by Lucy Diamond
‘Ahh, Charlotte, it is marvellous to see you again. A sight for old eyes. Come in, come in,’ said Margot when she answered the door. Today she was wearing a soft grey cashmere jumper with a boat neckline and mannish charcoal-grey trousers, as well as an eye-catching necklace of large round beads, like polished marbles, in ox-blood red. ‘And what lovely flowers, that is so kind. Thank you. Now – actually . . .’ Her eyes glittered but Charlotte couldn’t read her expression. ‘I will make us some tea, but I was wondering if you could help me a little. Like you said you could? A chore – is that the word?’ She pronounced it ‘shore’ and it took Charlotte a second to register before she nodded. ‘A very very small shore. Would you mind? I am sorry to be a trouble but . . .’ She gave one of her elegant shrugs. ‘You know, I am a dying old woman. And . . .’
‘I don’t mind at all – of course,’ Charlotte said and then, feeling alarmed, asked, ‘Are you feeling ill, though?’ It was unnerving, just how much Margot went on about dying, in such a matter of fact way. When her grandmothers had died, she remembered them being very stoic and British about it, neither of them letting on that they were ill, practically until their last breaths were gasped. Margot, on the other hand . . . It was probably wrong to say that the woman was milking it but all the same, she couldn’t help detecting a certain amount of relish in the drama of the situation. ‘Should I call someone? A doctor, or – ?’
A certain haughtiness appeared on Margot’s face at the mention of doctors. ‘I am not dying now,’ she corrected herself. ‘And doctors know nothing, anyway. They are no good to me.’
‘Okay.’ Charlotte’s heartrate subsided. ‘So . . . what do you want me to do?’
Several minutes later, Charlotte was walking back up towards town with a very strange list. In Margot’s sloping, curlicued handwriting were the following instructions.
1, Grey and Green – Figuier candle (ask for Johann)
2, Madame Chocolatier – 12 rose cremes (ask for Marc)
3, Cheese shop Western Road – Ami du Chambertin (ask for Emile)
4, Wine and Dine – bottle of Cornas Premices (ask for David) . . .
And on it went. Wine and chocolate and cheese, fancy toiletries and stationery – and with every shop, a person that she needed to deal with specifically. Funny how all of them were men, Charlotte thought to herself, frowning a little at the list and wondering if any of her fellow befrienders were having to run errands half so glamorous as these.
The first port of call was a posh homewares shop, everything tasteful and contemporary, soft music playing, hipsterlooking assistants standing a respectful distance away while shoppers browsed. It was rather like doing the shopping challenge on The Apprentice, Charlotte thought, as she sought out Johann, and found him to be an incredibly beautiful young man of about twenty with eyelashes to die for, as well as extremely tight trousers. Trust Margot to have made a note of his name. With his help, they found the candle that had been requested, a Diptyque one, no less, that smelled utterly divine, and Johann assured her in his low sexy voice that he would add it to Madame Favager’s account. Goodness. The whole thing felt extremely luxurious to Charlotte, who would never dream of spending so much money on something like a candle. Money to burn? her dad quipped sarcastically in her head, and a part of her couldn’t help agreeing.
After thanking Johann, and trying not to gaze too impertinently at those extremely tight trousers, Charlotte tucked the tissue-wrapped purchase carefully into her bag and moved on to the next shop.
So this was how it felt to be Margot, Charlotte thought in amusement as she traversed the city, picking up one gorgeous item after another, being served by one dashing young man after the next. One item on her list wasn’t even to buy anything, it was to pop into a flower shop in the Lanes and give Margot’s best wishes to someone called Eric who – of course – turned out to be yet another model-type hottie. At the mention of Margot’s name, he smiled in delight and pressed a small posy of violets into Charlotte’s hand, from him to Margot. How the other half lived!
The last item on the list was a large cappuccino from Sea Blue Sky, the café nearest Dukes Square, ‘and get yourself whatever you would like too, darling,’ Margot had added. ‘We are living dangerously today, eh? We are being the most extravagant.’ She had winked. ‘But for you, I will make a drink if you prefer. Of course.’
