An Autumn Crush

by Milly Johnson

  The Guy Miller episode combined with the Valentine’s brief had stirred up deeper and more dangerous memories. Thoughts of Nick Vermeer had loomed large and colourful in her head again and would not lie still.

  Two and a half years ago, she’d signed up for languagepals.com only to help brush up on her written German skills and pass some time in the lonely evenings after her divorce. She wasn’t looking for romance, especially not on the internet – that infamous playground for charlatans and love-thieves. Then Canadian Nick Vermeer had hooked up with her, offering his services.

  Apart from the German, it was obvious from the first that they had nothing in common. He went hunting, owned guns and liked to fish whereas she didn’t know one end of a rod from the other. ‘I’ll teach you,’ he promised. He loved the great outdoors but her vision of hell was full of camping equipment. Yet she found herself writing to him, for hours, instant messaging him, then after four months he rang her. She floated for hours after hearing his voice, which was exactly as she wanted it to be: a soft, masculine drawl, confident, witty and very, very sexy.

  He sent letters, cards. She reciprocated, sending his letters to a post office box, because he was in the middle of selling his house in Osoyoos, a log cabin on the edge of a forest. From the pictures he sent of the outside, she just knew that the inside would have huge fur throws over the furniture and a log fire burning in it at night.

  Then Nick made plans to come over and visit her because their connection was something mad that had hit him from left field and he needed to discover if the chemistry was as much there in the flesh as it was in their written words and voices. There was never a hint of gratuitous smut in his letters – he was a perfect gentleman – though they brimmed with the promise of passion.

  Floz had started researching where to take him when he came over. They talked excitedly on the phone about the lovely restaurants they’d eat in, going to London and taking in a show, and the drives through the countryside they would do. If all went well, he said he would bring Floz over to Canada in the fall, because he said that if she saw it in that season, she would never leave it. Then suddenly, just after Valentine’s Day last year, all contact from him ended. Floz had been bereft. She checked Canadian newspaper sites on the net to see if he had been injured or killed, because surely there had to be a serious reason why he wasn’t in touch any more – but found nothing. And then she discovered that his profile had been erased from languagepals.com.

  Yes, she knew exactly what poor Coco was going through. Even now, after all this time, the tears were too close to the surface for comfort when she thought about Nick Vermeer. They had been intensely connected for a year and she still mourned the loss of him from her life. His disappearance had felt like a death.

  Chapter 9

  Guy nursed his second pint in the Lamp. His body might have been sitting opposite Steve, but his brain was elsewhere.

  ‘You’re a right bundle of laughs tonight, considering you’re on a night off,’ said Steve, polishing off his drink and nudging his empty glass against his friend’s. ‘Another one?’

  ‘Aye, go on then,’ sighed Guy. He might as well stay here with Steve as wander back to the empty flat that was attached to the family home in Maltstone. He had never considered the Rosehip Gardens flat as anything more than a bolt-hole, somewhere to lay his head, despite the fact that he’d been ‘laying his head’ there for too many years to think about now. The marriage and matrimonial-home thing had eluded him so far. What happened with Lacey, ten years ago, had sent him running from life. He didn’t want to get close to a woman again and open himself up to all that potential hurt and confusion and crippling guilt.

  Then he had to go and see Floz Cherrydale.

  Somehow the combination of that silly dressing-gown, her large watery eyes and a perfumed cloud of strawberries around her had set off a primal explosion inside his chest cavity, sending the blast down to every neurone and blood vessel in his system. He had been knocked sideways into a pit so deep he doubted he’d ever be able to climb out of it.

  He had replayed the scene in his head so many times that, had it been videotape, it would have snapped through over-use. His heart was fluttering like a bag of moths as he cringed afresh at the memory of him barging into the coffee-table and sending everything scattering to the floor. He didn’t even stop to help clean up.

  He exited the memory with a shudder, as Steve returned with two pints.

  ‘You should ask her out,’ he said.

  ‘Who?’ asked Guy innocently.

