‘It might not be what you think.’
‘Aye, but I think this time it is. After everything that’s happened, it would just be the icing on the mouldy cake.’
‘You don’t know that,’ Jo said, wiping Debbie’s face with her hand. Debbie nodded slowly.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ I asked.
‘Help me clear up, then we’ll scoot,’ Francesca said. ‘Jo, take her back to bed. She needs to rest. She has to save her strength for tomorrow.’
After blitzing the house and garden with Francesca, we let ourselves out. Freya had asked if she could take Grace to the park with the new dog and I was only too glad to let her while we cleaned, instead of her being glued to the TV. The little dog was cute and quite a handful. Freya had had all her hair cut off since I’d briefly seen her four months ago. She looked so grown up and I had to bite my tongue not to mention the fact she looked so like her dad. ‘Text me when you’re on the way back.’
‘What you doing now?’ Francesca asked me in the street.
‘I don’t know. I feel kind of flat. Things like that make you want to go out and live like it’s your last day on earth instead of feeling profligately hungover.’
‘Do you want to pop in for more coffee? Or something stronger?’ She winked at me.
We lounged in Francesca’s back garden on two deck chairs, half-heartedly sipping Yogi tea. It tasted like feet. Her girls were out with friends for the day and her partner was nowhere to be seen.
‘I can’t remember your husband’s name,’ I said apologetically, ‘or what he does for a living.’
‘Oh, Ian, we’re not married.’
‘What does Oh Ian do?’
She laughed. ‘Annoys the crap out of me mostly, but he’s in property. Owns half of Lordship Lane.’
‘Wow, Mr Big.’
‘Not really,’ she said, sounding distinctly unimpressed. ‘He has massive mortgages on a lot of them. He’s always juggling money. I can’t keep up. He’s off meeting a potential new tenant now, which is good – gives me the house to myself. Me and Ian aren’t really together any more.’
‘Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It’s been coming for a while. It’s my decision and because it’s my decision, I’m trapped.’
‘How come? Surely you can just leave or he can?’
‘I have no money, not enough to buy him out and stay in the house.’
‘He’s threatening to chuck you out?’ I cried, incensed, fury suddenly igniting in my belly, fuelled by my own similar experience.
‘No, not at all. Ian isn’t a bastard, but even he won’t gift me a house all of my own.’
‘So what is he suggesting?’
‘He said he’ll buy me out of the house, and he will continue to live here, but I have to leave. Everything is in his name so he could give me nothing, seeing as we aren’t married. But as I said, he isn’t a wanker, I just don’t love him.’
‘Did you ever love him?’
She sighed. ‘Fuck being zen and this Yogi tea, I need a drink if I’m having this conversation. You joining me?’
Five minutes later Francesca had popped open a bottle of cava.
‘Hair of the dog! The universe will shine down on us now and hold us while we tend to our hangovers.’
‘Really?’
‘No, but it sounds good. I can give you a hangover crystal to absorb last night’s excess…’
‘Yes, please.’
She pulled out a long clear pointy crystal wand from a hidden pocket in her baggy yoga trousers.
‘Hold it on your sacral chakra, on your tummy. Put it next to your skin. Ask that it absorbs all the toxins. It will leave some room for some new ones!’ The crystal was cool against my belly.
‘So, Ian – I did love him once – we’ve been together twenty-four years and the first eight were lovely, but he always said he wasn’t into getting married, probably because of the whole money thing, sharing his business with me should we ever split up. I originally hoped he would change his mind, but when the girls were toddlers he suffered depression and cut himself off from me. His mum died, then one arm of his business folded and he fell out with his business partner, and I was left to bring up the girls pretty much on my own. He wasn’t present for a lot of their early childhood, absent in mind and body. As for sex, well, that never happened. He hasn’t physically touched me for over seven years.’
‘What? Not even accidentally?’
