I stop short. Valentina is listening to her? I snort, shaking my head in disbelief.
Grandma goes on. ‘We could use my first book, Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, to help find Jessica a good man who will fall in love with her.’
‘And create a book about that experience?’ Valentina ponders. ‘So . . . a dating bible? A vintage dating bible showing women how to use techniques from your guides in the modern day?’
‘Quite.’ Grandma nods slowly, sensing Valentina’s renewed interest. ‘Exactly that.’
‘God, not vintage again,’ I grump, trying to keep my patience. ‘No offence, but surely everyone knows by now that vintage is just a trendy word for “old shit”.’
‘Actually, Jess, our most recent non-fiction bestseller was a wonderful vintage afternoon-tea cookbook,’ Valentina informs me with a wry smile.
Vintage afternoon-tea cookbook? That might be the grossest, twee-est thing I’ve ever heard.
‘The vintage angle is very hot right now,’ she confirms. ‘Clever thinking, Matil.’
Valentina leaves me standing by the door and settles back down on the sofa, seemingly no longer in a rush. She pulls a pencil and a black Smythson notebook out of her handbag. She doesn’t write anything in the notepad, but points her needle-sharp pencil in the air.
‘Hmm. What about . . . How to Catch a Man Like It’s 1955?’ she murmurs after a few seconds.
I look at her blankly. Grandma absolutely beams.
‘It could work . . . ’ Valentina narrows her eyes. ‘A brand-new book full of vintage dating tips, tried and tested from the wholly modern perspective of Jessica Beam. I like it. And, of course, the renewed interest would mean we could eventually rethink the reissuing of the original books.’
‘Oh!’ Grandma puts her hands to her neck, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. ‘I love it!’
‘Matil, in your opinion, how long do you believe it would take to snare the man?’ Valentina asks.
‘No more than two to four weeks if Jessica stays here at Bonham Square and we spend all our time on the project.’ Grandma looks me up and down. ‘There would be rather a lot to do, but we could condense it into a shorter space of time.’
‘Wait a minute – hold up,’ I interrupt, looking between them. ‘You’re saying you want me to stay here, in this house, for two to four weeks, change everything about the way I look and the way I behave, like some kind of science experiment, just to get some random chump to go out with me?’
‘Not to “go out” with you. To fall deeply in love with you,’ Grandma says happily. Valentina smiles in agreement and scribbles something in her notebook.
I wave them away. ‘And then you want me to write about it?’
‘Yes,’ they say as if it isn’t an absurd, totally backwards, entirely humiliating proposal.
I glare at them both as if they’re mental. The very idea of hanging about here for longer than the two days I had intended, learning this strange new grandma’s version of manners and style, trying to chase after some bloke and get him to – puke – fall in love with me? It’s literally abhorrent, the complete opposite of anything I would ever want to do with my time. Yes, I’d like to be a writer. Yes, I’d like to have a book deal. But not like this. I disagree with the whole notion of changing your entire self for a fella on a very base level. Nuh-huh. No way.
I spot Grandma’s massive eyes fill with watery hope and my neck starts to prickle.
‘Look, guys.’ I back away in the direction of the door. ‘Thanks a million for the offer and all, but, well, no thanks. I like my “look” and my “manners” and my “feminine skills” exactly as they are. Good luck with it though. I’m leaving now. I need a shower and then I’m going to go run.’
‘But didn’t you just go running?’
‘I like to run.’
Twenty minutes later, I’m out of the shower and dressed in my favourite running gear of lycra crop top and soft grey trackie bottoms.
I’m tying up the laces on my nice bright yellow trainers when there’s a knock on the bedroom door.
‘Jessica, may we enter?’
It’s Grandma.
‘You feisty duckling, Jessica, let us in. We want to talk to you.’
And Valentina.
What is their problem? I’ve just told them that I’m not interested in their idea. Why is Valentina even considering this? I thought she was so smart when I first met her at the Southbank Press. Turns out she’s as batshit crazy as Grandma. I hurriedly throw myself onto the bed and burrow under the covers, pulling the blanket right up over the top of my head. If they think I’m taking a nap then they’ll go away. No one bothers a napping person.
