by Clare Pooley
“Wow,” said Riley, which was exactly the reaction Alice had hoped for. “I’m a gardener, y’know.”
“Durrrr. I’ve read the book, remember. I know you’re a gardener. That’s why you’re here,” replied Alice. “We can’t even let the children out there at the moment—health and safety nightmare.”
“You should talk to Monica about that,” said Riley. “Health and safety is, like, her thing.”
“Riley’s right,” said Julian, as if he were competing to show who knew grumpy Monica the best. “If Monica were on Mastermind, it would definitely be her specialist subject.”
Good grief. How on earth can health and safety regulations be anyone’s thing? Alice decided not to comment. They were obviously both very fond of Monica.
“Most of our children don’t have any outside space at home, and it would be amazing if we could turn this into a proper garden, maybe with a Wendy house and a sand pit. What do you think?”
“I can’t wait to get started!” said Riley, who was flexing his hands as if imagining digging the beds already.
“I’m afraid we can’t pay you,” she said, “and it’s going to take a while, because we don’t have much in the way of funds for gardening equipment and plants. The local gardening center might give us some for free, with a bit of luck.”
“This is where I can help!” said Julian, who’d obviously been feeling a little left out. “Riley, I am happy to donate all my share of the proceeds from our eBay project to the garden budget!” He looked rather pleased with himself, like a benevolent uncle dispensing boiled sweets at a birthday party.
“You can’t do that!” protested Riley. “You’re a pensioner! You need that cash.”
“Don’t be silly, dear chap. I’m not surviving on the state pension. I made a lot of money back in the day. I have investments that provide more than enough for me to live on. It would be my pleasure.” He beamed at them. And they beamed back.
“Old MacDonald had a farm!” came the cry from the front room.
“E-I-E-I-O,” chorused Riley.
FORTY-TWO
Julian
Julian checked his pockets for the seventh time. He didn’t need his ticket, because Monica was looking after them all. He suspected she didn’t totally trust them. Euros—check, passport—check, schedule—check, guidebooks—check. Only two weeks ago, Riley had asked him if he had a valid passport, and he’d realized that, as he hadn’t left the country for more than fifteen years (he’d barely left Fulham), his current one was out of date. Monica had helped him get a new one in superquick time.
He’d thought that she might lose her temper when he’d insisted on a passport for Keith as well. He’d had to issue a bit of an ultimatum. Either they both went, or neither of them were going. He knew it was a little melodramatic, but Keith was getting on a bit, and everyone should visit Paris at least once before they die.
Anyhow, Monica, being the most efficient person he’d ever met, made it happen. If only she’d been around in the sixties when he’d barely been able to work out what day it was, let alone where he was supposed to be. What would Mary have made of Monica?
They were all meeting at the café and Riley had persuaded the minibus driver from Mummy’s Little Helper to take them to the Eurostar. Julian hadn’t been so excited since he’d been asked to paint Princess Diana. Thinking about it, he wasn’t sure if he actually had been asked to paint Diana. He’d certainly never done her portrait, so perhaps he’d never been asked. Sometimes he got a bit confused about what was true and what was a story. If you told a story enough times, it became the truth—or near enough.
Julian paused a few meters away the café, waiting for the assembled group to notice him and Keith before they made the final approach. They were greeted, as he’d hoped, by a volley of exclamations.
“Julian! Keith! Flying the flag for England, I see!” said Riley.
“I’m not sure why I’m surprised,” said Monica, looking them up and down. He was wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt with GOD SAVE THE QUEEN written on it, Doc Marten boots, and a Vivienne Westwood Union Jack bomber jacket. Keith was wearing a matching Union Jack waistcoat, with all the confidence and nonchalance of a catwalk model. One with arthritic hips.
Monica had roped in a couple of her temporary staff to cover at the café, so she and Benji could both go on the trip. Sophie and Caroline, both working mothers, had been unable to take the time off, so Julian had invited Hazard and Alice to make up the numbers. Baz couldn’t make it, as the restaurant was short-staffed, but he’d insisted that his granny go. Mrs. Wu had never been to Paris.
