Humbugs and Heartstrings

by Catherine Ferguson

  ‘Er, Bobbie?’

  Oh God, he’s going to try and charm me now by being all apologetic and nice.

  I turn to face him, rain peppering my head and dripping through my eyebrows.

  He is holding up my family-size box of tampons.

  ‘You forgot these,’ he says, his mouth twitching slightly.

  I lean in and snatch them from his hand.

  ‘And this?’ He holds up a small foil packet that I recognize as the stink bomb I confiscated from Tim a while back. I shove them back in my bag, then hope I didn’t shove the stink bomb too vigorously.

  I give the car door a gratifying slam. But in my flustered state, I manage to drop the box of tampons and have to scrabble about for it in the rain-swollen gutter.

  The car accelerates off through a puddle, slapping water over the dog, which then proceeds to shake itself vigorously.

  All over me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Once inside the flat, I manage three minutes of hot water for a frantic shower before the boiler clicks off again.

  Silently cursing the landlord, I’m rummaging around in a drawer for my fleecy-lined pyjamas to warm up, when my hand closes on the carrier bag containing the turquoise beaded dress.

  I’d stuffed it in there, intending to forget all about it.

  Curious, I pull it out of the bag and hold it up against myself in front of the mirror. The length is fine but it’s rather low-cut. Against my bare skin the fabric feels swishy and soft, and I remember falling in love with the intricate beadwork on the bodice.

  Suddenly curious to know if it still fits, I put on underwear to get the full effect and pull the dress over my head. It slides to my knees and when I zip it up at the back, it moulds against me like a second skin, cinching my waist and clinging to every curve. Seeing myself like this is quite a shock. I’ve worn loose jumpers for so long, I’d almost forgotten I actually had a body.

  After hunting around for some heels, I do the critical ‘this way and that’ thing in front of the mirror, focusing particularly on my rear end. Interestingly, it doesn’t look at all big in this. It’s the perfect dress for a party. But I’m not sure I have the nerve to wear it to Fez’s festive bash.

  I start wriggling the dress over my head, trying to remember whether my cream shrug is in Mum’s spare wardrobe or in a box in her garage. Wearing the shrug would make me feel far less exposed.

  I keep tugging the dress up, but for some reason it’s wedged tight over my right shoulder all the way up to my elbow. I pull harder, growing hot and panting with the effort, but this only seems to makes things worse.

  Why isn’t it coming off?

  Oh bugger. The zip!

  At that second, the doorbell goes and my heart nearly pole-vaults out of my chest.

  In a panic, I try to pull the dress down again but it refuses to go any further than mid-thigh, largely because my left shoulder is still strapped in a silky straitjacket. Worse, my upper arm is clamped to my ear like I’m performing some very politically incorrect wartime salute.

  I could answer the door in the hope it’s someone who knows me. But what if it’s Jehovah’s Witnesses? Or the leery landlord to look at the boiler? Best just to ignore it.

  I struggle some more to get the zip down with my one free hand but it’s no use. I’m well and truly trapped.

  With a grunt of frustration, I collapse back onto the bed. But my foot catches the bedside lamp, which tips off the table and lands on the wooden floor with a crash.

  The doorbell goes again and a familiar deep voice shouts, ‘Bobbie? Are you okay in there?’

  Damn!

  ‘Just a minute,’ I call, tottering into the hall and fiddling, one-handed, with the locks.

  I put my head round the door.

  Charlie is standing there. He’s wearing a knowing grin that immediately puts my back up. ‘This is yours.’ He’s holding up something so tiny I can barely see it. Peering closer, I manage to reveal rather more bare leg than I meant to.

  ‘A chew?’

  He nods. ‘A ‘Creepy Crawly Halloween Chew’. It’s a bit sticky but probably still edible.’

  I stare at the sweet, wondering if I’m missing something.

  ‘You came all the way back here to give me that?’ I say slowly. ‘A Creepy Crawly Halloween Chew?’

  He laughs. ‘No, that would be ridiculous.’ He fishes around in his jeans pocket and solemnly holds up a Pooh Bear Elastoplast, which must have been in my bag since Tim was about eight.

