The Vintage Guide to Love and Romance

by Kirsty Greenwood

  Peach gasps in surprise. ‘Jess, you’re up early! What’s happening? Is something wrong? Are you unwell again?’

  Then she spots my lycra-wear and trainers and frowns.

  ‘You’re going running? But I thought Matilda told you not to run on account of your masculine calves.’

  I roll my eyes and do some stretches, holding onto the stair banister for support. ‘My calves are awesome, OK, there’s nothing wrong with them. Running makes me feel better. Don’t tell her you saw me sneaking out, will you?’

  ‘You want me to keep your secret?’

  ‘Do you mind? Grandma will just be upset if she finds out, and she’s had no major meltdowns for two whole days now. It would be cool to keep it that way.’

  ‘Our first official secret,’ Peach almost whispers, smiling to herself. Then she puts her coffee cup down onto the side table and inhales through her nose. ‘I will keep your secret, Jess. In fact, I’ll come with you on your run. I will participate in the deception.’

  ‘Oh, no, you don’t have to do that. I trust you.’

  ‘I would like to.’

  ‘But . . . I run alone. I run hard.’

  ‘You don’t have to run alone any more,’ Peach says reasonably. ‘You have Lady P now. I will run with you. I’ll get changed right now. Meet you outside in five minutes.’

  I try to think of a reason to protest, why I should go running alone. But it’s super early and my brain isn’t all lit up yet, and I can’t think of the reasons. I nod my assent and Peach flies past me, lumbering quickly up the stairs to get changed.

  Five minutes after setting off on our run, I am full to bursting with the reasons I usually do this on my own. Top of the list is the fact that running is my lovely alone time, peace and quiet, a time to think and listen to my music and focus on nothing but the steady pound of my heartbeat and the feel of the air whipping at my skin. Peach has other ideas about what a run is. First of all, she thinks that ‘run’ is a euphemism for medium-to slow-paced walking with a stop-off for frothy coffee along the way. Secondly, Peach wants to talk on our run. She wants to talk a whole lot. Since our night out at Twisted Spin, it’s like Pandora’s box has been opened and a new, chattier Peach is starting to emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon. Which is great. It’s awesome that she’s starting to feel more confident – her shoulders aren’t as hunched, she’s mumbling less, it’s fab. But I’m still the only person she feels comfortable talking to, which means that everything she wants to say out loud, she says to me. And after twenty-six years of barely talking to anyone, there’s a lot of stuff she’s feeling the need to share. By the time we’re halfway down Kensington High Street, I’ve zoned out a bit.

  ‘ . . . and then at senior prom it was all planned out, but Lyle lost the room key and the mood sorta fizzled. And I never quite got around to it. And that’s the story of why I’m still a virgin. Then in 2004 I decided—’

  My mind zones back in immediately. ‘Wait – what?’ I stop outside Marks & Spencer and turn to Peach. ‘What did you just say? You’re still a virgin?’

  Peach nods. ‘I sure am. Not for lack of wanting, just lack of opportunity, I guess.’

  ‘Wow,’ I breathe. I lost my virginity at eighteen. On Summer and mine’s first night out together at uni, actually, the week after my mum died. I can’t imagine having reached twenty-six without doing it. Sex is ace. How does she get her kicks? How does she cheer herself up? I examine her curiously.

  ‘I have got my eye on someone,’ Peach grins, taking a hefty gulp from her water bottle.

  ‘Who? Who?’

  She fiddles with her ponytail of frizzy curls. ‘Gavin.’

  ‘Who is Gavin?’

  ‘Our postman, duh!’

  Aha, the stocky blond fella.

  ‘He’s cute,’ I say approvingly as we cross over to the other side of the road.

  ‘I know.’ Peach smiles wistfully, her round cheeks pink. ‘But he’s sorta shy too. I’ve been taking all that eBay stuff for delivery so I’ve seen him lots at the post office recently, but we’ve never managed to say more than a few words to each other. I wanted to ask you a favour, actually.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I feel more . . . confident when you’re there, if you know what I mean? Like I can talk a little easier.’

  I don’t know quite what she means, but nevertheless, at her words I get a tiny flutter of pleasure in my chest.

