Slightly Foxed

by Jane Lovering

  I went to pull the ring off, but although the fit was perfect and it had gone on without any kind of a hitch, suddenly the metal seemed to have shrunk. I pulled and twisted, twisted and pulled, poured washing-up liquid over my finger to such an extent that I worried my hand would froth in the rain, but it remained immovable. What had begun as a charming conceit was now beginning to look actively malign.

  Jace’s eyes widened the following morning as I followed her into the shop. “Alys, you have said yes!”

  I put my hands behind my back. “No, I haven’t. I was just trying it on and look.” I gave a couple of exploratory tugs to reveal the problem.

  “We must remove it.” There was a determined expression in her eye which I didn’t like the look of. “Have you tried washing liquids?”

  “And soap. And butter, lard, motor oil, beef dripping, Vaseline and I even rubbed half a banana on it. I smell like the strangest restaurant in the world and dogs are finding me incredibly attractive.”

  Half an hour of protracted tugging later, even Jace had to admit defeat. She’d gone off in search of a final remedy, and would probably come back with a meat cleaver and two packs of Elastoplast. I began sorting shelves. There had apparently been a small party of schoolchildren in yesterday like a marauding band of antilibrarians.

  “Hey. How’s it going?”

  I snapped around so quickly that my spine made little protesting crackly sounds. “Piers! Hello—oh.”

  Piers stood at the entrance to Fantasy wearing black velvet jeans, a pure white collarless shirt and red cowboy boots. His hair hung loose, he sported enough stubble to highlight his cheekbones and he’d put a couple of studs in each ear. Not that I noticed, you understand. No, my eyes were too busy staring at the girl he was wearing down one side of his body, standing so close they appeared to be occupying the same shoes. “Alys, this is Sarah. Sarah, Alys.”

  The girl and I eyed one another for a moment, then she clearly wrote me off as any kind of potential rival.

  “Hi, Alys.” She even had a sultry, attractive voice, the kind that growls its vowels.

  “Thought—well, coming past, just kinda—you know.” Piers stepped slightly away from Sarah. I could almost see daylight between their bodies. “See, y’know, like, how things are.”

  “Almost a complete sentence there, well done,” I said, slightly tartly. “I’m okay, Piers, thanks. Keeping busy. Is Florrie coming back tonight, do you know?”

  Sarah snuggled against him and I watched his arm curl around her bare midriff with a crystalline feeling somewhere in my stomach. This must be how it feels to have gallstones, I thought distantly, if gallstones were hard and green and comprised mostly of jealousy that I would never again be that slim or have that flat a stomach.

  “Er, sorry Alys, I dunno. I guess I’ll not be over at the house tonight, we’re”—he threw a glance at Sarah, who tossed her predictable blonde hair and giggled—“we’re going to a movie.”

  There was a crushing, squeezing sensation in the region of my heart and I felt slightly breathless. “That’s nice,” I said, with an effort. “Enjoy.” But she was so thin, it would be like having sex with a pipe cleaner.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  Why weren’t they going? I pointedly turned back to my books but had to face them once again when I moved a Frank Herbert from one side to another.

  “So. You’re from Manchester?” I said to Sarah, who was still leaning against Piers whilst he leafed through a Neil Gaiman. His head flicked up.

  “No, I’m from Durham. I’m in York on a placement, got another six weeks to go.”

  I looked at Piers who shrugged.

  “Are you going to buy it or read it here?” I indicated the book. “Only, it’s quite a long story and I notice you didn’t bring sandwiches.”

  Piers was focussed on my hand. “You—you’ve said yes?”

  “Um.” I snatched my arm back and folded it behind me.

  “Oh, Jesus, no. God, Alys, tell me you’re kidding. I mean—” He seemed to grasp around for something to say. “What about—Grainger? Yeah, how’s he gonna feel if you go shooting off to Devon? Poor guy, he’ll be—yeah, he’ll be wrecked.”

  I opened my mouth but no explanations came out and a sense of annoyance crept in. Here he was, flaunting this stick, who had less boobs than your average bloke, and he was getting uptight with me about my choices? “Look, if it’s any of your business I’m still thinking about it.”

