The House of New Beginnings

by Lucy Diamond

  Just as she’d posted the update, her phone chirped notifying her that she’d had an email and she flipped to her inbox to see that – at last – she’d had a reply from Viv, the magazine editor. Not only that but the subject line read New edition now live!

  Oh my goodness. Today was the day! The magazine was out – and presumably so was her very first Hey Em column. Who said Mondays were rubbish? Imagine her friends’ faces when she posted the link on her Facebook page. Or maybe she should go into town once she’d read the online version, grab a bunch of printed copies and post them off to her parents and her mates as a surprise. They would be so impressed!

  Without bothering to read what Viv had actually written in her email, Georgie clicked through to the link, fingers turning to thumbs in her haste, hardly able to believe that she was about to see her name there on her very own inaugural problem page. How cool was that? The first of many too, she hoped. Give it a few months from now and she’d probably be really blasé about being in print, but today it felt thrillingly momentous.

  The magazine opened in a new window and she scrolled through hurriedly to find her contribution – title page, contents, some feature about this local actor blah blah, whatever, she could read all of that later. Then she reached a spread headed Hey Em in big writing, and her heart beat faster with pride. Here it was!

  Viv had written a little intro at the top of the page. Problems? You’re in the right place. Meet Em, our new agony adviser. She’s cool, she’s witty – and she tells it like it is!

  Amen to that, sister, Georgie thought joyfully. Cool and witty, that was her. Even better, it was right there in black and white, somebody had actually said that she was cool and witty. She couldn’t wait for her friends to see this. Amazing! Although . . . ah. No mention of her name, unfortunately. No big letters announcing that Georgie Taylor was the talent behind cool, witty Em. Which was a tiny bit gutting, if she was honest.

  Hey Em, she read, feeling her sense of satisfaction return as she scrolled down the page. There it was, the real-life problem from the waitress in her café that she’d written up and then replied to. She held her breath as she went through the paragraphs, but Viv had hardly changed a thing. Pride swelled within her. Well, would you look at that? There were her words in print, sentences she had written, for the city to see. She, Georgie Taylor, had brought Em to life!

  But then she noticed there was further text following Em’s reply and scrolled down the screen to read on.

  Em’s had her say – now it’s over to you. Here’s another problem which we want you, our readers, to advise on. Tell us what you think!

  Georgie frowned. Another problem? That was odd. She’d only sent in one. Had Viv written a second letter to fill up space on the page or something?

  Hey Em, she read,

  Do you know what, my boyfriend is being a real arse. He’s got this hot-shot new job and now—

  Whoa there. Her blood seemed to freeze in her veins. She almost stopped breathing. Wait just a cotton-picking minute. What?

  – and now thinks he’s like this super-amazing professional. We’ve moved down all the way from Yorkshire so that he can indulge his wet dream, I mean, take up this wowzers job—

  Oh my God. Oh Christ, no. She thought she might throw up. How had this . . . ? No. She hadn’t sent the wrong document to Viv, had she? The wrong document with her rant about Simon in it? She stared at the screen, horror drumming through her.

  – and I feel a bit insignificant to him all of a sudden. I’m trying my best – I’ve gone out and found my own new job – but it’s like everything’s changed in our relationship.

  Shit. She had as well. She must have done. Her hand rose silently to cover her mouth as she was filled by the sudden urge to scream. She had actually been that stupid, that unprofessional, that bloody dim. Fuck! What a total total bellend. How incompetent could you get?

  He acts like he’s the important one, while I’m just tagging along for the ride, she read on miserably, her own words tormenting her. Maybe I am just tagging along for the ride?

  Viv had added ‘Help, Em, what should I do?’ and signed the letter ‘Yorkshire Lass’. Georgie’s heart sank even further and she stared aghast at the screen. Well, there was no way she could show her column to Simon now. Absolutely no way. She couldn’t show it to her mates either, never in a million years. She’d be the laughing stock of Stonefield! She’d never live it down! But you said you were having an amazing time! her friends would frown, confused. All those sunset photos you kept posting! That funny lifeguard one – HILARIOUS!!! you wrote just this morning!

