by Abigail Mann
Ha! Good one!
What does that mean? What was a good one? I miss my toothbrush and a globule of toothpaste drops into the sink. Oh. No. No, no, no, no, FUUUUCCCKKK! I fumble at the screen and let out a deep, low moan, like a heifer giving birth. Somehow, I’ve sent Freddie a picture of my own face – or that’s what it might be – if it didn’t look like a close up of someone’s wrinkled thumbprint. I drop my phone in the sink. How could it betray me like this?! I pace the bathroom tiles. I think I might be sick. Another buzz reverberates around the sink and my phone vibrates closer to the plughole. This has got to be a joke. After the golfing abandonment of last week, the idea of writing up a date that’s cancelled before it’s taken place because my slumping, fatigued face has offended Freddie isn’t something I can contemplate right now. I jab at the screen through squinting eyes and when I catch what’s there, I lean in closer. Surely not. He’s sent a picture back: an upward shot of a cross-eyed, sandy-haired man with dark eyebrows, a broad, prickly chin, and a mouth pulled wide in an incredibly unflattering gurn. Underneath, a message:
Would be rude not to join in.
I get into bed still staring at the screen. Am I in some alternate universe? Of all the possible reactions, this hadn’t crossed my mind. In a way, it’s worse. Now I have to come up with some sort of response. God, this is stressful. The more time I let elapse, the more awkwardness settles in. Come on, Elissa, think! I need something witty, casual, and possibly a little self-deprecating. Before I can think on it any longer, I type out:
It’s like reverse catfishing. A face-to-face meeting can only be an upgrade!
I send it, and switch my phone off for the night. Annie’s going to crease when I tell her about this tomorrow.
Chapter 23
I had a call from the hospital to say that Annie would be home this evening, so I’ve given the house a once around with the hoover and tidied away the letter explosion from her bedroom floor. I was incredibly self-restrained and I only glanced over two or three more chosen at random from thirty years’ worth of dated envelopes. The more I read, the more certain I am that the love she had from ‘H’ is what she’d hoped to get from her marriage to Arthur. It makes me feel so incredibly sad for Annie and a tiny, weeny bit sad for myself. H’s letters (okay, I may have had a very quick look at the rest) are beautiful and raw and poetic and make my last Valentine’s card from Tom seem utterly vanilla in comparison. There was no ‘I want to carve your name in trees’ from him, that’s for sure.
In the past week, the days have grown deliciously long and balmy. I’d forgotten what it’s like to have proper evenings, as opposed to ones where you come home late and go to bed early for want of something to do. I prop my chin on my knee and look for signs of the hospital minibus from the front step. Closing my eyes, I let the last of the sunshine bloom behind my eyelids in tones of pink and deep orange.
‘Evening, Elissa!’ I blink at a tall, broad figure blocking the sunshine. When I recognise who it is, I jump up to greet him. I go for a handshake (I’m not sure why. There’s something about his Fifties newsreader accent that makes me come over all formal) and lean against the garden wall.
‘George! How are you?’
‘Keeping well, thank you! Lovely evening to be outside.’
‘Yeah, it is. I’m waiting for Annie, actually. She’s due home soon.’
‘Ah, wonderful, wonderful,’ he says, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. Despite the warmth, George is wearing a long-sleeved shirt, a woollen vest, and a navy tie pulled up high beneath his chin. He holds his hands behind his back and glances over his shoulder towards his house, four doors down from Annie’s.
‘I did actually pop over with a bit of a favour to ask, if you didn’t mind, of course.’
‘Oh, sure! Fire away, sir!’ I hold my smile for a little too long out of embarrassment that I’ve just called George ‘sir’, but he doesn’t seem to notice, what with all the fidgeting and feverish glances.
‘It’s Margaret, you see. I’m afraid I’m not in her good books at the moment.’
At the moment? Every time I see her, she’s frowning or snapping at him for not clipping the right bit of bush, or for eating the wrong biscuit with his tea. I can’t imagine her without furrows in her forehead.