  Jacinta chose that moment to come bowling through the door clutching a Brown’s bag. “Alys. I am saluting you!”

  “What?”

  “I have the salution to the problem with your finger.” She noticed Piers and smiled. “Hello, lovely person.”

  Piers didn’t introduce Sarah, I noticed, but said something I didn’t catch. Jace moved smoothly into her native tongue and the two of them undertoned Spanish at each other for a few moments, Piers getting louder and quite emphatic. Finally, Jace muttered something which sounded like que puedo hacer, shrugged, causing this morning’s blouse of ruffles and flounces to cascade across her frontispiece like tidal waves. Piers turned to go.

  “Catch ya later.” He headed for the door with Sarah stapled to his side trying to match his stride. He didn’t turn back and pulled the door closed behind him so firmly that the bell fell off its hook.

  Jace stared after him with a faint frown furrowing her smooth skin. “This is being most strange.”

  “Oh, that was Sarah. Which is odd, because he distinctly told me she was from Manchester, and she told me she’s from Durham.”

  “This is not what I mean. Piers is telling me he is not seeing womans at the moment. He has big thinking to do.”

  “Apparently it’s taken them a while to get it together, maybe that’s why.” I had rarely seen a woman look so much like a girlfriend. Well, less a girlfriend, more a skin graft that talks.

  “Perhaps. Now, do you wish to know how we are saluting your problem?” Without waiting for my answer, Jace wielded the Brown’s bag with a flourish. “Is in here. Look.”

  “Jace, it’s a pair of gardening gloves.”

  “I know.” Jace pushed the gloves under my nose and wobbled in a manner which indicated that if I turned them down she might cry. “You can be using them for concealing your ring.”

  I put the gloves on. They had clearly been designed to prevent the Incredible Hulk from snagging his fingernails. “They’re a bit big.”

  “Then we must remove the bits of fingers.” Jace popped behind the curtain and emerged brandishing Simon’s best scissors. I stood like a rock while Jace snipped the tips off the gardening glove fingers with some effort until I was left wearing something like Alan Titchmarsh’s mittens. “There. Now no one is able to see that you are making a big mistake.”

  God, if I ever did marry Leo, Jace would probably insist on my wearing a full bodysuit. “Er, thank you, Jace.”

  With little clucks of pleasure and self-satisfaction, Jace went back about her work. I tried to carry on sorting out the shelves but it was like having flippers.

  My daughter sprang through the doorway wearing a pink vinyl miniskirt, boots and a top which looked as though it had started life as a feed sack. “Hiya, Mum. Hey, Jace.”

  Jacinta gazed in admiration at Florrie’s outfit. “Florence, where are you buying such amazing skirts? I must be finding some for myself.”

  I widened my eyes in pleading at Florrie. Jace in pink vinyl was best kept purely a vision. “What brings you in here?”

  “Oh, Dad ran me over. Hey, Mum, I got my results.”

  “God yes, it’s GCSE day, isn’t it?” Then, suspiciously, “You said you didn’t want me to come over to the school with you. You said I’d show you up in front of your friends.”

  “Well, duh. I made Dad stay in the car. But, guess what, I got four A’s and three B’s! Isn’t that amazing?”

  “Bloody hell.” I sagged at the knees and had to lean against the counter. “You must have done loads o
f revision—I never saw you.”

  Florence looked at me pityingly. “Mum, no one does revision.”

  I instantly felt like the worst mother in the world again for having forgotten that today was the day the GCSE results came out. “That is absolutely fantastic, Florrie.”

  The three of us linked arms and did a little celebratory dance around the shop, kicking our legs in the air. “So now you can do any A levels you want,” I panted eventually, collapsing out of the dance routine and onto the stool at the desk.

  Florence looked down and flicked her hair over her face. “I dunno. Need to think about—ohmigod. Muuuuuum!”

  During the frenzied prancing, my huge gloves had somehow become detached and Leo’s ring was shining as though someone had poured glycerine over it.

  “Ah,” I said. “Now. There’s a funny story.”

  But Florrie wasn’t listening. She’d grabbed my hand and was turning it this way and that. “Wow. That is so cooooool. When did he ask you? How did he do it, go down on one knee kind of? Oh shit, wow, this is…wheeeeeww, what a day! So you going down to live on the farm?”

