When Life Gives You Lemons

by Fiona Gibson

‘Did you buy him a cycle helmet too?’

  ‘I did,’ I exclaim, ‘last Christmas!’

  ‘I thought you might have. Was he thrilled?’

  ‘Of course he was,’ I snigger. ‘So much so that he nearly forgot it when he went back to Newcastle. At a guess, I’d say it’s been worn precisely zero times.’

  Nick chuckles. ‘Well, you did what you could.’ He pauses. ‘I’m not complaining about Mum, you know …’

  ‘No, I realise that. You’re just saying.’ He smiles and murmurs in agreement. ‘We both know how wonderful Penny is,’ I add.

  ‘Of course we do,’ Nick says.

  ‘She’s been a great friend to me,’ I continue, ‘right from the start, but especially since, well …’ I pause for a moment. ‘Since it all came out about my husband, I mean. I found out he was seeing someone else when we were still together,’ I say quickly, immediately regretting divulging such personal information. ‘What I mean is, she was really supportive and always there for me if I wanted to talk.’ I clear my throat. ‘She’s been lovely, you know?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He nods, and I can sense him digesting this new information; that is, if Penny hadn’t filled him in on it all already, which I now suspect may be the case. ‘That must’ve been a really tough time for you.’

  ‘Yes, well, he’s gone now,’ I add. ‘At least he’s not really in my life. No more than necessary anyway, and these things happen, don’t they?’

  ‘Er, yes, they certainly do.’

  ‘And everyone gets on with their lives,’ I add, conscious of adopting a brisker tone. ‘Oh, I meant to tell you,’ I add quickly, ‘I wrote the Girl Friday proposal and sent it off.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ he says. ‘Any news yet?’

  ‘No, nothing so far.’ I glance at him. ‘It’s driving me mad, this waiting. I know it’s only been three days, and I need to stop being such a child about it …’ I pause. ‘If they decide to go ahead, could we get together and have a chat about your mum, and your memories of that time?’ I break off, remembering the interview I read, about how hard it was when Penny was starting out. ‘If it wouldn’t be an imposition,’ I add, at which Nick chuckles.

  ‘An imposition? Not at all. I told you I’d be delighted to help. And even when I’m back home in New Zealand, I’m only a message or a call away if you need anything.’

  ‘That would be great, thank you.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to make a film about Mum you know,’ he adds. ‘It’s the obvious subject for me – the whole Penny Barnett story from the sewing machine on a desk in her bedroom to the height of her success, and why it all ended, if she’d be prepared to talk about that. But it’s unlikely to ever happen. I’ve tried to broach it, but she’s always seemed terribly unkeen.’

  ‘D’you know why?’ I ask, intrigued.

  Nick shrugs as the girls run towards us with Bobby tearing ahead. ‘I suspect it’s a mother-and-son thing, that I’m too close to her, and maybe she worries she’d reveal too much.’ He shrugs. ‘But I’m only guessing. Maybe she thinks it’d be too much hassle, and she can’t see the point.’

  ‘That could be it. What a shame, though. A film about her would be fascinating.’

  ‘Yeah, but this event you’re proposing, with a show and an exhibition – I was going to say it’s the next best thing, but in some ways, it could be even better.’

  ‘Really? Why’s that?’

  ‘It’d seem more real, somehow,’ he replies, ‘seeing the actual clothes being modelled, right here in her home city, like Girl Friday coming back to life. And who knows what it could lead to for her?’

  I look at him and smile. ‘That is, if she’s happy about having her life put on display like that.’

  ‘Yeah. But honestly,’ Nick says, as we all head towards the park gate, ‘I think she’d love it really. I mean, how could she not?’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Monday, September 16

  Lunchtime at work. Spinach, roasted cauliflower and pomegranate salad is on the menu, packed with fresh herbs and scattered with petals. Petals! Previously, the only plant life around here was a beleaguered yucca in reception. These days, the canteen’s offerings look as if they’ve tumbled from a food magazine; it’s one of the more positive aspects of the recent changes. Already, the Platforms for Innovation are being formed, and teams being recruited. The average age seems to have plummeted from around fifty to twenty-five. Everywhere I look there are young people in jeans, skinny T-shirts and little sundresses – even shorts and playsuits. And we have music playing now. It’s definitely more Urban Outfitters than Nerve Centre for Extruded Pellet Snacks.

