by Lucy Diamond
Thankfully Margot seemed unperturbed. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘But that is dull anyway, it is not what you want to speak of, I am sure. You are here for a nice time and I am being a miserable old woman. Enough! Let us celebrate a new friendship.’ She raised her teacup. ‘As we say in France – santé. Your health. And to us!’
Charlotte raised her teacup. ‘Santé,’ she echoed faintly.
Chapter Nine
SeaView House Noticeboard:
POLITE NOTICE
To All Residents
May I please remind you that communal lights should be turned OFF when not in use.
Think of the planet!
Think of my electricity bill!!
Angela Morrison-Hulme
Property Manager
The house on Essex Street had all its curtains closed and responded to Rosa’s knocking with utter indifference. ‘This is definitely the right number, isn’t it?’ she asked, after they had been standing there for a few long seconds, met only with silence from the front door. A stiff breeze was funnelling up the street from the sea, and a Coke can bounced tinnily along the gutter. Somewhere in the distance a dog was barking with increasing volume.
Bea nodded grimly. ‘Definitely the right number.’ She pressed her face against the bubbled glass pane of the front door, then curled a hand into a fist and thumped it against the white-painted frame three times. A lithe black cat perched on the windowsill of the house next door watched them intently through golden slit eyes, as if it was a diligent Neighbourhood Watch Scheme member, on the lookout for possible intruders.
Rosa looked at her watch and bit her lip. She was meant to be starting her shift in twenty-five minutes and Brendan felt very strongly about punctuality. He had hurled a stainless-steel ladle at Natalya’s head the other morning when she came in ten minutes late, mumbling apologetically that her bus had broken down. ‘Do you think I give a shite about buses?’ their boss had roared, the ladle clattering to the floor (luckily Natalya had the reflexes of a ninja). ‘I couldn’t give a flying fuck if your spaceship broke down, is that clear? I just want my staff here on time, and doing their job, do you hear what I’m saying?’
Yes, it had been resoundingly clear. Yes, they had all heard what he was saying. Even people down on the beach listening to music with noise-cancelling headphones on had probably heard what he was saying. And no, Rosa didn’t want to find out if her ducking reflexes were as swift as her colleague’s, if it was all the same to Bea’s elusive father.
She shifted from foot to foot, wondering whether it was too soon to knock again. ‘Maybe we should give him a ring?’ she suggested, just as they heard a faint thud of footsteps from within. At last. ‘This must be him,’ she said, seeing a shadowy figure approach, distorted by the patterned glass.
It took the unshaven, bleary-eyed man a moment or two to register who they were and why they were knocking at his door at nine in the morning. As he shrugged on a knackered-looking navy fleece dressing gown, Rosa caught a flash of black boxers and pale muscular thighs and looked away, disconcerted, before turning her eyes up to his face. Handsome, of course, even when dishevelled and recently awoken, with rumpled dark hair, just starting to speckle with grey at the sides, and golden brown eyes, like caramel. The handsome ones were the worst, as she knew. Not to be trusted.
In the next second, the man blinked, focused and smiled, taking a step towards his daughter. ‘Bea-Bea! Good to see you, kiddo. A sight for fatherly eyes, if ever there was one. How are you doing?’
‘It’s Gareth, isn’t it? Hi, I’m Rosa,’ she said, fairly pointlessly, as Gareth held out his arms to his daughter and Bea, with visible reluctance, shuffled forward into them.
‘Ugh, God, Dad, you stink,’ the girl said, wrinkling her nose.
Another voice, female, sleepy, wafted through from the depths of the house. ‘Who is it, Gar?’
‘Just a minute,’ he yelled back, tugging his dressing gown more firmly around himself. Then he clapped Bea on the back. ‘So how’s school? And just look at you! You get taller every time I see you.’
Bea rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah. It’s this phenomenon called “growing”, Dad? It happens to most teenagers, believe it or not.’
He put his hands up in mock-protest. ‘Whoa, whoa! Give a bloke a chance, love. You’re not in the door yet and you’re having a pop at me. Pace yourself, why don’t you?’ He laughed, giving Rosa a conspiratorial Kids! sort of look.
Bea was not laughing along. ‘I knew this was a bad idea,’ she growled, folding her arms across her chest.
