My son comes to me and winds his arms round my neck. ‘I love you, Mum,’ he says. ‘You are clever. Kyle says I should be very proud of you.’
‘And Kyle is always right.’
‘Kyle says you’re a MILF.’
My eyebrows raise at that. ‘Does he now? And do you know what that means?’
‘Yeah,’ Charlie says uncertainly. ‘I think it’s a Mum I’d Like To Be Friends With.’
‘It’s a bit more than that,’ I say. ‘I’ll explain another day, but I don’t want you using it again.’
My son shrugs. ‘Okay.’
I hug Charlie to me.
‘I wish we didn’t have to go away,’ he mutters. ‘Especially now you’re going to get an award and everything.’
‘We haven’t won it yet,’ I remind him. ‘We’ve just been nominated. But I do have some other news for you.’ I pat the chair next to me and Charlie slides onto it. ‘We’re not going to Surrey. Spencer and I aren’t going out any more. We’re not going to get married.’
Charlie’s face lights up. ‘That’s sound!’
‘I thought you’d be pleased.’ Glad that my son isn’t too concerned about my own broken heart.
‘And we really don’t have to go to Surrey?’
‘No,’ I confirm. ‘We’ll be staying here.’ I avoid looking around the flat in case it sends me into a tailspin. This is the right decision. I must hold firm with that thought.
‘Can I tell Kyle?’
‘Of course you can.’
‘And Johnny?’
‘Maybe I should tell Johnny.’
My son puts his arms round my neck again and kisses me. ‘You’re the best mum in the world,’ he says cheerily.
‘Thanks.’ I breathe in the soapy smell of his skin and feel the dampness of his freshly washed hair on my skin.
My son wriggles away from me. ‘Can I have my breakfast now?’
‘Yeah. Help yourself to cereal. I’ll put some toast in.’ I sigh to myself as I stand up. For a Single Mum and Superwoman, it doesn’t take long to get back to business as usual.
Chapter One Hundred and Five
When I’ve seen Charlie off to school and made a cursory effort of tidying the flat, I head over to Johnny’s mum’s house. He’ll probably still be there after giving Mary her breakfast.
However, it’s Dana who opens the door, which takes me by surprise. ‘Hi, Sally,’ she says. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I wanted to see Johnny,’ I tell her as she keeps me standing on the doorstep.
‘He’s not here. He got a phone call first thing and he’s gone off to the television studio down by the Albert Dock. He’s going to be interviewed for a programme called Art North West.’
‘Johnny’s going to be on telly?’
She nods. ‘Tonight, apparently. That’s why I’m here. I’ve got a couple of days off and Johnny called me straight away to come and see to Mary.’
Normally, he’d ask me to do that. It just goes to show how quickly I’ve been replaced in his affections.
‘Is that our Sally?’ Mary shouts from the living room. ‘Don’t keep her standing at the door.’
‘Sorry,’ Dana says, standing aside to let me in. ‘I wasn’t thinking.’
In the living room, Mary’s in her usual place in the armchair in front of the telly. Ringo’s curled up on her lap, asleep.
‘Sally, love,’ Mary says, as I go and give her a kiss. ‘Nice to see you, girl. You’ll stay for a cuppa?’
‘Yeah. I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘I’ve got it,’ Dana says. ‘It’s just about to boil.’
‘Oh.’ Little Miss Organised.
‘Dana’s going to take me over to the garden today,’ Mary tells me. ‘Aren’t you, doll?’
A ‘yes’ comes from the kitchen. I was going to suggest that I did it, but instead I keep my mouth shut.
‘I love sitting out there with Dora and Mrs Kapur. She’s such a little love that Mrs K. I feel like it’s given me a new lease of life.’ Mary claps her hands together in glee. ‘And now our Johnny’s going to be famous too! Looks like everything’s working out for the best.’
‘Yeah.’
Dana comes out of the kitchen with the tea and hands it round. She sits down next to Mary while I occupy the sofa.
‘I bet you don’t know what to do with yourself this week,’ Dana says. ‘Now that all the excitement has died down.’
