Bookends

by Jane Green

  She’s on a roll, so I let her speak.

  ‘Then,’ she continues, ‘the phone calls start coming in every day. He repeatedly put Caroline down in front of her colleagues.’

  ‘Caroline?’

  ‘My friend who almost had a breakdown because of him. He made her life a misery, and she’s an amazingly strong woman, but he gradually wore her down. That’s what he does. He’s a total misogynist, hates women and hates anyone who threatens him in any way. Caroline wouldn’t take shit from anybody, but after that campaign she wouldn’t say boo to a goose. She became terrified of her phone ringing at home, and actually became ill through stress. I hate the fucker. What on earth was he doing at your flat?’

  ‘He seems to have got involved with a friend of mine,’ I say, not wanting to name names.

  ‘Well, whoever it is, tell him to watch out. He’s a deeply unpleasant character. Two-faced, deceitful and horrifically insecure. Also a compulsive liar. And an enormous snob, which is surprising, really, given that his family haven’t got a pot to piss in, but I suppose that explains it.’

  ‘Er, you like him, then?’

  She sighs. ‘I would tell your friend that he’s not a person to be friends with, let alone have a relationship with.’

  ‘God, Alison. I’m glad I called you. Now I just have to figure out a way to tell him.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure. Forewarned is forearmed, I always say.’

  But how do I tell him? I’ve barely put the phone down when Si calls.

  ‘Well?’ he says. ‘Have you phoned her?’

  ‘Where’s Will?’ I stall for enough time to think of an excuse.

  ‘Gone home,’ he says. ‘I dropped him off on the way back from yours.’

  ‘I phoned her,’ I say. ‘And she’s not there. I left a message, but I’ll call you as soon as I hear from her.’

  ‘Okay.’ His voice is filled with disappointment. ‘I suppose I’ll just have to wait.’ We say goodbye, and I thank God that Si didn’t ask me any more questions about what I thought, whether I might change my mind, whether I thought they would make a good couple.

  I flick through the TV guide to check the evening’s viewing, then put the kettle on before realizing I’ve run out of milk. I head towards the door but turn back, because, typical English summer, there’s now a chill in the evening air, and a T-shirt isn’t enough to keep me warm.

  I walk out to the corner shop, and just as I’ve picked up the milk I hear my name.

  ‘Cath? Hi!’

  I turn around to see James the Estate Agent standing there, beaming at me, and I almost start to laugh. He is wearing exactly what I would have expected him to wear, exactly what I pictured him in the first time we met, except the sweater isn’t chunky and cableknit, but a fine grey lambswool.

  ‘Oh, hi, James. How are you?’ I’m amazed that my voice sounds so normal, because I had forgotten how attractive this man is, how unsettling I find it to be around someone who might make me feel things I didn’t think I could feel any more.

  ‘Fine,’ he says, at which point I sneak a glance at his shopping basket and note that it contains a packet of fresh pasta, one lemon, a packet of Parmesan cheese, one can of Coke and some salad stuff. One can of Coke? Interesting. Not that I’m interested, it’s just that James didn’t strike me as the sort of bloke who would be single, and, unless my powers of deduction have deserted me, I’d say the Coke proves he’s having dinner alone.

  ‘Supper,’ he says, gesturing to the basket with a smile and running his fingers through his hair in what can only be described as a distinctly endearing manner, because even though he doesn’t appear to be shy, something about this gesture says he is, and I like him all the more for it.

  ‘I can see,’ I say, smiling back. ‘I thought all you estate agents would have cupboards full of Marks & Sparks ready-made gourmet food.’

  ‘You’ve forgotten I’m not really an estate agent,’ he grins, resting the basket down on the floor in front of his mountain boots, which, I note, are covered with splashes of multicoloured paint. ‘The struggling artist deep down still feels guilty about spending that much money on food,’ he says with a shrug and an apologetic smile.

  ‘I know Lucy lives locally, but I didn’t know you did as well,’ he continues. ‘Whereabouts are you?’

  ‘St James’s Mansions?’ It comes out with a question mark, but of course James knows exactly where it is.

