by Sue Margolis
“Why can’t I zisturb you?”
“Because I have something very important to write. It’s an article for a newspaper, and they want it very quickly.”
He nodded. “How much?”
“How much what?”
“Money.”
Although Charlie still didn’t get pocket money, he had, in the last few months, started to take an interest in cash.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Two pounds.”
“Five.”
“No way.”
“Four.”
“Three, and that’s my last offer.” She couldn’t believe that she was haggling with a six-year-old.
He thought for a moment. “Okay.”
“But you can’t spend it on sweets. Deal?”
“Deal.”
She left him to eat his supper and went into her bedroom, where her laptop was on charge. She sat on the bed, propped up by pillows and cushions, and began typing.
A 73-year-old London woman is single-handedly taking on the government’s healthy eating initiative by organizing mass lunchtime deliveries of junk food to schoolchildren.
Children at Nelson Mandela Comprehensive telephone or text their orders to grandmother Dymphna Brannigan.
For a small fee, she collects their lunches from fast-food outlets, including McDonald’s, KFC, and Pizza Hut, and delivers them to the school gates.
Teachers are powerless to act …
Fifty-five minutes later, she was pressing “send.” She just prayed she had gotten the house style right.
When she went into the living room, Charlie was sprawled out on the living room floor with his crayons. She sat down beside him and ruffled his hair. “Thanks for not disturbing me, poppet. I really appreciate it.”
He didn’t react other than to swat her hand away from his hair. He was busy finishing a picture and didn’t want to be disturbed. It was a street scene. Amy recognized it at once. “Look, there’s the deli and the dry cleaner’s and Café Mozart. You’ve done buses and cars and people. And you’ve even remembered the ice-cream van.” She was no expert, but he seemed to be developing a real understanding of perspective and scale. When she looked more closely at the people, she couldn’t help laughing. The women in particular were unmistakable. There they were, Richmansworth mummies in their A-line Boden skirts and sandals, pushing their tank-sized strollers. “Oh, Charlie, I don’t know what to say. This is wonderful. It’s one of the best drawings you’ve ever done. You really do have a photographic memory.”
“What does that mean?”
“Come and get in the bath and I’ll explain.”
ONCE CHARLIE was in bed, Amy went to check her e-mail. There was one from Boadicea titled “Great piece, will be in touch re fee.” There was no actual message. Her fist shot into the air. “Yes! Cracked it.” She was on the point of phoning Bel and Brian and her mum and dad to tell them her piece was going to be in the newspaper the next morning, but she thought better of it. Experience had taught her that an editor liking a story and promising to run it was no guarantee that it would appear.
She went to bed and flicked through some of her interiors mags until she felt drowsy. She dreamed that it was the next morning and she was out trying to buy a copy of The Daily Post. Everywhere had sold out. She ended up tramping across London, going into hundreds of newsagents, and nobody had a copy. Her frustration turned to desperate panic when she realized she was lost and couldn’t find her way back to Charlie. She woke up sweating, her heart pounding, to find Charlie jumping on the bed. “Yay—swimming today. Have you packed my stuff?” He slid under the covers.
“Yes, I’ve packed your stuff. Come here.” She hugged him to her. “Don’t I love you.”
“Love you, too. So when do I get my five pounds?”
She burst out laughing. “You little so and so. We agreed on three, and you know it.”
“Okay, so when do I get it?”
“Saturday morning.”
Amy sent him into the bathroom to brush his teeth. She was desperate to see The Daily Post and cursed herself for not having the newspapers delivered rather than buying them on the way to work. She could get it online, but it wasn’t always reliable. They often missed out on stories. She looked at her clock on the nightstand. The paperboy would be dropping off papers to other residents in the block just about now. She decided to stop him and beg him to let her have a quick look at somebody’s Daily Post. She tightened the cord of her dressing gown and went out onto the landing. No sign. She hovered for a couple of minutes, but he didn’t show. She would have to pick up a paper on her way to work, as usual.
