An Offer You Can't Refuse

by Jill Mansell

  ‘And?’

  ‘That you and I deserve each other and he feels sorry for our baby.’

  Since Sally was currently sitting on the sofa with one elbow digging into the abandoned velvet cushion, Lola felt quite sorry for it too. ‘So that means…?’

  Sally beamed and clinked her glass against Lola’s. ‘I can move in as soon as I like.’

  Chapter 12

  ‘Oh, I’m going to miss you sooo much.’ Lola blinked and hiccupped; she hadn’t expected to feel this emotional but actually saying goodbye to Gabe was hard.

  ‘Hang on, you’re strangling me.’ He pried her off him. ‘It’s like being hugged by a giant koala.’

  ‘That’s to get you into practice. Oh bugger, what do I look like?’

  ‘A panda in a pink dress.’ Gabe watched her mopping up mascara. ‘I can’t believe you’re crying. I’m only going for a year.’

  ‘I know, I know I’m being stupid.’ Lola blew her nose like a trumpeting elephant. ‘But what if you change your mind? You might decide to stay there for good and I’ll never see you again. You’re my best male friend in the world and you’re about to fly off to the other side of it. What if you and Jaydena get married and buy a house and settle down and have loads of Aussie kids?’

  She expected Gabe to burst out laughing at such a ridiculous idea, but he didn’t.

  ‘If that happens, you can always come out and visit us.’

  Oh God, he really meant it! He was that besotted with Jaydena. Had he never even watched Kath and Kim?

  Apart from anything else, Lola knew they had particularly evil spiders in Australia, the kind that hid under toilet seats and bit your bum. So she definitely couldn’t go.

  ‘You could come back and visit me,’ she offered.

  ‘What, with all those kids?’ Gabe grinned. ‘Are you crazy? We couldn’t afford it.’

  He was in love. Lola did her best to feel happy for him. She looked at her watch. ‘I’m going to be late to work.’

  ‘And my cab’s due in ten minutes.’ Gabe gave her a kiss on the cheek and pushed her towards the door. ‘Go on, get yourself out of here. You’ve got your new friend Sally moving in tonight—you won’t even notice I’m gone.’

  ***

  ‘You were right,’ said the man who wasn’t a private detective.

  ‘Oh, hi.’ Recognizing him, Lola dumped the pile of hardbacks she’d brought out from the stockroom and said cheerfully, ‘Right about what?’

  ‘Last night. I couldn’t put that book down. I was awake till four this morning finishing it.’ He shook his head in baffled disbelief. ‘I didn’t know reading could be like that, I had no idea. I’ve just never been a booky person. All these years I’ve been missing out.’

  ‘Ah, but now you’ve seen the light.’ Lola loved it when this happened; witnessing a conversion never failed to give her a thrill. ‘You’ve become one of us. Welcome to our world; you’re going to love it here.’

  ‘I need another thriller and I don’t know where to start.’ The man was wearing a navy suit today, with a burnt-orange shirt and a turquoise silk tie. ‘There are so many to choose from. Can you recommend an author?’

  Could she recommend an author? Ha, it was only the favorite bit of her job!

  ‘You’d like this one.’ Lola picked up a book with a gunmetal grey cover. ‘Or this.’ Eagerly she reached across the table for another. ‘Now he’s a gripping writer.’

  The man looked more closely at Lola. ‘Are you OK?’

  Bugger, she’d redone her make-up on the tube on the way into work. Clearly not thoroughly enough.

  ‘I’m fine. It’s just… nothing.’ Lola checked herself; he was a complete stranger. ‘Look, see how you get on with this one. When you’ve tried a few different authors we can work out which others you might like, then—’

  ‘Beano!’

  ‘Excuse me?’ She turned to face the hatchet-faced woman who had just barked in her ear.

  ‘I need a Beano Annual for my grandson!’

  ‘Sorry,’ the man in the suit shook his head apologetically and took the book with the grey cover from her. ‘You’re busy. Thanks for this. I’ll let you know how I get on with it.’

  ‘Come on, come on,’ bellowed the woman, spraying saliva. ‘I haven’t got all day!’

