by Jane Linfoot
‘Anyway …’ Malcolm’s rubbing his hands together.
Beth cuts in. ‘If you’re going to bang on about the cooking crisis again, it might be best to give it a miss, Dad.’
‘Nothing about kitchens, I was going to change the subject completely and ask if you’d like some hollyhocks to go by your door, Josie? Pearl always used to have them, they do well here. I could bring you some over?’
From the desperate glance Aunty Jo’s sending me, she hasn’t got the first clue he’s talking about plants. Lucky for both of us, hollyhocks are on Dad’s very short list of life obsessions. Along with climbing roses, the blonde girl from Neighbours, Bananarama and golf. I’ve heard so much about them for my whole life, I’m confident my memory bank could be wiped clean by aliens and I’d still know what they were.
‘Yes, please, Beth’s dad.’ I’m so relieved to move this on from ocean-flavoured cupcakes. ‘They’re tall kind of wallflowers, Aunty Jo.’ Hopefully she’ll get the idea.
Loella joins in. ‘They’re very pretty, gorgeous in summer, Pearl’s used to be pink and red.’
Aunty Jo’s nodding. ‘I’m very partial to pink.’
As I know to my cost every time we get out the paint charts.
Malcolm’s looking pleased. ‘And while I’m here planting them, that lawn of yours could do with a tidy before it starts growing again. I could get my strimmer on it, if you’d like?’ He hesitates, and spins round to Barney. ‘So long as I’m not treading on anyone else’s toes here?’
Barney takes a swig from his beer. ‘It’s all yours, Malc, knock yourself out.’
I only hope he’s drinking sensibly there. Just saying. Seeing as he’s so concerned about everyone else’s consumption.
‘And any little jobs you need doing around the house, I’m your man.’ Malcolm’s obviously taking Aunty Jo’s nodding to heart. ‘I’ve plenty of time on my hands too since I retired from the ambulance station.’
Beth’s shaking her head. ‘He is very handy, and he will do you a good job. So long as you don’t mind him arriving with a Will work for cupcakes sign around his neck.’
Loella’s smiling. ‘So long as they’re not salty ones.’ She looks at me. ‘Sorry, but it’s just so funny, please don’t make me stay all politically correct and silent about it forever.’
From Aunty Jo’s face she’s not happy about that. ‘Thank you, Malcolm, we can put you to straight to work, the minute the roller blind for Edie’s room arrives.’
If me and Marcus managed to put in his designer-look kitchen ourselves, and all the blinds at his, if I can find a screwdriver, I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to put up one roller blind in my room, so long as Aunty Jo checks the tape measure bit. I open my mouth to get in before Malcolm claims the job, but in the end Malcolm is left with his mouth gaping too, because Barney’s jumped in.
‘Okay, this one’s mine.’
Oh my days, that’s not good.
I’ll need all my wits about me to fight this, so I beam at Mia and go in for more grape juice to help my parched throat. One, two. One, two. It’s amazing how easily these little glasses slip down. I ignore Barney’s wide-eyed judgement. And that he’s looking a bit wobbly.
Aunty Jo’s pushing back her hair. ‘If you’re sure you’ve got the right tools and skills, Barnaby?’ It’s funny, she’s wobbling the same as Barney.
Cam’s voice cuts in. ‘That makes nine, Edie Browne. Even I know that’s a lot.’
‘Thank you, big man, maybe hold it there.’
Loella nudges Aunty Jo. ‘He makes those lovely shepherd’s huts, remember, Josie, I reckon he could fit a bedroom blind in his sleep. Hey, Barnaby?’ She sounds like she’s teasing him.
His expression is serious as he shrugs, but his eyes are dancing with amusement. ‘Pretty much. It’s the least I can do, with all the help you’re giving Cam. It’s not just his reading, he’s acing his counting too.’ His frown lines deepen as he turns to me. ‘Are you okay there, Edie?’
I’m glad he’s asked. Actually, I couldn’t be any less okay. For a start I’m feeling woozy. My eyes aren’t working properly, and it feels like my ears are turning on and off, and the sounds in them have gone all vibratey. And I’m horribly hot, even though I’m shivering.
It could be the salt so I grab another drink from Mia.
