by Jill Mansell
‘I know, I know, and I do understand how you feel about him. I’m just a bit worried that you two are so completely different . . . Oh God, sorry, just ignore me.’ Carmel flapped her hands by way of apology. ‘He’s great and I do like him. I’m sure you’ll be able to work things out. And I haven’t spotted any annoying habits like stroking his chin in a creepy way or laughing like a camel with hiccups.’
The camel laugh had belonged to Harry, the stockbroker Tasha had gone out with for a couple of weeks last year; cunningly, he’d managed to hide it at first. But once apparent, it had been a definite deal breaker. He’d had to go.
‘And he doesn’t wear Cornish pasty shoes.’ Tasha joined in to show she wasn’t offended by Carmel’s bluntness. ‘Look, I know we’re different, but it’ll be OK. Maybe I’ll learn to like extreme sports.’
‘What?’ Carmel boggled in shock and fell back in her chair.
‘I mean watching them. Not doing them.’ Tasha pulled a face. ‘Obviously. So, you like Joe too. That’s good.’
‘I do.’
‘As a friend? Or more?’
‘Just as a friend.’
‘Really? But you kissed him.’
‘I know. That was just for fun, though. He’s not my type.’
‘You see, I think he could be your type.’
Carmel shrugged. ‘Let’s leave things as they are for now. If I change my mind about him . . . well, all kinds of stuff could have happened by then . . .’
They’d known each other for fifteen years. Tasha raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean me and Rory could have broken up by then? Is that what you’re thinking?’
‘Possibly.’ Carmel’s grin was unrepentant.
‘Except we’re not going to break up.’ Tasha didn’t expect Carmel to believe her, but she knew it was true. ‘Really.’ She nodded at her oldest friend. ‘I promise. It’s not going to happen.’
Over at the crowded bar, still waiting to be served, Joe said, ‘So how long d’you think this thing with you and Bin Girl is going to last?’
Rory gave him a pitying look. ‘Trust me. It’s going to last.’
‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like her a lot. But she’s so not your type. She isn’t sporty at all.’
‘I really don’t care.’
‘Blimey, you’ve got it bad.’
‘I have.’ Rory nodded happily in agreement. ‘What do you think of her friend?’
‘Carmel? Fancies me rotten.’
‘Does that mean you’re going to sleep with her?’
‘Might do, might not. See how we go.’ Joe paused. ‘Is that OK with you?’
‘Do whatever you like.’ With a shrug, Rory said, ‘Probably best not to upset her, though, what with her black belt in karate.’
When they left the bar at midnight, Rory and Tasha led the way down the side street, heading for the main road where there would be cabs to flag down.
‘Hey.’ Joe drew Carmel to the side of the pavement, his breath visible in the icy night air. ‘Do you want to come back to my place for a drink?’
Carmel stopped walking. ‘You mean sex?’
‘Well, OK then.’ His mouth curved up at the corners. ‘If you absolutely insist.’
‘Listen to me.’ Patiently, Carmel pointed to Rory and Tasha, ahead of them. ‘See them? Love’s young dream. Now see us? Not love’s young dream. Absolutely nothing of a romantic nature is ever going to happen between us, I can promise you that.’
‘Oh.’ He looked crestfallen, then hopeful. ‘Are you playing hard to get?’
‘No.’
‘That’s disappointing, then.’
‘I can see that it would be. Don’t worry, you’ll survive. We’re just going to be friends and make life easier for those two.’
‘They’re not going to last five minutes. You do realise that, don’t you?’
‘Of course,’ said Carmel. ‘But we’re going to humour them. It’s called being kind. Like when little kids get all excited about Father Christmas. You don’t spoil things for them.’
‘OK.’ Joe nodded. ‘Yes, you’re right.’
‘I’m always right,’ said Carmel.
At the end of the road, Rory and Tasha had managed to flag down a cab and were yelling at them to hurry up if they wanted a lift.
‘Actually, I’m going in the other direction,’ said Joe. He stuck out his hand and solemnly shook hers. ‘Friendly enough for you?’
Carmel smiled. ‘Perfect. See you again.’
As she caught up with the others, Joe yelled down the road after her, ‘Carmel!’