Except, of course, these people.
I hear the door click open and the muted footsteps of Valentina and Grandma walking across the carpet. Talk about invasion of privacy. Yes, I know it’s not my house, but still, I could have been doing any number of private things in here. I could have been practising my withering glance in the mirror or having a wank. Jeez.
‘Is she asleep?’ Grandma says curiously.
I scrunch my eyes closed and pretend I am deep in the land of nod.
‘Hmm. She’s wearing trainers,’ Valentina replies, ‘A super pair of bold yellow trainers. I love them, Jess. I really do.’
Shit. My feet are poking out of the end of the bed. I casually tuck them back in like the Wicked Witch of the East.
‘Yes, I think she is awake and simply trying to avoid us,’ Valentina declares.
‘What odd behaviour.’
‘Jess, we know you’re awake,’ Valentina says firmly. ‘Matilda and I have been chatting about this new idea and we really are rather excited about it. How to Catch a Man Like It’s 1955 will slot very nicely into my list. Especially since Summer in the City is sadly no longer an option.’
‘And Miss Smith has already thought of the chap we could catch,’ Grandma adds. ‘A Good Gentleman by the name of Leo Frost.’
I splutter and choke, swiftly disguising it with a yawn/sleepy snuffle-type sound. Leo Frost? What the sweet hell is Valentina Smith thinking of? He hates me. And I hate him. And Valentina hates him. Plus he’d recognize me in an instant.
‘We’d have you in disguise, of course,’ Valentina says as if she’s reading my mind. ‘And despite my personal experience with him, perhaps because of it, I believe he is a perfect choice. London’s most notorious, eternally single, hard-hearted bachelor. If you could get a declaration of true love from Leo Frost, then the book would be a bestseller.’
‘And my Good Woman guides would be reprinted. Jessica, my house could be saved! You could save everything.’
Emotional bribery to the max.
Valentina clears her throat. ‘And, of course, there would be an advance. Five thousand pounds on spec.’
Whaaat? Five grand? Five grand. I get a vision of my bank account balance as it currently stands: twenty-three pence. Overdrawn.
I pop my head out of the top of the covers, meerkat style. Grandma’s hands are shaking with anticipation.
‘Five thousand quid?’ I say, just to be sure.
‘Initially,’ Valentina replies with a confident grin. ‘If it goes well then the possibilities are endless.’
I peer at Grandma. She’s about half a minute away from squeaking.
‘Does the dude have to be Leo Frost?’
‘I can think of no one better. And surely you can see what a good story it would make.’
‘Do I have to do it under my real name?’
‘Yes. Matilda Beam and Jessica Beam. The family dynamic must be clear.’
‘Er . . . do we get to keep the five thousand even if the whole thing fails miserably?’
‘Well, I’d very much hope that wouldn’t happen, but yes. That is how an advance works.’
Wow. Half of five thousand guaranteed for two to four weeks’ work. No matter how futile this project is, no matter how much I will despise doing it, that kind of money is hard to argu
e with when you’re in my position. That much money would get me to Thailand. Hell, it would get me to Fiji. It would be a leg-up, a fresh start. I picture myself beachside at sunset, sipping on half a coconut filled with pear cider, wearing a brand-new silk jumpsuit and swaying in time to a soundtrack of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. It’s too much to turn down.
‘All right. I’ll do it.’
Grandma bursts into a decidedly unpoised round of tears and mutters ‘thank heavens’ and ‘what a day!’ before dashing out of the room to fetch the Good Woman guides. Valentina simply leans over the bed to shake my hand.
‘Of course, I’ll need the first twenty thousand words of the book within four weeks,’ she says happily.
What the fuck have I just agreed to?
Chapter Thirteen
A Good Woman’s skin must always be dewy, fresh and even. The perfect chap will recoil from dry or blemished skin, and what a pity that would be!
Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, 1955
Grandma brings through a tall stack of jewel-coloured hardbacks and hands them over as if she’s bestowing me with a solution to world peace before dashing back off to see Valentina out. I lounge on the end of the bed and select the top book on the pile.
Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance.
