‘Cool.’
‘Why don’t you live in London?’ I ask.
Jack stubs out his cigarette. ‘Sorry, Gilly, would love to chat but I need to make a move.’
‘Yes, right, me too,’ I say. ‘I need to take you for a walkies, don’t I? Don’t worry. Not you, Jack.’
He smiles. ‘Have a great weekend.’ He picks up his laundry bag and heads off.
Just as I am about to go upstairs to put on a new dress I spot his script on the sitting-room chair. I grab it and bolt out of the door. Jack is striding down the road, car keys in his hand, heading towards his BMW on the other side of the street.
‘You left this,’ I say breathlessly, as he zaps a button to unlock the front door.
He takes the script. ‘God, I’m an idiot. Thanks.’
‘You need a full-time assistant.’
‘Are you offering?’ He winks at me, a hint of mischief back in his voice. Now I didn’t like Roy winking at me (poor old Roy), but somehow Jack can be forgiven. I think I could forgive Jack for quite a lot of things, even for leaving the loo seat up.
‘Only if it’s well paid,’ I say back.
As Jack drives off, I walk home smiling to myself, already eager for Monday to come round. There’s something about him. I can’t put my finger on it, except that all I know is I’m looking forward to getting to know Jack Baker.
18
My wild dream of Jack and I skipping off into the sunset like the Heron clan is interrupted with a ‘Hello’. Guy stands by my side with a coffee, modelling a different hat today, this one like a French beret, and he’s wearing black-checked trousers that make him look like a chef. Most men couldn’t get away with this outfit, but somehow it works on Guy. ‘Want to do a circuit?’ he suggests as if we were in the gym.
‘So how’s it going with Jack?’ Guy asks, sharing his coffee with me. ‘Have you seen him yet?’
This time I am glad to be able to report the news that I have seen him, this very morning, and I now know that he lives in Bath.
Guy looks surprised.
‘I know. I can’t picture him there either,’ I say.
‘Bath is a fabulous place,’ says Mari, catching us up. ‘One of my friends moved there. Beautiful architecture and I love the theatre.’ She peers more closely at Guy. ‘What are you wearing?’
‘Trousers,’ he says as his mobile rings.
When Guy disappears to take the call Mari huffs and puffs that his international phone bills must cost the earth. ‘By the way, Blaize is flying in from the States.’
‘Blake?’
‘Blaize,’ she corrects me, ‘Blaize Hunter King.’
Who the hell is he?
‘Come on, Gilly, I’ve told you about him. He’s one of the best-known interior design agents in the States, buys stuff for all his celebrity clients.’
‘Right, sounds great.’
‘It’s serious money. He’s dropping by tomorrow morning, called me late last night. Serious money, Gilly,’ she repeats. ‘We need to roll out the red carpet, OK?’ She peers more closely at Guy. ‘Why is Hatman dressed in his pyjamas?’
‘I love the way Flora asks after Trouble before me,’ Guy says, putting his mobile back into his pocket.
‘How is she?’
‘Fine. Have you ever had this urge to travel?’
‘No, not really. It would be great to be adventurous and backpack my way across Tibet, but . . . I love hotels,’ I admit.
‘I’d rather sleep outside under the stars,’ Guy says.
‘I’d rather look at the stars drinking champagne from my terrace.’
Guy is strangely quiet. ‘Are you all right?’ I ask. ‘Do you miss her?’
‘Yes . . . oh, Trouble, don’t eat that!’ he despairs when he sees her with what looks like half a Yorkshire pudding in her mouth. We liken the park to a buffet. ‘I do miss her, but I’ve got to get on with it,’ he says. ‘Flora funded me for three years while I did my horticultural course, so it’s my turn to support her.’
‘I see, so this travelling is her time.’
He nods. ‘Exactly. She’s only away for another couple of months.’
‘Listen, don’t shoot me down . . .’
Guy pretends to shoot me.
‘But why don’t you join her for a week? I could look after Trouble.’
He shakes his head. ‘Thanks, Gilly, that’s so nice of you, but she has to do this for herself.’
We reach the zebra crossing. ‘Right,’ he says before adjusting his cap. ‘I’d better go.’