  Just as I’m doubting his sanity and thinking the hotel business must be far more highly-pressured than I realised, he dives in his other pocket and pulls out something else; my mobile phone.

  ‘Oh. Right. Thanks.’ I hold out my free right hand. ‘But how did you find me?’

  He shrugs. ‘I knew roughly where you lived, so I looked for Blatchett.’ He leans slightly to one side, trying to see the other half of me and I try to tug the hem of my dress lower.

  What am I going to do about my trapped arm? I can’t go around forever impersonating an elephant about to take some refreshment.

  I’m going to have to ask for help.

  I sigh heavily. ‘Look, this is going to sound really weird but I’m stuck. Could you just pull down my zip?’

  He gives me a disbelieving grin. ‘Is that a trick question?’

  ‘No, of course it’s not,’ I wail, a blush rising up from my toes. ‘I’m genuinely stuck!’

  Oh God, does he think I’m coming on to him?

  He steps inside, fiddles with the zip and frees me in an instant. Which, of course, makes it look even more suspiciously like an excuse to get him inside.

  I can’t help noticing he smells lovely. Sort of sharp and lemony. With a hint of ozone.

  ‘What was that crash?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh, just my bedside lamp.’ I fold my arms over my boobs to keep the gaping dress covering me. ‘It’s in two pieces now.’

  ‘Can I see? I might be able to fix it.’ He strides straight into my room without even asking if it’s okay and comes out with a piece of lamp in each hand.

  ‘Go in there.’ I point to the living room. ‘I’ll be through in a minute.’ Then I flee into the bedroom, giving him an unavoidable back-of-bra eyeful.

  I zip up the dress, kick off the heels and go in to find him looking at my glassware in the corner cabinet. He points at my favourite piece – a slender vase with swirls of violet that appear to float in the clear glass – and says, ‘Nice.’

  ‘Thanks. Do you – er – want a coffee?’ I feel I should offer since he’s bothered to come all the way back with my phone.

  ‘Go on, then.’ He turns to study a modernist seascape on the wall that’s all bold flashes of blue, green and pink.

  When I bring the coffee in, he takes his cup and commandeers the sofa. ‘You’ve got a great place here. I love the paintings. Are they all by the same artist?’

  ‘Er, yes, they are,’ I say, wondering where to sit. He’s put the lamp pieces on the only other chair and I’m not squeezing onto the sofa beside him. That would be far too close for comfort.

  Deciding on the black leather beanbag, I put my cup down on the floor beside it and sink down, completely forgetting it’s impossible to do this without an inevitable legs-in-the-air follow-up reaction.

  ‘You don’t look very comfortable down there,’ he points out, moving over into the corner of the sofa.

  ‘Oh, I’m fine.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely.’

  I’m actually as far from relaxed as it’s possible to be.

  Charlie, on the other hand, looks completely at home, long legs stretched out in front of him, hands behind his head as he leans back and studies me like I’m some fascinating breed of monkey in a zoo.

  I hate beanbags. Why on earth did I even buy the stupid thing?

  ‘So who’s the artist, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  Actually, I do mind. I never talk about my work.
Telling Charlie about my glass-blowing was just an odd blip. And I’d never have confided in him if I’d known he wasn’t who he said he was.

  To stall for time, I lean over for my cup and practically have to roll onto my stomach to reach it. Then, of course, it’s impossible to manoeuvre myself into a sitting position without slopping coffee all over the place.

  Charlie grins and gets up, takes my cup and offers his other hand. I stare at it sullenly. His fingers are long and tanned. Hotel owners can presumably afford plenty of exotic holidays.

  I give in and allow him to pull me to my feet, and I stagger a bit. He says ‘Whoah!’ and steadies me against him, and I leap away as if he’s radioactive.

  To cover my confusion, I mutter crossly, ‘You know, the thing about beanbags that no one ever tells you is they’re devious.’

  He eyes me with amusement. ‘Devious?’

