‘Oh.’
Bloody hell. Am I an interior designer now? Talk about being a jack of all trades.
‘Is that okay?’
‘Fine.’ At least it will mean some time out of the office. ‘But is there a budget to do this?’
‘Yes, well, don’t go mad!’ she barks, her smoker’s rasp making a brief come-back. ‘And give me some estimates before you go ahead.’
‘Right.’ I nod, wondering how on earth I can make a difference if I’m not allowed to spend much money. And how am I supposed to know what her taste is these days?
An image of her bland bedroom in the London flat slips into my mind. Carol was always hopeless at décor. So I guess what she’s really saying is, ‘I haven’t a clue what would look nice. So just do what you think and I can blame you if it’s terrible.’
She fixes me with a meaningful stare. ‘You’ve got carte blanche. I’m trusting you.’
No pressure there, then.
Back at my desk, I click on some home décor websites for inspiration.
Add some nice little touches. Make it cosy.
It’s all very vague and to be honest, I’m feeling at a bit of a loss. Décor is such a personal thing. It’s obvious she wants the place done up because she plans to invite Charlie round.
Oh God, does that mean she wants ‘cosy’ in a romantic sense? I feel quite nauseous at the thought. I suppose I could fill the place with romantic hearts and flowers and letters spelling L-O-V-E in every room. But I’m not sure she’d appreciate that.
Maybe I should go for ‘edgy’. Put a red light above the door. Install side-by-side twin bidets. And kit out a cupboard with leather gear, handcuffs and ‘his and hers’ nipple clamps.
Seriously, the mind boggles.
I wonder if Charlie knows of her seduction plans? Or maybe they’ve already— ?
No, no, no, I won’t even go there! I will simply do the job that’s required.
For as long as I have a job.
Chapter Fourteen
It’s a long time since I visited Carol’s luxury apartment on Cadogan Square in the more salubrious part of town.
Her father bought her the top two floors of a Georgian townhouse.
Oh, how the other half lives.
As I walk through the square, I can almost hear the clop of horses’ hooves on the cobbles, see the gas lamps in the windows and a wealthy merchant with top hat and cane descending from his carriage.
I’ve been here only once before, two years ago, when I went, cap in hand, to ask her for a job.
I’d been living with Mum and Tim for nearly a year and having no luck in the hunt for employment. Times were tough, thanks to the credit crunch and I soon found out that a degree in Art and Design was pretty useless unless you were also a trained graphic artist or had work experience in the industry, which, of course, I hadn’t.
Trying to find work in a shop or restaurant was similarly disheartening.
So basically, I was stuck and desperate for a place of my own.
The day I heard Carol was setting up a cleaning business, I was at my lowest ebb. So I swallowed my pride and turned up at her door.
To be honest, I wasn’t only after a job. I wanted an excuse to see Carol and hopefully reopen the lines of communication between us. I felt lost without my best friend. It was like a bereavement.
When I first left London, I was numb with shock. Then I went through the classic denial phase, pretending nothing had changed. When I tried to contact her and she screened my calls and ignored my texts, I told myself she was as upset as I was over the collapse of the trading, and she needed time to get her head sorted.
When it eventually became clear I was deluding myself, I became quite angry. I wrote an emotional letter, pleading with her to tell me what I’d done wrong so I could try and put it right. But she never replied. So then I reasoned it must have been something really bad for her to take such an extreme attitude. So I was flooded with guilt, which was made worse by the fact that I had no idea what I was actually guilty of.
The whole thing was utterly exhausting and desperately sad.
Without my lifelong best friend, there was a gaping hole in my emotional armour that not even Mum or Fez could fill.
When I turned up at her apartment asking for a job, I half expected her to slam the door in my face. Despite looking taken aback so see me, she motioned me in and I took this as a good sign. But after sitting stiffly over a pot of tea, talking about current events, it became clear she was not about to thaw. I had caught her on the hop and she’d invited me in out of politeness. When I tried to broach the subject of why I fled from London, the look on her face said it all. She had not forgiven me.