While Charlie ate breakfast, she showered and got ready for work. Afterward she made his lunch and double-checked that he had his swimming gear. All the time her stomach was churning the way it used to before she took an exam.
She stopped at the newsagent by the bus stop. It occurred to her that last night’s dream was going to come true and they would have sold out of The Daily Post. But they hadn’t. She’d just finished paying when her bus pulled up. There was a long queue, so she didn’t have to rush. She stood at the back of the slow-moving queue and opened the newspaper. It wasn’t easy turning pages with nothing to rest on. To make it worse, there was a strong breeze. She fought with the billowing pages. Page four, five, six … twelve. By the time she got to page nineteen, she was pretty sure they hadn’t used her piece. By the time she reached the funnies and the horoscope section, she knew they hadn’t. She fought the urge to swear out loud. On the other hand, she knew how things worked on the dailies. No doubt a big story had come along late last night and hers had been dropped to make room for it. They probably were holding it over until tomorrow.
Just after ten, Amy rang Boadicea to find out what was happening, but all she got was her voice mail. That went on all day. The woman was either out of the office or—and Amy couldn’t help thinking this was the most likely—she had caller ID and was avoiding her.
Brian accused her of being paranoid. “Why would this Boadicea woman ignore you? Surely she understands that you need to know what’s going on. And if they’ve decided not to use the piece, it’s only polite to let you know so that you can try placing it elsewhere.”
“Yes, but she’s scared I’ll be pissed off, and she’s trying to avoid a confrontation.”
Amy knew that Boadicea would be in the office until well after six, so when she got home, she e-mailed her to ask what was happening to the piece. Eight o’clock came and went with no reply.
The next morning, Amy managed to catch the paperboy and plead with him to let her look through a copy of The Daily Post.
“But you’ll get creases in it and mess it up.”
“Please. It’s really, really important. I’ll be ever so careful. Please?”
He grunted and handed her a folded newspaper. Her story was mentioned on the front page. Yes! Way to go.
“Grandmother encourages pupils to defy Government’s healthy eating initiative. Celebrity chef Jamie Oliver reports. See page three.” Staring up at her was a picture of the cheeky chappy, all roguish grin and “easy peasy.” What? No! Wrong way to go.
Amy turned to page three. This was her story, all right, but not the one she had written. Above Oliver’s byline was a short introduction: “Jamie Oliver, who has worked tirelessly to revolutionize the quality of food served in British schools, meets the grandmother setting out to single-handedly destroy his good work.”
Miserable and pissed off as she was, she supposed it made perfect sense that the desk editors had changed their minds about using her story. Jamie Oliver was a huge name. Jamie’s School Dinners, the TV series in which he taught school cooks how to prepare decent, nutritious food on a budget, had been watched by millions. Why wouldn’t they send him to cover this story? She couldn’t help thinking, though, that it wouldn’t have hurt Boadicea to phone or e-mail her to explain what was going on.
She thanked the paperboy and handed him back the newspaper, which
she had carefully smoothed and refolded.
Back in the kitchen, Charlie was eating his cereal “It’s Saturday. You said I could have my money today to spend with Grandma and Trevor.”
“I did indeed,” she said, reaching for her bag. She took three pound coins from her purse. As she handed the money to him, she asked him what he was going to spend it on.
“Secret.”
Then the penny dropped. “Charlie, you are not buying a snake. Do you hear me?”
“Duh. You can’t get a snake for three pounds.”
“Yes, but you’ll convince Grandma and Trevor to put up the rest. You are absolutely forbidden to do that. Are we clear?”
Charlie’s crest couldn’t have looked more fallen.
Val and Trevor didn’t arrive until after nine. “Sorry we’re late,” Val said. “We were driving around for ages looking for somewhere to park.”
