by Sue Limb
‘Yeah,’ she went on, ‘haven’t I mentioned him? His name’s Siegfried de Montenegro and his family made a million out of marzipan. They live in a castle on a hill in Transylvania. We’re planning a December wedding and I’m going to have a troupe of vampires-in-honour, all in pink and white.’
Mum’s face cleared. She shook her head in some kind of disbelief, as if Jess had just made a very tasteless joke, and went back to ogling Lawrence of Arabia’s furniture. Phew! That had been a dodgy moment and no mistake.
Jess felt sad. If only her mum had said, ‘What, Fred? Perfect choice – I adore the lad. He can come round any time and I’ll make some jam tarts specially.’ But it didn’t seem as if she would be able to say that, ever. Jess and Fred would have to remain a secret for years and years and years. Till they were middle-aged – twenty-five, at least.
Jess completely switched off from her surroundings. She was oblivious to Cloud’s Hill. She was wondering what was going on at that wedding where Fred was being a waiter.
Chapter 12
Jess could see it now. There was a huge marquee on a lawn, and a lot of smartly dressed people were milling about under some massive oak trees. Fred, dressed in a black suit and wearing a cute little bow tie, was pouring out champagne …
‘Can I top you up?’ he asked a ravishing young woman in a powder-blue two piece and a massive hat adorned with ostrich feathers.
‘Well, hello!’ said the young woman in a swoopy sort of voice. She was called, er – Jemima. Jemima Featherstone-FFyffe. ‘I wasn’t thinking of having any more champagne, but since it’s you – why not? Tell me, what do you do when you’re not being a waiter?’
‘Oh, I write screenplays,’ said Fred airily. ‘I’m working on one about a rabbit who saves the world.’
‘Wow! That sounds fabulous!’ exclaimed Jemima F-FF. She seemed to have got rid of her powder-blue suit and was wearing a glittering swimsuit and moonstone earrings which looked like two divine dewdrops hanging from her perfect ears. ‘You must meet my father, he’s a film director. Come with me …’ And she clasped Fred’s elbow and steered him away through the crowds.
‘Tell me,’ Jemima whispered to Fred, ‘please don’t think I’m being too forward, but – do you have a girlfriend? Are you going out with one of those waitresses?’
She cast a glance at Charlie, Selina and Grace, who were handing out exquisite little pastries while also glaring in Fred’s direction, because each of them had been secretly planning to seduce him herself.
‘Oh no,’ said Fred. ‘I did have a sort of girlfriend, but it wasn’t really a big thing, you know, and besides … She’s gone off for the whole summer with her tiresome family.’
‘How could she leave you unattended for a split second?’ enquired Jemima, who had turned into a kind of South Sea Island Goddess, wearing only high-heeled shoes and a bikini made of fig leaves.
‘I’m afraid she is rather careless that way,’ shrugged Fred. And they dissolved into a kind of swamp of snogging behind a potted palm.
All the wedding guests peeped discreetly at them, murmuring to one another, ‘Isn’t it fabulous? Jemima seems to be getting off with that cute waiter. Poor girl, she really deserves cheering up after that awful incident with Don and the white-water-rafting.’
Back in the real world, Jess was in the Lawrence of Arabia bookshop. There were lots of books about him. They all had photos of him on their dust jackets. His face was long and fair and handsome, but somehow haunted and a bit weird. You just knew he was the sort of guy who would never smile for photographs.
‘I tell you what,’ said Granny. ‘He’s the spitting image of your father, dear.’
Jess looked closely at the photos and thought for a bit.
‘Well, I suppose he does look a bit like Dad, in a way,’ she said. Lawrence of Arabia had the same kind of long floppy hair. It fell down on each side of his brow.
‘Dad is a lot taller than Lawrence was,’ said Jess’s mum. She made it sound as if this was a mistake on Dad’s part. If he had any tact he wouldn’t have done all that growing, but remained glamorously short.
‘When are we going to get to Dad’s, Mum?’ asked Jess. ‘I can’t wait to see him again!’ And just at the very moment when, for a split second, Jess had got excited about something on this history tour, she felt her mobile vibrate in her pocket. A message from Fred!
‘Early next week,’ said her mum. ‘We’ll be down in St Ives by then.’
‘Great! Cool! Well, I’m going to get some fresh air – excuse me,’ said Jess, desperate to be alone with her text. She strolled outdoors and whipped out her mobile. She had been so longing to hear from Fred. But she hadn’t wanted to text him all the time, all needy and nerdy.