‘It does feel a bit strange,’ I admit. ‘I feel as if I’m a spare part. My computer course has finished now too, so I could go out and start looking for a job.’ Hopefully, Spencer has taught me well.
‘In an office?’
‘I guess so,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure that I’m cut out for it, but I don’t know what else I can do. I’ve never really worked. What have I got to offer anyone?’
‘Start your own business,’ Dana says. ‘You’ve made a fantastic job of this project. Do something like that.’
I laugh. ‘I couldn’t.’
She shrugs at me. ‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know.’ She makes it sound so easy. ‘Do you think I could?’
‘There are loads of grants kicking around to get you up and running if you know where to ask,’ Dana tells me. ‘I can help you with that. A good friend works at the Business Link centre; she can give you a hand with the paperwork side of things and get you on some business workshops.’
‘I really enjoyed working with Jason, Daniel and Mark,’ I confide in her. ‘Just doing something so simple as a bit of gardening has really transformed them. I wonder could I do something to help other kids like that?’
‘I wouldn’t mind them coming and doing up my back yard,’ Mary chips in. ‘It’s a real mess out there, but I’ve never really been bothered about it until now. Makes me feel scruffy compared to the rest of the estate.’
Then a little light bulb pings on in my brain. ‘What if I started a gardening company that used delinquent kids to do the gardens of disabled people? Do you think there’d be a need for that?’
Dana smiles at me. ‘It sounds to me like you have a plan.’
I laugh. ‘I think I do!’
‘I’ll be your very first customer,’ Mary says.
‘But then you won’t be around here for much longer, will you?’ Dana points out. ‘Still, I’m sure you could do a similar thing in Surrey.’
For some reason, I decide to keep the latest development in my love-life quiet. I want to discuss it with Johnny myself. Which reminds me . . . ‘I came to see Johnny to tell him some good news,’ I say.
‘Ah, the community project award,’ Dana says.
That takes me aback. ‘How do you know about it?’
She shrugs apologetically. ‘I was in Richard Selley’s office giving him an update and I’m afraid that he let it slip.’
‘You’re going to get an award for all the work you’ve been doing?’ Mary asks, and claps.
‘I hope so,’ I tell Johnny’s mum. ‘We’ve been put forward for it. Now we’ve just got to wait and see if we win.’
Mary claps again. ‘That’s great news, girl!’
‘I know. I can hardly believe it.’ I allow myself a big grin. ‘I can’t wait to tell Johnny.’
‘I’ve told him already,’ Dana confesses. ‘Well, I just couldn’t keep it to myself, could I?’
Oh. ‘No. I guess not.’
‘Johnny’s so pleased.’
‘Good. I’m glad.’ I thought he would have called me the minute he heard.
‘He did go out of here in a bit of a rush,’ Dana says, as if she’s reading my mind. ‘I’m sure he’ll give you a ring later when he has a minute.’
‘I’m sure he will.’ But, to be honest, I’m not sure of anything any more.
Chapter One Hundred and Six
‘Can we get you anything else, Mr Jones?’
‘Er . . . no,’ Johnny said. ‘No, thanks. I’m sound.’ He sipped at his glass of water, mouth dry.
‘Champagne?
Croissant?’
‘No. No.’ It wasn’t yet eleven o’clock in the morning. He’d had champagne twice in his life. Cheap stuff from Save-It that probably wasn’t even real champagne. He certainly hadn’t drunk it before dinnertime and he wasn’t about to start now, even though a glass or two might have helped to steady his nerves.
He was waiting in the Green Room of the North West Broadcasting Company waiting to be interviewed for their arts programme. The studios were posh, housed in an old tobacco warehouse now kitted out with everything steel and glass. The nearest he’d been to them was going past the window of the studio that backed out onto the dock where he’d given the obligatory wave in the hope that he could catch one of the cameras and see himself in the background when whatever programme they were filming was broadcast.
Today, he was inside the building. And that felt really good. Getting through security alone had taken a good ten minutes. He was being slotted in at short notice between an update on the building of the new Beatles-themed hotel, which included a few soundbites from the Sir Paul McCartney, and a new Antony Gormley sculpture that had been cast in time to feature in Liverpool for the European City of Culture celebrations. Did he really deserve to be here? Paul was an iconic figure; Antony Gormley, one of the foremost artists in the UK. All Johnny had done was knock out a few paintings in his lock-up.