Charlotte shifted her bags onto one arm as she pushed open the door to the café. She had only walked past it before but it was very nice inside, with stylish decor and the pleasing smell of good coffee. There was a man with pink hair wearing a very smart pin-striped suit sitting at the first table, and on the next a young woman with a huge peroxide beehive hairdo and a lime-green mini-dress. Yes, Charlotte could see why Margot liked coming in here.
‘Hi, what can I get you?’ asked the man behind the counter when Charlotte went over.
‘I’m looking for Ned, I’ve been sent here by Margot Favager . . .’ she began but then her voice faltered as she realized she recognized him from somewhere. Rumpled hair, glasses, brown eyes – yes, she had seen that face before. But where had she met him? Then the penny dropped with an audible clang. It was the man from the pier. Shit! The actual same man from the pier, the one she’d screeched at like a deranged harpy, the poor dad she’d basically accused of neglecting his little daughters. (‘I fort you was Mrs Johnson,’ the girl said in her head, the memory still vivid of her tiny hand clasping Charlotte’s.) Every cell in Charlotte’s body urged her to bolt from the café, the way she’d bolted along the pier, barging through passers-by in her haste to escape. But her feet seemed locked to the floor, immovable, as a deep scarlet blush swept through her skin.
He was looking quizzically at her and then she saw a similar light of recognition dawn in his eyes. Hey, aren’t you that crazy woman? ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Hello again.’
‘Er . . .’ she stammered, face burning. ‘Um . . . Actually I’ve got to go,’ she said, desperate to escape before another word could be said. ‘Bye.’ And she turned and hotfooted it out of there, heart pumping, adrenalin whizzing around her body, barely able to breathe until she was safely round the corner and out of sight.
‘Charlotte! My goodness, you look exhausted, it was too many shores for you, I think,’ exclaimed Margot when Charlotte returned to the flat a short while later, still flustered and pink in the face. ‘I am sorry. I am selfish, hein? Too lazy. And now you suffer!’
Charlotte could take Margot’s melodrama with a pinch of salt now at least and gave a smile. ‘I’m fine, I’m not suffering at all,’ she replied. ‘Sorry I took so long,’ she went on, holding the shopping bags aloft. ‘I picked up the coffees from a different café to the one you said, I hope that’s okay.’ Now she was blushing wildly, hotter than ever as she followed Margot into the living room. Don’t ask me about it. Don’t ask. ‘Where would you like me to put everything?’
Margot peered at her. ‘You do not like my café?’
‘Oh! I’m sure it’s lovely, but . . .’ Charlotte set the bags down, allowing her hair to swing forward, hiding her face. ‘Well . . . It’s a long story,’ she said eventually when Margot showed no signs of letting her off the hook. She put the cardboard tray containing their cappuccinos on the table. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘Ahh, a mystery!’ Charlotte could feel Margot’s gaze sharpening, interest piqued. ‘But I can see it is not my business. It is fine. Did you enjoy . . . the other views I gave you, though?’
Charlotte laughed uncertainly. Did Margot mean what she thought she meant? ‘What, the . . . um . . . the shop assistants?’
‘Yes,’ Margot replied. ‘My God, they are nice, yes? Sexy. No, no,’ she said, as Charlotte began unpacking the purchases. ‘They are in fact for you. My treat. And now you know where I keep all my boyfriends also. Ha! I am joking. Unfortunately. Now, let me put our drinks into nice cups, and then we can talk.’
‘You . . .’ Charlotte couldn’t quite get past what Margot had said several sente
nces ago. ‘These things . . . seriously? They are for me?’ The candle alone had been almost forty pounds and the bottle of wine just short of twenty. In all, there was almost one hundred pounds’ worth of goods there. ‘N-no,’ she stuttered. ‘I couldn’t.’
‘But of course you can. And you must! They are my gifts to you. I hope you like them.’
Charlotte’s mouth was hanging open. ‘But . . . Really? They are all lovely. And it’s so incredibly generous. But . . .’
Margot wagged a finger. ‘You always say you will spend money wisely, hein? But sometimes it is nice to be unwise with the money. To be reckless. And extravagant.’ She patted Charlotte’s arm. ‘And don’t forget the men. They are my favourites and now I have shared with you. That means we are friends, yes? Come.’
