The Personal Shopper (Annie Valentine)

by Carmen Reid

  Annie considered stopping her there and then to hand over a business card and urge her with the words: ‘C’mon . . . I promise you can do better, much, much better.’

  Number 39 was not a house that had been renovated yet. The paint was flaking, the stonework was grubby, parts of the fence had rotted away. Absent landlord, she guessed, or maybe landlord down on his luck.

  She’d been told to follow the garden path round to the back of the house where the entrance to the basement flat could be found: 39B.

  Through the overgrown garden she went, damp flower stalks and shrub branches whipping at her legs as she negotiated the mossy, slippery path.

  The black door was flaking paint and all the windows needed not just repainting but cleaning too. She pressed hard on the buzzer and after a few moments Ed appeared at the door, looking – despite her efforts – as much in need of care and attention as his home.

  ‘Hello there, erm, Annie . . . why don’t you come on in?’ Ed gave her a smile and waved her into the cramped hallway.

  A rack stuffed with coats, anoraks, walking boots, shoes and wellingtons had to be shuffled past before she could follow him into a tiny, low-ceilinged kitchen also crammed to bursting.

  She took in the overflow of pots, pans, jars rammed with utensils, piles of newspaper, small table overwhelmed with a burden of books, pens and papers, as Ed made welcoming but slightly apologetic chat.

  ‘Sorry . . . always such a mess . . . hopeless . . . can I get you a tea? Hope you don’t have to rush off . . . Owen’s getting on great . . .’ and so on. His words were punctuated with several sneezes, smaller than the ones he used to startle them with.

  She was here to collect Owen from his music lesson. Now that Ed could no longer swing round to their address, the new arrangement was that Owen would go home with Ed after school on Thursdays and Annie would pick him up at 7 p.m. But she’d been held up twice and had had to send Dinah, so this was her first visit to Ed’s.

  ‘Tea would be great, thanks,’ Annie told him and knocked over a dish of cat food on the floor as she tried to get out of his way. Once he’d mopped up the spill with a dishcloth that went back into the sink, she noticed unhappily, he filled up a battered aluminium kettle and put it down on the ring of an ancient electric cooker.

  ‘Come on, I’ll take you through,’ he offered and she followed gingerly, wondering what housekeeping horrors lay ahead.

  The sitting room was reached by way of a tiny corridor lined with bookshelves so packed that books were stacked double thickness, and also piled up on the floor. The ceiling lamp hung so low that Annie bumped her head not just once but again when the lamp swung back at her.

  The room had been painted dark pink and the curtains and sofa were of a faded and threadbare floral pattern. Some tartan rugs had been thrown about, to cosy things up a little, and the fireplace looked as if it had been used recently.

  ‘Hi, Owen!’ she called to her son, who was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, a guitar cradled between his knees.

  ‘Listen to this,’ was his response and he strummed her a complicated-sounding chord sequence.

  ‘Brilliant,’ she told him, still taking in the room around her. The upright piano, three guitars and a framed collection of concert posters were the kind of belongings Annie might have expect Ed to have. The breathtaking, voluptuous oil painting of a nude woman was a little more unexpected.

  The frilly ornaments and porcelain figurines clogging up the mantelpiece and windowsills were also out of keeping and Annie was guessing that Ed was still curating every single item that had once belonged to his mother.

  The low ceiling above their heads dipped slightly in the middle. For how many decades had it been like that? she wondered. There was no denying the character of the place, even if it was a little dark and gloomy and in serious need of brilliant white paint. The doors all hung at a wonky angle, the floor squeaked and if she were to drop a marble, she suspected it would roll right towards the black fireplace at the side of the room.

  As Owen played on, Ed came in bearing a little tray with two mugs and a teapot.

  ‘Please, take a seat,’ he insisted and as she settled herself into a saggy armchair, her amateur property developer’s eye fell on the buckled skirting board and the peeling sheet of wallpaper working itself away from it. Turning her head, she surveyed the rest of the stretch of skirting board, also buckled with blistering paint and peeling paper above.