  The thought of their reactions – their pity! – was so horrendous that she put her hands over her face and shuddered. Well, she told herself, trying to rally her spirits, they would never know about it, end of story. Her terrible secret was going to stay right here on the south coast and that was that.

  Wait – there was more, though. Underneath the letter . . . oh, no. Kill me now, she thought dismally. Underneath the letter was the online poll she’d written, supposedly for Freckles, the subject of her proper problem.

  So, it’s over to you guys. What do you think Yorkshire Lass should do in this situation? Take part in our online poll and have your say!

  Yorkshire Lass should:

  DUMP HIM? He’s no good! Steer clear!

  LUMP HIM? Put up with him in the hope it’ll get better.

  HUMP HIM? Sod it, he sounds hot, shag him anyway!

  Click to vote . . . and see what others think.

  Georgie’s eyes felt as if they were on stalks. Worse and worse. Just worse and effing worse! She was going to wake up in a minute. Please, let her wake up in a minute!

  She pinched herself in case she was in the midst of some godawful nightmare but unfortunately she was already awake and it was all really happening. So not only had the magazine printed her whinge about Simon – her private whinge that no other human was meant to see! – but now everyone in Brighton had been invited to speculate on her relationship, to vote on its outcome!

  Oh, help. This was so bad. This was beyond silver linings and bright sides. In fact the only tiny remote glimmer of not-badness that she could think of was the fact that her name wasn’t anywhere on the page.

  Click to vote . . . and see what others think the text urged her. ‘Sod off,’ she growled. It was like finding herself in an episode of a tacky reality TV show. What happens next for Georgie and Simon? YOU decide!

  But then again, what did others think? she couldn’t help wondering. What did the wider Brighton population reckon she ought to do in this situation?

  Hating herself for it, she loyally clicked the ‘Lump Him’ option. (Viv must have added that one, she thought.) She wasn’t ‘lumping’ Simon, anyway, she reasoned defensively. She loved him! He was her one true love! Her one true love who was a bit work-obsessed and irritable, sure, but didn’t everyone get like that sometimes?

  A new window had popped up on screen.

  THANK YOU! Voting so far:

  DUMP HIM: 76%

  LUMP HIM: 4%

  HUMP HIM: 20%

  Georgie’s mouth fell open in outrage. Only four per cent of voters thought she should stick with him? That was ridiculous. How shallow were these people? She wondered in the next moment how many readers had actually voted and whether that four per cent actually represented her one single click.

  She closed down the page, feeling trembly. What an absolute disaster. How could Viv do that to her? She must have known that Georgie had sent the wrong version, she could have guessed that Georgie was the subject of the Simon letter, too. Was she deliberately trying to make her look an idiot?

  Belatedly, her mind still fogged up with the awfulness of it all, Georgie remembered that Viv had written an accompanying email when sending through the link of doom. Oh joy. This was sure to be even more embarrassing.

  Hi Georgie, the email read,

  Thanks for the letters – great stuff! We thought your voice as Em was
spot on, although I decided that the poll was better suited to the unanswered question – was that what you intended? It wasn’t quite clear in your email. Fab idea to ask for reader feedback though, love it.

  Re your other ideas, I like the suggestion for a ‘You Send Me’ feature where readers suggest activities for you to try out around the city. You’re on! I’ll kick-start things by sending you to the Roller Disco in Saltdean – there are two free passes available for either Tuesday or Wednesday evening so you can take along a friend (mention the magazine when you arrive). If you could write this up and get it to me by Friday, we can put a note up on our Facebook page asking for suggestions for next time.

  Cool! And obviously another ‘Hey Em’ problem or two for Friday as well. Let’s try one of each again, answered and unanswered so that readers can join in; the juicier the better! Finally, do let me have your bank details so that I can pay you.

  Cheers

  Viv

  Georgie slumped back against the pillows, trying to take all of this in. Well, there was her silver lining, at least: payment, although it felt more like blood money now that she’d unwittingly aired her and Simon’s dirty laundry in public. And Viv liked her idea about Georgie trying out all sorts of unusual things around the city, so that was good too, although she was fairly certain already that Simon would refuse point-blank to go with her if she asked him to go to a roller disco. (‘You’re kidding me, right?’ he said scathingly in her head.)

