Humbugs and Heartstrings

by Catherine Ferguson

  Unless – oh, God, unless he didn’t even spot the difference! Perhaps he already had me down as this nice but simple fruitcake who routinely goes about crashing into fir trees and displaying all manner of unmentionables …

  I am plunged into more despair, which lasts all day and well into Tuesday, when I’m pitched into yet another crisis: I have used up all of my Midsomer Murders DVDs.

  Breaking out a packet of biscuits helps staunch the panic. I’m munching away, trying to psyche myself up to part with my dressing gown and hot water bottle (still no heat in the flat) and go to the video shop (wearing dark glasses and a beanie to disguise the fact I haven’t washed my hair in days), when there’s a knock on my door.

  I freeze, hand halfway to my fourth HobNob.

  Oh God, please let it be Mum. I’m still mad at her but I don’t want anyone else seeing me looking like Prehistoric Woman (wild hair and mad eyes, poised for fight or flight).

  The person knocks again, louder this time.

  ‘Bobbie? I know you’re in there. I can hear the telly, for Christ’s sake.’

  Fez. Phew!

  I rush to open the door, suddenly desperate to see him. Fez always, always makes me feel better. He’s one of the most giving people I know.

  And best of all, he knows absolutely nothing about The Festive Farce. His final carpentry module was the same day as the Fayre. He was all for cancelling it but I insisted he go. I’m glad I did now.

  ‘Hi, are you okay?’ His face is etched with concern. ‘Shona told me everything.’

  ‘Oh, did she?’ I stare at him bleakly.

  ‘Yes, she said the whole ‘Feck the Halls’ thing was entirely Carol’s fault and then it went from bad to worse. So you shouldn’t feel guilty.’

  I laugh harshly. ‘Well, the thing is, I do. I made a complete pig’s arse of Saturday, Charlie thinks I’m bonkers, Carol’s probably going to fire me and I’m still finding pine needles in my hair and other tricky places.’

  I perch on the edge of the sofa and resume eating biscuits, nibbling them quickly like a squirrel sensing a hard winter ahead.

  Fez studies me. ‘Why would Charlie think you’re bonkers?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ My face grows warm for some reason. ‘Probably because every time he’s around I manage to do and say the most ridiculous things. But hey, so what?’ I look up with a confident beam. ‘I don’t care. I really don’t care.’

  Fez smiles. ‘Are they HobNobs?’

  ‘What?’ I frown at him then glance down. ‘Oh, yes. Sorry. Have one.’

  ‘The day wasn’t a complete disaster, you know. Apparently you made a profit of over five hundred pounds.’

  ‘Enough for an initial consultation, then.’ Gloomily, I think of poor Tim, who’s been let down appallingly.

  ‘The publicity’s been pretty good, though.’

  I stare at him doubtfully. ‘Has it? How?’

  ‘Great headlines in the local papers.’

  ‘Such as?’ I don’t like the sound of this.

  Fez stalls and starts backtracking. ‘What is it they say? Any publicity is good publicity … I haven’t had a HobNob for years. Much prefer them to digestives. Can I have another one?’

  I sit forward. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The headlines.’

  Fez sighs. ‘“Brawling duo wreck yuletide spirit?”’

  My mouth falls open. I imagine Charlie opening his newspaper and shaking his head in disgust. Wondering why he ever imagined I was up to the job. Mind you, technically, Carol was more to blame than me for the bun fight. She started it, didn’t she? She hurled the first mincer.

  ‘Headlines. In the plural.’ My heart is in my mouth.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You said headlines.’

  He nods reluctantly. ‘“Christmas Carol carnage”? “God help ye scary gentlewomen”?’

  I swallow hard. Bloody journalists. They think they’re so clever.

  He looks at me gravely. ‘There’s worse.’

  Oh God, what could be worse than Charlie realising I’m marginally less useful than a chocolate fire guard and reading all about it in the newspapers?

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘“Festive tussle leaves three dead and twenty-seven on life support.”’

  I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Very funny. Not.’