  ‘I sold a flat there last month, so I know it quite well. You know what’s fantastic about those flats? Most of them still have the original mouldings, and the ceiling heights are fantastic.’

  I start to laugh and James stops abruptly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that you sound so like an estate agent.’

  He groans. ‘Oh God. Thank you for pointing it out. If I ever do it again, a swift sharp kick should shut me up.’

  We stand chatting in the middle of the tiny corner shop, as people squeeze past us, murmuring excuse me, trying to sort out their Sunday night suppers, and I realize that, even though this isn’t exactly a social situation, I’m enjoying myself.

  There’s something incredibly down-to-earth about James. Even if it weren’t for the accent, you would know he wasn’t from London. He doesn’t have that edge, that streetsmart nous, that the other local agents have.

  He looks like he’d be completely at home in a pair of old green wellies on a farm, so it’s no surprise when he admits, during the conversation, that his real home is in fact a farm in Wiltshire.

  After a while James looks at his watch, and I actually feel disappointed that he’s going to leave, because although there are occasions when I love nothing more than curling up on a sofa and slobbing in front of the television, tonight isn’t one of them.

  Si’s obviously not the best person to talk to right now, given that the only subject on which he’s prepared to speak is Will, and Lucy and Josh still aren’t back from their country excursion. I even sat at home earlier this evening, flicking through my phone book, over and over again, desperately trying to find someone I wanted to speak to, but there just wasn’t anyone.

  And yet I’m really quite enjoying this chat with James. He’s interesting and, as I said before, a genuinely nice guy, not to mention frighteningly gorgeous. Did I say that? I can’t have done. Ignore that.

  ‘Do you want to go for a coffee or something?’ James suddenly says, ‘it’s just that it seems crazy to stand here in everyone’s way.’

  ‘Sure,’ I find myself saying. ‘Great.’

  James grins, and we both head to the checkout, where we’re given the evil eye by the bloke behind the counter for blocking his precious aisle for the last fifteen minutes, and we escape outside, laughing.

  ‘La Brioche?’ we both say at exactly the same time, and we head off up West End Lane.

  ‘You know,’ James says, as we walk along, ‘if we’d bumped into one another in six weeks’ time, we’d be going to the bookshop for a coffee.’

  ‘Not at this time,’ I say, pointing at his watch. ‘We’d be closed by seven.’

  ‘But you’ll have events, won’t you? Book readings? Local authors coming in for drinks? Maybe even book clubs?’

  ‘We haven’t really thought in detail about things like that yet, but yes, you’re absolutely right, that’s exactly what we need to be doing.’

  ‘Word’s got round, you know,’ James says, holding the door of the café open for me. ‘A lot of the local shopkeepers know what the building’s being used for, God knows how.’

  ‘And what’s the reaction?’

  James shrugs. ‘Most people think it’s a brilliant idea, but there are always a few who put a dampener on things. Really they’re the people who have been trying to get hold of that building for years, and I think they’re just pissed off that they never got a shot at it.’

  ‘I can kind of understand that,’ I muse. ‘It is a great building.’

  ‘So how is Lucy? Oh.’ The wai
tress is standing by the table, waiting to take our order. James looks at me. ‘Cappuccino?’

  I nod. ‘Incredibly excited but also pretty apprehensive. Jesus, even I’m apprehensive. I don’t seem to have slept for weeks. Look at these bags,’ I laugh, lowering my head to show off the shadows, but James shakes his head as if he can’t see anything.

  ‘You look fine,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t, but thanks. All I’ve been doing is lying in bed planning the colour of the walls, going through the sanding of the floorboards. All night every night I’ve basically redecorated the shop from top to bottom. I wake up every morning feeling like I’ve done a hard day’s work!’

  ‘Or had a hard day’s night,’ he smiles. ‘No wonder you’re exhausted.’

  I laugh before continuing: ‘Exhausted but happy. It was the best thing I’ve ever done, handing in my notice. Even if it doesn’t work, although God knows I hope it does, I’ll never be able to look back and regret not having done it.’

  James’s face lights up. ‘I know exactly what you mean. I’ve always thought that the one thing I would hate most in life would be to reach the age of seventy, look back over my life, and think if only.

