by Fiona Gibson
I blink at him, wondering why my oldest friend is talking like an estate agent. ‘I don’t want just anyone living here,’ I say sharply. ‘I asked you, because we’re friends …’ At least, I thought we were, I reflect bitterly. What the hell’s got into you lately? Has that neck bite affected your brain?
‘I know that, but you can vet them carefully. There are those websites, those let-a-spare-room places. Maybe a student would want it? Actually, I’m sure a mate of Bob’s is looking, some bloke from Leeds, coming down for a six-month contract in the City …’
‘So why doesn’t he move in with Bob?’
‘Oh, I don’t think Bob knows him that well …’
I turn away and de-hair the matted brush that Amy left on the table. ‘I thought you were happy here,’ I murmur.
‘I am! And we’ll still see each other, of course we will. I’ll still pop round and roast you the odd chicken. If you behave yourself I might even knock you up one of those lemon drizzle cakes you’re so fond of.’ He tries for a smile but doesn’t quite make it.
‘That would be nice,’ I say bleakly.
As he busies himself by unloading the dishwasher, I run through all the things I might have done to upset or annoy him: not cooked enough, not appreciated his culinary efforts enough, laughed at his love bite, made too many fregola jokes, booked a flight to Nice …
‘Stu,’ I start, ‘is there really no other reason? If there is, I’d rather know.’
‘No, of course there isn’t.’ He throws me a distracted look, as if to say, what on earth would it be?
‘Is it … something to do with Ginny Benson?’
‘No! Jesus …’
‘Are you annoyed that I gave you a hard time for staying out all night?’
His face softens and he steps towards me. ‘You didn’t. You were just worried. It was kind of sweet, how concerned you were …’
‘I mean, you’re forty-seven. You can do whatever you like.’
‘Yeah, don’t look it though, do I?’ he jokes.
I try to muster a smile. ‘You don’t, actually. Must be all that skincare I give you that you never use.’ He chuckles, which I interpret as permission to gently quiz him further. ‘So, um, have you seen her again since that night?’
‘Er … yeah. We went for lunch yesterday and then to a gallery.’
I arch a brow. ‘Not cleaning products in lobster pots, I hope?’
‘Nah, just some Victorian watercolours that have to be kept locked away in the dark, they’re that delicate and prone to fading. They’re only allowed out on public display for one week a year.’
‘What were they like?’
Stu’s smile triggers a fresh wave of sadness in me. ‘Faded.’ Then his phone rings, and he scribbles down an order; I can almost see the trail of relief he leaves behind as he rushes off.
Well, it was only meant to be a temporary thing, I reflect as I choose tops and skirts and dresses and place them in the suitcase on my bed. It was just a stopgap after his split with Scary Roz, and he’s been here nearly a year now, and perhaps that’s enough. Maybe, despite his seemingly easy, jocular relationship with Cam and Amy, he’s actually had enough of living with teenagers, of smelly basketball boots left lying around and my kids’ mates forever clomping in and out. Or perhaps it’s me.
He’s right – I could easily find a new lodger. Whether or not I actually need one depends, I suppose, on whether I go for the Crumble Cubes option or the pay-off. Oh, I’ll miss his moist lemon drizzle cake and him looking after the garden, tending our tomato plant. I’ll miss finding a kilner jar of fresh pesto in the fridge, and us lazing around reading the Sunday papers together, but I can manage without all of those things.
It’s Stu himself that I’ll really miss. Lovely, sometimes belligerent Stu, who insists on storing bread in the fridge and happens to be my very best friend in the world.
*
‘Lorrie?’ The voice is abrupt, the number unknown. I close my suitcase and perch on the edge of my bed.
‘Yes?’
‘Hi, it’s Romilly Connaught-Jones. I’m a friend of Pearl’s. She asked me to call you, said it’s pretty urgent …’
‘Oh! Yes, it is. Thank you for ringing me. I have a slight issue at work and she said … at least she thinks you might be able to give me a bit of advice—’
‘Well, I’m off work today,’ she cuts in. ‘Lois is running a temperature and you know how it is, you hate to leave them but, in fact, our nanny is perfectly capable of taking care of things for half an hour while we have a chat. D’you want to pop round? Pearl says you’re local?’
