Whatever Happened to Vicky Hope's Back Up Man?

by Laura Kemp

  ‘I’m meeting someone for—’

  ‘Right, sit down then,’ he directed, waving at her to one of the empty wrought-iron table and chairs before he launched back into his conversation.

  Bewildered but intrigued, she took in the sight of stacks of sacks on the floor, rambling shelves, a large American fridge and a massive gleaming stainless-steel counter stocked with all sorts of cheeses and meats. The smell in here was deliciously earthy and salty, like a giant wheel of Brie, tinged with ground coffee, expensive bitter chocolate and the sweet scent of basil.

  ‘Food hygiene regulations stipulate the implementation of food management safety procedures. One of which is the control of hazards. The law says I must have adequate lighting. The lighting you were supposed to have fixed… Lack of staff? My heart bleeds! New member of the team, you say? You’ll be here within the hour? Oh, excellent! Finally. Goodbye.’

  Then he turned to Vee’s astonished face.

  ‘What a cretin. Twenty-four-hour call-out, my arse. Can’t see a bloody thing.’

  Vee didn’t know whether to laugh or leg it, but she was hypnotized by this man’s behaviour. Had he ever heard of customer service? She’d have got up and left had he not been so… well, unbelievably attractive. Tall, dark, broad and tanned, he looked like he was out of Game of Thrones. All that was missing was an animal skin robe and a sword.

  ‘You could open the door? That might help?’ she said, wondering why he hadn’t thought of this already.

  He pulled in exasperation at handfuls of curly brown hair. ‘You see? That’s why I can’t run this place by myself. My brother, who is supposed to be front of house, has decided cheese isn’t for him. I mean, how preposterous! It's what the sign says, tired of cheese, tired of life.’

  Vee was clearly expected to share his look of disbelief.

  ‘He’s left me in the dark. Literally. Coffee?’

  ‘Er, yes, black, please.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He rubbed his palms and then gave her a dashing smile.

  She couldn’t take her eyes off him as he stalked about behind the counter, fiddling with the machine, creating steam and swearing all the while. What a bizarre place this was, what a beguiling man and she’d almost forgotten…

  A tinkle broke the spell and there Kate was, her smile timid, apprehensive. Still beautiful, but her looks were no longer indecently stunning, they were more modest and grown-up. Perhaps because they were tempered by an uncharacteristically unstylish old jumper, muddy jeans and wellies, . Eight years since she’d seen her, eight years ago when Kat had been on the edge. Now she appeared worn-in and experienced.

  The sight of Kate, her eyes mirroring Vee’s emotion, was as if someone had shouted ‘clear’ and pulsed her heart back to life. She couldn’t help it – she jumped up, flapping her arms.

  ‘It’s you,’ Vee said, moving towards her then stopping awkwardly just in case she had read it all wrong.

  ‘I can’t believe…’ Kate said softly, her eyes creasing from a teary sob which escaped her mouth. She squeaked a Joey ‘How you doin’?’ and that olive branch of familiarity and recognition was all it took to send Vee into her arms. She was still as skinny as she ever was, but Vee could feel a tautness to her body, which made her think of armour.

  ‘You look…’ Vee said, pulling back, holding a hand over her gob, then sitting down as her knees gave way.

  ‘I know, I’m sorry,’ Kate said, joining her at the table. ‘I was walking the dog in the woods and he ran off after a squirrel and by the time I’d got him back I had no time to change.’

  ‘I meant, you look the same but different.’ The way she moved with grace. Her gait so upright and measured. Yet her eyes, now she was up close, hinted at something sombre.

  ‘So do you. You’re…’

  ‘In a bad way,’ Vee said, already strangely comfortable.

  Vee saw it in Kate’s face then, a concerned and curious admission that yes, indeed, Vee wasn’t at her best. But Kate stuck to the script, their old mutual fan club script of reassurance.

  ‘Rubbish! You look great! Not a day older than—’

  And there was the moment, the reference to their past, when the trust had been broken and they’d parted relieved to see the back of one another. It was a fact they couldn’t deny but which they had to acknowledge if they were going to rebuild their relationship. And magically, that possibility was in the air. Vee had assumed she’d be the one to bring it up in some goofy way, for she was the one who couldn’t contain herself. So for Kate to do it within minutes of meeting, whether she’d meant to deliberately or she’d stumbled across it, it nearly knocked her off her chair. If you’d wronged someone, then wasn’t sorry the hardest word?