  ‘We have to fulfil our dreams, and I think you’re incredibly lucky having a dream in the first place, and then being able to fulfil it.’

  ‘So if your dream is to be an artist,’ I say, trying to steer the conversation away from me, ‘how come you’re still an estate agent at the ripe old age of… how old are you anyway?’

  James laughs. ‘Thirty-six.’ I practically fall off the chair. ‘I know, I know.’ He rolls his eyes and tries not to look exasperated as he says what he must say to everyone who accuses him of the same thing: ‘I look ten years younger,’ and then he laughs. ‘But I’ve got it all worked out. Why do you think I’m not spending fortunes at M & S? I’m stashing every penny away so that when I’m forty I can chuck it all in and spend the rest of my days painting.’

  I’m impressed. Impressed by his passion and commitment. By his ability to set out a plan that will actually work for him. By his confidence in everything turning out fine.

  ‘I’d love to see your work,’ I say.

  ‘Would you really?’ Suddenly he seems shy.

  ‘I really would. I’m assuming you still paint.’

  ‘God, all the time. My only extravagance these last few years has been the studio, because I couldn’t live without my painting.’

  How extravagant can a studio be? I know what his studio must be like. A tiny room splattered in paint and covered with canvases, smelling of turpentine and linseed oil; an easel propped up in the middle of the room, old coffee cups gathering mould, planted around like traffic cones.

  I can see it all now, but actually I would like to see it. I’m sort of fascinated by this estate agent with an artistic side. I know very little about art, but I’d like to know whether his dream is a viable one, whether he has the talent to make it, although it doesn’t sound like he cares, he just wants to pursue his passion.

  ‘Why don’t you come over some time? Maybe you’ll even persuade me to cook.’ He smiles, then looks slightly worried. ‘Only if you want to. You’re probably very busy.’

  You know, if those words came from anyone else, I’d think I was being asked out on a date, but I know, quite categorically, that this isn’t the case. I am definitely not his type. Which is quite a relief, really, because at least it means I don’t have to worry about anything. He’s just an interesting man with an interesting hobby. And I did say I wanted to meet some new people…

  Chapter nine

  ‘I can’t wait to start decorating,’ Lucy groans eagerly, stepping into her professional painters’ dungarees, while George the carpenter looks at her as if she’s gone completely mad.

  ‘You’re not going to do it, are you, love?’ he says. ‘You’ll have to get some men in to do that. This is a huge job. Too much for you ladies.’

  This immediately gets my goat, even though I know it’s only George being George, but nevertheless I speak up on Lucy’s behalf, telling them that they’re talking nonsense, and ladies such as ourselves would do a far better job than some big oafish blokes.

  Sam the Spark – as we’ve come to know the electrician – smiles to himself without saying anything, as Lucy and I walk round inspecting their work.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Lucy says, stroking a single kitchen unit that is currently sitting in the middle of the café area. ‘Don’t you think it’s bizarre? How you left your job in the middle of June, when this place looked like nothing, and now, nearly two months later, it’s almost finished and you can see exactly how wonderful it’s going to be?’

  We look around, at the low-halogen spotlights that instantly bring the appearance of bright daylight into the room, at the sleek modern counter in the centre, solid maple with glossy granite surfaces, from behind which Lucy will reign as queen of the cakes.

  And now it’s almost done. The kitchen’s almost installed, the wiring’s done, the shelves have been sanded down and re-stained, and, as soon as the decorating’s finished, the floor will go down. It’s almost D-Day.

  And it’s only now that everyone can start to enjoy it. Because it’s been hell. Everyone said it would be, but Lucy and I thought we knew better. The first set of builders we had turned up at seven o’clock every morning, on the dot, which we thought was pretty damn amazing. Until we realized that they were stopping for tea breaks every fifteen minutes, and that at lunchtime they were off for the rest of the day.

