Humbugs and Heartstrings

by Catherine Ferguson

  Oh my God. What on earth are those?

  On the wall beside the washbasin is a framed pair of ‘budgie-smuggler’ swimming trunks.

  I peer closer.

  There doesn’t seem to be anything particularly special about them. They are plain blue with a white drawstring and a bit tatty and sad-looking, to be truthful.

  An image of Charlie rising sleek and tanned from the pool leaps into my head. He’s definitely fit. But only someone with half a brain would think of framing his own swimming trunks! Maybe they symbolize the best shag he’s ever had and he likes to keep a constant reminder—

  ‘Ah, you’re in here.’

  My heart lurches.

  Charlie’s at my shoulder.

  And I’m at his crotch.

  My nose is practically touching the glass.

  I leap away like I’ve been zapped by an electric fence.

  ‘Yes, sorry, just checking – er – things. Seeing what needs to be cleaned.’ I rummage around in my bag. ‘Making notes,’ I add, holding up a pen.

  ‘You’ve spotted the budgie smugglers, then.’

  I paste on a smile.

  ‘A former girlfriend’s idea of a joke.’ He grins. ‘I quite like it. Anyway, no rush.’ He rubs his hands together. ‘Come through to the kitchen when you’re ready.’

  ‘Lovely. Thanks.’ I scribble some nonsense in my notebook, cheeks rivalling the setting sun for their heat-generating capabilities.

  He pours coffee from a gleaming, bells-and-whistles espresso machine that at a rough estimate probably cost more than my rent for three months.

  ‘Are you okay?’ We sit on stools at the breakfast bar and he puts a cup in front of me. ‘You seem a bit down today.’

  I shake my head. ‘Tim’s not well.’

  ‘Your brother.’

  ‘Yeah. I know I worry too much. But he’s got quite a bad curvature of the spine and the kids poke fun at him.’ I try to smile. ‘He needs an op, really.’

  Charlie looks thoughtful. ‘But going private’s expensive, right?’

  To my horror, I feel the tears well up. People’s sympathy always has that effect.

  Oh shit,

  I can’t start blubbering in front of a client!

  ‘Anyway.’ I glance at my watch then bury my face in my bag. ‘I think I’ve got everything I need to give you that quote.’

  If I can hold it together another minute or so, my lift will be here.

  Charlie gets off the stool and puts the milk back in the fridge. I get the feeling he’s giving me space.

  A second later, my mobile rings. It’s Steph. The van has broken down in the village and she’s waiting for the rescue service. She says she’ll call when they arrive.

  My heart sinks. That could be hours. What am I supposed to do till then?

  Charlie’s house is in the middle of nowhere and even if I were to find a bus stop, it wouldn’t be much use as there’s probably only one along every second Tuesday, or something equally inconvenient.

  Charlie is regarding me like I’m an unexploded bomb. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘My lift’s broken down.’

  I’m trying to contain my emotion and in the absence of a hanky, I attempt a discreet sniff.

  But what comes out is not discreet at all. In fact, it bears a marked similarity to the chorus of ‘Old Macdonald Had A Pig. With a honk honk here … ’

  The loud and unexpected grossness of this makes me dissolve into tears.

  ‘Come on,’ says Charlie, touching my shoulder. ‘I’ll take you back myself. Phone your colleague and tell her what’s happening.’

  Numbly, I nod and let Charlie take over. He finds my coat and makes sure I’ve got my bag and my notebook. And before I know it, I’m belted up and we’re speeding back to town.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Talking about Tim always makes me emotional. But I’m feeling much calmer now we’re on our way.

  We drive along in silence for a while and I relax back into the luxurious comfort of the passenger seat, feeling a little of the tension ease from my shoulders. How does it feel, I wonder, to own a top of the range motor like this one? I don’t know exactly what sort it is, but it’s definitely swanky, as Mum would say.

  I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be able to drive to the supermarket and load up on whatever’s needed, instead of being limited to what will fit into a medium-sized rucksack.

  But what I’d really like to know is: how has Charlie managed to be so successful at such an incredibly young age?

