by Clare Pooley
Bunty, probably as a result of spending so much time next to the chill of the open fridge, started to yell again. Alice carried her past Max without saying a word, and upstairs to the nursery.
While she was feeding Bunty, with one hand supporting her downy soft head, her other hand was scrolling through Instagram. Lucy Yeomans, editor of Porter magazine, sixty thousand followers, had reposted Julian’s Paris pic. He now had more than twenty thousand followers himself. You’re far from invisible now, Julian, she thought. Which reminded her about the book. She reached down the side of the rocking chair where she’d left it, put Bunty, who was now, mercifully, looking a little sleepy, into her cot, took out a pen from her bag, and began to write.
* * *
• • •
ALICE LOVED HER visits to Mummy’s Little Helper. On the estate where she’d grown up, several of the mothers had drug or alcohol addiction issues, and Alice’s mother had expanded her lunch lady responsibilities to encompass feeding any undernourished child in her vicinity. Along with many of her neighbors, she would take turns looking out for them. As well as making sure they had proper meals, they’d pass on clothes and toys that their own children had outgrown and provide a quiet space for homework or a sympathetic ear. That informal caring system didn’t seem to exist in the anonymity of London, so this place filled the gap.
It was only now that Alice had started to realize how incredible her own mother was, bringing up four children on her own and finding a job that allowed her to support them financially and still be with them after school to cook their tea and help with their homework. Alice remembered how she used to pretend not to know her mum at school when she served Alice her lunch, calling her Mrs. Campbell in a dismissive tone, like everyone else. How that must have hurt her. Alice shuddered.
Usually, the mums and other carers picking up their children from Mummy’s Little Helper at the end of the day dashed in and out as quickly as possible. Certainly, none of them had ever shown any interest in the garden before. But today there was a whole gaggle of them standing by the kitchen windows looking out at Riley, Hazard, and Brett, Riley’s Aussie apartmentmate, wrestling with some giant thistles and the wayward rambling rose. It must be hard work because, despite the cold, they were all stripped down to their T-shirts.
“They can come and do my garden any time,” said one, to which, judging by the giggling, there was a lewd response from one of the others, which Alice missed.
Alice helped the boys load bags of garden rubbish into the minibus to take to the local dump. She watched a stereotypical yummy mummy, who was passing by, halt in her tracks.
“Are you chaps gardeners?” she asked, in a voice that was part girl’s boarding school, part porn movie, talking to Hazard, who she’d obviously earmarked as the boss.
“Er, I guess so,” replied Hazard, who’d clearly never thought of himself as a gardener before.
“Here’s my card. Call me if you’d like to come and quote on my garden.”
Hazard took the card and stared at it thoughtfully. He looked, Alice thought, like a man with a plan.
* * *
• • •
IT WAS LATER that night that Alice realized the book was missing. She was absolutely certain she’d put it in her bag, as she was so worried about Max—or anyone else—reading what she’d written that she didn’t want to leave it lying around. She’d confessed to some things in the heat of the moment that she didn’t want to admit, even to herself. There was no way she was sharing that, whatever Julian said about authenticity. She’d thought about shredding the whole thing that morning in Max’s office, but it didn’t seem right to destroy everyone else’s stories, so she’d popped it in her bag until she had a moment to carefully tear out her pages without damaging the others and give the book back to Julian.
And now it was gone.
FORTY-EIGHT
Julian
Julian had persuaded Alice to join his art class. This week they were drawing Keith. He wasn’t the ideal subject, as he was unlikely to stay still for long enough, but it was the only way Julian could think to get around Monica’s ridiculous dog ban in the café. “He’s not a dog, Monica,” he’d said. “He’s a model.”
“Mobiles in the hat as usual, please!” he said, as his hat was passed from one person to the next. Alice looked horrified. She’d handed over Bunty to Caroline and Sophie with no qualms whatsoever, but she was clinging to her phone like a toddler to her favorite doll.