  By the time Lola fought her way back through the crowds with the Beano Annual, the man in the suit was gone. The hatchet-faced woman didn’t even say thank you. But then people like that never did.

  Twenty minutes later Lola felt an index finger irritably poking at her left shoulder blade. ‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ came an irritated female voice. ‘I want the new book by that Dan Black.’

  Lola turned. ‘You mean Dan Brown.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what I mean, missy. I don’t care what the man’s name is, just get me the book.’

  ‘I tell you what,’ said Lola, ‘why don’t you stop expecting me to wait on you hand and foot, and get it yourself?’

  Outraged, the woman sucked in her breath. ‘You impertinent creature! How dare you? I shall report you to the manager and have you sacked!’

  ‘And I’ll have you arrested for crimes against color coordination. Because pink,’ Lola curled her lip at the woman’s fluffy scarf and padded jacket, ‘does not go with orange.’

  Then they realized they were being watched by a bemused elderly man clutching a biography of Churchill.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Lola winked at him. ‘She’s my mother.’

  ‘Hello, darling.’ Blythe gave her a quick hug and kiss on the cheek and tucked a stray strand of hair behind Lola’s ear. ‘Can’t stop, I’m racing to finish all my Christmas shopping then I’ve made an appointment to have my hair done this afternoon. Just popped in to show you what I’ve bought for tonight. Tell me which outfit I should keep and I’ll take the other one back.’

  Lola didn’t get her hopes up; being allowed to choose was Blythe’s attempt at compromise. Sadly it was like telling someone they were about to be thrown into deep water and generously giving them the choice between a concrete straitjacket and lead diving boots. Blythe had as much fashion sense as a chicken, coupled with a hopeless predilection for mixing and matching things that Really Didn’t Go. Somehow it hadn’t seemed to matter when Alex had been alive—between them, they had regarded Blythe’s manner of dressing as no more than an endearing quirk. But it was five years now since Alex had died and during the last eighteen months Blythe had tentatively begun dating again. All of a sudden clothes had become more important. Keen for her mother to make a good impression on the outside world, Lola had begun attempting to steer her into more stylish waters.

  But it had to be said, this was on a par with trying to knit feathers. Lola braced herself as her mother rummaged in a pink carrier bag and pulled out a silky beige top.

  With purply-blue satin butterflies adorning each shoulder strap.

  And a purply-blue frill around each armhole.

  And scattered multicolored sequins across the cleavage area.

  Lola bit her lip. If it had been just a silky beige top, it would have been perfect.

  ‘Okaaay. Now the other one.’

  ‘Ta-daaa!’ Having stuffed beige’n’silky back into its bag, Blythe produced the second top and held it up against herself with a flourish, indicating that this, this one, was her favorite.

  As if Lola couldn’t have guessed. Top number two was brighter—a retina-searing geranium red—and much frillier, with jaunty layered sleeves, sparkly silver buttons down each side and a huge red and white fabric flower—bigger than a grand prize ribbon—at the base of the V-neck.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Lola. ‘Is this for when you run away to join the circus?’

  ‘Don’t be so cruel! It’s beautiful!’

  ‘Right, so what wo
uld you wear it with?’

  Her mother looked hopeful, like a five-year-old attempting to spell her name. ‘My blue paisley skirt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Green striped trousers?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Oh. Well, how about the pink and gold—’

  ‘Noooo!’

  Blythe flung up her hands in defeat. ‘You’re so picky.’

  ‘I’m not, I just don’t want people pointing and saying, “There goes Coco the Clown.” Mum, if you really want to keep the red top, wear it with your white skirt.’

  ‘Except I can’t, because it’s got a big curry stain on the front. Ooh,’ Blythe exclaimed, her eyes lighting up as inspiration struck, ‘but I could snip the red flower off this top and superglue it to the skirt instead, that’d cover the mark! That’s it, problem solved!’

  People would point and laugh. Lola opened her mouth to protest but her mother was busily stuffing the tops back into their carriers, checking her watch and saying, ‘Gosh, is that the time? I must fly!’

  ‘Where are you going tonight?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just our quiz team having a Christmas get-together, something to eat followed by a bit of a bop. Malcolm’s driving, so I can have a drink.’