‘No. So when I asked if we could sell the house and stop living the charade now the girls are teenagers, he broke down, begged me to stay, said he would marry me. I thought about it, but all the ignoring has shut me down. I tried so many times to get him to come to counselling, relationship guidance, healers – any straw you threw my way, I grasped it! He refused. So I went myself, and that’s how I got into being a shaman. But unfortunately while I was on a healing journey of my own, he was trapped in aspic and the chasm feels too big to fill now. I have a whole life ahead of me.’
‘It must be so awkward. Isn’t it better to be somewhere else if you don’t love him?’
‘Technically, yes, it is, but despite everything the Mews is where I have been the happiest and most settled. I travelled around so much when I was younger, running away, really, looking for something that wasn’t there. So when we finally moved here and had the girls, it felt solid, a real anchor after years of feeling displaced. I gave up work and threw myself into family and home life in the Mews. I’m not sure I can leave it…’
‘Can you afford to live round the corner to soften the blow?’
‘Have you seen property prices?’ she cried, shaking her head. ‘I can’t afford anywhere with my income where the girls can live too, and I’m not leaving them either. I’d have to move miles away and go back to being a PA. It would feel like taking a step backwards when I want to be going forwards.’
‘Do the girls know?’
‘Of course, they don’t want us to split up, but they’re old enough now to work out I’m not happy.’
‘Aren’t you desperate for sex, for human contact?’
‘Yes, so badly I think it has rendered me un-dateable because I am so desperate. I’m at the stage where sitting on the washing machine during the spin cycle is the highlight of my day.’
I burst out laughing. ‘But can you date? How would that work?’
‘I can’t; if Ian found out he would make my life hell. The girls would hate me. They’ve already made noises about how mortifying it would be if I got myself a toy boy.’
‘So you’re telling me you’re in limbo? Not even looking?’
She sipped her wine and arched her eyebrows in a way that begged for an inquisition.
‘Ah.’
‘Ah what?’
‘You are looking.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Is there anyone?’
She looked like she was weighing up whether to divulge the details.
‘Teyo, my Qi Gong teacher,’ she eventually whispered, like the bamboo was going to shop her in.
‘You’re shagging him?’
‘No, I’m not that much of a middle-aged cliché.’
‘So what are you doing?’
‘Sexting.’
‘Have you even kissed?’
She shook her head.
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. It isn’t like that, it’s just all over text, for some reason. He texts me all the time, night and day, and we do see each other, but only during class. The last time I was properly single in the dating game, I was twenty-eight. Things are so different now. I don’t know what’s normal any more. I actually think I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a man’s touch make your insides melt. Jo has also been lecturing me on how Teyo is leading me on, but I can’t help it – the heart wants what it wants, and I want to fuck his brains out!’
I spat my wine onto the grass in surprise.
‘What are you going to do?’ I asked eventually.
>
‘I guess I’ll get more batteries for my vibrator and stick to Plan B.’
‘Which is?’
‘Fix everyone else’s lives and maybe some of it will rub off on me and some divine inspiration will visit in the night and tell me what to do.’
‘Oh, Francesca, that’s so shit. You’re so good at helping others. It’s your job.’
‘I know; the irony is killing me. And the number-one rule of healing is heal yourself first before you heal others. I dole out advice to people, see things for other people, hold space for other people, but I can’t do it for myself.’
‘But you deserve a happy-ever-after.’
‘Not everyone gets one, though, do they? This isn’t a film; it’s real life. The best we can do is have our happy-ever-after in the moment we are in right now. And right now, I’m happy sitting here with you, baring my secrets.’
I felt a tear sting the corner of my eye: her words touched me. But she was wrong about one thing – my life was a film and Miley Cyrus (as me) was going to gloriously stride her way into the sunset, singing ‘The Climb’ with the world at her feet and a queue of Greek gods waiting to kiss her hallowed toes.
‘Do you want to see my wish box?’ Francesca asked, changing the subject.
