The Heat Is On

by Helen Bridgett

  The estate agent goes up into the loft while we stand on the landing.

  ‘Wow,’ he yells down, ‘this is enormous, so much scope up here. Did you never think of having it converted?’

  Patty ignores him and I remember back when Nigel and her were going to do just that. He was always starting new hobbies and one year, having watched far too much Sky at Night, he decided to get into star-gazing. He even bought himself a very expensive telescope but then had nowhere to use it. Outside in the garden was always too cold and peering out from the bedroom made him feel like a peeping Tom, so they decided to convert the loft and turn it into his observatory.

  ‘Anything to keep him quiet,’ Patty had said.

  The plans were drawn up, Nigel bought huge posters of the constellations and planets but then the cancer struck. Hopeful that they’d beat it, they went ahead getting planning permission and even hiring a project manager. Then one day Patty came home from hospital and rang me. I asked how Nigel was and will never forget her words: ‘I’ve cancelled the loft conversion,’ is all she said.

  So no, that room doesn’t say potential to us and if I’m recalling that moment, Patty certainly must be.

  The estate agent looks positively buoyant as he leaves the house and promises to get back to Patty with a valuation. She gazes absently around the living room as if taking stock for the final time. I remember how I felt when my family home was sold after my divorce. It was one of the saddest days of the entire break-up.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask her and she nods.

  ‘More than OK; I never thought I’d see the day I was ready to move on. I never thought anyone could make me laugh as much as Nigel did.’

  She picks up her wedding picture from the mantelpiece. I remember that day so clearly: when the vicar announced he could kiss the bride, Nigel grabbed Patty and threw her back in a Richard-Gere-Pretty-Woman-style hold and yelled, ‘Kiss me you fool.’ Patty is obviously remembering the same moment. ‘He got his movies a bit mixed up.’

  ‘It was a great day,’ I tell her gently holding her arm.

  ‘It was and he was a great husband,’ says Patty. ‘I think he’d get on with Jack.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ I say and let the room fall silent for a moment.

  ‘I had some brilliant times in this house. But…’ Patty perks up after a few moments and stands tall, ‘I’m ready for my new life and I’m going to start by clearing out that loft.’

  She takes the stairs two at a time and then the ladder. I’m out of breath when I stand next to her in a loft that hasn’t been touched for at least five years.

  ‘Jeez,’ I say looking at all the boxes, ‘you two were hoarders.’

  Patty heads over to a particularly dusty old suitcase.

  ‘It isn’t just our old stuff. I have some of Joy’s here from ages ago.’

  Now I’m excited. Joy was Patty’s mother and a legend of her own making. She hated being called Mum as this made her sound too old. She was an actress and next to my ordinary suburban mother, she was simply glamour personified. I was in awe of her. She died young, in a car crash, exactly as beautiful people are supposed to. Patty opens the suitcase and starts rummaging through some black-and-white photographs. I kneel down beside her and she passes them to me one by one.

  The first one we come to is of a stunning teenager in her black capris and skin-tight sweater; she has the most amazing figure and looks just like the classic 1950s bad girl. Joy used to tell us that when she was seventeen, Elvis Presley took the UK by storm with his ‘Blue Suede Shoes’. I remember being so envious that she was around to witness the beautiful Elvis and all that sexual energy exploding on to the music scene for the first time.

  ‘Is this Ritchie?’ I ask pointing to the Jimmy Dean lookalike posing alongside her and knowing the answer.

  ‘That’s him,’ sighs Patty. ‘Mr Julian Richard Egerton. The name didn’t suit his freestyling image. Nor did a daughter apparently.’

  Patty’s mum fell pregnant after running away with Ritchie to appear on the Six-Five Special, which had just started on TV. Of course, I’ve heard this story many times over the years. Being conceived like this is part of Patty’s personal myth and apparently explains her destiny in music. Ritchie and Joy split up when Patty was just seven because Joy wanted to be free to embrace the sexual revolution of the sixties and seventies. Patty never really saw her father again.