  Hardly the Oscars. Lola let it go. The ladies on What Not to Wear would have a field day with Malcolm, who was bearded and bear-like, with a penchant for baggy corduroys and zigzaggy patterned sweaters. Since Malcolm was to sartorial elegance what Stephen Fry was to ice dance, he was unlikely to object to an oversized flower attached to the front of a skirt. If you told him it was the latest thing from Karl Lagerfeld, he wouldn’t doubt it for a minute.

  But Malcolm wasn’t what Lola had in mind for her mother. Sweet though he was in his bumbling teddy-bear way, she had her sights set several notches higher than that. Because Blythe deserved the best.

  Chapter 13

  The eye-watering, throat-tightening boiled-cabbage smell had gone, thank goodness. Loaded up like a donkey, Sally struggled through to the living room then dumped her belongings on the floor.

  Excitement squiggled through her stomach. This was it, her new home for the next twelve months at least. New flat, new resolutions, whole new life.

  Chief resolution being: no more having her heart broken by boyfriends who were nothing more than rotten no-good hounds.

  And where better to start than here? Sally gazed around, taking in the unadorned cream walls, ivory rugs, and pale minimalist ultra-modern furniture. There was no denying it looked like a show home. Even the light switches were minimalist. What with the total lack of clutter, it also exuded an air of bachelor-about-town.

  Oh well, soon sort that out.

  ‘In here, love?’ Huffing and puffing a bit, the taxi driver appeared in the doorway with several more cases.

  ‘Just chuck them down. Thanks.’ He was in his fifties, grey-haired and ruddy-cheeked, wearing a wedding ring. Was he a lovely man, completely devoted to his wife, the kind of husband who put up shelves and mowed the lawn without having to be nagged into doing it? Or was he a shy conniving cheat who promised to do those things then sloped off to the pub instead and came home hours later reeking of other women’s perfume?

  Actually, he probably didn’t. Sally softened and gave him the benefit of the doubt. And she’d never know anyway, because you weren’t allowed to ask complete strangers personal questions like that. Which was, as far as she was concerned, a big shame. Why couldn’t there be a law passed, making it compulsory? Imagine meeting a man for the first time, finding him attractive and being allowed to inject him with a truth drug:

  ‘You seem very charming, Mr X. But if we were to have a relationship, how long would it be before you started treating me like a piece of poo on a shoe?’

  ‘Well, usually about a month.’

  ‘Thanks. Next!’

  The taxi driver gave her an odd look. ‘You all right, love?’

  ‘Me? Oh yes, fine.’ Sally hastily collected herself… ooh, though, how about if you could also wire them up to a machine capable of delivering painful electric shocks when the response warranted it? ‘Sorry, miles away. How much do I owe you?’

  When he’d left, Sally shrugged off her coat, pushed up her sleeves and set to work opening the first couple of cases. She was going to be happy here in Radley Road. Happier still, once she’d made the flat her own.

  ***

  Left standing at the altar was a lonely place to be. It sounded like a line from a country and western song. Worse still, when it had actually happened, it had felt like being trapped in a country and western song. Some memories faded but humiliation on that scale was never going to go away.

  And that had just been Barry the Bastard. There’d been loads more over the years, more than any girl should have to endure, ranging from Tim the Tosser whom she’d lived with in Ireland for over a year, to Pisshead Pete seven Christmases ago. Culminating, needless to say, in her latest calamitous choice, William the Wanker. And in truth he was no great loss; the dental nurse he’d run off with was welcome to him. His gleaming, too-white teeth had looked weird anyway, like something out of a Disney cartoon.

  ‘Hellooo?’

  Sally was looping multicolored fairy lights around the fireplace when the bell buzzed and she heard Lola’s voice. Eagerly she rushed to open the door.

  ‘Wow,’ said Lola, gazing around the living room. Wow was an understatement. ‘This is… different.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Sally beamed with pride. ‘I can’t believe how much I’ve got done in three hours! Nothing like a splash of color to cheer a place up! You know, I really think I have a flair for interior design—I should do it for a living. The world would be a happier place if we all did our homes like this.’

