When Life Gives You Lemons

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘How about you?’ Nick asks as I clear away our bowls.

  ‘Oh, I just have a bring-in-the-money sort of job at the moment.’

  ‘Right. What kind of work d’you do?’

  And so I tell him about Flaxico, just the bare bones, with bunnygate dropped in as an attempt to raise my account of my working life from the humdrum.

  ‘That’s pretty major,’ he exclaims. ‘How d’you think it happened?’

  I smile as I make coffee. ‘You won’t make a documentary about this?’

  Nick laughs, and it occurs to me how easy he is to talk to, and how ridiculous it was to feel even remotely agitated about him dropping by. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Well, it kind of looks like it wasn’t an accident.’

  ‘Wow, really?’

  I nod and pour our coffees. ‘Yeah. They’ve been up to this kind of stuff for years, apparently. It might have been careless, but the rumour is they were short on fulfilling an urgent order, so they sent the wrong product.’ I grimace. ‘It’s scary, actually, how similar our human and pet products are, ingredients-wise. But now it’s all been glossed over, and they’re kind of reinventing the company as this purveyor of fresh, modern, health-giving foods – so it’s probably turned out to be a good thing.’

  He smiles, and we move on to chatting about Izzy and Spencer – Nick doesn’t have kids – and before I know it, the afternoon has flown by. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘but I need to pick up Izzy from school.’

  ‘God, I’m so sorry. I’ve taken up your whole afternoon.’

  ‘No, not at all. It’s been great to meet you properly.’

  He looks around for Bobby who’s been lying at my feet the whole time. ‘Thank you so much for lunch. It was lovely.’

  ‘It was nothing, really!’

  ‘And for looking after Bobby.’

  ‘A total pleasure,’ I say.

  There’s a bit of a kerfuffle while we gather together Bobby’s things: the luxury basket with its fur-lined interior; his ‘daytime cushion’ and fleecy blanket, plus tennis balls, food and water bowls and the ‘spare’ meat in its plastic tray, which Penny had given me to keep in the freezer ‘in case something happens’. Nick is laden with all of this stuff – as Penny had been when she’d brought him yesterday. If I’d known Bobby would come with so much equipment I’d have helped her to lug it all around. So, despite Nick’s protests, and to save him from going back to Penny’s to fetch his hire car, I help him to carry it all to her flat. On the ten-minute walk I find myself telling him about the struggling museum and my plan to propose a fashion show in her honour there.

  ‘Really? That’d be incredible!’

  ‘But I’m not so sure how she’d feel about it,’ I add.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  I tell him about the night the museum’s future was discussed, with Isla and Hamish, and how Penny had shunned the idea of involving herself even in an advisory role.

  ‘Well, that’s just Mum,’ he says. ‘She can be surprisingly modest and I’m not sure whether she thinks of herself as being any kind of expert on anything.’

  ‘I can’t understand why not,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, me neither. So, d’you mean the whole event would be about her and the Girl Friday boutiques?’

  ‘Yes. At least, that’s what I’m thinking, if they decide to go for it. You don’t think that’s a crazy idea, do you?’

  We’re at Penny’s flat now, a smart 1960s block with a neat communal garden at the front, where Nick lets us into the hallway. He unclips Bobby’s lead and he scampers upstairs ahead of us. ‘No, I really don’t.’ I hesitate in the doorway as he unlocks the door to his mother’s first-floor flat.

  ‘She wouldn’t be overwhelmed by all the fuss and attention, if we managed to make it happen?’

  Nick smiles as Bobby runs into the flat. ‘The thing is with Mum, as I’m sure you know, you can never quite predict how she’ll react to anything. She might be shocked, or think she’s not worthy of something like that, or …’ He pauses. ‘She might be thrilled and hugely flattered. And I think that’s more likely. I’ve been saying for years that she should do something to try and revive the Girl Friday name. We know how much people love retro stuff these days – that whole Seventies thing. And it’d be great for her, to be finally recognised at this stage in her life.’

  ‘That’s so good to hear,’ I say, almost wanting to hug him. ‘It’s exactly what I’d hoped you’d say.’

