by Jill Mansell
“Thank God,” Jem continued with feeling. “And let me tell you, I seriously appreciate it.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I mean, you wouldn’t believe what some parents are like. There are some completely hopeless cases out there. Like Lizzie, one of the girls on my course, her mum and dad ring her up almost every day; they have no idea how embarrassing they are. Everyone bursts out laughing whenever her phone rings—it’s like her parents are living their whole lives through her. And Davy’s another one—crikey, he’s in an even worse situation. Poor Davy, his mother wouldn’t even let him leave home. He’s just, like, stuck there with her and everyone teases him. I mean, can’t the woman get a grip? Doesn’t she realize she’s ruining his whole life?”
Poor Davy. Poor Davy’s mother. Poor her. Feeling sick, Ginny drank some water. Part of her was relieved that Jem hadn’t an inkling how utterly bereft she felt. The other part realized that, clearly, from now on, she was never ever going to be able to admit it.
“She doesn’t mean to,” Ginny protested on Davy’s mother’s behalf.
“Yes, but it’s so… pathetic! I mean, it’s not as if we’re babies anymore.” Jem waved her fork around for emphasis. “We’re adults.”
“It’s not very adult to tease a boy just because he’s still living at home.” Ginny recalled how Jem, as a toddler, had sat in her highchair imperiously waving her plastic fork in exactly that fashion. “I hope you haven’t been mean to him.”
“Oh, Mum, of course I haven’t been mean. It’s just a bit of a nerdy thing to do, isn’t it? And it means he doesn’t fit in. It’s like if a crowd of us go out for a drink we always pile back to somebody’s rooms or flat afterward for beer. But what can Davy do, invite everyone round to his mum’s house? Imagine that! Sipping tea out of the best china, having to sit up straight and make polite conversation with somebody’s mother.”
Ginny winced inwardly. Why didn’t Jem just stab her all over with the fork? It couldn’t hurt any more than this.
“Don’t bother with him. Just leave him to get on with it.” Gavin, who was to political correctness what Mr. Bean was to juggling, said, “Concentrate on your other friends. That one sounds like a nancy boy, if you ask me.”
***
Ginny was balanced on a stepladder singing along to the radio at the top of her voice when she heard the distant sound of the front doorbell. It took a while to wipe her hands on a cloth, clamber off the ladder, and gallop downstairs.
By the time she reached the hall, Carla was shouting through the letterbox, “I know you’re in there; I can hear all the horrible noise. Are you crying again? Come on, answer the door. I’ve come to cheer you up, because that’s the kind of lovely, thoughtful person I am.”
Ginny opened the door, touched by her concern. “That’s really kind of you.”
“Plus I need to borrow your hairdryer because mine’s blown up.” Impressed, Carla said, “Hey, you’re not crying.”
“Well spotted.”
“You’re wearing truly revolting dungarees.”
“Not much gets past you, Miss Marple.”
“And there’s bright yellow stuff all over your face and hands.” Carla paused, considered the evidence, and narrowed her eyes shrewdly. “I conclude that you have been having a fight in a bath of custard.”
“You see? That’s why the police never take a blind bit of notice when you try and interfere with their investigations.”
Carla grinned and followed her into the kitchen. “Any man having his ‘investigations’ interfered with by me is definitely going to take notice. So what’s brought all this on? What are you painting?”
“Spare bedroom.”
Carla, who was no DIYer, raised her eyebrows. “For any particular reason?”
“Oh yes.”
“Am I allowed to ask why?”
Ginny made two mugs of tea and tore open a packet of caramel wafers. “Because I’ve had enough of feeling sorry for myself. It’s time to sort myself out and make things happen.”
“Well, good. But I don’t quite see where decorating the house comes in.”
“Jem rang last night. She and Lucy were on their way out to a party. She sounded so happy,” said Ginny. “They’re having such fun together. Lucy got chatting to one of the boys from the rugby team and he invited her and Jem along to the match on Saturday.”
“Poor Jem, having to watch a game of rugby.” Carla, who liked her creature comforts, shuddered and unwrapped a caramel wafer. “I can’t imagine anything more horrible.”