  He grins, gets up from his chair and comes and sits right next to me on the sofa. ‘Oh, come on.’ He nudges me gently in the ribs. ‘I was only trying to make you laugh. You look like you could do with it.’ He looms into my eye line wearing a ludicrous, cross-eyed grin. And I can’t help but smile back.

  ‘That’s better.’ He throws an arm round my shoulders. ‘Who cares if Charlie thinks you’re bonkers? I happen to think you’re incredible.’

  I bury my face in his jumper. It’s a bit scratchy but I don’t care because the sudden tenderness has left me dangerously close to unravelling.

  ‘Hey, you’re fine.’ He’s murmuring so soothingly into my hair, not even bothered that it needed washing a week ago. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll get Tim his op. It might take a little longer, but you’ll do it.’

  His arm around me is bliss. I snuggle closer and we stay like that for a long time.

  I feel safe and utterly relaxed for the first time in days. Probably years, in fact.

  A shaky sob escapes and he holds me tighter but not too tight. Fez is brilliant, I think, brimming over with emotion. He always knows exactly what to say to make me feel I matter. It’s a crying shame he hasn’t got a girlfriend because he’s wasted. Yes, wasted! The woman he chooses will be so very lucky. She’ll never have to worry about him eyeing up other women when they’re out or put up with sub-standard hygiene or boring football chat. (Fez showers regularly and always smells lovely and fresh, like this jumper my nose is buried in, with its faint aroma of lavender.)

  ‘Fez?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s high time you got a girlfriend.’

  There’s a pause then he laughs. ‘And what about you, Miss Singleton? I don’t see you settling down any time soon.’

  This makes me feel rather less relaxed. What exactly is he implying?

  ‘Mum said I’m fearful of life.’ I lift my head and shoot him a sharp glance. ‘You agree with her, don’t you!’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Not even a little bit?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  He shrugs. ‘You had a bad time in London. You wouldn’t be human if it didn’t affect you. You’re a lovely, talented woman who just needs a break so that you can – erm – soar.’

  ‘Soar?’ I sit up and stare at him.

  ‘Yes, you know. Spread your wings and fly.’ He points vaguely at the lampshade. ‘Up there. I read it in a self-help pamphlet in the dentist’s surgery.’

  He’s smiling down at me. And he has the most gorgeous brown eyes – so warm and kind and accepting. I swear I could be in possession of three heads and he’d still look at me like that and find something lovely and flattering to say to me.

  Other people might think I’m bonkers.

  But Fez doesn’t. He thinks I’m lovely and talented and destined to soar. Any day now.

  And then it hits me. Maybe the really bonkers thing is that I have never actually kissed him, because it isn’t as if I haven’t sometimes thought about it. What if Fez is The One and I’ve been holding him at arm’s length all this time?

  My heart suddenly revs up a gear.

  His mouth is only inches from mine …

  Will I?

  No, don’t! You’ll ruin the friendship!

  Then I hear Mum’s voice, loud and clear. ‘Bobbie? Well, it’s very sad. But you know, she’s afraid of absolutely everything.’

  I close my eyes and bridge the gap.

  Our lips collide.

  And it feels … nice.

  Sort of warm and not overly moist, if you know what I mean. (I can’t
bear men who slobber.) His mouth is kind of welded on to mine, which is a very pleasant sensation when you haven’t actually snogged anyone properly for years. I can’t help feeling there’s not a lot of movement going on, though.

  Be patient, I tell myself. He might be nervous.

  And anyway, let’s face it, kissing is just a tiny part of a relationship. It doesn’t always have to light the touch-paper for instant, uncontrollable passion with fireworks fizzing and exploding all around and clothes being ripped off. There are other, far more noble things to consider, like trust and fidelity and – um – showing each other the – er – milk of human kindness. My mind starts to drift.

  I’m suddenly aware that the kissing has stopped.

  Fez is smiling down at me. I feel caught out, like I should say something. Anything.

  ‘That was … nice,’ I say, simultaneously beaming at him and pulling the edges of my dressing gown together and tying the belt firmly in a double knot.

  ‘Yes, it was. But sadly, I have to go. I’ve been commissioned to make some shelves.’