  ‘But I also think,’ Nick adds, ‘maybe keep it to yourself, just for now? In the early planning stages, I mean? Just in case she kicks up a fuss or gets cold feet. You know how prickly she can be, how downright stubborn—’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m aware of that. That’s what I was thinking too. I hate the thought of her dismissing the whole thing before we’ve even had a chance to start pulling it all together.’ I hesitate. ‘Has no one ever approached her before, about something like this?’

  ‘I’m sure they must have,’ Nick says, ‘but nothing has ever come off.’ He smiles warmly. ‘Look, I do know Mum can be a bit sensitive about living in the past, as she puts it. But maybe now’s the right time, with you being a friend, someone she knows and trusts, and this being in her home city, and possibly saving a failing museum …’ He pauses as Bobby runs back to him, and picks the dog up in his arms. ‘I’d say go for it – and let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.’

  Later, with midnight oil burning

  Woolliness of brain is a lesser known menopausal symptom that I have no time for tonight. Fired up from my chat with Nick, I force my way through it as I start on the bare bones of a proposal, to include:

  The reasons why it’s precisely the right kind of event for our city.

  The wide appeal it would have to fashion students, fans of Seventies style, people who remember the boutiques and shopped there for their weekend outfits (the nostalgia aspect).

  How we would go about amassing a Girl Friday collection (I’m deliberately not focusing too closely on this aspect right now, as I don’t want fear to dent my sudden burst of confidence. I just keeping trying to picture myself standing on my kitchen table, and shouting, with Jules looking on encouragingly).

  The key pieces from the shops’ heyday. This part has been particularly fun to research. I’d assumed Girl Friday was mainly about dresses and separates, but now I’ve discovered that accessories were a big thing too: the ‘Jinty’ handbag, the ‘Carly’ floppy hat, the ‘Rita’ belt in rust-coloured suede. And the knitwear; by God, it was gorgeous! Along with the cute sweaters and tank tops there were woolly dresses and crocheted tops – and, best of all, the apparently iconic ‘Pippa’ Poncho, an explosion of red, orange and yellow with an extravagant fringe edging and pompoms on strings at the neck. Featured in all the magazines, and worn by models and celebrities, it summed up the whole Girl Friday spirit: fun, bright, joyful. We must have a ‘Pippa’. That’s the piece that’ll appear on the posters and all the advertising. Even if it means driving to Cornwall to fetch one, I’ll do it somehow.

  How we would stage the actual show (with models from local agencies? And perhaps older women who wore the outfits back in the day?).

  Costings: tricky to figure but, as I work away steadily into the night, I’m aware of something happening, something building in me: a tight ball of excitement that I haven’t felt for a very long time.

  Whatever it takes, I have to make this happen. In the way that Penny ‘just’ created the outfits from the pictures in her head, so I ‘just’ need to convince the museum bigwigs that this would be the most amazing event, and that they would be utterly mad not to say yes.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Thursday, September 12

  My proposal is finished, having been polished way into the night, to the occasional sound of Lara crying next door. I think I’m happy with it. It certainly seems to convey my enthusiasm and passion. It was quite a beast by the end, having grown from my brief points into a splurge about how
great Penny is, such an asset to our city who has never been properly recognised – at least, not in recent years.

  I fire it off to Isla at lunchtime at work. She has agreed to give it a once-over, and tart it up if necessary (being more au fait than I am with museum-type speak). The plan is, she’ll then pass it over to her colleague who has the power to make decisions about temporary exhibitions and events.

  I am beside myself with anxiety as I wait for Isla’s response. The mental woolliness is back – the affliction that caused me to post my house keys – and Rose is in meetings all afternoon, requiring the ferrying in of numerous trays of coffees and teas. In and out I flit, barely acknowledged until she finally glances round and suggests that biscuits would be welcome: ‘Any of those shortbread fingers kicking around, Viv?’

  At just gone 4.30 there’s a text from Isla: No need for any tarting up. It’s perfect as it is. I’m printing it off now, will let you know the response asap. It’s brilliant!