‘You’re not drinking Prosecco there, are you, Sweetpea?’ Aunty Jo’s frowning at me.
I’ve no idea why she’s asking, because she knows I can’t, so but I wave my glass at her anyway. ‘Only the kiddie bubbles.’
But much more importantly, I can’t bear to think of Barney in the same county as my bedroom, let alone in the room itself. Saying ‘We’ll see’ doesn’t feel any way strong enough to put the brakes on this. I’m mentally scanning through my phrase list for a firmer reply, but all I come up with are Smell more roses, I’m doing this for me and Grow cactus, and none of them come close to working. There’s a random song line buzzing round my head too, and for once it’s not one of the sad ones.
‘Robert De Niro’s waiting, talking Italian …’ Dad used to make us sing along to this whenever we went out in the car. Which is probably why the lyrics are in permanent marker in my memory box.
‘What, Edie?’ It’s Aunty Jo, and her voice is coming and going as the volume in my ears goes up and down.
Damn, I didn’t mean to say it out loud.
‘Robert De Niro … talking Italian …’ There it goes again.
Aunty Jo’s face comes in close to mine, she’s all swirly. And as she reaches in for my glass she’s got a rainbow halo around her.
I’m checking off the colours to see if they’re real. ‘Red, yellow, pink, green …’
As I lurch forward she makes a grab for my arm, but it’s too late. The black slate floor tiles are already rushing towards me. And all I can think as I go down is how much it’s going to hurt my head when it hits the slate, and how wetting myself in front of all these people will make salty cupcakes and falling easels feel like party time.
25
Day 168: Wednesday, 18th April
At Periwinkle Cottage
Epic Achievement: Making a great recovery. (Do not ask from what.)
(Well, actually, several great recoveries. Yay to 1. carrying on like nothing happened, and 2. looking like I give no shits.)
Not everything is what it seems. Picking up fizz, not fizzy juice, but not knowing because they both look similar and I can’t taste either of them, then promptly firing down nine glasses – to be honest, the surprise is I didn’t fall over sooner.
Then guess who came to the rescue? Don’t ask me how that happened either, but Barney somehow caught me from behind under my arms as I fell, then lowered me gently to the floor. I came to rest flat out, my head wedged on his thighs as he knelt. If anyone else had done that, they’d have had immediate superhero status. I know I should be grateful he saved me, not squirming at the memory, but when you’ve had your face crushed against the soft denim of some guy’s jeans for long enough to get seam marks in your cheek … Forget that I tried to give everyone salt poisoning, put aside that I managed to get accidentally drunk and fall over, the bit about the whole day which I’m most ashamed about is having my head cushioned on those legs. Having said that, Bella pointed out afterwards that at least I didn’t have to look at them this time.
Beth’s dad and Aunty Jo whisked me off to A&E to be checked over and eventually they decided I had had a seizure but was good to go home. The worst part is this might delay me getting my driving licence back again, although after the trouble I had with Aunty Jo’s car last week I feel like I’m still a long way from getting behind the wheel.
After so much excitement Aunty Jo insisted we had a couple of days at home, doing what she calls ‘taking it easy’, although that didn’t get me out of reading. There’s nothing easy about joining in with her morning meditation, but it’s less trouble to do what she suggests than to argue. I personally think getting up later would help my hea
d much more than sitting on the floor in the day room, breathing in and out and telling myself I’m good enough. But whatever. Then for the rest of the day, while I caught up on my ‘nap time’ and played with some fabric paint and some little pictures for Loella, she got to watch ballet instead of watching me with my paint roller.
By Wednesday afternoon, when the delivery man knocks on the French window with my new roller blind, I’m ready to get back in the game. So while Aunty Jo goes upstairs to top up her blonde bits I help myself to Harry’s FatMax tool bag. By the time she comes down again I’ve got as far as covering the floor with saws and hammers.
‘But I thought Barney was doing that?’ She’s patting her hair with a towel and frowning at the blind package.
I ignore her and pick up the drill, squeeze the button, and jump as it whizzes round. ‘Yay, it’s working!’ I’ll take that as a sign. ‘I’ve got this.’ More importantly, when I put up all Bella’s blinds at hers the weekend before the skydive, she went as far as calling me Mrs DIY. So long as I don’t overthink this, it should be all good.
