Just a Girl, Standing in Front of a Boy

by Lucy-Anne Holmes

  Doris laughs. I panic. It was the laughing that did it earlier.

  ‘Doris, lovely, I don’t think you should be laughing,’ I say, leaning over her.

  ‘Oh, Fanny, if you can’t laugh, you’re buggered.’

  ‘I agree,’ I say.

  ‘Sit down, Fanny, I want to talk to you.’

  I pull the visitor’s chair around so I can sit away from the window and face Doris instead.

  ‘So, have they told you what the matter is?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to talk about my health. I tell you, Fanny, you get past eighty and that’s all anyone wants to talk to you about. It used to be sex, it used to be politics, then all of a sudden it’s blood pressure and feet.’

  ‘Shall we talk about sex then?’

  ‘Oh ho, you! Now, Fanny, love, fetch me my bag out of the cupboard there. Fanny, I want to give you something.’

  I do as I’m told and pass her her red leather handbag. She puts on her glasses and appears very industrious all of a sudden. She locates a pen and then her cheque book.

  ‘Doris, what are you doing?’

  ‘Wheel that little table up here for me to lean on, will you?’

  I hop up from my chair and do so.

  ‘Doris, what are you doing?’

  ‘I’m writing you a cheque.’

  ‘Doris, I don’t need money.’

  ‘You will though, love,’ she says, looking at me over the top of her glasses. ‘One day, when I’ve popped me clogs. I want you to organise my funeral.’

  ‘Oh, Doris! Don’t talk like this!’

  ‘Take it,’ she says, ripping the cheque out along its serrated edge and holding it towards me.

  ‘Five grand!’ I exclaim. ‘Doris!’

  ‘Port’s not cheap,’ she says. ‘Sadly. And even cheap fizz isn’t cheap. And I want everyone to get legless.’

  ‘Doris, what about your family?’

  ‘Fanny, you know how to party, and you know what I want. And I don’t trust them not to give me some ghastly afternoon tea affair at the golf club.’

  I shiver at the mention of the golf club. Doris is pointing at me now. ‘If there’s money left over perhaps get some of those drinks you like, landmines or whatever they’re called.’

  ‘Jägerbombs,’ I correct her.

  ‘That’s the one. I like the sound of them. I want a party, Fanny. For all of us what come in the surgery. Everyone. Shame I won’t be there.’

  ‘Why don’t we just have a party, Doris? And not wait for you to pop your clogs.’

  ‘Nah! It’s my Big Send Off. And I know I can trust you, Fanny.’

  Suddenly Al slides along the central aisle of the ward, doing that slash neck gesture that is supposed to signal cut, but instead looks like a six foot five man skidding along a ladies’ OAP ward having a psychiatric episode. Philippa and Al have been on Steve and Michelle Wilmot lookout. I had to enlist the mustekeers on this one. There was no way I wanted to bump into Steve and Michelle. They must have just arrived. This is my cue to leave smartish.

  ‘Doris, I need to shoot. That’s my lift,’ I say, springing up and giving her a quick peck on the cheek.

  ‘And don’t forget, Fanny, that mouth of yours is for smiling, OK?’ I catch her saying as Al literally pulls me away by my arm. We race down the corridor.

  ‘Al, you legend,’ I call to his back. He doesn’t answer but he does stop abruptly, causing me to bump into his back. Then he pulls me through some double doors and gestures for me to stand back against the wall for a moment. I do so, but not before I’ve spotted two people walking along the corridor we’ve just left.

  How clever are eyes? My eyes only fell upon Mr and Mrs Wilmot for a second at the max and yet I saw so much. I saw Steve Wilmot, ten years on. He’s bigger than he was. He’s filled out, the ladies in the surgery would say. There’s a cuddliness to him that was never there before. The cheeky twinkle he used to have in his eye isn’t there either, but then he has come to the hospital to see his nan, so he’s hardly going to be scooting about in search of mischief. He would be twenty-seven, like me, but I’d say he looks older. There are lines on his forehead and around his mouth. He looks a little world weary, a touch beaten. But he’s not unattractive, far from it. God, I used to adore him. There were a few feet between him and Michelle. She has hardly changed at all. She’s a tad fatter, but then she has had two kids. Two girls. A nine-year-old, Stacey, and a three-year-old, Georgie. Doris kept me fully informed about ‘her gorgeous girls’. Michelle’s still attractive. She’s a yummy mummy, not in the plummy, posh sense, more of an Essex yummy mummy who’d try to borrow her daughter’s jeans. She’s wearing jeggings and Ugg boots and a tight T-shirt that shows off her big boobs. She has that tarty plumpness to her, the type that boys like. Although she’s dressed down she’s made-up. Dark eyes and red lips set in a pout. She still looks hard. I don’t know why that surprises me. I’d always wondered whether she was just a cow at school because of teenage hormones, and once they’d settled down she might have become softer, less bulldog, more King Charles spaniel. But no, she’s still very much bulldog, perhaps even more so. I wonder what sort of mother she is, what sort of friend she is, what sort of lover she is. Steve was a lovely lover.

