The Vintage Guide to Love and Romance

by Kirsty Greenwood

  ‘To figure out a plan? Good idea. We can do that. Shall I get my laptop? We can approach another publisher, can’t we? I’ll write a better pitch. I’m sure I can fix—’

  ‘Jess, I want you to move out.’

  My throat tightens. ‘What?’

  ‘And I don’t think you should work on Summer in the City any more.’

  Whaaaat?

  My head snaps up. ‘You’re – you’re sacking me? And kicking me out? On the same day?’

  Summer slowly shrugs one shoulder. ‘I just want you to know that it’s not been an easy decision for me. I’ve been thinking about things super hard these past few days. I talked to everyone about us, and they all think—’

  ‘Talked to everyone? Who? I don’t understand.’

  ‘They all agree. Everyone says you’re dragging me down. You’ve been dragging me down.’

  I clasp my hands together and rub my thumb into my palm. Did our friends really say that about me? Is that true?

  ‘Look, I know I messed up at the launch. I feel like a real dick about it. But my writing? Isn’t that what counts? I’ve worked really hard on our site, Summer. I know this particular opportunity might have gone south, and it’s my fault, but I promise I’ll get us another one. I swear I’ll—’

  ‘My site.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You said our site. But it’s mine.’ Summer tilts her head to the side. ‘It’s mine, Jess.’

  ‘But . . . but . . . I came up with the entire editorial calendar. I wrote practically every post, got us to 30,000 Twitter followers. I’ve spent every day, night and weekend of the last two years on this. Summer in the City is you and me.’

  Summer chews her lip for a moment. ‘Technically it isn’t. You didn’t sign a contract.’

  Oh my God, she’s right. I didn’t. She said she only needed my help for a few months, and when I mentioned that we should maybe sign something, she said that our friendship was the only contract we needed and did I want anything from the bar? It felt silly to push it any further than that, and so I didn’t. I didn’t think I needed to.

  My chest burns with indignation.

  ‘Come on, Summer, that’s not fair! You said we didn’t need a contract!’

  ‘Did I?’ She squints for a moment. ‘I don’t think I did.’

  ‘You absolutely did. And either way, the website was shit before we partnered up. It was getting fifteen views a day! And they weren’t even unique!’

  Summer gasps sharply as if she’s been scorched. ‘You liar. It was getting way more views than that!’ She scratches her nose. ‘You seem to have forgotten it, but this was my life you walked into. I did you a favour, employing you, giving you a place to live, and I was happy to. You’re a lost soul and I’m a really giving person. I was happy to give you a jump-start, but you never fucking jumped. You’re still here. Hijacking everything and making me look bad!’

  ‘What are you talking about, hijacking? I came back from Morocco to help you!’

  ‘You were broke in Morocco.’

  ‘I was happy in Morocco. I . . . I thought I was doing you a favour.’ I rub my eyes. ‘Where has this all come from? Just a few days ago we were going to sign a book deal together.’ With a heavy sigh, I plop down onto the sofa beside Summer. ‘Shit. I know you’re mad at me, I do. And I’m really sorry. Let’s just fucking . . . go out, all right? Talk this through. Do an all-dayer at the pub. Summer? We’ll have one of our random adventures and just forget this horribleness.’

  Summer frowns, shaking her head. ‘You don’t get it. I don’t want to do all-dayers any more. I don’t want to get so drunk that we forget this conversation. You mess up every opportunity you get before it can really mean anything. You don’t even know you’re doing it . . . You’ve had a rough time with your mum, I know. But now your emotional mess is, like, affecting me.’

  I swallow and lift my chin. ‘I think you’re going a bit over the top. Kicking me out and sacking me? It’s really harsh. We’re best friends.’

  ‘You don’t know how to be a friend, Jess,’ Summer scoffs. ‘You know how to be a mate, and as long as it’s fun and daft and easy and a giggle, you’re great. But the minute things get serious, you just don’t want to know.’

  That’s not true . . . OK, fine, I might not always be great at listening to her deep feelings and dramas and relationship quandaries. But I wanted that book deal as much as she did. I worked hard for it.

  Summer’s eyes meet mine. She looks different. Colder.