“I chanted for a space,” Trevor said. “Never fails. We ended up getting a spot right outside your building.”
“Trevor, you chanted for twenty minutes,” Val said, hands on hips. “Doesn’t it strike you that we might have found a place anyway in that time?”
“What? Right outside Amy’s flat? I don’t think so. This was the universe providing us with what we needed. You see, the universe is divided into a single dynamic web of energy. It’s all part of the Noble Eightfold Path, and when we combine this with our own consciousness, which Buddhists describe as vinnana—”
“Trevor, please,” Val said. “Not now.”
“Okay, no need to get irritable.”
“I’m not irritable. It’s just that for once I’d like to talk about something other than tantras and mantras and the Noble Eightfold Path.”
Trevor shrugged. “Fine.”
Amy looked at her mother. She didn’t look so much irritable as weary. It seemed that Val wasn’t finding Trevor quite as cool and interesting as she once had. If there was tension between them, Amy didn’t want Charlie picking up on it and getting upset.
“Mum, could I speak to you for a sec in the kitchen?”
“Of course.” Val followed her daughter. Meanwhile, Charlie was asking Trevor if he would teach him to chant. Trevor scooped him up. “Absolutely, young man. We shall practice in the car.”
“Oh, perfect,” Val murmured. “Now I’ll have a duet.”
“Mum, I sense a bit of an atmosphere between you and Trevor. Is everything okay?”
“Not entirely, but it’s nothing to worry about. I’m sure we’ll sort it out.”
“Sort what out?”
“Look, don’t get me wrong, Trevor is an absolute sweetie, but he’s so passionate about shamanism. In the beginning I found it fascinating. It’s one of the things that attracted me to him. I loved being with somebody who was so spiritual. So different from your father. Trevor and I would take long romantic walks and talk for hours about life and the universe and what it all meant. But he lives his life with his head in the clouds and never seems to connect with the real world. He doesn’t understand that I need an occasional break from talking about astral planes. Sometimes all I want to do is sit in an armchair with a cup of tea and watch the soaps or my Mamma Mia! DVD. But I can’t concentrate because he spends most evenings chanting upstairs. Some evenings he’s got people with him who have come for healing and they’re chanting together. It’s such a racket.”
“Sounds like you need to sit down and have a serious talk about how he needs to take your needs into account.”
“I know, but I’m too scared.”
“But Trevor’s a lovely man,” Amy said. “He would do anything for you. Why on earth would you be scared?”
“Whenever I asked your dad to take me to the pictures or even come out from behind his newspaper to talk to me for five minutes, he refused. He rejected me over and over again.”
“And you’re frightened that Trevor’s going to do the same.”
“It has occurred to me.”
“Mum, speak to him. Tell him how you’re feeling. Do not let this thing fester. It will only get worse.”
“I know. You’re right. I just need to find the right time, that’s all.”
“You mean that?”
“Cross my heart.” She paused. “So, this new chap of yours is an architect? You know, you could do a lot worse.”
“That’s what Dad said.”
“He’s right. A woman needs a decent chap in a solid job.” She paused. There was a concerned look on her face. “Darling, are you all right? You look a bit pale.”
Amy explained about her latest journalistic setback. “I totally get why they decided to go with Jamie Oliver, but it’s so frustrating.”
Val gave her daughter a hug. “I know, darling, but you just have to hang in there and believe in yourself. You are a talented young woman. Your time will come. I promise.”
Amy smiled. “You can’t promise stuff like that. Nobody can.”
“Well, I can. I’m your mum, and mums know these things.”
“I love you,” Amy said.
“Love you, too, darling.”
As they made their way back to the living room, Amy warned her mother that Charlie might try to get around her to buy a snake.
“He’s got some hopes,” Val said with a shudder. “I hate the things. Do you remember that python that escaped when you were little? Huge fuss about it in the local paper. Spike, I think it was called.”
Amy said she had never forgotten.