  This, Vee knew instinctively, was her chance to let bygones be bygones.

  ‘I just wanted to say, you know…’ Vee bit her lip then went for it.

  But Kate was already in there, holding her palms to her chest. ‘It was my fault. All of it. I’m sorry and I hope you can forgive me.’

  There in Kate’s gaunt and haunted face, Vee saw how time had affected her friend. What journey had she been on? she wondered. Overwhelmed by Kate’s apology, it was time for Vee to show her own hand. Literally. She reached out for Kate’s and began.

  ‘It was a long time ago, Kate. I’d like nothing better than to get past it. Life hasn’t quite turned out how I wanted it to. It’s a bit pants actually. That’s why I’m at home. I just got dumped after seven years with this bloke, we were living together in Brighton,’ she said, her chin wobbling. It felt terrible to say it out loud but it felt fantastic to share it. In that moment, it was just like old times, talking boy trouble, not needing anyone to provide a quick fix solution but simply an ear. ‘My parents are driving me up the wall with their talk of draught excluders and bulbs in the garden. I’ve pretty much got… nothing. But it’s my own doing though, so, you know, no violins.’

  ‘Oh, Vicky, sorry Vee, I didn’t expect that at all. I thought… anyway, it doesn’t matter what I… you must feel crappy.’

  Kate’s eyes caressed Vee’s face but then the lights went out as she opened up.

  ‘I’ve had a funny time of it myself. I’m fine, now,’ she said, making it clear she wasn’t after sympathy, ‘I never made it into banking. It all went a bit wobbly when I got back from travelling.’

  Kate grimaced and Vee shook her head, not understanding.

  ‘I’m forever condemned to be known as the family disappointment. My mother is still the same. No, actually, she’s worse.’

  Vee had a hint of comprehension – was it that Kate had been a forecasted whirlwind only to change direction or had she blown herself out?

  Their sniffles were the soundtrack then as they digested the headlines of their lives.

  A giant set of knuckles appeared before Vee’s face then and she looked at its owner. It was the Game of Thrones guy who was holding out a box of tissues with a bored look on his face.

  ‘And here’s your coffee. Rwandan beans, the finest,’ he said, letting it slop over the lid of the cup onto the saucer.

  ‘Pierre,’ Kate said, recovering herself. ‘What ever happened to service with a smile?’

  Ah, so they knew each other! That would be why Kate suggested here.

  ‘It’s not my job to be customer-friendly, as you well know, Kate. That bastard brother of mine has walked out on me. Hence why I’m the face of Fromage.’

  By way of explanation, he spoke to Vee. ‘I’m the cheese man. I deal with the cheese. And the meats. The olives. All of it. I look after the deliveries and the imports and the orders. I make sure there is no pre-cut shrink-wrapped cheese, that our salami is succulent, that our bascaiola sauce has never seen the inside of a factory. I search out the very best wares, which you will never see on a supermarket shelf.’ Then to Kate, as he strode back to his counter, he said, ‘Your usual, my dear? Ecuadorian green tea?’

  ‘Please!’ she said, just as a strikingly beautiful woman in dungarees and wo
rkmen’s boots strode in and clattered a toolbox on the floor.

  Pierre’s broad shoulders hunched at the sound and whipped round with a face of thunder, demanding to know, ‘What in God’s na—’

  His thunder became a dreamy rainbow as his brow collapsed into a mega-watt smile, which took Vee’s breathe away. This place was so intriguing.

  ‘The sparky,’ she stated, fiddling around for something in her breast pocket.

  ‘I say! I beg your pardon?’ he simpered, gazing at her almost eye-to-eye she was that tall. ‘Is that some sort of cheese I’ve never heard of?’ He had become breathy and excited.

  ‘Ee-lec-treesh-an,’ she elongated in a European purr for his benefit, her eyebrows arched. ‘In British culture, electricians are commonly referred to as sparkies. I am here to fix your lights.’