  ‘He sent me some birthday cards for a while but Joy moved around so much he had no chance of keeping up with us even if he’d wanted to. I never knew him but it didn’t stop me missing him.’

  There are always two sides to every decade and while Joy was doing the ‘Free Love’ thing in hippy camps, my mum was thinking that Stepford looked like a nice clean place to live. Being an unmarried mother would have been an unspeakable blot on our family. Patty hands me another photo where this time there’s an explosion of gaudy colour, miniskirts and mascara. Joy is smiling and Patty stands at her side like a sort of mini-me.

  ‘We were doing the festivals then,’ says Patty. ‘We slept in a van wrapped in Joy’s Afghan coat; it was freezing and the van leaked. We stunk of wet goat by the morning. It put me off cashmere for life.’

  The next pictures are of the peace rallies that you sometimes see in history programmes. But Joy lived them.

  ‘This is where she met the crowd who persuaded her to try drama school,’ says Patty. ‘She was a natural apparently. After that I spent five years being dragged around the country to various repertory theatres lodging with other luvved-up actors in the worst B&Bs you’ve ever seen.’

  ‘It’s hardly surprising you ended up touring the world in the cabin crew, is it?’

  ‘Not really,’ replies Patty. ‘Before I met Nigel, I hardly stayed in one place for any length of time. He was my home, my rock. I stopped feeling lonely when I found him.’

  Patty drops the pictures back into the case and opens another box. We both squeal with laughter at the sight of our younger selves in our air stewardess uniforms.

  ‘Oh my god, that must be 1985 when I first joined your cabin crew,’ I say to Patty. ‘How on earth did I get that little stewardess hat on top of that enormous perm?’

  ‘Oh lord,’ Patty continues, ‘do you remember this uniform?’

  She hands me the picture. We’re both proudly modelling the latest update to our navy suit – a red pussy-bow scarf.

  ‘We thought we were the bee’s knees.’

  ‘Especially when we rocked it with red shoes and plastic earrings.’ I cringe.

  ‘And look at your eye-shadow – you’ve co-ordinated with the jacket and scarf!’

  ‘Well, you’ve matched the lipstick to the shoes,’ I reply.

  ‘God we look like Boy George’ – Patty shakes her head – ‘with less style.’

  As well as the photographs, there are naff souvenirs and postcards, piles and piles of postcards from our travels.

  ‘Oh lord,’ I say picking them up, ‘you forget these things even existed. They’re a casualty of picture texts now.’

  We used to send our mothers a card from every stopover even if we had to send it from the airport hotel. They were never very illuminating for the recipient but our daft comments transport us back in time. There’s one of St Basil’s in Moscow. ‘Patty arrested by KGB for draining country of vodka,’ says the scrawl on the back.

  We’d had to take a tour bus around the city but leapt off to have our photos taken in front of the Kremlin wearing our big furry Cossack hats. We’d watched as the citizens solemnly paraded past Lenin’s tomb, some still wearing the peasant-style clothes we’d associate with Doctor Zhivago. Patty starts humming ‘Laura’s Theme’, so I know she’s thinking the same thing.

  ‘I really liked Moscow,’ she says, ‘it felt so daring just being there.’

  I nod, remembering the moment when, as a young twenty-year-old, I told Mum I was going to Russia. It was the era of Regan and Gorbachev and she was horrified. She lectured me abo
ut being brainwashed into communism or kidnapped and tortured as a Western spy.

  ‘Don’t go smuggling any arms,’ I remember her saying.

  ‘Most mothers tell their daughters to be careful on the underground,’ I’d replied, ‘I’m hardly likely to get a Kalashnikov in my vanity case.’

  ‘I don’t know what one of them is but you just be careful on the underground, too,’ was her final warning.

  If she’d seen the underground in Moscow she wouldn’t have worried. They were truly magnificent halls built to honour the ordinary people and display their craftsmanship. Patty is holding up a postcard of Stockholm, ‘But this was my favourite city.’