‘Our little dog – you remember him? Aurelius, his name is. Well, I let him out in the garden, you see, and he had rather a good time digging up Margaret’s bulbs. Ate half of them too. Can’t think why. He gets lean beef mince for his dinner. Anyway, they’re a special variety of tulip that we brought back from Amsterdam and I’d really like to replace them.’ George takes out a linen handkerchief from his trouser pocket and dabs his forehead. ‘Except, I can’t find a shop that sells the little buggers, so … I was wondering if you might assist me with the internet,’ says George, emphasising the word as if it’s a mysterious place he’s never been.
‘Oh! Right! Of course, George. I can do that. I’ll get my phone and we can look it up now if you like. There isn’t much you can’t get online.’
‘Oh, um, not right this second. Margaret’s in the bath.’
‘Okay,’ I say slowly, not really sure what that’s got to do with it.
‘The thing is, what I’d really appreciate is some help getting on the line. I know they say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but Derek at Bridge Club uses the internet for a whole host of things. He even told me –’ George leans in and shields his mouth ‘– that he watches cricket on the loo.’ He chuckles and clasps his hands across his round belly.
‘Well, I could come by after work tomorrow?’
‘No, no …’ says George, flapping his handkerchief, ‘the weekend, if you’re able.’
I don’t hesitate before saying yes, which feels odd, but nice. My usual habit involves scrolling through a mental list of excuses. Not today.
‘Margaret will be up in Hertfordshire with Rosemary, our daughter. Two sets of twins. All boys. Need the occasional wrangling. Aurelius doesn’t travel well, so I’m staying behind. Shame, really,’ George says, in a way that implies he has no shame at all. ‘Anyway, as always, it’s been a delight.’ He nods his head to me and I just about refrain from curtseying.
As I turn to leave, Nigel appears around the corner with Annie on one arm and her carpet bag hanging off the other. George gives her a wave and lingers, teetering on the balls of his feet, until Annie reaches us.
‘Heard about your fall! Nasty stuff. Glad to see you up and about again. It doesn’t look that bad, you know,’ says George, pointing to his own face in a circular motion. He’s lying. Annie looks awful. Her bruise looks dabbed on, it’s so broad and dark.
‘Yes, well. It looks worse than it is,’ says Annie, as I take her bag from Nigel. ‘Hi, love,’ she says to me, blinking back up at George, as though anticipating he’ll leave.
‘Oh, George was just saying about his grandchildren. Four boys! Yours are boys, aren’t they, Annie?’ I say, stepping to the side to form a small circle as she turns to walk past us into the house.
‘Are they, now?’ says George, his lip twitching with delight underneath a curtain of combed moustache hair. ‘I didn’t know you had any!’
‘Yes, well, they live in Australia, so … that’d be why.’
‘Oh. That’s a bugger,’ says George. There’s an awkward pause, made worse when George decides to whistle through his teeth.
‘Let’s get you in. I’ve got samosas to go with our tea,’ I say, my cheeks straining from the effort of smiling away the tension.
‘As you were,’ he says, heading back along the path with his chin tucked into his chest.
Chapter 24
Saturday morning starts early with a chorus of birdsong. Far too early. The single-pane sash window in my room, although beautiful (my Instagram feed will attest to this), does very little to block out noise. It’s like the birds are right inside the room, singing their horny love songs down my earhole. I groan and look at my phone. 6.13 a.m. I get up,
lean on the windowsill and watch the world come into focus. Annie is sitting at the little garden table, steam billowing from a china cup, her fleece jacket zipped up to the top. On the table, one of ‘H’’s letters lies open before her. I sit back a little, worried that she’ll spot me peeping from upstairs, but going by the look on her face I doubt she’d notice if it started pissing down with rain.
This is the first time she’s ventured out of the house since returning from hospital. I was worried that it was because she was scared of slipping over again, but she claims she doesn’t want people staring at her bruise, which is now mustard-coloured and still looks bloody painful. ‘Honestly,’ she’d said, ‘last week I looked like I’d been knocked about and this week it’s like my liver’s packed in, I’m so bloody yellow.’ I told her about the unfortunate selfie incident over dinner and when I showed her the picture, she actually spluttered a mouthful of fajita back onto the plate. She agrees that Freddie seems nice, if ‘a bit hairy’ for her liking. Yesterday, he messaged just to say, ‘Good morning.’ Imagine! Tom barely messaged when he was in Vegas, and even then, I was the unintended recipient. I was hoping that showing Annie some of Freddie’s messages might encourage her to talk a little more about Arthur, or ‘H’, but so far she hasn’t mentioned anything. I might have to schedule in some tactical probing.