It was still a mystery to him as to how he’d managed to get here at all. If it wasn’t for Charlie, his main ambition would be to sell a few canvases on one of the markets, or he’d have continued with his painting and decorating, transforming homes that had last been decorated in the 1970s by the magic of Dulux Hint of a Tint.
The buffet table in the hospitality suite was laden down with an array of drinks and an extensive spread of pastries. It was a shame that he couldn’t eat a mouthful. His stomach was churning with nerves. He’d never been on telly before, had never imagined himself doing it. Now they were treating him like he was the next Damien Hirst. He’d even been given his own stick-thin woman called Helena to look after him. She was a bit scary. Every time he moved, she was there at his elbow. Really he would have liked to go to the toilet, but he didn’t dare move. Helena might have wanted to go with him.
Johnny looked round the room, but he didn’t recognise anyone else and he’d never learned or needed to learn the networking thing, so he stayed put and pretended to watch whatever it was that was going out on the big, widescreen telly that was the focal point of the room.
He wished that Sally had been here with him today. He’d wanted to call her, but he’d left in such a rush that there wasn’t time. Now he wasn’t sure whether he should use a mobile phone or not. Plus, what would he say? Why would she be interested in his successes? She was on her way now. She was on her way out of his life. Wasn’t it time that he let Sally go?
He’d nearly called her this morning to come and look after his mam, but then Dana had phoned and she’d offered to do it instead. He knew that he should be pleased that Dana was so caring, but it still felt weird leaving his mam with her instead of Sal. Not that his mam seemed to mind; she’d really taken to Dana. Times must be changing if even Mary Jones had given up on him ever marrying Sally. Still, he could have done with Sally here. Just having her around would have made it a lot easier for him.
The host of the show swept into the Green Room with his entourage. Bob Gibson was a slightly overweight man with hair that was too long for a bloke of his age. He wore a trendy suit and had a big smile that wasn’t entirely sincere.
Johnny was still wearing his mate’s borrowed suit and he knew that he’d probably have to invest in one of his own soon if this sort of thing continued. It would be the first suit that he’d ever owned. Maybe Sal could come and help him pick one out – or Dana, of course.
Johnny knew that Bob Gibson was an influential mover and shaker on the local music and arts scene and that he’d been doing this show for years. The man knew everyone who was anyone.
‘Johnny!’ Bob Gibson gripped his hand and pumped it. ‘Nice to meet you. Love the work.’
‘Thanks,’ Johnny said.
‘Are they looking after you?’ He turned his gaze on Helena, the stick-thin woman, who looked panicked.
‘Yeah.’
Bob Gibson clapped him on the back. ‘We’ll start the show in about ten minutes. Just relax. We’ll chew the fat. Look at some of your paintings. Talk about your inspiration, how you were discovered. All sound okay to you?’
‘Fine.’
‘Hang loose,’ Bob Gibson advised.
Johnny shook his shoulders in an attempt to do just that. ‘I’ll try to.’
‘By the way,’ Bob Gibson said, ‘I’m on the Arts Council committee for the new stadium. We’re looking to have a mural on one of the car park walls. Big fucker. Would be seen right across the Mersey. I heard that’s your kind of thing?’
‘Yeah,’ Johnny said. ‘That’s right up my street.’
‘I’ll put you forward,’ Bob said. ‘Local boy made good. We like that kind of thing.’
It seemed that a lot of people did.
‘We’re looking at about 250K,’ Bob Gibson added as an afterthought. ‘That in your ballpark?’
‘Yeah,’ Johnny managed. Did that mean that they were going to pay him two hundred and fifty thousand pounds just to do a mural? That couldn’t possibly be right.
‘I’m sure it will just go through on the nod,’ Bob Gibson assured him. ‘Leave it with me.’
It certainly looked like that was what he meant.
‘Good. I want to grab you before they all start clamouring for you. You’re going to be a very popular man from now on.’ He winked at Johnny. ‘We’ll get that signed and sealed as soon as possible, then you can get started.’
