by Jill Mansell
The awful thing was, after three pints of cider Tilly secretly found this funny. Somehow she managed to keep a straight face.
'So that's why you were drummed out of London. For making bad puns.'
'Got it in one, girl. And I'm glad they did. In fact,' said Declan, 'I'll be for-heifer grateful.'
Once outside on the street, closing time hunger pangs struck, and they were forced to head up the road to the fish and chip shop. While they waited to be served, Tilly unfolded the paper and read that the cow—a pretty black and white Friesian called Mabel—had indeed been winched to safety by the Roxborough fire brigade and reunited with her calf, Ralph. Ahh, well that was good to hear. Better than a lingering death with its legs dangling through the grid and poor baby Ralph mooing piteously…
'Oh sorry, one haddock and chips, please, and one cod and chips.'
Back out on the pavement, Tilly greedily unwrapped the steam ing hot parcel and tore off her first hunk of batter.
'Mm, mmm.'
'I'm going to save mine until we get home,' said Erin.
'You can't! That's what old people do! Fish and chips taste a million times better in the open air.'
'I'm twenty-eight,' Erin said happily. 'I'm knocking on. And so are you.'
'Cheek!' Outraged, Tilly threw a chip at her. 'I'm not old; I'm a spring chicken.'
A couple of teenage boys, crossing the street, snorted and nudged each other. Tilly heard one of them murmur, 'In her dreams.'
'For heaven's sake!' Indignantly Tilly spread her arms. 'Why is everyone having a go at me tonight? Twenty-eight isn't geriatric. I'm in my prime!'
The other boy grinned. 'In two years' time you'll be thirty. That's geriatric.'
'I can do anything you can do,' Tilly said heatedly. 'Pipsqueak.'
'Go on then, try peeing up against that wall.'
Damn, she hated smart kids.
'Or do this,' called out the first boy, taking a run-up and effort lessly leapfrogging the fixed, dome-topped trash can just down from the chip shop.
Oh yes, this was more like it. Peeing up against walls might be problematic, but leapfrog was practically her specialist subject. On the minus side, she was wearing a fairly short skirt, but on the plus side, it was nice and stretchy. Dumping her parcel of fish and chips in Erin's arms, Tilly took a run up and launched herself at the bin.
Vaulting it went without a hitch; she sailed balletically over the top like Olga Korbut. It was when she landed that it all went horribly wrong. Honestly, though, what were the chances of your left foot landing on the very chip you'd earlier thrown at your best friend after she'd called you old?
'EEEEYYYYAAA!' Tilly let out a shriek as her left leg scooted off at an angle and her arms went windmilling through the air. She heard Erin call out in horror, 'Mind the—' a millisecond before she cannoned into the side of the parked car.
Ouch, it might have broken her fall but it still hurt. Splattered against it like a cartoon character, Tilly belatedly noticed that it was an incredibly clean and glossy car.
'Hey!' yelled an unamused male voice from some way up the street.
Well, it had been incredibly clean and glossy up until five seconds ago. Peeling herself away from the car, Tilly saw the marks her fish and-chip greasy fingers had left on the passenger door, the front wing, and the formerly immaculate side window. With the sleeve of her jacket she attempted to clean off the worst of the smears. The male voice behind her, sounding more annoyed than ever, shouted out, 'Have you scratched my paintwork?'
'No I haven't, and you shouldn't have been parked there anyway. It's double yellows.' Glancing over her shoulder and checking he was too far away to catch her, Tilly retrieved her fish and chips from Erin, then did what any self-respecting twenty-eight-year-old would do and legged it down the road.
'It's OK,' panted Erin, 'he's not chasing us.'
They slowed to a dawdle and Tilly carried on eating her chips. As they made their way together along the wet pavement she said, 'Lucky there was no one around to take a photo. In a place like this, getting greasy fingers on a clean car could've made the front page of next week's Gazette.'
'You know, Declan's right. You'd like it here.' Erin, who was still saving her own chips, pinched one of Tilly's. 'If you wanted to give it a go, you can stay with me for as long as you like.'
Tilly was touched by the offer but knew she couldn't. During the years of nursing her mother, Erin had slept on the sofa in the living room while Maggie occupied the only bedroom. It hadn't been ideal by any means. She knew how claustrophobic Erin had found it. Coming down for the weekend and staying for a couple of nights was fine, but the flat was small and anything more would be unfair.
They'd reached the bottom of the High Street. All they had to do now was cross the road and they'd be home. Still greedily stuffing chips into her mouth, Tilly waited next to Erin for a bus to trundle past, followed by a gleaming black car—
'You sod!' Tilly shrieked as the car splashed through a puddle at the curbside, sending a great wave of icy water over her skirt and legs. Leaping back—too late—she glimpsed a flash of white teeth as the figure in the driver's seat grinned and raised a hand in mock apology before accelerating away.
'It was him, wasn't it?' Shuddering as the icy water soaked through her opaque tights, Tilly hugged her bag of fish and chips for warmth. 'The one who yelled at me.'
'It's the same car,' Erin confirmed. 'Some kind of Jag.'