“I promise I won’t touch it. Scout’s honor. Cross my heart and hope to die,” she said. “I’ll just keep it on the edge of the table so I can see if any crucial notifications come through.”
“Yes, imagine if you miss a life-and-death announcement of the new release of a statement handbag,” said Hazard, earning himself a glare from Alice, who finally and reluctantly handed Julian her phone.
“Did you know that the fashion industry contributes fifty billion pounds to the UK economy? It’s not all just airy-fairy nonsense,” said Alice.
“Really? Is that the exact number?” asked Hazard, smirking.
“Well, to be honest, I can’t remember the exact number, but I know it’s, like, really big,” confessed Alice.
Caroline and Sophie (Julian was never sure which one was which, but didn’t suppose it really mattered) took turns bouncing Bunty on their knees and exclaiming over her cuteness.
“Doesn’t she make you feel broody?” one of them asked the other.
“Only because I can hand her back by the end of the class. I wouldn’t want to go back to all those sleepless nights . . .” said the second.
“. . . or nappies. And cracked nipples. Urgh,” finished the first, as they laughed in a conspiratorial fashion.
Julian hoped they weren’t upsetting dear Alice, who was obviously a natural mother and enjoying every moment with the delightful Bunty, as anyone could see from her Instagram feed.
“Right, class, I have an announcement,” announced Julian, in his best announcer voice, trying not to betray quite how excited he was. It was cooler to appear blasé about these things. “We’re going to be joined by a photographer and reporter from the Evening Standard, which is doing a profile on me and my Instagram following. Do please ignore them. They are not interested in you, only me. You are just there to provide background and context.”
“Oh my God, we’ve created a monster!” said Hazard to Alice, not quietly enough for Julian to miss. “What were we thinking?” Julian channeled his best schoolmaster glare and trained it on them both.
Today, Julian was embracing preppy, an homage to one of the greats—Ralph Lauren. Had he met him? He was sure he must have done. As the photographer and crew arrived and started bustling around him, Julian realized how much his life had changed in the four months since he’d left The Authenticity Project in this very place, and in the two weeks since he started “rocking the world of Instagram” (the Standard’s words, not his, you understand).
None of this was new to Julian. He had the strangest sense of having come full circle, back to where he was always meant to be—in the limelight. The fifteen years of invisibility almost felt like they’d happened to someone else. He had a rather uncomfortable sensation that he only really existed in the eye of the beholder, that when he stopped being noticed, he actually stopped being. Did that make him horribly shallow? And if so, did it matter? All the people wanting to interview him and sending him invitations to parties and previews and catwalks didn’t seem to think so. They thought he was rather marvelous. He was, wasn’t he?
What would Mary think if she could see him now? Would she be thrilled to see him back to his old self? If he was totally honest, he suspected not. He could see her, rolling her eyes and giving him a lecture on what was real and authentic, and what was merely puffery. It was the memory of one of those lectures that had inspired the title of his book. The book that had changed everythi
ng.
He sat on the edge of one of the tables, legs crossed and leaning back casually, as requested by the photographer. He gazed off into the distance, as if he were thinking of things far more erudite and artistic than mere mortals. It was one of his signature looks. He’d worried that he might have forgotten how to do all this, but it turned out it was like riding a bicycle. Had he ever ridden a bicycle? Surely he had? Stylishly, of course.
“Julian?” said Riley. “I know we’re only here for background and context”—he sounded a little tetchy—“but do you think you could give me a bit of a hand with my perspective?”
“Julian’s lost his perspective, I’m afraid, Riley,” said Hazard. Julian laughed along with the class. It was important to be seen to laugh at oneself. His friends had never had to live life in the public eye. They didn’t understand the pressure.
As the class, and newspaper crew, wound up, Benji called over from the kitchen.