‘See you Monday,’ I call over my shoulder as I head off to work.
Ruskin and I walk briskly towards the tube station when I hear ‘Gilly!’ I turn to see Guy catching me up. ‘I was just thinking . . .’ He hesitates. ‘What are you up to at the weekend?’
‘Um, just pottering,’ I tell him.
I know Guy well enough now not to care about sounding boring or lacking invitations on my mantelpiece. There’s no doubt my social life isn’t quite what it used to be. Things have slowed down. The wheels have stopped turning.
I smile. ‘How about you?’
‘I need to buy a suit for my sister’s wedding.’ He twists his hat round, something I’ve noticed he does when he’s thinking. ‘I don’t suppose . . .’
‘Um?’
‘Well, I’m a bad shopper and you’re pottering, whatever that means, so . . .’
‘You want me to help you?’
‘Yes.’ He laughs. ‘Yes, please.’
We exchange telephone numbers. Guy and I are getting to be serious friends. Our friendship has progressed to a whole new level, which is beginning to move beyond the world of Ravenscourt Park. We have moved from Grade Two piano to Grade Three. Chords are becoming a little more complicated now.
‘Great,’ we both say when numbers are tapped in. I tell him I’m working tomorrow morning, so why not meet me at Mari’s shop and we can take it from there?
We cross the zebra crossing, Guy turns left and I turn right, reassuring myself that it’s a sad world if a boy and girl can’t meet up at the weekend without any question marks hanging over their friendship.
‘How’s it going in the funny chandelier shop?’ Nick asks me that evening, after work. We’re eating out in a crowded Spanish tapas bar near to his office in the City.
‘It’s great,’ I reply, ‘giving me time to think about what I really want to do.’
‘Which is?’
‘I have no idea.’
We both laugh. ‘Don’t ask silly questions, Nicky,’ I add.
‘You should be doing something creative, you’ve got a great imagination. I remember you reading those stories to Megan.’ He orders another beer. ‘She loved them.’
I look at him, surprised. Nick never talks about her. Rarely does he even mention her name. ‘I enjoyed them too,’ he goes on. ‘Can’t remember what the hell they were about . . .’
‘Mickey the Magic Monkey,’ I remind him.
When I read to Megan, Nick would also sit at the end of the bed in his rocket pyjamas and listen attentively.
‘Or you should teach,’ he says, ‘you’re a natural with children.’ I nod, so happy that it’s just the two of us tonight, with no distractions.
His BlackBerry vibrates. ‘It’s Nancy,’ he says, looking at the screen.
I spoke too soon.
He picks up. ‘I’ll be home soon, Nance. I’m out with Gilly. No, I won’t be late.’ He rolls his eyes at me. ‘Don’t wait up.’
When he switches off, and the waiter clears our plates, I ask him if I can give him some advice.
‘Be kinder to her,’ I say.
He rubs his forehead hard.
‘Seriously, I know she’s difficult . . .’
‘Difficult?’ he interrupts me. ‘Try spoilt and demanding. Oh God, let’s not talk about it.’
Nick never wants to talk about his marriage, but during this last year I can’t help but notice how withdrawn he’s become. I don’t see Nanc
y and Nick working together as a team any more. I don’t like the atmosphere in their house either; it doesn’t feel like a happy home. Dad says the same too. I wish Nick would confide in our father, but Dad finds it hard talking about anything personal too. Between us all, we’re useless. We need our mother.
‘Nick,’ I say tentatively, ‘Nancy drives me mad sometimes.’ I pause. ‘But I think she’s lonely. Bored. You’re never there.’
‘I have to work, Gilly!’
‘I know, I know you do,’ I say, trying to calm him down, ‘all I’m saying is she probably misses you, and maybe if you could talk more . . .’
‘She’s changed,’ he says more quietly now. ‘I don’t know who she is any more.’
I reach out for his hand, rub it. ‘She’s your wife and you have two lovely daughters.’
‘Let’s change the subject,’ he says tightly, withdrawing his hand.
‘You get more like Dad every day, Nick. Be careful,’ I warn him.
