She waves away my protest, sending her bracelets tinkling merrily. ‘It’s all right. There’s no need to fuss over me.’
How thoughtless can I be, when Dot’s only been off crutches for a few weeks?
We thought we’d lost her a few months ago. And I do mean that in the scary sense of the phrase.
Thank goodness for the rhododendrons that cushioned Dot’s landing when she tumbled from her window. Otherwise she might have broken a lot more than her leg and her arm.
I still don’t know what made her think she should try washing her own windows. Granted, we’ve had storms lately and they’re not as crystal clear as they might be. But she could have asked for someone to give them a wipe. Nick would have been the first one up that ladder.
Dot’s independent streak is a mile wide, though. Plus, she’s super polite and hates to put anybody out. Which was why she climbed out her window with a roll of kitchen towel and a squirty bottle of Windolene.
‘I didn’t think anything of it,’ she’d said, once the plaster casts had set and she was safely back from A&E, resting at ground level in one of the wing-backed chairs in the lounge. ‘I’ve always washed my own windows. Though I did live in a bungalow then.’
She bought that bungalow herself by saving every bit possible from her teacher’s salary – whatever was left over after paying the rent and the bills and single-handedly raising her two sons.
This place is full of very capable women like Dot, there’s no doubt about that. But some aren’t as agile as they once were. If Dot – who’s got all her marbles and then some – thinks nothing of freestyle window cleaning, then I’m afraid to think where Laney might be right now.
‘I’m sure Laney’s not hurt!’ I tell everyone again.
‘We’ll just check the greenhouse,’ Nick adds, flashing me a smile that sends my downstairs aflutter. ‘Meanwhile, maybe someone could check out front? Look at that sun. She might have put her bikini on to work on her tan.’
This launches the women into hysterics, but Nick manages to keep a straight face. That’s more than I can say for myself. I’m such an easy audience.
‘That’ll keep them occupied for a few minutes,’ he says as the entire room clears. He holds open one of the French doors leading off the lounge. ‘After you,’ he says as I step onto the wide patio that runs along the entire back of the house.
It’s a big house, with nearly thirty bedrooms. Proper Downton Abbey proportions. It rambles off on both sides from a three-storey central building where the grand entrance, dining room and lounges are. There’s even room in the middle of the entrance hall for a pedestal table with a giant urn of lilies or sunflowers or that curly bamboo. A wide oak staircase winds up one side of the hall to the bedrooms upstairs and further on into the eaves, where the staff would have lived in olden times. More bedrooms pack the wing on one side, with my kitchen on the ground floor of the other and bedrooms above.
Max, our boss, didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in his mouth, despite living in this place. His father, Terrible Terence, worked in accounting and his mum, Mrs Greene, was the town’s librarian. It was her family who passed down the house from days of yore, but she moved herself, Max and Terence out to the cottage at the back – which is still the size of a normal house – when she opened the care home.
That was nearly two decades ago. June says that applications have been pretty sporadic these past few years, and that’s got Max worried. He has tried advertising outside the area but, unless their parents are like Terence, most people want to keep their family nearby.
I glance over at Terence’s cottage as Nick and I walk towards the greenhouse. There’s no sign of him. Good. The residents are worried enough without him stirring the pot.
Nick is walking slightly ahead of me. Not because he’s rude. He’s just worried about Laney being out here, though I doubt she is. Laney might be daft most of the time, but she knows what she likes, and she likes her creature comforts. She wouldn’t sit in a draughty greenhouse full of spiders. She’s in the house. Somewhere.
Nick’s keenness gives me the chance to watch him as he strides across the lawn. I haven’t passed up that chance once since he started work here six months ago. You’d think I’d have him memorised by now.
Who am I kidding? I do.
I’m still amazed that Nick is working here. June would normally handle all our hiring, but Max was the one who found Nick for us. Our old occupational therapist left when her husband got sent to Germany for work. Unsurprisingly, June didn’t get a huge queue of candidates looking to work for a care home in a little market town in Suffolk.