  ‘Bastard,’ I mutter as Al and I stand flat against a wall waiting until they’ve definitely passed down the corridor.

  ‘I could go and hit him for you, Fanny,’ Al offers.

  ‘Nah, best not, his nan’s ill.’

  ‘Well, I’ll keep the offer open for you, Fan. Day or night, if you change your mind, I’m your man.’

  ‘Thanking you kindly.’

  ‘I think the coast is clear,’ he says, holding the door open for me.

  We walk to the lift. Me trying not to look out of the windows, Al chattering away.

  ‘I think we should find a proper musketeer theme tune, that we can all hum, or have quietly playing on our phones when we’re out on a mission,’ Al conjectures.

  I smile. We stand waiting for the lift and I take my phone from my bag to check it for messages.

  Just the one. It’s from Matt.

  I haven’t cancelled anything to do with the wedding. I can’t bring myself to. Can we talk? Xx

  He couldn’t look at me when I saw him before. I stare at the text not knowing how to respond until the lift door opens and Al says, ‘Come on, FanTastic. Philippa’s got my car round the front for a quick getaway.’ Then I put the phone and the unanswered text back in my bag.

  Chapter 38

  ‘Ladies! Ladies, ladies,’ Al looks at Philippa, Mum and me in turn. ‘Help me out here,’ he implores. ‘Undivided attention tonight! I beg you. At least for the general knowledge round.’

  ‘You’re quite sexy when you’re firm, Al,’ Philippa says, leaning forward across the table towards him and pouting.

  ‘Philippa, Gemma’s coming along later, you’re not to flirt with me,’ he wags his finger at her.

  ‘Oh! Now I really want to flirt with you!’ she sulks.

  ‘I’ve been available for flirting for years, Philippa,’ he says smugly.

  ‘But having a lady makes you so phenomenally attractive.’

  ‘Well, I know and I’m sorry. But I’m taken,’ he sings.

  ‘Will, um, Joe and Felicity be coming as well?’ I ask, extremely casually.

  ‘So subtle, Fan. Super subtle,’ Philippa splutters.

  I cough the word ‘cow’ back.

  ‘Not that I know of, sorry, Fan,’ Al says, rather apologetically.

  ‘Why are you sorry?’

  ‘Oh, just because, you know, you fancy the pants off the man.’ Al winks at me affectionately.

  Al and Philippa haven’t been able to hide their glee at the fact I’m no longer going to marry Matt. When I think of Matt I feel this knot in my tummy. I don’t want to go back to him, but his texts make me feel guilty. I’m ignoring them, which I know isn’t the best way. Oh dear, Al’s right – I do fancy the pants off Joe King but I won’t
let him know that. I scrunch my face up as though he’s talking nonsense and try not to dwell on the picture of Joe King in his pants that’s forming in my mind.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  They both start laughing.

  ‘Why are Philippa and Al laughing, darling?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Loonies the pair of them.’ I shrug.

  ‘Do you fancy the pants off this chap?’

  ‘YES!’ shrieks Philippa.

  ‘He’s seeing someone,’ I protest.

  ‘We don’t know that for a fact,’ Al reasons. ‘Anyway, Gemma will have the lowdown, if there is any.’

  ‘He’s with Felicity,’ I try to say the name of Joe’s big-breasted friend kindly. I try but I’m not entirely successful. ‘I’m not getting involved. I can’t. Rules of the Sisterhood.’

  Al pretends to fall off his chair at the mention of the sisterhood word.

  ‘This young man you’re talking about… Is this the love-at-first-sight man?’

  I open my eyes wide. ‘M-u-u-u-m!’

  ‘Did you tell your mum you fell in love at first sight w —?’ Philippa pants.

  ‘Well, er, no, she just asked me if I believed in love at first sight, and I felt that was a very telling question,’ my mum blusters.

