by Maeve Haran
Laura shook her head. She did hope the business wasn’t in trouble. They’d worked so hard establishing it.
‘It’s Mrs Lal,’ announced Mr A in the tone of a funeral director.
‘What’s happened?’ demanded Laura anxiously.
‘She has decided to stay in the UK.’ He reached out a hand to Mrs A. It struck Laura that she’d never seen them touch before. ‘Permanently.’
In the taxi on the way back to New Grey Sal had to struggle to keep herself from breaking down. She’d been through so much: the cancer, the fear of growing old alone and in poverty, and then Rose had rescued her with the offer of the job editing the magazine. Now that would finish.
She wondered for a mad moment if Lou might take over the magazine. After all, he owned part of the company. But reality bit with all the instant terror of her submerged fears. She’d only known Lou Maynard for a few weeks. They got on like old friends and their lovemaking had made them both feel young again. But what did she really know about him? He had ex-wives and grandchildren in the US, a flourishing business in Brooklyn. His roots were there, not here.
Sal, who had spent her whole life distrusting men, had finally trusted one and maybe it would turn out to be the biggest mistake of her life.
Now she would have to deal with the collective worry of everyone who worked on the magazine just when she would have liked to collapse quietly. With the mania for open-plan she didn’t even have an office of her own. Rose had suggested she break the news to everyone as gently as she could, not be dishonest but try and persuade people to wait until Rose’s nephew arrived and things became clearer. For now, they should try and keep things as normal as possible.
Sal pushed open the swing doors into the magazine and could instantly sense the tension hanging in the air. No one had gone to lunch. Instead they hung about in hushed little groups.
‘How is Rose?’ demanded the receptionist instantly.
‘Very weak,’ Sal replied in a serious tone. ‘But also very much still with us. Could you get everyone to come to Rose’s office in an hour and I’ll give you all an update.’
Suddenly she wished that Lou was coming earlier. She could do with his reassurance and his lightbulb energy. Stop it, Sal, she told herself firmly, you’ve never depended on a man yet. Don’t start now.
Just walking into Rose’s office made Sal want to cry. It was so completely like Rose herself: individual, unconventional and yet somehow remarkably cosy. She sat behind the vast mahogany desk and thought about what she was going to say.
By the time the staff, from the receptionist to the writers, commissioning editors and salespeople, all looking universally glum, had trooped in she had it clear in her mind.
‘The first and most important thing to tell you is that Rose is going to survive.’
There was a palpable release of tension, like the slackening of a rubber band.
Everyone liked and admired Rose. Now the not so good bit.
‘Unfortunately, Rose has been told work will now be out of the question because of her age. But she does have a nephew who is a successful businessman and he is coming to take over the reins of the business.’ She didn’t have to tell them he’d probably sell it. After all, maybe he wouldn’t. ‘Rose says the best thing we can do to aid her recovery is to keep calm and carry on.’
There was a ripple of laughter as they could all imagine Rose saying this herself.
‘So, thanks, everyone. And back to work.’
They all filed out, murmuring to each other. It was barely ten minutes till reception buzzed her to announce that Lou was here.
She was already standing up by the time he arrived and shut the door firmly behind him.
‘How are you?’ was his first question as he came straight towards her with his arms wide open. Even though she was taller than he was, Sal sank gratefully into his comforting embrace.
‘Well, first, overwhelmingly relieved that Rose is recovering. Second, pretty crap because she intends to get her nephew to sell. Obviously I haven’t told the troops that.’
He perched on the side of Rose’s desk. ‘No.’ There was a pause when he took one of Sal’s hands. ‘Now don’t worry, it’ll all work out in the end. One small bit of good news. Well, I hope you think it’s good news . . .’
Sal’s heart surged. Maybe, like she’d imagined earlier, he was going to say he was considering taking over the company himself.
‘I just got your friend’s business plan about her retirement idea and I’ve decided to make an investment. Nothing major but I’d like to see how the whole thing pans out.’ He produced his dazzling smile and blazed her with it. ‘Who knows, maybe I’d like to live there myself one day?’
