The Vintage Guide to Love and Romance

by Kirsty Greenwood

  I’m just going to have to style it out.

  Grandma moves with surprising speed and before I know it she is here, right in front of me. She grabs my face. Her hands are cold. As cold as ice.

  ‘Poor, orphaned, homeless Jessica. I’ve waited years for you. What a terrible time you’ve been through.’ She examines me with an expression of pure pity. ‘Look at you, you poor, impoverished creature.’

  Huh? How on earth does she know I’m homeless and impoverished? And what is she on about – ‘waited years’? I’m all over the bloody Internet. If it meant that much then surely she could have tracked me down by now? It took me less than five minutes to find her.

  Before I get the chance to ask what the fuck is occurring, her long thin arms close around me.

  Grandma is a dementor.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, hold my breath as she pulls me close and—

  ‘REEEEAAAOOWWW!’

  ‘Good heavens!’

  ‘Shiiiit!’

  Mr Belding leaps out of my leather jacket.

  Cockwaffle. I’d completely forgotten he was there! He darts up into the air, hissing, quite understandably, at the fact that he’s just been almost squished to death in a me-and-Grandma sandwich. Then he lands on my shoulder, claws piercing my décolletage in what I suspect is one of the most physically painful events of my life so far.

  ‘ARGH, MR BELDING, YOU SHITHEAD!’

  My swear bounces off the walls of the huge room and echoes back at me. Grandma waddles quickly backwards in surprise, her nostrils flaring. Her lips wobble again. She’s got wobbly lips. Her face is now full-on Cullen white.

  ‘Good grief,’ she croaks, reaching out for the arm of her chair to steady herself. ‘Good grief.’

  ‘Holy shit, I’m sorry,’ I mutter, trying to peel Mr Belding off my shoulder. ‘I forgot he was in there!’

  ‘Why . . . why on earth do you have a cat about your person?’ She points a long finger at Mr Belding balancing on my shoulder. ‘I can’t bear it! Is it some sort of street thing? A trick?’

  ‘Street thing? Whaaa?’

  ‘Oh goodness, do you use its body for warmth? To elicit sympathy when, dear God . . . when you’re begging for coins? Is that why it’s wearing a hat?’

  Begging for coins? Wait – does she think I’m properly homeless?

  I did not expect that I would be the confused party in this scenario, yet right at this moment I’m even more puzzled than I am any time a character in EastEnders sleeps with Phil Mitchell.

  I successfully unhook Mr Belding from my shoulder and set him down on the floor. He saunters towards Grandma but she shoos him away with a neatly folded copy of The Lady.

  ‘I’m not actually homeless!’ I say. ‘Well, I suppose I am, technically, sort of homeless. But not in the, er, the tramp way. At least not yet . . . Why the heck would you—’

  ‘You don’t need to hide it, Jessica. I may be elderly but I am not senile. I certainly know a down-and-out when I see one. Only a vagrant would carry their worldly possessions in an old, shabby plastic bag. Only a vagabond would be forced to wear a pair of child-sized trousers. The coarse language, the scent of rough liquor . . . ’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘The unwashed clothing . . . ’ I peek down and spot the grey thong once again peeping out of the hole in the bin bag. Shit. I thought I’d stuffed that back in.

  ‘You’ve got the wrong idea about—’

  ‘As if it wasn’t already clear enough, you have written the word “house” on your hand.’

  I look down at where I started writing ‘house party playlist epic’ on my hand. I rub at the biro before plonking down onto a navy velvet chair by the window.

  ‘Look, I think we’ve totally got our wires crossed. I’m one hundred per cent not a street dweller. I promise. These are not a child’s denim trousers. They are awesome skinny jeans. They’re supposed to be super tight. It’s sexy! And I’ve had a really shitty day, ergo the smell of tequila – you know how life gets. I’m using a bin bag because I was in a mad rush and couldn’t find a suitcase. See? A complete misunderstanding. Can we please start over again?’

  Grandma doesn’t answer. Just bites her lip, fiddles with the cotton thread on her blouse and stares at me through narrowed, watery eyes.

  Fuck. This is not going to plan. I need to recover the situation. Warm things up a bit before I ask to borrow money. I shall use my sunny disposition.

