by Daisy Waugh
‘Sounds great,’ he says. ‘I’ll call my editors and—’
She’s not listening. ‘Your scoop, my love!’ she yells. ‘You can thank me later. Oh, and I don’t want any weirdo begging letters arriving at the cottage, so we’ll do it at the school. Hokey-cokey? No pics at the house. Not any more. Shall we say eleven o’clock tomorrow? And then we can go and celebrate afterwards. Ah – here comes Geraldine with some champagne. At last. I shall see you there! Got to go. Very thirsty.’
She hangs up, watches greedily as Geraldine loosens the wire on the champagne bottle and eases out the cork. ‘Oh, you are a spoilsport!’ she cries. ‘You might have let it pop.’
‘By the way, Kit, you know who you ought to get in on this. Clive and I have just taken her on, and I must say she’s frightfully impressive. Jo Maxwell McDonald! If anyone can get you media coverage, she can.’
‘Oh.’ Kitty hasn’t thought of that. Extra media coverage, what fun. But then she frowns. ‘I suppose she’ll charge a fortune.’
‘I thought she was fairly reasonable. When you compare her to London prices. Anyway, Kitty, you’re rich now. What does it matter?’
‘Good point.’ They clink glasses. ‘To me!’ Kitty says, and takes a swig of champagne. ‘Ha, ha! Yes, very good point. What’s her number then?’
But Geraldine likes to let people know personally when she’s doing them a favour. It’s what she and Clive call ‘Basic Good Business Practice’. She holds out a hand. ‘Pass me the phone. I’ll call her now.’
So Kitty’s sitting on the edge of the kitchen table, her feet on a chair, lapping up Geraldine’s side of the conversation, which is peppered with passionate avowals of her own delight. ‘Well, I’m so pleased for her, Jo. I’m so happy for her. She’s my oldest, dearest friend. I’m so proud…Yes, she’s been scribbling away for so long. I’ve always known she has talent and—What? Scarlett too, that’s right. Yes, isn’t it sweet? A real fairy tale come true…Because it hasn’t been easy. Kitty’s such a trouper. If anyone deserves it, she does…’
At last the kitchen door opens. In come first Lenka, and then Ollie, and finally Scarlett, bringing up the rear. Ollie and Lenka are squabbling about something. It doesn’t matter what, but it’s preventing Kitty from hearing Geraldine’s conversation.
‘Shhhh!’ she says.
‘Hello, Kitty!’ It’s Scarlett, moving faster than usual, talking louder. She’s smiling. She’s shiny with hope. Her mother looks pissed – but there’s nothing new in that. She also looks happy, and though Scarlett had promised herself she wouldn’t ask until they were at home together alone she can’t – of course she can’t resist. ‘Any news?’
‘Shhh! Please, darling. I can’t hear what she’s saying.’
‘Why? Who’s she talking to?’
‘Never you mind, darling. Shhh.’
‘Any news?’ she whispers.
Kitty turns on her, rigid with drink-fuelled irritation. ‘For crying out loud, darling, what about?’
29
Several times recently the sound of Louis coming and going on his motorbike has woken Fanny in the middle of the night. She’s lain there, with the blood thumping in her ears, imagining him and Kitty together on the other side of the wall, until eventually all she can hear is the sound of her own listening and she has to get out of bed.
She and Louis are still avoiding each other; hurrying proudly in and out of their neighbouring cottages without glancing to left or to right, always busy, always nursing their wounds. It doesn’t help that they both also happen to be working unusually hard. Louis, because newspapers keep on commissioning him and he’s not yet confident enough to turn any of them down, and Fanny to satisfy the phenomenal bureaucratic expectations of the school inspectors, due to descend on her within days.
She finds it hard to work at home on the evenings she can hear Louis moving around next door. This evening she doesn’t even attempt it. She fetches wine and cigarettes, and immediately settles down to read Scarlett’s novel.
A Revolting Boy. By Scarlett Mozely. Mr and Mrs Oliver used to be very important London lawyers, but when their revolting son, Adam, was nine years old they worried that being quite so important all the time meant they never had time to have fun. So they moved to live in the country. They bought a large house in the middle of a quiet village called Pigsbury…
Fanny chuckles nervously.
