‘I had to tell him,’ Mum says as I’m dragging her away.
‘He’s an actor – you didn’t have to tell him anything,’ I cry out.
I pull her back towards the shop to see a couple of potential customers pointing at something on our front door, then turning away. Lord knows we can’t afford to have people leaving us. When I reach the door I see that someone has put up a huge hand-written notice saying ‘SHOP CLOSED’. It doesn’t take a genius to work out who might have done this, so I take a look across at Launch, and sure enough, Lorenzo is there, pointing an imaginary shotgun in my direction. I rip the notice down as Charlie and Josie return bringing some of our regulars with them. I can’t risk letting Mum out again, so I instruct her to make us some coffees. Once again we settle down to make the most of what’s left of our day.
‘Keep pedalling Ange,’ I tell myself. ‘Keep pedalling.’
Home Sweet Home
On the day that I get the deeds for my new apartment, I’m wrapping up my wine glasses (I had to leave them till last, obviously) in pages of the local paper when I spot a photo. Bloody Lorenzo shaking hands with the sales manager of a local football team; he won their fan travel contract this week. We went for that business but he beat us on price, yet again. We offered a fabulous deal that wouldn’t have made much money, so I truly don’t know how he managed to undercut us. The team did offer us the chance to bid again but we’re already losing too much money because of him; I hate losing out to him even when walking away is the best thing to do. At least it’s not a premiership team, I huff to myself. I’m still annoyed by everything he does but I can’t let him get to me today. There has to be at least one thing in my life that Lorenzo can’t ruin. The flat will be my sanctuary, the one place he can’t get to me. And as there’s a video intercom on the door, I can even keep Mum and Patty out should I need to.
Having waited so long for this day, when it finally arrived, it took me by surprise. With so much focus on the second-stage island bid and the everyday battles with Launch, the day of the house move managed to sneak up on me and when I read my calendar entry for this week – ‘NO LONGER HOMELESS!’ – I had to double-check that everything was really in place. The removals company arrived on time and managed to extradite me from Patty’s with ease and so having blown her a final goodbye kiss, I was actually on my way.
My new place is an apartment in a gorgeous converted mansion house. As I drive through the grounds towards it, the sense of excitement I felt when I first viewed it all those months ago surges through me. I didn’t want to have to find a new place to live after the divorce and somehow nothing felt right. I searched so many different types of house, then I found this place and it was perfect. It said ‘new start’ and was so different from my family home that I knew if I moved here, I’d definitely be starting afresh. Gone are the neat lawns, flowerbeds and hanging baskets that I consistently failed to look after; here I have communal grounds. They’re perfect for a deck chair and a Pimm’s but they’re maintained by a team of professionals, so I don’t even need a pair of gloves. Hurrah!
My old family kitchen was a hotchpotch of crockery and cookware collected over the years. The plentiful cupboards were filled with gadgets and recipes I’d never, ever get round to attempting. Nonetheless, I’d held on to them convinced that one day I would become Manchester’s answer to Nigella. Of course it was never going happen, so they were one of the first things to be thrown away in the clear-out. The only gadgets in my new kitchen are a built-in wine cooler and the fanciest of microwaves. This kitchen was built for someone who eats not cooks, and I love it.
I’m just dying to show this place off to someone, so I check the time and then Skype Zoe who will just be starting her day. I hold the tablet up and scan the room to show her.
‘It’s fabulous. Honestly Mum, that kitchen is so you, absolutely not designed for cooking,’ she declares. ‘Now show me the rest.’
Delighted that she’s as excited as I am, I take my tablet into the granite bathroom.
‘Wow,’ says Zoe, ‘a wet room, it’s stunning.’
‘Your gran is horrified by the idea,’ I tell her. ‘She kept yelling “but there’s no curtain, it’s just not right”. I had to promise to lock the door every time I’m in.’
We laugh and I walk us into my new huge bedroom, which overlooks the grounds and makes you feel like the lady of the manor.
‘Now this room just cries out for a four-poster,’ says Zoe, ‘and maybe a chaise longue by the French windows.’
