3. Being a skinflint
Honestly. I’m not joking. Being frugal is totally fantastic. It’s so satisfying! How come I never realized this before? Like, yesterday I sent Janice and Martin a postcard to thank them for their lovely flowers . . . and instead of buying one, I cut it out of a cereal box! It had Kellogg’s on the front! How cool is that?
Jess gave me that tip. She is teaching me so much. I’ve been staying with her ever since I got out of the hospital, and she’s been just brilliant. She gave me her bedroom because there are fewer stairs up to it than to the guest room, and she helps me get in and out of the bath with my plaster cast, and she makes vegetable soup every day for lunch. She’s even going to teach me how to make it, because if you do it with lentils and . . . and something else, which I can’t remember . . . it’s a fully balanced meal in itself and it only costs 30p a portion. And then, with the extra money you save, you can buy something really nice like one of Elizabeth’s homemade fruit pies! (That was the tip I gave to Jess. You see, we’re helping each other!)
Now I hobble over to the sink, carefully empty half the coffee grounds out of the cafetiere into the bin, sprinkle on some new ones, and switch on the kettle. The rule in this house is that you reuse coffee grounds, and, like Jess says, it does make total sense. The coffee only tastes a little bit tinny—and you save loads!
I have so changed. Finally, I am a frugal and sensible person. Luke will not believe it when he sees me again.
Jess is chopping an onion, and I helpfully pick up the mesh bag it came in, to throw away.
Jess looks up. “Don’t! We can use that!”
“An onion bag?” Wow. I’m learning new things all the time! “So . . . how can you use an onion bag?”
“You can turn it into a scourer.”
“Right.” I nod intelligently, even though I’m not entirely sure what a scourer is.
“You know.” Jess gives me a look. “Scouring. Like exfoliating, but for kitchens.”
“Oh yes!” I say, and beam at her. “Cool!”
I get out my Thrifty Household Tips notebook and write it down. There’s just so much to take in. Like, did you know you can make a garden sprinkler out of an old milk carton?
Not that I need a garden sprinkler . . . but still!
I make my way into the sitting room, one hand resting on my crutch, the other holding the cafetiere.
“Hi.” Suze looks up from where she’s sitting on the floor. “What do you think?” She lifts up the banner she’s been painting. It reads LEAVE OUR LANDSCAPE ALONE in vibrant red and blue with an amazing leafy, grassy border.
“Wow!” I gaze at it in admiration. “Suze, that’s fantastic! You’re such an amazing artist.” I look at the pile of banners, which Suze has been steadily painting over the last few days, draped on the sofa. “God, the campaign’s lucky to have you.”
It’s been so fantastic having Suze here, just like old times. She and Tarquin have been staying in Edie’s guesthouse for the last few days and Tarquin has pretty much taken charge of the babies, except when Suze needs to feed them in the mornings and evenings.
And it’s been so great. We’ve spent loads of time together, chilling, and eating, and talking about everything under the sun. Sometimes just me and Suze—and sometimes with Jess too. Like last night, the three of us made margaritas and watched Footloose . . . which I think Jess enjoyed. Even though she didn’t know every song by heart, like we did.
Then one night, when Suze went to visit some relation of hers who lives twenty miles away, Jess and I spent the evening together. She showed me all her rocks and told me all about them—and in return, I told her about my shoes and drew pictures. I think we both learned a lot.
“The campaign’s lucky to have you,” retorts Suze, lifting her eyebrows. “Let’s face it, Bex. If it weren’t for you, this protest would be three people and a dog.”
“Well, you know.” I shrug, trying to look modest. But I am secretly pretty pleased with the way things are going. I’ve been in charge of the protest publicity ever since I got out of the hospital, and we have gotten so much coverage! The rally is this afternoon, and at least four local radio stations ran news stories this morning. It’s been in all the local papers, and a TV crew is even talking about coming out!