She turned. ‘Yes?’
‘He’s OK, isn’t he?’
‘Who?’
‘Father Christmas.’
He was completely mad. Carmel smiled and called back, ‘Don’t worry. He’s fine.’
Chapter 10
In the seven years since Flo had started working as a care assistant at Nairn House retirement home, overlooking the Clifton Downs, there had been one noticeable change in the habits of the residents.
Before, they’d read newspapers and books when they weren’t socialising with each other, playing whip-smart games of racing demon and canasta, watching TV or listening to music.
Then technology had entered their lives, following the installation of lightning-fast Wi-Fi, and nowadays, more than fifty per cent of the residents had their own tablets.
And not the kind you swilled down with a cup of tea either.
It never failed to entertain Flo to see ninety-year-olds overcoming their fear of the unknown and launching themselves into the brave new electronic world of the internet.
Margot, one of her favourite residents, was simultaneously chatting on Skype with a retired Italian archaeologist, completing a cryptic crossword online and debating the merits of Bombay Sapphire gin versus Tanqueray London Dry with a history professor in Zagreb on Twitter.
If only Elsa could have been persuaded to come and live here in one of Nairn House’s stunning garden apartments. Flo just knew she and Margot would have got on like a house on fire.
‘Seven across. Switched palms, illuminating. Five letters.’ As she said it, Margot glanced up at Flo. ‘Any ideas, darling?’
‘Oh God, you know how hopeless I am with crosswords.’ Flo was busy changing the water in the crystal vase and preparing to rearrange the out-of-season white roses. ‘Um, something to do with light?’
‘I know ze answer to zat.’ The Italian archaeologist with the deliciously accented voice came to the rescue via Skype’s audio feed on Margot’s trusty iPad. ‘Eet ees lamps.’
‘Of course. Thanks, Paolo. OK now, twelve down, seven letters. Sheepish puff is violent.’
Honestly, how did people do these things? Flo was completely lacking in the cryptic gene.
‘Ha, too easy,’ said Paolo from his villa in Florence. ‘Eet is rampant.’
And it wasn’t even his first language.
‘You know, you’re not bad at this, for a foreigner!’ Having chuckled and tapped in the answer on the screen, Margot switched back to her Twitter conversation with Erik in Zagreb and deftly typed: You’ve just reminded me, I once drank martinis with David Niven at the Hotel du Cap. Such a charming man. #happydays
For the next twenty minutes, Flo tidied the apartment, washed dishes and made up the bed with new sheets Margot had ordered online from Liberty. She listened as Margot finished the crossword, concluded her conversation with Paolo and signed out of Twitter.
‘He sounds lovely.’
‘Paolo? I know. Great fun to chat to. Not so great in the looks department, sadly. Bit of an old bullfrog. That’s why I stick to audio.’ Margot pulled a not-very-apologetic face. ‘Still, nobody’s perfect. I’m no oil painting myself these days.’
Margot wore her silver hair pulled back in a sleek bun; her eyes were hooded but bright, she had an elegant aquiline nose and a narrow, clever mouth. Her outfits were flowing, her taste in jewellery baroque. Flo said honestly, ‘When I’m ninety, I’d love to lo
ok like you.’
‘Oh darling, aren’t you kind? Sometimes I completely forget how old I am, then get the most terrible shock when I catch sight of myself in the mirror.’
‘Oh well, I get that too. Did you really drink martinis with David Niven?’
‘I did! Back when life was full of adventure. Here, I’ve been uploading some photos from around that time . . .’
The photos showed Margot in her thirties, as leggy and glamorous as a movie star herself. When she’d finished skimming through them on her iPad, a ting announced the arrival of a new email in her inbox.
‘Ooh, lovely, our favourite. Now, have a listen to this.’ With great relish, Margot began to read aloud:
Dear Rose,
OK, three things about me. I’m twenty-six, my wedding is in six weeks and my mum is trying to ruin everything.