24
A Tale of Two Dresses
A chaotic white Ikea desk stacked with spiritual magazines and clear plastic boxes of crystals piled up like mystical Jenga leaned up against one wall in Francesca’s office opposite the single bed, which was covered in a patchwork quilt and mirrored scatter cushions. The cream walls had several posters tacked up of the reflexology meridian points on the feet, and all the different bodies we possess: spiritual body, emotional body, physical body – Beardy Weirdy stuff.
‘It’s under here.’ She got down on her tummy, lifted up the edge of the quilt from the floor and disappeared halfway under the bed.
‘Do you need some help?’
‘I’ve got it,’ she said in a muffled voice, commando-crawling backwards. She dragged out a long black plastic box the size of a very large suitcase. It was tied tightly with two secure leather belts that had combination locks attached to them. No fucker was getting in there. She fiddled with the locks until they snapped open.
‘Why the secrecy?’ I asked.
She looked at me pointedly, lifted the lid off the box and lay it on top of the bed. A sea of white froth, sequins and sparkle spread out before me. She took the dress out of the box, revealing a different one underneath.
‘Oh, right. Are these your dresses?’
‘Yes, they’re proper wedding dresses. This one is my current favourite, but the other one is a close second and I’ll be able to wear it if I ever lose a stone.’
She pinned it up against her body so I could get an idea of what it would look like.
‘Why don’t you put it on?’ I asked, the cava obviously taking charge of the situation.
‘I will if you put the other one on.’
Giggling, we stripped off to our underwear. I had never tried on a wedding dress in my life. I had styled wedding dress shoots for Brides magazine, and helped Amanda choose her second-time-round dress, but even when I got engaged to Jim I never ventured forth into the wedding gown arena. I must have known it was never going to work out.
I zipped Francesca into her dress, which was a sexy fish-tail sequined affair with a tulle tail embossed with tiny crystals.
‘You look like a beautiful mermaid!’
My white prom dress had a beaded bodice and a wide tulle skirt that reached my calves. A layer of silk covered the skirt and it was edged with white ribbon. It was classic fifties starlet; I felt magically moonstruck.
‘I’ve got shoes too!’ Francesca said excitedly. She pulled two pairs of white strappy sandals out of the box, both of them encrusted with intricate diamanté detail. ‘Cinderella, you shall get married.’
I couldn’t twirl as there wasn’t enough room with both of us clogging up the office with flouncy glitter and sparkles, our dresses making crackling sounds.
‘What else is in the box?’ I asked, eyeing colourful notebooks, house brochures, random women’s magazines, and a white A1 piece of card partially obscured at the bottom. Francesca bent down and pulled out the card. It was plastered in photos of yoga studios, holistic treatment clinics, fancy massage beds, a white dove, a couple of brides and several handsome men from catalogue shoots. Aspirational words were carefully written in gold pen around some of the pictures: manifest, dreams come true, live in the now, I am grateful, trust…
‘Wow,’ I whispered in awe. ‘Are you cosmic ordering?’
‘Yes, it’s my vision board. All the things I want to come to me are on here.’ I realised we had already drunk a whole bottle of fizz, my hangover temporarily receding into the wings.
‘Don’t you feel shit that you have to hide your dreams under your bed? I assume Ian has no idea about your dresses.’
‘It’s how I stay sane.’
‘But you’ll never meet anyone while you’re with Ian.’
‘Good old Joseph Heller and his Catch Twenty-Two.’
‘Or Hobson’s Choice,’ I said, recalling a programme I’d heard on Radio Four last week. ‘You either leave and suffer the consequences or you don’t.’
The front door suddenly jangled shut, the letterbox cover clanging, alerting us someone was in the house.
‘Shit,’ Francesca hissed. ‘It must be Ian. We have to take these off.’ Her zip had snagged on the material, catching on a sequin, chewing it up. It was jammed half on half off without any way of getting it past her sizeable boobs.
‘Fran? You in?’ Ian called up the stairs.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ Francesca hissed. ‘I can’t let him see me in this. He’ll go mental.’
