My mother looks at me from over the top of the newspaper and frowns. ‘Do some yoga or something before you go into work, darling. Relax a bit before you speak to Leo.’
‘Am I really so tense?’
‘Nothing that a good massage wouldn’t soothe.’
‘Or a good man?’
‘Make it up with Leo,’ Mummy urges. ‘You know you’re not happy without him to moan about.’
Is that what our relationship has been reduced to – a series of spats to entertain our families? Perhaps Leo isn’t a worthy adversary any more. Recently he’s accepted all of my criticisms without complaint, when previously he used to be so feisty. Maybe I’ve gone too far this time. What if Leo feels that he can no longer do right for doing wrong and simply gives up? I need to talk to him. But if there’s one thing that Leo hates more than staying sober on important occasions, it’s talking about anything difficult – or anything at all, really.
Finishing my toast, I slosh down the rest of my coffee and then kiss my mother goodbye. ‘Thanks for looking after me last night. I do appreciate it.’
‘What are mothers for?’
‘Thanks for the advice too.’
‘But will you take it, darling?’
I give her a rueful smile. ‘Better go. Stuff to do.’ Sorting out my love-life, for one thing.
Chapter Thirteen
There’s no one at the bus stop who is remotely attractive, even though there are about ten guys of assorted age, shape and size in the queue. And there’s no one on the bus who makes me catch my breath either. London is definitely suffering from a dearth of delicious men these days. Maybe the World Wildlife Fund should put them on their list of endangered species.
I sit back in my seat, sink down into my lightweight summer jacket to try to elicit a bit of warmth and let the bus bounce me along. Plus, very depressingly, none of the men – not even the really ugly ones with pot bellies – have given me a second glance. This does not bode well if I decide that I really do want to move on from Leo.
This is ridiculous. I look at my watch. It’s not yet nine o’clock and already I’m softening towards Leo even though he hasn’t even phoned to apologise – as he should have done. I check my phone for messages once more. Nothing. Damn. All over the bus women are chatting on mobile phones and the men are busily texting. I might be starting my first day in my thirtieth decade but I can still remember that bygone age when communication involved real dialogue. Today everyone seems to talk so much and yet say so little.
Reluctantly, I run with the crowd – if you can’t beat them join them, I say – and punch in a rather curt text message enquiring as to Leo’s whereabouts. Then, equally reluctantly, I delete the message without sending it. I have to make a stand. Leo was horrid last night. He was drunk and late and idiotic. All the things my boyfriend does so well. And, despite my mother’s advice, I’ve decided that this time, I’m going to let Leo come back, tail between his legs, to me.
And, flying in the face of my good intentions, as soon as I open the door of my flat, I check the answerphone. The red message light blinks maniacally. Feeling my heart lift, I clap my hands together. I throw off my coat, tossing it over the back of the sofa with a well-practised aim as I hit the play button on the machine.
‘Hi!’ My friend Jo-Jo’s voice booms out, filling the tiny lounge. ‘Happy Birthday, sweetie. Hope your party wasn’t too dull.’
No, it certainly wasn’t that.
‘Catch you later tonight,’ she says, and the message cuts off.
The next offering is from a man trying to sell me a loyalty card for one of the local restaurants. Then there’s the obligatory ‘Congratulations! You have won a holiday . . .’ scam – yadda, yadda.
The last message is a birthday greeting from my maternal grandmother who is still alive and just about kicking, but who was deemed too fragile to attend the family party. If she’d seen the state of Leo, my poor old granny would possibly have expired on the spot, so it was probably just as well. My grandmother is very elegant if a little shrunken with age rather like a headhunter’s trophy, but is at that time of life where her speech is punctuated by the rhythmic clack of dentures. She’d been happily married from the tender age of nineteen until my grandfather died unexpectedly of a heart-attack a few years ago, having just celebrated their sixtieth wedding anniversary. Sixty years married. I doubt that I’ll even live that much longer, let alone be married to someone for all those years. If the trend for getting married much later in life continues, then the greetings card manufacturers are going to have a surfeit of Golden Anniversary cards on their hands in years to come. And, bizarrely, I do think I’d like to see one sitting on my mantelpiece at some point. Maybe if Leo gets a move on and proposes – like tomorrow – we might just about make it. But the odds aren’t good. Particularly when I realise that these are my only messages and that one from Leo is definitely noticeable by its absence.