‘That would be fantastic. When would be convenient?’
‘Now, actually. I can’t promise anything but hopefully I can set you off in the right direction.’
‘I’d so appreciate that.’
She rattles off the address, and I rummage for a scrap of paper and pen from my dressing table drawer. I rake a brush through my hair, slick on a coat of morale-boosting lipstick and grab the wad of documents Nigel Wareing so kindly prepared for me. Clutching my phone so as to find my way, I set out with the faintest kernel of hope that Romilly Connaught-Jones might be able to help me figure out what on earth I should do with my life.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Craven Court is a converted leather factory with a collection of former outhouses dotted around the grounds. As I’m buzzed in through the main entrance I take a moment to assess my surroundings. I have walked along this street to pick up the kids from various friends’ houses, but had never realised the development was here. Bordered by high brick walls, the landscaped grounds – there are lawns, well-tended flower beds and a decked seating area – seem to have a rarefied atmosphere all of their own. I look up at the block and glimpse tasteful curtains, designer lampshades, a section of expensive-looking sofa. I press Romilly’s bell as directed, and the door pushes open.
‘Come in, come in,’ she says distractedly, beckoning me into her third-floor apartment. ‘Excuse the mess. You know what it’s like when your child’s ill. Everything falls apart.’
From a room at the far end of the oak-floored corridor, a woman and child are chatting in hushed voices.
‘I’m sorry to hear she’s not well,’ I say.
‘Oh, she’ll be fine. I needed a day off, to be honest. Work’s been crazy. Come through, I’ll make us some coffee. Do sit down. Tell me all about it.’
I’d expected Romilly to be rather fierce and immaculately turned out, but in fact she is make-up-less, with growing-out highlights, and wearing a baggy grey sweater and jeans that swamp her tiny frame. Her feet are bare, toenails unpainted, and there are dark shadows beneath her pale green eyes. I perch on a stool at the island unit and glance around the kitchen as she fiddles with a fancy coffee machine. As she selects mugs from a cupboard, I start to tell her about the ten years I’ve worked for La Beauté, how much I love my job, and the recent changes that are sending shockwaves through the company.
‘I love La Beauté,’ she exclaims. ‘So simple and unpretentious and it just works beautifully.’ She laughs. ‘But then, you know all that.’
‘Yes, I do,’ I say as she places a cup of coffee, plus milk in an elegant white jug, beside me. ‘Thank you.’ I take a sip. ‘It really is good of you to see me.’
‘So, what’s happened exactly?’ She opens a packet of biscuits. They are ordinary rich tea. There’s no fancy food lying around the place, no evidence of Serbian donkey cheese.
‘Well, basically I was called into head office with one day’s warning and presented with this.’ I pass the wad of documents over to her.
While she reads, I glance around the kitchen. It has that showroom feel, all granite worktops and sleek, glossy white units, and the room is huge – perhaps three times the size of mine. I’d expected it to be pretty grand. However, what I hadn’t imagined was the clutter and detritus of family life: splodgy paintings stuck to the enormous silver fridge, and a pinboard entirely covered with a
mishmash of photos, scribbled lists, tickets for concerts and, amazingly, a takeaway menu from the popular, and incredibly cheap, Indian restaurant by Bethnal Green tube station.
She looks up at me. ‘So, there have been no verbal or written warnings?’
‘No,’ I pause. ‘Well, there was a casual chat in our store’s canteen about me staying on message, whatever that meant. Something about older staff tending to be resistant to change …’
‘But nothing formally noted?’
I shake my head.
‘And your performance, your sales … there’s nothing they’ve highlighted as a problem?’
‘My sales are fine,’ I say firmly. ‘I consistently meet target and my area manager put me forward as one of the top salespeople in the South East, which I, er …’ I tail off, figuring that she doesn’t need to know that I was presented with a magnifying mirror.
‘Yes, very good,’ Romilly says briskly. ‘So the only issue raised was your age, am I understanding this correctly?’
‘That’s right – because they want to take the brand younger.’