  ‘You know who I mean, you berk,’ tutted Steve. He was actually quite excited that Guy was fancying someone. He was always trying to get him to go out with Gina, who more or less slavered like a hound over a bone whenever Guy was within touching distance. But after a lifetime of knowing him, Steve was all too aware that Guy was a man of straight lines. He wouldn’t have gone out with anyone he didn’t fancy. He never had – not even when their hormones were raging as teenagers. Sex and affection were inextricably tangled up for him. But this was encouraging news. Guy had seen the woman once and was already hooked. Love was a curious beast, he had to admit. Then again, that’s probably why he was in love with two very different women himself, neither of whom would deign to give him the time of day.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Guy went on. ‘That I fancy her because my first thought was that she looked like Lacey Robinson. Well, I don’t because she doesn’t.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort, actually,’ Steve defended himself. ‘I was, however, thinking that Lacey Robinson shouldn’t even be in your brain any more. She’s fucked it up quite enough already.’

  ‘She’s as short as Lacey, but that’s as far as the resemblance goes.’

  ‘Good. Because one Lacey Robinson is enough for one lifetime.’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Guy quietly. ‘She was a damaged soul.’

  ‘I know what she was.’ Steve knew that Guy would never talk ill of Lacey Robinson, because he had never managed to quite rid himself of the guilt of not being able to save her from herself. To Guy, Lacey Robinson would always be a vulnerable woman whose heart had been broken one too many times and couldn’t live with the pain. To Steve, Lacey Robinson was the equivalent of a suicide bomber. She didn’t care how many people she would take down with her when she pressed the final self-destruct button.

  ‘I made such a massive arse of myself in front of Floz.’ Guy dropped his head into his hands.

  ‘You need to go back to the flat and act normal, not fall over furniture and run off,’ Steve suggested. ‘You cocked up the first impression so you need to make a very good second one.’

  ‘Yes, I realise that,’ said Guy. ‘I don’t know what happened to me. She’s so not my usual type. But it was like . . .’ He shook his head because it sounded daft.

  ‘A thunderbolt?’ Steve suggested. He knew all about thunderbolts. He’d been hit by a very big one in primary school. He felt its reverberations still.

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Guy. ‘I’ve never known anything like it before. I thought when people said they’d fallen in love at first sight, they were just talking bollocks. But that’s exactly what it felt like – love at first sight. At least for me. Not quite sure it was the same for Floz.’

  Steve’s brain started to whirr.

  ‘Your Juliet was on about that damp patch on the kitchen wall. I’ll go with you to the flat. We’ll check it out with a view to replastering it. That’s a genuine reason for calling on them.’

  Guy thought it sounded a bit contrived, but Steve was on a roll now. ‘Yep, we’ll do that. If we say we’ll call around tea-time tomorrow, they might ask us to stay for something to eat, then you can have a good natter and show off your charm and wit. And muscles. How can Floz resist?’

  ‘You must keep it secret from Juliet why we’re really going,’ warned Guy.

  ‘Course I will.’ Steve grinned, pleased with his plan. And he was very good at keeping secrets. The one thin
g Steve had never told Guy was that since they were at primary school, he’d had the biggest crush on Juliet Miller.

  Chapter 10

  The next morning, Floz spent a few quiet minutes staring out of the window which overlooked the communal gardens whilst she was drinking her second coffee. It was a beautiful mid-August day, bright blue skies and a high sun, yellow as a lemon drop. But there were a few leaves on the turn on the trees, brown splatters amongst the green. The summer was evidently enjoying its last weeks on the year’s throne.

  Her first job was to send off the saucy Valentine’s card copy to Lee Status by email. He rang her within minutes of receiving it.

  ‘Thanks for the Vals, babe. Now, have I got a brilliant emergency brief for you!’

  ‘Do tell,’ said Floz, who hoped it was a nice cheery one because she badly needed some light relief after the awful night’s sleep she’d had. She’d dreamed of Nick coming back into her life and must have felt real euphoria in her sleep, because when she awoke and realized that it was all a dream, she felt bereft.

  ‘Cards for the terminally ill,’ said Lee. ‘ “Sorry you’re dying” et cetera.’

  Floz floundered on an answer before finding her voice. ‘You are joking! Who’d want to get a card saying “sorry you’re dying”?’