“There’s wonton soup for anyone staying for supper. And prawn dumplings. All made by my fair hand,” said the man whose large, freckly hands, with their chewed fingernails, had never been described as fair before.
“Don’t worry. Is safe to eat. He’s taught by me,” added Mrs. Wu.
FORTY-NINE
Hazard
Hazard loved working at Mummy’s Little Helper. The more he chatted to the mothers about their various addictions—to heroin, crack cocaine, crystal meth—the more he realized how similar they were to him. They exchanged tips on how to deal with cravings and competed to tell the most shocking tales of the “dark days.”
“Good job, gang! Fin, Zac, Queenie, bag up!” said Hazard to today’s gang of “helpers,” aged between four and eight, who’d been following him around, waiting for him to issue instructions. Digging holes here, planting seeds there, bagging leaves everywhere. He handed round rubbish bags for all the weeds they’d pulled up from the flower bed. Six eyes stared up at him, as if he were a person worth looking up to and emulating. While this made him feel a great deal better about himself, it also terrified him. He couldn’t let them down. They’d been let down enough.
“Fin, buddy. Over here!” said Hazard, crouching down to the same level as the little boy who ran over, red-cheeked and grubby. “Don’t tell Queenie I ratted on her, but check your coat pockets for slugs before you go home.”
Hazard had even plundered his diminishing savings to buy a couple of tiny wheelbarrows and some rakes and trowels designed for small hands. He’d never spent much time with kids. He certainly hadn’t been the kind of person who had babies thrust at him to hold, or who was ever asked to babysit, but he was amazed how much he enjoyed it. He’d forgotten how to appreciate the everyday highs, like a glass of orange squash after hours of hard digging, or the fun of making worm farms and racing snails.
Hazard was exhausted after the day’s gardening. But it was a good tired. An honest tired. His muscles ached after hours of hard exercise and his body yearned for a long, uncomplicated sleep. It was nothing like the tiredness of old—toxic, tetchy, and frazzled after thirty-six hours of nonstop partying, being kept awake by a cocktail of chemicals.
He loved the feeling of being connected to nature. It was the first job in his life that actually felt real. He was making something, growing, improving, and doing some good. He couldn’t, however, keep on working for free or he’d be homeless. If only he hadn’t shoved so much of the fortune he’d earned in the City up his nose. Still, at least he’d quit while he still had a septum. One of his City friends had sneezed into a tissue in a meeting, and half of his nose had ended up in his hands. He’d ignored the shock on the faces of his clients and carried on presenting. At the time, Hazard had thought that pure class.
He took out the business card he’d been given by the woman on the street last week. Hazard wasn’t unaware of the stir that he and his Australian workmates were causing at Mummy’s Little Helper. He knew that it wasn’t just their physiques that were proving popular, but also the sunny, exuberant, straightforward nature of the Australian boys, whose very accents brought to mind beaches, wide open plains, and koala bears, and who were such a welcome antidote to the complex ennui of London.
Hazard had spent the afternoon grilling Riley and Brett about the Australian community in London. It turned out that London was full of Australian boys who, because of their Commonwealth links, were traveling on a Working Holiday Visa. They could work, legally, for up to two years in the UK—presuming they could find work to do.
What if, Hazard thought, he and Riley trained some of them up in the garden of Mummy’s Little Helper, then they could take on paid work in the gardens of Fulham, Putney, and Chelsea? There were many gardening companies in London already, he knew, but his would have a unique selling point, a raison d’être. He’d call it Aussie Gardeners.
He’d have to advertise, of course. What he really needed was someone with the ability to reach thousands of women, preferably in the local area, with a fair amount of money. And he had one of those, right under his nose—Alice. Just one or two Instagram posts from her showing him, Riley, and Brett toiling in a garden, and giving their contact details, and he had no doubt they’d be inundated. He was sure that Alice would appreciate the sense of karma—they’d helped her out (and would continue to do so), now she could help them back. What goes around comes around.