A furrow appears between her brows. ‘Which, apart from being completely unacceptable, seems to go against everything the company stands for.’
I frown at her. ‘What d’you mean?’
She hops off her stool, fetches a wafer-thin laptop from the worktop and sets it in front of us, clicking on Geddes and Cox from her search history. ‘I looked at their website just before you arrived. See, it says here: “At Geddes and Cox we take pride in offering a stimulating and nurturing environment in which every employee is valued and respected, regardless of gender, race, religion, disability, sexual orientation or age.”’ She stops and looks at me. ‘Or age, Lorrie. Anyway, no company can fire someone because of that. It’s just not on. They can’t even sweep in and announce you’re being made redundant – not without proper consultation.’
I sip my rapidly cooling coffee, taking in what she’s said. Girlish laughter floats along the corridor. ‘So, what should I do now?’
Romilly snaps off a fragment of biscuit and pops it into her mouth. ‘Call a meeting, sit down and tell them you’ve sought legal advice and that you intend to take them to a tribunal. It’s out-and-out discrimination and you have a clear-cut case of constructive dismissal.’
I inhale and smooth back my hair. ‘But I don’t think … I mean, I can’t afford—’
‘Companies can’t do this, you know.’
‘So, should I lie, then? I mean, I know we’ve spoken but I haven’t hired you, have I? I haven’t officially sought advice …’
‘Of course you have,’ she says. ‘You’ve seen me. That’s enough. They own a make-up brand now – how can they possibly risk being accused of age discrimination? Just the mention of a tribunal will be enough to shut them up. I think you’ll find that these so-called choices miraculously disappear, and you can happily continue in the job you love,’ she adds, smiling.
‘Really? Wow. Thank you.’
She shrugs, as if it was nothing. ‘Best of luck, Lorrie. I hate to see this sort of workplace bullying. Please let me know if you have any more problems after you’ve spoken to them.’
Thanking her again – profusely – I make my way downstairs. So I can say ‘my lawyer’ now, I reflect as I leave Craven Court – at least, sort of.
The day is warm and bright and, despite Stu’s shock announcement, my spirits have lifted. Amy will be up in the air by now. Cam has gigs on Friday and Saturday night, so he’ll be occupied too. As for Stu and me … well, we’ll still be friends, won’t we, just as we always have been? Maybe he’ll introduce me to Ginny, if it looks as if it’s going somewhere.
Hungry now – I skipped breakfast – I take a detour and pass Tipples which, in fact, is no longer called Tipples but Spirited, which I have to agree is a much better name. The sign has been redone, hand-painted as is the favoured style among the chi-chi shops around here. I peer in and spot Eric at the counter with a cluster of customers around him. A couple are bantering jovially as he wraps a bottle in tissue paper, and he catches my eye and waves. There’s an expectant look on his face as I wave back, but he looks far too busy to be interrupted now, so I walk on.
As my stomach growls hollowly, I stride on past the row of cheerful independent shops until I reach a small cafe. It’s one of those jolly, homespun places with wipeable gingham tablecloths and a blackboard outside: No Wi-Fi here! Come in and talk to each other! Pretend it’s 1993! I step in and order an Americano and a croissant at the counter – ‘actually, I’ll have a piece of chocolate cake too, please.’ I carry my tray towards the only vacant table and flinch. It’s Ralph, the toilet wanker. He is sitting opposite a round-cheeked woman with long, rather messy light brown hair, who looks at least a decade younger than he is. Wearing what looks like a man’s checked shirt, she is chatting away, but he is clearly not listening. He is poking at his teeth with a toothpick and scanning the room.
His eyes meet mine and widen in shock. The message flashes across his face, as if in neon: ‘I’m pretending I’ve never met you! Please do likewise!’ His female companion registers the connection. As she blinks at him, Ralph quickly erases his panicky look and rearranges his face into a smile. ‘Lorrie, hi!’ His cheeks are blazing, his timing all askew. ‘How nice to see you.’
‘Hi, Ralph.’ Look at me, with my croissant and a cake!
He turns back to the woman. ‘This is, er, Lorrie, we met at a work thing …’ He flashes me a pleading look. ‘This is Belinda,’ he adds. ‘My wife.’