So I got to the point and asked her if she needed staff.
She looked away and fiddled with the teapot lid that didn’t quite fit properly (a quid from a well-known crockery seconds outlet, I recalled). Then she looked up and to my surprise, said yes, she was taking people on and when could I start?
And that was it. All very formal. Come in for a chat. Bring me your P45.
Routine employer/employee stuff.
Cool indifference.
Nothing more.
And that’s how it has been between us ever since.
I let myself in and run up the stairs, suddenly curious about what I will find.
The living room is exactly as I remembered it, except for the addition of a huge, wall-mounted TV. It looks oddly out of place in the grand space with its high ceiling, intricate coving and original shutters at the four floor-to-ceiling windows.
Her furnishings are rather less grand.
The carpet and curtains look expensive but – like the colour of the walls – are blandly beige. The only furniture is a large black leather sofa and a coffee table, both marooned in the centre of the room and positioned to face the TV. There’s a curious absence of the happy clutter that illustrates a life and gives you clues about the occupant’s personality.
Apart from a pile of fashion magazines by the sofa and two pot plants, there’s nothing. No books, no music, no wall art, no photo frames filled with pictures of family and friends. There isn’t even a table lamp to soften the light – just the harsh sparkle of an elaborate and rather dated chandelier that wouldn’t look out of place in a hotel ballroom. Probably left by the previous owner.
It’s fairly mild for October but a chill has crept into my bones.
I peer into her study – very functional, another pot plant – and head through to the large, open-plan kitchen/diner, which has hardwood flooring and expansive windows dressed with Roman blinds in a deep magenta. I love the traditional Butler sink and stylish, white lacquered dining table. But despite the windows facing south, it’s a gloomy space.
Still, at least there are a few signs in this room that someone actually lives here.
There’s a single, cheap-looking wine glass upended on the draining board. (I can’t believe she’s still got those. They’re a relic from the flat we shared in London. Mum got them free with petrol about twenty years ago.)
A calendar illustrated with black and white photography hangs on the wall beside the hulking American-style fridge. The month of October is represented by style icon Audrey Hepburn in a classic Breakfast at Tiffany’s pose.
I have a sudden urge to leave this sad, bleak place.
But I can’t. Not yet.
I’ve got to focus. I have a job to do. Think cushions, candles and wall art!
Without meaning to, I pull open the fridge door.
I love looking in people’s fridges. They’re so illuminating.
All that greets me here is some wilted lettuce, a piece of Cheddar that’s gone rock hard and orange with age, and several bottles of Australian sauvignon blanc.
I smile, remembering. She only ever drinks white.
Then I notice the milk container in the side of the door. She’s divided it up neatly into days of the week with a black marker pen. I lift it out and sure enough, the milk
sits exactly on the ‘Thursday’ level.
The kitchen cupboards are similarly revealing; lots of cans for the person who hasn’t time, or can’t be bothered, to cook a proper meal. Macaroni cheese, ratatouille, baked beans and salad cream. At least five bottles of salad cream, all lined up. She always claimed mayonnaise was for food snobs.
A sudden banging from below makes me leap with fright and slam the cupboard door shut. I wait, frozen to the spot, taking little guilty breaths.
Then I hear a similar noise, but muted, from next door and realise with relief that it’s the postman.
The shock galvanizes me into action and I walk purposefully from room to room, trying to work out what I can make or buy that will brighten the place up on a budget. Kitchen, living room and master bedroom are the key locations that need attention. There’s another pot plant on the landing and two in her bedroom, but I don’t linger in there. To be frank, the very thought of her and Charlie on that huge French-style bed makes me feel instantly nauseous.
Bathroom. Not much I can do in here. Pictures? Candles round the bath?