I put it to my nose and give it a sniff, instantly sneezing. It smells of old. Running my finger over the coarse, dark-pink, cloth-bound cover, I open it up. On the front inside page is a black and white photograph of a woman sitting at a desk with a glass of champagne in one hand and her other hand elegantly extended to the camera to show off an art deco engagement ring. Presumably Grandma. She looks young, twenty or so. And she’s hot! Beneath the, well, bitterness, my mum was really beautiful, but Matilda Beam is something else. I can’t tell the exact colour of her hair from the monochrome image, but it’s quite dark and styled in a gorgeously perfect wave down to her shoulders. She’s raising an eyebrow and wearing a dress that flips out in the skirt, making her waist look absolutely minuscule. Underneath the image there’s a little bio:
Matilda Beam (née Miller) pictured on the day she was engaged to Jack Beam, New York heir to the Delightex empire.
Delightex? The American bra company? My granddad owned Delightex? Whoa. Why didn’t Mum tell me that titbit? That’s mega information.
Before she fell in love with Beam, Matilda was the toast of the New York debutante scene, receiving proposals of marriage from no less than three of Manhattan’s most eligible bachelors! No doubt about it, Matilda Beam is a Good Woman. Read her story! Follow her tips! Land the man of every woman’s dreams!
Three marriage proposals? Toast of New York?
I flick forward a few pages.
Never wear trousers on a date. A Good Man will appreciate shapely legs. But not too much leg, lest you be thought of as loose. Skirts below the knee, always.
I snort and think about my skinny jeans that are so tight you can see what I had for lunch yesterday. And the only skirts I have that go below the knee are my nighties. And most of them don’t even manage that.
Nobody really likes a Chatty Cathy. Let your date take the lead in conversation and be sure to let him know just how fascinating you find him with an enigmatic smile and a few well-placed throaty laughs. He will certainly enjoy being around you!
What? This can’t be real. Are they going to expect me to do this? I can’t quite figure out whether it’s hilarious or horrendous.
I pick up the other books and leaf through them. There’s everything from a Good Bride Guide and a Good Mother Guide to a Good Housewife Guide. Wow, Grandma wrote loads!
I examine the biography picture in the final book – Matilda Beam’s Good Woman Guide: it’s Grandma again. She’s sitting beside a tall, handsome man in a suit with a cute, chubby toddler perched on her knee.
Matilda Beam sure is a Good Woman! Married to Jack Beam in 1955, she is the bestselling author of guides to life as a Good Woman. The Matilda Beam Good Woman Guides are a staple in any home library, not just in Britain but in America, where Matilda’s straightforward brand of charm and amazing results are renowned. Matilda Beam lives in New York with her husband, CEO of Delightex underwear Jack Beam, and their young daughter, Rose.
Wow. Mum lived in New York? I wonder how long for? Did she grow up in New York? Was she a cheerleader? Why did they return? Once again it occurs to me how much I don’t know about her, about my history, and I experience a roll of guilt for not asking her more when I had the chance. I suppose that, at the very least, being stuck in this place for the next month will give me a chance to find out more . . .
Before I can think on it much further, the door bursts open and Grandma sweeps back in, closely followed by Peach, who is carrying a fresh set of fluffy cornflower-blue towels.
‘Oh, Jessica. I couldn’t be happier. You have answered my prayers,’ Grandma chokes out. ‘Valentina has asked that we keep her updated with our progress. She likes you a great deal, I think. Oh, what an utterly wonderful development.’
Peach echoes the sentiment with a small, pink-cheeked grin.
And then my worst nightmare becomes real. The pair of them engage me in an enthusiastic group hug. I hold my breath until it’s over, which takes so long that my vision starts wobbling around the edges.
‘A new friend,’ Peach whispers to herself, quite intensely.
‘Oh! Er, yeah.’
‘I have such a lot to teach you, dear,’ Grandma says breathlessly. ‘I will teach you everything I know. Everything. You will be the perfect Good Woman. This time I will get it right.’
I have my trainers on. I could run out, escape right now and never look back . . . except that I have nowhere to go and no cash with which to go there. Yet.
‘Brill,’ I say weakly when I’ve escaped their stranglehold on my body. ‘Fine. Yay. Great. Hurrah. Just . . . no more hugs, all right?’