  As I tuck into my lunch, sitting at a favourite corner table with Belinda and Jean, I make a silent vow to forget about my proposal, and to be patient and just wait it out. I did succumb to calling Isla last night, ostensibly for a catch-up, and heard about how Megan, her daughter, had nagged for hair extensions (apparently they look natural these days, merely giving the impression of thicker hair, rather than the blatantly acrylic tresses I once begged my mum for, to no avail). Finally, Isla offered to pay for the things – more than she paid for her first car, apparently – but they turned out to be the wrong kind, and they’ve matted.

  I made sympathetic noises, and of course I cared about the matting, but really, I wanted to blurt out, But what about the proposal? D’you think anyone’s read it yet?

  Isla then went on to tell me about how she is teaching her son Danny to drive, and that for the whole time he’s at the wheel, sweat is pouring out of her. ‘And honestly, I didn’t think it would be possible. With the nights I’m having, how can there be any left in me to come out?’

  Then she had to rush off because Rohan, her youngest, was heading out and needed money. We hadn’t even got around to talking about the proposal.

  I finish my lunch and work as diligently as I can all afternoon. It’s when I’m driving home through steady, fine rain that my phone rings, and as soon as I pull up at school, I check the missed call.

  Isla! I ring back immediately. ‘Hey, everything okay?’

  She clears her throat. ‘D’you have a minute? I mean, is now a good time to talk?’

  I literally have one minute; parents are supposed to collect children by five. I am parked in a side street and spot the odd familiar parent and child, hurrying along in the rain. A man in a yellow hi-vis jacket is picking up litter with one of those grabber sticks that Andy was always so keen to get his mitts on. ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘So, um, did the extensions de-matt?’ I’m aware that I’m putting off hearing bad news. We’ve been friends since we were seven years old, and I can sense her discomfort by the first sound that comes out of her mouth.

  ‘No, they’ll need redoing. It’s like having a second mortgage, the maintenance of Meg’s hair.’

  I chuckle dutifully. Okay, now tell me what happened, and why they think it’s a bad idea.

  ‘Anyway,’ she goes on, ‘I gave Hannah your proposal, first chance I had …’

  ‘Right …’ I’m trying to sound positive.

  ‘She’s the Senior Exhibitions Manager,’ Isla explains. ‘She was off last week. I was told it’d be better to wait until she was back, that no one else could take it forward …’ She pauses.

  ‘But it’s not good news, is it?’

  Isla sighs. ‘I’m so sorry, Viv. I know you put tons of work into it. It was her first day back today and, I don’t know, maybe if I’d waited …’ My heart seems to have crashed. ‘But I was so impatient,’ she goes on, ‘and I just couldn’t wait to share it with her.’

  ‘She’s said no, then?’

  ‘Not exactly. I mean, it wasn’t as if she thought it was a terrible idea. She could see its potential. She said maybe we could have arranged a chat, if it wasn’t chaos around here, after what happened this morning …’

  ‘Wait … what happened?’

  ‘Oh, there was some vandalism. It’s been pretty bad, actually. Someone went straight down to natural
history with a hammer or something – I don’t know what it was exactly. I was in the café when it happened. It was some man, a crazy person. He started smashing the display cases, threatening staff, shouting that he was going to liberate them …’

  ‘Liberate the staff?’

  ‘No – the collection. The snow fox and red squirrel. The wildcat and elk.’

  ‘The stuffed animals? That’s terrible!’

  ‘It is. The whole floor’s a wreck. God knows how long it’ll be closed for. That is, if it even reopens at all.’

  ‘What was he on about, liberating them?’

  ‘I know,’ she exclaims. ‘It’s taxidermy, for God’s sake. Most have been dead for over 150 years. What did he think they’d do, scamper off to the wilderness?’

  ‘There’s no wilderness nearby.’