You should see the dress she’s bought to wear . . . Rose, she’s the mother of the bride and she’s going to make a mockery of the whole show. I have spent months planning every last detail and our colour palette is ivory, palest heather and duck-egg blue. I told my mum to make sure she chose something to tone in with these colours. I also stressed that it had to be elegant and appropriate for the occasion. Well, she came home with an above-the-knee orange dress and the cheapest-looking pair of shoes you ever saw. It’s a complete nightmare. She’s always had hideous taste in clothes and I’ve told her a million times how much she shows me up. When I said she wasn’t wearing that dress, she actually burst into tears. Rose, is it OK to ban my embarrassing mother from my wedding? If she comes along, she’s just going to wreck the whole day and all the photographs. And please don’t tell me to ask my dad to have a word with her – he walked out before I was born and she hasn’t had another boyfriend since.
Stressed of Southampton
‘Go on then,’ said Flo. ‘What’s the answer?’ Since Margot had begun subscribing to www.threethingsaboutyou.com, reading the problems aloud and debating the replies had become a regular ritual between the two of them.
‘I hope she gives her a piece of her mind,’ Margot snorted. ‘Right, here we go:
Dear Stressed,
I see you didn’t bother putting much thought into your three things about you. Luckily, the rest of your letter told me pretty much all I needed to know about your character.
Oh dear, poor you, how dare your mum turn up at your wedding in cheap shoes? It’s almost as if she’s been trying to scrimp and save all these years so that someone else can afford to have everything they want!
How lucky your mum is to have a daughter as loving and thoughtful as you. What does your fiancé think of this situation? If he agrees with you that your mother should be banned from the wedding because her dress is the wrong colour, then you two truly deserve each other.
If your mother was the one writing to me, I would urge her to sew neon-yellow fringing around the hem of that orange dress and kick off her cheap shoes when she dances on the table at your wedding. After all, she’s going to be in the mood to celebrate, having succeeded in offloading her selfish, ungrateful daughter on to someone else.
Seriously, you need to apologise to your mum, tell her you love her and let her wear whatever she likes to the wedding. Then maybe you should thank her for spending the last twenty-odd years single-handedly bringing you up.
‘Good answer,’ said Flo.
‘Great answer.’ Margot nodded with satisfaction. She was quite the connoisseur when it came to advice columns; she subscribed to half a dozen, but this was the one she liked best. ‘Rose always gets it right.’
‘I wish we knew what she looked like. In my head she’s all soft and cuddly, in her sixties, with rosy cheeks and a kind face.’
‘But not afraid to say what’s on her mind. Tells the grandchildren off when they’re naughty. She could be Irish.’ Margot paused to consider this possibility. ‘Or Cornish.’
‘Or a big burly truck driver calling himself Rose.’ Flo checked her watch; she was due off duty in five minutes. ‘I have to leave soon, Margot. Anything else you need me to do before I head off?’
‘No thank you, my darling, I’m fine. Oh, but I’m almost out of Tabasco . . . next time you’re in the supermarket, could you be an angel and pick me up a couple more bottles?’
‘No problem. I’m not in again until Sunday, though. Can you last until then?’ Margot’s addiction to splashing Tabasco over almost everything she ate meant she carried the little bottles in her handbag wherever she went and lived in terror of running out.
‘I can. Ah, you’re a good girl.’ Margot smiled at her over the top of her elegant silver-framed reading glasses. ‘Make it three bottles. That’ll be perfect.’
Chapter 11
‘Ta-daaaa!’ Bea burst into the living room, where Hallie was engaged in painting her toenails bright coral. ‘Guess what I’m doing for my thirtieth birthday?’
Hallie straightened up. ‘You’ve already told me. You’re having a party at the White Hart.’
‘That was the plan. But now I have a new plan. I’m going to Paris.’
‘Really? Wow, fantastic. And so perfect for you,’ said Hallie. ‘I hear the men in France prefer older women.’
‘Cheek.’ Bea aimed a playful swipe at the plastic tubing snaking between Hallie’s nasal cannulae and her oxygen tank. ‘I could always unplug you, you know. Anyway, guess who’s coming along with me?’
‘Bradley Cooper again? Poor boy, hasn’t he suffered enough?’
‘This time it’s girls only. Sarah’s coming.’ Bea began counting off on her fingers. ‘And Jen. And Poppy and Carla. And me, obviously.’
‘You’ll have an amazing time.’
Bea carried on counting on her fingers. ‘And you.’