  Pierre’s jaw clunked open and he cleared his throat to assert his manliness. ‘Yes, yes, of course, I was just joshing,’ he said, scratching his chin.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ she repeated, looking unamused. ‘Is hilarious, yes, that a woman come here to do your electricity. And she is foreign.’

  ‘No. NO! God, no. Perish the thought,’ he said, horrified. ‘I… I love women electricians. Particularly the… er… foreign ones… absolutely smashing people. My friend here, Kate, she will testify that I am actually a feminist, isn’t that so?’

  ‘Never mind. Give me coffee and I fix you,’ the woman said, picking up her bag as Pierre agreed absolutely with her and led her inside.

  It was all too much for Vee, who released a giggle. ‘What the hell was that about?’

  Kate shrugged. ‘That is classic Pierre. You’ll get used to it.’

  Vee went to speak then stopped as the intention behind Kate’s words sank in: it may have been just one of those phrases people said, but ‘you’ll get used to it’ gave her a warm fuzzy feeling that she was welcome around here.

  It made her heart bloom that someone she’d once cherished was as pleased to see her as she was. But how could she say that out loud without looking like she was Billy No Mates? Well, she couldn’t. Instead, she nodded at her coffee – she wanted to show her appreciation of the deli, their meeting and the hope of beginning again.

  ‘Now this… this shits all over Mum’s Nescafé,’ Vee said.

  Kate creased up. Then they made a start on catching up where they’d let each other go.

  Chapter Six

  M

  Barry Island

  ‘It’s gorgeous here, Murphy,’ Shell said, her face peeking out of the hood of her furry parka as she held her arms out wide to embrace the wide empty expanse of beach.

  In the crisp midday sunshine, he almost felt warm.

  ‘If you ignore that dog over there taking a dump,’ he said, digging his chin into the throat of his coat.

  ‘It’s a blue flag beach! You’ve got no soul.’

  Then she took off, running towards the sea, careering left then right in loops, like a child.

  This was the trouble with Londoners. Take them out of there and they became all doe-eyed about nature and views: it was a superiority act, one which said, ‘I am urban, I am more sophisticated because I appreciate that which you do not.’

  Well, if it’s so good here then why are you living there? Let’s see you leave your skinny decaf latte and take-out sushi for full-fat-or-nothing and a pasty.

  Murphy kicked out at an abandoned lopsided sandcastle and pushed himself off the edge of the concrete promenade wall. If he couldn’t hear the tinny tunes on loop of the kiddy rides, then he could imagine he was anywhere but Barry Island.

  Barrybados they called it now, this vast crescent of a bay which marketeers were trying to brand as Wales’ answer to Bondi Beach, half an hour from Cardiff.

  But he’d always found it hard to see it as anything but a desperate day out: he’d only come here to play on the slotties then have a cone of fat soggy chips when there was nothing else to do. With the old Butlins replaced by a housing development on the headland, the businesses were now left to trade on that BBC show Gavin and Stacey from a few years ago, which over three series told the tale of an Essex boy falling for a Welsh girl, now confined to the glorious heights of the Dave Channel.

  Fair play to them, though, he thought, trudging towards the shoreline, they had to make a living. And better to brag ‘this is where Nessa works’ than ‘this is where Fred West’s ashes were scattered’ while flogging serial killer memorabilia. Day-trippers were their bread and butter. So he tried looking at it through Shell’s eyes. He could hear her whooping on the wind; she was drawing something in the sand with her feet.

  Begrudgingly, he admitted it was pretty cool that apart from him and her, the only other person on the beach was that crapping dog and its owner. The water was actually really clean too, he thought, and the sand was Rapunzel gold.

  He turned to watch Shell now, her black hair swirling and knotty from the sea air. She was taking pictures of her work with her phone. Curious, he went over.

  ‘What you doing?’

  ‘Just…’ She smiled bashfully and her eyelashes dropped. Murphy saw she’d sketched out a heart and written their initials inside.

  ‘M&S?’ he teased. ‘We can pop in on the way back if you love it that much.’