  ‘Ha! From the sublime to the ridiculous!’ I laugh heartily. ‘I mean, not that your business is ridiculous. Far from it.’

  And not that the kiss was sublime, either, I think wretchedly, although of course I keep this observation to myself.

  He takes my hand and gives me a tender, wistful look that makes me feel guilty as hell. Oh God, how horrible am I? Trying him out for size only to decide there’s no way it’s going to work.

  Why did I do it? Why?

  But maybe all is not lost, I think frantically, as Fez gets up to leave. Maybe if we tried the kiss again, it might be better next time and I won’t be thinking of the inside of my fridge and things I need to get from the shops …

  Oh, God, I’m exhausted.

  I see him to the door and he leans over and kisses my forehead. Then he takes my hand again and holds it for a while, and we smile meaningfully at each other. Then he gives me a look of regret at having to leave and murmurs, ‘Dinner?’

  He’s hungry?

  What have I got in the cupboard? Beans on toast?

  Oh no, he means let’s go out to dinner.

  ‘Great! Dinner! Yes, count me in!’

  ‘Good.’ He’s on his way downstairs. ‘I’ll call you.’

  I close the door and lean against it with a heavy sigh.

  Well, that’s truly put the cat among the pigeons, you stupid, stupid woman! Because now, of course, Fez thinks we’re an item.

  My head is throbbing. I’m going to have to let him down gently.

  But where does that leave our friendship?

  Chapter Thirty

  Normally, if I’m finding it hard to shake off a sense of hopelessness, I give myself a firm talking to, count my blessings and go for a long, brisk walk by the river. Breathing in the earthy scents rising up from the hedgerows and letting the endless rush and glide of the river soothe my senses is enough to bring a bit of welcome perspective.

  But after muddying the waters so disastrously with Fez yesterday, I’m finding it impossible to look on the bright side.

  Fez was my best friend.

  Now I’ll have to avoid him.

  After he left, the sense of being utterly on my own was overwhelming. I even found myself wishing Shona would phone to check how I was. But Fez must have reported back to the office about my state of mind because I’ve had no messages from anyone there since. They’ve obviously decided not to disturb me – at the very time I wouldn’t mind being disturbed.

  To be honest, I’m amazed that Carol hasn’t been on the phone, bellowing at me to get my arse in gear and come back to work. I almost wish she would because that would serve the dual purpose of galvanising me into action and also making me feel I’m needed.

  I’ve been thinking a lot about the things Carol confessed while we were decorating the tree, especially the stuff about her ex, Beau. I can’t believe she was madly in love with him and I never knew it (so madly, in fact, that even though it ended over three years ago, she still can’t seem to get past it).

  To be honest, I always thought Beau was a bit of a tosser. The sort of guy who flirts constantly with other women in order to make himself feel good, but in the process makes the girl he’s with feel inadequate. I suppose that’s why Carol kept her true feelings for him to herself. She probably had a sixth sense he’d end up hurting her.

  In a bored moment yesterday, I actually Googled him and up popped three images of ‘Beau Smith’. One was a septuagenarian from Toronto, the second a sex-change man from Wolverhampton (formerly called Belle), and then there he was – the poor man’s Robert Redford, as I remembered him. Now an accountant with a small London firm.

  Well, all I can say is number-crunching doesn’t seem to be doing him many favours. He’s now balding and flabby and on to his fourth marriage, no less.

  I’ll tell Carol to Google him next time I talk to her. It might make her feel better.

  But it’s Thursday now and she’s been spookily silent, which is weird because the presentation to the council is looming, on Wednesday next week, and I’m supposed to be project managing the video for her. (Perhaps she’s fired me in my absence and hired someone else.)

  Charlie hasn’t been in touch either.

  This irks me quite a lot. I think it’s because I thought we were friends, and surely friends are there for each other in a crisis? He rescued me from The Festive Farce, for God’s sake. He hauled me up from my humiliating spread-eagle crash-landing beneath the Christmas tree and shielded me with his strong, manly arms from the eye-popping crowd. Surely he recognises a person in crisis when he sees one!

  I spend far more time than I should fretting that he’s washed his hands of me after the calamity that was last Saturday, and a similar amount of time wondering if he’s been in touch with Carol.

