The Not So Perfect Plan to Save Friendship House: An uplifting romantic comedy

by Lilly Bartlett

‘So, you promise you won’t freeze him out again after dinner?’

  Her look turns to pure filth. ‘There’s no frost in tonight’s forecast,’ she says, just as her phone buzzes. ‘That’s him!’

  As we leave the loo, I spot the new ‘Ladies’ sign Nick screwed to the door. It’s meant to keep Terence out of the communal loo. Everyone does try to use the private ones in their rooms, but their bladders aren’t what they use to be and, for some of the residents, neither are their legs. And while we should be grateful that Terence isn’t relieving himself in the rhododendrons, nobody wants to hear him whizzing like a racehorse beside her. We’ve repurposed the smaller one off the dining room as the new men’s room.

  ‘You can come in, Callum,’ I say when I see June’s boyfriend waiting at the side door.

  ‘I didn’t want to disturb June before she’s ready,’ he says, giving my best friend a devastating smile.

  Callum is hot, and I don’t usually think that about someone with a man-bun. I’ve never seen his hair down, but I can imagine. He’s as blond as June, though his locks – shoulder-length at a guess – are wavy rather than curly, and his skin is about six shades darker than hers. That’s because, she told me, he goes on a tanning bed. He’s not orange, though, and if June hadn’t told me I’d have assumed it was from working outside.

  ‘I’m ready,’ June says. ‘Sorry again about Tamsyn,’ she tells me. Max’s daughter turned up for her first day of work today. ‘I hate when he goes over my head like this. You’ll be okay?’

  I shrug. ‘Don’t worry about me, we’ll be fine. You have fun. I want a full report.’

  ‘That’s a little personal, don’t you think?’ Callum says.

  ‘I meant the food! Dirty mind.’ But I smile. For June’s sake, I hope his mind is dirty.

  ‘We’ll take pictures,’ June says.

  ‘Of the food,’ we say together.

  ‘June’s gone?’ Nick asks as I get back to the dining room where he’s packing away the art supplies. There are a dozen or so small canvases set up on the trestle table. Rosemary’s art group has been painting a vase full of worse-for-wear sunflowers for about the last two weeks. They’re in their Van Gogh period. Last winter it was Rembrandt with a bowl of fruit. I had to keep replacing the spotty bananas and making cake with them. We had fruit flies throughout spring.

  ‘On her way to The Cricketer’s,’ I tell him.

  He makes a face. ‘I can’t believe I missed him again. You saw him, though, so he does exist?’

  ‘With my very own eyes. I promise he’s real.’

  He nods happily. ‘Well done to the lad. Their plans sound romantic.’

  ‘She’s having fun, that’s for sure,’ I say. ‘I get the feeling you’ll meet him eventually. Things seem to be going well.’

  ‘Is he as dreamy as everyone says?’ He puts his chin into his hands and bats his long eyelashes. ‘Ah, to be crazy for someone like that. It’s the best feeling in the world.’ Our eyes snap to each other’s faces.

  ‘It is,’ I venture.

  His gaze holds mine while our silence hovers between us. But what am I supposed to say now? I can’t apologise again, when I want him to forget about what happened with Seth. I have to let the moment pass, though with the way he continues to look at me, it doesn’t feel completely wasted.

  ‘Why didn’t Rosemary clean up before she left?’ I ask him.

  ‘I don’t mind doing it,’ Nick says. He covers for the residents a lot. I know he’s trying to help, but he really shouldn’t. This place works because everyone pitches in.

  I scan the tables, which are exactly the way I left them. ‘Where’s Tamsyn gone now?’

  ‘On her phone, I think,’ he says. ‘She seemed to be having some problem over text earlier.’

  ‘She shouldn’t even be on her phone while she’s working.’

  It’s Tamsyn’s first day and already I can tell that she’s useless. She’s worse than useless. At least Amber, who can barely bring the women their meals at the best of times, does try. Tamsyn is entitled and spoiled. But I’m her boss, which makes that an unprofessional thing to say, and you should probably ignore it. ‘She was supposed to set the tables,’ I tell Nick.

  ‘I can do it if you need to get on with the meal,’ he offers.

  But I’m not about to let her off that easily. ‘No, thanks, Tamsyn needs to do it herself. That’s what she’s paid to do.’