And with the money they had left over they built the world’s first vegetarian dog food factory. This would have been very good, and much more fun than being a lawyer, except that vegetarian dog food smells TERRIBLE when it’s cooking, and Mr and Mrs Oliver had built the factory right there in the middle of their garden! The people of Pigsbury were furious.
Fanny doesn’t look up again. She doesn’t notice when the cottage next door falls silent and Louis’s footsteps shamble up their shared garden path and into the village street. She doesn’t notice her log fire burning down to its embers, or how dim the room has grown – until the story is finished, and nine-year-old Adam Oliver has been accidentally tinned and served up to the hunting hounds. When the telephone rings Fanny’s head is still buzzing with Scarlett’s story. She answers it with a smile on her lips.
‘Hello there!’ she says. ‘Hello?…Hello?’ No one speaks. She glances instinctively towards the window: her curtains are still open. ‘Hello? Who is it?’
Silence. Nothing. He hangs up.
She replaces the receiver. Number withheld. Of course. Quickly she crosses the room and closes her curtains. She made the curtains herself, from gold embroidered wedding saris brought back from India years ago; it’s only now, in Fiddleford, that she’s finally bothered to put them to use. And it’s only now, this instant, that she notices quite how badly. They don’t fit the window. There are large gaps on both sides. She feels very exposed.
When the telephone starts up again Fanny doesn’t hang around. Doesn’t hesitate. She grabs her keys and makes a run for next door.
‘Louis? It’s me.’ Fanny knocks again. ‘Louis? I know you’re in there…Please, come to the door.’ She can hear the telephone in her own house still ringing; ringing on and on. ‘Louis?’ She takes a step back. He’s up there, she thinks, hiding under the duvet with Kitty. ‘LOUIS! For Christ’s sake…I thought we were friends!’
‘You won’t be for much longer, not if you carry on like that, angel.’ It’s Grey McShane. Plastered. Eyes and teeth gleaming through the semi-darkness. A bottle of spirits in one hand, a burning cigarette in the other. Fanny screams, and he laughs, his deep rich laugh, staggers forward and puts an arm round her. ‘Och, calm down, girl,’ he says. ‘Only me! Nothing scary about me, now is there? I’m only goin’ for walkies!’
‘Like a bloody vampire going for walkies,’ says Fanny, and tries to smile, because she likes Grey. Pissed or not, he always makes her laugh.
‘What’s up?’ he asks.
‘Nothing. Just—’ Inside, her telephone falls silent. ‘Nothing.’ But something catches in her throat, her face crumples and she starts to cry.
‘Hey!’ says Grey. ‘Hey! What are you cryin’ for?’
‘I’m not crying.’
‘Yes, you are!’ Carefully, Grey balances the spirit bottle at his feet and wraps his other arm around her shoulders. ‘Never mind Louis,’ he says, squeezing her into a clumsy hug. ‘You got loads of friends in Fiddleford. We all like you. Well, most of us. Apart from the odd prick. But who gives a bugger about them, eh?’ She shoves him away, laughing in spite of herself. ‘Jesus, Grey, you stink!’
‘And that,’ he says proudly, ‘is because I’m pissed. I’ve been drinking since I woke up this morning. And I tell you, Fanny, it feels bloody good!’
Fanny clicks her tongue. ‘Where’s Messy, anyway?’
‘Messy,’ he says, ‘is in the Lamsbury hospital. Fast asleep. And sleepin’ right beside her is—’
‘Oh, my God! Grey! Congratulations!’
‘Aye. Eight pounds and seven ounces…and he�
�s got hair an’ everything. God, Fanny. You should see him. Fuckin’ beautiful. Called Jason…Jason McShane. What do you think about that?’
Fanny puts her arms around him, in spite of the stink. She reaches up and kisses him on the cheek.
‘An’ I’ll tell you something else for free,’ Grey says. ‘Solomon Creasey fancies the fuckin’ pants off you!’
‘He – what?’ Fanny giggles. ‘That’s lovely. Lovely to hear. I’d be flattered, I expect. Except we’ve never even met.’
‘Aye, no,’ Grey brushes it aside. ‘But he would fancy you. If he had. Met you. That’s what I keep telling him…I’ve got one o’ those espresso machines at my place,’ he adds. ‘You can come back wi’ me. If you want. I’m sure I could cheer you up.’
‘Thanks, Grey. But I think I’ll pass on that.’