  ‘No, just a Lidl over the road.’ She snorts. ‘So that’s what’s been going on here today. Hannah liked the idea, for another museum, maybe – or even for us, if this hadn’t happened, and we had the time and resources to put on something like that. But we don’t. It’ll be all hands on deck with assessing the damage and costing up repairs.’

  I glance at the time on the digital display in my car. ‘Okay, well, look – thanks for showing it to her anyway.’

  ‘Oh, Viv. I thought it was a brilliant idea. I’m so sorry. I’m gutted.’

  ‘Me too, but never mind. We tried, didn’t we? And it was a great idea. But I’m at school now, and I really have to go.’

  Tuesday, September 17

  I can hardly fall apart over a rejected proposal when such a terrible thing has happened to the museum. Inflicting damage on it – when it’s threatened with closure anyway – seems as low and disgusting as attacking a frail elderly person and stealing their purse.

  And what a mad thing to do anyway! Freeing battery chickens and laboratory animals, I can understand; i.e. living creatures. But not a faded stoat that’s been gazing out of its glass dome since something like 1867. So I decide to try and put it out of my mind, and focus on things that really matter.

  For instance, Izzy, who is thrilled by the news that, finally, a place has come up for her at Brownies (like the most coveted handbags, the local pack has a waiting list), which means she can start next week.

  We while away the evening researching Brownie Badges online, and deciding which ones she might go for first:

  Painting

  Baking

  Inventing

  Mindfulness (yes, really …)

  Grow Your Own

  And for me? All I can think of is all the time and energy and hope I poured into that proposal, and how it’s ended up being pointless. Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be a ‘Well, at least she gave it a shot’ badge.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Thursday, September 19

  A crappy day all round. Work was a drudge, and now we’re home Izzy seems to have a cold. She is listless and runny-nosed. I try to cheer her up by chatting about the upcoming Brownie camp, hoping she’ll be well enough to go. She was so enthusiastic last night when I picked her up from her first meeting. As lots of her friends (including Maeve) are in the pack, it felt both familiar and thrillingly new.

  However, tonight she just lies on the sofa, wrapped up in a blanket, sipping hot blackcurrant squash and seemingly feeling even sorrier for herself than I do.

  Friday, September 20

  As Izzy’s cold has worsened, I’ve taken the day off work. To give Rose her due, she’s always been fine whenever I have needed to do this. Izzy spends most of the day dozing, or blearily watching cartoons. I catch up on housework, trying not to think about my proposal, and focus on the positive aspects of my life instead.

  For instance: my bedroom is much improved since Andy took that dowdy old standard lamp with the olive-green tasselled shade that he was so fond of, and which I hated. The worrying fan heater has gone too. Small joys, I realise – in fact, they could be construed as straw-clutchy – but I am trying to derive glimmers of pleasure wherever I can.

  Saturday, September 21

  Penny drops by with Nick, plus Bobby, which cheers up the still cold-ridden Izzy. I’ve noticed that Penny has started a new thing, where she prompts me to tell Nick one of my supposedly ‘hilarious’ anecdotes. ‘Tell Nick about that thing when you …’ she keeps saying. I’m not quite sure why she’s doing this, as if I’m incapable of interacting with other adults without her help. I just hope to God she’s not trying to show me off in my ‘best light’ – i.e. pimping me out – in the hope that some kind of romantic spark might develop between Nick and me (admittedly, he’s lovely, handsome, clever, all the right things – for someone who might be looking for That Kind of Thing).

  As I pour their coffees in my kitchen, she starts asking about Andy, and whether I’ve found out why he took the flat above the cheese shop yet; she seems to be trying to signal: ‘My Friend Viv Is Single, Nick. Pay Heed.’

  ‘I’m trying to keep communications with him to a minimum,’ I say with a smile.

  She tries again. ‘The things that man moaned about. Like the scones in the hospital canteen! Tell Nick about the scone thing,’ she prompts me.

  ‘What scone thing?’ I ask, genuinely confused.

  ‘You know – the thing with the hard pat of butter.’ Oh, God. This is worryingly reminiscent of when Spence was learning guitar. Whenever Andy’s parents visited, Andy would say, ‘Go get your guitar, Spence! Play “Whisky in the Jar” for Grandma and Grandpa.’ And he’d skulk off to fetch it and play it dutifully, emitting gusts of resentment, until he reached thirteen and point-blank refused.