Monica, who Julian thought (not for the first time) would make a great primary school teacher, was counting heads as they piled into the minibus.
“Five, plus me, that’s six plus a dog. Who are we missing? It’s your friend, isn’t it, Julian?”
“Yes. Look, there she is!” he replied as he saw Alice walking toward them, carrying Bunty in a papoose. She had a giant bag over her shoulder that he recognized immediately as Anya Hindmarch. “Monica, this is Alice. You’re going to love her.”
Monica and Alice came together like two magnets of matching poles. There was definite bristling involved. Julian couldn’t understand it at all.
“Oh, yes. We’ve met already,” said Monica.
“We have indeed. You told me to bugger off out of your café, if I remember correctly. How do you do? I’m Alice and this is Bunty,” replied Alice, proffering a hand, which Monica shook.
“I’m sorry,” said Monica. “I wasn’t having a very good day. Can we start again?”
“Sure,” Alice replied, as Julian noticed her face flitting from surprise to a momentary reluctance, before settling on a warm grin that revealed the product of years of expensive orthodontics.
“Right, everybody on board! Watch your heads!” Monica said this a little too late for Hazard, who at well over six foot tall, had managed to bang his forehead trying to get through the minibus doors. If Julian didn’t know her better, he’d have thought Monica was smirking. “Don’t forget your seat belts! Safety first!”
“We’re just like the A-Team! Although I bet they never wore seat belts,” said Julian. “I’ll be Mr. T. Obviously.” Then, seeing their blank faces, “Oh, God, are you all too young to remember The A-Team?”
“Not all of us were born in the Bronze Age, you know, Julian,” replied Riley. “This is just like being back at school. Remember how everyone fought to bag the backseats?”
“I always liked sitting at the front,” replied Monica, who was sitting at the front, next to the driver, clasping her travel bag, which was perched on her knee, with both hands.
“I have fortune cookies from restaurant for journey!” said Mrs. Wu, delving into her bag and handing round cookies, individually wrapped in plastic. Hazard, who’d clearly never been good at resisting his impulses, opened his straightaway, broke the cookie in half, and removed the little piece of paper inside.
“What does it say?” asked Julian, who was sitting next to him.
“Oh my God! It says, Help! I’m being held captive in a cookie factory!” replied Hazard. “No, seriously, it says, You will die alone and badly dressed. That’s not exactly cheerful, is it?”
“At least that’s one thing that could never be said of me,” remarked Julian. “I may well die alone, but I am never badly dressed.”
“Maybe never badly dressed, but certainly always overdressed,” replied Riley from just behind him. Julian swatted at his head with his hand, but Riley ducked, so Julian ended up hitting Alice, who was in the next seat.
“So sorry, dear girl!” he exclaimed, as Bunty, in her baby seat, started to howl.
“The wheels on the bus go round and round!” sang Alice to Bunty, trying to mollify her.
“The geriatric on the bus goes, ‘I’m wearing Westwood,’” muttered Benji to Monica.
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“I heard that!” said Julian, who had better hearing than Benji had counted on.
“Guess what my fortune says,” said Benji, quickly changing the subject. “You are going on a journey! Wow. They really do work!”
Julian spotted Mrs. Wu giving her grandson’s boyfriend a hard stare worthy of Paddington Bear, but nothing could ruin today. It was going to be fabulous.
FORTY-THREE
Hazard
Julian wove his way down the train aisle on his way back from the buffet car, bouncing off the seats on either side, with Keith clutched under one arm. Hazard winced, having visions of having to get Julian stretchered off the train with a fractured hip.
“As suspected, the wine selection on the train is appalling. Just as well I came prepared,” he said, as he pulled out a bottle of champagne from his bag. Hazard wondered how long it would take Monica to protest.
“Julian, it’s breakfast time,” she said. Not long, as predicted.
“But, dear girl, we’re on holiday! Anyhow, there’s only enough for a small glass each. You’ll join me, won’t you, Mrs. Wu? And you, Alice?”