  ‘Your house is really lovely,’ I say with my sunniest, most granddaughterly smile. ‘Properly fancy.’ Peering around, I notice, on the wall, a portrait of a grand-looking woman sitting regally beside a Dalmatian. ‘I like your picture.’ I point up at it. ‘What a stunning girl! That bone structure. Gorgeous. She’s the absolute image of Keira Knightley!’

  ‘That is my father. Your great-grandfather.’

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. The cheekbones . . . I just thought . . .’ I swallow the words down, my face buzzing with heat. ‘What’s your book?’ I swiftly change the subject, noticing the hardback resting on her side table. Good old books: always a safe topic.

  I wander over and pick it up. Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I immediately picture Sean Bean’s bum. ‘Ooh, saucy,’ I say in an odd drawl that sounds a bit pervy. Argh.

  I cough. ‘I do love to read, you know. Must run in the family! I read everything. Not just books. Also newspapers, magazines, leaflets, posters . . . er, greetings cards, road signs, books again. Minds. Ha-ha. Only kidding . . . or am I . . . ?’ Grandma’s mouth drops open. I clear my throat again. ‘Yeah, yeah . . . Read, read, read, that’s me! Might as well call me Jessica Beam Reading Machine. Or Jessica Beam Madam Readalot. Um. Something like that, anyway . . . er . . . ’

  ‘Oh, dear me.’ Grandma’s eyes brim with fat tears once more. ‘I do believe you’re experiencing some kind of emotional crisis. This is not a surprise, considering . . . ’ She clasps her bony hands together. ‘Where is your husband, Jessica? Where is he to help you?’ She looks frantically around the room as if this husband might suddenly magic up from behind the walnut dresser.

  I snort. ‘I promise you I’m not having an “emotional crisis” – so not my thing. And as for a husband? I’m only twenty-eight. I obviously don’t have a husband.’

  Grandma purses her lips extra tightly so that the edges of them turn as white as her face. ‘You are one of those . . . career women?’

  ‘Er, actually, nope. I lost my job as a blogger today.’ I give a sad shrug. ‘Which was extra rubbish because I lived with my boss. Who was my best friend. So I lost my house too.’

  ‘A blogger? Dear God.’ She sways slightly.

  I wonder what she thinks a blogger is? Now is probably not the time to explain.

  ‘I can fix all of this,’ she whispers, almost to herself. ‘You did the best thing to come to me. Let me redeem myself. Let me help you.’

  She wants to help me! This is it. This is my cue.

  ‘Well, Mrs Beam, Grandma, there is something I wanted to ask you, actually. It’s a bit random, I know, but, well . . . is there any chance I could borrow some cash? Obviously I will pay back every single penny as soon as I get myself sorted out. I promise. But as you can probably tell, I’m in a bit of a tight spot and a little money would help to get me back on my feet again. And I know that we’re practically strangers, so maybe I could leave something of mine with you as insurance. Like a deposit-type thing. How about Mr Belding? Or this high-quality genuine leather bomber jacket? Whatever you want. What do you think? I’d be ever so grateful.’

  Grandma lifts her elegant chin, silver eyebrows dipped, and gives a precise shake of her head. ‘Oh, Jessica, of course I will help you in any way I can – ’ Yessss – ‘but . . . I shan’t lend you money.’ Nooooo.

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  My stomach clunks with disappointment. I’ve well and truly buggered this up. Of course she isn’t going to give me money. Why on earth would she? I’ve literally rocked up unannounced, perved on Lady Chatterley’s Lover, insulted her dad, revealed
my most skanky set of grey knickers, had my stolen kitten jump out and scare the living daylights out of her and then topped it off with a casual loan request. What else did I expect her to say?

  Fuck.

  ‘I won’t give you money, Jessica, but of course you should stay here with me.’ Grandma flings her arms around the grand living room to demonstrate ‘here’ before propping her red glasses back on her nose. Her massive eyes stare me out. ‘I will help you through this.’ She gives me a worried, imploring-type look and steps forward, skinny arms reaching towards me once more.

  I back away, escaping the embrace. I might well be in a gigantic life-pickle right now, but I’m pretty sure that living here with this bizarre, teary-eyed old lady who thinks she ought to ‘fix’ me is my actual worst nightmare. Yes, we may be related, but I know nothing about this woman and she knows even less about me. Mum, for whatever reason, made sure of that.

  However . . . I’m all out of options. Really, truly out of options.