  Lee ignored her and ploughed on. ‘You can really let your poetic side loose. Don’t mention specific illnesses, obviously, just beautiful warm lines like “wishing you strength and guardian angel” bollocks.’

  ‘Lee – are you serious?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Lee, with glee in his voice. ‘The sales figures on our “We’ll Meet Again” range are through the roof. People sending cards to dead relatives is the new black. Death is the future. I think it’s down to the popularity of these undead teen fiction films.’

  Floz had written a lot of the ‘We’ll Meet Again’ verses for the weatherproof laminated cards which were specifically designed to be left on graves.

  ‘There’s a bit of difference between a fond verse for a deceased loved one and this new range. I mean, what are you going to call it for a start?’

  ‘Dunno,’ mused Lee. ‘ “Death’s Door”? Possibly a bit too harsh. I know, I know – what about “Waiting for God”? Mind you, that could alienate the atheists. Hmmm . . . Anyway, the range title can wait. If you think of one, I’ll pay you for it.’

  ‘Okay,’ sighed Floz. A job was a job whether it was writing cards for living, dead or dying people.

  It took her nearly two hours to write the first poem and be satisfied with it. Then she thought of it sitting in a card shop and the sadness of someone who might buy it, the heartache of the person who might receive it. It wasn’t a job that sat well with her at all, however much she needed the money.

  Just before she broke for lunch, Floz updated her website. It didn’t get a load of hits, but it was a useful tool to advertise herself and her expertise. Gibby, the guy who had set it up for her, had included a page for posting comments. It happened from time to time that she received junk mail that didn’t make any sense, and the occasional circulated advert asking her if she wanted to link to a blog about finding sexy housewives in her area, or to grow a bigger penis. But the mail she discovered on her website that day wasn’t her regular spam. It was sent anonymously and just said Glad to see you’re doing good, Cherrylips.

  It could have been a coincidence, but she didn’t think so. There was only one person who ever called her ‘Cherrylips’. Floz carried on writing her poetry, but all through the rest of the day, she wondered if that mail was from him. Surely not after a year and a half. But who else could it be? She wondered if by thinking about him she had released some call into the cosmos and he had answered. There were a lot of people out there who wouldn’t have called that theory a rubbish one.

  Juliet rang her as she was musing over her sandwich.

  ‘Wotcher,’ she boomed. ‘Is it okay with you if Guy pops by later? With Steve.’ As she said the latter name, once again the derision crept into her voice.

  As Juliet was sneering at the second name, Floz was bristling at the first. She tried to sound casual at the prospect of seeing Guy Miller again.

  ‘Sure,’ she said, cool as a cucumber that had been stored in a freezer all night. ‘What time will they be coming?’

  ‘I said six, if that’s okay with you,’ said Juliet.

  Floz looked at the clock – that gave her five hours to look as if she hadn’t made any effort at all.

  ‘Sure,’ she said again, thinking she needed to find a new ‘self-assured’ word.

  ‘We’ll order a curry in,’ said Juliet.

  ‘I could throw some pasta together,’ suggested Floz quickly. ‘Nothing fancy.’

  ‘Ooh, that would be nice,’ said Juliet, who preferred home-cooked food to takeaways any day. ‘Don’t go mad with effort though; it’s only Guy and Steve.’

  ‘You don’t like Steve much, do you?’ said Floz.

  ‘Nope,’ replied Juliet. ‘And you watch yourself, Floz, because he’s an absolute dog. However, he’s also a damned good plasterer and I need him to sort out my kitchen wall.’

  So why was Guy coming as well? Floz asked herself. It wouldn’t have taken two people to plaster a crack in the wall. After their rude introduction, she would have thought the flat was the last place he’d want to come with no valid reason. She voiced the question.

  ‘Why is . . . your brother coming up with him?’

  ‘Because the pair of them are joined at the sodding hip,’ replied Juliet. ‘I’ll pick up some wine on the way home. Cheers, babe,’ and with that she was off.