'Bastard. He did that on purpose.' But she was inwardly im pressed. 'Quite clever though.'
Erin gave her an odd look. 'Clever how?'
Tilly pointed at Erin's unsullied cream coat, then at her own soaked-through skirt and tights. 'The way he managed to avoid you and only get me.'
The next morning Tilly woke up on the sofa with a dry mouth, cold legs, and the duvet on the floor. It was ten o'clock and Erin had tiptoed past her an hour ago in order to head downstairs and open the shop. Later, Tilly would join her for a while before taking off for a wander around Roxborough, but for now she would enjoy being lazy and spend a bit of time wondering what to do with the rest of her life.
Tilly made herself a mug of tea and a plate of toast before hauling the duvet back on to the sofa and crawling under it. Next she switched on the TV, then rummaged through her bag for her phone, to see if there were any messages on it. No, none, not even from Gavin. Which was just as well really, because the last thing she needed was for him to start having second thoughts and regretting his decision.
Plumping up the pillows and taking a sip of tea, Tilly pulled the Roxborough Gazette out of her bag and smoothed out the creases where it had been scrunched up. The cow story still made her smile.
She leafed through the paper and learned that two sets of twins had been born to women living in the same street. Now how was that not a front-page newsflash? There was a piece about a tractor auction—be still, my beating heart—and a whole page devoted to a charity bazaar at Roxborough Comprehensive. Tilly flicked past photos of wedding couples, an article about an overhanging tree branch that could be really quite dangerous if it snapped off and landed on someone's head, and another about a bus breaking down in Scarratt's Lane, causing the road to be blocked for—gasp!—three and a half hours. There was even a photograph of the broken-down bus with offloaded passengers standing alongside it looking suitably downcast, apart from one lad of about five who was grinning from ear to ear.
Actually, it was quite sweet. The worst thing that appeared to have happened in Roxborough in the last week was that a man had collapsed and died while digging up potatoes in his allotment, but he'd been ninety-three, so what did he expect? Sipping her tea, Tilly turned the page and came across the jobs section. Garage mechanic required, washer-upper needed in a restaurant, bar staff wanted for the Castle Hotel, lollipop lady required for the crossing outside the infants' school. She skimmed through the rest of the list—office work… taxi driver… cleaner… gardener… hmm, that could be the widow of the 93-year-old
needing the rest of her potatoes dug up.
Tilly's attention was caught by a small box ad at the bottom of the page.
Girl Friday, fun job, country house, £200 pw.
That was it, brief and to the point. Tilly wondered what fun job meant; after all, some people might call Chancellor of the Exchequer a fun job. Ozzy Osbourne might regard working as his personal slave a fun job. Or it could be something dodgy, like entertaining slimy businessmen.
She took a bite of toast, turned over the page, and began reading the articles for sale—a size eighteen Pronuptia wedding dress, never worn… an acoustic guitar, vgc apart from tooth marks on the bottom… fifty-nine–piece dinner service (one plate missing—thrown at lying, double-crossing ex-husband)… com plete set of Star Trek DVDs: reason for sale, getting married to non-Trekkie…
Tilly smiled again; even the ads had a quirky charm all their own. Finishing her toast, she scooted through the Lonely Hearts column— male, sixty-three, seeks younger woman, must love sprouts—then the houses for sale, all of them out of her league financially, then the boring sports pages at the back.
She reached the end, then found herself turning back to the page with that advert on it.
Almost as if it was beckoning to her, calling her name.
Which was ridiculous, because it didn't even say what the job involved and the money was rubbish, but a quick phone call to find out wouldn't do any harm, would it?
Scooping up her mobile, Tilly pressed out the number and lis tened to it ringing at the other end.
'Hello,' intoned an automated voice, 'please leave your message after the…'
'Tone,' Tilly prompted helpfully, but the voice didn't oblige. All she got was silence, no more voice, no tone, nothing. The answering machine was full.
Oh well, that was that. Whoever had placed the ad had been inundated with calls and was beating potential employees off with a stick. It was probably a vacancy for a topless waitress anyway.
Better get up instead.
Chapter 3
ERIN DROVE TILLY TO the station on Sunday afternoon.
'So, any idea what you're going to do?'
Tilly pulled a face, shook her head. 'Not yet. Find somewhere cheaper to live, that's all. What else can I do? Well, apart from per suading my boss to double my salary. Or maybe writing to George Clooney and asking him if he'd mind me moving into his villa on the banks of Lake Como. That's always a possibility.' It was cold out here in the car park; she gave Erin a kiss and said, 'Thanks for the weekend. I'll keep you up to date.'
'You could ask him if he'd like you to be his new girlfriend.' Erin hugged her. 'Sure you don't want me to wait with you?'
'Don't worry, I'm fine. The train'll be here in ten minutes. You get off home.'
Famous last words. Within two minutes of Tilly bagging herself a seat on the platform, the announcement came over the loudspeaker that the train bound for London Paddington would be delayed by forty minutes.
Everyone on the platform let out a collective groan. Clutching at straws, Tilly looked at the elderly woman next to her. 'Fourteen or forty?'