  Halfway through the afternoon I run out of milk.

  So I tie back my hair, put on an old baseball cap and slip out into the drizzly afternoon. I’ll be completely anonymous, I think, buy the milk and hurry back …

  ‘Good heavens, it’s the prodigal daughter!’

  Someone whacks me on the back.

  I spin round.

  Bunty is standing there in a huge green cape and a clear plastic rain hat, the sort only ever worn by grannies fifty years ago. She has a cantaloupe melon in one hand and a dog monthly magazine in the other.

  ‘Bunty,’ I manage weakly.

  She peers at me kindly. ‘How are you m’dear?’

  ‘Oh … you know.’ I shrug.

  I almost laugh. It’s a toss up which one of us looks the most ridiculous.

  She places a hand on my arm and leans over confidingly. ‘Your mother would cut her tongue out if she could! But I said to her: Beverley, that daughter of yours is made of strong stuff. Leave her alone. She’ll come round in her own time.’

  I frown. ‘She said some harsh things. But I probably needed to hear them.’

  Bunty nods. ‘A good sharp shock to the system can work wonders. That’s what I said to your mother when she was crying her eyes out over those dreadful payday loan folks.’

  My eyes widen. ‘She told you about that?’

  ‘First time she came to the am dram meeting. We had a good old chat and I told her all about Muffy dying and how hard that had been. And then she started talking about how she’d let you down horribly by borrowing that money. She was utterly distraught, I tell you!’

  My heart contracts. ‘Poor Mum.’

  Bunty nods. ‘So I said to her: “Beverley, cheer up. Muffy left me an awful lot of moolah. I’ll lend you the money and then you can pay the rotters back!”’

  ‘Gosh, did you?’

  She smiles sadly. ‘Wouldn’t take it, bless her. Too proud. So I decided the only way I could help was to embark on my ‘Chin Up’ Strategy!’

  ‘What’s that?’ Oh God, I hope it didn’t hurt.

  She shrugs. ‘Did it when Muffy died. Kept myself constantly occupie
d so I didn’t have the time to dwell!’

  I smile. ‘So that’s what you’ve been doing for Mum. Keeping her busy all the time.’

  ‘Spot on, young lady! Lovely woman, your mother. Just needed a bit of a rocket under her, what?’ She presses my arm. ‘Give her a ring, eh?’

  ‘I will.’ I smile at her. ‘Thanks, Bunty.’

  ‘Right, off to buy a worming kit for Alfred! Toodle-oo!’

  I watch her striding along the High Street for a minute. Then I return to the flat.

  I phone Mum later and we have a rather one-sided conversation with her being all bright and breezy, relaying ‘news’ that I’ve missed and trying to act as if everything’s back to normal, and me not getting a word in edgeways (which actually suits me fine). I’m a little stiff with her to begin with. But then I start to feel touched by her overwhelming relief that we’re talking again, and the hurt and anger of her ‘betrayal’ begins to seem like a bit of an over-reaction.

  The upshot of this call is that I’m invited for lunch on Sunday.

  Now that Mum and I are speaking again, the horrors of the past six days have begun to fade. I still haven’t quite forgiven her, but I accept that she only gabbed to Bunty because she loves me and worries about me.

  As for what she actually said about me, I’ve thought about that a lot and I totally understand now where she’s coming from. All mothers get hyper about their kids’ happiness and are prone to occasional irrational outbursts of emotion.

  And my mum, bless her, is no different.

  On Friday morning, I’m feeling vaguely ‘normal’ again and up to facing the music at work.

  Actually, my renewed strength probably has more to do with the fact that I now have a fully-functioning heating system.

  I got fed up waiting for the landlord to do something. So in desperation, I phoned a local plumber and he arrived soon after Fez left and fixed the boiler. Of course the landlord will refuse to pay the bill on the grounds that I didn’t get competitive quotes in first. But I don’t care. I’ll pay it myself. It’s well worth it for the bliss of standing under that hot shower for a good twenty minutes last night, knowing I wasn’t about to get an icy surprise at any second.