DISASTER, it said, MANAGED TO DROP A BIG DISH OF CREME CARAMEL ALL DOWN CHARLOTTE’S CLEAVAGE.
Oh no! It was even worse than Jess’s tortured fantasy. She didn’t even know who Charlotte was, but whether she was one of the cheerleader waitresses, or a seductive wedding guest like Jemima, Fred had already got on such close terms with her cleavage that lurve and marriage must surely follow.
Jess didn’t answer Fred’s text right away, as she usually did. She was too horrified. She didn’t trust herself. She was afraid she might say something really ferocious. On the other hand, boy, did she want to say something ferocious!
Instead she resorted to prayer. Sometimes things got so feverish you just had to hope there was some lovable old guy in the sky with a long white beard and twinkly, compassionate eyes, like Gandalf.
Dear Lord, thought Jess fervently, I know you disapprove of cleavages, and I’m sorry that, at certain moments in the past, I have tried to improve mine with the aid of minestrone soup bra inserts. Forgive me, Lord, and – this is just a suggestion – why don’t we make it Anti-Cleavage Week? You could start by removing Charlotte’s during the night and replacing it with an endless dreary flatness, covered with matted red fur.
Chapter 13
After visiting Cloud’s Hill, they drove off to a town called Dorchester. Mum had booked them into a little B&B in a side street. Mum and Granny had a twin-bedded room at the front, and Jess had a tiny room at the back with a fabulous view of a brick wall. Somehow this seemed to reflect her mood.
Mum made a cup of tea in her room, and Jess sat on Granny’s bed. There was a game show on the TV, but Jess was hardly listening. Privately, she was rehearsing ferocious texts to Fred – messages so furious she would never, ever send them.
WHY DON’T YOU JUST DIVE STRAIGHT INTO HER CLEAVAGE? DON’T HESITATE ON MY ACCOUNT … I COULD POINT OUT THAT ‘CHARLOTTE’ RHYMES WITH ‘HARLOT’ BUT PERHAPS IT’S BETTER IF I JUST SAY GOODBYE …
IS CHARLOTTE PRETTIER THAN ME? WELL, SO IS 90% OF THE FEMALE POPULATION … GO FOR IT, FRED PARSONS. WHY NOT? AFTER ALL, I HAVE BEEN AWAY A WHOLE TWO DAYS.
After they’d unpacked their bags, there was an hour before supper.
‘I’m just going for a walk around town,’ said Jess. She felt so stressed out, she couldn’t just sit still in her room.
Within minutes of leaving the B&B, Jess found a branch of the Body Shop. She went in, grabbed a few testers and sprayed herself wildly all over: coconut, vanilla, melon … Never had aromatherapy been more desperately needed.
Although why did Body Shop cosmetics have to be so intimately related to food? Food meant catering, and catering meant Fred being a waiter with the infuriating cheerleaders. Melon, vanilla, coconut – Jess doubted if she’d ever be able to enjoy any of them again.
‘Are you OK?’ asked the salesgirl.
No, thought Jess, my heart is broken. But she smiled politely and said, ‘Yes, thanks.’
Then she investigated approximately 1,000 lipglosses before selecting the very first one she had tried. Would this lipgloss win back Fred’s fickle heart? Jess glared moodily at herself in a mirror. No wonder Fred couldn’t stay faithful to her for more than a split second. With her slightly plump cheeks and tiny eyes, she looked like some kind of
crazed hamster.
She paid for the lipgloss and left. Right next door, Jess found a stationery shop. Yessss! She would buy some elegant, seductive paper and deluge Fred with witty, scintillating, passionate letters. It might not be quite as mesmerising as Charlotte’s cleavage covered with pudding, but it was Jess’s only hope.
Jess bought some postcards, too. She bought some Marilyn Monroe and Humphrey Bogart ones for her dad, who worshipped old movie stars. And she bought some photos of a dull old church for Fred. She wasn’t going to send him an image of the divine Marilyn – it might make him even more disappointed with her own rather low-key physical assets.
She also bought some terribly charismatic sage-green writing paper, raced back to the B&B and started to write. First she wrote a card to Dad, describing Mum’s ludicrous crush on Lawrence of Arabia. Then she texted her dad.