There’s an old handwash bottle by the sink that appears to be full of slugs. I pick it up and examine it. Lots of slimy soap ‘ends’ – all different colours – are floating around in the gloopy water.
My eye catches the bathroom cabinet, which is slightly ajar.
I linger in the doorway for a moment, fighting temptation.
It’s not as if I’d be opening it as such. Just giving it a little nudge, like this, and – oh!
A small tube of cream bounces noisily into the washbasin.
It’s been rolled up to squeeze out the bit at the bottom – which is quite appropriate, when I peer closer, because it’s actually for bottoms.
Haemorrhoid cream.
Carol has piles?
Oh, dear.
No, it’s not funny!
It’s awful! Really awful!
I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.
I tear off some loo roll to pick up the tube and drop it back into the cabinet, and as I do, I can’t help noticing a spray for ‘nasal polyps’.
Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!
I close the cabinet and retreat downstairs into the bleakness of the living room. Why did I agree to do this? The living room, especially, is such a huge, barren space. How can I possibly turn it into something cosy and intimate? It will be like trying to sex-up an aircraft hangar.
I am about to leave, when something catches my eye.
A single CD lies on the floor by an ashtray that’s full to the brim.
As there’s no sign of any other music in the room, I’m curious. But when I pick it up, the case is empty. The disk must be in the CD player.
I glance around the room.
No CD player.
Unless it’s a DVD.
Of course. It will be something to do with work. A tutorial, perhaps, on what measures to take when your business is going down the pan?
I switch on the TV, locate the DVD controller and press play.
And what I see sends a jolt of shock through me.
No wonder I couldn’t find the DVD of our London days to show Fez. She must have slipped it into her bag after we watched it, while I was in the kitchen.
She’s been watching it over. And she has paused the DVD in the exact same place I did.
I stare again at the freeze-frame of two girls in a London pub, one dark, one blonde, laughing and leaning together, holding up their cocktails to the camera.
Best friends, out having fun at Christmas.
Never imagining that anything could change.
I glance at the overflowing ashtray. Three crumpled tissues lie next to it.
There’s a sudden ache in my throat.
Perhaps, after all, I wasn’t the only one to be affected by a glimpse of how things used to be …
The Boss collars me later and asks if I’m bursting with ideas.
‘A few.’ I shrug.
She frowns. ‘It has to be done by next weekend.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
She purses her lips. ‘That’s not good enough. Charlie’s coming over on the Saturday. It needs to be finished.’
My head is starting to ache.
I could really do without this.
‘And remember you’ve got the Christmas rotas to sort out,’ she barks.
I hate doing the Christmas rotas. Naturally, everyone wants to have time off at the festive season but that’s not possible, so it always falls to nasty old me to break the bad news.
I feign a cheerful grin. ‘I need that like a bad case of haemorroids.’
She shoots me a look and I stare back in horror.
I can’t believe I said that. It just slipped out.
Chapter Fifteen
It has been two days since I was in The Boss’s flat and progress on the love nest has been scant, to say the least.
I’ve been into so many budget home design stores – all now gearing up for the festive season – that I am constantly brushing the glitter off my clothes. But none of it seems right for her apartment.
I’m telling this to Fez at his place on Friday night, when he says casually, ‘Why not flex your creative muscles? Or have they lain dormant for so long, they’ve atrophied?’
‘Oh, ha ha.’
He shrugs. ‘I’m serious. Slap some paint on some canvases. You know, the way they do on home improvement shows on telly. Brighten up her walls. Make scented candles. You’re good at that.’
‘“Slap some paint”? I’ll have you know I’m a true artist,’ I say, with a melodramatic toss of my head. ‘I don’t slap anything – except you, possibly, for being such a philistine!’
He laughs. ‘Go on, be a true artist. Before you actually forget what a paint brush is.’ He brings our lamb curry to the table. ‘Do you want lime pickle or mango chutney or both?’