“So, Charlie,” Val said. “You up for a big surprise?”
Charlie gave a vigorous nod of his head.
“We are all off to Legoland.”
“Yay!”
“Mum, you sure? A hot Saturday at Legoland? It’s going to be mobbed.”
“Amy, I’m sixty-three, not ninety-three. I’m not quite ready for my bath chair and ear trumpet.”
Two minutes later, they were out of the door, Charlie with his Spiderman knapsack over one shoulder. “Have fun. See you tomorrow,” she called after him. “And remember what I said about that money. Grandma knows all about your plan.”
“Whaddever.”
Amy smiled. When had he started with the “whaddever” thing? Any minute now he was going to sprout upper lip hair and zits.
Chapter 9
AMY WENT BACK into the kitchen and washed Charlie’s cereal bowl and spoon. She’d just finished when she happened to glance at the kitchen clock. It was half past nine. Sam was due to pick her up in half an hour for their Tate Modern date, and here she was, still in her dressing gown. She hated the thought of him having to hang around waiting for her.
On the other hand, she could speed things up if she didn’t spend ages on her hair and makeup. After taking a shower, she pasted her upper lip in hair remover cream. This was a habit based not so much on need as on neurosis. She’d inherited it from her mother, who mustachewise wasn’t prepared to put her trust in the naked eye.
Afterward, she rough dried her hair with the dryer and set about it with the straighteners. Her hairdresser, Xavier—he of the permed eyelashes and pec implants—had warned her that overstraightening her hair would make it lose volume and hang flat around her face. His instructions were to blow-dry it first with one of those big round brushes and finish it off with the irons.
This morning, she decided to leave out the round brush part. Her timesaving strategy turned out to be a huge mistake. She’d been going for a soft, voluminous Rachel and had ended up with something between Morticia Addams and Sonic the Hedgehog. There was nothing for it but to damp down her hair again and repeat the drying process, only this time she included the round brush stage. She had just finished and was feeling rather pleased with the result when the doorbell rang.
Once she’d buzzed Sam in, she shot to the bedroom to swap her old dressing gown for her embroidered green silk kimono. It was usually hanging on the back of the door, but when she looked, it wasn’t there. Neither was it on the bed or under it. She wondered if she’d hung it up in
the wardrobe. She hadn’t. There was a knock at the door. She cursed herself for her lack of organization, took a few seconds to flick bits of dried cornflake off her toweling dressing gown, and went to answer it.
“HI,” SHE said, ushering Sam in. “Sorry I’m not ready. Mum and Trevor arrived late to pick up Sam, and then I got chatting with Mum …”
“Hey, don’t worry. There’s no rush. Take your time.”
By then, she had noticed the charcoal T-shirt he was wearing. This was sufficiently close-fitting to reveal his torso. Well developed without being muscle-bound. She felt her stomach flip with excitement. Unaware of the slight unease on his face, she puckered up and made a beeline for his lips. He kissed her back but without the enthusiasm she had anticipated.
It was only as they pulled away and she saw the blob of white gunk on the end of his nose that the realization dawned. “Omigod, this is so embarrassing. I was in a rush, and I totally forgot to rinse it off. Now you’ve got it on you.” She produced an ancient ball of toilet paper from her pocket and wiped the blob off his nose.
“Amy, stop panicking.” He was offering her a reassuring smile. “It’s not remotely embarrassing. In fact I think it’s rather”—he paused, clearly searching for a suitable adjective—“charming.”
“Sam, I’m in my old dressing gown, my face plastered in depilatory cream. Precisely which bit of that do you find charming?” By now she was wiping her top lip with the tissue.
“All of it,” he said, grinning. With that he pulled her toward him. Amy resisted, saying she really needed to rinse her face, but he shushed her.
She closed her eyes, allowing herself to sink into his embrace. She felt his lips part, his tongue probing hers. For two pins she would have dragged him off to the bedroom there and then.