Kicking off my shoes, I pad through to my bedroom. Leo calls it my princess palace and he’s probably right. When I started my decorating, I went out and bought every issue of House Beautiful and then faithfully replicated a magical pink bedroom complete with flower fairy stencils on the wall and a daisy-strewn duvet intended by the designer for eight-year-old girls. Perhaps at the age of thirty I should have encompassed something more minimalist or, at least, more adult. Do you think this is a subconscious attempt to inject some fantasy or a little magic into my life? If it is, it doesn’t appear to be working.
Slipping off my party dress, I look sadly at how crumpled it is. I bought it especially for my birthday and for Leo, because I know he would have liked it. The same goes for the ridiculous wisp of Agent Provocateur underwear that’s now rolled up and stuffed in the bottom of my handbag while I sport a pair of new white Marks & Spencers’ big girls’ pants that my mother thankfully found hidden away in the back of her dressing-table drawer. Admittedly, it isn’t often that I put myself out in the underwear department for Leo and look what happens when I do. Said boyfriend was too drunk to enjoy the benefit of it. I can assure you, it will be a long, long time before minuscule lace graces my backside again.
Lying down on the bed, I stretch out, staring at the delicate fairies which flutter across the ceiling. Wouldn’t it be nice to be weightless like that, floating free, not tethered to the earth? I have never been delicate. I’ve always been as tough as old boots. Maybe I shouldn’t be quite so dominating with Leo – women of my age seem to have lost the ability to be feminine. I’m too strident with him. I know it. Equality nowadays seems to be all out of kilter and we think it’s preferable to have a subservient male in tow rather than a strong partner. But I’ve spent so long controlling our relationship that it would be a hard habit to break. And if I don’t control our relationship it will go completely to pot. If I left Leo in charge, our whole life would be complete chaos.
I take it as a bad sign that my closest friend, Caron, bought me a relaxation CD – Let Go of Your Stress with Felicity Frank – and some lavender de-stressing oil as my birthday present. It’s very nice oil, but I’m not so stupid that I can’t take the hint in that either. What sort of world do we live in where we’ve forgotten how to relax? Or need CDs to tell us how to do it? I find myself half-listening to conversations these days as I don’t feel I have the time to give them my full attention. How terrible is that? Glancing at the clock – my favourite inanimate object – I realise that I’ve still got two hours before I have to go to work at the little art gallery which I help to run with Caron. If I hurry up I can just about fit in some relaxation along with all the other stuff I have to do between now and then. This could be another part of my ‘life begins at thirty’ programme. The new, relaxed me. I have a great job, reasonable pay and Caron and I, largely, have free-run of the place. It certainly isn’t my career that’s causing my stress. Oh no. That can be laid squarely at one person’s door. And one person’s door alone.
I slot the CD into the player that doubles as an ala
rm clock by my bed. Lying back, I close my eyes, adopting what might well be a yoga pose if I’d ever got round to doing yoga. All that lounging around, chanting has never really appealed. Pushing myself until I’m utterly exhausted is generally the best way of falling into bed for a sound night’s sleep, I’ve found.
The voice on the CD is well-modulated, soothing, almost robotic. And spouts on for far too long about the benefits of relaxation.
‘Yes, yes. We all know that,’ I mutter at it.
‘Exercise one,’ the voice intones. ‘Repeat these affirmations after me.’
I wiggle my toes in preparation.
‘Serenity is my watchword . . .’
I take a deep breath. ‘Serenity is my watchword.’ Too tense, I think, and puff out another breath. Perhaps I can persuade Caron to start going to yoga classes with me. There are a million cranky places that do it round here. Although the only exercise Caron likes is propping up the bars of various nightclubs. Perhaps it’s time she became a new woman too.
‘Serenity is my watchword . . .’