  I remember. As a tall blonde party animal she felt right at home and we went there several times. During one of our stopovers, they’d recently won the Eurovision Song Contest and were hosting it. The city was definitely up for a party.

  ‘I can’t believe your mother kept all of these,’ I say flicking through the pile of memories. ‘I never saw her as the sentimental type.’

  ‘Oh she wasn’t as cool as she liked to make out. Behind her Bette Davis exterior there was more than a smidgeon of pure Betty Crocker – sometimes,’ replies Patty.

  ‘What are you going to do with all of this?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know. It seems wrong to throw it all out but then I shouldn’t keep living in the past.’

  ‘Why don’t you have the photos digitised?’ I suggest. ‘And maybe just keep a couple of postcards.’

  She nods but packs everything up just as it was.

  ‘We had some really great times, didn’t we,’ she smiles.

  ‘We’ll still have them.’

  ‘But it’ll be different from now on won’t it? As much as I love Jack, girls always have a little more fun on their own. Maybe we should have one last fling,’ Patty suggests.

  ‘I know just the thing,’ I reply as I wave her goodbye.

  * * *

  A quick call to Charlie and it’s all sorted. Patty and I will be escorting Mercury Travel customers on their next trip. The day has been much livelier than I’d thought it would be and I still have Michael… damn. I still have Michael coming round expecting dinner. The doorbell rings, too late he’s here. I let him in and he walks in sniffing the air.

  ‘I can’t smell burning,’ he says then kisses me affectionately.

  ‘Cheeky thing. I could pretend that I’d planned a cold platter,’ I say, ‘but Patty’s been round and I lost track of time.’

  I head into the kitchen and bring out a bottle of red.

  ‘So I can offer you this as the starter,’ I say handing Michael a wine glass and filling it for him. ‘And for the main course, I have lovingly prepared le fromage et les oatcakes.’

  ‘Just perfect,’ he says and I join him taking a glug and devouring a chunk of wonderful smoked Cheddar.

  ‘To us,’ he toasts.

  I snuggle into Michael with my feet tucked under me. Our glasses seem to have miraculously emptied themselves, so Michael tops them up. As he leans over me, his lovely outdoory smell sets my heart racing. I kiss him on the shoulder. He leans back and kisses me on the lips.

  ‘I could stay if you’d like me to.’

  I return the kiss and the loins start stirring. Then I hear Patty’s voice echoing in my head, ‘Go with the flow, don’t wait for perfection, relax and just go with the flow.’ This could be it.

  Houston, I think we are ready for lift-off.

  I put my glass down and run my hands down his chest. My heart is pounding and my mouth is dry, this could really be it.

  But then the worst thing that could happen does, and an image starts to appear. I try to block it out but it’s like that thing when you’re not supposed to think about pink elephants and all of a sudden that’s all you can think about.

  Houston, we have a problem. Stand by for details.

  No, not now. Please not now.

  But it’s too late, she’s there. My pink elephant.

  Or rather a huge pink Stetson sitting on top of Patty’s head. The most vivid image of her ever is playing through my mind drowning out any romantic thoughts. And she’s doing that song, drawled in her best country and western singalong voice. The one she uses for ‘Jolene’.

  ‘Heee’s a rrrh-i-ne-st-oone caw-buoy…’

  She’s winking at me in a howdy-doody way. It’s no good; Michael and I can’t possibly compete with that.

  Houston, abort mission. I repeat, abort mission.

  I try to pull myself away from that kiss as demurely as I can without completely destroying the moment. It’s no good, I have to escape Patty, her Stetson, Michael and the kiss. I leap up from the sofa and send my glass flying. I’m covered in red wine and I think we can safely say the moment has passed.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ I blurt clumsily, ‘but it’s been a tough day and I’m probably more tired than I realised. I should just go and tidy myself up then get a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to…’ Michael stutters getting up. He tries to help me blot up the wine with a napkin but I just grab it from him and push him away.

  ‘I’ll let you get some sleep,’ he says before leaving. At the door he leans in to give me a peck on the cheek and then decides against it.