  ‘I’ll go get her,’ he says, leaving me to wonder why he knows where she is.

  She’s been here less than eight hours and she’s already acting like she owns the place. She’s not even pretending to be grateful that we’re giving her a job. No ingratiating smiles or anything. You’d think she’s doing us the favour. I don’t know what’s wrong with Max’s family that makes them so horrible.

  Oh, she did smile, though, when she got a look at Nick, like he was her long-lost best friend. Or even worse, the next bloke in her bedroom plans.

  But that’s not (the total reason) why I don’t want her here. It really is also because she’s a waste of space.

  When she and Nick return, I tell her that we need the tables set.

  Her eyes challenge mine. She’s got false lashes on that are about an inch long, and her eyeliner flicks up at the ends. That’s the only reason her eyes are so startling to look at. Without all the make-up they’d be a very average green. Possibly even hazel. She’s really pushing the Isla Fisher references, just because there’s a passing resemblance thanks to her long red hair and size zero frame. It’s obviously something she’s used to hearing because she didn’t bat a falsie when Sophie mentioned it this morning.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Tamsyn says. ‘Why do you bother setting up all the cutlery and napkins at every meal? Why not just have them at the side and let people take them as they want? It would save you a lot of clearing and washing up.’

  ‘Because this isn’t a McDonald’s, Tamsyn, and the residents don’t want to have to serve themselves.’ Now’s not the time to mention that we do have buffets sometimes.

  ‘Have you asked them?’

  ‘We don’t need to ask them.’ I don’t bother keeping the sneer out of my voice. ‘We know our residents. Please set up the tables.’

  She throws a scornful glance at Nick.

  To my surprise, instead of eye-rolling me, he says, ‘I can help if you want.’

  She smiles her not-quite-Isla smile, hands him the cutlery bucket and pulls out her ringing phone. ‘Hi, yeah, no I can talk,’ she says to the caller.

  The next day, screeching in the hall sends me running from the kitchen. I just hope nobody’s fallen out the window this time. Unless it’s Terence. Or Tamsyn.

  It is Tamsyn, but she hasn’t fallen. Although something has happened. ‘What is wrong?’ I say.

  Tamsyn’s hair is plastered to her head. There are pieces of corn, potato and chopped leek still dribbling in creamy rivulets through the waves, even though it must have taken her a minute or two to come down from Maggie’s room. Which means that’s the entire bowl over her head.

  ‘Look what that witch did to me!’ she wails.

  What Maggie did is obvious.

  The question is why she did it. This ought to be good. ‘You’ve given Maggie her lunch, I see. It looks like she gave it back to you.’ I can barely keep the joy from my voice. I know this is a serious situation. There’s been an assault, of sorts, anyway. Although I don’t know if leek and potato soup counts as a dangerous weapon.

  ‘You go up there,’ Tamsyn says, ‘and throw her out. She can’t do this to me!’

  ‘I agree she shouldn’t have,’ I say. I’ve got to be professional about this. Tamsyn is my employee. ‘Was there a misunderstanding?’

  ‘That was no misunderstanding. She lured me in and threw it over my head.’

  That doesn’t sound like Maggie. It’s too, well, obvious, for one thing. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  Finally, she starts to calm down a little, though as soon as
she sees Dot and Sophie staring at her from the corridor, her voice rises again. ‘I’ve never met anyone so rude,’ she says, clearly enjoying her new audience. ‘She commanded me to set out her lunch. Commanded, which I did, and then she dismissed me like I was a servant, without even a thank you. I’m not going to let anyone treat me like that, and I told her so.’

  I can just imagine how that went over. Well, I can see. It went all over Tamsyn. ‘What did she do then?’

  Dot and Sophie have crept closer so they don’t miss anything.

  ‘She said, “Come here, girl.” And when I did, she threw the soup over me! If you don’t get rid of her, I’ll tell Daddy and he’ll do it!’

  Fat chance of that. Maggie’s the only resident paying decent monthly fees around here. A little humiliation is worth a lot to Max.

  Which means it’s going to fall to me to smooth things over. ‘Let me go talk to her,’ I say. ‘You should stay here.’

  ‘As if I’d go back,’ says Tamsyn. ‘You’d better bring a raincoat.’