“But that’s not the point. She’s making more friends all the time. And before you know it, she’ll be meeting their friends,” Ginny explained. “Once you start, it just carries on growing.”
Carla couldn’t help herself. “As the bishop said to the actress.”
“So last night I decided that’s what I should do too. Here’s this lovely house with only me in it and that’s such a waste. So I’m going to advertise for—”
“A hunky rugby player of your very own! Gin, that’s a fabulous idea! Or better still, a whole team of hunky rugby players.”
“Sorry to be so boring,” said Ginny, “but I was thinking of a female. And preferably not the rugby playing kind. Just someone nice and normal and single like me. Then we can go out and do stuff together like Jem and Lucy do. I’ll meet her friends, she’ll meet mine, and we can socialize as much as we want. And when we don’t feel like going out, we can relax in front of the TV, just crack open a bottle of wine, and have a good gossip.”
Carla pretended to be hurt. Inwardly, she felt a bit hurt. “You mean you’re going to advertise for a new friend? But I thought I was your friend. I love cracking open bottles of wine! I’m great at gossip!”
“I know that. But you already have your life exactly the way you want it,” Ginny patiently pointed out.
“You’ll like her better than you like me!” Carla clutched her hand to her chest. “The two of you will talk about me behind my back. When I turn up on your doorstep, you’ll say, ‘Actually, Carla, it’s not really convenient right now. Doris and I are just about to crack open a bottle of wine and have a good old girly gossip. ’”
“Fine.” Ginny held up her paint-smeared palms. “I give in. You can be my new lodger.”
Now Carla was genuinely horrified. “You must be joking! I don’t want to live with you! No thanks, I like my own space.”
“Well, exactly. But I don’t. I hate it,” Ginny said simply. “I’m used to having someone else around the house. And as soon as I get this room redecorated, I can go ahead and advertise.” Brightening, she added, “And now you’re here, fancy giving me a hand with the painting?”
“Are we still friends?”
“Absolutely.”
“In that case I’m sure you’ll understand,” said Carla, “when I say I’d rather eat raw frogs than give you a hand with the painting. Why don’t you just lend me your hairdryer and I’ll leave you to it? Too many cooks and all that.”
Ginny grinned as Carla rose to her feet and brushed wafer crumbs from her perfect black trousers. “Except you’ve never cooked anything in your life.”
“Ah, but I have other talents.” Carla experienced a rush of affection and gave Ginny a hug. “And you’re not allowed to replace me. If a lodger’s what you want, then that’s great. But I’m your best friend and don’t you forget it.”
Chapter 6
“You don’t have to do this, you know.” Jem smiled at Davy Stokes, who had taken to dropping into the Royal Oak before closing time and walking her home after her shift.
“I know, but it’s practically on my way.” Davy shrugged and said mildly, “Sorry, is it embarrassing? I won’t do it if you’d rather I didn’t.”
“Don’t be daft. It’s nice having someone to talk to. And when my boots are pinching my toes,” Jem added because her new boots were undoubtedly designed to be admired rather than worn to work in, “it means you can give me a piggyback.”
“In your dreams
.” Grinning, Davy dodged out of the way before she could grab his shoulders and jump up. “Should’ve worn trainers like any normal barmaid.”
“But look at them! How could I leave them at home? They’re so beautiful!” Jem’s pointy pink cowboy boots were the new love of her life. “You’re just jealous because you don’t have a pair.”
Together they bickered their way along Guthrie Road, shivering as a cold drizzle began to fall. On impulse, Jem said, “Kerry and Dan are having a party tonight. D’you fancy coming along?”
Davy reluctantly shook his head. “Thanks, but I have to get home.”
Every Saturday after walking her to her door, he caught the bus back to Henbury. Feeling sorry for him, Jem urged, “Just this once. Come on, it’ll be fun. Everyone’s going. And you’re welcome to crash at our place afterward.” What with Davy’s continuing crush on Lucy, if this wasn’t an incentive, she didn’t know what was.
