‘We ordered before you got here,’ Jassy said unnecessarily, ‘the sharing bowls are supposed to be really good. The others are late; they’re always late. They can order when they get here. I’m not supposed to let my blood sugar drop.’
Knowing my sister I’d bet her blood sugar hasn’t dropped significantly since 1986.
I sat watching as the waiter unloaded two portions of cheesy fries, battered calamari rings, some deep-fried Brie segments and breaded mushrooms. I’d be lucky if I got out without splitting my trousers.
‘Bermondsey then? That’s supposed to be the next big thing,’ Keira said, returning to the subject of my impending homelessness after a few minutes. ‘You ought to ask Patsy when she gets here. She’ll know.’
Patsy was the self-appointed property expert in the Gang as she had a fiancé who worked for some high-end agency in Mayfair selling car parking spaces and dilapidated mews cottages to Russian oligarchs. She had recently taken an internship with Vogue and had spent her entire life within spitting distance of Harvey Nicks, so I thought I’d ignore this gem.
Keira then leapt up and wandered around looking for mayonnaise and ketchup and then came back to hoover up half of the calamari with gusto. I watched her as she sat in her tiny child-sized jeans and T-shirt. Perhaps she had tapeworms?
I nibbled at a breaded mushroom while Keira inhaled most of the cheesy fries and showed us photos on her phone of the flowers and the table settings. I felt a sudden plunge of depression; it was too much. So was sitting surrounded by twig women, listening to the sly little digs about me as the message got round the table about my dress not fitting. They’d pretended to be horrified but let’s be honest they were thrilled. They were those sorts of friends. The discussion started to take off before it was halted rather dramatically when Jassy stepped in, calling them unkind and nasty-minded. She then embellished the apology Birgitte had given, clutched at her bump and effectively stopped everyone in their tracks.
*
I got back to my flat and slumped onto the sofa, absolutely whacked. I sat for a moment by the open window, listening to the rumble of the traffic out in the street. In all the time I’d lived in London I’d got used to it; now I wasn’t. I wanted peace, tranquillity, the occasional hoot of an owl or the noise of sheep being moved from one field to another. Perhaps I was turning into a mad recluse? I would end up living in a croft in the Outer Hebrides wrapped in a tartan shawl, writing under an oil lamp with only an old dog for company. No, I couldn’t do that, the internet would be even worse than in Devon.
Devon.
I sat and thought about it for a while and longed to be back there. Why did I feel this way? Was it Joe? Did I just want Joe? Was I confusing my desire to be back in Barracane House with my lustful urges towards Joe? Would I want to be there if he had been old and bad-tempered and toothless?
But he wasn’t. He was kind, and thoughtful and bloody marvellous in bed. I really liked him. And he seemed to like me. He made me feel comfortable with myself, and happy. Really happy in a way no one ever had before.
I wondered if he had met up with Ellie and if he had, what they were doing.
Anyway as far my housing needs were concerned I knew exactly where I wanted to go; I just didn’t dare actually say it out loud. Not even to myself. I wanted to go somewhere so out of everyone’s comfort zone that I was surprised at myself. And I had a sudden yen to keep chickens. I could almost imagine myself going out to feed them kitchen scraps and handfuls of corn. Or whatever it was they ate. Chickens?? Perhaps I was having a midlife crisis?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I lurked in my flat for the next few weeks while Scheherazade’s parents bullied both sets of solicitors and tried to bulldoze the sale through.
Birgitte managed to do something miraculous with my bridesmaid’s dress that didn’t involve a length of elastic and two bulldog clips and the actual event was great fun.
Three days after Keira’s wedding my solicitors did something to justify their outrageous fees and exchanged contracts. I assumed they would then all be booking onto the Queen Mary 2 for a world cruise on the proceeds. Apparently Mr and Mrs Ramsey’s daughter was keen to move straight in when she returned at the end of July from doing good works in Mozambique, so she could start her new job selling overpriced and badly made clothes to impressionable people.