  I stifle a yawn, pull out my iPhone and check the time. It’s already after bloody eight. Shit. What else am I going to do now? I suppose I could stay here for a couple of nights, just while I make some proper plans. I mean, who knows, maybe Summer will have cooled down in a few days. In fact, by then, she’ll have realized that Summer in the City is nowhere near as good without all my work and she’ll be begging me to come back . . .

  I meet Grandma’s intense gaze.

  ‘Maybe I could stay for a couple of nights?’ I fight another yawn. ‘If, er, that’s all right with you?’

  She breaks into a full-on smile. It transforms her face. She looks just like my mum.

  Something tilts uncomfortably inside my chest and the itch on my head spreads over my whole body. This is not a good idea.

  Taking a little white porcelain bell from her side table, Grandma gives it a delicate shake. Peach, a solemn look on her round face, materializes super quickly, almost as if she’s been earwigging outside the door.

  ‘Peach, Jessica will be staying with us for a while—’

  ‘Just a couple of nights.’

  ‘Please show her to the front guest room and help her to unpack her belongings—’

  ‘I don’t need to unpack.’ I pick up my bin bag. ‘No point, if I’m just going to leave again in two days.’

  Grandma continues talking to Peach as if I haven’t spoken. Her voice is Mary Poppins-ish. ‘There are plenty of clothes hangers in the wardrobe.’ Glancing down at my bag, she wrinkles her nose. ‘And a little laundry might be in order too.’ She steps closer and I tense up as I think she’s about to attempt hug 2.0, but instead she just really meaningfully examines my face. I shrink away from the intensity of her gaze. Her lips start wobbling again.

  ‘What a terrible time you’ve had, Jessica. But we will fix it. I will not stop until I have fixed this.’

  Eeeeek. She’s totally nuts. I get a mighty urge to run out of the front door and never return.

  Take a deep breath. Be sensible, Jess. It’s just a couple of days. You have no other choice.

  ‘Um . . . OK then.’ I shrug one shoulder. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You are very tired, dear. I think a warm bath and an early night will be just the ticket.’ Grandma points a finger in the air. ‘A Good Woman must always get her beauty sleep! Breakfast is at seven a.m. and not a moment later.’

  What is she talking about? Is – is she sending me to bed? Now? It’s not even nine o’clock. Not that I want to sit up and talk to Grandma about what we’ve been up to for our whole entire lives, but I kind of thought she would. Especially since I’ll be gone soon and, let’s be honest, will probably never return.

  And then, as if everything that has just happened is completely normal and not at all bizarre and awkward and maybe even a bit life-changing, Grandma returns to her chair and back into the sexually charged world of her book.

  Sean Bean’s Bum.

  Chapter Ten

  Gossip is inelegant. A Good Woman minds her own business.

  Matilda Beam’s Good Woman Guide, 1959

  ‘This will be your room for the night.’ Peach opens a door on the second floor and shows me inside.

  ‘Oh no!’ I whisper, jogging backwards out of the bedroom with a terrified moan. I’ve never moaned in fright before, but this shit just got real. The room is filled with dolls. Not cute, toy dolls that wee themselves like you have when you’re a kid, but those serious-looking oldey-timey porcelain dolls that are as creepy as hell. There are loads of them lined up against the three huge floor-to-ceiling windows and sitting on top of a set of antique drawers. At least twenty of them are standing on the hardwood floors in various positions of activity. One of the dolls is holding a tiny doll replica of itself. I am gripped by fear.

  ‘Why?’ I say, venturing cautiously back inside. ‘Why so many dolls? Why would anyone do this?’

  Peach gives a small shrug. ‘I don’t know. But I think they’re awful cute. That one’s my favourite. I call her Felicity.’ She points to a ringletted brunette doll sitting on a human-sized gold and blue striped armchair. It’s wearing little glass glasses and looking worriedly into a small book. I hate it. I hate Felicity.

  The centre of the room holds what I suspect is London’s largest bed. It’s triple the size of my bed in Manchester and has a massive cushioned headboard upholstered in silk, the colour of which Summer would refer to as dove grey. Ordinarily I’d take a run-up and fling myself onto it, have a good bounce. But after everything that’s happened today, I’m just not in the mood.