  ‘So I was hoping that the next time Gavin comes around with the post, you would answer the door with me. I wanna ask him out for a date and I don’t know if I’d be able to do it unless you were standin’ by me.’

  I laugh. ‘You’re going to ask him out? That’s awesome.’ I give her a high-five. ‘It’d be my pleasure to stand there creepily looking on during that intimate moment. Oh God, Peach, you should totally tell Gavin that you want his special delivery. Ooh, I know, ask him if he’s got a big package for you. Please ask him that.’

  ‘Should I really ask him that?’ Peach’s gentle grey eyes widen solemnly.

  ‘Er, no. No, I’m kidding, Peach. Don’t say that . . . at least not yet.’

  ‘You’re weird.’ Peach guffaws to herself in a vexed way, as if I’m the peculiar person in this duo.

  ‘Can we do some actual running now?’ I moan, hopping up and down on the spot. ‘We’ve got barely any time left and Matilda will be awake soon.’

  ‘Of course,’ Peach pants, joining me in a couple of star jumps. Then she stops. ‘But first, let me tell you all about my life in 2004. It was January fifteenth, and the opening day of Alabama’s world-famous national peanut festival . . . ’

  I take off into a sprint.

  Later that morning Grandma and I meet in the drawing room to tot up our eBay earnings. I get comfy on the sofa, place my laptop on my knees and call out figures to Grandma who, from her favourite blue chair, adds them all up on a massive old-as-time calculator.

  As I get to the last sold item – an ancient Tiffany table lamp – I peek up at Grandma in excitement for the total. I watch her face, waiting for the smile to appear, the look of relief to soften her taut, worried features. But that doesn’t happen.

  ‘We didn’t make enough,’ she says in a small, dejected voice.

  ‘Whaaat?’ I jump up from the sofa and dash over to look at the calculator. ‘How? We sold so many things? People were going crazy over that stuff. This calculator is an antique – it must be broken!’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with the calculator. We simply do not have enough for the minimum payment.’ Grandma’s lips start to wobble. Shit. She’s going to cry again.

  I frantically recheck the numbers and add them up myself. Grandma’s right. We’ve made a fair amount on eBay, but not nearly enough for the stupid bank’s extortionate minimum payment.

  ‘In ten days they will take me to court,’ Grandma says in a panicky voice. ‘I’ll be evicted! I will lose my home, my memories, everything I have worked for.’

  Argh, she’s spiralling off. Not again . . .

  ‘Stop crying!’ I say firmly. ‘It won’t help.’

  Grandma looks up at my strong tone and frowns.

  ‘A Good Woman is never callous,’ she sobs.

  I huff.

  ‘Well, a Modern Woman gets on with the shit that life has thrown her without melting down. Let’s be practical about this.’

  It is not often that I play the role of sensible person in a situation. I feel like I’m wearing a costume.

  Grandma hangs her head, her wispy hair falling over her face.

  ‘You can do it,’ I urge, pouring her a small cup of tea from the tray on the ottoman and handing it over to her. ‘You are Matilda Beam. Mega bestselling writer and romantic magician. You are the person who managed to get me to take out my hair extensions. If you can do that, you can bloody well sort this out.’

  Grandma takes a sip of her tea. ‘Your hair is much lovelier now,’ she weeps.

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ I tut, patting m
y gingery locks. ‘OK. So. Peach mentioned that you have some things in the attic. Shall I go up there, have a look through and see if there’s anything else we can sell on—’

  ‘No!’ Grandma interrupts, plonking the cup of tea back down on the silver tray with a clatter. ‘No, no. The attic is empty. There’s nothing in there. Nothing.’

  I definitely remember Peach saying that there were so many things in the attic she could barely get the door open.

  I narrow my eyes at Grandma. She avoids my gaze.

  She’s lying.

  I make a mental note to check out the attic as soon as I get a chance.

  ‘Because there’s nothing to sell in the attic,’ Grandma continues, rising from her chair and wandering over to the drawing-room window. ‘I think the best thing to do in this short time is to speed up the How to Catch a Man Like It’s 1955 project.’

  ‘Speed up? How?’