I slide off the plastic bag, unfurl the blind across the back of a chair and tip a load of plastic pieces out of another bag. ‘So these bits fix to the window.’
‘The muslin fabric’s exactly what you need to shade the morning sun, careful, don’t lose your instructions.’
‘As if they’d be any help.’ Now I’m staring at the bits, even though I keep laying them out across the coffee table, and rearranging them, it isn’t coming together as fast as I’d hoped.
Aunty Jo heads for the kitchen. ‘Why don’t we come back to this after a nice cup of tea?’
But even hoovering up every last piece of Sunday’s chocolate brownie doesn’t help any. When Cam and Barney come knocking at the door a whole lot later I’m still no closer to understanding where the bits go.
Barney’s face softens as he sees the pieces. ‘Oh, good, it’s here, and you’ve made a start.’
Aunty Jo sniffs. ‘Men never look happier than when there’s a tool box around.’
That’s not completely true. Dad’s face is never as long as when my mum gets his tool box out. He much prefers buying the tools to actually using them, and he only likes doing DIY when it’s his idea. But I’m not going to mention that now. If Barney had come in earlier, I’d have sent him away. As it is, seeing I’ve scored a complete fail here, I’m going to have to suck this up.
Barney’s leaning over next to me. ‘So if we turn the brackets the other way around, then they fit together.’
How have I sat here all afternoon and still not thought of that? ‘Great.’ I make my tone ironic. As I watch him scoop up the pieces, drop some tools into the FatMax bag and head for the hall I’m happy to leave this to him.
He’s looking at me from the doorway. ‘Why are you still sitting there, Edie Browne, you’re supposed to be helping me.’
‘I am?’ However wonky my memory is, I’m damn sure we didn’t agree anything of the sort.
‘You need to bring the blind and the tape, please.’ Barney’s losing no time channelling his inner army commander. ‘If you don’t hurry up, it’s highly likely I’ll hang it at the wrong window.’
That might work as a joke if there was the smallest smile to go with it. As it is, it just adds to the list I was thinking about as I lay asleep on the sofa the other day. Ten Things I Hate About You, Barney Barn-person, or whatever it is he’s called. With apologies to Heath Ledger, who we used to swoon over back in the day. Still do sometimes, when we’re feeling all regretful that he’s not here any more. But this ‘Ten things’ is the list that celebrates that I can count that far, and ‘bossy’ is already added, in at number six. Straight after being super disturbing – due to unleashing that naked modelling on the world. And the faster we move on from that one, the better. Especially as we’re heading off upstairs. Thinking about it, I could throw another in at number seven. Makes people go all hot and wobbly. And damn that Barney has the whole ‘Heath Ledger moody bad boy’ thing off to perfection. As well as the hollow cheeks, the pout and the unusually lovely pointy teeth. Not that I’ve seen any more than a glimpse of those when he keeps his lips in a straight line all the time.
‘Don’t forget this, Barnabus.’
Barney shrugs. ‘You’re all right, Josie-bus, those things are as good as useless, keep them for your afternoon reading.’
I grab them from her and have a good stare at them, because it’s the only way to avoid her ‘And who else threw those away before?’ look.
As for what number comes after seven, that’s where we’ll put arrogant and disgustingly over-confident. Although we might have had that somewhere earlier too. Because, truly, he is. The way he marched around the first day I arrived, ordering me around, I wasn’t getting the wrong impression, that’s simply what he’s like.
‘Is Edie missing our reading?’ Cam’s frowning as he stands beside the sofa.
Aunty Jo smiles down at him. ‘You and me will do some special games today instead. Then we can pick up the reading again with you both tomorrow, okay?’