  Still, it was progress of a kind. A commission. With that and the new problem letters to write, she might even be able to pay off that expensive dinner for two she’d put on her credit card last week. Hey Em, she thought to herself, rolling her eyes, I’m trying my best down here in the south but it’s not that easy . . .

  Chapter Eleven

  MEMO

  To: All staff

  From: Anthony Gillespie

  RE: Sunset Years Befriending Project

  Please ensure all forms have been completed and returned to ME by the end of the week. Remember to include full details of your ‘befriendee’ for our records. If you don’t have a suitable candidate, please make that clear on your form and we will assign you one accordingly.

  Come on, people! It’s for the community! It’s going to be a beautiful thing!

  A beautiful thing, indeed, give me strength, thought Charlotte, pulling a face as she read the email. She hadn’t filled in her form yet, though, having been too shy to broach the subject with Margot over tea on Saturday afternoon. She still wasn’t convinced her older neighbour needed befriending anyway, when her social life seemed way more active than Charlotte’s. Plus Margot was definitely not helpless and feeble. Once she’d finished talking about dying, she’d proceeded to grill Charlotte with all sorts of questions about her job and her upbringing, with unnervingly keen interest. ‘And there is no husband? No handsome lover keeping you warm in the night, non?’ Margot had asked, with a twitch of her perfectly plucked eyebrows.

  ‘Um . . . non, I mean no,’ Charlotte had mumbled. ‘Not any more, anyway.’ That was the moment she had drained her teacup hastily, swallowed back the last crumbs of her lilac macaron and got up to leave before Margot could lean forward and delve any deeper. ‘Well, it’s been lovely,’ she’d said, feeling her cheeks turn pink. Margot must think her terribly drab, she fretted, when the older woman’s favoured conversational topics consisted of love, death and passion. Meanwhile Charlotte was as dry as an old stick with nothing to say for herself, other than boring on about the intricacies of life in a conveyancing department, if only to avoid the subject turning back to more personal matters.

  Her hostess had excellent manners, though, kissing her on both cheeks as she left and then doing that odd, rather embarrassing thing of foraging in her purse for a pound coin again, which she presented to Charlotte, in the manner of a generous benefactress. ‘There’s really no need,’ Charlotte said weakly.

  ‘Please, I insist,’ Margot said. ‘It has been delightful to speak with you. Now, what was it you tell me last time? That you would spend the money wisely?’

  Charlotte blushed again. ‘It’s what my grandmother always used to say when she gave me money at Christmas,’ she explained.

  Margot’s eyes had twinkled. ‘I see. Very sensible,’ she said. ‘Well, I am glad to make a wise new friend. You are welcome here any time.’

  Welcome any time, Charlotte thought now, spinning a paperclip around between her finger and thumb as she read the email again. Margot had said it. And maybe her neighbour was merely being polite but if Charlotte had to befriend an elderly person for the company community project, then didn’t they say that charity began at home? Where better than her own apartment block?

  With this in mind, Charlotte made a detour to Julien Plumart, the patisserie favoured by Margot, after work that day. Having deliberated for some time over the pastel-streaked meringues in the window, she decided to buy a selection of dainty lemon and raspberry tartlets packaged carefully in a white cardboard box, and knocked on Margot’s door with them once back in Dukes Square.

  Margot answered the door wearing a charcoal woollen dress with a scarlet scarf knotted around her throat, and reading glasses perched on her nose. ‘But what a surprise!’ she exclaimed, seeing Charlotte with the patisserie box. ‘You must come in. I was just pouring a martini and about to have a cigarette out of the window. Please, do not tell that awful Angela woman. But is there anything nicer than a cigarette with a martini on a Monday evening?’

  Charlotte hesitated. ‘Um . . . No?’ she hazarded.

  Margot laughed. ‘Is okay. You do not need to pretend. I am a bad old lady, you are a good young girl. Do not let me correct you.’

