by Katie Ginger
‘Right,’ said Lola, sounding like a teacher. ‘Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to get your trainers on and go for a big, long run. Who’s been eating all this food you’ve been making?’
‘Me,’ Esme mumbled.
‘Well, it’ll do you good, then. Get up, get moving. And it always clears your head. Do you remember when you dragged me to the gym that time? When I was literally dying on the treadmill you told me to think about how strong and powerful I was. How strong my body was for working so hard and how strong my mind was for pushing me on when things got tough. You could definitely do with the endorphins right now.’
Esme blew a raspberry down the phone.
‘That’s very grown up.’
‘Okay,’ Esme conceded. ‘I’ll go for a run, but do I still carry on with the blog?’
‘Yes, of course you do. You can’t give up. Could you do private catering to get some money in?’
‘Maybe. You know about PR—’
‘Marketing, Esme, it’s not the same thing.’
‘It mostly is,’ Esme teased. ‘Can’t you come up with some magic marketing thing that makes me uber-popular over night?’
‘I wish I could, honey.’ Lola’s voice had returned to its normal kind, supportive tone. ‘You just need to keep plugging away to increase your online presence and build a platform. Then, when you approach publishers, you’ll be well-known already and they won’t be able to say no. It’s a shame we’ve got such a tight timescale. You need to make a big splash now. What could we do?’ she said to herself. Esme didn’t speak, not wanting to interrupt her flow. ‘How about a live broadcast?’
Esme lifted her head a little. ‘How do I do that?’
‘You just broadcast live. It’s easy.’ Esme sighed. ‘No more huffing and puffing. Come on, chick, what do you have to lose?’
‘Nothing, I suppose,’ said Esme. ‘Okay. I’ll try that. Thanks for listening to me, Lola.’
‘Always, sweetheart. Always.’
A second after hanging up from Lola, another call came through on Esme’s mobile. It was Leo. She hesitated. Why was he calling her again? She couldn’t imagine what he’d have to say to her after the last time. And she still didn’t want to speak to him. That wasn’t true – she wanted to shout at him. He’d caught her off guard last time, calling so late. This time she wanted to tell him what a bastard he was. What a lousy, rotten scumbag he’d become. When he’d called at 1 a.m. to ask her to get the chest of drawers shifted, she, Mark and Helena had stayed up even later going over the conversation. Helena was so livid Esme worried she wouldn’t sleep at all, but eventually they’d all dozed off, curled up on the sofa together. Now she had time to think clearly, she wanted to say how she’d always hated it when he shaved and left weird little hairy shards in the sink, how she hated the way he talked all the way through TV programmes. A pinging noise told her she had a voicemail. Poo! She’d been ranting in her head so long she’d missed the chance to answer. Esme placed the phone to her ear and listened.
‘Hi, Esme, it’s Leo. Just wanted to say thanks for sending Mark to get the cabinet. I’m afraid he scratched the wall on his way out, but I don’t want you worrying about that. I’ll get the maintenance man to fix it, I’ll even pay for it, as you’ve been through so much. Anyway, see you soon – well, I won’t see you soon, but, you know, bye.’
Good for Mark scratching the wall and too right he could get the maintenance man to fix it! Esme felt the muscles tense in her arm as the urge to throw her phone against the wall took over. She knew it wouldn’t help. She’d need to buy a new phone then and that was another thing she couldn’t afford, but she needed to shout and destroy something. She stared at her phone and then threw it as hard as she could onto the sofa. Esme surveyed her new life. As pretty as the cottage was, and as comfortable as it felt, there was only one place she wanted to be right now.
Home.
*
Esme knocked on the door of her mum and dad’s house but the lights were off and no one answered. She should have known. It was Saturday afternoon so they were, of course, in the pub. They preferred the old-fashioned decor of the Fox and Hound with its dark wooden tables and chairs, beer mats and friendly regulars. Esme pulled her coat tighter around her as she walked on into town. The rain had stopped and the cold wind brought a pinkness to her cheeks as a weak, watery sun shone in the pale sky. Though it was early December and the weather was no different to November, the prospect of Christmas made the air feel different. It was heavy with expectation but for Esme, it lacked the excitement she usually loved.