I’ve brought my own bed out of storage as I bought it a year ago, but maybe Zoe’s right and I should just abandon it and get a four-poster. I love the idea of a chaise longue, too. I wonder what Mum would have to say about that? Probably something like, ‘What’s the use of a sofa with only one arm?’
I shake her out of my head and move on to the spare room.
‘And this would be your room for when you come to stay. Obviously I’ll have moved the boxes by then, so there’ll be plenty of room for you and Jamie,’ I tell her, finishing the tour.
‘It looks fabulous Mum,’ says Zoe, ‘it really does. You so deserve it and I can’t wait to visit.’
It warms me to hear her say that. She was very upset when the family house sold and although she’s making her own way now, I want her to feel that she always has a home with me. I haven’t told her this yet but I did keep all of her teddy bears from the old house, so when she does come to visit she’ll find them lined up on the bed like they always were. She’ll probably die with embarrassment.
After we’ve said goodbye, I sink down into my new sofa and silently scream with excitement – I’m finally here! This move feels like the end of one journey and the beginning of another and I have to mark this occasion appropriately. I head back into the spare room and start digging through the boxes stacked up there. Eventually I find what I’m looking for: the cut-glass trophy Mercury won for Entrepreneur of the Year. I take it out, give it a quick wipe with my sleeve, then place it right at the centre of my mantelpiece. I sit back and look at it. Less than six months ago we were at the top of our game – getting rave customer reviews and selling out every trip we created. I dreamed of winning that award and then bringing it back to a place of my own. I’ve achieved both now and am newly filled with resolve. That man won’t take our customers from us – Charlie and I have worked too hard to let that happen.
I spend the next two hours unpacking, cleaning and making my new place a home. When I’ve done as much as I can, I realise my stomach is rumbling. It’s nearly eight o’clock and I think I deserve a break. I have a shower in my new fabulous wet room using the gorgeous new toiletries bought especially for tonight. There will be no bargain-bucket shower gels in this place – colour co-ordinated Molton Brown body washes and lotions only. Feeling soft and silky, I put on a new kimono and do a twirl; I look the part. In my mind, I’m the poster girl for go-getting independent women and I start belting out the only words I can remember to ‘I’m Every Woman’ (which is effectively the chorus). I uncork a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and search for a takeaway menu on my phone. Just then the door intercom buzzes and I jump before I realise what it is. My first visitor.
I pick up the receiver and see Michael waiting by the front door. I take a deep breath; at least I look fabulous. I buzz him in and wait nervously as he finds his way up. His hands are full with flowers, champagne and, knowing the route to my heart, a takeaway of Thai green curry and sticky rice.
‘Thought you might like a housewarming meal,’ he says. ‘You look amazing.’
‘Thank you,’ I say kissing him. ‘A tall, handsome man as my first visitor, isn’t that good luck?’
‘Only at New Year I think but a new start probably counts. You smell gorgeous, too.’
I lead him into the kitchen and while he’s opening the champagne, I put the cork back into the wine I’ve just opened (aah – that’s why people have bottle-stoppers, for when a better bottle comes along). He hands me a flute
, which I sip flirtatiously and he drinks his rather too quickly. He looks like an anxious puppy dog about to get a juicy bone. If he hasn’t got one already.
‘Shall we start with the guided tour?’ I ask. He just nods and tops up the drinks.
We take our champagne glasses and I start by leading him to the window, pointing out the extent of the grounds. Michael politely asks a whole range of questions I have no chance of answering. I promise to introduce him to the gardener when I meet him. We then move through each room on the ground floor with me demonstrating all my new gadgets and him murmuring his approval. The tension is building. My room is on the mezzanine level, up a small flight of stairs, and as I lead him up, my heart starts to race with expectation. I replay the day in the furniture shop when we said all we were waiting for was me to have my own place. Well, I’m here now.
We finally enter the bedroom and I try to make light of things.
‘And this luxurious space is the boudoir for the lady of the manor,’ I say.