  ‘You mean at the hospital?’ I ask, and Penny nods. So I launch into the background info, about Andy’s perpetual moans about the hospital car park, the low-grade loo roll and the hard pats of butter, and how he was driven one day to sitting on one (still in its foil wrapper) in the canteen, in order to soften it for spreading, and it oozed out and made an oily stain on his trousers.

  Nick laughs, but not in the natural, spontaneous way as he has on the other times I’ve seen him. Perhaps my delivery could have been better. I hate being pressurised to recount anecdotes like that.

  Wednesday, September 25

  Izzy was finally well enough to go back to school today. Happily, it means she’ll be able to go to Brownies tonight, and to the camp in Perthshire this coming weekend. I must make the most of this time, when I’ll be alone – but not lonely, most definitely not. I plan to treat it as a weekend of relaxation and culture, visiting museums – no, not museums! I might give those places a miss for a while.

  The cinema, then. And perhaps some exercise: a little light jogging, or a swim, ploughing up and down the pool by myself, trying to beat back the cushiony wodge that appears to be growing by the day around my stomach. I might even go for a spin on my bike. That’s it, I decide; it’ll be a practical, purposeful, health-giving weekend, beneficial to body and mind. I can’t wait.

  Saturday, September 28

  Annoyingly, I’ve had to resort to asking Andy to pop round to access the loft. I hate asking him to do anything. I can’t bear his bouncy, ‘Sure, happy to help!’ attitude, all muscles flexed and penis swinging, perhaps because it brings to mind his Eager Elf, lightbulb-changing period, when he was still secretly shagging Estelle Lang but trying to seem like the good guy around the house.

  Anyway, never mind that now. The attic is where our lesser spotted camping equipment is stashed (with all his lumbago/sciatica moanings, Andy never took to the under-canvas life). And as I’ve neglected to buy Izzy a new sleeping bag for the camping trip – which would have avoided this scenario – I now need him to shift the awkward hatch and manoeuvre himself up into the gloomy space, which only he has ever been able to do successfully.

  He was handy for some things, I guess. He certainly always seemed keener to forage about in the attic than in my underwear.

  He’s up there now, biffing around and humming cheerfully. A few minutes later the hero
reappears, clambering down our flimsy stepladder and presenting the sleeping bag to me like a prize pike. ‘There you go.’

  ‘Thanks. You know I really can’t manage to lift that hatch. Or, if I do, I always think it’s going to smash down on my head.’

  Andy pulls a concerned face. ‘You don’t need to do it. Just phone me.’ We head downstairs where he sips the coffee I made him. ‘You can always ask me to do anything, you know,’ he adds.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll need anything else,’ I say quickly.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And if I did, I’d just get someone in.’

  He gives me a resigned look. ‘Yeah, well, I just thought I’d say, that’s all.’

  Izzy appears, clutching the ‘things to pack’ list she was given at the last Brownie meeting. She has insisted on doing it herself, although obviously I’ll check everything before she heads off this afternoon (I’m aware that we are cutting it fine, and that the other Brownies were probably all packed and ready a week ago). ‘It says don’t forget to pack a toy,’ she announces. ‘Shall I take Woolly?’ Her knitted sandwich, she means.

  ‘I think you should,’ I say.

  ‘Will anyone laugh?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I exclaim. ‘Why on earth would they?’

  She grins. ‘I think Woolly will like camping more than Dad did.’

  ‘Hey, I loved it!’ Andy protests.

  ‘You said you got no sleep, Dad,’ she reminds him. ‘You hurt your back. You got that … thing, the thing that made you shout at Mum.’

  ‘Sciatica,’ I say, helpfully.

  ‘Yeah, but I enjoyed the experience,’ he says, pulling on his jacket now, ‘and I’m sure I didn’t shout. I loved the nature aspect, being outdoors, cooking on the little stove …’ He was a little less keen on washing up at the communal sink block – being chronically injured from having slept on a blow-up bed – but I decide not to remind him of that.