Making a conscious effort to unclench my fists, I start to repeat again, ‘Serenity is my . . .’ I sit up and stare at the CD-player. ‘I’ve just said that! Get on with it.’
‘Patience and love are my playmates . . .’
I look at the CD in disbelief. ‘Say what?’
‘Patience and love are my playmates . . .’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Picking up one of my Flower Fairies cushions, I aim it at the CD-player, then let it fly.
‘Anger is my enemy . . .’ The voice sounds slightly more slurred than previously. ‘Anger is my enemy . . .’
I jump off the bed. ‘Yes,’ I snap. ‘And you’re mine.’ Ejecting the CD from the player, I whiz it like a Frisbee out of the window, where it soars across the rooftops. This is hardly going to bring Leo back to me, is it?
‘Relaxation is very overrated,’ I shout after it before bursting into tears.
Chapter Fourteen
Leo was lying in bed and he was grinning. He knew he was. In fact, his cheeks were aching with the effort. His life-size David Beckham poster grinned down from the wall back at him. A person whom Emma hated with an irrational vengeance. What could Leo say about his bedroom? Probably the least said the better actually. There was a wardrobe. Not much used. Leo preferred to hang his clothes on the floor as they were much more accessible. He felt it must have been a woman who invented wardrobes. He had a bed. A double. With black sheets. Leo thought that they were kinky. Emma hated them. There was a selection of cartoons and some lurid comic strips, all put there by the interior designer and very trendy. Leo thought they added some much-needed class. What else? Oh, the bed was also empty. Apart from Leo. Which he viewed as strange. He couldn’t believe that his unexpected overnight guest had simply vanished.
‘Flip.’
Leo checked under the duvet. No. She’d definitely vamoosed, he concluded. There was, however, silver glittery stuff everywhere. Very strange.
Leo sat up. Which was a bad idea. He had a terrible hangover and it felt as if his brain had been replaced by a small cabbage that vibrated with the ferocity of a road drill. He lay down again. The full horror of last night came back. Had he really turned up pissed at Emma’s thirtieth birthday party? Yes, he had. Had he really passed out in her cake? Yes, he had. Had he really brought a strange woman home, and had he done extremely naughty things with her for most of the remaining hours of darkness? Yes, he had.
‘Oh flip!’ he said to no one in particular.
Leo knew that he did some very stupid things; it was his speciality. But this was high on the stupidity scale even for him. He massaged his eyes and hoped it would all go away. He opened his eyes. It didn’t. It was a good job that Emma didn’t have the ability to become a fly on his wall, otherwise he’d be in deep trouble. But then he realised he was in deep trouble anyway.
He gave a glance at the clock. ‘Flip. Late.’ V. late.
Maybe, he thought, his overnight guest was currently in the kitchen making bacon and eggs, and he brightened up at the thought. He struggled out of bed, heaving his heavy limbs from under the duvet. Glitter was stuck to his chest and other body parts that really shouldn’t come into contact with glitter. There was also a sprinkling of glitter in his hair. Which he shook. Now there was glitter on floor. Severe dandruff quantities.
Leo plodded into the lounge. There was still no sign of the elusive Isobel. There was, however, a Whitney Houston CD case open on the coffee-table. And a Whitney Houston CD on the stereo. ‘Hell’s Bells,’ he muttered in alarm. ‘This is worse than I thought.’
The kitchen wasn’t a pretty sight either. Actually, it was a very nice kitchen, all chrome and steel with a marble work surface – or stuff that looked like marble. However, it was all cunningly camouflaged by dirty dishes so that instead it resembled the working end of a busy night in a Chinese restaurant. One condemned by environmental health inspectors. There was no smell of succulent sizzling bacon. Probably because Leo didn’t have any bacon. And there was no Isobel either. Leo stared around in a perplexed manner. ‘Not even a note.’
He picked up the least dirty dish after a swift perusal of his crockery. Taking care to choose one with no bacteria growing in it, he licked his finger and ran it round the inside of the bowl. Which was not very hygienic, he appreciated, but at least he knew they were his own germs. He found the cereal and tipped it into the bowl.