‘Very fitting,’ he says sitting on the edge of the bed and patting the space beside him. Nervously, I sit down and we clink glasses.
‘A beautiful room for a beautiful woman,’ he says.
I’m sure he must be able to hear the thudding beat from my chest. My mouth is dry and I don’t feel at all ready for the kiss I know is coming my way.
Suddenly I feel thirteen years old again, getting ready for my first real kiss from Gary Marshall. I didn’t want him telling all the boys I had a mouth as dry as a bin of pencil shavings but didn’t want him to see me wetting my lips either. I learned the difference between boys and girls at that moment. As I was struggling to make myself more luscious, licking my lips as discreetly as I possibly could, he pulled his sleeve down his arm and dragged it across his mouth before asking, ‘Ya ready?’
Not that this scene bears any resemblance to my old schooldays. Michael is making every effort to create the perfect moment he knows I’ve been dreaming of. He takes another sip of champagne and I do the same, then, just like a scene from a movie, Michael leans forward kissing me and simultaneously putting our glasses on the bedside table. He places his hand on the small of my back and gently lowers me on to the bed.
Love Potion Number 9
The buzzer gives me the fright of my life yet again. It’s been four days and I’m still not used to it. Although that may be because I seem to have a set of friends and family who think they need to press it for as long and as hard as they can to get my attention. I run over to the intercom.
‘OK, OK, I’m coming, you can stop buzzing.’
Patty’s face stares into the camera bearing a daft smile. At least she doesn’t have her eyeball pressed up against the camera like Mum did on her first visit. She thought it might have iris recognition like on Mission Impossible.
‘But even if it did, I’d have to programme it to recognise you and you know I haven’t done that,’ I told her.
‘If it’s as clever as they look on the films, they’ll know I’m your mum. You’ve always had my eyes.’
Obviously I didn’t argue the case further.
Patty reaches the door armed with flowers, chocolates and Prosecco. Everything a girl could possibly want. If it doesn’t work out with Michael, I should seriously consider dating this woman.
‘Is the coast clear?’ she asks as she peers into the living room. ‘Ooh, this is very nice Ange. Very, very nice.’
I hold up two flutes and the bottle she’s brought.
‘Too early?’
‘Not if we call it an early brunch.’
‘Isn’t that just breakfast?’
‘Whatever.’
I pour a couple of glasses and hand one to her.
‘Cheers,’ says Patty, ‘to you and your fabulous new love shack.’
I shake my head but clink anyway. I know what she’s here to ask but I’m not going down that route until I have to. We sip our drinks quietly for a moment.
‘By the way, I didn’t get that shopping channel thing,’ she says breaking the silence, her face betraying nothing at all.
‘Oh I’m sorry, what happened?’
‘Same old, they went for a young skinny bird and an old chubby bloke. Apparently food doesn’t sell if the presenters are the other way around.’
‘After all that contouring, too,’ I muse. ‘Do you think there’ll be any other opportunities? They seemed quite keen on you.’
‘Between the lines, they basically told me if I wanted to be on TV, I’d need to diet.’
‘And are you prepared to?’ I ask as she refills the glasses and opens my chocolates.
‘Nah,’ she replies. ‘If diets were any good, they’d all say the same thing and there’d only be one of them, but they’re all completely different and confusing. For example, if you want bacon for breakfast then go on the Atkins diet because you can’t have it on the wholefoods one. Then you need switch to the F-Plan at lunchtime so you have a big jacket potato or sandwich, and if you fancy olives, pasta and wine for dinner, then it’s time for Mediterranean eating. The perfect plan would be a combination of all three.’
I have to say that makes sense to me. I particularly like the sound of the Mediterranean. There doesn’t seem to be any cooking with that one, either. I know my friend is trying to stay poker-faced about this rejection but the dismay is coming through in her voice.
‘Sod ’em,’ I say. ‘They don’t know what they’re missing.’
We clink glasses again.
‘I do have some good news, though,’ she continues. ‘I’ve had an offer on the house.’
‘Blimey, that was quick.’