  She lifted her face to his and he was struck by her beauty: she was minus make-up today and as much as he loved the juxtaposition of red lips against porcelain skin and olive hair, she was radiant when she went natural. His stomach flipped at her fresh symmetry, the feline curve of her eyes and the dots of freckles on her nose, which he found so sexy. In bed, they were absolutely epic. She’d been here for three days now, visiting him at his maisonette in Cardiff’s grand Westgate Street while he was clearing up after his dad’s latest suicide mission. If only he would top himself and get it over and done with.

  Once a month he came down to sort Dad out: his nostrils were still full of the damp in his flat, mouldy Value sausage rolls and his sweet and sour sweat of alcohol that never left his system. Mikey never told Orla the bones of it, about Dad’s piss-stained trousers and mountain of bottles, only that he was here on business. Mam would be horrified: she’d been so house-proud. But the family home was long gone, sold up so Dad could live off the money, he’d retired early, did his back in and he spent what little pension he had on booze. For once, this visit hadn’t been all bad.

  Him and Shell had cooked together, walked in Bute Park in the centre of the city, sampled extreme cornets at the liquid nitrogen ice-cream parlour in the arcade near his flat, had a coffee in a cat cafe where she cooed over some tabby moggy, watched Netflix and hung out, working a few hours here and there. It’d been good: actually, it had been great. A laugh and relaxed, no pressure. They understood each other’s work and chatted easily about it. Shell was thinking about leaving IT to lecture instead, to inspire women to code. He admired her for that – what had happened to his intentions to do good in the world? They’d been shelved while he enjoyed the spoils of being on the team that had created the blueprint for every major shopping app in 2010. Still, being here allowed him to tune out a bit. From the London scene - and from that projectile message from Vicky: the bloody cheek of her, invading his space like a pixelated alien. Orla, knowing nothing in detail about how their friendship had ended, remembering how Vicky had been like her big sister, had thought it was a good idea to meet her. She’d got it out of him that Vicky had got in touch as only she, the caring sharing social worker, could. He’d been scornful that Vicky – or now Vee – wanted to know how he was and what he was up to. Orla had scoffed at him - hadn’t he changed his name too? He ignored that - it would only make him chase his tail with questions. The issue was this: what the hell did she want? It could only be to apologize after what he assumed had happened - after weeks of emails pleading with him to come to see her abroad, he’d caved in and said he’d go out but then nothing. She obviously hadn't want him out there to crash her party. After that Facebook friend request, he never he
ard from her again. What good would an apology do? You couldn’t turn back the clock to the good old days with a ‘sorry’ and expect to be best buds again. She’d been the one to cut him off, dicking off with her scrotey backpacking mates, choosing them over him. Too much had happened. Besides, one minute in her company and he’d defrost.

  That was the trouble. When he thought of Vicky – when hadn’t he? – he felt weak. It made him question why he’d never settled down, why he was afraid of commitment. Vicky mugging him via messenger had set off a load of alarms, which he didn’t understand. Things, feelings, he thought he’d forgotten about. Her big smile, her laugh. It felt like he was self-harming.

  As the years passed, he’d never searched for her online. Ever. Nor Kat, definitely not Kat after what she did, who lost it, big time. When he needed to be, he was as disciplined as a kid in a convent. Why would he throw himself at her mercy? He needed to move on. He needed to swim not tread water: his personal life and his sanity depended on it. There was no point harking back: Vicky was thirty now and milestones made people nostalgic. He had no desire to look at her happy selfies with her kids. Surely she’d know they’d have no mutual interests anymore? His Facebook pix would’ve spelled that out – as much as he hated himself for it, he couldn’t resist sticking everything up to show the doubters he’d done something with his life. Nah, he just wasn’t interested.

  With Shell, here, now, he could maybe start afresh. A snapshot of her dark nipples, pricked up on perfect breasts, flashed in his head and he felt his cock stiffen. For God’s sake, he thought, disgusted with himself, he was an absolute animal to think like this when she was talking of love. For that’s what the heart in the sand was about, wasn’t it?

  He readied himself to begin shutting down, as he always did when they started the preamble to the L-word. Recently, he’d noticed a parade of engagements, births and marriages and it had astounded him because he had never been anywhere near that.

  But ever since Vicky’s message, hadn’t he lain awake the last few nights as she’d slept, watching the perfect even pulse in her neck, and wondered if he could love her? That was, if he could ever love anyone, truly?