I’m staring into space. An idea is taking shape in my head, which could very well be the answer to my problems. Well, one of them, at any rate.
‘Bobbie?’
I grin at him. ‘Both, please. And if you’re free next week, can I borrow your van?’
It’s Monday morning and I’ve got distracted by a website devoted to tea leaf reading.
The symbols and their meanings fascinate me, although they do seem a little confusing. Finding a dog in your leaves, for instance, symbolises a friend. If the dog is at the bottom end of the saucer, it means a friend needs help. But if the dog is barking, you apparently have a friend who is untrustworthy.
There’s one of those web chats attached with loads of messages from cynics, enthusiasts and doubters, like me. Maybe it’s because my life has sunk to an all-time low, but I keep reading these stories and wondering if what Mrs Cadwalader told me will turn out to be right.
Then I think: Oh, crap! What sort of dream world do I actually live in?
Never mind the untrustworthy dog, the whole tea leaf reading thing is barking!
The Boss walks in and I quickly exit the website.
This morning, she is wearing her best Chanel suit and slingback kitten heels, and her cheeks are flushed. She dumps her bag and briefcase in her office and comes straight out again.
‘Right, girls,’ she says, crossing to the window and looking down into the street. ‘This is important. We’re bidding for a cleaning contract with the local council. It’s practically in the bag. All right?’
She turns and beams at us all in turn.
There’s a stunned silence.
‘All right?’ she repeats.
I find my voice. ‘Er, yes, that’s great news. But when did all this happen?’
She waves her hand dismissively. ‘I mentioned it a while ago. You must have forgotten.’ She peers out of the window again and drums her fingers on the sill.
Then she turns with a brief, rather strained smile. ‘So remember what I just said. Cleaning contract. Council. In the bag.’
We all nod. She glances out of the window
again and retreats to her office.
Shona swings round to me. ‘Contract? With the council? Did you know about this?’
I shake my head. ‘It’s a mystery to me.’
Maybe she wants to go into commercial cleaning to get the business back on its feet. But why has she kept us out of the loop until now? Normally she makes the plans and we minions do the hard graft.
A little while later, Charlie walks in.
I glance at my watch. Ten-thirty. Nowhere near lunchtime.
He’s dressed for business in a charcoal-grey suit, white shirt and pale blue tie. Holding up his hand in a general greeting, he walks straight into The Boss’s office.
I can hear the rumble of his voice, although I can’t make out what he’s saying. Not that I’m trying to, of course.
Carol laughs and it reminds me of the old days when we found the humour in everything.
Suddenly I feel a pang of sorrow. She’s been on her own so long in that cheerless apartment. At least I have Mum and Tim to turn to when the going gets tough. But Carol has no one. So if Charlie is filling that void, I should be glad for her.
At that moment, she comes out and faces us all, hands linked in front of her like a teacher waiting for the class to stop talking.
There’s a weird sense that Something Is Happening and everyone stops what they’re doing and stands to attention (well, sits to attention, if there is such a thing).
‘Right,’ says Carol in a bright, Mary Poppins voice. ‘I’ve been telling Charlie about the contract we’re bidding for.’ She smiles at us all in turn. ‘The one with the council.’
There is a baffled silence.
‘You know, Bobbie, the presentation you’ve been working so hard on?’
Eh? What? Why me?
I feel a bit like Manuel in an episode of Fawlty Towers, struggling to grasp the meaning.
‘The presentation?’ she repeats, nodding her head to jog my memory.
Que?
There’s definitely some subliminal messaging going on here. Every time she emphasizes a word, her eyebrows shoot up under her fringe. Charlie is standing behind her and can’t see any of this. Her eyes are flashing so urgently now, there’s a danger they might pop out altogether.
Swiftly, I nod. It seems like the best thing to do. ‘Right. Yes. Of course. The contract. The one that’s – er – practically in the bag.’
Humbugs and Heartstrings Page 10