As soon as she’d finished her shift Laura called Ella in a panic. ‘Ella, it’s about the flat we saw. As long as the survey’s okay, my buyers want to complete as soon as they can!’
‘But isn’t that a good thing if you really want that flat we saw? They were keen to sell quickly too.’
‘I’d like to go round to the agent first thing tomorrow and make sure I’m really going to get it. Will you come with me?’
‘Can’t you just ring them?’ Ella had been planning to finally plant her front border.
‘I always think going in is better. They put a name to a face and care more.’
‘Estate agents,’ laughed Ella. ‘Of course I’ll come. What time do they open?’
‘Nine o’clock. I’ve just googled them. Is that okay for you?’
When Laura had rung off, Ella wrote herself a Post-it note and stuck it on the kitchen counter to remind herself. Then she took a step back and stared at it. When had she started having to do that? People with dementia did that.
Ella sat down heavily on the arm of the sofa. The truth was, she was concerned about her memory lapses. Look at how she’d let Harry drive her car uninsured, completely forgetting he wasn’t covered. And she was forever forgetting people’s names, the routes from A to B, even really familiar ones. And there had been those really scary moments when she’d sat in the car and – just for a split second – not known what to do.
She should either see her GP or do one of those online memory tests. Just imagine if Julia got wind of it. She’d be all over Ella like the measles, telling her what to do, taking over her life. It didn’t bear thinking about.
So not thinking about it was exactly what Ella would do. She headed for the fridge to pour a glass of wine and paused. White wine was probably part of the problem. Oh, sod it. She’d rather have a glass of wine and be forgetful.
After he’d dropped his bombshell Lou left Sal at the office while he dropped in to see Rose in hospital. She was grateful to have had the time alone with him. She’d hidden it from Lou but she was actually terrified about the future. The months alone in her flat came back to haunt her, when she’d applied for every job that seemed even vaguely possible and been rejected by all of them.
Except at New Grey when wonderful Rose McGill had ignored her age and recognized her talent. It had seemed like a miracle at the time. And now, just when things were going so well, it was all going to collapse. And instead of increasing his investment in the business to try and keep it going, Lou was going to put money into Claudia’s stupid retirement scheme!
And the thing was, Lou was shrewd. He wasn’t some amateur investor who put money into any old scheme as if it were the 3.40 at Cheltenham. He knew what he was doing.
Sal realized, in the back of her mind, she’d had a secret fantasy. Without even admitting it to herself she’d dreamed he might suggest she come back to Brooklyn with him, that they might have a more permanent future.
How ridiculous. She was a one-breasted sixty-six-year-old, no matter how chic and sassy, and the odds were wildly stacked against her. Lou might be older than her but the Darwinian rules of dating decreed that he could pick any woman from thirty to fifty. What was that statistic she’d read the other day? More than forty per cent of women over fifty-five in the UK lived
alone. Could that be true? She couldn’t remember where she’d seen it. If it was true, it wasn’t simply that older women were more likely to be killed by a terrorist than find a man, as wonderful Nora Ephron had quoted; they were more likely to be a terrorist than find a man!
Sal shook herself. She must stop thinking like this. She was strong. She was brave. She had fought off cancer. Instead of all this negative thinking she should go home and make the flat welcoming before Lou arrived.
Sal’s shoulders sagged. The trouble was, she didn’t feel strong and brave today. But maybe with Lou’s comforting bear hug, she would remember she was Sally Grainger, brave and bold editor of New Grey.
But for how long?
Eleven
Ella bought a cappuccino and waited for Laura in the cafe opposite the estate agent’s. Five minutes later Laura emerged from the tube station and started walking towards her, looking ludicrously young and pretty in one of her pastel cardis, her make-up perfect as usual.
Over the years Ella had sometimes suspected that either Laura slept in her make-up or got up an hour early to apply it.
Ella waved. ‘Right, are you ready to charm the socks off the agent?’