Yanking open the pub door against the wind, Esme edged inside. She hadn’t been in here for a long time and memories of her and her friends, finally of age, drinking Malibu and thinking they were cool rushed back to her. Red tinsel lined the bar and was wrapped around the beer pumps, sparkling in the light. There was even a Christmas tree. Esme was sure from its spindly fake branches that it was the same one from when she was a child. It was somehow comforting. The place was festive and jolly, and reminded her of Christmas Eve afternoons when Carol and Stephen had finished work early and took Alice and Esme to the pub where they spent a fortune on the jukebox. Esme saw her parents sat at a corner table and trudged over. The landlord had put on a CD of Rat Pack Christmas songs and as Dean Martin crooned away, Carol merrily sang too. She’d always been mad about Christmas – maybe that’s where Esme had got it from – and started playing the songs as soon as the first of December rolled around.
‘Hello, love,’ said Carol. Then on seeing Esme’s puffy red eyes she said, ‘Oh, darling, what’s wrong?’ Esme collapsed into a chair and told them everything – the blacklisting, her failed attempts at blogging and the call from Leo. ‘I’ve got half a mind to go to London, find Leo and his bit of stuff and – and—’
‘Come on, love, calm down,’ said her dad.
‘Calm down? Stephen,’ said Carol, rolling up the sleeves of her pale blue jumper as if readying for a fight. ‘Drink for Esme, please.’ Stephen stood up and nodded acceptance of the command.
‘Right you are. Your mum’s right. A good stiff drink will sort you out.’ He patted Esme on the shoulder.
‘Thanks, Dad. Can I have a white wine, please?’ Her father strode away to the bar.
‘Now,’ continued Carol, ‘about this stupid boy, Leo. What a callous idiot. If I lived near him I’d key his car and—’
‘He doesn’t own a car, Mum. No one does in London.’
‘Well then, I’d put itching powder in his underpants and cut the arms and legs off all his suits.’
Esme suppressed a smile. ‘Has Dad only stayed married to you all these years because he’s too scared to leave?’
‘Probably.’ She sat back in her chair, relaxing a little and winked. ‘But maybe Leo leaving that message is a good thing. Maybe he’s shown his true colours. You’ve been home for three weeks now and it’s about time you got the last of your stuff out and moved on.’
Her dad returned with the biggest glass of wine Esme had ever seen. The landlord must have bought his wine glasses at ‘Tableware for Giants’ or he’d found a vase and decided to use that instead. Over her shoulder Esme saw Joe at the bar and inhaled. ‘Here you go, love. I told Fred all about it,’ Stephen said, sitting down. ‘And he said you needed a super-large glass of wine. So there you go. Enjoy. And he only charged me for a house white but he said you should have his best peanut gigolo.’
‘Pinot Grigio,’ corrected Esme.
‘Aww, that was nice of him. Wasn’t it, Esme?’ said Carol as she swayed from side to side, clicking her fingers in time to the music. Esme nodded and took a sip of wine. The cold, velvet liquid slid down her throat. Then her brain caught up with what her dad had said.
‘Wait, did you tell him everything I told you?’ asked Esme. Her heart pounded and the red flame of embarrassment began to creep onto her cheeks. ‘About Leo and the blacklisting and the blog?’
Stephen froze holding his pint
glass. ‘Umm … yes. Shouldn’t I have?’
‘No, Dad, you shouldn’t!’ Esme angrily tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘Oh, great. Now everyone knows what a failure I am.’
‘Nonsense,’ replied Carol. ‘Don’t be so dramatic.’
Esme slumped down. ‘For God’s sake, I am not being dramatic.’
‘You are being a little, dear,’ said Carol, draining the last of her gin and bitter lemon. ‘You used to say “For God’s sake” all the time when you about 15.’
Stephen chuckled. ‘From the age of 13 to 16 to be precise.’
‘Precise,’ repeated Carol. ‘You were so funny. I think that’s when you perfected your pout. Do you remember, Stephen?’ Carol gave an impression of Esme pouting, which more resembled Mick Jagger. Especially when she put her hands on her hips and started wriggling. Stephen then joined her in homage and before long, both her parents were doubled over laughing. Frank Sinatra’s voice resonated in her ears and Esme sunk down in her chair.
‘You two are so embarrassing.’ She glanced over at the bar and saw Joe, who lifted his head and waved. ‘Was Joe there when you told … who was it?’
‘Fred?’ asked Stephen. ‘I think so.’