Seeing I can’t get out of this, there’s only one thing for it. I grab the gear, speed past Barney, and take the stairs two at a time, making sure he’s close enough to see where I’m going because I don’t want to lose him and have to start again. There’s no telling the energy you get in your legs when the alternative is having a guy trundle up the stairs after you, watching every wobble of your bum in your Audrey Hepburn slim-fits that are considerably tighter than they were when you were working ‘all the hours’ and sometimes had to skip lunch. I reach the top in no time, make a dash along the landing and dive into my room to do a quick check for knickers and/or other embarrassments. I sweep a massive pile of bras off the chair and stuff them under the bed, then, as I look around for more blunders, it hits me that, because I was trying to get some cushion photos earlier, the bed is looking super pristine and styled. Which was exactly right for daydreams about me and Aunty Jo getting our own page in the Not On The High Street catalogue, but obviously the last thing I want Barney to think is that I smoothed my bed for him. If I do one huge leap I can mess up the quilt, total the pile of pillows by the bed head, and bounce back onto my feet again. Problem solved. As I hear the creak of his footsteps on the landing I launch myself.
Okay, I hold my hands up – I’m in a panic so I go at it with way too much force. First I feel the bed lurch across the floor as I hit it, then I follow it. I’d overlooked Aunty Jo’s satin topper, spread out for the benefit of the Etsy customers. The moment I hurl myself, despite the springy mattress, I know there won’t be any bouncing back. Instead it’s like hitting a bobsleigh track. I whoosh straight across the bed, off the other side, and land with my nose on the wall, jammed against the rose garland paper and the skirting board, my legs still bent upwards onto the bed. And thanks to the weight of my body holding me down, I’m entirely wedged.
‘Edie, what the frig?’
For a really short space of time I think about putting down swearing as Barney’s number nine. Just to show I’m totally chilled with all this. But then I remember how much I personally love a good swear, so for the moment I leave number nine blank.
His tone deepens from surprise to concern. ‘Shit, are you okay down there?’
‘Fine.’ It comes out muffled because when I try to talk my mouth’s full of carpet. ‘And don’t you dare laugh.’ It’s only after I’ve put all the effort into growling the words I remember there’s no danger of that. Barney never laughing would make a good gap filler for number nine.
There’s a low rumble in his throat, and as I screw my head around his face appears over the edge of the quilt. ‘I’d laugh more if my feet weren’t caught up in, er, underwear.’
‘In what?’
‘There’s this huge pile, it looks like it might have been jammed under the bed.’ As he stoops down and pulls, my favourite nude and coffee bra twangs free and narrowly misses hitting him on the ear. ‘Agent Prov
ocateur 36C mean anything to you?’ For a minute he sounds like he’s choking. ‘Okay, don’t answer that. Stay right where you are.’
‘Jeez, Barney.’ I make my ‘complete disbelief’ face. ‘It’s not as if I have a choice, I’m not exactly going anywhere, put my clothes down and pull on my legs.’
The good thing is, Aunty Jo’s satin is just as slippery coming the other way, except this time Barney is hauling me backwards by the ankles. On reflection, I might have been better to have left the bed as it was, and risked looking like I cared what he thought. He probably wouldn’t have noticed anyway. It’s not like he’s that observant. As it is, as I lie there panting on the pale lilac silk, it’s not me or the bed he’s looking at because he’s still busy disentangling his feet.
He tosses four bras onto the bed before he kicks his feet free. ‘Jeez, it looks like a branch of Knickerbox, although, for underwear, there’s a hell of a lot of straps to get caught up on.’ For someone unobservant, that’s too many observations.
‘I was having a sort out.’ I’m not about to explain that my lingerie drawer was my secret insurance against losing Marcus, or how keen he was on the ‘bondage slut’ look. Because, obviously, that didn’t go to plan. In fact I totally wasted my money, because in the end it turned out sex wasn’t his main obsession at all. And call me tight, but even if I’m single and give absolutely no fucks about looking sexy, after the humungous amount it cost me and how comfy it is, I’m damn well going to get my wear out of this stuff.
As I pull myself to my feet, there’s a lilt to his lips. ‘So I take it from the way you came upstairs like an Olympic sprinter, there’s nothing wrong with your legs?’ Another comment we could do without.
‘Nope.’
‘You do realise you can’t be too careful about accidental bumps? You’re sure you didn’t knock your head on the wall?’ As he peers at me, his face is so close to mine I can feel the heat coming off him.
‘Nope.’ With this many questions, it’s almost like being back in A&E. I’m also momentarily glad I never gave up on my three dabs of red Gucci Rush on my neck every morning, even though I can’t smell it at all.