He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. “I really can’t. Mum’ll be waiting up for me.”
“Davy, you’re eighteen!”
Davy looked away. “I know, but she doesn’t like to be on her own. Please don’t start all this again. My mum isn’t like your mum, OK?”
Jem slipped her arm through his and gave it a conciliatory squeeze. “OK, sorry. I’ll shut up.”
He relaxed. “That’ll be a first.”
“Anyway, I haven’t told you about my mother’s latest plan. I phoned her yesterday to tell her about my new boots,” said Jem. “And that’s when she told me, she’s getting a lodger!”
“Crikey. Who?”
“No idea, she hasn’t found one yet. She’s just finished redecorating the spare room. Next week she’s going to put an ad in the local paper.”
“Wow. So how do you feel about that?”
“I think it’s great. She wouldn’t get anyone I didn’t like, would she? Good for her, that’s what I say.” Jem was proud of her mother. “She’s getting on with her own life, doing something positive. Now that I’m not there anymore she could probably do with the company. You know, you should suggest it to your mum. Then you could move out without feeling guilty about leaving her on her own.”
Davy rolled his eyes. “You’re doing it again.”
“Sorry, sorry, it just seems such a shame that—”
“And again!” They’d reached Jem’s flat; Davy checked his watch. “I’d better make a move if I’m going to catch my bus. You enjoy your party.”
“I will. And thanks for walking me home. See you on Monday.” Jem waved as he headed off in the direction of Whiteladies Road, a lone figure in an oversized coat from Oxfam, on his way home to share cocoa and biscuits with his mother. No wonder other people made fun of him.
Poor Davy, what kind of life did he have?
Jem let herself into the flat expecting it to be empty. It was midnight and Rupert would be out at some trendy club somewhere. Lucy was already at Kerry and Dan’s party. All she had to do was quickly change her clothes, slap on a bit more eye shadow, and re-spritz her hair, and she would be on her way. This time in footwear that didn’t pinch like delinquent lobsters.
But when she pushed open the door to the living room, there was Rupert lying across the sofa watching TV and with an array of Chinese food in cartons spread out over the coffee table.
“Crikey, I thought you’d be out.”
Amused, Rupert mimicked her expression of surprise. “Crikey, but I’m not. I’m here.”
“Why? Are you ill? Where’s Caro?” As she shrugged off her coat—the great thing about Rupert was he was never stingy with the central heating—it occurred to Jem that Caro hadn’t been around for a few days now.
“Who knows? Who cares? We broke up.” He shrugged and reached for a dish of chicken sui mai.
“Oh, I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry on my account. She was boring. Spectacular to look at,” Rupert sighed, “but with about as much charisma as a soap on a rope.”
This was true, but Jem diplomatically didn’t say so. In her experience, this was a surefire method of ensuring they’d be back together within a week, plus they’d then both hate your guts.
“So here I am, all alone, with more Chinese food than one person could ever eat. But now you’re here too.” Patting the sofa, Rupert said, “So that’s good. Come on, sit down and help yourself. I’ve got a stack of DVDs here. How was work this evening?”
Jem hesitated. He’d never asked her about work before. She suspected that Rupert was keen to have company and more upset about Caro than he was letting on.
“Um, actually I’m supposed to be meeting up with Lucy. At Kerry and Dan’s party. Why don’t you come along too?”
“Kerry the bossy hockey player? And carrot-top Dan the incredible hulk? I’d rather cut off my own feet. You don’t really want to go there,” Rupert drawled. “All those noisy rugby types downing their own vast bodyweight in cheap beer. It’s cold outside, it’s starting to rain so you’d be drenched by the time you got there, and what would be the point of it all?”
He was lonely; it was obvious. And speaking of cutting off your own feet, hers were certainly killing her. Jem hesitated, picturing the party she’d be missing. She was starving, and the most anyone could hope for at Kerry and Dan’s would be dry French bread and a bucket of garlic dip. Whereas Rupert didn’t buy ordinary run-of-the-mill takeaways; he ordered from the smartest Chinese restaurant in Clifton, and all the food on the table looked and smelled like heaven.