Perhaps Julian would design a flier for them that they could post through all the local letterboxes. Although Julian didn’t seem to have very much time for them anymore, ever since he’d been sucked back into the black hole that was the world of fashion. What had possessed them, making him that Instagram page?
The more he thought about it, the more the idea of having his own business excited him. He could be like Monica! What would Monica do? had become his new mantra, in his bid to become more thoughtful, more sensible, more dependable. He had rather a long way to go.
* * *
• • •
HAZARD OPENED THE DOOR to his apartment building, wiping his feet vigorously on the mat so he wouldn’t tread soil all over the gleaming entrance hall. The modern, glass-plated block of apartments in landscaped gardens and with twenty-four-hour concierge service screamed “successful City trader,” not so much “gardener.” One evening he’d left a bag of his gardening things in the entrance hall for a couple of hours. He’d come back to find a note taped to it saying WORKMEN: DO NOT LEAVE TOOLS HERE! REMOVE OR THEY WILL BE CONFISCATED!
He glanced over at the pigeonholes on the wall that held the residents’ mail. In his, along with the usual fliers and bills, was a letter that his mother would describe as “a stiffy” (which had always made him and his father smirk, while she’d pretend not to understand why): a good-quality envelope containing a hefty piece of card. An invitation.
Hazard opened it as he climbed the stairs. In beautiful, engraved writing it said:
DAPHNE CORSANDER AND RITA MORRIS
INVITE YOU TO
CELEBRATE THEIR MARRIAGE
ON SATURDAY, 23 FEBRUARY 2019, 11 A.M.
AT ALL SAINTS CHURCH, HAMBLEDORE
AND AFTERWARD AT THE OLD VICARAGE
RSVP
In the top left-hand corner, Mr. Hazard Ford plus guest was written in fountain pen.
So Daphne and Rita were coming out with a bang. Good on them. He wondered how Roderick was taking the news. He did hope he wasn’t stressing about his father turning in his grave. They weren’t wasting any time, either. The twenty-third of February was only three weeks away. He supposed that at their age it was sensible not to hang around.
Hazard was conflicted. On the one hand, he desperately wanted to celebrate with his old friends from the island, but, on the other, he hadn’t yet been to a party sober, let alone a wedding, with their tradition of all-day drinking. But he’d been clean for four whole months now. Surely he was safe? He could trust himself. None of his old crowd were likely to
be at Daphne and Rita’s wedding.
He looked again at the writing in the corner. Plus guest. Who on earth could he ask? Any of his old girlfriends would pull him off the wagon quicker than you could say “Cheers!” But he didn’t think it was a good idea to go alone. He needed to take someone who would keep him on the straight and narrow.
Hazard sat down on his cream leather sofa, pulling off his boots and stretching out his toes, wrinkling his nose at the unmistakable smell of feet that had worked up a good sweat. He’d picked up a copy of the Evening Standard on the way home, so he could read the article about Julian. There was a picture of him in the center of the page, gazing into the distance looking wistful, and not at all like the Julian he knew. The interview was extremely gushy, covering Julian’s life from losing his virginity in Shepherd Market at the age of sixteen to a prostitute, paid for by his father as a birthday present, to becoming a social media star at seventy-nine. It included a long-winded story about Julian’s great friendship with Ralph Lauren, who—it transpired—had based a whole collection on Julian’s eccentric English style, after the two of them did a road trip around the village greens, pubs, and cricket pitches of Dorset. You learned something new about Julian every day.
FIFTY
Riley
When Riley arrived at the Admiral, only Monica was there.
“Where is everyone?” he asked her. “I know Hazard’s finishing up a garden on Flood Street, but I thought the others would be here.”
Monica looked at her watch.
“It’s twenty past five. Perhaps no one else is coming. How strange. I’ve never known Julian to miss a Friday, except on New Year’s Eve. Even when he was barely leaving his cottage he said he still came here every week. I hope he’s OK.”