  ‘Looks like you’ve got damp,’ she told him.

  ‘Oh . . .’ Ed landed on the sofa, close to Owen’s feet: ‘These old places’ – he waved a biscuit in the air – ‘always have a touch of something.’

  ‘No, Ed.’ Annie lifted the flap of wallpaper and saw across the back, as she’d suspected, a plume of black mould. ‘You’ve got damp and a serious mould situation and – ’

  With perfect timing, Ed gave one of his spectacular sneezes, so she could tell him, very convincingly, ‘You’re allergic to it. Most people would be.’

  ‘You’re joking!’ he said and he came over to look at the paper she was holding up. He sneezed again as soon as he was up close.

  Owen came too and declared the situation ‘gross’ but nevertheless went on to tell Ed in detail all about the dry rot ‘fruiting body’ which had been discovered in the basement of their previous home.

  ‘It was orangey-brown and huge and mushroomy, alive! It looked like it had just come down from outer space and was about to evolve into another life form,’ he told them in an excited voice, a smile on his face, eyes twinkly with mischief.

  ‘That’s just lovely, Owen. Maybe you’d like to come into my coal-hole and we’ll see if we can find something like that down there?’

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘Right, well . . . something to look forward to for next week, I think.’

  Owen’s face fell, so Ed cheered him up with the request: ‘Would you like to see if you can find Hoover and Dyson in the garden for me? My cats,’ he said in response to Annie’s raised eyebrows. ‘They’re the closest thing I have to a cleaner.’

  ‘Erm . . . there’s something I need to talk to you about,’ Ed began a little awkwardly, once Owen was out of the back door and into the garden.

  Annie felt just a flicker of nervousness. She looked at this increasingly familiar, yet still quite unknown, man on the sofa just a foot or so away and couldn’t help but remember kissing – very heated kissing – in the stairwell.

  Neither of them had ever referred to it again but now her toes were tightly curled at the thought of him bringing it up.

  He sat forward, elbows resting on his knees, and looked directly at her, terribly seriously.

  ‘How’s it going in Upper Ploxley?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she replied. ‘Good,’ she added quickly but then followed it up with, ‘The commuting’s a bit of a pain, but we’ll get used to it.’

  When he made no reply, but kept on looking at her questioningly, she felt compelled to add: ‘I suppose we’re all having some teething problems . . . settling in . . . finding our feet. But I really think it’s going to work out for the best.’

  ‘Do you?’ he asked, still very serious. He leaned forward and looked directly at her. Oh brother, he was definitely about to mention the kissing, she knew it.

  ‘Look, Ed,’ she jumped in, ‘if this is about what I – what we . . . you know, in the stairwell . . .’ she stumbled. ‘Look, I didn’t mean anything by it. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I was just very excited about Owen . . . and his solo . . . and I got carried away. I’m very happy with Gray,’ she said with emphasis.

  Ed’s face seemed to cloud over. She’d tried to clear the air, but her words seemed to have had the opposite effect. He looked almost angry.

  ‘No, I wasn’t going to talk about that,’ he said, making her want to kick herself hard. ‘I thought I should tell you, in case you hadn’t noticed, that Owen is not happy. He’s stopped speaking in class and judging by how well his gu
itar playing is coming along, he must be in his room practising for hours every day. I’m delighted when pupils practise, but I don’t think that amount of time on his own can be very good for him.’

  For a moment Annie didn’t know what to say, she was so taken aback. Had she overlooked Owen? He’d seemed to settle into Gray’s home quite well, compared with Lana, but if he wasn’t talking in class again, that was a big setback.

  ‘Don’t you think it was a bit soon to move them?’ Ed asked her. ‘Don’t you think you’ve maybe rushed into things for your own reasons?’

  That was too much. He had totally overstepped the line and she felt a surge of annoyance.

  ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business, Ed,’ she told him angrily, then added in a raised voice: ‘Don’t think that I don’t worry about the children, because I do! All the time! Of course I only want what’s best for them. I made the move to give us all some more security. Saying I did it for my own reasons is just completely wrong!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ed replied, which took the wind out of her sails a little.