Esme gave a groan and grabbed her wine glass, taking a large gulp. The door opened again and Esme checked to see if Joe was leaving. He hadn’t moved, but a tall, elegant young woman came in. The woman glanced around, saw Joe and waved, then nestled her way to the bar to stand beside him. She had long brown hair that hung straight down her back. It was glossy and thick, like chocolate when it was poured in those Dairy Milk commercials. Her figure was that of a toned salad-eating gym bunny. Esme could even see her eyelashes from where she sat in the corner. The woman stood so close to Joe their arms were touching and within seconds they were laughing and joking. Joe took her coat and hung it up for her.
Esme’s stomach felt heavy and her heart shrivelled inside her chest. Seeing someone else happy was too much for her at the moment. She suddenly wished it was her with Joe but pushed the thought aside. As it all played out, she couldn’t help checking over her shoulder while she and her parents drank their drinks.
‘Right, here’s twenty quid,’ said Stephen. ‘Your turn to get the drinks.’ He put the note on the table in front of Esme. ‘You know what we all have, don’t you?’
Esme sunk down. ‘Can’t you go?’
‘I went last time,’ he replied. ‘Why don’t you want to go? You’re not 15 anymore. You don’t need fake ID.’
‘Ha ha,’ Esme replied sarcastically. ‘I just don’t want to go now they all know I’m a complete loser.’
Carol gave her daughter a stern look. ‘Now stop that at once, you silly girl—’
‘Silly? Thanks very much.’
‘You are not a loser. You’re just trying something different. And why shouldn’t you? It’s never too late to change career. And there’s nothing wrong with doing things differently. Is there, Stephen? In fact, we’ve tried lots of new things in the bedr—’
‘There isn’t, my dear. Very true.’ He strategically cut her off as Esme felt her eyes widening in shock. She’d need therapy by the end of the afternoon if she wasn’t careful. Stephen tipped his head back for the dregs of his beer.
Her parents were indeed batshit crazy but she knew most people would kill to have parents like hers. Especially ones who were still in love and what’s more, liked each other, after all these years. She knew Mark would. His parents had trouble believing their son was gay and, since he’d come out as a teenager, their relationship had been tense to say the least. Having such accepting parents was something Esme was eternally grateful for. How many parents would have been so supportive in her circumstances? How many would have encouraged her to follow her dream? The least she could do was go and get the next round of drinks. Even if it was embarrassing as hell. Esme grabbed the twenty pounds offered by her dad and walked to the bar. She stood at the opposite end to Joe, hoping he wouldn’t see her and come over. For some reason, she didn’t want to see him flirting and laughing with some gorgeous girl. It wasn’t that she fancied Joe, she told herself. It was just that she was still sore from breaking up with Leo and seeing anyone flirting was too sickening.
Esme stood on tiptoes at the bar, leaning over, trying to catch the landlord’s attention. She toyed with the tinsel in her fingertips. She missed tinsel. Leo had banned it from the flat claiming it was tacky and cheap. Instead they had to have his weird glass ornamental modern take on a Christmas tree. It was ridiculously expensive from John Lewis and didn’t look at all tree-like or give you that warm glow in your tummy proper Christmas trees did. After much wrangling, they’d agreed she could have a small fake tree in the bedroom but still no tinsel, only weird bead strings that tangled up into giant knots you could never undo. This year, in her cottage, she'd have tinsel everywhere. Yards and yards of it wrapped around the headboard of her bed, the banister, and any other surface she could find. An excitement tingled though her at the idea of Christmas. It was a time of year you couldn’t fail to love. All the food, all the gifts, snuggling up under blankets to watch James Bond re-runs with full, fat bellies. Friends and family all together. Did Joe like tinsel, she wondered?
‘Hello,’ said Joe from beside her, and Esme started.
‘Hello. How’s it going?’ She hated how much she wanted to ask who the other woman was and what was the exact nature of their relationship. Was she another one-night stand? Was she a girlfriend? He hadn’t kissed her … yet.
‘Good, thanks. You?’