Hazard wondered if Julian had any idea how much he’d love to wrestle that bottle off him and drink the lot. No need to bother with a glass. He caught several of their fellow passengers looking at them askance. They must look like a rather unlikely group, with over fifty years’ age range from Julian down to Benji and Alice—actually, seventy-nine years if you counted little Bunty. Was Mrs. Wu older or younger than Julian? No one had dared ask.
Julian sat down happily with his champagne and his sketchbook. He was drawing Keith, who was sitting in the chair opposite, staring out at the sheep in the Kent fields. He’d probably never seen a sheep before. A conductor approached, looking authoritarian and disapproving.
“Excuse me. No dogs on seats. He’ll have to sit on the floor,” he said to Julian.
“He’s not a dog,” said Julian.
“What is he then?” asked the conductor.
“He’s my muse.”
“No muses on seats either,” replied the conductor.
“I’m sorry, my good man,” said Julian, who obviously wasn’t, “but where in your rule book does it say no muses on seats?”
“Julian!” said Monica. “Do what you’re told. Keith! Down!” Keith jumped down immediately. He knew not to mess with Monica, even if Julian hadn’t caught on.
Monica carried on laying waste to a book of Sudoku puzzles. Whenever she got stuck (which wasn’t often), she would tap the side of her head with the end of her pencil, like a magician trying to magic a rabbit out of a hat. Bunty had her little face squashed up against the train window, which she was banging with her fists, while Alice took pictures of her with her iPhone. Riley was watching surfing videos on YouTube and handing round a huge bag of M&Ms. Betty had covered the entire table in front of her with a tangle of wool and was doing some knitting.
Hazard had been thrilled when Julian had asked him to join their trip to Paris. He was hoping that this eclectic bunch might welcome him in and replace his old friends.
One thing that was slightly taking the edge off his enjoyment of the day was Monica, who was definitely giving him the cold shoulder. Hazard wasn’t used to being ignored by women. It seemed rather unfair, since he’d spent weeks on Koh Panam trying to help her out. He’d even sent her a postcard! Not even his parents had gotten a postcard, as his mother had pointed out more than once. There’s gratitude for you. He tried again.
“Monica?”
She peered at him suspiciously over the top of her Sudoku book.
“Thanks so much for inviting me along today. I really appreciate it.”
“It’s Julian you should thank, not me. It was his idea,” she said. A bit gracelessly, he thought. Trying to get near Monica was like trying to cuddle a hedgehog.
Hazard had never been bothered about other people’s opinions of him before, but since getting sober he found himself wishing that, just once in a while, someone would tell him he was doing a really good job, and that he wasn’t a terrible person. But he knew that someone was unlikely to be Monica.
He steeled himself, conjuring up Tom Cruise in Top Gun. Goose, we’re going in again.
“I really admire you, you know,” he said, realizing, as he did so, how true it was. Usually the way he admired women was almost entirely carnal, so this completely wholesome admiration was a new experience. Monica looked up. Ha! Got her attention! Lock and load.
“Oh, really?” she asked, a little suspiciously. Stay on target!
“Well, look how you’ve brought this motley, but rather cool, group of people together!” he said.
“It was Julian’s book that did that,” Monica protested, although she was looking a little less prickly.
“Sure, the book kicked it off,” Hazard replied, “but it’s you, and your café, that has pulled it all together.”
Monica actually smiled. Not at him, as such, but in his general direction. It’s a hit! Back to base. We live to fight another day.
Hazard turned his attention to Alice. An entirely different kettle of fish from Monica. Actually, he realized, that was a totally inappropriate expression, as nothing about Alice resembled either a kettle, or any type of fish. Maybe a sleek, photogenic dolphin, but they were mammals. She was far friendlier and more relaxed than Monica, and, Hazard had discovered, she was @aliceinwonderland! One of his ex-girlfriends had been obsessed with her and had shrieked every time Alice liked one of her Instagram posts. It had driven Hazard mad, but he was secretly impressed that Alice had managed to amass such a dedicated following. He took out his phone, glad that he’d finally upgraded the ancient Nokia, and surreptitiously opened up Alice’s Instagram page.