  The world would definitely be full of people wearing sunglasses. The floor was littered with empty bags and cases, not to mention several packets of biscuits. There were bright paintings adorning Gabe’s cool cream walls, with five… no, six… no, seven sets of fairy lights draped around the frames. The brushed-steel lampshade from the Conran shop had been taken down; in its place was a hot-pink chandelier. The ivory cushions on the sofa sported new fluffy orange covers. A sequined pink-and-orange throw covered the seat below the window. And a fountain of fake sparkly flowers exploded out of a silver bowl on top of the TV.

  ‘Good for you,’ said Lola. ‘If Gabe could see this, he’d have a fit.’

  ‘Good job he’s in Australia then.’ Unperturbed, Sally reached into one of the cases and pulled out a swathe of peacock feathers awash with iridescent blue and green glitter. ‘Pass me that gold vase, over there, would you? At the weekend I’m going to paint my bedroom to match these!’

  ‘Paint the bedroom?’ Lola felt she owed it to Gabe to look dubious; he’d spent a fortune having his flat redone just three months ago.

  ‘It’s too plain as it is! Like being in a prison cell! I’m here for a whole year,’ said Sally. ‘Anyway, it’s only a couple of coats of paint—if your friend really hates it, I’ll slosh some cream over the walls the day before he gets back.’

  ‘Sorry. Gabe’s a bit fussy, that’s all. He had the color specially mixed.’

  Sally’s eyebrows shot up. ‘This color? Are you serious? How hard is it to go down to B&Q and buy a vat of emulsion?’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Lola raised her hands, disclaiming responsibility. ‘He’s just… particular.’

  ‘Is he gay?’

  ‘Trust me. Gabe’s the opposite of gay.’

  ‘He’s also fifty zillion miles away. So what I think is, you don’t mention to him that I’m repainting his flat, and neither will I.’

  ‘Go on then.’ Relenting, Lola opened her bag. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  ‘Oh my God, champagne!’

  ‘Not quite. It was either one bottle of
the proper stuff or two of pretend.’ Lola held one bottle in each hand.

  ‘And we wouldn’t want to run out.’ Seizing them, Sally said joyfully, ‘Come on, let’s pop these corks—whoops, don’t step on the Garibaldis!’

  ***

  ‘… I mean, I’m thirty-six years old and this is the first time I’ve been able to do out a room just the way I like. How crazy is that?’

  By ten o’clock the first bottle had been upended into the waste bin (parrot-pink, trimmed with marabou) and the second was three-quarters empty. Sally was cross-legged on the rug (purple, speckled with biscuit crumbs), waving her glass dramatically as she ran through her life history. With the chandelier switched off, the many strings of fairy lights gave the room the kind of festive multicolored glow that had Lola half expecting to be given a present. She frowned, puzzled by Sally’s statement. ‘What, you’ve never been allowed to do it before? What about when you were a teenager?’

  ‘God, especially when I was a teenager! My mother sent the cleaner into my bedroom every morning to tidy everything up and make my bed. I was allowed to have three posters on my wall.’ Sally paused to scoop another biscuit from the packet on the floor next to her. ‘As long as they were posters of horses. I was more of a Spandau Ballet, Duran Duran kind of girl, but she wouldn’t let me put them on the walls. Ghastly creatures, she called Duran Duran. And Spandau were yobs. I think she was terrified I’d find myself a boyfriend who wore ruffled shirts and make-up.’

  Lola pictured Adele’s horror at the prospect. ‘So what happened next?’

  ‘Daft question. I found myself a boyfriend who wore ruffled shirts and make-up.’

  ‘And you were how old when you left home?’

  ‘Eighteen. But I’ve never lived on my own, it’s always been either flat-sharing or moving in with boyfriends. Which means there’s always been someone around to moan about my… decorating plans. I’ve spent the last eighteen years having to compromise. Well, not any more.’ Sally’s exuberant gesture encompassed the room and caused the contents of her glass to spill in an arc across the rug. ‘From now on I’m going to do what I want to do and no one’s going to stop me. No more Tim the Tosser, no more Pisshead Pete, no more boring men telling me I can’t have leopard-print wallpaper in my kitchen. Bum, my glass is empty.’