  ‘Leo has shown a very definite interest in you. We ought to increase the time you and he are spending together in order to get to our conclusion at a faster pace and secure the deal with Valentina as quickly as possible. Once we have a full contract, I can show that to the bank as proof of future income. Perhaps then they will be a little more lenient. You have a date with Leo this evening, don’t you?’

  Pretty much all I’ve been worrying about since last night. Well, that and Doctor Jamie and his annoying change of heart. Ugh. I nod and take a sip of tea.

  Grandma wanders back over to her chair, straightens her skirt and sits back down. ‘Then tonight, it is time for your first kiss with him.’

  I splutter out my tea. ‘I have to kiss him tonight? But the guides say I’m not supposed to kiss him until date five.’

  Grandma gives me an approving glance. ‘You have been reading them! You’re right, my guides do advise that. But we are in an unusually time-sensitive situation. And a first kiss is a powerful thing. It can do the job of ten dates when it comes to forming a bond with your intended.’

  At the mere thought of kissing Leo Frost, my cheeks burn up and my neck itches.

  I do not like Leo Frost.

  Spotting my blush, Grandma smiles a little. ‘Oh, Jessica, I know a first kiss is a lot of pressure, but don’t worry. I will teach you how it is done.’

  I splutter out my tea a second time. ‘Er . . . what?’

  Grandma dashes over to her TV cabinet and opens up the glass doors, selecting a bundle of videotapes from her collection, including Gone with the Wind, Breakfast at Tiffany’s and From Here to Eternity.

  She taps the old plastic case of one of the films. ‘Everything you need to know is in here.’

  Rose Beam’s Diary

  22nd June 1985

  Thom showed up for dinner forty-five minutes late and with a black eye. I almost turned him away at the door, but Dad came through and saw he was here. I didn’t get much chance to ask what had happened before Mum came bustling out to take his coat, but from what I gather he owed someone some money and was late with the payment, so they beat him up. It’s fricking barbaric, the way some people behave. Seeing his beautiful face interrupted made me feel sick to my stomach. Mum and Dad studiously ignored the bruised eye, and for once I felt proud of their faultless manners. And although the Beef Wellington was a bit cold (I didn’t mind – I’ve been so queasy with nerves these past days), all in all, lunch was pleasant. Dad asked Thom lots of questions, what his father did, what his plans for the future are. Nothing they haven’t asked Nigel flippin’ Pemberton. Thom did his best, and I’m certain he charmed Mother with his outlandish tales of the theatre. How could he not? He’s the most charming person in the world, and clever with it. Later on, Thom went for drinks in Dad’s study while Mum and I did the dishes.

  After Thom left, I was all giddy and excitable and asked Mum and Dad what they thought of him. Dad said he seemed like a pleasant chap and Mum said he was very handsome, but she said it with a very odd look on her face. Then they disappeared to bed without saying much else. They’re not fawning over him yet. Yet! But there’s time to convince them! At least they’ve stopped going on about stupid Pemberton. Hurrah!

  R x

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Ladies, there is nothing in the world quite like the first kiss of a new romance. It is a crucial moment in a burgeoning relationship and, if done correctly, can decide your entire future together. Prepare your lips with a soft balm the evening before the intended kiss. Be passionate, but respectful. French kissing or nibbling is not advised at this stage.

  Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, 1955

  By the time I meet Leo that evening, my head is full of romance and kissing and Burt Lancaster, who was actually really mega hot in his prime. I didn’t even get a chance to sneak up to the attic to search for any Mum clues because the entire freaking day was filled with Grandma’s favourite sappy romance movies, pausing and rewinding and replaying the moment that the hero and heroine kiss so that I could learn how it’s done. It was ridiculous. I am the queen of kissing. I have probably done more kissing than anyone else in all of London. And even if I wasn’t an expert kisser, people kiss loads differently nowadays. They don’t Hollywood kiss. They snog and grab arses and, you know, slip in a bit of tongue.

  While I’m waiting outside Ladbroke Grove Tube station for Leo to arrive, my mind flits to Jamie. He tried to catch me on my way out of the house tonight. He dived out of the clinic door in his white doctor’s coat, stethoscope dangling from one ear, and said in this unusual anguished sort of voice, ‘Jess, we need to talk.’