They laugh lightly as if I am joking. But I am not joking.
After giving me a house key, the landline telephone number, and – due to my firmly enforced no-hugs rule – many joyfully teary arm pats, Grandma reluctantly grants me leave (on account of good behaviour) for my run, with instructions to meet her and Peach at Cafe Lucius on Kensington High Street for lunch at one p.m. prompt.
My run is a pleasant, sunshiny affair on the fancy-ass streets of Kensington and Chelsea, and I’m chuffed to discover that around here I don’t have to keep my head down in order to avoid errant dog turds like I usually have to in Manchester. Silver linings.
I try not to think too much about what I’m going to be doing for the next month, the fact that I’m going to have to see the knob-prince Leo Frost again, how I now have to write twenty-thousand words in four weeks, or that when Grandma smiles she looks exactly like my mum. Instead I shove in my earbuds, turn up the Arctic Monkeys to full blast on my iPhone, and think about the money this project will earn and the freedom that could bring.
When I can run no more, I check the clock on my phone. Ten past one. Oops. I shuffle as quickly as I can manage, sweaty and breathless, to this Cafe Lucius. I spot Grandma and Peach sitting at one of the outside tables on the pavement. It must be about thirty degrees today but, as I approach, I notice that Peach is holding an umbrella over Grandma’s head. With her free hand she gives me a small, shy wave.
‘Oh, you’re here!’ Grandma says as I slump down onto a cast-iron chair beside them and catch my breath. ‘And perspiring rather heavily. Never mind, at least you’re here. Although, Jessica, you’ll do well to remember that being late is never, ever fashionable.’ She gives me a pointed smile.
‘What’s with the brolly?’ I say, unwrapping my earbuds from around my neck and plonking them onto the table.
‘The parasol protects Mrs Beam from the harmful rays of the sun,’ Peach tells me, as if it’s a normal occurrence for her to be holding a freaking parasol over someone’s head. I wonder how long she’s been holding it for. Her arm must be killing her.
&nbs
p; ‘Yes, a Good Woman’s skin must always be dewy, fresh and even,’ Grandma echoes. ‘The perfect chap will recoil from an ill-kept complexion.’
I snort. ‘A guy who palms you off because you’ve got a spot or two? Sounds like a twat to me. I love the sun, I do.’ I close my eyes, spreading my arms out and sighing happily as I bask in its soothing golden warmth. ‘And anyway, we have amazing science-y light-reflecting foundation nowadays, you know. Hides everything.’
‘A naturally clear complexion is the finest foundation,’ Grandma insists. ‘Such a lot to learn,’ she mutters to herself.
‘It’s only skin.’ I roll my eyes and take off my steamy glasses, cleaning them with a stiff linen napkin from the table. ‘I don’t know why you’re getting so put the lotion in the basket about it.’
‘Ah yes, lotion is a very good idea.’ Grandma nods approvingly, missing my reference. ‘We shall moisturize you as soon as we return home.’
We? Is this moisturizing of me intended to be some kind of group activity? I don’t think I’m up for that.
Before I can verify her plans, a waitress comes out of the vine-framed cafe door and hands us thick cream menu cards.
‘Oh yes, the wine list,’ Grandma beams. ‘A bottle of my favourite vintage champagne is in order, I think. One must always celebrate the good moments.’ And then, as her eyes scan down the list, her nostrils flare.
I look at my wine list. Fucking hell, it’s expensive! From what Peach said, there’s no way Grandma can afford this: the cheque from Valentina won’t clear for another few days, and even then she’ll have to use that for this month’s mortgage. Her cheeks pinken slightly.
‘Gad, I really hate champagne,’ I say, casually handing my menu back to the waitress. ‘Do you guys mind if we don’t get any of that?’
‘Me too,’ Peach agrees fervently, catching on. ‘But I’d love some of the home-made lemonade, please.’
Grandma’s lips wobble. She looks down at the table for a moment before closing the menu with a sigh. ‘Oh, but of course I shan’t have a whole bottle of champagne to myself. Lemonade for me too, I suppose.’
The Vintage Guide to Love and Romance Page 11