  “I thought that was what you wanted to do.”

  “Me?” Florence looked astounded. “Me? But I—well, look, I mean…”

  “All that talk about having a horse and going to work in the stud?”

  A slightly sly look crept over her face. “But what about my A levels?”

  “They have schools in Devon you know. Apparently it’s not all mud huts and tribesmen.”

  “Or I could stay here. Move in with Piers.”

  “Piers was in here with a girlfriend.” Jacinta was still admiring Florrie’s costume from all angles. “Woman who is saying she is his girlfriend.”

  “Oh, come on, Jace. It was like the Siamese-twin show!” I got up and fiddled with papers. “But I don’t think he’ll be overjoyed if you announce you’re intending to move in with him just as he’s got himself nicely settled. Don’t you want to come to Devon with me?”

  Florrie raked her hair back with her immaculately pink painted fingernails. “Mum, Devon is dead. I mean, no dissing Leo or anything but…what would I do in Devon? All my friends are here, Dad is here, Piers, and I want to live my own life. Go out with my mates, chill, go clubbing, you know. I’m not your little kid any more.” I must have recoiled because her voice softened. “I mean, yeah, it sounds really lovely, but I grew out of ponies a while back.”

  “But you and Leo talked about nothing else,” I said indignantly.

  “I was being nice to him.” Florrie was equally indignant. “And besides, Mum.” She lowered her voice. “I’m not sure he does talk about anything else.”

  “This I have also said.” Now Jace had to put her two pennyworth in. “Your mother knows nothings of the tiny horses.”

  “I think he’s lovely. Go for it, Mum.”

  Into this three-way Mexican frown-off walked Simon. “Hello!” he called innocently and was instantly caught in the crossfire of outrage.

  “…not what it looks like…”

  “…be telling her, Simon.”

  “…great idea. I think…”

  “…is not seeing real Alys…”

  “…stupid accident and I haven’t…”

  “Now, girls.” Simon held up a hand. “I think”—we all held our breath, as though waiting for the judgement of Solomon—“that I’m trying to run a bookshop here, so can all this domestic disputation just wait awhile, hmm?”

  Florence sighed hugely. “Well, all right,” she breathed. “I’m going to see if I can find Piers. We’ll talk about this later, Mum.”

  “Don’t get portentous with me, young lady.”

  “Honestly. Can’t you make up your mind and go move to Devon?”

  “It’s not as simple as…”

  Once again Simon held up his hand. “In deference to the situation and the fact that I’m paying you hourly, Alys, save it for later.”

  Florence gave another exaggerated sigh and, with a totally redundant tug at the hem of her skirt, flounced out of the shop. We watched her go, the three of us grouped behind the desk slightly forlornly, like the Teletubbies watching Dipsy emigrate.

  “Is still lovely skirting.” Jace looked rueful.

  “You should buy one. It’d have great pulling potential.”

  Now it was Simon’s turn to sigh dramatically. “Don’t you two ever think about anything else?”

  I looked at Jace who made a little rueful face at me, all downturned mouth and partly raised eyebrows.

  “Really, you should.” I ignored Simon. “There’s apparently this great new speed-dating club opened up in the city.”

  Jacinta rolled her eyes at me and wandered off, a box of books under each arm, towards the back room. I’d miss her. If I moved to Devon, that is. Who the hell would I get to be my best friend? Jay? Isabelle?

  “Um. Alys.” Simon was at my elbow, all hushed voice and bone structure. “What exactly is a speed-dating club?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  At the book group that evening, we were all very subdued. Even Mr. Mansell restrained himself from his normal lecherous pursuit of my bottom and merely patted my hand in a distracted way when I sat next to him. Mrs. James reported that she’d rung the hospital to be told that Mrs. Treadgold was in a coma, and her son and daughter were with her. I didn’t mention my visit, just sat sympathetically while the remaining four shored up Death’s Maginot Line between them with jocular comments and heavy lightheartedness. Mrs. Munroe had baked tonight, but her lemon sponge had become infused with imminent death and refused to rise. So we ate flat citrussy cake without comment and discussed the Booker shortlist without enthusiasm.