‘Hello, Belinda,’ I say levelly. ‘Nice to meet you.’ Definitely not dead, or in Halifax for that matter.
‘Nice place, this,’ she says pleasantly.
‘Yes, I think it’s just opened.’
‘No Wi-Fi’s a lovely touch,’ she adds, ‘although it’s dragging Ralph out of his comfort zone …’ She chuckles. ‘Always plugged into something, he is. Squirrelled away with his gadgets!’
Hmmm, bet he is, the perv. ‘Well, I’ll leave you in peace,’ I say, making my way past their table.
‘We’re just leaving actually.’ Ralph scrambles up, followed by a slower-moving Belinda who, I see now, is around seven months pregnant at a guess, her hand running protectively across her belly.
I settle at the vacant table and watch them leave, with Ralph holding the door open for her, being gentlemanly. Hey, Belinda! I want to yell after her. Are you aware that your husband prowls for women on datemylovelymum.com and phones them while masturbating in his office loo?
Of course, I don’t do that. I just pick at my croissant, reminding myself that Ralph is just one lone, creepy man – but unable to shake off the feeling that the entire male species is something of a disappointment right now.
*
Although I tell Stu about my cafe encounter when I get home – it’s a relief to have something both funny and awful to gossip about – we don’t discuss when he might move out, and nor do we talk about my trip to Nice tomorrow. It’s as if I have an angry-looking spot on my face that he’s decided it best not to mention. At around 9 p.m. he heads out without much in the way of a goodbye, vaguely mentioning something about ‘helping Ginny with a few jobs around the house’. It’s so tempting to joke, ‘Is that a euphemism?’ but I think better of it.
I spend the rest of the evening checking and rechecking the contents of my suitcase. There have been no more messages from Antoine, and I sleep fitfully, my stomach a flurry of nerves about my forthcoming trip. I listen out for the sound of Stu’s bike. However, when I emerge from my room next morning, he hasn’t come home. Whether he feels awkward around me, or is simply madly in lust with Ginny Benson – it’s impossible to know.
It’s Cam who sees me off at 10 a.m., gamely carrying my suitcase downstairs and hugging me as I step out to climb into the waiting cab for City airport. I’ll have to wait until after my trip to get in touch with Sonia. There simply isn’t time now, and I’m hoping I’ll be so buoyed up after two days wit
h Antoine that I’ll handle it all with seamless confidence. Hmmm, we’ll see.
‘Have a great time, Mum,’ Cam says. ‘You really need a break after all this work stuff.’
I smile, taking in his handsome face that’s losing its childish roundness, the cheekbones more prominent now. ‘Sure you’ll be okay, love?’
‘’Course I will. Wasn’t I fine when you went away with Pearl that time?’
‘That was one night, love, to Brighton. This is two, and I’ll be out of the country—’
‘Mum, I’m seventeen. Just go!’
I laugh and thank the driver as he loads my small wheelie case into the boot, glancing back to see Cam one more time; my tall, handsome, rather skinny son who could do with a tad more exposure to sunshine, and is perfectly capable of looking after himself. He’ll have Stu for company anyway. As he didn’t mention a moving out date last night, perhaps he’ll change his mind about living with Bob? Maybe it was a spur of the moment thing, and he hadn’t thought things through properly.
As the driver pulls away, I think of sending Stu a jokey text, just to lighten the atmosphere between us, but I can’t quite think what to say. Instead, I call Mum to tell her about my jaunt to meet my teenage love, expecting at least a smidge of enthusiasm. ‘But the wedding’s next Friday!’ she exclaims. ‘Just a week away—’
‘Yes, and I’ll be back home on Sunday evening. I’m only going for two nights.’
‘I’d just like you around,’ she says huffily. No, Have a great time, Lorrie. No, How exciting! I’m thrilled for you.
‘Well, I’ll be around next week,’ I say, ‘and what about Hamish? Can’t he help with any last-minute jobs?’
‘Chance’d be a fine thing,’ she mutters. ‘His parents are insisting he stays with them at the moment to try and sort out this slate business. I think they’re importing them from Bavaria – can you imagine? They’re so demanding—’