DAD — I JUST WROTE YOU A POSTCARD. HOPE YOU’RE IMPRESSED! I’M SENDING YOU THIS TEXT JUST IN CASE I NEVER GET AROUND TO POSTING IT. THERE’S SOMETHING I NEED TO KNOW. HOW IMPORTANT ARE CLEAVAGES? IF A GUY IS FACED WITH A REAL HUMDINGER, CAN HE LOOK AWAY AND WISH HE WAS WITH HIS FLAT-CHESTED GIRLFRIEND? LOVE, JESS.
That was her dad sorted. Now it was time for her letter to Fred. She would not mention Charlotte. She would ignore the whole thing.
Dear Fred,
Today we visited Lawrence of Arabia’s cottage. Terribly atmospheric. Judging by the photos he looked quite like my dad. I can’t wait to see Dad again. I wish you could meet him, though he is rather childish. I know I’ve told you about how weird and mysterious he is, but there’s nothing like meeting people face to face, is there? He’s certainly a lot more entertaining than my mum. Her obsession with history is ruining my life.
Tomorrow we shall visit the scene of King Arthur’s brave stand against the gerbils, plus a fascinating chapel where St Horace had a vision of a pork pie with wings in the year 1238. It was a sign that the famine would shortly end. Speaking of food, it’s time for supper. Judging by my massive hips, I should try and confine myself to a single lettuce leaf. But knowing me I shall give into temptation and swallow a whole live cow.
She had tried very hard to write a lively, lighthearted letter. But Jess was still sunk in a horrible black mood. She planned to murder Fred a million different ways.
Jess went out, bought some stamps and posted her letter to Fred and her card to her dad. Then she went back to the hotel and watched The Simpsons on TV until it was time for supper.
At suppertime they went out to an Italian restaurant. Jess devoured her pasta with grim determination. She still hadn’t replied to Fred’s text message about Charlotte’s cleavage. She hoped he was in agony, waiting. But on the other hand, he just might be staring into Charlotte’s eyes and showering her with his divine jokes and clever compliments. And if this was the scenario, Jess was definitely never going to speak to him again.
‘Hah!’ she would sneer glamorously at him, when eventually they met again. ‘So you’ve come crawling back, have you? Has the wonderful Charlotte told you to push off? Or have you tired of her magnificent, pudding-stained cleavage?’
‘Forgive me!’ gasped Fred, throwing himself face down on the carpet – no, wait, that wasn’t public enough. The park. Yes! The bandstand! With a huge crowd watching. ‘I love only you! Charlotte forced me to throw puddings at her! I never enjoyed it for a moment! And I never touched her, except with wet wipes!’
‘Crawl in the dust, you faithless viper!’ spat Jess. ‘For I shall never speak to you again, no, not for a hundred years.’ She was beginning to sound a bit like the Bible. She quite liked it. She turned on her heel and stalked off, leaving Fred grovelling.
‘And another thing!’ She turned back to him. ‘Eat dirt, Fred Parsons! No matter how hard you beg, you shall never receive another glance or word from me!’
Fred kind of frothed at the mouth like a dog who has swallowed something a bit poisonous, and scrabbled in the dirt. Jess tossed a last stony, scornful glance at him, curled her lip in contempt and turned her back on him. A murmur of pity and horror ran through the watching millions – for this scene was being beamed around the world on satellite TV.
And then suddenly, back in the real world, her phone buzzed in her bag.
‘What’s that, dear?’ said Granny in alarm. ‘Is it one of your emails?’
‘Text messages, Granny,’ said Jess, grabbing her phone. ‘It’ll just be Flora.’
‘You should switch your phone off in restaurants,’ said Mum, never one to miss the chance of a moan.
‘Yeah, yeah – in a minute,’ said Jess, trying to look cool and collected as Fred’s message flashed up.
WHAT ON EARTH’S GOING ON? WHY SO SILENT? ARE YOU FLIRTING WITH SOME DUMB LIFEGUARD CALLED GARETH?
Hastily she composed what she hoped would be a devastating retort.
HOW’S CHARLOTTE’S CLEAVAGE THIS EVENING? STILL MESMERISING?
She pressed the SEND button with a sort of bitter panache. How dare he be jealous of her, when she had done nothing but think about him for three whole days solid? While he frolicked with girls and noticed their cleavages, the beast!
‘I told you to switch the blasted thing off now, Jess!’ said Mum, getting quite ratty.
‘OK, OK, Mum, no need for stress! I am switching it off,’ said Jess.
Even as she spoke, a message came back.