I’m already anticipating a disco nap before the charity auction tonight, but for now I put on a big hoodie and head downstairs. Annie is coming in from the garden as I walk into the kitchen and she quickly slides the envelope into the pocket of her fleece when she spots me.
‘You’re up early, love,’ she says, smoothing a hand across her chest where the letter sits.
‘It’s the birds. Didn’t have this problem in Stockwell. Actually, I did, but it was mainly football chants from outside the Irish bar.’ Annie sits down at the scrubbed wooden table and starts writing a list in swooping cursive. Nanny had nearly identical handwriting. It must have been the way they were taught at school. When my generation reach pensioner status, I wonder if we’ll use nostalgic emojis instead. It’s like reverse progression; we’re heading back to hieroglyphics.
‘Fancy scones for lunch? I think I might try and pop to the shops today,’ Annie says, her bottom lip pulled in.
‘Are you sure? I can come with you.’
‘No, no, that’s all right love. I’d like to try and go by myself. I’ve got to do it one day, haven’t I? I don’t want to end up like I was before, looking for reasons not to go out.’
‘Well, if you’re sure. But take your phone with you, just in case, okay?’
‘All right, Mum,’ Annie replies with a wry smile. ‘You’ve got to get ready for tonight, anyhoo.’
‘Yeah, I suppose so.’
‘You don’t sound too excited.’
‘I am. I think I am. It might be a laugh, but you know, Freddie … I don’t want to end up doing something stupid in front of him. And I’ve got to try and do something with this,’ I say, pulling a frizzy corkscrew curl straight until it pings back again. I’d forgotten to wear my silk wrap last night before I went to sleep and, as much as I loved Tom Hanks in Castaway, I don’t want to embody the stranded-on-a-desert-island vibe.
Annie puts her pen down and drums the table with her fingertips as though she’s tapping the keys of a piano. ‘When I was seventeen, going on eighteen, a few of us used to go round Eileen’s to do our hair and the like, for dances down at the town hall. Hours, it used to take. We’d fumigate the place with hairspray,’ she tells me. ‘Bouffants were in, back then. It’s no wonder Eileen went down with lung cancer, in the end. Well, it were that or the chain smoking. Eggs,’ she continues without pause, adding it to the list.
‘Is that where you met Arthur? At a dance?’
‘Arthur? No, we met at the university. In the canteen. I didn’t used to eat there often, but Thursday was pie day. Worth saving the bus money for.’
‘And did you go on, like, proper dates?’
‘I suppose they were, of sorts. We’d go to dances together and to the pub, with his friends usually. He came to ask my father if he had permission to take me out, you know. He was quite traditional in that sense. But not romantic. He didn’t like coming around mine much, for Sunday dinner or owt. I thought he liked taking me out – hotels, restaurants, or little pubs in Derbyshire, but …’ Annie pauses and rolls her tongue round the inside of her cheek. ‘He were just a bloody snob,’ she finishes, spitting the words out. That’s confirmed a few suspicions.
‘Didn’t he ever … send you a Valentine’s card, or anything like that?’
Annie snorts. ‘No, he never. He’d have his secretary phone me up with dinner reservations, but no. He’d more likely write an Ode to Joan of Arc, or Lady Godiva— Shit, Elissa!’ I jump, squeezing the bottle of honey in my hands too hard and sending it in an arc across the worktop. I’ve pushed her too far. I need to let it go. She’s clearly distressed by me bringing up the past like this.
‘I’m sorry, Annie, it’s just—’
‘Morning, ladies!’ says Creepy Craig, inching around the corner as he clips a ring of keys back into a belt loop. I stare at the ceiling, wishing I’d put a bra on before coming downstairs.
‘Craig. Bit early for rounds, isn’t it?’ says Annie, folding her arms. I take a noisy bite of my toast and fold my arms too.