Leo clamped his hands to his ears. ‘Too much snapping, crackling and popping, friends.’ This must be a disease, he thought, where all the nerve-endings in his head had become very sensitive to loud sounds.
He filled the kettle with water, plugged it in carefully, avoiding sudden movements, and opened the cupboard in slow time. Slow, slow time. Taking out a cup, he tried to avoid clanging it against the next cup. His teeth hurt. The kettle was boiling too loud, so he turned it off and opened the fridge.
He was blinded by bright light, plus there was no milk. ‘Flip.’ Dry cereal would have to do. Again. Probably too much pain for teeth anyway. Leo gave up. Breakfast, he decided, was too complicated.
Dressing proved to be a painful experience, but Leo was, at least, ready to face the day now. Well, almost. He’d shaved. Not too many cuts. He’d combed the glitter from his hair. Well, mostly. He felt fragile. But no one would know. He checked in the mirror to see that he was looking great. No one would believe that he’d had a wild night on the tiles. He checked the mirror again. Yeah, right. Those bloodshot eyes would fool no one.
What he couldn’t believe was that Isobel had just upped and left. Without saying goodbye. Did girls do that? Leo thought only blokes did the proverbial runner. He realised that he knew nothing about the mysterious world of dating or casual sex. But he must learn quickly. And would ask Grant and Lard for some superb advice. Superb advice as opposed to their usual advice. Which was deeply dodgy. Leo smiled to himself. It had been a very nice night though. Unusual. For many reasons.
He knew he should phone Emma but felt deeply guilty and, anyway, she currently hated him. A phone call would only antagonise her. It would probably be best to avoid all contact until her present homicidal rage passed.
Leo felt weird. Not in a drunk sense. Just weird. Disappointed. He liked Isobel. Even though she was strange. And four hundred and sixty-three. She was, however, very athletic for her age. He’d thought she might still be there in the morning. Leo shrugged and it hurt his shoulders and his brain. ‘Women.’
Never mind. He’d better get himself off to work before he was sacked. Again. Although he couldn’t really rush – he was far too wobbly. Leo left the flat, taking great care not to slam the door. And, in doing so, he failed to notice the silver butterfly fluttering on top of the Whitney Houston CD.
Chapter Fifteen
Isobel walked down Threadneedle Street, swinging her hips as the traffic thundered by. In a less politically correct age, she would have been hooted at by several men driving white vans. The
velvet cloak and wisp of a dress had been replaced by a smart, but very sexy black business suit. She carried a black leather Birkin bag – a ‘must have’, it had said in the glossy magazine that she’d studied so carefully on her arrival in London. So, she had one. As she walked, she swished her hair, aware that she turned heads as she did. It was a nice feeling and she smiled at the guys who passed, taking delight as their mouths hung limply, their eyes popped and they walked, distracted, into lamp posts, bollards and traffic signs.
Outside one of the tall, glass-fronted office blocks a trade exhibition for Japan was advertised. Colourful oriental kites hung from flagpoles. Red and black wooden pergolas decorated with elaborate windchimes were displayed on the forecourt. A gaggle of businessmen drank green tea in untidy clusters. As Isobel passed, the kites fluttered wildly as if buffeted by a playful breeze. The windchimes struck up, ringing out a beautiful tune. She fluttered her eyelashes at the businessmen, who all stopped with their cups halfway to their gaping mouths. Isobel giggled. This was so much more fun than she’d ever imagined.
Stopping outside the offices of Reliable Temporary Staff, she admired herself in the window and adjusted her jacket. Slinging the Birkin bag jauntily over her shoulder just as she’d seen in the fashion spread, she went inside.
The office was chilly with the blast of air-conditioning and painted the most bland shade of beige imaginable. A woman at the first desk eyed Isobel coolly. Isobel smiled and sat down in front of her.
The woman’s expression didn’t change. ‘How can I help?’
Isobel met her gaze. ‘I’m looking for a job.’
‘Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place.’ The woman smiled tightly. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
Isobel looked at the other desks. There were three other women all sitting alone at them. ‘No.’
It’s a Kind of Magic Page 6