  ‘Look, Jess. You’ve been a really useful and fun part of my journey as a person and I appreciate your help on the site. But . . . we’re going in different directions now and I feel like I’m destined for bigger things on my own. I feel like you’re grabbing my spotlight for all the wrong reasons and it’s time for me to cut the cord. I’m sorry, you know? But I’ve got to do what’s best for me. And . . . well, you’re no longer a part of that.’

  I blink in disbelief. She doesn’t look sorry at all. What the fuck is happening?

  My whole body vibrating with adrenalin and confusion, I get up from the sofa and walk calmly out of the living room, clicking the door softly shut behind me.

  I’m ten years older now, but the feeling that comes with being left behind feels pretty much the same way it did the first time – like standing on the edge of something very high up and knowing that someone is behind you, just about to push.

  I’d been at university for six months and was just about getting to grips with the thought that Mum might manage just fine without me – so far, so good and all that. When she didn’t answer my regular lunchtime phone call one wintery Tuesday, I wasn’t too mithered about it. Mum occasionally took to her bed and ignored my calls; it just meant she was having one of her days. And besides, last night she’d been in lovely high spirits; we’d chatted on the phone about my course and giggled over some ridiculous magician on the Royal Variety show. But at about four p.m. I was at the library when I saw the number of Mum’s community psychiatric nurse flash up on my mobile. CPNs only ever called me when something was wrong.

  ‘Hiya, Pam,’ I said as I answered the call. ‘Go on. What’s she done now?’ I rolled my eyes, trailing my fingers along the shelf before selecting the copy of The Canterbury Tales I had to read for my course. ‘No, wait, let me guess. Drunk and cursing the man who broke her heart? Chucked her medicine down the toilet? Another trip to the loony bin? We’ve not had one of those in a while!’

  I was kidding about – even Mum sometimes joked about her episodes – but behind the casual messing, my heart was hammering hard in my ribcage.

  ‘Jessica. Maybe you should sit down.’

  And of course then I knew. Everyone knows what maybe you should sit down means.

  ‘Er, OK,’ I said, my legs turning to liquid. Sinking down onto the carpeted floor, I leant my head back against the books and squeezed the phone in my hand.

  ‘Jessica. I’m afraid I have some awful news,’ Pam said, sounding like someone on the telly. Like this was East-Enders. ‘I’m afraid that Rose, I mean, your mum . . . she . . . she’s passed away.’

  I held my breath and nodded very quickly, my stomach tilting as if I were on the top of a roller coaster. ‘When? H-how?’

  ‘It was late this morning. She . . . she . . . it was an overdose. I was calling round for my monthly appointment. The front door was ajar and . . . ’ Pam trailed off, a wobble in her usually calm voice.

  I dropped The Canterbury Tales onto my lap and watched the image of it blur against the tartan skirt of my dress.

  ‘But she was all right the last time she did that. They used that pump thingy in the hospital. She was laughing last night. I don’t understand. Are you sure she’s . . . ? She sounded so well. She was . . . happy.’

  And then it hit me. I knew why Mum was so cheerful last night. Why she’d suddenly seemed bright and positive and like a normal mum. She’d known exactly what she was going to do. She’d known she was leaving, and she’d l
eft the door open for Pam to find her.

  I knew I shouldn’t have left her. I knew I should have stayed at home. She wouldn’t have done this if I’d been at home.

  I dropped the phone onto the carpet and stared at the rows of books in front of me, heard the clicking of the keyboards and hushed murmurs of students, all of them unaware that here in the corner, on the floor, my heart had just fractured.

  I bit my bottom lip until I tasted blood and felt as if I should start crying. That was the expected thing, wasn’t it? There were supposed to be tears and wailing and tearing of hair and a library assistant carting me out, shouting, ‘Everyone move out of the way, there’s nothing to see here, show’s over!’ But none of that came. Instead, I got up off the floor, gently slid the book back onto the shelf in its right place and left the building. I stumbled back to halls, and in my room I turned off all the lights and got into bed, where I stared at the dark and waited patiently for my insides to stop twisting. That’s pretty much where I stayed until Summer found me.

  I didn’t cry the day my mum killed herself. I haven’t cried since.

  Chapter Eight

  Public houses and liquor bars are the residence of ne’er-do-wells. They are no place for a Good Woman. And certainly never an unmarried lady.