CHARLOTTE IS FIFTY AND OUR BOSS, DUMBO. HER CLEAVAGE IS ABOUT AS APPEALING AS A CREVASSE IN ANTARCTICA.
Huge, huge relief swept through Jess. Dear, darling Fred! She had been so stupid. She had wasted the whole day being jealous completely without any reason. How could she apologise in a way which would be graceful and yet, somehow, seductively hilarious?
While she was racking her brains, another message arrived. Eagerly Jess peered at the tiny screen. What message was adorable Fred sending her now? A declaration of undying love? Oh no! Jess’s blood ran cold with horror.
IT’S ROSIE YOU REALLY OUGHT TO WORRY ABOUT …
Chapter 14
When she got back to the B&B, Jess was alone at last in her own little room. But, disaster! She was right out of credit on her mobile. She couldn’t send Fred a furious text about that Rosie gag. If it was a gag. Being apart like this really sucked.
All night Jess tossed and turned. She hardly managed to sleep at all, and when she did, Fred was misbehaving in her dreams with whole hockey teams. Eventually dawn came, and Jess fell into a deep sleep. And then Mum knocked on her door and she had to drag herself up because it was time for breakfast, even though it still felt like the middle of the night.
Jess slouched down to the dining room like a zombie out of one of those old black and white movies. She was pretty black and white, herself. Her mood was dark and her face was pale and ghastly. She had meant to wake up early and rush out and buy some more credit for her phone, but of course she had failed dismally.
‘Jess!’ said Granny, ‘you look awful! What’s wrong?’
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ said Jess, sitting down.
‘Never mind, dear,’ said Granny, patting her hand. ‘Have some bacon and eggs. That’ll soon put you right.’
Granny squeezed her hand and stroked her hair. It was sweet of her, but kind of irritating as well. Jess declined the bacon and eggs. For the first time on the whole trip, she didn’t feel very hungry. She was sure bacon and eggs would taste of dust and ashes.
Speaking of dust and ashes, thank goodness Granny had left Grandpa’s urn upstairs this time. One does not want to see the mortal remains of one’s grandparent gracing the breakfast table.
‘Just toast will do today,’ Jess said sadly.
‘Right,’ said Jess’s mum, pouring out the tea with a secret smile which Jess just knew had something to do with history. Her heart would’ve sunk if it hadn’t already been reposing on the inky depths of the ocean floor. ‘Today’s a real highlight of our trip,’ Mum went on. ‘We’re going to see somebody’s grave.’
Oh yippee, thought Jess. Ter
rific. A grave. How life-enhancing. How delightful. I might have known it.
‘A grave?’ said Granny, brightening visibly. ‘Whose?’
‘Thomas Hardy’s,’ said Mum with an air of triumph. ‘Now, Jess, do you know anything about him?’
Jess was silent. Even if she had known all there was to know about Thomas Hardy, she wouldn’t have said a word. Even if she had babysat for him and eaten his toast and read his private letters.
‘Haven’t a clue,’ she croaked. ‘Pass the marmalade, please, Granny. Anyone got a headache pill?’ Perhaps if her mum thought she was ill, she would hold back on the history. Vain hope.
‘Thomas Hardy wrote a lot of novels, all set down here in Dorset,’ said Mum, with ridiculous excitement, as if she’d just found a winning lottery ticket. ‘He had quite a sad life, really.’
So what else is new? thought Jess. Everyone on this trip so far had had a tragic life. And it looked as if Jess’s was going to be no exception.
‘He married a woman called Emma, but he was so busy that he took her for granted, and then suddenly she died, and he was heartbroken. He felt so guilty that he hadn’t appreciated her enough, and he wrote loads of love poems to her after her death.’
Jess was quite struck with this idea. She made plans to die immediately, so that Fred would be convulsed with guilt and visit her tomb daily with a freshly written sonnet. And he would neglect his personal appearance, of course, even more than usual. Dramatically. Mushrooms would grow out of his ears. No girl would ever look at him again. And, of course, he would never look at another girl.
‘Anyway,’ said Mum, ‘when he died, he left instructions that his heart was to be removed and buried in his first wife’s grave.’
‘Gross!’ screamed Jess.
‘What did they do with the rest of him?’ asked Granny.
‘The rest of him was buried in Westminster Abbey. In Poets’ Corner.’
‘How bizarre,’ said Jess.
‘Did you say his first wife’s grave?’ asked Granny, with a Miss Marple-like pounce.