‘Thank you,’ Charlotte said, still finding it hard to summon the right words as she followed Margot into the living room. But why? she wanted to add but didn’t quite dare. Why me? Why all of this? ‘Thank you,’ was all she said again, though.
Margot waved away Charlotte’s thanks. ‘You are welcome,’ she said, and gestured for Charlotte to sit down. ‘And here we are. Make yourself at home.’
Contrary to the pessimistic doom-laden forecast earlier that week, Saturday dawned bright and sunny, perfect for a bank holiday and the local radio presenters seemed able to burble on excitedly about nothing else as Charlotte sat down to eat her breakfast. Through her window she could see the syrupy morning light glinting from car windows below, and noticed how it scattered golden sparkles across the sea like confetti. The water looked bluer than she’d ever seen it; the rides on the pier were in full swing, the cafés were open for business and there were already hordes of people wrangling with deckchairs on the beach, setting up for a relaxing day ahead.
Last night, following her visit to Margot’s, Charlotte had enjoyed the very good cheese after her dinner, had lit her beautiful scented candle and nibbled her expensive chocolate, and she’d felt . . . cheered. Tentatively better. She’d picked up a historical romance novel for the first time in ages and lost herself in its pages, letting the story pick her up and carry her far away to an era where men galloped around on horseback and rescued ailing damsels. (It was the sort of book that Jim – a reader of non-fiction and broadsheet newspapers – would have scoffed at but somehow that made it all the more enjoyable.) Then she’d gone to bed and slept deeply all night, and her first waking thought hadn’t, for once, been despair. What was more, here she was now, looking out at the sunny world through her window and feeling as if maybe, just maybe, it was good to be alive on such a day.
Delicious cheese and a romantic hero and a cloudless sky, a kind neighbour making a fuss of her, reaching out to haul her out of her sadness . . . was that really all it took to make a woman feel vaguely human again? Grief had overwhelmed Charlotte for so long now; it had caused the unhappy unravelling of her marriage, it had stubbornly resisted the counselling and the pills, and she’d started to accept it as her default setting as if this was how life would be from now on. And yet . . . This morning she felt as if she could look the world in the eye without turning away. This morning she was thinking to herself that perhaps everything was bearable after all, that she might actually get through this period in her life if she just kept on looking straight ahead.
She drained her coffee and then grabbed her phone. No, she would not spend her weekend doing chores alone in the flat, she decided, typing a quick message. Yes, she would make the most of this unexpected shift in mood.
Hi Mum, sorry for the short notice. Don’t suppose you’re around today, are you? X
‘Let me look at you. Oh! You look so well, darling. Doesn’t she, Tony? And what a lovely surprise to hear from you. You’re lucky because we’d been up Fenley Hill earlier where there’s no reception, but we’d made a pit-stop in the village because there’s that sweet little shop that sells home-made jam, do you remember? And I said to your dad, I’ll just pop in, we’re clean out of gooseberry, and then he said, was that your phone? And of course, it was, and it was you, and I was so pleased to get your text. Sit down anyway, take the weight off – Tony, why don’t you get Charlotte a drink? What are you having? Look at me, on the cider – I said to your dad, you’re driving us back, it’s so warm I couldn’t resist. Oh, it’s good to see you, darling. How are you? I picked up some jam for you, by the way. Bramble jelly. I hope that’s still your favourite.’
Never ones to stay indoors when the sun was shining, Charlotte’s parents were already out and in their hiking boots when she had called earlier but thanks to the wonders of modern technology – and the jam-selling shop in Fenley village with good phone reception – here they were now, having arranged to meet in a pub for lunch and sitting at a weathered wooden table in the beer garden. Her mum might even pause for breath any second, you never could tell. ‘I’m fine,’ Charlotte said quickly, spotting her chance. ‘Just a Diet Coke, please, Dad. Thanks.’
Her mum hugged her again as the two of them were left alone, and Charlotte breathed in the comforting scents of VO5 shampoo and Pears soap; her mum’s unique signature fragrance. All of a sudden she was six years old and they were walking back from primary school together, hand in hand, while Charlotte’s big brothers ran ahead. Just us girls together, her mum would say conspiratorially, and it had always made Charlotte feel special.