Meanwhile Jassy was making the most of her pregnancy, thinking up new and unexpected food cravings to keep Ralphie on his toes. She started with processed cheese slices and moved swiftly on to éclairs from Patisserie Valerie, asparagus wrapped in Parma ham and then toothpaste straight from the tube. She seemed to spend most of the day in bed, typing and then deleting everything she’d written. She claimed to have something called ‘baby brain’. Considering she was only four months pregnant I did worry about what state she would be in by the time the baby arrived in November.
Ralphie went off to India to do some more cricket coverage and while he was there managed to be photographed with a pneumatic redhead, which didn’t improve Jassy’s humour one bit.
And I thought about Joe.
I pushed on with my new plot about the teacher and the muscle-bound builder, adding some awful accidents for Dastardly Don the deputy head involving falling into a ditch, being splattered with creosote and knocked over by a roll of insulation. I would have to see if Mr Tumble was available if it was ever made into a film.
Then, at the beginning of August – my birthday month – I prepared to move out so that little Scheherazade could move in. I’d sorted out most of my stuff apart from the few odds and ends Benedict had left behind, which I sent round to his chambers. I didn’t receive a reply. Perhaps he had got used to the axolotls or moved in with Tess or Milly or some other poor sap.
I’d agreed to sell Scheherazade most of the flat contents including the ginormous fridge freezer that she was unreasonably thrilled with. She was planning to fill it with ‘bubbly and scrummy things’ as she’d put it in her email. When I found out she was only twenty-two I felt curiously depressed.
Where had all that time gone then? Did I have anything to show for it apart from nineteen books, some beautiful designer clothes I couldn’t fit into, an impressive shoe collection I never wore and a load of expensive furniture I didn’t have room for? No significant other, no children, no firm grasp on the future either. Bugger.
And now I had to really start looking for somewhere to live. Christy Church lost interest in me once the sale of the flat was in hand. I suppose I could have gone back to her with my buyer’s hat on but I knew I wouldn’t.
*
Two weeks before my birthday I had a call out of the blue from Sally. She’d seemed to have lost interest in me too actually, now the Trust Fund Twins were splattered all over the gossip columns and magazines in various stages of undress.
One of them had snared a premier league footballer and was now writing a weekly column called Waggy Tales! for some redtop rag and then appeared in OK! in little more than a Chelsea scarf. The other was spending most of her time at Hurlingham watching her boyfriend thrash polo ponies round a field. She’d been photographed treading in the divots in a pair of Jimmy Choos and a skirt that showed her knickers. It was all very disheartening.
There always seemed to be a selfie of them somewhere in the media, pouting and gurning in the accepted way. I tried copying them once, pushing my mouth out into a trout pout and widening my eyes. I looked like someone had shoved a firework up my bottom.
‘Lulu? Sorry to have been neglecting you. How’s life?’ Sally said after a preliminary bout of coughing that suggested she hadn’t given up smoking yet.
‘Oh you know, fine,’ I said.
‘You don’t sound fine, you sound like you are in the Slough of Despond.’
Slough. Perhaps I would have to go and live in Slough?
‘I’m moving out soon.’
‘That’s interesting …’
‘Well, remember, I turfed Benedict out and put the flat on
the market. I was told it would take no time at all but in fact … well never mind. A child called Scheherazade is moving in so she can walk to work at some boutique.’
‘Oh yes. Well lucky her!’
‘Yes.’
‘Where are you thinking of going?’
‘I have absolutely no idea.’
There was a moment’s silence while Sally cleared her throat a couple of times and made cigarette-lighting-up noises.
‘Look. I’m going to come straight to the point. No good beating around the bush. I don’t suppose you want to buy Barracane House do you?’ she said very rapidly in a tone expecting the answer would be no.
I caught my breath, my thoughts wheeling. ‘You’re selling?’
‘Well you seem so keen on the place. I told you ages ago I was thinking of selling. Enid was singularly unimpressed with her last visit, especially with the sheep poo incident and the lack of internet and Sky TV. Henry thinks we should buy somewhere in the Dordogne. I told him that’s probably further than Devon but he—’
‘Yes!’ I yelped.