  ‘Yes! They look so comfy in the shop. And you’re lured into believing that once you get it home, you’ll be able to relax and bliss out as never before. But actually, they’re a form of Chinese torture.’

  ‘Hang on,’ he murmurs. And without warning, I feel his fingers lightly brush the back of my neck. An unsettling shiver ripples through me. He’s standing so close behind me, I can feel the heat from his body, smell that lovely citrusy scent, even feel his breath against my skin. If I were to lean back just a little …

  ‘That’s it,’ he says, and dangles something in front of my face.

  I stare, as it twirls.

  Oh, for bloody Hell’s sake. It’s the stupid tag on my dress.

  ‘Right, I’ll be off.’ He collects up the bits of broken lamp.

  At the top of the stairs, he turns. ‘You didn’t tell me the name of the artist.’

  ‘Well, that would be me,’ I say, offhandedly.

  ‘You? Really?’ He whistles, which I suppose means he’s impressed.

  ‘Glass-blowing and painting. That’s some talent you’ve got there,’ he calls from the landing below.

  ‘Thanks,’ I call back.

  I have to admit, I enjoyed his look of surprise.

  For once, I managed to wrong-foot Charlie McDonald.

  And it felt good.

  The following night, when I head along to Mum’s for tea and my usual Tuesday catch-up, Tim’s already in bed. He came down with a cold last week and now it’s gone into his chest.

  He’s on the mend. But Mum looks totally worn out.

  ‘You need another night out.’ I rub her arm. ‘Why not go to the am dram thing? It did you good the last time.’

  She sighs. ‘Not you as well! I’m having a hard enough time convincing Bunty I’d be useless on stage.’

  ‘It would be nice for you to have an interest, though.’

  ‘Oh, I need an interest, do I?’ She gives me a look. ‘Well, amateur dramatics definitely isn’t it. I’d die of embarrassment.’

  ‘Fine,’ I laugh. ‘But you’ve got to tell Bunty. Be firm. Don’t let her boss you about.’

  Mum gives me a sideways look. ‘Good advice.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ I demand.

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  Swiftly changing the subject, I tell her I’m going out to the garage to hunt for my shrug. I know she thinks I put up with a lot of crap from Carol but that’s entirely different. She’s my boss and I need the job.

  Beneath the glare of the strip lighting, I locate the suitcase where Mum said she found the dress, but the shrug isn’t there.

  I find lots of other stuff I’d forgotten about, though. My old easel is propped up in the corner alongside a crate full of watercolours, brushes and canvases. Some of the pictures are complete, some half-finished, some just rough sketches.

  And there are boxes and boxes of my glassware, carefully packed away in layers of tissue paper. I unwrap a vase that’s similar to the one Charlie admired. There must be twenty or thirty of them in here, all handmade; each one unique. All produced at college when my big dream was to eventually sell my designs online.

  I rewrap the vase and close the box.

  The shrug must be up in Mum’s spare wardrobe.

  I go upstairs, bracing myself for the Christmas wonderland that is Mum’s bedroom. On the dressing-table, hairbrushes and make-up mingle with bowls of brightly-coloured glass baubles and her collection of snow globes (all handmade gifts from me over the years). By the TV is a stack of festive DVDs – everything from It’s A Wonderful Life and White Christmas to more modern seasonal offerings such as The Holiday.

  I make a face at cuddly Rudolph on the bed and pat him on the head. Then I open the wardrobe and prepare to dive back into the mists of time.

  My suitcase is stashed at the back behind a jumble of shoes and a pile of carrier bags. I haul it out and unzip it, hoping there won’t be any photos or mementoes in there to stir up old emotions. I’ve had enough of that recently to last me a lifetime.

  Thankfully, the cream shrug is right on the top.

  I return the case and am about to close the wardrobe door when the pile of carrier bags catches my eye. Curious, I delve into them.

  Each one contains a single item of clothing.

  This strikes me as rather odd. If Mum had designated them for the charity shop, surely they’d all be in one bag.

  Then I realise that every single garment still has the original tags attached.

  I sit back on my heels and stare at the pile. There must be twenty or thirty bags here. None of it worn.

