Greatest Love Story of All Time

by Lucy Robinson

  FRAN, YOU HAVE A NEW MESSAGE FROM TEAM CUPID! HERE’S WHAT WE HAD TO SAY!

  Hey Fran! Long time no see! We’ve missed you … Did you meet someone through our website? If so tell us all about it by clicking here! In the meantime you’ve got no less than THIRTY-FOUR unread messages! Stop by and check them out sometime soon … Team Cupid ‘Let’s get this fucking thing started,’ Hugh barked. I shot a look of pure fear in Stella’s direction but she smiled. ‘He’ll love it,’ she whispered, as Hugh settled himself on the viewing sofa. Dave nodded his agreement and gave me a cheesy thumbs-up. He sprawled next to Hugh. Finally, it was time for Hugh to watch the film. It was signed off and awaiting transmission, but the only thing that really mattered to me was whether or not he liked it. I was quaking in my boots and had spent some time in the toilet this morning quite without the need for a prawn vindaloo the night before. The music started – I’d chosen a delicately humorous Mozart Piano Concerto for the opening sequence – and I steeled myself for condemnation and scorn. Michael Denby, Nellie’s rich and, it turned out, highly influential fiancé, had come to us with a simple idea for something that no one else could possibly have gained access to. Michael was the PR for an old, distinguished and largely unheard-of company who supplied key staff to Downing Street and other Whitehall buildings. To become a member of their team it appeared you had to belong to a different era in which people spoke with efficient 1940s accents and had strong command of skills such as silver-polishing and chutney-bottling. One of their longest-serving clients, a lovely, soft-spoken woman called Esther Bonningham, was the chief housekeeper at 10 Downing Street. She had been due to retire and leave at the same time as Gordon Brown, if he lost the general election. And, of course, he had. Michael had, somehow, gained access for a tiny crew of director and cameraman to follow Esther in her last few weeks at Number Ten. The idea was two-pronged: on the one hand it was a glimpse behind the scenes during the biggest election in decades, and on the other it was a simple character portrait of an unassuming woman who ran the most important house in Britain. I’d been with Esther during the chaos of the week leading up to the election, then right through the purgatorial weekend when the country had stood still, waiting for a government to be formed. I’d been with her in the still of the morning when she’d stood at the window with her clipboard, thinking back over her forty-five years of service in the house, and then later on when it was all systems go and she was presiding over the boiling of perfect eggs for the Browns down in the Great Kitchen. The beauty of it was that the Browns had passed through the back of shot a few times but they had merely been off-stage characters. This was Esther’s story. How I’d managed to get through it without making some massive blunder – without breaking anything or swearing or getting arrested – was a source of great wonder to both Dave and myself. Hugh stared at the screen, silent, as the final scene played. While Gordon and Sarah Brown had left 10 Downing Street holding their children’s hands on 11 May, a far more moving scene was taking place at the staff entrance. Esther was handing her uniform, carefully folded, to a security guard and removing the ID lanyard from her neck for the last time. She took one final glance around the silent, abandoned hallway, then smoothed her skirt, picked up her bag and left. As the cameras flashed at the front of the house, a small, erect figure slipped quietly away at the back. Dave had shot it beautifully. It looked like a feature film. Every tiny twitch of her lip as she left the house she’d run for forty-five years, every nervous flick of her fingers through her hair, he’d got it. I gazed at him as he sat on the sofa next to Hugh, engrossed. He was sporting an old white T-shirt and the same jeans he’d seemed to be wearing every single day since I’d met him. Watching the film so absorbedly he looked young, almost boyish. I smiled, thinking that he was probably the most quietly talented man I’d ever known. The film finished and no one said anything. Stella sipped her coffee and I yawned nervously, crossing my arms over my jumpy stomach. Please go easy on me, I thought. Hugh scribbled a few things on his notepad, then signalled to me that I was to pass him the phone. What the fuck? I stared, anguished, at him. Even Dave seemed a bit frightened. ‘Kate. Hi. Hugh from ITN here. Kate, I’m suggesting you make space for an independent ten-minute film straight after the six thirty bulletin one night next week … I know, I know. Your schedule’s fucked as it is. But, trust me, I have something extremely fucking special for you.’ I began to smile. ‘No, Kate, I can’t fucking put it into the main news. It’ll get lost there. This thing needs time of its own. We got access to Gordon Brown’s housekeeper and filmed her last two weeks. We were there right through the election. This is must-see viewing. In fact, it’s a fucking masterpiece.’ I hugged myself, and caught Dave’s eye. He was beaming at me. ‘Well, speak to whichever fucking commissioner you need to. Tell them I’ll come and show it to them today. Trust me, they’ll want it. Wasted on the news.’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘Good, thanks, Kate. And I suggest it’s on a big news day. Cameron’s first shit as prime minister or something. You’ll want a lot of people with their TVs switched on when this thing goes out. OK. ’Bye.’ He handed me back the phone, still refusing to make eye contact, then stood up. ‘Good job, Brennan,’ he said. Dave nodded briefly. ‘And can someone tell Danny I’m very pleased with his editing too?’ He was nearly out of the door when he turned to me, gave me a proper smile and said, ‘You, young lady, have just made a fucking outstanding little documentary. I am extremely fucking impressed, Fran. Dave was right. You deserved that gig. You two are an excellent team. It’s only a shame that you won’t be able to work together again.’ And with that he was gone. I turned round to find Dave standing behind me, getting some Rizlas out and smiling at me. ‘The man’s right. It was a masterpiece. And you deserved it,’ he said. ‘Fancy a tomato juice?’ He sounded strangely detached, given the circumstances. I grinned. ‘No, I fancy a fucking magnum of champagne! Am I allowed to drink yet?’ He shrugged. ‘It’s up to you. I’ll drink tomato juice if you want to stay dry.’ I giggled. ‘You’re plain weird, David Brennan. Since when was there a dry Glaswegian?’ He tucked the new cigarette behind his ear and put the tobacco back in his pocket. ‘Aye. We’re few and far between. But, actually, it’s not so bad, is it? This not drinking thing?’ I thought about it. I was being pummelled by waves of happiness still. ‘Actually, no. I don’t mind it. You’re right, let’s go for a tomato juice. Oh, my God! He loved it!’ And leaving Dave with no choice in the matter I threw myself at him and smiled as his arms closed round my back. ‘He’s right. We’re a fucking great team!’ I shouted into his chest. He hugged me harder. We sat at a rickety table outside the Apple Tree where sunlight drizzled through the acacia tree and on to Dave’s forearms. ‘It was because of you that I got this documentary, wasn’t it?’ ‘Nope,’ he said. And then: ‘Cheers, Fannybaws!’ He knocked his tomato juice against mine. ‘Don’t wriggle out of it. You convinced Hugh to give me the job. Dave, he all but told me so just now!’ Dave smiled. ‘Well, you deserved the break. It had your name written all over it. And you didn’t just meet expectations, you exceeded them. You may be a mental but you’re a damn talented one, love.’ ‘God, Dave. I owe you so much. You are amazing. What would I do without you? I dunno what Hugh was on about when he said it’s a shame we can’t work together again! As far as I’m concerned, I ain’t doing another one unless I can work with you. I have leverage now, you know, Brennan!’ I busied myself with the Worcester sauce and Tabasco; I’d asked for a Virgin Mary but instead had been given a tray of condiments and a crappy little tomato juice. Dave lit his fag and laughed. ‘That’s going to taste fucking dreadful, Fannybaws,’ he said. ‘Shut it,’ I replied automatically. Then I looked up at him. He was watching me with what could only be described as intense sadness. I put down my celery stick. ‘Dave?’ He took another drag. ‘Hugh said it’s a shame we won’t be working together in the future because I’m leaving for Afgha
nistan in a few days.’ I felt the colour drain from my face. ‘You’re what?’ He was watching me keenly now. ‘Aye. Afghanistan. I’ve missed those war zones. I only came back because Freya made me and, well, she’s not part of the picture any more. I’ve been working through the transfer for the last few weeks.’ No. This was all wrong. I didn’t want Dave to go. He was my Dave. My Scottish sidekick who ate Fruit Corners and wore jumpers with gnomes on them and listened to soft rock. He was Dave who made me feel like I could do my job and that my clumsiness and ability to put my foot in it were fine. He was Dave who gave me big, warm hugs and said I was bang on just as I was. ‘Are you serious?’ I said. My voice had come out a bit wobbly so I sat up straight and tried to look commanding. He nodded. ‘But, Dave, you might get killed. Or injured. Or taken hostage. Anything could happen, you –’ I broke off. I had no idea what to say. ‘I know, Fannybaws. It’s a risk, of course, but I’ve done it before. I know the drill and I’m well trained. They do their best to keep us safe.’ I looked at the place on his left hand where his little finger should have been. How did he know that the next accident wouldn’t be more serious? ‘But what about Stefania? I know you’ve been seeing her, Dave. You can’t just go off and leave her!’ He laughed a little and fiddled with his tomato juice. He hadn’t drunk any. ‘Frances O’Callaghan. You’re remarkably good at deciding who everyone’s sleeping with but you’re always bloody well wrong. Of course I’m not seeing Stefania! Jesus! I’m way too scared to mess with the likes of her!’ I stared at him. He continued to chuckle. ‘Can you imagine if you were late for a date? Christ, that wee girl’d bake you into one of her fuckin’ stews! She’d string you from the ceiling! No, I adore Stefania but I haven’t been seeing her. Another classic case of Fran the crap detective.’ I realized I was about to cry. ‘Hey, what’s with the long face?’ I fought hard with tears and for a few seconds they remained in my eyes. ‘Fannybaws, no …’ A big fat one rolled down my cheek and plopped into my tomato juice. Dave reached forward and gently removed the next one from underneath my other eye with his finger. ‘Don’t cry, Franny, I didn’t mean it. I’m sure you’ll make a cracking detective one of these days.’ I shook my head, trying to regain control. ‘Oh, come on, I’ll be OK! I’m tough shit. You should see the bullet-proof vest they gave me last time – it was the size of you.’ Two more tears popped out. A big, sad, Dave-shaped gulf was expanding across my chest. I’d be completely lost without my big, funny, talented friend. ‘I don’t want you to go,’ I whispered. He passed me a napkin from my tray of condiments. ‘Sorry, Fannybaws. But I’m a war-zone cameraman at heart. I need to get back to it.’ ‘When are you going?’ ‘Thursday.’ ‘For how long?’ He shrugged. ‘Indefinitely.’ I know. Devastation : ( said a text from Leonie. I pushed open the gate to my yard and put my phone back in my pocket. For some reason I’d kind of been hoping that Leonie would tell me it was all just a massive porkie and that Dave was really only going on a week-long caravanning holiday in Bognor Regis. Duke Ellington sat lazily in the sun as I closed the gate behind me. When he saw me he rolled over on his back in the dust, inviting me to come over and scratch his tummy so he could destroy my hand. Instead I sat next to him. ‘Dave’s leaving,’ I told him glumly. He waved a paw in the air, still on his back. ‘Look at my nice, soft, inviting furry tummy,’ his eyes said. ‘Wouldn’t you just love to stroke it?’ ‘I’ve just lost my Dave. I’m not losing my hand. Leave me alone.’ Duke Ellington rolled back over and sat up. After a few seconds’ consideration, he offered me a short sharp miaow. ‘I know. It’s shit, isn’t it? I’m going to really miss him. I mean, I’m glad he’s off to do what he loves doing but, Duke Ellington, I feel so sad.’ Duke Ellington watched a large fat bumblebee, which was flying dangerously close to his face. ‘Don’t. Stay away from it, you mentalist.’ And then I started crying again, thinking that that was just the sort of thing Dave would say to me. Duke Ellington miaowed crossly by way of comfort. I took a very deep breath and tried to pull myself together. It was a beautiful day, not the sort of day that should be wasted in crying. It was the sort of day when one should be wearing a floaty summer dress and frolicking in the sun with a crowd of vital-looking people drinking sparkling grape juice and eating Brie. I stood up and gazed down at my cat. ‘I don’t know what to do with myself,’ I told him. Just at that moment, I heard a gust of sharp, Slavic laughter and the rattle of keys. Stefania. And then, rather shockingly, the unmistakable rumble of a man’s laugh. I stared at Duke Ellington. ‘Fuck!’ I whispered at him, and we both shot up the tree. It was probably the world’s easiest tree to climb but I still only made it up by the time they walked through the gate. I peered through the canopy of leaves, trying to find out who the man was. ‘Vhat are you doing in ze tree, Frances?’ Stefania said curiously. ‘Oh, hi! I was just up here chatting to Duke Ellington,’ I explained, clambering down. Stefania was laughing again as I dropped on to the ground. And there he was. A man. The Man, whoever he was. He looked really rather nice, like a nutty professor but of the younger generation – the kind of intellectual genius who knows about astral physics and is able to tweet humorously about it on Twitter. He had cropped sandy hair and nice cheekbones. ‘Oh, hello! I’m Fran!’ I said, offering him my hand. He pumped it enthusiastically. ‘Hi. Roland. I’ve heard a lot about you.’ I shot a look at Stefania. How could she have hidden him from us for so long? She just grinned back impishly and put a sly hand into Roland’s. ‘Roland is the apple of my online search,’ she said shiftily. Roland and I both started giggling and spoke at the same time. ‘No, you,’ I said to him. ‘I’m more than happy to resign as unscrambler of Stefania’s idioms!’ ‘Fruit of my search or apple of my eye,’ he said kindly to her. He pinched her nose quickly and gave her a grin. ‘But apple of my search works just as well.’ She smiled up at him, her sharp little face quite transformed. Bloody hell! Not Stefania too! At this rate Duke Ellington was going to fall in love! ‘So?’ I said to them both. Stefania giggled again: quite an unusual sound. ‘Vell,’ she said, ‘I vas vaiting for the right moment, Frances. The love of Stefania and Roland is sanks to you and your technologies! Ve have been brought together by your lapside computer!’ Duke Ellington wove round her legs and I waited for further clarification of what on earth she was on about. She offered none but just bent down and started talking to Duke Ellington in some language I didn’t understand. ‘I’ll put on some nettle tea, right?’ Roland said. Stefania nodded vigorously. ‘Make it viz love,’ she said. Roland went into the shed, saying, ‘Tea for three coming right up!’ He was quite the most enthusiastic, smiley man I’d met in a long time. ‘Great!’ I said, even though the thought of nettle tea made me want to run. ‘Right, over here, now!’ I said to her, pointing to my steps. ‘What the hell is going on? What have my “technologies” got to do with this man? How long’s it been going on? And why the hell am I only finding out about him now?’ Stefania smiled evilly. ‘I thought, if I told you, you would arrive in my shed to take notes on him,’ she said. ‘It is a liability having you as a neighbour, after all!’ ‘STEFANIA! That’s a horrible thing to say! I’d NEVER spy on you! I’ve known there was something going on for weeks and I haven’t said a word to anyone!’ ‘No no no, I am not being serious.’ Suddenly her eyes were veiled. ‘Frances, I have a confession. I used your computer. I liked vhat I saw on ze Internet dating website and I made a profile for myself. I met Roland on my first date. I did not vant to tell you because then I vould have to admit to using your computer vizout ze permission.’ She hung her head guiltily and I roared with laughter. ‘Stefania, you have been coming in and out of my flat as you please since I moved in. Why on earth would I mind? I’m bloody delighted you’ve met someone! It’s wonderful!’ She patted my arm. ‘Sank you.’ ‘Oh, my God! So that was why the bloody website was always at the top of my browsing history. You minx!’ She looked confused. ‘Mink?’ ‘No, minx. It means … Oh, it
doesn’t matter. Stefania, I’m truly happy for you. I’d begun to think you just weren’t interested in men! You’ve been alone in that shed for years, taking pots of food to the homeless and to other charitable causes such as me … I’m delighted!’ She fiddled with her orange leggings. Mixed with a traditional French gingham cotton blouse they represented a real pinnacle in her sartorial efforts. ‘So what changed? Why did you start looking for someone now?’ ‘Vell, I am a princess, as you know. And princesses must marry eventually. I needed to find a partner.’ ‘Stefania, please tell me what really happened. Come on, I’ve met Roland now. No need to be shy!’ She returned to her leggings. ‘Ze love of Stefania and Roland is a result of years of searching in ze soul. But ze searching had to stop. I am a princess. And your interdating website was vhat I needed to start my hunt.’ ‘Can you please stop being a weirdo and tell me what actually happened before Roland comes back with the tea?’ I said gently. ‘I am telling you zis twice now. I am a princess. I had to get married.’ Stefania had been telling me she was a Balkan princess/Russian noble/close relative of the Polish royalty for a long time now. I shook my head irritably, demanding some straight talk. ‘No, Frances, I do not sink you understand. I am a princess. My name is Princess Stefania Mirova Karađorđević. I am a direct descendant of the House of Karađorđević. We were kicked out in 1945 when ze Communists took Yugoslavia. My family is still recognized by many as a royal family. Zey have zis barmy belief zat zey can be restored viz ze srone, one day.’ There was a pause. I snorted. ‘Um, Stefania. I’m sorry, what?’ ‘It is true, Frances,’ she said wearily. ‘Zis is vhy I do not talk about myself. People laugh as if I am telling ze lies.’ ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ ‘Perfectly,’ she snapped. ‘Shit! You’re a real princess?’ She smiled shyly. ‘Yes.’ ‘Then what the flaming JESUS are you doing living in my shed?’ Roland came over with a knobbly wooden tray bearing three clay mugs. He was smiling in the vague way that nutty professors always smile. A sort of distracted one-part-of-my-brain-is-dealing-with-you-and-the-other-part-is-fixing-the-hadron-collider smile. ‘Er, Stefania has just outed herself as a princess,’ I said uncertainly. If a joke was being made at my expense he’d blow her cover. Instead, Roland grinned in a more focused way and pushed his glasses to the top of his head. ‘Oh, goody,’ he said enthusiastically. He had just the edges of a Yorkshire accent. ‘I do love this story, although it’s so sad!’ He took her hand and sat down next to her. I sipped nettle tea and listened in amazement. Stefania had been engaged, aged nineteen, to some bloke she’d been to school with and had been going out with since she was barely legal. By the sound of things it had been a pretty intense affair, and even though her family wasn’t delighted by her choice, the wedding plans were in full swing on 17 July 1999 when he was killed in a motorbike accident on the outskirts of Belgrade. Stefania had been utterly heartbroken. She had dropped out of university a couple of years later and wandered off into Eastern Europe. She’d hitched her way across Europe over the course of three years and stayed with travelling communities until eventually she’d arrived in London in 2005, only a few months before I moved in. ‘You were ze first person who talked to me,’ she said. ‘You let me live here. I am for ever grateful to you.’ Feeling as if I was watching some sort of historical thriller I just goggled. ‘Carry on!’ ‘Vell, zat is it, really. I left my life behind in Serbia because I could not bend it –’ ‘Bear it,’ Roland and I said simultaneously. Then we both said, ‘Sorry.’ Stefania waved us away. ‘Does not matter. I could not bear it. So I have spent ze time here listening to ze mad drama of your life, Frances, and hanging around with your cat, and trying to help some people even more sad zan me. But vhen you had ze heartbreak I realized zat I could not carry on being me in my shed. I needed to start my life again. And so I stole your lapside computer every day vhen you vere at vork and found Roland! Ze love of Stefania and Roland has awoken me! I am alive once more!’ Roland sipped his horrid nettle tea enthusiastically. ‘My little roaming gypsy!’ he said, with gusto. I liked Roland immensely. ‘So does this mean you’re rich?’ I asked incredulously. ‘Vell, since I have been living here I have not been in contact with my family so I had only ze remains of ze money I brought viz me. But vhen ze love of Stefania and Roland began I wrote to zem and all is well. Zey sent me money. I do not know if I am rich, but I sink zere is enough to do somesing good.’ ‘WHAT?’ I breathed, enthralled. ‘Vell, I am sinking of moving to India and starting a retreat,’ she said casually, as if this were a pretty common-or-garden thing to be doing. ‘You know, meditation, cleanses, body purification – vhat is the name of zat process vhere you have ze tube in your bottom?’ I burst out laughing. ‘Colonic irrigation?’ She nodded. ‘Yes, zat one. I believe it is a powerful tool for cleaning out ze –’ ‘OK, OK, enough. Stefania, that is the best story I’ve ever heard … but how utterly tragic the circumstances,’ I added. ‘I can’t believe you’ve looked after me so much when you’ve been grieving. I feel awful!’ She smiled fiercely. ‘NO! Do not feel bad! It is only by caring for ze community zat ve are able to escape our own heads!’ I chuckled. ‘Yes, that sounds apt. Care in the community. I like it.’ A tendril of her hair had escaped from her customary mad topknot and I smiled as Roland tucked it back in with a face of reverence: it was as if he was restoring a missing jewel to a priceless crown. And then, for the second time that day, I found myself feeling unbearably sad. ‘Everyone’s leaving me, Stefania. You can’t go too!’ ‘Who else?’ ‘Dave. He’s leaving for bloody Afghanistan on Thursday. Indefinitely.’ Stefania went white. ‘No. Zis cannot be! Dave cannot go!’ I nodded sadly. ‘’Fraid so. He’s off. It’s all sorted. I tried to make him stay but he wasn’t having any of it.’ Stefania looked as if she was going to have a heart attack. ‘We’ll just have to hope he meets some hot journalist out there who drags him back to the UK with her.’ Stefania’s eyes narrowed. ‘I hope for nozzing of ze sort,’ she said. Chapter Forty-three