‘Yes what? The Dordogne is further than Devon?’
‘No. I mean yes, I would like to buy Barracane House.’
As I said it I felt a shiver of excitement, mixed with apprehension. I wanted this. I wanted to move to Devon. I felt right there. I was going to take a leap of faith.
Sally’s tone brightened. ‘Goodness me, I was afraid you would have had enough of rural life. How is the book coming along by the way?’
‘Fantastic!’ I said. Perhaps I was being a bit ingenuous on that point. All I could think of was putting this plan into action.
‘Well that’s good to hear. Look, are you really interested in buying Barracane? If you want to make me an offer for the contents too you would be doing me a favour. I quite fancy buying a longère near Roscoff. I can go around all the gorgeous little brocante places in France. All those quirky little markets where they sell Louis Quinze chaise longues and painted chairs for a song. You don’t have to say yes, you know. Henry was going to go into Knight Frank tomorrow to sound them out. I expect they’ll snap his hand off.’
I took a deep breath. This. This was the moment when I would take control and do something for me.
‘I want to buy it. As soon as possible.’
‘Well, okay then. I suppose we’d better get in touch with our solicitor. And as far as I’m concerned you can move in any time. After all I’ll know where you’re living.’
‘That would be wonderful. Please do.’
‘So when do you think this new book will be ready for me?’
‘The sooner I get back down there the sooner I will finish,’ I said.
Sally snorted. ‘She said temptingly. Leave it with me and I’ll have a word with Henry. He will be pleased, and of course we save estate agents’ fees. And Enid will be thrilled. She might even learn some French. She’ll be able to invite her friends over to stay in France in a few years. If she’s got any left by then of course. I’ll be in touch.’
She rang off and I sat looking sightlessly out of the window. Not seeing the sullen grey clouds over London. Not hearing the muffled traffic noises down below in the street. At last, like the sudden release of floodwater from behind a dam, I allowed myself to think of Joe and everything that he represented to me. I imagined the cerulean skies of Devon above picture-book countryside and heard the wind breathing soft summer zephyrs across the garden of Barracane House.
It wouldn’t be like that of course. I knew it wouldn’t. I’m not completely daft.
*
Two weeks later I was sitting on the floor packing the last of my books and DVDs into plastic boxes. Folding my huge collection of scarves. Sorting out my clothes into piles marked yes, no, chuck. There seemed to be a lot in the last two piles. Perhaps I would have to rethink my wardrobe. I would need thick jumpers, moleskin trousers (not made out of real moles obvs) and fleece-lined coats. Tweed.
The flat looked smaller now. Sort of different and uninteresting. All of our history there had been expunged. I expected Scheherazade would soon sort that out with posters of Harry Styles or Kurt Cobain or whoever was in vogue at the moment. There were a few scuff marks where the sofa was pushed back against the wall and some ghostly squares where pictures had been taken down. Still Scheherazade was planning to have the whole place decorated before she actually moved in so it didn’t really matter.
My removal company was going to arrive early the following day and intended to deliver to Barracane House that afternoon. Not that there was much to move now I’d unloaded most of the furniture on to my buyer.
It would also be my fortieth birthday. I’d already received flowers and presents from friends at a farewell dinner where Maudie cried as though she was never going to see me again. Jassy had presented me with a gorgeous cream handbag that would be the last word in impracticality for life in the country and Sally had given me a joke present of a book on chicken husbandry. Why wasn’t it called chicken wifery?
I was about to start a new life in a new home in a new county. That had to be exciting and significant. I was suddenly bucked by an interesting thought. If I lived to be eighty it was quite possible I would spend the second half of my life in thorn-proof tweed, waxed jackets and boots. I would change my car for a four by four thing so I could negotiate the mud and see over hedges.