‘Apparently they were all ready to complete on somewhere else but it fell through, so they wanted somewhere with no chain and where the seller was definitely not going to change their mind.’
‘And you’re not?’ I ask. ‘You’re still happy about the move and living with Jack?’
‘Yes, I am,’ replies Patty. ‘Very sure. If it hadn’t been right I’d have known when I started clearing out all the old stuff. I couldn’t part with any of it before, but this time I could wave it goodbye as a happy memory.’
‘That’s good.’
‘So I’ll be moving in a month or so. Jack won’t know what’s hit him, me full time.’
‘Poor soul, I’ll tell Michael to make up his spare room.’
‘And you can make up yours for me. Talking of which, can I have a nosey of the rest of the place?’
It’s unlike Patty to ask, so I lead her on my now well-rehearsed tour, which naturally ends in my bedroom. She seems to be studying every inch of it. She even lifts up a pillow.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘Evidence,’ she replies. ‘That he’s staying here. You know, PJs under the pillow, a watch on the bedside table. Come on, spill the beans. How did it go? The perfect night? I’ve stayed out of your way for days in case you were still in here all loved-up but it’s been killing me. So ’ fess up and I want details.’
She plonks herself on the bed but I lead her back downstairs and straight on to the sofa. I top up our glasses and take a glug. I pause for a moment wondering whether I should make something up but if I can tell anyone, it’s Patty.
‘It didn’t happen. Coitus interruptus you might say.’
‘What happened?’
‘Mum and Dad.’
I set the scene for Patty: my lovely shower, body lotion and sexy robe. How Michael came round bearing food but when we started the tour, it kind of got stuck in the bedroom. Things were getting going and then the buzzer went. After the initial shock, we tried to ignore it but it kept going, being pressed harder and harder. Then my phone rang and I could see it was Mum. I apologised to Michael but he just shrugged at the inevitable. We reassembled our clothing and I went to let my parents in.
‘They must have realised what they’d interrupted.’
‘Who knows, but the moment was over so we just heated up the takeaway and shared it out. Michael s
howed Mum around the grounds and after about two hours of her asking about every device in the place, they eventually left and insisted on giving Michael a lift home.’
‘He didn’t stay? Why didn’t you make him?’
I just shake my head and will Patty to read my mind so I don’t have to say it.
‘Oh no,’ she guesses. ‘It wasn’t happening was it? Earlier in the night, even before your mum interrupted?’
Again, I just shake my head and sigh.
‘Girl you have to do something about this,’ cries Patty. ‘I know he’s a patient man – hell he courted you by leaving bloody gnomes on your doorstep – but even he must have a limit. Let me ask you this honestly and I promise I won’t judge, do you actually fancy him?’
‘Yes,’ I cry. ‘I do, I really do and believe me, I’d done everything to make the night perfect. I was willing my body to relax and enjoy the moment but it just wouldn’t. It’s like my pilot light’s gone out.’
‘Ange – I have never known you to give up on something that matters to you. Have you looked at that card I gave you?’
The card had turned out to be a discount voucher for a well-known adult shop.
‘I can’t go in there Patty, it’s just not me.’
‘You don’t have to go in, you can shop online. And whatever you’re thinking, it’s not just underwear and vibrators: they have supplements you can take. Honestly Ange, you’re not the only woman going through this. It has to be worth a try; even you could manage a super-charged vitamin pill.’
‘Have you taken them? I thought you and Jack were swinging from the rafters.’
‘We might be now but I needed help. It’s not easy for women our age. Come on, fire up that tablet.’
I hand it over and she types in the website address. She shows me a picture of some pink pills. Pink oval-shaped pills obviously designed to look like the female equivalent of Viagra.
‘See, it says they’re herbal,’ Patty tries to reassure me. I scroll down and read the ingredients.
‘Ground-up oysters and guarana, even you can’t object to that. Unless you’re thinking of dining on oysters anyway,’ she adds, knowing full well that the one thing I cannot bring myself to eat is slimy seafood. These tablets have a four-star review, meaning that other people have at least tried them.
The Heat Is On Page 15