It’s all due to a brilliant combination of factors. It turns out the head of news at Radio Cumbria is Guy Wroxley, who I used to know in London when I was a financial journalist. He gave me the phone numbers of everyone locally who might be interested, and ran a huge feature piece yesterday afternoon on Cumbria Watch. But the best thing is our fabulous human interest story! The first thing I did when I took control was call a meeting of the environmental group. Everyone had to tell me every little thing they knew about the site, even if it didn’t seem important. And it turns out that twenty years ago, Jim proposed to Elizabeth in the very field which is going to be wrecked by the shopping center!
So we set up a photo shoot in the field, with Jim kneeling down just like he did then (except, apparently, he didn’t kneel—but I told him not to mention that), looking all mournful. The Scully and Coggenthwaite Herald printed it on their front page yesterday morning under the headline MASSACRE OF OUR LOVING MEMORIES, and the protest hotline (Robin’s mobile) has been ringing with support ever since!
“How long have we got?” asks Suze, sitting back on her heels.
“Three hours. Here you are.” I hand her a cup of coffee.
“Oh, right.” Suze gives a slight grimace. “Is this your thrifty coffee?”
“Yes!” I eye her defensively. “What’s wrong? It’s delicious!”
There’s a ring at the doorbell and I hear Jess striding down the passage to answer it.
“Maybe that’s another bunch of flowers,” says Suze with a giggle. “From your admirer.”
I have been bombarded with bouquets ever since the accident. About half of them are from Nathan Temple, saying things like In hugest gratitude and In appreciation of your supportive gesture.
Well. So he should be grateful. There was Luke, all set to fly home, and it was me who said he should stay in Cyprus and finish the job and I’d be fine staying with Jess for a few days. So he did, and he’s on his way home today. The plane should be landing any minute.
I just know things are going to work out well between me and Luke. We’ve had the ups and downs . . . we’ve had the tempests . . . but from now on it’s going to be smooth, easy waters. For a start, I’m a different person now. I’ve become a grown-up, prudent woman. And I’m going to have a grown-up relationship with Luke. I’m going to discuss everything with him. I’m going to tell him everything. No more stupid situations where we end up at loggerheads. We’re a team!
“You know, I honestly think Luke won’t know me,” I say, taking a pensive sip of coffee.
“Oh, I think he will,” says Suze, studying me. “You don’t look that bad. I mean, the stitches are pretty awful, but that huge bruise is looking a bit better. . . .”
“I don’t mean in appearance!” I say. “I mean in personality. I’ve totally changed.”
“Have you?” says Suze, looking puzzled.
She’s my best friend. Hasn’t she noticed anything?
“Yes! Look at me! Making thrifty coffee and organizing a protest march and eating soup and . . . everything!”
I haven’t even told Luke about organizing the protest. He’ll be so gobsmacked when he sees his wife has become an activist. He’ll be so impressed!
“Becky?” Jess’s voice interrupts us and we both look up to see her standing at the door, an odd expression on her face. “I’ve got something for you. Some walkers have just come back from Scully Pike, and . . . they found this.” From behind her back she produces a hand-painted calfskin bag adorned with diamanté.
My Angel bag.
I thought I’d never ever see it again.
“Oh my God,” I hear Suze breathe.
I’m speechless. It’s a bit battered and there’s a tiny s
cratch near the handle—but apart from that it looks just the way it did. The angel is the same. The sparkling Dante is the same.
“It seems fine,” Jess is saying, turning it over in her hands. “It must have gotten a bit wet and thrown about, but apart from that, no harm done. Here you are.” She holds it out.
But I don’t move. I can’t take it from her.
“Becky?” Jess looks perplexed. “Here!” She thrusts it toward me and I flinch.
“I don’t want it.” I look away. “This bag nearly ruined my marriage. From the moment I bought it, everything started going wrong. I think it’s cursed.”
“Cursed?” says Jess, exchanging looks with Suze.
“Bex, it’s not cursed,” Suze says patiently. “It’s a totally fab bag! Everyone wants an Angel bag!”
“Not me. Not anymore. It’s only brought me trouble.” I look from face to face, feeling suddenly rather sage. “You know, the last few days have really taught me a lot. I’ve got a lot of things in perspective. And if it’s a choice between my marriage or a totally fab bag”—I spread my arms—“I’ll take the marriage.”