‘Yeah, fine.’ Esme kept her eyes forwards. She looked a state. She’d been crying for almost an hour before she got here. She hadn’t brushed her hair and her outfit couldn’t be described as elegant. She had on the oldest, most comfortable pair of jeans she owned, and a large cable knit jumper. Esme glanced at the woman he was with. She was wearing skintight jeans over shapely legs, gorgeous knee-high boots and a fitted jumper, and was chatting happily to someone else while Joe was near Esme. She didn’t seem in the slightest bit worried. Esme couldn’t remember what it was like to have that much confidence. She’d been like that at one point, but these days her self-respect was clinging on by a thread and after Leo, she couldn’t trust her own judgement. She lifted her head to speak to Joe, forgetting that she must look terrible. As she did, his face froze.
‘Crikey, are you okay? You look upset. Have you been crying?’ He reached out his hand and rested it gently on her shoulder. For a moment, Esme felt a tingle where it lay and as his eyes met hers, her breath caught. They were the most incredible pale green she’d ever seen. Then she shot her eyes to the confident woman, who glanced over at that moment, and Esme moved back, gently shrugging it off. Joe was clearly just a nice guy, only interested in being her friend. Esme chastised herself for the fluttering in her belly. Just because a man touched her, it didn’t mean he wanted to leap into bed with her. She’d have to get some self-help books on flirting because she was clearly getting overexcited at the slightest thing and reading too much into it. ‘Esme? Are you okay?’ Joe repeated.
‘Umm … yeah, I’m okay.’ She rubbed at her eyes just to make sure there were no remnants of smudged mascara still lurking.
‘Is it the break-up?’ asked Joe, softly.
‘Yes. Sort of. Is it? I don’t know.’ Esme shook her head in an attempt to rearrange her thoughts ‘I might as well tell you, I guess. My dad told everyone in the general vicinity earlier so I’m surprised you haven’t heard already. He might as well have put a poster up.’ She took a deep breath. ‘So, you know I told you I got sacked from my old job because the star of the show kept stealing my recipes and I wouldn’t apologise? Well, normally I wouldn’t mind, but this one was special.’
‘Wait,’ said Joe, holding up his hands. ‘Star of the show?’
Esme paused. She forgot how much people loved a celebrity. ‘I worked for Felicity Fenchurch. Well, on her TV show anyway.’
‘Really? When you said before I’d just as
sumed it was a colleague you were talking about, not Felicity Fenchurch.’
‘No, it was her.’
‘What was she like?’
‘Between you and me she was a giant bitch, but tell anyone and she’ll track me down and sue me. Or kill me.’
‘Can she do that?’ he asked. His beautiful eyes sparkling as he spoke, a smile lighting his face.
Esme shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Probably. She’s like MI5. She has spies everywhere.’ Joe laughed and Esme’s eyes were drawn to his lopsided grin. She could see how the women of Sandchester were lost after seeing one wide smile. ‘So, anyway, because I called her out on it, I got sacked. Then my boyfriend, or should I say ex-boyfriend, dumped me and moved his new woman – his boss – in the next day. And now, Felicity “I can’t stop pouting” Fenchurch has had me blacklisted so everyone thinks I’m trouble and I’ll be lucky to get a job peeling potatoes in a prison kitchen.’ He stared at her, unspeaking, but Esme couldn’t stop the flow of words scrambling out of her mouth. ‘My stupid friends convinced me I should write the recipe book I’ve always dreamed of writing and start a blog and do live video broadcasts too. The trouble is, I’m utterly shit at it and I feel like a complete idiot.’
Joe’s mouth hung open, which wasn’t quite the reaction Esme was hoping for, but to be fair it was a lot to take in. ‘Right,’ he said, slowly. ‘Well, I’m sure everything will turn out all right in the end.’
Esme gave a weak smile and a small nod. Joe glimpsed up from under his long dark eyelashes. ‘Sorry, that was pathetic wasn’t it?’
‘It’s not the best pep talk I’ve ever heard.’
He scuffed his foot on the carpet. ‘No, it isn’t, is it? I’m not very good at this sort of thing.’ He scratched the back of his head. ‘All I can say is, I remember when me and Clara split up and I moved back, it took me over a year to even start talking to my friends again. I moved back here and I was virtually a recluse, spending all day in my dressing gown.’ He glanced at her as he spoke, and the weight had returned to his eyes, even his strong shoulders had rounded a little. ‘You’re doing much better than I was.’ Esme giggled, hoping he was exaggerating. ‘And as far as work goes, you’ve always been really determined. I’m sure your blog will take off in time. What’s it called?’