  How long has it taken Mum to accumulate all of these? And more importantly, how could she ever afford to have a shopping habit like this?

  I rub my hands over my face, wondering what to do.

  I could just ignore it.

  But something tells me I can’t.

  ‘Your tea’s ready,’ she calls and I jump. Then I gather up some of the clothes and trek slowly downstairs.

  When I walk into the kitchen and she sees what I’m holding, her smile freezes and a look of fear flits across her face.

  She folds her arms. ‘It’s just things I never got round to taking back, that’s all.’

  ‘But you can’t afford it, Mum.’ I lay the clothes on the table.

  She exhales sharply. ‘It’s just cheap stuff. All of it. Have a look. There’s no designer labels or anything.’

  ‘Yes, but it all adds up, doesn’t it? And you’re not even wearing any of it.’

  She turns away and starts thumping about, opening cupboards and slamming them shut.

  ‘I know. I can’t bloody afford it, can I?’ she mutters, trying to get the lid off a jar of pasta sauce. ‘I’m bloody fifty-seven years old and this is what it’s come to. Shouldn’t I be able to treat myself now and again without breaking the bloody bank?’ She turns, on the verge of tears. ‘What the hell has happened to my life?’

  Mum hardly ever swears.

  ‘Hey, listen, it’s okay.’ Gently, I take the jar out of her hand. ‘We can take them back.’

  She pulls out a chair and slumps down, sinking her head in her hands.

  It’s so unlike her, I feel a bolt of unease.

  ‘We’ll get Tim his op soon. Maybe even next year, if we carry on saving hard.’ I scoot my chair alongside hers and lay my hand on her back. ‘And then when he’s at school full-time, you can go back to work and things will be easier.’

  A horrible thought occurs. ‘You – didn’t pay for that lot with a credit card, did you?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I haven’t even got one. You know that.’

  Relief washes through me.

  I put my arm round her and squeeze.

  ‘It’ll be fine. I promise.’

  Next morning, when I turn on my computer at work, I can’t believe my eyes.

  I have an email from Ronald McDonald.

  My heart does a funny little leap, before I remember that Ronald McDonald isn’t even a real person. He’s a guy who thinks it’s hilarious to take trusting females for a ride. I’m not even going to open it. In fact,
I’m going to delete it.

  Right now.

  My finger hovers for a full five seconds.

  Then I grit my teeth and click on it.

  Dear Ms Blatchett

  In the interests of total honesty, you should probably know I’ve actually got three more hotels – in New York, Barcelona and the Caribbean. And I lied about my fourth car being a Robin Reliant. I don’t even have a fourth car.

  Right, I think that’s everything.

  Sorry … x

  I stare at it for a while.

  That explains the tan in October. It’s obviously come courtesy of the Caribbean.

  But why couldn’t he have told me all this the other night? It only makes me wonder what else he’s hiding.

  Well, he can be as weird and evasive as he likes. Because from now on, I’m going to give Charlie McDonald a wide berth. Subtly, of course. Not diving out of windows if he’s heading towards me.

  Once he’s fixed my bedside lamp, our paths are unlikely to cross, except maybe sometimes at work if he and Carol are still as thick as thieves.

  ‘Bobbie?’

  I get wearily to my feet at The Boss’s summons.

  ‘Two things,’ she says. ‘First, I want you to work up a quote to clean Charlie’s new house. I wanted to do it for free but he insists on paying.’

  ‘For free?’

  ‘Yes, why not?’ She simultaneously folds her arms and crosses her legs.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Well, anyway, he’ll run you over there on Friday afternoon.’ She smiles. ‘After we’ve been out for lunch.’

  The lascivious way she rolls the word ‘lunch’ over her tongue makes me pretty certain it’s a euphemism.

  I nod. Great. So much for giving Charlie a body swerve.

  ‘And the second thing?’ I hardly dare ask.

  ‘Ah yes, I want you to wave your magic wand over my apartment.’

  I look at her blankly. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Add some nice little touches? Make it cosy?’ She hesitates. ‘A bit like your place?’