  ‘Well, that was fucking weird.’ I lie down on the bed, arms and legs spread out like a starfish. ‘I feel like I’m in some ridiculous abstract nightmare. Matilda Beam is crazy. I can’t believe we’re related. No offence. I mean, what was she talking about, “fixing me” and “redeeming herself”? She’s odd, isn’t she?’

  ‘Oh, that’s just her way,’ Peach says softly, delicately emptying my bag of clothes. I offer to help, but she shakes her head no. ‘Matilda feels things very strongly. She’s a woman who is full of heart.’

  ‘Not that full of heart,’ I grumble. ‘I don’t mean to self-pity, but I lost my house and my best mate and my job and my – my pride today. I only wanted to borrow a bit of money, which she clearly has loads of and which I absolutely would have paid back, and she said no. Just like that! Without even a thought!’

  ‘Oh no, that’s nothin’ to do with you. Matilda Beam is completely and utterly broke.’ Peach suddenly clasps my blue lacy top to her bosom and uses the other hand to clamp to her head. ‘Oh jeepers. I did not mean to let that slip. Please forget I said anything. Oh d-dear.’

  I sit up again.

  ‘Broke? Grandma is skint?’ I indicate the grand room, the fancy antique furniture. ‘How?’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Peach frowns, loping over to the huge window and opening a balcony door. ‘I’ll let some air in, shall I?’

  ‘Oi, don’t worry.’ I scooch over to the edge of the bed and dangle my legs off. ‘You can tell me!’ I do my trustworthy smile. ‘I’m part of the family. I have a right to know. Plus I’m leaving not tomorrow but the day after. She’ll never know you told me. Come on. Why is she broke? Isn’t this house worth, like, a million quid?’

  ‘Five million,’ Peach replies promptly, a look of guilt flitting across her earnest face. She looks down. ‘Oh dear, I really shouldn’t . . . Mrs Beam always says that gossip is the height of inelegance.’

  ‘Er, it’s not gossip if it’s true though. Tell me, Lady P!’

  She smiles slightly at the nickname, her defences wilting. ‘I . . . I guess you are leaving soon . . . ’

  ‘No diggity, no doubt, I will be out of here in two days.’

  ‘Oh . . . all right then, I suppose it won’t do any harm. Well, you see, the truth is that Jack, your grandpa, left Matilda with an awful debt. He was a drinker, made some terrible investments over the years and lost all of their money.’ She hesitates. ‘I don’t think I should be . . . ’
r />   ‘Go on, Lady P, don’t worry.’

  She bites her lip. ‘W-well . . . When he died, Matilda sold the bottom floor and remortgaged the rest so that she could pay off the enormous debts, and what was left she has used to keep going. But now the money has almost completely run out.’

  ‘Shit.’ I blink. Mr Belding – who has followed me upstairs – climbs onto my lap and I idly stroke his ears. ‘Why doesn’t she just move house? It must cost a fortune to run this place. She should just sell up. I don’t get what the big deal is.’

  Peach nods, eyes wide. ‘You’re right, the bills here are huge, but Matilda Beam is, well, she’s about as stubborn as a mule. She won’t give up this house. It’s been in the Beam family for years and years and then some. It was supposed to be passed down to her daughter and her daughter and—’

  ‘Me! The daughter’s daughter, that’s me!’

  Peach gasps. ‘Of course, I guess it is.’

  ‘This house could possibly one day be mine?’ I jump up from the bed and walk around the room, trying my best to ignore the dolls. I get a vision of me as lady of the manor. Wafting about like I own the place, which I would. I could throw some truly game-changing parties in this house.

  Peach gives me a grave look and I realize that my fantasizing is pretty inappropriate, given the story she’s telling me.

  I lean forward. ‘How do you know all the goss anyway?’

  She looks down at her loafer-encased feet. ‘I’ve been here for five years now. Mrs Beam ain’t much of a sharer, but I suppose you can’t help but pick these things up.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how does she afford you if she’s so skint?’

  Peach glances at her hands, red-faced. ‘I’m afraid she barely does at the moment. I have room and board. Room, mostly. But she lets me have days off whenever I need them, and, well, I can hardly leave her now. She needs me. I’ve been in love with London since I was a girl and by working for Matilda I get to live here. And it’s not every girl from Alabama gets to live at one of the finest addresses in the world.’ She juts her soft chin. ‘Anyhow, she’s fixin’ to get her books republished and then, hopefully, everything will be all right. Someone’s coming tomo—’