  Matilda Beam’s Good Woman Guide, 1959

  The Trap Inn is located at the end of our road. It’s a real dive of a pub. The seats are stained and threadbare, there are teeth marks on the beer mats and it smells like egg. But needs must, and it’s very close by, so, for now, the Trap Inn will be my place of solitude. I order a bottle of pear cider from the thin, gap-toothed barmaid who, from what I can gather, goes by the name of Skanky Elaine.

  ‘Pear cider?’ she says with a blink. ‘Pear? Cider? Pear Cider?’

  ‘It’s just like normal cider, but pear-flavoured. It’s delicious, trust me. Don’t worry, I can see you don’t have any. Just a beer will do, thanks.’

  She nods and grabs me a bottle of Corona from one of the fridges. I take a couple of hefty swigs, hop onto the high stool at the bar, put my head in my hands and sigh long and low.

  Well that was all a bit fucking intense.

  I don’t know quite how to feel. Part of me feels really mad that Summer’s kicked me out of my own bloody home. But more of me feels sad that I’ve clearly upset her so much. It’s an uncomfortable rolling guilt feeling in my belly. I’ve not had that feeling since Mum. I can’t bear it. Summer’s been mad at me plenty of times, but she’s never, ever kicked me out. Not least because of the fact that, however much I get on her nerves sometimes, she still needs me to do the work. Ordinarily I’d leave it a couple of hours and then talk to her when she’s calmed down, but I get the feeling that that’s not going to work this time.

  I peek up at the TV in the corner of the pub. Kirstie’s Vintage Home. More twee ‘let’s own a crumbly house and source old wooden apple crates for a coffee table’ crap. Great. Today is turning out to be a real shithead of a day.

  Where the arses am I going to go now? I scroll through the contacts list on my phone. Well, Amy Keyplass and Mark Chunder are obviously out of the question.

  Ooh, look. I’ll try Betty. Betty’s our journalist friend. She’s lovely and funny and her house is in Didsbury, which could be a cool place to hang for a while.

  I pull out my phone and call her.

  ‘Yo, it’s J-dawg!’ I say faux brightly.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jess.’

  ‘ . . . Jess?’

  ‘Jess Beam! Betty, you big dope. What are you up to? It sounds loud there. Is that “Old MacDonald had a Farm” I can hear?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m just arriving at Baby Sensory with Henry.’

  ‘Oh yeah, Henry! How old is he now?’

  ‘Eight months old. You’ve never met him.’

  Yikes. She sounds pissed off. Is it really that big a deal that I haven’t met her baby? I mean, what would we even talk about?

  ‘Guess what, Bets? Now I can meet him. Summer’s gone and kicked me out and I need a place to crash. If I stayed with you I could babysit Henry whenever you liked. I mean, if your other babysitters weren’t available or if I didn’t already have any other plans, maybe . . . Hmmm, does Henry know how to dance yet? I could teach him to rock out to Bon Jovi!’

  ‘Why did Summer kick you out?’ she says flatly. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing! Why do you naturally assume it’s me in the wrong?’

  Silence from Betty.

  ‘OK, I might have caused a tiny little scene at a book party. It was all a complete accident, but Summer’s having none of it. I’m sure she’ll calm down soon, but I think it’ll probably be best for me to just do one for a bit.’

  ‘I’m not sure I really want to get in the middle of all that, Jess.’

  I hear the baby wail in the background.

  ‘Come on, just for a night or two, Betty Boo. Come ooooon. It’ll be like old times. I’ll bring some canned margarita and the Kings of Leon live DVD. Ooh, you’ve got the big house. We could – we could have a party! An epic house party!’ My mind wanders as I think about a special Spotify playlist for the party. Betty loves reggae music. I’ll google ‘best reggae songs’ and put all of them on the playlist for her. I grab my trusty Bic biro from my coat pocket and start scribbling ‘house party playlist epic’ on my arm. I manage to write ‘house’ before Betty shuts me down.

  ‘Um, as much . . . fun . . . as that sounds, I’m not sure my infant son will appreciate an epic house party. I’m sorry, Jess. I don’t think it’s such a good idea for you to stay. Good luck, though. We’re actually having a birthday party for Henry in August. I’d love for him to meet his auntie Jessica. I’ll text you the details nearer the time, shall I?’