  Rose catches me later, buoyed up as I finish up for the day. ‘Everything okay today?’ she asks, pausing by my desk.

  ‘Yes, all good thanks.’

  She studies me as if I have done something different, either to my face or my hair, and she can’t quite figure out what it is. ‘Thanks for doing all that running around for me today. Fetching all the teas and coffees, I mean.’

  ‘No problem,’ I say.

  ‘And thanks for fixing that thing with the PowerPoint.’

  ‘That’s no bother at all.’ I smile at her and she wanders away, then looks back.

  ‘I just wanted you to know you’re appreciated,’ she says, holding my gaze for a moment before slinging her camel leather bag over her shoulder and striding out to the lift.

  Friday, September 13

  I know it’s only been twenty-four hours. People are busy – of course they’re not going to respond right away. But by the end of the day I have still heard precisely nothing yet from Isla. I’m reminded of my dad, catching me glancing accusingly at the phone when some boy or other hadn’t called.

  ‘A watched phone never rings,’ he remarked with a smile.

  ‘Leave her be,’ Mum chastised him. ‘You’re only making it worse by going on about it.’

  He looked at me and grinned. ‘Is it all right if I make a phone call, or d’you want to keep the line free?’ That was Dad all over; gently teasing, making me smile amidst the angst. Anyway, today is Friday the 13th – not that I am remotely superstitious – so maybe it’s best that I don’t hear anything?

  At the office, so I can’t endlessly check for messages. I resort to hiding my phone in a drawer.

  Saturday, September 14

  Still no news from the museum. I doubt if the people who make the decisions are even there today. Anyone on duty will probably be tending to one of the five visitors who are pottering about, admiring the ceramics. I know what it’s like in there. The staff are lovely, all over you, pointing out things, telling you the history of a bejewelled corset or a set of tiny dolls’ combs, carved from bone; it’s all well intended, although sometimes you just want to browse uninterrupted. Reminding myself that there’s no point in constantly checking for messages, I do some more research on vintage shops to add to my list and, thrillingly, spot a couple of Girl Friday pieces on eBay – a banana-coloured blouse and a tangerine tank top – which I bid for.

  Andy arrives to take Izzy out, still looking rather out of sorts. I will not ask him why he chose a flat above a cheese shop. I will not.

  And I will not pester Isla about the proposal. I will not.

  Sunday, September 15

  It’s a cool, bright, cloudless afternoon, and as Izzy is restless, I suggest picking up Maeve and heading over to the park. As we cross the wide expanse of grass, en route to the swings, I notice the two of them pointing at something. Izzy swings round to face me. ‘Mum, look!’

  ‘What is it?’ I can’t see anything out of the ordinary.

  ‘It’s Bobby! But he’s not with Penny.’

  I’m about to say it can’t be Bobby then; as far as I’ve gathered we are pretty much the only people who are permitted to walk him. ‘It’s a man,’ Izzy announces. ‘Why’s Bobby with him? Who is he?’

  I follow her gaze and spot Nick in the distance. I wave, and he waves back. ‘That’s Penny’s son, Nick,’ I explain, surprised by how happy I am to see him again. We make our way over, and I introduce the girls.

  ‘Nick lives in New Zealand,’ I explain, ‘but he’s working here at the moment and spending some time with his mum.’

  Izzy looks up at him with interest. ‘Penny’s your mum?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he smiles.

  ‘How far away’s New Zealand?’ Maeve asks.

  ‘About 11,000 miles,’ Nick replies.

  ‘You live that far from your mum?’ Izzy exclaims.

  ‘I do, yeah, unfortunately.’ Nick smiles.

  She looks astounded. ‘Why?’

  He chuckles and catches my eye. ‘It’s just the way things turned out. But it’s great to be back here for a couple of months. I was hoping a job would come up, and it did.’

  ‘Nick makes documentaries,’ I explain.

  ‘About penguins and stuff?’ Izzy asks hopefully.

  He smiles. ‘Not yet, but you never know what might come up in the future. The one I’ve just been working on is about steam trains.’