There, as Hazard had expected, were lots of pictures of Alice wearing the right clothes, in the right places with the right people. But also, not at all as he’d expected, were two pictures of Julian! One was obviously taken in the cemetery, near the Admiral, and in the other he was leaning against a lamppost on a London street with Keith at his feet. If anything, he looked even more eccentric and incredible on Instagram than he did in real life.
“Alice,” he said, forgetting to act cool, “you’ve posted Julian on your Instagram page!”
“Doesn’t he look marvelous?” she replied. “How many likes does he have now?”
“This last one has more than ten thousand,” said Hazard.
“The dog helps,” said Alice. “There’s no such thing as too much dog on Insta.”
“And he’s had loads of comments. They all want to know how to follow him. We have to make him a page,” said Hazard. “Julian, can I borrow your phone?”
Hazard moved to sit next to Alice, and they bent their heads over Julian’s phone.
“What shall we call him?” Hazard asked her.
“How about @fabulousat80?”
“I’m only seventy-nine! I was born on the day war was declared, so no one paid me the blindest bit of notice. I’ve been fighting for my share of the attention ever since,” shouted Julian from two rows ahead, causing several of their fellow passengers to lower their newspapers and stare over at them.
“You can’t be only seventy-nine, that’s a total contradiction in terms,” said Alice. “Anyhow, it’s near enough to eighty. Right, let’s upload the two shots I’ve got, tag all the designers he’s wearing, and add all the fashion blogger hashtags. Then I’ll let my followers know where to find him. He’s going to be a sensation.”
Watching Alice work her way around social media was incredible. After ten minutes of furrowed brows and furiously flying fingers, she put Julian’s phone down in a way that signaled satisfaction with a job well done. “That should do it,” she said.
“I’m not sure what you’re up to, you two, but I hope it’s legal,” said Julian. “I haven’t been arrested since that night with Joan
Collins in 1987.”
No one was going to give Julian the satisfaction of asking him to elaborate.
FORTY-FOUR
Monica
The view from the top of the Eiffel Tower was worth all the queuing, but Monica was exhausted. Not just with all the crisscrossing Paris by metro and walking around the museums, but with the effort of constantly counting heads and trying to keep everyone together. She’d tried holding up an umbrella, so that everyone could see her through the crowd and follow her easily, but Hazard had taken the mickey out of her, so she’d folded it up and put it back in her bag. If they lost anyone, it would be entirely his fault. She could imagine only too clearly having to tell Baz that they’d mislaid his granny, last seen eating a fortune cookie near the pyramid at the Louvre.
Keith was an added complication. The museums all had no-dog policies. Julian had tried to persuade the authorities at the Pompidou that he was a guide dog. They’d pointed out, not unreasonably, that if Julian was blind, he wouldn’t be bothered about not seeing the art exhibition. Eventually, Julian bought a large canvas bag from a gift shop with MY PARENTS WENT TO PARIS AND ALL THEY BOUGHT ME WAS THIS LOUSY BAG written on the side. He used it to smuggle Keith past security, which had given Monica paroxysms of anxiety. Julian insisted on playing with fire by pausing by his favorite paintings and hissing into the bag, “Keith! You have to check out this one. A classic of its oeuvre.”
Julian’s commentary on all the art was fascinating, although, she suspected, not always entirely accurate. He seemed to have an aversion to admitting that he didn’t know the answer to any question, so instead (she realized from cross-referencing his stories with her guidebooks) he’d make something up. She wasn’t sure that anyone else had noticed, but they were bound to soon; he was gaining in confidence and each of his tales became more wildly colorful and inaccurate than the last.
The Siene glittered in the pale, winter sunshine, reminding Monica of the romantic fantasies of river walks with Riley that she’d had when she was first planning the trip. She chided herself again for having been so foolish. Life just didn’t work out like that.