Rosa glanced from one to the other, aware of Brendan’s beady eye on the clock, and all the utensils he might be lining up to use as missiles if she hung about much longer. Time to take her leave and get back to real life. ‘Um . . . So I’ll be off, then,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go to work now, but I’ll be around tomorrow afternoon, from about four if . . .’
‘And I can come over then? For our roast dinner?’ Bea interrupted.
‘Sure. You can come over then. Bye, Gareth.’
*
‘Be receptive to joy,’ a fortune teller had once said to Rosa. This was a cheap-as-chips fortune teller down in Margate many years ago, mind, when she and a group of mates had gone there for a girls’ weekend, back in their early twenties. ‘What a load of bollocks,’ Rosa had grumbled as her friends dragged her towards the small office – above a hairdressers! That was mystic for you – where Madame Zara, or whatever she called herself, did her readings.
Typically, everyone else in the group – Catherine, Alexa, Meg – all received wonderful predictions for their patronage. Exciting travel opportunities, fabulous partners (‘I don’t quite know how to put this, darling, but my spirits are telling me that this particular guy in your future . . . well, he’s built like a tin of Pledge, if you get my drift’), stellar careers . . . all were foreseen in Zara’s tarot cards, apparently, and delivered theatrically with much wiggling of the old charlatan’s dark eyebrows and even more gesturing with her scarlet-nailed hands.
Then it was Rosa’s turn and Zara’s dark-lipsticked mouth had pursed for rather too long as she dealt out the cards. ‘Hmm,’ she said, ominously, at which point Alexa started giggling and Rosa shot her a look and mouthed ‘Cobblers’ at her.
There were no exciting travel opportunities, or well-hung men for Rosa, according to old Zara. Oh, no. Instead, she kept going on about Rosa earning a lot of money (rubbing her thumb and forefinger together in an unpleasantly lascivious way), as well as various guesses at dead relatives. ‘Someone beginning with J, I think? Or maybe . . . K?’
‘Nope,’ Rosa said flatly, quite glad to prove to the others just what a faker this headscarf-draped Zara really was.
‘My advice to you – be receptive to joy,’ the fortune teller ended the reading. ‘It will not always be so easy to see. Open yourself up to it, I beg you.’
Right. Brilliant. Was that it?
‘Well, that was a load of old shite,’ Rosa had said loudly, the moment they were walking out of the door.
‘Not for me,’ Meg had grinned. ‘I’m meeting a man with an enormous penis, apparently. I’m definitely going to be receptive to that.’
For some reason – and quite annoyingly, as it turned out – Zara’s parting phrase had stuck with them all. Whenever Rosa was bitching about a neighbour, a colleague, the unreliability of the 43 bus, her friends would cock their heads and say demurely, ‘But are you being receptive to joy, Rosa? Maybe if you could just open yourself up to it . . .’ before dodging away as she tried to swipe them with the nearest object. (At least none of them had dared trot it out when they heard the news about Max. Small mercies.)
The words returned to her again, as she walked back from work along the seafront on Sunday afternoon. She had been more than ready to hang up her apron and trudge home, footsore and weary after two gruelling weekend shifts, including slogging through the rowdiest, messiest wedding the hotel had ever witnessed, according to Brendan. (‘And as a
n Irishman in me prime, I’ve seen a few, I can tell youse.’) Knackered as Rosa was, though, even she was able to appreciate the sun’s warm golden rays on her face, the soaring arc of a seagull in flight high overhead, the delicious smell of frying onions wafting from a nearby hot-dog van.
I am receptive to joy, she told herself, feeling surprised by how apt the previously mocked phrase was right now. Because, actually, being aware of beautiful things around you, however tiny, made a person feel better. Happier. Not exactly punching the air and jumping up and down, but sending enough sparkles of gladness through her to recognize that she felt good during that single moment.
Hark at her, getting all mindful! She imagined Madame Zara giving a satisfied nod to herself over in Margate, telepathically receiving the psychic update that Rosa had finally taken her advice on board (‘About time too!’) and her lips twitched in a smile. Oh, whatever, Madame Z. You got me. Rosa was definitely, one hundred per cent receptive to the joy of getting home and having nothing to do, perhaps even taking a mug of good strong coffee and a book out to the lawn in the middle of the square in order to lazily soak up some sunshine and vitamin D. Yep, bring on all of the joy because she was totally ready for it now.