The woman clicked her tongue in disgust and said, 'Forty.'
The husband of a younger woman, attempting to placate their screaming baby, shook his head and said grumpily, 'This is going to be fun.'
Fun.
Fun job, country house. Picturing the copy of the Roxborough Gazette she'd stuffed into Erin's recycling box, Tilly wished she'd tried calling the number again.
Then with a jolt she realized she still had it stored on her phone. All she had to do was press redial.
'Hello? It's me. Fucking train's late, so we won't be back before six at the earliest, fucking typical…'
Tilly stood up and moved a discreet distance away from Mr Grumpy, now complaining loudly into his mobile that the baby was doing his bloody head in. She pressed her own phone to her ear and lis tened to it ringing at the other end. No answering machine this time. No answering of any kind, by the sound of things. Eight rings, nine, ten…
'Hello?' The voice was young, female, and breathless.
'Oh hi, I was calling about the ad in the paper,' began Tilly. 'Could I just ask—'
'Hang on, I'll get Dad. DAAAD?' bellowed the voice.
'Ouch.' Tilly winced as the noise bounced off her left eardrum.
'Whoops, sorry! I've got very strong lungs. OK, he's here now. Dad, it's another one about the job.'
'Oh bloody hell, haven't we got enough to choose from?' The voice was flat, fed up, and Liverpudlian. 'Just tell her she's too late, we've given it to someone else.'
Tilly's competitive spirit rose to the surface; until two minutes ago she hadn't even wanted the job. But now, if he was going to try and fob her off…
'Actually,' she cleared her throat, 'you can tell him I heard that. Could he at least have the decency to speak to me?'
The girl said cheerfully, 'Hang on,' and, 'Ooh, Dad, she's cross with you now.'
Tilly heard the phone being passed over, coupled with fierce whispering.
'Right, sorry.' It was the father's voice, still with that Liverpudlian twang but marginally more friendly than before. 'If you want the truth, this whole thing's been a prize cock-up. We've just got back from holiday to find the answering machine jammed with messages. The ad was meant to go into next week's paper, not last week's. All I want right now is a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich and I'm not getting either of them because the damn phone keeps ringing with more Girl Fridays than I know what to do with. But go ahead,' he said wearily. 'Fire away. Give me your name and number and I'll call you back sometime in the week, fix up a time for the interview.'
'Hang on,' said Tilly, 'I don't even know if I want an interview yet. What does a Girl Friday do, exactly?'
'Everything.'
'And you said it was a fun job. What does that mean?'
'It means there's an outside chance you might enjoy it for about two percent of the time. The other ninety-eight percent will be sheer drudgery.'
'OK, now you're just trying to put me off so you don't have to see me,' Tilly said suspiciously. 'This so-called job. Is it anything to do with porn?'
'Prawns?'
'Porn. Ography. Sex.' A collective sharp intake of breath informed Tilly that everyone else on the platform was paying attention now.
'No. Sorry.' He sounded amused. 'Why, was that what you were hoping for?'
'No, it was not.' Tilly did her best to sound ladylike but not off puttingly prissy. 'And why are you only paying two hundred a week?'
This time he actually laughed. 'It's a live-in position. Everything else is paid for, including a car.'
OK, this was definitely a good enough reason. Tilly said promptly, 'You know what? I'd be great at this job.'
'Fine, fine. Let me check my diary.' She heard pages being riffled. 'Right, let's start booking appointments. Come over on Thursday af ternoon and we'll take a look at each other. Four o'clock suit you?'
'Not really.' Tilly screwed up her face.
'Five, then? Six?'
'Look, are you in Roxborough?'
'No, we're in Mumbai, that's why I advertised in the Roxborough Gazette.' There it was again, that laconic deadpan Liverpudlian wit.
'Well, I live in London. But right now I'm on the platform at Roxborough station, waiting to go back there.' Going for broke, Tilly took a deep breath and said, 'So what would be really fantastic would be if I could come over and see you now.'
Silence.
Followed by more silence.
Finally she heard a sigh. 'Did I tell you how bloody knackered I am?'
'While you're interviewing me,' Tilly said innocently, 'I could always make you a fantastic bacon sandwich.'
He gave a snort of amusement. 'You're sharp, aren't you?'
'I'm right here.' Tilly pressed home her minuscule advantage. 'If you can't see me now, I'm going back to London. And you'll have missed your chance.'
'Modest, too.'
'Just think.
If I'm perfect, you won't have to interview anyone else.'
Another pause. Then he said, 'Go on then, get yourself over here. We're at Beech House on the Brockley Road, just over the bridge and on the right as you're heading out of town. Do you know it?'
'No but I'll find you, don't worry.' That sounded nice and ef ficient, didn't it? 'I'll be there in ten minutes.'
Well, she would have been if there'd been a taxi outside the station. But that was wishful thinking, because this was Roxborough station on a wintry February afternoon and any self-respecting taxi driver was at home sleeping off his Sunday lunch. Tilly couldn't bring herself to phone Erin again. How far away could Beech House be, anyway? Surely not more than a mile. She could be there in fifteen minutes on foot…