That’s where we are, in Framlingham. We’re not that far from Norwich or Ipswich, but it feels a million miles away. It’s pretty and it’s home, but it doesn’t exactly scream ‘career opportunity’ to many people.
Also, because Max never passes up the chance to stretch his staff’s duties where he can, the job wasn’t strictly related to occupational therapy. You should have seen the brief June had to work with. The job description read like a holiday camp brochure. Our boss reasoned that OT wasn’t miles different from physical therapy (it is), and physical therapy includes exercising and stretching – which may as well be aerobics and yoga – as well as brain-sharpening activities. Scrabble uses the brain, so he wanted his new hire to run games nights too.
June didn’t waste any time ringing Nick for an interview when Max gave her his CV.
‘Wow, he’s fit,’ I’d whispered when he turned up. I was glad June was doing the interview. I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate. My unprofessionalism was boundless from day one.
‘Plus, he’s got a first,’ she answered. ‘Plus, the perfect qualifications.’
Plus, look at him, I’d thought.
You know those adverts where the tanned, shirtless guy tantalisingly licks the yogurt pot lid and makes you want to eat Bifidus activertium, or whatever it’s called, every day? That. Only he didn’t need any props to lick.
He’d strode right up to us. Blimey, what confidence he seemed to have. It was a bluff. Best foot forward for an interview and all that. He’s no peacock, but a shy bird like me. ‘I’m Nick Parsons. I have an eleven o’clock interview?’ He glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Sorry, I’m early. That’s annoying, isn’t it. I did wait outside for a bit, but it started raining.’
When he smiled apologetically, I wanted to hug him.
‘How long have you been out there?’ June asked. Nick’s hair was soaked. Even so, it was a thick wavy mop.
‘About an hour. Hour and a half, tops.’ Then he laughed at himself. ‘I nearly camped overnight in your garden. My own sad little Glastonbury, without the music.’
‘And not even Portaloos,’ I said. ‘I’m glad it didn’t come to that.’
‘I wanted to make sure I wasn’t late. I’m… keen for this job.’
June hired him in the interview. She got her perfect employee, and I got a blinding crush that I still haven’t recovered from.
Within about a week it seemed like Nick had always been here. He’s so easy-going that he’s doing everything in Max’s unreasonable job description, and then some. Aside from being the occupational therapist, Scrabble organiser, exercise and yoga instructor, he’s also the part-time gardener, driver and handyman. No matter what Max asks him to do, Nick throws himself into it without a grumble.
This is great for me, since we haven’t got a dedicated games table, therapy room or exercise studio. There are TVs in each of the two lounges, and woe betide anyone who disrupts the viewing schedules, so Nick uses the large dining room that’s just off my kitchen. Which means we spend most of our days together. Or at least separated by only a wall.
To say we don’t get much eye candy around here would be an understatement. Aside from our boss, Max (mid-fifties, not bad-looking if paunchy baldness turns you on), and his horrid father who lives in the cottage at the back of the property, and Davey, the Morrison’s delivery bloke, we’re all women he
re. Even the half-dozen carers who are on hand to help everyone with their day-to-day needs. The residents like it that way. That is why they live in a women-only home.
They love Nick, though. Who wouldn’t? He’s fifty per cent Greek and one hundred per cent Greek god. He is well over six feet tall and built like a swimmer, and somehow his features combine into the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen in real life. They shouldn’t, really. He might have a finely chiselled jaw and high cheekbones, with a smile that’s absolutely impossible not to return when you see it, plus heart-meltingly deep brown eyes. But his eyebrows are caterpillar-thick and his nose is definitely Grecian so, objectively, I know he’s not really perfect.
Just perfect to me.
What I wouldn’t give to run my fingers through his silky-looking nearly black hair, preferably while we’re in a passionate clinch and he’s telling me how gorgeous I am.
If only he were dim, or mean or boring. Then my life would be loads easier.
But he’s not, and it isn’t. Nick hit me like a triple shot of ouzo, with all the fire in my tummy but none of the nasty after-effects… well, at least not right away. Let’s just say it was a delayed hangover.
The sad fact is, I love him and there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about that.