‘The early bird catches the worm, as they say.’ He chuckles and smooths down his greasy fringe with the palm of his hand. What’s he really trying to catch, though? A peek at someone undressing? ‘I put you right at the top of my list when I found out about your little fall. Someone’s got to make sure you’re being looked after!’
‘Elissa has been very helpful, thank you.’
‘Well, she helpfully saw you to hospital, didn’t she?’ He titters, putting his hands on his hips. ‘No more trying to bump the ladies off, miss!’ says Craig, waggling a finger at me. God, I hope that’s not what people think. ‘I’ll have to keep an eye on this one, won’t I?’ His eyes rock down my body and I feel like my insides are going to squirm up my throat and plop onto the floor.
‘I don’t think so, Craig. We’re fine, aren’t we, love?’ I nod furiously. ‘So you can be off. Don’t want to hold you up.’
Craig splays a toad-like smile across his face and walks back towards the door. ‘One last thing. Elissa, we’ll need to do another suitability assessment, because of the … incident.’
‘I ’ardly think that’s necessary!’ says Annie, pulling herself to her feet.
‘Oh, it is. You’re far too important to us, Mrs De Loutherberg! We have to make sure you’re being catered for adequately, on every level. Can’t take any risks, can we? See you next week, ladies,’ he says, closing the door so gently I can’t tell if he’s actually left the house.
‘If I were stable enough to stand on one leg, I’d kick him in the bollocks!’ says Annie. ‘Don’t think on it, love. He’s a sod who gets a power trip from empty threats.’ Annie’s voice strains as she walks into the hallway, where I hear her slide the chain across and double-lock the front door. I smile weakly and pick at a thread on my sleeve. When I look up, she’s standing in the doorway, cheeks tinged pink, the corners of her mouth sagging as she breathes deeply, mouth agape. ‘Now, there’s a rack in the front bedroom that I think you’d like to see.’
***
‘Are you sure?’
‘Well, unless I decide to dress up for the chiropodist next time he comes round, I doubt it’ll be getting much use.’
I look down at the beaded dress draped over the bed and put my only pair of black heels on the floor next to them. Yeah, that’ll work. In theory, anyway. I wiggled it on earlier, paranoid that my hips would pop the seams open, but once it was up and over my waist the zip pulled up easily, even though it was a little stiff from years hung beneath a plastic cover.
‘I can’t believe how many you’ve got.’
‘Nothing drier than a drinks reception with medieval historians in what
ever European city they descended on twice a year. I wasn’t expected to do much other than ask after people’s wives and look the part. I took the perks where I could.’
Annie’s collection of vintage dresses is unreal. She must have forty or fifty gowns – frills, swooping necklines, tulle, and metallic brocade. An end to dinner dances forced them under plastic and into a spare wardrobe. Some even had the labels of designers I recognise (the list isn’t long).
When Annie insists I borrow one for the auction tonight, I choose a teal mini dress with a sea-green overlay on the bodice that shimmers with tiny hand-stitched beads. It’s enough, without being too much. Well, it’s a tiny bit too much, but with scuffed shoes and loose hair to cover my shoulders, it’s miles better than the old white bodycon dress I’d rediscovered this morning, tinged green in parts from spilt Sourz Apple.
Annie coos and tuts as I stand by the front door and flaps her hands about like an affectionate pigeon. I pull on my black woollen coat, zip it up, and look down with knitted brows. The boldly short Sixties hemline is completely hidden by my coat and, combined with my cloppy heels, I definitely look like I forgot to put on trousers.
***
After a day of slate-coloured skies and air thick with the threat of a downpour, the gilded streets of Mayfair break into sunshine so bright the birds start singing with renewed gusto as though the day’s reset. I flick my hood up, even though I’m sweating slightly from the stickiness of the tube (where does all that hot wind come from?) and try and use tourists donned in rain ponchos as a modesty shield for my bare legs and heavy eyeliner. My chest thuds, partly from nerves and partly from the effort of staying upright. My calf muscles are screaming.
I get to the pub far too soon and hover outside, considering whether to walk around the block once more. It’s only 6.03 and I don’t want to seem overly keen. My phone buzzes. Here it is, the excuse I need to abandon ship and head to the gallery to start on Jägermeister shots at the free bar.