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I attempt to sound peeved but really I’m trying to suppress a small smile. I love the closeness that’s developed between Mum and me.

  ‘Love at first sight! My friend, Fanny FanTastic! Miss I Want A Nice Sensible Love! This requires a toast. Stand up you lot.’ Philippa picks up her glass and springs to her feet. Then she looks down at the rest of us who have remained seated. ‘Like now, actually get up. Come on!’ She hauls Al by up the shirt.

  Eventually we all stand huddled round our small table.

  ‘To Fanny FanTastic and her bits finally twitching!’ she shouts.

  Everyone raises their glasses.

  ‘I will totally twat you all.’

  ‘Hello, hello, what’s going on here?’ A familiar voice shouts over our noise. I smile. Philippa is instantly in her bag taking out her lipgloss.

  It’s Disgruntled Dave and he’s only grinning!

  ‘Hello, how are you? I didn’t know you were still in these parts,’ I say, pulling a stool from the table behind us so Disgruntled Dave can join us. ‘Sorry, Dave, this is my mum, Pam, my flatmate, Al, and you know Philippa.’

  Oh, go, Philippa. Beautiful eye-to-eye contact with a smile. If I had a hat I would doff it to her genius.

  ‘And Al takes the pub quiz very seriously, so when it gets going please help him ’cos us three will just want to talk about boys.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Al. I love a pub quiz. Do you mind me joining your team.’

  ‘Please do,’ I say. ‘I thought you’d left the bright lights of Nunstone when you finished filming with Marge.’

  ‘Yeah, I did, I went back to London, but there are still a few shots I need to get of outside locations and whatnot, so I might be toing and froing back here a little.’ His eyes dart to Philippa. Oh, bless him. ‘Which actually suits me, because there’s a little project of my own I’d like to get cracking on.’

  ‘Oh, what’s that?’ Philippa says, circling the rim of her wine glass with her finger.

  ‘Well, it might come to nothing, but, a strange thing happened to me when I was working here. I was given a note.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I say, my voice a little higher than normal. I keep my eyes fixed on Dave.

  ‘What sort of note?’ It’s Philippa speaking, well, squeaking. I can’t risk a look in her direction. She might start on the silent rocking.

  ‘Well, I was a bit of moody bugger, when I was here before, I’d been out in Guatemala filming with indigenous communities for nearly eighteen months, came back and did this BBC Three thing to help out a friend. But I wished I hadn’t said I’d do the job. So I was a bit of a stroppy sod. Anyway, the note was really quite sweet. It said I notice you don’t look too happy. I was down for a while. It may sound weird but now I do these things on this list. Here you are, it may help you too.

  ‘Oh, that’s nice.’ Mum smiles.

  ‘Yeah,’ I agree.

  ‘Sweet,’ chimes Philippa.

  ‘But it was anonymous. A mystery if you like. And I love a mystery.’

  ‘So are you going to discover who sent it?’ Mum’s getting excited.

  ‘Yes, I hope to. I thought there might be a nice little story there. If there are other notes it could be a little human-interest piece I could film one day. I was going to track you down, actually, Philippa. I remembered you saying you wrote for the local paper and I wondered whether we could put something in the paper to see if anyone else has received a note.’

  Philippa hurriedly takes a pen out of her bag and starts scribbling her number on a beer mat. I just sit blinking as I wonder how many notes we’ve written over the years. It has to be hundreds.

  ‘Oh, oh! Dave!’ Mum is literally jumping out of her seat.

  ‘Yes, Pam.’

  ‘If you ever did make a film these girls could present it for you!’

  ‘Oh, why, do you two…?’ Dave turns to us.

  ‘They are terrific! I’ve got a showreel tape I can give you to watch of the two of them.’

  ‘M-u-u-u-m. A showreel. You’ve got a showreel.’

  ‘Yes, I got some copies made of the video that Al made of you girls doing the Tiddlesbury Tour. I thought it might be nice to give to people.’

  ‘Not that big box?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That couldn’t have been just a few DVDs.’

  How long does it take for women to go through the crazy marriage break-up stage? Or how long does a midlife last? Should I be talking to someone about Mum’s behaviour? I don’t like to talk to Dr Flemming because Mum blew him out. But she’s not right. If she bought an entire box full of DVDs of Philippa and me doing the Tiddlesbury Tour then she’s definitely not right. I mean, that’s bonkers. If she had meant to order just the one and accidentally ordered a hundred then fair enough. But I think she really meant to order them all. What’s she going to do with them? I’ve got this dreadful feeling she’s sending them to distant relatives. What if one is a policeman? I mention Damien the Dealer. He might get arrested. If the Tiddlesbury dope smokers found out I was responsible I’d be hounded out of town.