  But I pretended I didn’t hear him and legged it past and out onto the street, where I ran and ran until I reached the station. Now is so not the time to deal with Jamie and his misapprehension about what ‘casual shag’ means. Especially not now that I have to speed up the project so that Grandma doesn’t get turfed out of her home.

  I smell Leo before I see him. The scent of ginger and rosewood mixed with freshly laundered cotton.

  Keep cool, Jess. Think of the women he trampled on before you. You are a warrior, remember.

  ‘You look amazing,’ Leo grins, shaking his head slightly as if he can’t believe his eyes.

  Tonight I’m wearing a dress that I think was inspired by a sailor. It’s a white shift dress with a pleated skirt, gold buttons and a blue anchor-patterned scarf tied round the collar, which accentuates my ridiculously sticky-out boobs. My hair has been gathered up into a white ribbon-tied ponytail that swings and bounces chirpily as I move. And, on account of it being the hottest day of the year so far and the fact that I must not, under any circumstance, catch any semblance of a tan, Grandma has insisted I use her white antique lace parasol to shield myself from the scorching rays. A fucking parasol. A member of the public has absolutely got to point and laugh at me tonight. If they don’t then something very wrong is going on in this world.

  Leo doesn’t even raise an eyebrow at the dorky parasol. He probably thinks it’s part of my ‘alternative’ style.

  ‘Hi.’ I give a simpering wave and try not to notice that he’s wearing a faded Van Halen T-shirt beneath the sharp navy blazer. Leo Frost likes Van Halen too? I assumed he’d be into gentle piano jazz or Savage Garden or some crap.

  I do not like Leo Frost. I don’t. I don’t.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask pleasantly as we walk together down Lancaster Road.

  ‘There’s a showing of Grease 2 on at the Electric Cinema,’ Leo informs me. ‘That’s where we’re going. I know it’s a bit niche, but I always thought it was a far superior film to Grease 1. And it’s a really cool cinema.’

  Must. Remain. Ladylike.

  Grease 2 is only in my all-time top list of favourite films. I cannot believe he’s taking me to a showing of Grease Fucking 2.

  ‘I love 80s films,’ I say, marvelling at how much better this is going to be than a boring old dinner, and then feeling confused that I’m so excited about this date.

  ‘80s films are the best films,’ Leo agrees as w
e walk down Portobello Road. ‘I have this huge collection of DVDs.’ He pulls an over-the-top cocky face. ‘I’m actually a bit of an expert, you know.’

  ‘Oh really. Have you seen The Breakfast Club?’ I ask.

  ‘Standard.’

  ‘Better Off Dead?’

  ‘That film made me take up skiing.’

  ‘OK . . . ’ I narrow my eyes. ‘You can’t possibly have watched . . . Teen Witch.’

  ‘Au contraire.’ He rubs his hands together. ‘Check it out.’ And then, to my utter surprise, Leo Frost starts to do the horrendously painful ‘Top That’ rap from Teen Witch, complete with ridiculous dance moves.

  ‘I’m hot, and you’re not, but if you wanna hang with me, I’ll give you one shot, top that!’

  Oh my God. What is he doing? He looks like an absolute loser!

  But it’s really, really funny.

  I laugh out loud as Leo raps super enthusiastically. Members of the general public cross the street to avoid him and a student starts filming him on her phone. I laugh so hard that I feel like my corset’s going to burst. Leo notices me clutched over with laughter and a flicker of pride flits over his face. Then he makes his moves even more hammy and outrageous.

  I try hard to collect myself, to stop laughing and hold on to what Valentina said this morning, to be a warrior, to think about all the women Leo fooled before me. But the more he raps and dances and completely embarrasses himself in the pursuit of making me laugh, the more her warning sort of fades away.

  Leo snuggles up to me in one of the Electric Cinema’s back-row sofas. At first I feel awkward sitting so close to him, the lengths of our bodies squished up against one another, but with one of my favourite films playing and Leo’s arm slung round my shoulder, I eventually relax into it. During ‘Cool Rider’, Leo runs his hand over my thigh, sparking off some very particular feelings in my lady business.