  We tried to give them the benefit of the doubt. The pair of us started turning up every morning, always with a reason, but actually just to chivvy them along, to see if we could get them working. And that was the extraordinary thing, Lucy kept saying afterwards, amid much laughter and disbelief. There we were, their employers, and yet still, every fifteen minutes, the foreman would announce that they should down tools because it was time for tea. Did they think we were stupid, she asked in amazement, eyes wide. Well, yes, actually, they probably did, and quite frankly I’m not surprised. We were both so shocked that they had the audacity to do this when we were standing right there, that neither of us said anything.

  But then Lucy found George. She’d asked his advice in Homebase, thinking that he looked like a man who knew what he was talking about. George not only turned out to be a fantastic chippy, he also had a team of people who worked with him, all of them reliable, hard-working and nice.

  In short, George was a godsend – despite being the sort of man who believes that men are the hunters, and their primary job in life is to protect women, who should, incidentally, be feminine, giggly and completely hopeless at anything other than cooking, sewing and bringing up children.

  George, naturally, adored Lucy, and, though he seemed to be slightly wary of me at first, he warmed up pretty quickly after I found myself succumbing to the helpless female act, because, stupid as this may sound, it was just easier and it meant he’d get the job done.

  But Christ, did it get results. I have never met a harder worker than George. Lucy literally had to force him to stop for coffee by bringing in huge slabs of cake and delicious sandwiches every day, trying to tempt him to take a break.

  ‘I’ll just have a bite now,’ he’d say, carefully unwrapping it so as not to tear the tinfoil, ‘and I’ll save the rest for later.’

  ‘Lucy, you put my missus to shame, you do,’ he’d say, when he finished the mouthful, while Lucy briskly said he was talking nonsense, and she was sure that Mrs George was a wonderful cook.

  And how do I feel about all this? I feel as if I’m walking around with constant butterflies in my stomach. I still can’t quite believe that it’s actually happening, and if anything I’m even more nervous now than when I left my job, but Lucy’s so reassuring, so calming, that I try to push the negative thoughts out of my head when they appear.

  So today is the first D-Day, as Lucy put it. In other words, decorating day. Josh is turning up la
ter, and even Si has invested in some decorators’ overalls to help out, but for now it’s just Lucy and I.

  We wait until George and Sam have packed up and headed off to the pub for a well-earned drink, before tugging off the lids of the paint pots and starting to paint.

  We work in silence for a while. Select FM is keeping us company, even though I’m tempted not to listen any more due to the ghastly Will, who seems to have slightly come between Si and I, if only by virtue of the fact that Si seems to spend all his time with Will.

  I do feel incredibly selfish, disliking Will as much as I do, because surely I should be thrilled that Si has finally found someone, but I can’t shake the feeling that Will is going to hurt Si – particularly after that conversation with Alison – and he just deserves to find someone so much better. Luckily Si seems to have forgotten that I was going to get the dirt on Will from Alison, and I figure that as I’ve now got away with it for a month, the chances are I’ll get away with it for good.

  After an hour my arm starts killing me. Lucy on the other hand seems to be thriving, and one wall’s almost done, so I keep my moans to myself, figuring that I’m not going to be the first to crack.

  Two hours later I climb off the stepladder and stretch, grinning as Lucy does the same thing.

  ‘Cath?’ Lucy says, leaning her head on my shoulder. ‘Whose blasted idea was this?’

  I start laughing. ‘Thank Christ,’ I say. ‘I thought I was the only one thinking this is a bloody nightmare.’

  ‘It’s not quite a nightmare,’ she sighs, ‘but it’s not half as much fun as it looks on the box.’

  ‘On the box?’

  ‘You know, all those adverts where young couples smile adoringly at one another while they’re decorating the nursery.’ Then Lucy starts to laugh. ‘Tell me I don’t look as bad as you.’

  ‘What? What’s wrong with the way I look?’

  ‘Go and look in the mirror.’ Lucy sternly orders me to the tiny loo off the stock room. I look like a slightly less soigné version of Cruella de Vil. In other words, my brown hair now has a sunshine yellow streak running along one side, about four inches thick. My face is splattered with tiny blobs of yellow paint, and there are smears of yellow on my forehead where I’ve obviously got some on my fingers, and without realizing have pushed my hair back.