Two hundred and fifty thousand quid for a mural. And to think he’d done Ronaldo’s painting in his studio in exchange for a dance lesson.
While Johnny stood and gaped, speechlessly, Bob Gibson, the television host and the maker of dreams, pumped his hand again.
Chapter One Hundred and Seven
‘I can’t believe that’s our Johnny on the telly,’ Debs says, as she swigs her glass of wine and puffs her smoke out of the window. ‘Look at the state of him. What a fox!’
Johnny’s sitting on the sofa on the Art North West programme being interviewed by Bob Gibson, who’s been on our telly since time began. And Debs is right, he looks fantastic. He looks cool, assured, not a hint of nerves and I feel so proud of him that I think my heart might burst its way out of my blouse.
I’ve gathered the girls together in my flat to watch Johnny’s performance, plus I wanted to tell them all my news too. Mrs Kapur’s here, so is Dora. We’ve got through two bottles of wine already and a tub and a half of Pringles.
‘He looks just like George Clooney,’ Dora swoons.
I have to admit that there’s more than a hint of the Cloonmeister about my ex. Who’d have thought. Johnny looks like a stranger sitting there talking eloquently about art, not like someone who used to share my life, my bed. Did I know him so little?
On screen, Johnny recounts the story of how his paintings came to be at the Tate Liverpool, giving Charlie all the credit. We all cheer at the mention of my son’s name. Charlie’s out playing football with Kyle, but I’m videoing the programme so that he can watch it later. We all clap Johnny when the interview finishes and I fill up everyone’s glass again. We’ll be having to carry Mrs Kapur back along the corridor at this rate.
‘To Johnny,’ I say, raising my glass.
‘To Johnny,’ my friends echo, and we slug back our wine in his honour.
‘Wish you’d stuck with him now he’s going to be a famous artist instead of Little Lord Fauntleroy?’ Debs asks, sounding a bit slurry.
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘I’ve something else that I wanted to tell you.’
They all wait with bated breath.
‘It’s all off with Spencer. No moving to Surrey. No big posh house. No wedding.’
‘Oh, Sally,’ Mrs Kapur says, tears springing to her eyes. ‘What happened?’
‘It wasn’t right for me,’ I explain. ‘More importantly, it wasn’t right for Charlie.’
‘But Spencer seemed like such a lovely young man.’
‘He is, but . . .’ I shrug my shoulders. How can I begin now to tell them about all the doubts that I’ve had when I’ve kept them all to myself? ‘Looks like we’ll be staying here after all.’
‘Well, I’m glad to hear that, doll. I was going to miss you. So was Gandhi. But are you sure you’ve done the right thing?’
‘I hope so, Mrs K.’
‘He wasn’t right for you,’ Debs says. ‘I could tell all along.’
‘Yeah,’ I agree. ‘He was a bloke.’
We laugh at that.
‘It was bound to end in tears,’ Debs tells me sagely, then adds, ‘Can I have his number?’
‘No. Get your own men,’ I warn.
I wonder what Spencer will do now. Will he do as his father hopes and find himself a well-heeled and monied Felicity, Charlotte or Arabella? Will he forget about me, about his time at William Shankly House?
‘I need to go to my bed,’ Mrs Kapur says. ‘I’m feeling a little bit dizzy.’
I finish my own wine. ‘I’ll help you back.’
‘I’m off too.’ Debs jumps down from the windowsill. ‘I’ve got a date. Firefighter. Woo hoo! I can see if he’s got a mate now that you’re available again.’
‘No, thanks. I’ve done double dating with you before. That way disaster lies. Besides, I think I’ll give men a rest for a while,’ I say. I haven’t told my friends about my plans to set up my own business yet. Could I really do it? It’s all right keeping a project going for a few weeks with someone else’s money, but could I do it full-time with cash of my own? I don’t know. I need more time to let the ideas formulate before I’m brave enough to go public. Until then, it’s my own little secret.
Debs comes and hugs me. ‘I’m sorry about Spencer.’
‘Me too.’
‘You know these things happen for a reason,’ she says. ‘It may not be a good reason, but it’s a reason nevertheless.’
All You Need is Love Page 33