  I sneak a glance at his profile. Now seems as good a time as any to find out.

  ‘So … how did you get into the hotel trade?’ I ask, trying to sound casual, like I’m just making small talk. ‘Is it a family business?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Dad was a factory foreman and Mum was a paediatric nurse until they retired. They had to scrimp when my sister and I were kids but we were happy.’ He grins an apology at me for the corny nature of this statement.

  So, not family money, then.

  Perhaps he’s a canny investor.

  I try again.

  ‘It must have taken you a while to build up such an impressive portfolio.’

  ‘Have you seen the hotels, then?’

  Damn! Caught out.

  ‘Er, yes, I had a quick look online.’

  I won’t mention the hour I spent on Saturday night ‘visiting’ his establishments in Barcelona, Paris and, of course, the Caribbean. Positively drooling over the photos of luxury bedrooms, gourmet dinners, mosaic-lined infinity pools and heavenly spas. (You can even have your own butler in the Caribbean.)

  ‘The new build in Barcelona is my favourite,’ he says. ‘I was really lucky. I found a brilliant Spanish architect to translate my ideas into reality.’

  ‘Really? I’d like to see that,’ I tell him truthfully.

  He smiles across. ‘I’ll take you there some time. All the bedrooms have a link to Spain’s Golden Age and the great art and literature that flourished during that time. I’m quite proud of it. As you can tell.’

  Hold on there, mate, back up, back up!

  Did he just say he’d take me to Barcelona some time?

  I feel a tiny fizz of excitement. No one’s ever offered to take me anywhere even remotely exotic. Unless you count Bob the Knob’s ‘surprise’ birthday pub crawl round Brighton (not one of the great highlights of my life).

  But now he’s talking enthusiastically about the Don Quixote room and how that’s always the one journalists want to photograph.

  I’d like to get back to the subject of my own personal viewing. But I think he’s already forgotten he said it.

  And I still haven’t found out what I want to know.

  ‘So how did you finance it all?’ I’m hoping I don’t sound rude. ‘I mean, you’re still so young.’

  ‘Thirty-two,’ he supplies, brow furrowed as he concentrates on the road ahead.

  ‘So how … ?’

  There is a pause. And I wonder if he’s actually heard my question.

  ‘I was lucky,’ he says at last.

  ‘Right.’

  All the warmth has gone from his eyes. The subject is at an end.

  He starts fiddling with the radio and finally manages to hit on some sport. We drive the rest of the way back to Mum’s listening to a commentary on some minor local football match.

  When we get there, I’m expecting Charlie to let me out and drive away but he switches off the engine, turns and says, ‘Mind if I meet this brother of yours?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, surprised.

  ‘I’ll join you in a minute.’ He pulls out his phone.

  ‘Tim?’ I ask, the instant Mum opens the door.

  ‘He’s feeling better.’ She smiles. ‘Almost back to his usual cheeky self.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  She nods towards the back garden. ‘Josh came round and I said they could take the ball out for five minutes. I thought it might do him good.’

&nbs
p; I go over to the side gate and watch them kicking around. If you didn’t know Tim’s spine was rounded, you wouldn’t even notice when he’s wearing a bulky coat over his other layers.

  A pang of grief whacks me in the gut.

  He keeps his emotions locked away inside. The way I used to.

  When I was mocked at school for being ‘poor’, I would comfort eat to squash down my misery, loading my plate with buttery scones and my favourite ginger cake with thick white icing. I started putting on weight and by the time adolescence hit, I was the fattest girl in the school. Gym days were a nightmare, having to strip off in front of the other girls – some kindly trying not to notice, while others just went for it and gawped. I’d be hot and angry, struggling under a towel to stretch tights over my chunky thighs, hating myself for giving in to the lure of food. I grew skilled at showing I didn’t care.