“Maybe you’re right.” Giving in to temptation, she sank down onto the sofa next to him.
Rupert grinned. “I’m always right. Want a hand with those?”
Jem tugged off her left boot and heaved a sigh of relief as her toes unscrunched themselves. Having helped her pull off the right one, Rupert held up the boot and sorrowfully shook his head. “You shouldn’t wear these.”
What was he, a chiropodist?
“They’re leather,” Jem told him. “They’ll stretch.”
“That’s beside the point; they’ll still be horrible.”
“Excuse me!”
“But they are. How much did they cost?”
“They were a bargain. Twenty pounds in the sale.”
“Exactly.”
“Reduced from seventy-five!”
“Exactly. Who in their right mind would want them?”
“I would,” Jem protested, looking at her boots and wondering if he was right.
Smiling at the expression on her face, Rupert chucked them across the carpet. “OK, that’s enough boot talk. Have some wine. And help yourself to food. Are you warm enough?”
The king prawns in tempura were sublime. Greedily, Jem tried the scallops with chili sauce. The white wine too was a cut above the kind of special-offer plonk she was used to. Closing her eyes and wriggling her toes, she said, “You know what? I’d rather be here.”
“Of course you would. Staying in is the new going out.” Wielding chopsticks like a pro, Rupert fed her a mouthful of lemon chicken. “Listen to the rain outside. We’re here with everything we need. Turning up at some ropy old party just for the sake of it is what people do when they’re too insecure to stay at home. They’re just desperate.”
Swallowing the piece of chicken, Jem thought how much chattier Rupert was when it was just the two of them together. While he and Caro had been a couple, their attitude had always been… well, not stand-offish exactly, but distant. Now, taking a sip of wine, she realized he was showing definite signs of improvement. Wait until she told Lucy that super-posh Rupert might actually be human after all.
Actually, better text Lucy and tell her she was giving the party a miss.
By half-past one they’d finished two bottles of wine. Gangs of New York wouldn’t have been Jem’s DVD of choice, but the food more than compensated. When the film ended, Rupert said, “Want to watch The Office next?”
“Ooh yes.” Relaxed and pleasantly fuzzy, she beamed up at him. “You
know what? I’m really glad I stayed in.”
“All the best people do it. Unlike that rabble,” said Rupert of a group of noisy revelers making their way along the road outside. “Listen to them, bunch of tossers.” Raising his voice, he repeated loudly, “Tossers.”
Jem giggled. “I don’t think they can hear you.”
Rupert leaped up from the sofa and crossed the room. Flinging open the sash window, he bellowed, “TOSSERS!”
A chorus of shouting greeted this observation. Whistles and insults were flung up at him and a beer can made a tinny sound as it bounced off a wall.
“Close the window,” Jem protested as cold air blasted through the room.
“Are you kidding? They tried to throw a beer can at me.” Casting around the living room, Rupert searched for something to throw in return.
“No bottles.” Jem swiftly grabbed the empty wine bottle before he could reach it. Then she let out a shriek as he snatched up her boots and flung the first one out of the window. “Not my boots!”
Chapter 7
“Wankers,” yelled Rupert, hurling the second boot before she could stop him, then slamming the window shut.
“Are you mad? Go and get them back! They’re my boots.”
“Correction. They’re horrible boots.” Amused, he reached out and grasped Jem’s arms as she attempted to dart past him. “And it’s too late now; they’ve run off with them.”
“You bastard! How dare you?”
“Hey, shhh, they’ve served their purpose. I’ll buy you a new pair.”
“That was the last pair in the shop!” Jem struggled to break free.
“And they were cheap and nasty. You deserve better than that. I’ll buy you some decent boots.” Rupert was laughing now. “Now there’s an offer you can’t turn down. OK, I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have just grabbed them like that, but I’ve done you a big favor. We’ll go out tomorrow and find you a fabulous pair. That’s a promise.”
Jem stared past him, lost for words. Her beautiful pointy pink cowboy boots, the bargain boots she’d been so proud of, gone, just like that.