“Wow,” says Suze. “You have changed. Sorry,” she adds sheepishly, as she sees my face.
Honestly, what is she like? I would always have taken the marriage.
I’m . . . pretty sure I would have.
“So what will you do with it?” asks Jess. “Sell it?”
“You could donate it to a museum!” Suze says excitedly. “It could be ‘From the collection of Rebecca Brandon.’ ”
“I’ve got a better idea,” I say. “It can be star prize of the raffle this afternoon.” I grin at them. “And we’ll rig it so Kelly wins.”
By one o’clock the house is full of people. Everyone has gathered here for a final pep talk, and the atmosphere is just amazing. Jess and I are handing out bowls of vegetable soup, and Suze is showing all her painted banners to Robin, and everywhere there’s a buzz of conversation and laughter.
God, why have I never been on a protest before? It’s just the best thing ever!
“Isn’t it exciting!” says Kelly, coming up with a bowl of soup in her hand. She’s wearing camouflage combat pants and a T-shirt with hands off our land written on it in marker pen.
“It’s great!” I beam at her. “So . . . have you bought a raffle ticket for later?”
“Yes, of course! I’ve bought ten!”
“Have this one too,” I say casually, handing her number 501. “I’ve got a good feeling about it.”
“Oh, right!” She tucks the ticket into her pants pocket. “Thanks, Becky!”
I smile and sip my soup. “How’s the shop looking?”
“It’s fantastic!” Her eyes shine. “We’ve got helium balloons everywhere, and ribbons, and sparkling wine, and loads of free gifts all ready. . . .”
“It’s going to be a wonderful party. Don’t you think, Jess?” I add, as she walks by with a saucepan of soup. “The party in Jim’s shop.”
“Oh,” she says. “I suppose so.” She gives a grudging, almost disapproving shrug, and ladles more soup into Kelly’s bowl.
Like she’s really fooling me with that act.
I mean, come on. I’m her sister.
“So . . . it’s amazing that we got a donation to fund the party,” I remark to Kelly. “Don’t you think?”
“It’s incredible!” says Kelly. “A thousand pounds out of nowhere! We couldn’t believe it!”
“Amazing,” says Jess with a small frown.
“Funny that the donor wants to stay anonymous,” I add, taking a spoonful of soup. “Robin said they were quite firm about it.”
“Yes.” The back of Jess’s neck is reddening a little. “I heard.”
“You’d think they’d want some credit,” says Kelly, wide-eyed. “You know, for being so generous!”
“I agree. You’d think they would.” I pause, then add innocently, “What do you think, Jess?”
“I suppose,” she replies, roughly stacking bowls on a tray. “I wouldn’t know.”
“I guess not.” I hide a smile. “Great soup.”
“Everyone!” Jim bangs on a table and the hubbub dies down. “Just to remind you. Our Village Shop party begins at five, right after the protest. Everyone’s welcome to come along and spend as much as they can. Hear that, Edie?”
Edie brandishes her purse back at him, and the room erupts in laughter.
“Anyone spends more than twenty pounds gets a free gift,” adds Jim. “And everyone gets a free drink.”
“Now you’re talking!” shouts the gray-haired man, and there’s another huge laugh.
“Bex?” comes Suze’s voice in my ear. “Phone for you. It’s Luke.”
I hurry into the kitchen, still elated, and seize the receiver.
“Luke!” I say. “Hi! Where are you? At the airport?”
“Nope, I’m already in the car.”
“That’s great!” I cannot wait to see him. “How soon can you be here? There’s loads going on! I’ll give you directions to exactly where we’ll be—”
His voice cuts me off. “Becky . . . I’m afraid there’s a hitch. I don’t know how to tell you this . . . but I can’t make it to you until much later.”
“What? But . . . why? You’ve been away all week! I haven’t seen you!”
“I know. I’m livid. But something’s come up.” He exhales sharply. “There’s a PR crisis with the Arcodas Group. Normally I’d leave it to Gary and the team, but this is a new client. It’s the first problem, and I’m going to have to deal with it myself.”
“Right.” My whole body is drooping in disappointment. “I understand.”