  I slump back down. What on earth have I done? How must he be feeling? I can probably guess the answer to that. Exactly the way I felt when I tried to show my feelings for someone – rejected and humiliated. I have to do something about this. I know Patty was joking about the vajazzzling and stuff but there might be things I need to know. I don’t want to lose this man.

  Money, Money, Money

  Michael hasn’t called since Sunday and if it weren’t for the impending appointment with the bank manager today, I think I’d be in pieces. I’ve forced myself to focus on this, I’ve read and re-read our investment proposal and it still looks good. I shouldn’t be nervous but I am. It’s a bit like attending a parents’ evening. I always knew that my daughter was no trouble at all, but still always had a niggling doubt that someone might know more than me and was about to spring it on me. The other thing making me nervous is that Lorenzo has been out and about more frequently this week, so I think the shop must be very nearly finished. Maybe the bank knows more about the new travel agency than we do. They might be bidding for the same resort – although heaven knows how they would have found out about it.

  Peter suggested that rather than borrow the money we try to find an investor to help with the resort, arguing that we might be about to have our hands full. Looking for a third musketeer didn’t really feel right for either of us but we agreed to give it a go. Peter asked around his networks and quickly found a couple of people he knew who were looking for an opportunity.

  Charlie and I were rather shocked when he turned up at the shop and said, ‘Guys, I know it’s short notice but can you meet someone for a coffee tonight? Just a chemistry meeting for now, he’s looking for a quick investment and might be right for you.’

  We agreed to meet up and at the end of the day we were shaking hands with a very handsome young guy (unfortunately he’d be competition for Charlie being the most handsome man in the office, as he frequently likes to tell us. I’m most beautiful woman over forty – we have very fragile egos at Mercury).

  ‘I’ve just sold my internet business,’ the investor told us over his flat white, ‘and I’m looking to reinvest quickly with a bricks and mortar I could add value to.’

  I nodded, assuming we were the bricks and mortar.

  ‘Your business is perfect for me,’ he continued. ‘You’ve got physical sales but no online presence. Your SEO is pretty non-existent and your social media feeds aren’t truly optimised. If I work on these and maximise their potential, I think we could clean up.’

  ‘And what travel experience do you have?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘The industry doesn’t really matter, the techniques are the same,’ he answered with froth over his upper lip. I resiste
d the urge to get out my hankie and wipe it for him.

  ‘I spent the whole evening flummoxed,’ I told Peter later when he asked us how it went. ‘I know we should do more on the internet but I think I want someone who talks beaches not bytes.’

  Charlie agreed but Peter wouldn’t give up and sure enough, a few days later we were in the same coffee bar with a man whose perma-tan told us he either travelled extensively or lay on sunbeds. He caught Charlie looking him up and down in contemplation.

  ‘Golf in Portugal,’ he explained. ‘I’m just back from a week out there. The golf market is pretty lucrative, you know.’

  He invited us to sit down and then called one of the assistants over to take our order. It’s a self-service café and they looked a bit confused by his request but did as they were asked anyway. He definitely had a presence but I quickly felt more like his underling than his partner and I could see Charlie bristling.

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ I croaked referring to the golf, ‘and ideas have really driven our growth, so we’re looking for someone who can create new markets.’

  ‘Music to my ears,’ he said. ‘I have so many ideas I could use to turbo-charge this business.’

  He went on to tell us our growth was hindered by having only one outlet and a centralised business model (whatever that is), that we were missing out on the hipster market and sports tours. We could franchise the club idea and allow people across the country to start their own version of Mercury, then we could lay back and just watch the money roll in.

  ‘But we enjoy what we do, we travel with our customers and that’s part of the fun,’ said Charlie, however our potential investor waved away his comment.

  ‘If I invest,’ he said, ‘I’ll take charge of these expansion ideas so you don’t need to worry about them. I’ll hire people who know the markets and I’ll double our turnover within the year. It might take a little extra capital from all of us to begin with but it’ll be worth it, we’ll rake it in.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ I pretend badly when he eventually lets me get a word in.