  When you’ve been jeered at and had pennies thrown at you in the playground because you have committed the grave sin of dressing in large second-hand clothes and have allowed the government to pay for your lunch, you toughen up pretty damn smartly. After the shock and an inner wobble, I showed Tracey and her fellow bitches that their nastiness was nothing to me. My haughty demeanour said, I am far better than you malicious, small-minded bullies. I gathered up the cash, said, ‘thanks very much,’ and stalked off with my nose in the air, dragging Carol, who for once was welded to the spot with horror as if it was she whose left cheek still stung from the sharp impact of a flying two pence piece.

  I learned that however distraught you are – even if a bunch of kids are dancing around in your face, jostling you and laughing that you’ve got a hippo’s bum and a face to match – you should never, ever show it.

  I see the way Tim does the same, putting on a brave face, whatever the set-backs.

  If anyone deserves a break, it’s him.

  ‘Good left-footer,’ shouts Charlie, joining me at the gate.

  The boys stop and stare across and I wave.

  ‘Bobbie? Aren’t you going to introduce me?’ calls Mum from the back door.

  I take him through the garden and introduce them and they immediately start joshing with each other.

  ‘I can see where Bobbie gets her looks,’ smiles Charlie, which would be quite nice if it wasn’t so cheesy.

  Mum pats her blonde curls and looks coyly at me. ‘I keep telling her we could pass for sisters but she won’t have it.’

  She links my arm and whispers, ‘I’m joking.’ Then she turns to Charlie and says, ‘I’m experimenting with lemon muffins. I don’t suppose you’d give me your verdict?’

  The sight of Charlie has put a sparkle in her eye.

  ‘Lead the way, Mrs B.’ Charlie’s smiling, looking for all the world like he’s arrived at his spiritual home.

  It’s really rather nauseating.

  Josh goes home and Tim comes into the kitchen. I watch him nibbling carefully round the edge of the icing on his muffin. He always likes to save the best bit till last. He keeps shooting suspicious glances at Charlie then at me, and I give him a broad smile to reassure him that this man is a good sort.

  It suddenly occurs to me that Tim is generally surrounded by women. A sudden injection of testosterone into the mix is possibly a little bewildering; maybe even threatening. He’s giving Charlie one-word answers and I’m proud of him for not instantly rolling over to be patted, like Mum.

  Tim is clearly far more discerning. Age has not yet tarnished his bullshit detector. He sits silently munching his muffin as Mum chatters gaily about what an obstinate little monkey I used to be when I was Tim’s age. I am mortified but Charlie seems relaxed enough, lounging back on the kitchen chair.

  His thigh rests against mine at one point and I decide not to pull away instantly because he might think I’m being prudish. But after a while, he shifts in his seat and the contact is broken anyway.

  ‘Do you like cars?’ he’s saying to Tim.

  ‘They’re okay.’

  ‘Have you ever been in a sports car?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘I’ve got a BMW M6.’

  ‘I bet it isn’t a convertible,’ challenges Tim.

  Charlie grins. ‘It is, actually. Want to sit in the driver’s seat? I could show you how the gears work.’

  ‘Okay.’ Tim shrugs but I know he’s whooping inside.

  I look from the window as they head out to the car. Charlie is explaining something complicated, using his hands to illustrate, and Tim already looks completely won over.

  I glower at Charlie. The same funny, charm offensive worked on me. But all I ended up with was a silly crush on someone called Ronald McDonald.

  Later, he drives me back to my flat.

  ‘You and Carol seem to be good friends,’ I say, trying some more fishing.

  ‘Yes. We sort of clicked as soon as we met.’ He grins. ‘Once I’d dried off my shoulder.’

  ‘She’s quite a private person. I’m quite surprised she unburdened herself to a total stranger.’

  ‘Ah, drink is great at loosening tongues. And we discovered early on that we had quite a lot in common.’

  I glance at him curiously. What on earth can they possibly have in common?

  ‘I suppose you share a passion for business.’

  ‘Yes, there’s that. And our backgrounds.’

  ‘Your backgrounds? But Carol’s family’s very wealthy and yours … ’ I tail off awkwardly.