  I got home before Florence and began washing up with extreme prejudice. As I scrubbed I wondered about Grainger. Piers had a point. If—when I married Leo, where would he live? Devon was largely ruled out by virtue of the state of Grainger’s unreliable bowels, Leo’s dislike of cats and Leo’s dogs. Would Florrie look after him? Alasdair wouldn’t let him in his house either, pleading Tamar’s allergies. It seemed Tamar was allergic to anything with a value in single figures. Piers? Maybe it would be kinder to… No. I’d let him see through his recent indisposition rather than face putting him to sleep. I certainly couldn’t justify it simply to save myself the difficulties of rehoming or moving him.

  The front door banged open and shut. I hastily pushed the as-yet-unwashed dishes into the sink and wiped my eyes on the back of my hand. “Hi, Florrie, I’m in here.”

  “Hi Mum!” Florrie’s voice sailed through, followed by:

  “Hey, Alys.”

  “Piers!” I quickly checked my appearance in the reflection off the kettle. If the wraithlike Sarah was with them, I didn’t want to look like the dandelion in the flowerbed. “What brings you here?”

  “Met up in town.” Piers came wandering through to the kitchen and took a biscuit from the jar on the side.

  “Sarah not with you? Thought you were going to the pictures?”

  “We were. But, hey, y’know, shit happens.” Piers went back out into the hallway. “I brought you something.”

  “You did what?”

  Florrie came bowling through in his place. “Oh Mum, it’s so cute. Oh you wait, you’re going to love this.”

  You think? I thought, my heart zigzagging through my chest at the thought of Piers bringing me anything which might be called cute. Especially when Florence’s idea of cute encompassed teddies in sweaters bearing slogans, brushed angora dresses and Jake Gyllenhaal.

  Piers appeared in the doorway, framed artfully by the domestic chaos. In one hand he held a plastic basket which barely contained a furious Grainger and in the other…

  “Oh, Piers.” The kitten butted against his chin and nestled against the open neck of his shirt. It was minute. “Grainger must think it’s supper.” I half-laughed, with a wobble in my voice. Grainger gave a low growl, which could have meant anything and the kitten shrilled a high-pitched note.


  Florrie was jumping up and down on the spot, clapping her hands. “Can I hold him now, Piers? You promised, when we got home you said…can I?”

  Piers casually tipped the kitten into her outstretched hands where it wibbled to gain purchase and let out another weeeeeee-uuuuuww. “I kinda thought—if Grainger…y’know—if he—went…”

  “Yes, I get the picture.” I took the basket from Piers, our fingers contacting on the sweaty plastic handle. Piers was looking at me in a way which made me suspect he knew Leo didn’t much like cats. “It’s very kind of you. Picking up Grainger. I could have done it, you know.”

  “I don’t think Big G is really up for public transport yet.” Piers unclipped the door to the plastic cage and Grainger wobbled uncertainly out onto the carpet. “Thought it’d be best. Y’know.”

  I bent down and put my arms around Grainger. He gave me a brief head-butt, then bit my nose in an experimental way. I hugged him. “Well, it’s still kind.”

  We both stared at the kitten. He was a little ball of honey-coloured fluff, about the size of Grainger’s head. “They were going to put him down,” Piers said without looking at me. “Just kill him without a thought. He hadn’t even had a chance. So I decided, what the hell.”

  “Piers gave them a hundred pounds,” Florence said casually. “To let him take the kitten. I’m going to call him Caspar, cos he’s like a little ghost. Aren’t you, sweetie?” The kitten looked inscrutable. Piers looked embarrassed. I must have looked horrified because Florrie leaped back in. “You’ve been saying about getting another cat, Mum, haven’t you? Piers asked if I thought you’d mind, and I said you’ve been on about it for ages.”

  “Florrie, I’ve also been saying that I’d like Johnny Depp stripped and posted to me, but you know, sometimes you have to think about these things. Properly.” I let Grainger go and he began a shaky stalk around the room, tail waving uncertainly.

  “Why don’t you take Caspar out the back for a whizz, Flo? Then you can introduce him to Grainger properly.” Piers almost shoved Florence out of the door then spun on his heel, collecting another custard cream as he did so. “So, Alys?”