I hadn’t read the book on chickens but I’d leafed through the pictures and it looked pretty straightforward. Chickens came in all sorts of shapes and sizes, some more attractive than others. Some even seemed to be wearing feather bobble hats and legwarmers. Once I was settled I would buy some chickens as a birthday present to myself and a cool chicken hutch or shed thing or whatever they were called. Brilliant. I could imagine myself picking warm, new-laid eggs out of their nests and wandering around with an enamel bowl of grain and scraps while the chickens scurried around my feet looking up at me.
The removal men arrived before seven o’clock, smart in matching yellow polo shirts, and they made short work of my belongings. They stored everything down the far end of their van, lassoing it to the walls with thick straps, and then they perched on the wall outside, smoking and drinking tea out of Thermos flasks. Half an hour later we were on the way.
The roads stretched ahead of us, busy with people coming into London while I was heading the other way. As we crossed under the M25 a final horrible chill of doubt shot through me. Was I doing the right thing? Was this a ghastly mistake? Was I just pinning all my hopes on a dream? And where did I stand with Joe? I hadn’t seen or heard from him for a long time. What if he’d met someone else in the meantime, or Ellie had managed to persuade him she was the right one for him?
I shook my head. It was far too late now. I put on some very loud music to blast the negative thoughts out of my head; there’s nothing quite like Steppenwolf and ZZ Top to get the blood racing.
Devon was playing ball for once. We crossed the county border sign and I gave a little cheer, raising my hands off the steering wheel. In front of us the day was simply glorious with a bright, cloudless sky and a brilliant sun dipping down towards the bulk of Dartmoor. There was a steady stream of caravans and campervans heading west too. Some with surfboards strapped to the roof.
Most of my doubts allayed, I pressed on down narrower and narrower roads, the yellow bulk of the removal van trundling behind me, its wing mirrors dismissively sweeping the hedges to one side. In my rear-view mirror I could see the three men sitting in the front seats, one reading a paper, the other eating a huge roll and the third hunched over the steering wheel looking very gloomy indeed.
At last we pulled up at Barracane House, and I jangled the front door keys in my hand, excitement mounting. The van driver got down and looked around him with a confused expression.
‘Reminds me of the old joke my dad used to tell about the Hullawi tribe.’ I looked suitably blank so he filled in the punch line. ‘Where the Hullawi. Get it?’
Ah.
Anyway, they took what they called the Treasure Chest into the house: a plastic box containing my kettle, teapot, milk and sugar and four mugs. They waited outside the back door, smoking roll-ups and complaining about their boss while I made the necessary refreshments and opened a packet of Hobnobs, which they fell on with enthusiasm.
Suitably revived they started whipping boxes and bags into the house and within an hour had finished. More tea, more biscuits, a brief consultation of a much-battered and torn book of road maps because their satnav wasn’t working properly and they were off. They had another job the following day, this time moving a couple from Cornwall to London. The family were doing just about the exact opposite to me. I wondered why and how they would get on.
I cleared away the tea things and went out into the garden. The evening sky was tinted with exquisite shades of violet and apricot like expensive silk now the sun was setting and above me the vapour trails of two planes neatly crossed, making an optimistic kiss of welcome.
*
I didn’t do much after that.
Sally had cleared out her things of course, which meant the beautifully stocked kitchen was now empty with none of her exciting gadgets or labelled Kilner jars in the pantry. I had a few bits of crockery and cutlery including the four mugs, a wooden block with some wicked-looking knives and the set of expensive saucepans I had bought two years ago and hardly used. I arranged these with great ceremony in the cupboards and stood back to admire them. Then I unpacked my food stores and put things into the fridge. It all looked a bit pathetic, not like the kitchen I had remembered. But then Sally had confessed to an unquenchable passion for cook shops even though she didn’t use half the things she bought. I’d need to go shopping. Perhaps Exeter?
I messed about for half an hour, plumping up cushions and placing a tartan throw artistically over the back of the big chair by the fire. Then I went upstairs and turned all the lights on, wondering if Joe would see them. Yes, I know – childish.
I don’t think I’d ever felt so happy.
The Mini-Break Page 25