  ‘Corrupt me? I’ll try not to,’ Charlotte said. ‘Hello, anyway,’ she went on shyly. ‘These are for you, to say thank you for Saturday. It was lovely to chat.’

  ‘My favourite!’ Margot said, accepting the box. ‘That is so kind. Are you sure I cannot mix you a martini? Or I have some very fine absinthe . . .’

  ‘Thanks, but no, I . . . I have things to do,’ Charlotte said. Yeah, a microwave bolognaise to heat up and a crazy schedule on the housework front. It’s all go round my place, you know! ‘But . . . Well . . . I was wondering.’ Spit it out, she ordered herself. ‘The company I work for, they’re starting a community project. Befriending the—’ She stopped just in time before she said the word ‘elderly’. Margot Favager might refer to herself as an old lady but that didn’t necessarily mean anyone else was permitted to. ‘– the community,’ she said after a small pause, ‘where we sign up to visit people, help with chores, whatever they might need doing . . .’

  Margot’s nose wrinkled delicately in a frown. ‘Chores?’

  ‘Chores – like running errands. Going shopping for you, or helping with the cleaning. Well. That is, if you want to be my . . . person. Befriendee.’ Charlotte blushed, hoping she hadn’t just insulted the woman. She had made it sound so formal, so unfriendly, in fact. Besides, Margot’s flat had been pristine the other day, she clearly had no trouble keeping the place clean. ‘Or we could just drink tea and chat, of course,’ she added in a rush.

  ‘Ahh,’ said Margot, her face clearing, ‘it is a charity thing for lonely people? Helping unhappy old ladies?’ She pursed her lips. ‘But I am not lonely. Or unhappy.’

  ‘No. Of course you’re not.’ Of the two of them, Margot was definitely not the lonely one. ‘And I didn’t mean to suggest for a second that . . .’

  ‘You are taking pity on a dying old woman who drinks too much, that is it? Holding my hand across the street – you think I need this help?’ Margot’s voice rose with each question and Charlotte’s face flamed.

  ‘‘No! Not at all!’ she cried wretchedly, wishing she’d never asked. Why had she even thought it was a good idea? She was so clumsy, so blundering! And now Margot, the one person in Brighton who’d been kind to her, who’d welcomed her into her home, was annoyed, her feelings hurt. ‘Listen, it doesn’t matter,
it was just a thought,’ she babbled, stricken. ‘Really, I’m sorry I even men—’

  But Margot was patting her arm and roaring with laughter all of a sudden. ‘Ahh, Charlotte, I am teasing you. I am joking you,’ she said. Oh, thank goodness, thank goodness, thank goodness. ‘That would be very nice. I will send you on a chore every week to buy us more pastries and some gin, hein? And then we will talk and enjoy yourselves. Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ Charlotte bit her lip, feeling chastened. Well, that had put her in her place. That had told her. ‘Thank you, that would be lovely,’ she said quietly. ‘Does Friday afternoon suit you? You could come to my flat if you’d rather, or—’

  ‘I would love you to be my guest. Friday afternoon. It will be like our club. And we can make the world right.’

  ‘Yes,’ Charlotte said again. She didn’t bother to correct the idiom. ‘We can make the world right.’

  Monday night meant window cleaning, hoovering and laundry sorting. A busy way to start the week. After the bolognaise dinner (very good, thank you, Waitrose), she got stuck into the hoovering. The flat was so small, it never took her that long unfortunately. (Occasionally, if she was having a really bad day, she might go over it twice, just to eat into the empty evening.) Often as she pushed the nozzle around, she found herself wishing she had endless rooms, several flights of stairs, a hallway that was longer than two whole metres to get stuck into. It was the same with the laundry – the meagre load of washing never took much time to sort through. She thought of her friends with kids who would moan unthinkingly about all their domestic chores. The laundry! they would sigh, comically clapping a hand to their heads as if it was just too much to bear. The mess! Like they knew what it was to suffer. Like they had a clue! Charlotte would have willingly scaled mountains of stinking laundry every night for the rest of her life without a single complaint if it meant she could have kept Kate. If she could be hanging clean wet sleepsuits on a radiator right now, shaking out tiny pairs of striped tights and baby vests.