Plans made, she’d only just walked into the hallway of SeaView House, though, blinking as her eyes adjusted to its cool quiet dimness, when she heard Jo’s front door creak open and then Bea emerged, looking kind of sullen and mutinous. Ahh.
‘Hello,’ Rosa said. So much for peace and solitude, then. So much for the joy. There was something about Bea’s furious expression that made Rosa feel instantly receptive to a large vodka tonic instead. ‘I wasn’t expecting you back for a while. Is everything all right?’
Bea snorted. ‘Dad is such a colossal twat,’ she said melodramatically. ‘I mean, I’m embarrassed we’re even related. He’s just so annoying and . . . old and . . . aargh!’ This, with additional head-clutching and grimacing, as if words were quite beyond her.
So father and daughter time had gone fabulously, then. ‘Er, less of the “old”, thank you very much, he can’t be all that much older than me,’ Rosa said, rolling her eyes. ‘Come in. Is there any news about your mum? Will she be home tomorrow, do you think?’
‘That’s where I’ve been,’ Bea replied, scuffing a foot along the skirting board as she followed Rosa inside. ‘She’s not great really.’ She bent her head and picked at the black varnish on her fingernails, tiny flakes scattering on the pale carpet. ‘She’s picked up some infection – I can’t remember the name – but they said she’s not responding very well to the antibiotics, so . . .’ She shrugged forlornly. ‘I dunno. I dunno when she’s going to be home.’
‘Poor thing,’ Rosa said, wondering what that would mean for Bea-duty as she kicked off her shoes and wiggled her tired feet. Her legs were killing her from standing up all day and then walking home again. The first week she’d worked there her ankles had puffed up like water balloons. ‘Have you eaten anything? And does your dad know you’re back here, by the way?’
Bea made a scoffing noise at the mention of Gareth. ‘Does this face look like I care?’ she asked.
‘Frankly, no, but . . .’ Rosa made a jug of elderflower cordial with a whole tray of ice cubes, and felt very much like sloshing in a load of gin with it. She wasn’t sure if she had the energy to cope with Bea in this mood. ‘But that’s not the point, is it? He’ll want to know you’re all right.’
‘Ha. Yeah. If you say so.’
Rosa sighed, feeling as if she wasn’t getting anywhere. ‘Look, there’s no need to be arsey with me about it, okay?’ she asked, feeling her patience shredding. ‘What’s so bad about him anyway?’
Bea’s chin went all pointy and for a moment Rosa thought she might storm out of her place as well. But then she looked down and mumbled that she was sorry. ‘I’m not being arsey with you, it’s just . . .’ She slurped at her drink before remembering to say thank you for it. ‘He just doesn’t want me around. I tried to talk to him but he’s not interested in me. All he wants is to hang out in the pub with his stupid mates or Candy, who’s just like the most annoying bimbo ever.’ The girlfriend, presumably, Rosa thought, remembering the breathy female voice that had floated out behind Gareth when they were at his door. Who is it, Gar? ‘I mean, you saw him yesterday,’ Bea went on darkly. ‘I think he’d even forgotten I was meant to be coming, you know. That’s how bothered he is. Well, I’m not bothered either.’ She folded her arms across her chest. ‘I knew going there was a crap idea in the first place. I did say.’
Washing a punnet of strawberries at the sink, Rosa listened while Bea poured out her grievances. Reading between the lines, it sounded as if a vicious circle had sprung up, of Bea feeling hurt and saying she didn’t want to see Gareth, and her dad taking this at face value and saying okay – which only led to Bea feeling even more rejected.
‘Well, you’re here now,’ Rosa said in the end, not wanting to take sides and start criticizing Gareth, even though Bea seemed convinced he was pretty much the worst human being ever to walk the planet. She could remember falling out with her own parents as a teenager, how every hurt had seemed magnified, and softened towards the girl. ‘And I’ll let your dad know that you can stay here tonight, although we’ll have to sort something out for tomorrow, I guess. Maybe you could go to a friend’s instead, if it’s all right with your mum?’