  ‘And mine isn’t,’ he finishes with a grin. ‘No, I meant stuff that happened to us. Stuff in the past. We found we understood each other, which was – I don’t know – comforting, I suppose.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s always nice when someone gets you.’

  I stare out of the window. His connection with Carol is obviously based on something real and true, whatever it might be. And it makes a complete mockery of me thinking I had a special bond with him.

  I’m brooding about this and only half listening as he starts talking about making an investment in some company or other. I hear the odd phrase. ‘Marketing strategy … budget for advertising … vital to make sure the money is spent wisely.’

  Then the words ‘Spit and Polish’ pierce my daydream and I jump to attention.

  ‘Sorry, what were you saying?’

  ‘She needs a cash injection to boost the business. I’ve decided to invest.’

  I frown at him. ‘You’re going to put money into Carol’s business?’

  He grins. ‘That’s the general idea.’

  We stop at a pedestrian crossing and I stare rigidly ahead as an elderly woman with a shopping trolley walks in front of us and waves.

  Distractedly, I wave back.

  ‘Have you told Carol this?’ I ask, when we’re moving again. ‘That you’re planning to invest in the company?’

  He nods. ‘We’d discussed it, of course,’ he says. ‘But when she told me the great news at lunch today that you’d won that contract with the council, I decided there was no longer any reason to hold back.’

  I stare at him, speechless, as a million conflicting thoughts careen around inside my head.

  We’ve won the contract with the council? No, we haven’t! What on earth is he talking about?

  Perhaps he’s somehow got the wrong end of the stick.

  ‘Winning the contract with the council is a big step forward,’ he’s saying cheerfully. ‘It means the company can start expanding with confidence into the commercial cleaning arena.’

  I swallow hard.

  Okay.

  So he’s definitely got the right end of the stick.

  But if I had that stick, I’d give Carol a good old whack with it.

  What the hell is she thinking?

  She can be manipulative and intensely annoying, of course. And stingy. And insensitive. But lying to Charlie about the contract just so she can get her hands on his cash? I can’t believe she would actually stoop that low.

  Mind you, it would explain why she returned from London a different person. Bum
ping into a wealthy man who might just be prepared to bail her out of her financial troubles must have seemed like the answer to her prayers!

  I’m silent, thinking.

  What would Charlie say if I told him we haven’t actually won the contract yet? That we’ve hardly even started putting the pitch together?

  What if we don’t even win the contract? He will have poured his money down the drain.

  ‘I know, I know.’ He notices my look of bemusement. ‘The company’s been through a tough time. Carol told me all about that. But she’s clawing her way back very impressively.’

  She is?

  ‘The company has a lot going for it.’

  Has it?

  ‘Carol has a very strong work ethic and a solid and loyal customer base. She just needs to market the company more intelligently and stop throwing away profit by giving discounts to all and sundry.’

  I stare at his animated profile.

  He’s obviously given this a great deal of thought. I have to hand it to Carol. She’s done an amazing ‘spin’ job.

  But oh my God, is it up to me to break the news that his prospective new business partner is actually a deceitful, lying cow?

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘It – erm – might not be all good news, of course,’ I say slowly. ‘When you dig deeper.’

  He shrugs. ‘I know that.’

  ‘Have you studied the financial accounts?’

  ‘Not yet. Her accountant, Gerry Flack, is getting them up to date. He’ll give me a copy next week.’

  He hasn’t seen the accounts!

  That explains it!

  My entire body breathes an enormous sigh of relief.

  There’s nothing to worry about in that case.

  As soon as he lays eyes on those disastrous figures, he’s sure to run a hundred miles in the opposite direction.

  ‘I do realise it’s a risky venture,’ he’s saying.

  Oh, you have no idea!

  I’m staring straight ahead.

  ‘But I just think that an employer like Carol who’s such an inspiration to her team and at the same time, so modest, genuinely deserves my support.’

  A tiny hysterical laugh escapes before I can stop it.

  ‘An inspiration,’ I echo weakly.

  ‘Yeah. Of course, you know all about that. The motivational days away, the generous staff bonus scheme and her fantastic commitment to supporting local charities.’