He shrugs. ‘Please yourself.’ He staggers slightly as he bends to retrieve the bottle at his feet. ‘If you change your mind…’
‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right?’
‘Better than all right, Fanny!’ he shouts impatiently, weaving away. ‘And Messy’ll be home tomorrow. I’ll be sober as a fuckin’ judge.’
‘Send her my love, won’t you?’ Fanny calls.
‘And no crying now,’ he calls behind him. ‘Two lovely pieces of news there. Nothin’ to cry about. Not when you’re here in Fiddleford, see? We’ll always look after you. Don’t you worry about that…’ But he’s talking as much to himself, or to the cool summer air, as he is to Fanny, and Fanny doesn’t catch the end of it.
As Grey sways on past the Manor Retreat gates, a solitary paparazzo steps up with his flashgun. Grey’s enormous frame, his giant black coat, and all his inebriated footwork are briefly illuminated, but he doesn’t even bother to look up. ‘Och, fuck off, you little sod,’ he yells carelessly. ‘Can’t you see I’m celebratin’?’
She watches him disappearing, glances one last time at the window which is Louis’s bedroom and then, with a sigh, takes the torch which she keeps hidden under a stone beside the dustbins, and heads on out to the pub.
It sounds like a busy night at the Fiddleford Arms as she approaches. She can hear laughter from halfway up the street. And as always she can hear Kitty’s voice rising above everyone else’s, mostly yelling at people to shut up.
‘May I speak—Oh, do shut up, Clive. May I speak? This is meant to be MY evening. Shut up. Everyone shut up. All I’m saying is—Of course, she’s good at her job. Of course. I’m just saying that in-house bonking – call it what you will – no, it’s not funny. Rogering one’s employees is not – is not – MAY I SPEAK? Oh, come on! Is not all that professional. And all I’m saying about Fanny—’
That’s when Fanny pushes open the door – too early by half a second. Kitty Mozely misses a beat. Geraldine, Clive, Louis – they all do. Beneath his golden West Country tan, Louis blanches. In spite of so much noise it turns out that the pub is almost empty; only the four of them and a couple of white-haired tourists – and a youngish man with curly russet hair leaning over the bar, talking to Tracey.
‘What’s that you’re saying about me, Kitty?’ Fanny asks pleasantly. ‘I must say, from the looks on all your faces, I would hazard a guess it wasn’t especially nice.’
It’s Kitty, of course, who is the first to recover. Her open mouth reforms itself into a brazen, baby-toothed grin and she cries, ‘Fanny! Ha, ha! Come and join us. You’re quite right. We were just this minute talking about you, weren’t we, Geraldine? In fact, we were only just saying how bloody good you were at your – sort of – teaching job. Anyway. Never mind all that. What are you drinking?’
Fanny wavers. But she’s arrived alone. She can’t think of any way to get out of it.
‘Come on!’ snaps Kitty, already growing impatient. ‘What are you standing there for? Like a stuffed goose.’ She chortles, nudges Geraldine who ignores her. Geraldine, at least, has the grace to look embarrassed.
‘I’m afraid you’re catching us in the middle of rather a heavy evening,’ says Clive. ‘We’re celebrating Kitty’s success. Have you heard? Can I tell her, Kit?’
‘Of course you can!’
‘Of course I can! She heard this afternoon that she’s actually sold one of her children’s books to a publisher for—’ He glances nervously at Tracey. But Tracey’s distracted, chatting animatedly to the boy at the bar. ‘They’re paying her £500,000!’
‘£650,000,’ Louis corrects her.
‘More or less,’ Kitty nods.
The four of them watch Fanny as she absorbs this piece of news. ‘Oh,’ she says, frowning. ‘OH!’ she says again. ‘You don’t mean—You mean Scarlett’s book! £650,000! But that’s fantastic! She must be so happy! Where is she?’
‘We’re both very pleased,’ says Kitty.
‘Your daughter,’ Fanny beams at her, hostility fleetingly forgotten, ‘is a very, very talented little writer.’
‘Yes. So we finally discover,’ Kitty drawls sourly. ‘Last week, if I remember rightly, her teachers weren’t even certain if she could manage to write her own name.’
‘Well, congratulations, Kitty.’ Fanny smiles. ‘On having such a brilliant daughter. Well done.’
‘Yes, aren’t we awfully clever? Louis darling,’ Kitty continues, more or less carelessly, ‘do get your friend a chair. Or perhaps—Should we get two?’ She offers a sly smile. ‘Do you have anyone special coming along, Fanny?’