Bea curled her lip. ‘Right. Cos I’m so popular,’ she muttered under her breath.
Rosa eyed her, wondering what that was all about. ‘You can talk to me about stuff if you want,’ she added, leaving a pause although nothing was forthcoming. Maybe not then. She tipped the strawberries into a bowl and wiped her wet hands. ‘I guess it’s up to both you and your dad to keep trying with the relationship, if that’s what you want.’
‘Not really.’ Bea snaked a hand over to the bowl and stole a strawberry, biting into it. ‘I’d rather send him an anonymous shit sandwich.’ A smirk twisted her mouth as she chewed. ‘Did you know there’s this revenge service on the internet where you can actually pay them money and they’ll send someone a real shit sandwich, like two slices of bread with a genuine human turd in the middle. I’m not kidding!’
‘Is that right,’ Rosa said, selecting a plump scarlet strawberry for herself. ‘The wonders of the twenty-first century, eh?’
‘So if there’s ever anyone you want to do the dirty on . . .’ Bea said. ‘Literally!’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Rosa replied. She could think of one person anyway. ‘So,’ she went on, deciding to change the subject. ‘Didn’t we say something about having a roast dinner tonight? I’d better make a shopping list.’
Chapter Ten
Curled up in bed on Saturday night, Georgie glanced tenderly – actually rather drunkenly – at her handsome yet stressed boyfriend, who was lying on his back staring up at the ceiling. A patch of moonlight was falling through a gap in the curtains onto his forehead, lighting it up like a landing signal. It made him look kind of ridiculous, which in turn left Georgie feeling disloyally giggly. Simon was not normally someone who allowed himself to look ridiculous.
Rolling over towards him in a sudden rush of affection, she knocked gently on his forehead. ‘Knock knock,’ she said.
He turned slightly, the patch of moonlight falling briefly across his eye like a pirate patch. ‘Who’s there?’
She pressed herself against him. ‘Forehead,’ she said, or rather all the wine she’d drunk earlier did.
‘Forehead who?’
Ahh. This was the problem with accidentally starting a joke to which you had no punchline. She thought quickly. ‘Fore-heddan’s sake, Si, you’d better not snore tonight.’ She grinned at her own lightning wit. ‘Forehead-an’s. For heaven’s. Get it?’
He rolled over and slung a heavy thigh over hers. ‘That was terrible, Georgie. Really bad,’ he said, but she could hear he was smiling. ‘If you have to explain a joke, it generally means it doesn’t work.’
&nbs
p; Affronted, she elbowed him in the ribs. ‘You do one, then,’ she told him.
‘Knock knock,’ he said after a moment, knocking on her forearm.
‘Who’s there?’
‘Arm.’
‘Arm who?’
‘Ah, my lovely girl, go to sleep. Get it? ARM my lovely—’
‘Si, if you have to explain a joke, it generally means—’
‘Oh, shush. Good night, Georgie.’
‘Good night, Simon.’
They were getting there, thought Georgie optimistically, as they lay together in the darkness and she heard his breathing lengthen and slow. Navigating their way in this new place, recalibrating their relationship in its changed setting. They’d had a good laugh together that day, mucking about on the funfair at the end of the pier, screaming on the roller coaster (her), winning a stuffed gorilla on the hook-a-duck (him) and people-watching in general. Then they’d sauntered back to the flat via a pub for a cheeky half, and had enjoyed really good sex on the living-room floor with the windows open. Yeah! That was one advantage of living high above street level at least. If they’d tried that back in Stonefield, they’d have had Mrs Huggins from next door knocking anxiously after two minutes, calling through the letterbox to see if they were okay, only she thought she’d heard a bird trapped in the chimney or something.
We’ll be okay, she thought, remembering how they’d lain there afterwards, breathless and feeling naughty, buck naked on the living-room floor. Five and a half months to go and they’d be back home in Stonefield anyway. They could get through it.
On Monday, Georgie put off attempting any actual writing work for a while as she uploaded photos to Facebook: her and Simon with their faces in one of those funny cut-out boards on the pier (him as busty Baywatch-style lifesaver, her as a half-drowned swimmer wearing a rubber ring). ‘HILARIOUS!!!’ she typed underneath, trying to recapture the laughter of the moment.