‘You don’t really think she’s out here, do you?’ Nick says accusingly as he slows down for me to catch up.
Of course he knows this is just another attempt to be near him. ‘She could be.’
‘Uh-huh. When was the last time Laney went outside for anything other than tea on the lawn? Admit it, this is just an excuse.’
I’m admitting nothing. ‘Mmm?’ I should have expected this. I’ve been about as subtle as a sledgehammer.
‘It’s too nice to be inside,’ he goes on with a sly smile. ‘Look at that sky. How can we not want to enjoy it? You’ve got spring fever.’
‘This is August.’
‘It’s overdue, then. This is my favourite month.’
‘You said that in March when the clocks went forward. And in June when the roses came out.’
He shrugs. ‘I’m easy when it comes to my calendar affections. Let’s get outside for lunch today. Even for half an hour or so. It’s supposed to rain all weekend. What do you say? I don’t have yoga till two.’
I nearly laugh with the relief. ‘Right, yes, great idea. I’ll put together some bits. There’s leftover quiche, and I can do that smoked aubergine dip. It doesn’t take long. And the sourdough will be out of the oven in half an hour.’
When he grins, the laugh lines crinkle from the corners of his eyes. ‘You know the way to a man’s heart.’
If only that were true.
‘I’m sure Laney will turn up,’ I tell him as we near the greenhouse. ‘If she’s not in there, we can have another look through the house together.’
I told you I was shameless.
And just to show that no evil deed goes unpunished, my tummy twists as Nick opens the glass door.
‘Ooh.’ That hurts.
He turns back to me. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Just my tummy. I’ll be fine.’
Leave it to my ulcer to ruin the moment. Not that standing around in a dirty shed is much of a moment, but I’m working with what I can get. ‘She’s not in here,’ I say, peering at the compost bags like she could be hiding in one. ‘I think we should check inside again.’
What did I expect to happen here, anyway? That overcome with emotion and the smell of damp, Nick would leap over the strimmer and declare his love?
That ship sailed months ago.
June catches my eye as I hurtle down the hall towards the kitchen and my medicine. Her look is pure sympathy.
When it first started happening, I assumed it was just indigestion. That can be an occupational hazard as a cook. But eventually, when the pain went on and on, I had to look for another diagnosis.
I found it, but not before I’d humiliated myself in front of Nick and ruined any chance of him ever asking me out again.
‘Feeling better?’ June asks when I get back to find that Laney still hasn’t turned up. ‘Max left. He didn’t notice anything amiss.’
‘Fine, thanks.’ Or at least I will be in a few minutes, once the pain relief kicks in. To be fair to Mum, she didn’t really give me an ulcer, as much as I like to claim otherwise. Doctors used to think that stress and hot food cause them, but they don’t. They just aggravate ones that are already there thanks to too many anti-inflammatory drugs or, in my case, a weasely little bugger of a bacteria. Helicobacter pylori, to give it its official name. It’s supposed to clear up now that I’m on antibiotics.
‘Have we checked everyone’s room?’ I ask June. ‘Maybe Laney is upstairs.’
She nods. ‘I sent everyone back to their room to look for her. They’ve all come back now and still no sign.’
Nick had set up the Scrabble boards before we noticed Laney’s disappearance, and some of the residents have started their games.
As we scan the large dining room, June says, ‘What about Maggie?!’
Of course. Maggie’s not down here. Hers is the only room that hasn’t been checked. ‘I don’t suppose you want to go look?’ I ask June.
When she shakes her head, her blonde curls bob around her face. Growing up, I wanted her corkscrews. Unlike the rest of us, she never played the I-hate-my-hair-I’ll-trade-for-yours game. She knew she got lucky there.
‘Draw straws for it?’ I offer.
‘I was the one who brought up her bill yesterday.’ She rubs her bicep like she’s been punched.
As if Maggie would deign to actually touch another person. ‘Fine. Coward. I’ll go.’
‘Nick?’ June calls over, innocent as you please. ‘We think Laney might be in Maggie’s room. Do you want to go with Phoebe to check?’
She flashes me a smile as the residents fall in behind us. No one wants to miss an excuse to see Maggie.