“But I’ve had an idea.” He hesitates. “Becky, come and join me.”
“What?” I gape at the phone.
“Come now. I’ll send a car. I’ve missed you so much.”
“Me too.” I feel a pang. “I’ve so missed you.”
“But it’s not just that.” He hesitates. “I’ve spoken to Gary . . . and we’re both agreed. We’d love your input on this. We could do with a few bright ideas. What do you think?”
I stare at the phone, transfixed with longing. This is exactly what I always wanted! Husband and wife helping each other. Brainstorming together. A real, proper partnership.
But I can’t let Jess down. Not now.
“Luke, I can’t come.” I bite my lip. “I really want to, but I’ve got something planned for today. I promised Jess. And . . . some others. I can’t just abandon them. I’m sorry.”
“Fair enough,” says Luke, sounding rueful. “My fault for not hiring you when I had the chance. Well . . . I’ll see you this evening.” He sighs. “I don’t know what time I’ll be finished, but I’ll call when I have an idea.”
“You poor thing,” I say sympathetically. “I hope it all goes well. I’ll be there in spirit. Where will you be?”
“Well, that’s about the one positive thing. I’ll be up in the North. Fairly near where you are, in fact.”
“Oh, right,” I say, with interest. “So . . . what’s the crisis? Another fat-cat businessman cooking the books?”
“Worse,” Luke says grimly. “Some environmental bloody protest group which has sprung up out of nowhere.”
“An environmental group?” I say in amazement. “You’re kidding! That is such a coincidence, because—”
Abruptly I stop. My face suddenly feels hot and prickly.
It couldn’t be . . .
No. Don’t be ridiculous. There must be millions of protests every day, all over the country—
“Whoever’s taken control is clearly pretty media savvy,” Luke says. “There’s a rally this afternoon; they’ve had press coverage; TV news is interested. . . .” He laughs. “Get this, Becky. They’re protesting against a shopping center.”
The room seems to swim. I clutch the phone, trying to stay calm.
It can’t be the same thing. It can’t. We’re not protesting against the Arcodas Group. I know we�
�re not. We’re protesting against Maybell Shopping Centers.
Luke interrupts my thoughts. “Sweetheart, I have to go. Gary’s on the other line, waiting to brief me. But I’ll see you later. Oh, and have fun doing whatever you’re doing with Jess.”
“I’ll . . . try,” I manage.
As I walk back into the sitting room, my heart is beating rather fast. Everyone is sitting in an attentive semicircle watching Robin, who’s holding up a big diagram of two stick figures, labeled RESISTING POLICE ARREST.
“The groin area is particularly useful in this respect. . . .” he’s saying as I walk in. “Everything OK, Becky?”
“Absolutely!” I say, my voice two notches higher than usual. “Just one quick question. We are protesting against Maybell Shopping Centers?”
“That’s right.”
“So this has nothing to do with the Arcodas Group.”
“Well . . . yeah.” He looks at me in surprise. “Maybell’s owned by the Arcodas Group. You knew that, didn’t you?”
I open my mouth, but I can’t quite produce a reply. In fact, I’m feeling a bit faint. I have just orchestrated a huge media campaign against Luke’s newest, most important client. Me. His wife.
“Evil bastards.” Robin looks around the room. “Guess what I heard today! They’re getting in their PR company to ‘deal’ with us. Some big-shot firm from London. They’re flying the chief guy back from holiday especially, I heard.”
Oh God. I cannot cope. What am I going to do? What?
I have to pull out. Yes. I have to tell everyone right now that I’m pulling out and disassociate myself from the whole thing.
“They think we’re small fry.” Robin’s eyes are shining intensely. “They think we have no resources. But we have our passion. We have our beliefs. And most of all”—he turns to me—“we have Becky!”
“What?” I jump in panic as everyone turns toward me and starts clapping. “No! Please. Really. I’ve . . . nothing to do with it.”
“Don’t be modest!” exclaims Robin. “You’ve transformed the protest! If it weren’t for you, none of this would be happening!”
“Don’t say that!” I say, rattled. “I mean . . . I just want to take a backseat. In fact . . . there’s something I need to say. . . .”
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