‘He might not. I’ll think of something. We need him to help us get this off you. Two people will have to pull the material away from the zip while I undo it.’
‘Fran?’ he called again from the bottom of the stairs. I heard the creak of footsteps.
‘Shit, OK, get rid of the box,’ Francesca panicked, and I rammed the lid back on and slipped the box back into its hiding place.
‘We’re in here,’ she called out in an overly bright voice. ‘I’m a bit stuck.’ The door slowly opened and Ian’s face reflected back his shock.
‘Bloody hell, is this fancy dress or did I not get the memo?’ he managed to force out between clenched teeth.
‘I can explain,’ I said hesitantly. ‘They’re mine from a shoot I’m prepping for Brides magazine. We thought it would be funny to try them on, only now we’re stuck…’
*
‘What happened?’ Jacqui asked, riveted by the tale of two dresses.
‘He told Francesca she looked beautiful. It was actually quite sweet. I felt sorry for him because she was grossed out by the attention.’
‘The thing is, you don’t know what their relationship is like from the inside. You only have Francesca’s take on things.’
‘Oh, bloody Amanda!’ Jacqui laughed. ‘Always playing devil’s advocate! You should train to be a high court judge!’
‘I’m just trying to see both sides. Of course I feel bad for her, hiding her wishes in a box under her bed is like a LGBT person remaining in the closet…’
‘Anyway, will you let us know how Debbie gets on at the hospital?’ Jacqui asked before we got on with our day and she finished hers.
*
Jo’s Rolls-Royce was parked on her drive when I returned home. Her door swung open as I reached my house and I whipped round to catch her beckoning me over from behind the door.
‘It’s cancer,’ she said solemnly as I reached the front step.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry. Where’s Debbie now?’
‘She’s at home. She wanted me to tell you because she can’t. She’s in shock. The kids come back from school this afternoon and she has to tell them. I don’t know if it’s a good idea when she’s feeling so dreadful. I’ve tried su
ggesting to her not to do it today, wait until she’s got her head around it. They don’t know she was at the hospital and they don’t know she’s been feeling ill.’
‘They’ll know something’s wrong, though. Isabelle will definitely know: girls always do. Charlie is probably in his own little world, like most boys.’
‘Maybe. I just wish I could go over there and help, but the kids don’t know about us. We were going to tell them after the divorce party if her results were clear, but it’s all gone tits up, excuse the pun. I have to stay out of the way.’
‘What happens next?’
‘She’s got to have a lumpectomy, then chemo, then radio therapy. But the waiting list is enormous and she’s worried it could turn into a grade three or four and spread to her lymph nodes before the operation if she has to wait a few months.’
‘Can’t she go private? I know I would beg, borrow and steal the cash if that was the case.’
‘I’ve suggested that, but she’s dragging her feet. We’ll see what happens. Anyway, Samantha has disappeared back home too – some kind of emergency over at hers now. The world’s gone mad!’
Not the world, I thought, just the Mews.
A text dinged just as I was cooking Grace’s fishfingers after school. It was Samantha.
Can we rearrange the filming this week? I have other plans and can’t use the house for the vlog.
Bugger. I had all the clothes piled up in the corner of my bedroom. We had some luxurious outfits from Stella McCartney, which was an enormous coup. Lila had put in a word because Stella had supplied some dresses for her final on The X Factor. It was all part of her plan to up the subscribers by throwing in a bit of aspirational fashion rather than concentrate solely on high street. We were working towards monetising our work and as far as I was concerned that was a good thing; my debt was the ever-present elephant in the room.
Any idea when we can shoot? I have some outfits on borrowed time.
Will let you know. Something important has happened. I’ll talk to Lila and let her know. xx
Slouching on the sofa at ten that night, I scrolled through Instagram, dishing out likes with the benevolence of Mother Teresa, the news on in the background.
The Single Mums Move On Page 15