She’s going to love this.
Maggie lives in the only occupied room at the top of the house. None of the others want to trudge up all those stairs every day.
There is a lift – Max’s mother had it installed – but it’s tiny, slow and makes a worrying jolt when it stops, so nobody goes in it unless they have to.
‘Maggie won’t like the invasion,’ I murmur to Nick as we lead the senior parade up the stairs. ‘I wish she’d use her mobile like everyone else.’ It’s no use ringing ahead to warn her.
We try to keep everyone connected by mobile. Most of the residents love their phones and a few of them are better at text-speak LOLs and LMFAOs than I am. They’re no substitute for face-to-face friendships, but they do mean that no one has to be isolated if she’s not feeling well enough to be downstairs with everyone else.
Maggie’s not interested in being with everyone else. She lives in her room. Which is why the women are creeping towards it like they’re about to spot a unicorn.
Nick knocks gently on the door. ‘Maggie? It’s only Nick. May I come in?’
When he puts a steadying hand on my shoulder, I want to lean into him. Of course, I don’t do that. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. It’s just not appropriate anymore.
‘Come!’ Maggie orders.
With the ladies so keen to get a good look at Maggie, we all nearly fall through the door.
‘To what do I owe this… visit?’ she asks from her deep blue velvet sofa. Though her voice isn’t loud, it won’t be ignored. She holds herself so upright that she could be wearing a back brace. Her narrow, regal face barely moves when she speaks. It’s unnerving, like suddenly having a marble statue demand what you think you’re doing in its museum.
She’s dressed as usual in swingy black wide-legged trousers, like they used to wear in the seventies. As a rare fashion concession to Mum, I once tried on a pair of M&S ones. I looked like an extra-wide loft board standing on end, but Maggie has the tall, slender figure to pull them off. They swirl around her legs as she re-crosses them. Her blouse is per
fectly pressed, white and stiff. Much like the woman herself. Everything about Maggie seems metallic, from her short iron-grey hair to her steely blue eyes to her cold, imperious voice that can cut you in half.
The only hint that she might have a softer side – possibly only seen under a microscope – is the selection of long, flowy brightly patterned silk cardigans that she always wears over her trousers and top, with the most gorgeous floral lapis lazuli brooch pinned on. It’s always the same blue one.
Laney is sitting in the stiff reading chair facing the sofa. ‘Oh, hello,’ she says. When she smiles, a few of the women wave back at her.
‘Maybe you should wait outside?’ I suggest, gently pushing them back over the threshold. Maggie’s fridge face has turned to deep freeze. ‘We were just looking for Laney,’ I say to Maggie.
‘I’m here!’ Laney sings, grinning and squeezing her shoulders to her ears. Her tawny brown eyes are creased in a smile, as usual, as if she’s eager to hear the most hilarious punchline. She and Maggie couldn’t be more opposite. Where Maggie is sharp-edged, Laney is soft, though she’s not fat. Everything about her oozes warmth, from the top of her head – she wears her hair in short wavy golden-brown layers – to the tips of her toes, poking out from the bottoms of her frayed jeans and shod in shiny blue Converse high-tops.
‘You’ve got your mobile off, Laney,’ says Nick. ‘We were getting worried. We thought you might have run away.’
Her smile disappears. ‘Oh, is my phone off? I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to worry anyone. I’d never run away from here! Not in a million years.’
The women behind us, who are still jostling in the doorway for a good look, all start murmuring.
‘Run away from here? Who’d want to do that?’
‘All my friends… Love you—’
‘I can’t imagine—’
‘They’ll take me away from here in a box—’
‘I was just…’ Laney’s eyes search the ceiling for the answer. ‘I guess I got distracted. I am sorry.’
‘But why would you…’ want to be with Maggie? I start to ask. I can’t keep the surprise out of my voice, but Maggie is tetchy enough without hinting that it would take wild horses to drag me to her room, so I don’t finish. ‘As long as you’re okay,’ I say instead. ‘We’ll leave you to your visit.’
The Not So Perfect Plan to Save Friendship House Page 3