  ‘Aw,’ Maeve says, looking unimpressed.

  ‘But basically,’ he adds, ‘I’m interested in anything that people would like to see a film about.’

  ‘Maybe Nick could film Izzy Cooks!,’ I say as a joke.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asks, and Izzy blurts out a hurried explanation, before running ahead with Maeve and Bobby. Nick and I stroll after them towards the lake.

  ‘Thanks again for lunch the other day,’ he says.

  ‘You’re very welcome.’ He’s wearing a pale grey T-shirt and jeans, and he’s lightly tanned, and a little stubbly. It suits him, I decide. I’d still never have recognised him from the blurry photo Penny showed me, and now I’m getting to know him a little, it seems hard to believe that he ‘fusses over’ her, in the way she described; that he regards her as anything less than entirely capable of looking after herself.

  ‘So, how are things, now you’re staying with your mum?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s great,’ he says with a smile, ‘now I’ve acclimatised myself to her again.’

  I glance at him. Izzy and Maeve are on the swings now, competing as to who can swing highest. ‘Acclimatised?’

  Nick chuckles. ‘Well, she’s brilliant, as you know …’

  ‘Yes, course.’

  ‘And it’s all my doing really,’ he adds, hands in pockets as we stroll along.

  ‘What’s your doing?’

  He pauses as if trying to figure out the best way to put it. ‘Mum and me – well, we were such a tight little unit, you know. When I was growing up, I mean …’

  I nod. ‘I’ve always got the impression she was quite … relaxed as a mother.’ I glance at him, keen to hear about his childhood from his perspective. Angel Delight, and the library-streaking incident, spring to mind.

  ‘Oh, she was,’ Nick says, ‘in the best possible way. She treated me like her little mate. Mum never believed in being any different with children to how she was with adults, you know?’

  ‘So you were super-close, the two of you?’

  ‘Yep, all through when I was growing up, and then I had the audacity to start travelling – for fun at first, and later for work – and, I have to say, that was a bit difficult.’

  ‘In what way?’ I ask.

  He sighs. ‘It was a wrench for both of us, but I was up for adventure. So it was probably a lot harder for her. I mean, she didn’t try to stop me, or cause a fuss, but I knew it hurt her when I moved away permanently.’ He pauses.

  ‘I’m sure it did,’ I murmur.

  ‘So, whenever I come over on a visit, Mum’s very … attentive, is prob
ably the best way of putting it.’

  ‘Really?’ I’m tempted to mention that I hear he checks for dust and out-of-date food, but I’m not sure whether it would go down too well. ‘You mean she wants to do everything for you?’

  ‘Oh God, yes. And I’m sorry, and it is very kindly meant, but I can’t have someone running my bath for me at forty-nine years old.’ We both laugh.

  ‘She thinks you’re incapable of operating the taps?’

  ‘Clearly.’ He grins at me.

  ‘It’s a short step from having her take the top off your boiled egg.’

  Nick chuckles. ‘I’ve seen her hovering with a teaspoon.’

  We walk in easy silence for a few moments while I picture her fussing around him, so different to how Penny painted it. ‘She probably just misses you terribly,’ I suggest, ‘and has stored up all this caring, this yearning to mother you. And now you’re here, even though you’re a bona fide adult, she can’t stop herself.’

  ‘I suspect that’s it.’ He smiles.

  ‘And mothers can’t help it,’ I add. ‘We worry, you know. We’re still the parent, no matter how old our kids are. Like, I know how slapdash my son Spencer is with cooking. He’s twenty-two, and he’s been living away from home for four years – but when he told me they’d started doing Sunday roasts in the flat, I couldn’t settle until I’d sent him a meat thermometer.’

  ‘Which was very thoughtful and caring of you,’ Nick says.

  ‘It’s probably pointless,’ I say with a smirk. ‘I can’t imagine he uses it.’

  ‘But you feel better, knowing it’s there,’ he adds, at which I laugh. I’m actually impressed, how he seems to ‘get’ it.

  ‘Slightly, yes.’