  ‘Anyway, Dave, write your address down for me and I’ll send you one,’ Mum says, completely ignoring me, the daughter she’s brazenly pimping. ‘You’ll see they’re very talented and funny and beautiful.’

  “Well, I can see that,’ Disgruntled Dave says, looking at Philippa.

  ‘Honestly, Dave.’ Mum is nodding intently.

  ‘They are, mate. They’re hilarious together. It’s something to behold,’ Al says.

  ‘Well, I’ll take a look at your showreel, by all means. Although, I’m not sure whether this idea will ever get off the ground. There might not be any other notes. It’s just a hunch. But I’m sure you two could be fantastic. And the producers at BBC Three loved Fanny when they saw her on the pilot.’

  ‘Did they?’ Mum nearly falls off her chair.

  ‘Yeah, she’s great on camera.’

  Mum’s expired. I finally look at Philippa, she’s begun to silently rock.

  Chapter 39

  It’s Wednesday. Joe King’s party isn’t until Saturday. How am I supposed to get through the days? Every time I’ve met Joe King in the past it’s been in a random, bumping-into-each-other way. But now I know, I actually know, I’ll be seeing him on Saturday. It’s very hard to think of anything else.

  From what Al gleaned from Gemma, it seems that Joe King and Felicity have seen each other a few times, but so far no kissing. So Rules of the Sisterhood say I should stay away. But even if this wasn’t a sisterhood situation I should still steer clear. Joe King terrifies me. Imagine loving and losing Joe King. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Although, I still can’t wait to see his gorgeous smiling face. It’s
all I can think about. I haven’t even been reading, just daydreaming.

  It’s Wednesday afternoon so I’m home early. Home alone, in fact. Mum’s nowhere to be found, which can only be a worry.

  I’m tiptoeing into my room. No idea why. There’s no one else is in the flat and it’s my room. I turn on the light and stand properly on my feet.

  ‘Hello, lovely clothes,’ I say as though they’re chubby gurgling babies.

  I sit on the bed for a moment to ponder. I’m not going to dress up on Saturday. The rules state that I shouldn’t tart up, because Joe and I have flirted in the past, but now he’s with Felicity, so I must step aside. Technically though I am single and it is a party, so I could tart up in the hope of meeting someone else. But I have no interest in meeting anyone else. How could I flirt with someone else with Joe King in the room? I couldn’t. I flop forward and sigh. Having a monumental crush on Joe King is exhausting, there’s just so much to think about. I hardly ever think about Matt, except when he texts, and then I just feel guilty and don’t answer. I’m all in a whirl for Joe King. It can’t be normal.

  ‘What shall I wear?’ I whisper. I can’t believe I’m doing this on a Wednesday.

  I stand up and walk to the black corner. I spot a dress I’d forgotten I had. It’s a faded black T-shirt dress that falls off one shoulder. It’s fits well, although it’s not too clingy and it’s not at all glam. But it has a big heart that looks like it’s been drawn in chalk across the chest. That’s the one. I pull it off the hanger and throw it on the bed, smiling. Philippa will no doubt have much to say about the fact I’m turning up to Joe King’s house with a bloody great heart emblazoned across my chest.

  Then I turn, and I find myself looking at Mum’s belongings. I was only able to give her a drawer, everything else she’s kept in her cases. They lie one on top of the other at the end of the bed. The massive box that must contain DVDs of me stands next to them, it’s open, its cardboard wings stand upward. I push them apart and peer in the box. A pile of small jiffy bags and a piece of paper slide slowly out and onto the floor. I knew it. She’s jiffy bagging them up and sending them to people. I put the jiffys back in the box and pick up the piece of paper. It’s full of names and addresses. I was so right. Mum’s writing is quite a scribble. I don’t recognise any of the names though, and most of the addresses are in London. She can’t do this to me or Damien the Dealer. I leave the box as I found it. And then I turn my attention to her case. I start to pull back one of the zips. The case is tightly filled and it’s quite tricky to undo but I manage to pull it back a few inches. All I see is a white paper bag like you get from the chemist, but then I quickly re-zip the bag closed. I shouldn’t be snooping on my mother. I turn the light off and hurry out of the room.