  ‘I’m helping Owen as much as I can,’ she added, voice not so angry now. ‘I hadn’t realized what was going on at school. You were right to tell me about that.’

  His head was bowed and he was rubbing his hands together, agitated by this conversation.

  ‘Well, maybe this isn’t my business either,’ he began, not looking up at her, ‘but I think you should know that there’s about two thousand pounds missing from the school’s charity fund-raising account. I haven’t spoken to Lana and her friends about it yet, but obviously I’m going to have to.’

  ‘Two thousand pounds!’ Annie repeated in astonishment. ‘How much is in the account?’

  ‘There’s over eight thousand left, but there have been three withdrawals which have added up to two grand. Only Lana and one other girl are signatories entitled to make withdrawals,’ he told her gravely.

  ‘Oh no!’ was Annie’s stunned reaction. Immediately she wondered what Lana was planning to do with the money. Run away? This was her first panicky thought.

  ‘Ed? Can you give me the chance to speak to Lana about this first?’ Annie asked. ‘She’s being so difficult at the moment. She doesn’t like it at Gray’s, her boyfriend’s dumped her, she’s missing her friends . . . It looks like she’s done something totally out of order, but can you just give me a couple of days to pick the right moment and find out what she knows about it?’

  And if she’s got £2,000 on her, she could just take off were the words Annie didn’t add.

  ‘Right, well . . .’ Ed stood up. ‘I’ll see Owen at the weekend then?’ He was referring to the long-planned camping expedition.

  Annie got up too and felt awkward, now that Ed had landed all these difficulties on her: ‘I will understand if you don’t want to do the trip any more,’ she told him.

  He looked at her with surprise. ‘Why wouldn’t I want to do it? Owen would be gutted.’

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Owen’s camping pyjamas:

  Socks (Asda)

  Pants (Asda)

  Jogging bottoms (Asda)

  Long-sleeved top (Gap sale)

  Est. cost: £12

  ‘Yeah . . . Too many beans.’

  Owen was uncomfortable in his sleeping bag. He felt too hot, too tight and too bundled up. Also, his right thumb, carefully wrapped in a clean plaster, was starting to throb.

  Opening a family-sized tin of beans with his penknife turned out to have been a bad idea. The tin had opened easily enough, but the knife had left a cruelly jagged edge, which had ripped his thumb open as he was tipping the beans out into the pot.

  For a few moments, Owen hadn’t registered the pain and his blood had dripped noiselessly down onto the beans. But as soon as he’d uttered his first ‘Owww!’ Ed, on cooking duty at the camp along with two dads and four other boys, had sprung into action.

  The cut had quickly been assessed, cleaned with disinfectant wipes and held up high to stem the blood flow. Once the plaster had been expertly applied and soothing words administered, they’d both gone back to the gas stove to check over the beans.

  There was a small, but unmistakable puddle of blood sitting on top of them.

  ‘Do you think we should throw them out?’ Owen had asked.

  ‘No, no, no,’ Ed had heartily assured him. ‘Of course not – as long as they get a good boil. Extra iron for everyone.’

  He made several jokes about it to jolly Owen along: ‘Bloody great beans . . . I’m bloody hungry . . . these are going to be bloody delicious,’ and so on.

  But the cut finger had been Owen’s third injury of the day and he was beginning to feel like the clutz of the camp. During the stick-whittling session, he’d accidentally whittled his left index finger, so now he had a plaster on both hands.

  Drystone dyke building hadn’t gone much better; he’d struggled with a stone which was too heavy, and it had slipped from his hands and landed on his toe.

  ‘Never mind,’ Ed had assured him when he was assessing the damage to a tearful Owen. ‘You’re going to have a really cool black toenail. Very Ozzy Osbourne.’

  Ed had sat next to him at supper, chatting with him and some of the other boys, telling jokes, playing some of the clever word games he was so good at. When Owen’s yawns had come thick and fast Ed had suggested he head for his sleeping bag in one of the boys’ tents.

