our bargains. And salads vary surprisingly from establishment to establishment so it’s good research.
We catch up on Izzy’s week and mine minus my mother’s is-it-isn’t-it-a-faux-pas drama and, clean plates later, we grab our booty and head back to Izzy’s house, enjoying the walk along the Kingsley Road with the old racecourse, Kingsley Park, on our left.
Needless to say for mid-afternoon on a Saturday, it’s packed with dog walkers, picnickers, cricketers and amateur footballers, some dads and their sons. I picture Duncan being one of them with our son Tyson. Tyson? Where did that come from? I can’t imagine calling my son Tyson, especially not after Mike.
“Huh?” Izzy calls back, the pavement’s a bit too narrow for us to walk side by side and we’d block the path for anyone coming up behind us, or in front, although we’d be able to see them coming. We’re nothing if not considerate.
“Wondering if Amanda’s going to be there,” I call.
“Don’t think so. Said she was going to visit her mum.”
“Oh really? Where does she live?”
“Market Harborough.”
“Nice.”
“I know. I get the impression she’s quite well off. They. Amanda talks about her father so I think they’re still together. She has some really nice things, not cheap, so unless she’s a charity shop hunter too, she has more money than she earns ‘floating’ at St Andrew’s.”
With Izzy’s back to me, I’ve caught most of that, filled in one or two words so it makes sense. We spend the last few hundred yards in silence before arriving at Izzy’s.
She’s right; there’s no sign of Amanda, just Izzy’s car in the two-car drive and mine blocking hers only for Amanda to could get out easily.
After going back through our bargains and trying on a couple of outfits, we watch a movie, accompanied by Mr Ben and Jerry with their Pfish Food and Cherry Garcia. It’s at times like this that I’m glad my brief was to eat the five-hundred-max dishes and report back on them and wherever I was eating them at the time, instead of losing weight. Just as well as I’d not been weighing myself religiously. (At all.)
We agree on Izzy’s recent purchase of Stranger than Fiction and I still can’t believe she’s never seen it, especially as she’s the one out of the two of us who’s often talked about writing a novel. The title of her book, she reminds me when I less than subtly ask, is going to be The Luckiest House, which I’
m not convinced sounds like a best seller but I’m sure Mrs James’s friends weren’t smitten with Fifty Shades of Grey either. I’d be only too glad if Izzy proved me wrong by selling gazillions of copies.
“My god. I loved that!” she exclaims as Stranger than Fiction’s credits roll and the two slices of cake, chocolate orange beetroot and coconut berry, are long-distant memories.
“I know.”
“I’m going to watch it again. You?”
I shake my head. “I need to pop back to my flat. It’s been too long and for all I know it could have been burgled or flooded while I’ve been away.”
“Oh, I should have thought. You could have given me a key and I could have popped in from time to time.”
She’s right. I hadn’t thought of it either. “That’s kind of you but so could I at the weekends.”
After hugs and cheek kisses, and a promise of keeping in touch until she visits me and my mum next weekend – can’t wait – I pop home… home home. I know I’ve not seen Duncan since breakfast but he had a few things planned, including golf, which can take hours, especially when meeting up with some of the regulars (William?) at the nineteenth hole, not that he drink drinks, never does when he’s driving, but it doesn’t matter.
It’s not late, just gone six, so still plenty of time to go out if we want to but I suspect we won’t, given we’ve both been out all day.
Chapter 75 – Home Not Alone
The cold hits me as I open my front door. I’d forgotten that I’d switched off the heating, or rather set the remote to ‘off’ so it doesn’t drop below five degrees. I’m not going to be long but set it to manual so it can have a quick blast of heat, good for the flat, not only for me. I write a note on my notebook to switch the heating back to off, and leave my notebook on the doormat so I can’t forget. Only a few months ago, I’d not have to have done things like that but the thought of hitting thirty-one, which is scarily not far away, has turned my brain to mush.
I potter around until I think I’ve done everything I need to. Left until last because there’s nothing I really need from the kitchen, I switch on the light and scream. There’s a very small mouse, possibly a dormouse, on my work surface and it appears to be eating, and enjoying, some cheese. I look over to the fridge and the door’s open. I’m normally fastidious about ensuring it’s shut, especially if I’m going away for a few days, but unless this mouse is as capable as… whatever the rat in Ratatouille was called, and able to open heavy fridge doors, then I don’t think it was him… her… it.
The Serial Dieter Page 34