‘Anyone special?’ Fanny looks blank. ‘Like who?’
Louis stands up. ‘Anyhow,’ he mumbles, ‘I should be getting along.’ He looks miserable. ‘Got an early start tomorrow.’
‘Oh, no, you haven’t!’ cries Kitty. ‘I’m seeing you at eleven o’clock, remember?’ She leans across the table, runs a light finger over his hand as he reaches to pick up his tobacco. ‘Oh, don’t go, Louis, darling. Don’t be a bore. The evening is still so young!’
He smiles at her. Fanny notices that he doesn’t move the hand. ‘I only came in for a pack of Rizlas,’ he says. ‘Well done, Kit.’ He bends down to kiss her cheek, but she moves quickly, catches him on the lips, and smirks. Louis is too good-natured to manifest anything except slight, well-mannered pleasure. He smiles at her, raises an eyebrow, throws a wave at Clive and Geraldine. ‘And thanks for the drink. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’
As he turns to leave he looks evenly at Fanny, and Fanny looks evenly back at him: neither knows, any more, exactly what’s gone so wrong between them. Neither knows how to begin to make it right again. ‘Goodnight then, Fanny,’ he says coldly, and brushes quickly past her.
She doesn’t even reply.
Another silence. For the three remaining – and especially for Kitty – Louis’s departure has taken the edge out of the evening. They all feel suddenly rather flat, and Fanny’s wounded presence at the door certainly doesn’t help matters.
‘Well!’ says Geraldine, standing up. ‘I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m exhausted. I think I’ll toddle up the road to bed. Clive, do you want to stay here and finish your drink?’
‘No, no,’ he says hurriedly, knocking it back. ‘I’ll come with you.’
Kitty also clambers to her feet and they begin to move as one towards the door. ‘Kit, sweetheart, are you up to driving?’ asks Geraldine. ‘Why don’t you stay with us tonight? Since Scarlett’s already there…I mean, I presume Lenka put her to bed. I didn’t actually speak to her about it, did you?’
‘Of course she did,’ Kitty says. ‘Don’t worry about Scarlett.’
Clive holds open the door for Kitty and his wife and they jostle through it. ‘The bed’s already made up,’ continues Geraldine, ‘if you don’t mind sleeping in your own sheets. You were definitely the last person to sleep there…’
‘Goodnight, Fanny,’ says Clive. ‘I’m sorry if we’re a bit boisterous. Goodnight, Tracey.’ He nods at the lean, russethaired figure: ‘See you, Mack.’
Mack, dressed in baggy, worn jeans and mud-caked desert boots, has been leani
ng his long arms and broad, bony shoulders over the bar, muttering with Tracey ever since Fanny arrived. All Fanny has seen of him is the back of his untidy russet head. Now he turns towards Clive and she is struck
– as everyone is the first time – by the size and light of his bright green almond eyes. He sends Clive a saucy wink. ‘Tell Kitty well done on the book deal,’ he says.
‘What’s that?’ says Clive, embarrassed. ‘Gosh. Did you hear?’
‘Tell her I’ll be round in the morning, collecting what she owes me for the bookshelves.’ He has a strange accent; a rough mixture of West Country, Geordie and posh. Geraldine has employed him a couple of times to do bits of carpentry work around the Rectory, and he’s done the work better than any of their smart London people, and for half the price. Even so Clive wishes Geraldine would stop employing him. Clive finds Mack uncomfortable, because although Mack always seems reasonably impoverished himself, Mack’s father happens to be one of the richest men in the county, and much, much richer than the Adamses. Consequently, Clive can never quite decide whether to treat him, as he puts it to himself, as one of them, or as one of us.
‘Hmmm,’ says Clive, trying to look concerned. ‘Owes you money, does she?’
‘Macklan!’ Tracey giggles. ‘It’s not Clive you should be talking to about Kitty Mozely’s carpentry bills.’
‘No, I know that, Trace. But there’s no sense to be got out of Kitty tonight, is there?’
Fanny looks around her. Apart from the two white-haired tourists, still whispering in the far corner, only Mack and Tracey remain. She feels like an intruder, doesn’t want to polish off an already rotten evening by being made to feel like a gooseberry. She takes a subtle step back towards the door.