19
1986
Nick and I return from school. I can’t wait to tell Mum that Anna, Nick and I raised seventeen pounds in the playground this week, selling chocolate butterfly cakes so that Megan can travel to Germany to be cured by sheep cells. We cooked the cakes last weekend. Anna and I laughed when Nick put on Mum’s flowery apron.
Mum was told by one of her friends in Megan’s special needs group that there is a professor in Germany who thinks he can help us. This sheep cells treatment is expensive, thousands of pounds. Some of the older children at school are doing sponsored runs and canoeing races. Mum is so proud, saying we’re all going to be in the papers and on television, telling Megan’s story. Dad is quiet. He’s always at work.
Later that night Nick and I hide in our bedroom, just to get away from the shouting.
‘You don’t understand,’ Mum shouts. ‘We have to do something!’
‘Beth, we can’t afford it,’ Dad says. ‘We’d have to remortgage the house, the . . .’
‘You can’t put a price on Megan!’
‘I’m not – how can you think that? I love her too.’
‘Show it then. Oh, that’s right, you can’t.’
‘Please,’ he urges, ‘be realistic. What do we know about this treatment? You’re so vulnerable . . .’
‘What does vulnerable mean?’ I whisper to Nick, scared of the noise.
He doesn’t hear me. His hands are over his ears.
‘I’m not . . .’
‘Let me finish . . .’
‘We have to take a risk . . .’
‘You are vulnerable,’ he repeats slowly, ‘and ready to believe anyone who says they can help. Is it really a viable option?’
Nick and I hide under the covers when she screams, ‘You’re not at work now!’
‘Keep it down, Beth!’ Dad begs. ‘The children.’
‘Act like a father, not a lawyer! What choice do we have? There are no other bloody options! I can’t sit here and watch her die! Maybe you can, but I can’t!’ We hear the clatter of glass; something has been smashed. ‘Nick and Gilly support me . . .’
‘They’re children! It’s difficult for them to understand,’ he shouts. ‘Beth, please,’ he says more calmly, ‘think about it. You’re giving them false hope, it’s not fair.’
‘No. We have to find the money and if you won’t help me, I’ll do it on my own.’
The door slams.
Nick says that when he grows up he’s going to make lots of money so he can move away, as far away as possible, and forget all about Mum and Dad. ‘They’re always shouting! I hate them,’ he says darkly.
He promises to take me with him. Under the duvet, we lock hands and promise to be best friends forever.
20
‘You’re doing what?’ Mari says, as we both do a quick scan of the shop to make sure it’s looking ready for Blaize’s arrival. She told me that Blaize had once knocked into one of her lanterns in the basement, and then cursed loudly because he’d scratched one of his new crocodileskin boots.
‘Taking Guy shopping,’ I repeat.
‘Just the two of you?’
‘Uh-huh.’
Mari is unable to keep it in. ‘Gilly, do you fancy Guy?’
‘No! God, no,’ I add.
‘I don’t blame you,’ she confides, as if I’ve said yes. ‘He’s funny and good-looking, in an unconventional way.’
‘I don’t. Anyway, he’s engaged,’ I remind her.
‘I know, but you can still fancy the man. I’ve just noticed there’s this nice chemistry between you. You two connect. I do wonder about his girlfriend too.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, why would she disappear off the face of the earth the moment he proposes?’
‘Everyone’s different, Mari. You didn’t even live with your husband.’
‘That’s why it worked so well, my darling. The moment Percy moved into my apartment . . . curtains,’ she says.
‘I don’t go for men in hats, Mari.’
‘Fine, I believe you,’ she smiles.
No. He’s not my type at all.
I really don’t fancy him.
I find myself smiling.
When Blaize Hunter King enters the shop, dressed in a pristine white shirt, tailored trousers, leather boots and his dark hair slicked back with gel, I nearly drop the French rococo lamp base on the floor. Mari and Blaize’s dramatic air kiss is promptly interrupted by about four of his mobile telephones ringing at the same time.
He takes out the first, flicks the lid open dramatically. ‘Oh, Madonna, darling, can I put you on hold . . .’ He searches for the next phone.
‘Madonna?’ I repeat. ‘He’s putting Madonna on hold?’
Mari tells me to stop looking so shocked. ‘This is Blaize Hunter King, one of the best-known interior designers to the stars,’ she reinforces proudly again, ‘and he does what the hell he likes.’