  This is where Owen, overdressed in socks, pants, jogging bottoms and a long-sleeved T-shirt, now wriggled uncomfortably.

  On one side of his stomach there was a slightly sore patch – too many beans, he suspected.

  Then he found he couldn’t help thinking about his dad, a cheerful and extrovert farter who’d had about fifty different words for the process, Owen’s favourites being ‘humming’ and ‘letting off steam’.

  And he was thinking about the other thing and worrying quite a lot more. He’d thought he’d be able to keep it to himself, make it his own little project, but now he wasn’t so sure.

  Then he saw Ed, in cord trousers and a frazzled old stripy pyjama top, coming into the tent with an old-fashioned storm lantern in one hand and one of Owen’s books in the other.

  ‘Thought you might want this,’ he said, crouching down beside Owen’s sleeping bag and handing over the book. ‘How are you doing? Comfy?’ He looked around: there were three other boys in the other corner of this big Boy-Scout-sized tent.

  ‘Do you think you’ll get any sleep? Or will it be ghost stories all night long?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Owen said.

  ‘But you’re not sleepy yet?’

  ‘No, not yet,’ Owen told him, then promptly gave a huge yawn.

  ‘You’re warm enough though?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Yeah . . . hmmm . . . fine.’

  Something about Owen’s slightly pained face made Ed ask: ‘Sore tummy?’ When this got a nod, he suggested: ‘Too many beans maybe?’

  ‘Yeah . . . too many beans.’

  ‘I’m sure everyone in here will understand if you need to release a little . . .’ he raised an eyebrow, ‘pressure. Just keep your bag pulled tight.’

  This made Owen grin and he suddenly found himself telling Ed: ‘The maps that I made for this trip – the special walk that I’d planned along Even Ridge – I’ve forgotten to bring them. I left them on my bed.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Ed assured him, surprised to see such an anxious look on Owen’s face. ‘We’ll buy an Ordnance Survey first thing in the morning and plot it out with that.’

  ‘Yeah, well, but the thing is . . .’ Owen continued, ‘I’m worried my mum or my sister will find them.’

  ‘Now why would you worry about that?’ Ed asked with a puzzled look.

  ‘Well, you see . . . the thing is . . .’ Owen made a long pause, but Ed gave him such an encouraging look and nod of the head that in a tense little burst of words, he began to explain: ‘It’s about my dad.’

  It wasn’t nearly as hard to
tell someone as he’d expected.

  Ed listened carefully, asked just a question or two, then told Owen he should try and get off to sleep now and have another think about it all in the morning.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Lana goes outdoors:

  Fuchsia rebel girl T-shirt (Camden market)

  Pale grey skater trousers (Quicksilver sale)

  Silver parka (Topshop)

  Fuchsia trainers (Rocket Dog)

  Est. cost: £110

  ‘There’s no way I can tell you about it . . .’

  ‘Mum!’

  There was an unusual note of urgency to Lana’s voice as she walked into Gray’s kitchen, clad in skimpy pink pyjamas and holding out several sheets of paper.

  ‘What is it?’ Annie, still in her dressing gown, uncurled her newly painted fingernails from the mug of coffee she was enjoying in front of the large sunny window. ‘It’s eight fifteen! What are you doing up so early?’ she asked as Lana handed her the pages covered with Owen’s cramped handwriting and intricately detailed pencil drawings.

  ‘Trying to find my iPod, but Owen must have taken it,’ Lana snapped.

  Lana liked to wire up for sound first thing on a Saturday morning, then dive back under the duvet for at least another hour or two.

  Annie leafed through the pages, but couldn’t see what was exciting her daughter so much. ‘These are Owen’s little maps and drawings of the camp-site he’s at with Ed,’ she said.

  The plans were so detailed and so careful – each with a little compass drawn in at the top – she could picture Owen sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over them, tongue poking slightly from the corner of his mouth.

  She felt the wave of worry about him break over her again. The same feeling she’d had as he’d climbed into the dodgy little hatchback Ed had turned up in. Borrowed from a friend, apparently.