‘It’s good to see you too,’ she said as they eventually drew apart. They had always been close, the two of them, and she knew her mum had been confused by Charlotte’s abrupt decision to leave Reading, to unstitch her whole life there and start again. At moments like this, when she was back with her parents and felt so safe, so loved – the smiles on their faces when they had seen her walk into the pub! The rapturous way they’d fallen upon her! – she couldn’t help feeling kind of confused by her decision too.
‘What a treat, meeting up like this,’ her mum replied, clasping a hand to her heart. ‘Every time I drive past your old house I find myself slowing down and looking for you in there. You’d think I’d be over it by now, but no. Every time!’
Charlotte felt her smile slip. That house with the Winnie the Pooh decorations up in the nursery, she thought. The house she and Jim had bought as newly-weds, where she’d got pregnant and thrilled at her own expanding waistline. The place where she’d lain on the bed for days after the worst had happened, immobile, drowning in misery. She never wanted to see that house again, to be honest.
‘And of course, the boys are around, and it’s nice to see them but it’s not as good as a daughter, obviously. It’s nowhere near as—’ She broke off hurriedly, realizing her mistake. Don’t mention daughters. ‘Well, it’s lovely to see you,’ she said again, squeezing Charlotte’s hand for good measure.
‘One Diet Coke, ice and a slice,’ said Charlotte’s dad Tony, reappearing at the table and setting a tall glass carefully on a coaster in front of her. (He had a thing about coasters and place mats. Every table, large or small, in their house was awash with them, even plastic tables where a cup of tea couldn’t do any damage, however hard it tried. Even outdoors, in a pub garden, with a picnic table so old the wood had turned grey, he couldn’t bear the thought of a waterring.) ‘And three menus.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ This was the right decision, Charlotte thought, sipping her drink while a warm breeze ruffled her hair. This was nice. The pub garden was spacious, the grass a thick luxuriant green, a bird was cheeping nearby and the atmosphere was pleasantly somnolent as if nothing bad could ever happen here. They would have lunch and a good old chat and then drive back in convoy to her parents’ cosy semi where the cats would roll on their backs like purring apostrophes at the sight of the prodigal daughter’s return.
Tony cleared his throat and looked meaningfully at his wife. ‘So have you . . . er . . . ?’
‘No,’ she said quickly, flashing him a look that Charlotte had seen many times before; a look that said quite plainly Shut up and Don’t put your foot in it and For heaven’s sake
, man, think before you open that mouth of yours.
‘Ahh,’ he said, lowering his gaze. He took a menu and began browsing studiously, as did Charlotte’s mum.
Charlotte looked at them both and sighed, her feelings of contentment evaporating like a puddle in the sunshine. ‘Go on, then. What is it?’ One of her sisters-in-law was pregnant, at a guess. She had been dreading it; having the memory of Kate, her parents’ first grandchild, usurped by another, healthier baby. As for having to be happy for them, play the doting aunty, attend the christening, first birthday party, first Christmas . . . she could feel a tightening in her throat at the thought. All those special occasions she had never got to enjoy with Kate. It was so unfair. How would she be able to stand it?
‘It’s nothing,’ her mum said firmly. ‘What are you going to have, then? The chicken and ham pie sounds good, doesn’t it? I’d want chips with it, mind, not the sweet potato mash. I don’t know about you, but I find it a bit poncey the way every pub seems to—’
‘Mum. Don’t. What is it that you’re avoiding telling me?’ Charlotte asked, trying to see past the dark lenses of her mum’s sunglasses in order to meet her eye. ‘Please. I’m not an idiot. I’m not a kid any more either. I can take it, whatever it is.’
‘Well . . .’ Her mum faltered. A hesitation, a loss for words: this didn’t happen very often. The pause was enough to immediately set alarm bells ringing in Charlotte’s head.
‘It’s Jim,’ her dad said, taking pity on his daughter.
‘Jim?’ Charlotte’s head swivelled round. ‘Is he all right?’ She hadn’t spoken to her ex for a while, she realized suddenly. Once she’d forced herself to finish with the drunk maudlin phone calls, he hadn’t been in touch at all. Was he struggling to cope, like her? Trauma caught up with people at different rates, she knew. He’d been the strong one when it all happened; he’d propped Charlotte up like a crutch when she kept collapsing, an absolute rock at the funeral. Maybe the loss was only just hitting home now?