When she introduces me as her new assistant I almost curtsy as I say, ‘How do you do?’
‘Very cute,’ he says, eyeing me up and down in my black dress, my hair swept up with a gold clip.
Soon Blaize has both Mari and I taking off our shoes and clambering over piles of stock to reach the perfect verdigris lantern for Madonna’s home in New York. Mari is clever the way she knows exactly what light would look good in a certain setting. ‘No, Gilly, not that one, the other one!’ she orders me. I laugh, saying it’s like a game of Twister in here.
‘Oh, Mari, it’s divine,’ Blaize sighs, before pointing to one of the chandeliers in the window. ‘Madge would love that. How much?’
‘Five and a half thousand,’ I say, adrenalin flowing.
‘A steal! Take a picture, will you,’ he demands, clicking his fingers at me. Mari warned me he’d do this, so I am ready with the camera.
Two hours and fifty pictures later, I am exhausted. I’ve been on my hands and knees in the basement searching for the right rustic lantern to go in Madonna’s French chateau, up ladders to unhook mirrors for Pierce Brosnan’s place in Aspen, and rushing into our local deli to buy Mari espressos and Blaize organic detox juices. I completely forget Guy is meeting me here until the doorbell tinkles and he enters the shop. ‘Mari, darling, how much do I owe?’ Blaize asks, brandishing his American Express card in one hand.
‘Guy! Come and meet Blaize,’ I say breathlessly, brushing the dust off my dress. I catch Guy looking around the shop in awe, with precious objects teetering on tables and shelves, an accident waiting to happen. Blaize has bought four lanterns, two lamp bases, one mirror and the chandelier in the window.
‘Surely Mari can give me a small bonus?’ I whisper to Guy as we head off to the shops.
Our search to find a suit for his sister Rachel’s wedding begins along the Fulham Road. Rachel is getting married in a fortnight and she has instructed him that he has to look traditional, so I decide to take him to Ed’s favourite shop, run by a stylish balding man called Adrian. Ed used to compare Adrian’s head to
a shiny white snooker ball. It’s a small, intimate shop that sells beautifully tailored suits, shirts and silk ties, right down to designer boxer shorts and cufflinks. I buy my father the same maroon cashmere socks every year for Christmas. Maybe I’ll buy him a different colour next time.
‘Gilly, come in.’ Adrian welcomes me as if I were a long-lost friend, before assessing this new man beside me, so different from Ed.
He then asks if we need his help, so I tell him to make Guy look fit for his sister’s wedding.
‘You, my friend, shall go to the ball,’ Adrian says to Guy with a dazzling smile, his gold tooth shining.
Adrian presses different-coloured shirts against Guy’s chest and I enjoy telling Guy what does and doesn’t suit him, though he remains deathly quiet, as if he’s in a torture cell.
As I hunt through the rails of clothes, Adrian taps me on the shoulder. ‘I was very sorry to hear about Edward,’ he says.
‘Thanks.’ I touch his shoulder affectionately. ‘How did you know?’
‘News travels fast. Really, Gilly, the swine. She’s not a patch on you,’ he adds before whispering, ‘I like your new man. Good on you, girl.’
‘Oh, Adrian, he’s just a friend,’ I whisper.
‘That’s what they always say!’
‘Do you ever see him?’ I can’t help asking.
‘Um.’ He purses his lips. ‘He was in the other day, but let’s just say, after what he did to you, sweetheart, I’m very cross with him!’
I select an electric-blue coloured shirt and for the finishing touches I approach Guy with a silk spotted tie, though he looks at me as if I were about to feed him a cockroach. ‘Come on, this won’t hurt,’ I assure him as I lift up his shirt collar. ‘Why do you hate dressing up so much? What are you going to wear at your own wedding?’
‘Don’t know. We want to keep it low key.’
‘That’s a surprise.’ I smile as I confide to Guy that everyone has hang-ups. I have an aversion to marquees and tights. Marquees make me feel giddy; tights make me feel itchy. ‘I hated the thick woolly ones I had to wear at school.’
Finally Guy relaxes, telling me I’m a professional when it comes to putting on ties.
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