  Chapter 11

  Floz tore around the supermarket and bought breadmaker flour, fresh pasta, a cooked chicken and all sorts of veg to throw into a white wine sauce. For dessert she played it simple: exorbitantly priced raspberries, cream and meringue nests for an Eton Mess – with a kick: she’d add a soupçon of Pernod from Juliet’s fancy spirit and liqueur supply. Most of it was unwanted corporate presents, some of it was because Juliet liked to see weird and wacky-looking bottles with coloured contents and couldn’t resist snapping up a new novelty one in supermarkets or on holiday.

  After all the shopping had been put away in the cupboards, Floz then raced around the flat with a vacuum and afterwards slipped in the bath to soak in something perfumed and to wash her hair. Picking what to wear was a bit of a minefield. A floaty dress signalled that she’d tried too hard, her old jeans and T-shirt: not tried hard enough. After trying on and rejecting half her wardrobe, she settled on a blue hippy top and light-blue jeans, and a coordinating blue-heart necklace. Then she put on an apron and started to prepare the meal.

  Floz thought she had got the right dress balance until Juliet arrived home from work and immediately said, ‘Ooh, you look nice. But there was no need to dress up for those two, you know.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t dress up,’ protested Floz. ‘I . . . er . . . spilled some coffee down myself earlier, so I changed my top.’ It sounded like the lie it was and Floz cringed, but Juliet didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy taking in pasta-sauce-flavoured breaths.

  ‘Smells lovely,’ she said. ‘You’re a good cook, aren’t you? I bet you’ll even impress Guy.’

  ‘Is Guy a bit of a foodie then?’ asked Floz.

  ‘He’s a head chef, didn’t I tell you?’ called Juliet, going into her bedroom to change out of her work suit.

  Shit, shit, shit, thought Floz. She knew he worked in a restaurant, but had somehow got it into her head he was a waiter who liked to bake a bit, not a professional cook. And not just a pro but a head chef! What a disaster! If he stayed longer than thirty seconds in her presence this time without running off, he was bound to slag off her amateur pasta dish – or worse, throw up. Should she put some herbs in and make the flavour complex? Oh GOD, she wasn’t that confident a cook. Why did she have to open her mouth and volunteer to make dinner? They could have had that bought-in curry, as Juliet suggested.

 
; The breadmaker beeped the end of its cycle. Floz peeped in with one eye expecting a sod’s law disaster, but no – the loaf was crusty and smelled divine. It just needed a brush over with salted water, some poppy and sesame seeds sprinkled on and fifteen minutes in a hot oven. She busied herself with that whilst Juliet trilled, ‘Better get this party started,’ behind her bedroom door.

  A cuckoo sprang out of the clock on the wall and announced that it was six o’clock. Floz felt stupidly nervous. She almost dropped the bread as the entryphone buzzed to herald that the visitors were here.

  ‘Let them in, Floz, will you?’ said Juliet, now in the loo. Floz pretended she hadn’t heard. She didn’t want to be left alone with Steve, whom she hadn’t met, and Guy whom she had met and scared to death. The buzzer sounded again and Juliet emerged from the bathroom just as Floz was heading across the room to it.

  ‘I’ve got it, no worries,’ said Juliet and picked up the door-phone. ‘Yep, come on up,’ she said into it with easy familiarity.

  Outside, Steve wagged his finger at Guy. ‘Now remember, be nice and smiley and don’t make her feel as if you’re terrified of her.’

  Guy was trembling with anticipation. Not even the fearsome Alberto Masserati scared him in the ring, but the prospect of seeing Floz again made his knees distinctly wobbly. The door clicked open and Steve pushed it. He didn’t let Guy know that he was feeling all hot under the collar too at the prospect of seeing the voluptuous Juliet. Even after all these years, he was still like a jelly in her presence, though he covered it up with a brash show of bravado that she had come to misinterpret.

  Steve breezed into the flat first with his usual cocky strut. He went straight over to Juliet, one side of his top lip raising like Elvis’s.

  ‘Wotcher, Jules,’ he said. ‘How’s your bits?’

  ‘Hello, Steve,’ said Juliet with a flat tone, unimpressed by his cheeky entrance. ‘Come and meet Floz. Floz, this is Steve, Steve this is Floz.’