Hallie’s heart sank. ‘Oh Bea, no. I can’t.’
‘You can.’
How to explain? ‘Look, thanks for thinking of me, but it just wouldn’t . . . work.’
‘It would. I’ve checked with Luke. And I asked your mum too. There’s no reason why you can’t come along with us.’
‘It’s just so . . . complicated.’
‘But not impossible. People with cystic fibrosis can travel abroad; they do it all the time. You know that.’
Hallie sat back, bare legs stretched out before her, toes splayed in order not to smudge the glossy polish. ‘I know, and it’s really kind of you to invite me, but I don’t want to be the one who spoils things for everyone else. I’d just hold you back and then I’d feel guilty—’
‘Whoa. Stop it. Look at it from my point of view.’ Bea shook her head at her. ‘You’re my best friend, and if you refuse to come to Paris you will spoil things. I mean it,’ she went on when Hallie opened her mouth to protest. ‘My birthday will be ruined and it’ll be all your fault.’
She actually meant it. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. You have to be there. I don’t want to turn thirty without you.’
Hallie was an infrequent crier, but her eyes were brimming now. Moved, she said, ‘OK. If you really mean it, I’ll come to Paris.’
‘I really really mean it. Come here, you.’ Careful not to dislodge the transparent oxygen tubing, or trigger a bout of coughing, Bea gave her a hug.
‘And the others don’t mind? You’re sure they’re OK with it too?’
‘Completely sure. You’re the must-have accessory of the season.’
‘I’ll have to get travel insurance.’ Which would probably cost a fortune.
‘There are specialist companies. It’s not a problem.’
Well, not quite true. It was easy for Bea to be airily dismissive, but Hallie knew it was going to involve travelling with a wheelchair, oxygen tank, nebuliser and assorted other vital bits and pieces. But if Bea was determined to have her there . . . well, she could make the effort.
‘OK, let’s do this thing.’ Paris! How glamorous! ‘Have you decided where you want to stay?’
‘I have brochures. I have chocolate.’ Bea withdrew both
from her huge glittery shoulder bag. ‘And now I have you to help me choose a hotel. So,’ her eyes gleamed, ‘shall we make a start on it now?’
It was midday and there still hadn’t been any word from Rory. Tasha checked her phone for the fiftieth time to make sure a message hadn’t arrived and somehow been missed.
No, still nothing, even though he’d promised faithfully to keep her updated. Unable to help herself, she sent a text: Please call and let me know you’re still alive. Xxx
‘You’re looking worried.’ Moira, a TV chef who was being made up for today’s photo shoot, was watching her in the mirror. ‘Everything OK?’
‘It’s just my boyfriend. He should have been in touch by now and he hasn’t been.’ Did she sound hopelessly neurotic? ‘He’s on his way up to Edinburgh.’
‘Ah well, maybe there isn’t any signal.’ Moira, in her forties, was sympathetic, chatty and good company. ‘Is he flying?’
Tasha shook her head. ‘No. Riding up there on a Harley-Davidson motorbike.’
‘What? Oh God!’ Pulling a horrified face, Moira said, ‘No wonder you’re all of a faff. All that way? And bikes are so dangerous. My neighbour’s son had the most dreadful accident last year, came off his motorbike and nearly died. Ended up having to have both legs amputated.’
‘Oh dear.’ Sometimes Moira could be a bit too chatty. Tasha felt her insides curdle at the thought.
‘Then there was my friend’s auntie, she crashed her moped into a wall and she’s had a withered arm ever since!’
‘Right.’
‘And Alan from the golf club went under a bus on his motorbike. Killed outright. Oh, sorry.’ Moira clapped a hand over her mouth, evidently realising that her comments might have been less than tactful. Belatedly she said, ‘I’m sure your boyfriend’s fine.’
The shoot, for a women’s magazine, dragged on interminably. First one o’clock, then two o’clock went by, with still no word from Rory. Tasha’s stomach continued to tighten with fear. On the outside she carried on applying make-up to models, while on the inside her brain conjured up terrifying images of an accident on the motorway . . . bits of broken motorbike strewn across three lanes . . . blue flashing lights . . . sombre-faced paramedics shaking their heads at each other . . .