  My knock at Maggie’s door is tentative at first. But then I think, Man up, Phoebe, and knock as if I mean to come in.

  Maggie doesn’t answer. I know she’s not sleeping. It has only been five minutes since Tamsyn came down and, anyway, heaving a bowl of soup isn’t exactly tiring.

  When I push open the door, Maggie doesn’t even look up from the book in her lap.

  ‘That wasn’t nice what you did to Tamsyn. She was only giving you your meal.’

  Maggie gazes at me over her reading glasses. ‘She’s an insolent girl.’

  ‘I know she is, Maggie. She’s a nightmare, but you can’t go throwing soup over her.’

  ‘I won’t be throwing anything over her, because she’s not to come in here again,’ Maggie says. ‘You can bring my meals as usual.’

  ‘Or you could come downstairs. Maggie, don’t you think that would be good for you, even if it was just the occasional meal? It’s not healthy to spend so much time on your own.’

  She actually seems to think about it, which spurs me on. ‘We’ve got so many things you might like to get involved in too. I’ve noticed the paintings,’ I say, looking again at the little oils hanging over Maggie’s bed. They’re not destined for any museum, but they’re not bad.

  ‘Oh, those. They’re just… nothing.’ Her hand drifts to her brooch. ‘Just fooling around.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got all the supplies in the crafts cabinet if you wanted to start painting again. There are groups—’ I catch her expression. ‘Or you can be on your own, of course. And Dot runs our book club. You’d probably love that, what with all these… books…’ My voice trails off because the temperature in the room feels like it has dropped by about twenty degrees. ‘Or not.’

  ‘No, thank you, Cook. That will be all.’

  Damnit, she knows my name! I’m about to leave when something occurs to me. ‘You’re not always going to get your own way, you know, Maggie, by being difficult.’

  Her eyes meet mine over her glasses again. ‘It has worked fine so far.’

  I think I catch the tiniest smile on her lips as she goes back to her book.

  Well, at least that solves that issue. Although it means I’m back to bringing Maggie all her meals.

  I’ll tell Tamsyn how sorry Maggie is that she tripped and spilled soup on her. Maggie is an old woman, after all. She’s not as steady on her feet as she once was. That’s why she needs her meals brought up.

  She’s not unsteady, but that’s the story I’m sticking to. I don’t want to deal with assault charges on top of everything else.

  Chapter 11

  Max is at the home again and no one is happy to see him. Every time he turns up, bad news follows. ‘What is it this time?’ I ask June, slipping into her office. She’s arranging a gorgeous bouquet of pink and orange flowers. ‘From Callum, I’m guessing?’ I reach for the card, but she snatches it away. ‘What’s the matter, did he describe the sexy times in writing? Did you bring him to the heights of ecstasy?’ I’m cringing even teasing her about it. I only do it because I know it’s even more cringey for her.

  ‘Yes, they’re from Callum. No, he did not,’ she adds primly, ‘and absolutely none of your business.’

  She let Callum have a sleepover after their dinner at The Cricketer’s. I know they weren’t eating popcorn and doing each other’s hair. ‘You’ve thanked him?’ I sound just like my mother.

  ‘I will,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, June. You’re never going to learn.’

  ‘I said I will, Phoebe. I do know what I’m doing.’ With that, she looks at her phone again. Waiting for his text.

  ‘He’s only going to text you because he thinks the flowers got lost. And then it’s rude not to have thanked him sooner.’

  That does it. She rings him. ‘Hi. I did. Thank you so much, you didn’t have to. Aw.’ She hunches a bit, as if hugging herself, curling the phone closer to her mouth. ‘Yeah, I love them. Course I do. I know you remembered.’ Then she straightens up. ‘Sorry, Callum, I’ve gotta go. My boss just turned up. Okay, ’bye.’

  ‘Happy?’

  ‘Much better,’ I say, and we go to see what Max wants.

  This time he’s got Tamsyn in the meeting too, even though she’s been here all of about a minute and probably couldn’t name even one of the residents. She and Nick are leaning against one of the dining tables. They could be in a shampoo advert together, all shiny and fit. Even in her apron, Tamsyn looks good – she’s a jeans and tee shirt person, with ridiculous taste in shoes. They’re platforms. Nice platforms, if I was being unbiased about it.