  ‘Oh! Yeah, definitely . . . ’ I say, feeling itchy at the words ‘auntie’ and ‘Jessica’ in the same sentence. ‘Sounds great!’

  Not.

  We end the conversation a tad stiffly, and I scroll frantically through the rest of my phone book. I call each of the people I consider to be my closest mates, but it turns out to be one bloody disaster after the next. Emily, who I met in Tunisia, is far too busy to put me up because of her high-pressure job as a human rights lawyer. Callum, a web-design buddy, is properly mad at me for forgetting to answer his texts, especially after we slept together last new year. And my good mate Michelle, the bisexual bass guitar player, turns out not to want to be good mates any more, since apparently I’m not there for her enough ‘when it comes to the real, meta issues’ in her life.

  ‘I’ll have a tequila, straight up, please,’ I say to Skanky Elaine. She yanks her eyes away from the telly and idly pours one out into a little shot glass.

  ‘Bit early in the day for tequila, eh, love? Sommat troubling you?’ She hands over the drink with a bony hand missing its little finger. I down it and nod towards the bottle for an immediate top-up.

  ‘This is a tequila emergency,’ I declare. ‘My friends have deserted me, I have less than a hundred quid in the bank, I lost my job and I think I might be homeless.’

  Skanky Elaine looks horrified, which oddly makes me feel a bit better. I take the refilled glass from her.

  ‘You know, I just don’t see what everyone’s problem is. Folk have different friends for different things, don’t they? They knew what I was like when they met me. I’m the carefree, fun, adventurous buddy, not the talk-about-your-emotions-and-cry-like-a-chump friend. Why do people suddenly expect me to be a different person? I’m no good with all that daft touchy-feely stuff.’

  Skanky Elaine shrugs as I knock back the shot, her eyes flicking back up to the TV. ‘Just go and live with your mam and dad for a bit, flower,’ she says, as if it’s all so simple. ‘They’ll sort you out.’

  I sigh. ‘I can’t. That’s the problem! My mum died yonks ago. I’ve never met my dad. All I know is that he was a horrible trickster of a bloke who left my mum before I was even born and broke her heart into a million pieces, from which she
never recovered.’ I shake my head and down another shot. ‘I was planning on travelling the world again, but that’s all gone to pot now! Maaan.’

  ‘You poor love.’

  Downing the next shot, I feel a satisfying warmth in my cheeks and everything softens around the edges. I examine Skanky Elaine. She seems nice. Not that skanky at all.

  ‘Can I stay with you at your house, Skanky Elaine? I could help out at the bar? I’ve always thought it’d be quite cool to live in a pub.’

  ‘No, love,’ she says. ‘I don’t think so.’

  I nod and hiccup, graciously accepting her rejection. ‘Can I have another drink then?’

  ‘There’s an offer on doubles, love.’ She points up to the blackboard signage behind her.

  ‘Brill. Hit me up.’

  She pours out the double. ‘Do you not have an auntie you can go to, duck? A granny? A godmother? A cousin? An ex?’

  I shake my head. ‘Nope. I don’t have anyone.’ I sigh. ‘I’m a loner. All alone in this stone-cold worl . . . Oh, although . . . I think I do have a grandma, actually. Or at leasht I did. I’ve never met her. I don’t even know if she’s alive. I mean, she wasn’t at Mum’s funeral . . . at least, I don’t remember seeing her there, but then I don’t remember a whole lot about that day. Matilda, I think her name was . . . Thas right. Matilda Beam.’

  ‘You don’t even know your own granny? That’s bloody sad, that is, flower.’ Skanky Elaine gives a grimace, revealing a set of matt, green-tinged teeth and what I suspect is the reason for her nickname.

  I rub my eyes, starting to feel a bit drunk. ‘Yeah, I s’pose it is sad.’ She and Mum never spoke, though I’m not sure why, come to think of it. ‘’Pparently Grandma was shuper-rich, lived in this massive, fancy house in—’

  Wait a minute.

  I quickly grab my iPhone back out of my jacket and connect to the Internet browser with suddenly shaking hands. It takes me a little while because the tequila has made my fingers clumsy, but after three attempts I finally manage to google ‘Matilda Beam + Kensington’.

  The 192 website pops up. I click on it and scroll down blearily.