  But still. I feel like a frump sitting awkwardly next to her in my chef whites and clogs. Who’ll get the last laugh, though, twenty years from now when Miss Trendy will have sore bunions, I tell myself weakly.

  Clothes have never really interested me. Mum wouldn’t believe that, but it’s true. So being a chef is perfect. I could also happily have been a bus driver or a postman, uniform-wise.

  I do have some presentable things, and even shoes that aren’t clogs, all thanks to June, who makes me go shopping with her at least every leap year. She also gives me her hand-me-downs, although I think she sometimes buys things and just takes the tags off before passing them over.

  My point is that I’d never be able to compete with a woman like Tamsyn, who probably has colour-coordinated closets and looks perfect all the time.

  Why am I thinking about competing with Tamsyn anyway?

  ‘This is a quick one,’ Max says. ‘Now that my dad is settled and doing well—’

  My snort stops him. ‘Sorry. Sneeze.’

  ‘Now that he’s here, I think there are some other ways we can look to increase revenues.’

  I hate when he starts talking all accountant-y. He does it when he’s worried about us. Or not us, exactly, but the bottom line, as he calls it. He’s always worst in January after he’s balanced his books. Then we become assets in business-speak – instead of employees – who leverage our services for our customers, when we’re really just running a nice home for nice people.

  ‘Charge admission for visitors?’ June proposes. ‘A fiver for the buffet on Saturdays?’ Then she sees that he’s thinking about it. ‘Max, I’m only joking.’

  ‘Right,’ Max says. ‘It wouldn’t be enough revenue anyway. You’re thinking along the right lines, though. We need to get more residents.’

  Well, duh. We’ve all known that for years. Max’s mother wasn’t overly worried about her bottom line when she opened. She practically gave the rooms away to the first residents. Many of them, like Dot, were her friends. The cut-rate pricing carried on for everyone since.

  ‘Your father was a good start,’ Nick says.

  June rolls her eyes at me. I roll mine back. He’s got to be kidding. What a kiss-arse he is sometimes.

  ‘Nick, don’t be stupid,’ Max says. ‘My father’s not paying anything.’

  But Nick isn’t put off by our boss’s insult. I
guess he hears them too often. ‘By the way, I’ve offered to work with him, one-on-one, to get his fitness back. Just some daily calisthenics, gentle stretches and a walk to town. I thought that might help.’

  It would have to be one-on-one, since no one else can stand him. I stare at Nick, but his eyes are trained on Max.

  This is a side of him that, if I’m honest, I’m not crazy about. Ever since he arrived he’s had his lips firmly puckered. Everyone likes to be good at their job, and it’s natural to want to get ahead, but Nick goes overboard. That only makes Max think he can get him to do anything, which is why Nick’s informal job description is the length of Magna Carta.

  But Max barely acknowledges Nick. ‘So, from now on,’ Max says, ‘we’ll be accepting applications from all over sixty-fives, not just women. I want to fill the empty rooms by the end of the year.’

  ‘That’s a great idea, Daddy!’ says Tamsyn, looking up from her phone for the first time since the meeting started. ‘This place needs some men. The women are old, but they’re not dead yet!’ She looks at me, June and Nick as if she expects praise for her witty comment. Only Nick smiles.

  ‘It is not a great idea,’ June says quietly. ‘We’ve talked about this already, Max. We’re the Happy Home for Ladies.’

  ‘Not anymore,’ Max says, looking smug. ‘My father is here, so it’s already co-ed.’

  So Max had this planned all along. Terence was the thin edge of the wedge.

  ‘Why didn’t you just tell us before,’ June asks, ‘when you made us accept Terence? Then we could have told the residents all the bad news at once.’

  ‘It was better to ease everyone into the idea,’ says Max.

  ‘With your father?!’ I nearly shout. ‘I wouldn’t call that easing.’

  ‘We’re not here to discuss how to run my business,’ Max says. ‘I’m here to tell you to let the residents know that there’ll be some changes going forward. I’ve started advertising in Ipswich, so hopefully we’ll get more applications soon. And I want to run open houses. Prospective residents and their families will need to see what we’re all about. Starting next week, if possible.’