‘Not if they’re anything like Stu the Scumbag who’s selling our house,’ Laura replied. ‘But I suppose they can’t all be as horrible as he is.’
Ella pushed the door open for her and Laura went in.
‘Hello,’ she announced. ‘My name’s Laura Minchin. I’ve made an offer on 22 Rydale Road. The sale on my existing house is probably going through much quicker than expected, but we haven’t heard back from your vendor yet and I’d really like to get a survey done as soon as possible, ideally in the next day or two.’
The agent, a young girl in what struck Ella as a really rather unsuitable mini-dress, put down her toffee muffin and licked her fingers, suddenly taking on the appearance of a hunted deer.
‘Er,’ she began, glancing over at the manager who was busily ignoring her and leaving her to her fate. ‘The thing is . . .’
Ella didn’t like the sound of this at all.
‘The thing is . . . ?’
‘Well, er . . .’
‘Well, er, what?’
‘I’m afraid the vendor has accepted a higher offer,’ she blurted finally.
‘And you didn’t have the goodness to let us know in case we might like to amend ours?’ demanded Ella, seeing the devastated expression on Laura’s face.
‘It all happened very quickly yesterday. And they were cash buyers,’ she added limply.
‘Is it definite?’ Laura insisted.
‘They’re doing the survey now. I suppose they might find something awful . . .’ The girl’s voice trailed off.
‘Bloody estate agents!’ Ella muttered. ‘The whole system’s fixed anyway.’
‘We do have this nice flat in Hounslow,’ the girl suggested, starting to click on her screen.
‘My friend doesn’t want to live in Hounslow!’ snapped Ella, feeling guilty that she hadn’t advised Laura to have some back-up options.
‘Oh God,’ Laura announced as they trailed out. ‘You know what this means? Those pushy lawyers want me to move out in a month and I have absolutely nowhere to go. And if I delay, Simon will say I’m just trying to block the move.’
‘If I were you,’ Ella insisted angrily, wishing Laura could be a bit more feisty, ‘I’d try telling Simon to go screw himself instead of hitting on his junior colleagues!’
Sal rushed home, stopping for flowers, milk, bread, cereal and all the basics of normal everyday life. All that was usually in her fridge was white wine and she suspected this might not a) make the best impression or b) provide a suitable breakfast.
North Kensington was its usual self – a combination of depressing and grungy, but with colourful outposts of gentrification, even of hipsterdom. A vintage clothes shop and a trendy bakery had sprung up in the shops beneath her flat and, much to Sal’s amusement, a day spa called Posh, though Sal had to admit, it didn’t look that posh to her.
She glanced round her basement flat, wondering what Lou would make of it. She had decorated it not long ago in what the young man applying the paint had smilingly dubbed ‘fifty shades of grey’. Sal had decided grey was restful as well as fashionable and after all, she worked for a magazine called New Grey.
Aware that restful could be mistaken for dull, she had enlivened it with what the design magazines called ‘pops of colour’ with hot-pink cushions and a large arrangement of faux peonies in an arresting shade of fuchsia.
She had adorned the walls with large oil paintings acquired from various affordable art fairs and student degree shows. In fact, it had been a fantasy of Sal’s that she might try painting herself one day; these didn’t look that hard to produce after all.
In preparation for Lou’s arrival she’d opened a bottle of Chablis, which she knew he liked, and booked dinner in a bistro round the corner. Trying to cook for Lou herself was a step too far.
She’d already changed the sheets and duvet cover on her large bed and toyed with putting candles next to it to flatter the ageing flesh but decided it would look too presumptuous. It again struck Sal how short a time they’d known each other. Maybe she was the late middle-aged equivalent of a holiday romance.
The doorbell rang and there he was in the stairwell, clutching a bunch of long-stemmed roses.
‘Come in.’ She took the flowers almost shyly, put them in the kitchen sink and turned to find herself enveloped in a Lou Maynard bear hug. Sal closed her eyes and let herself be held. It was extraordinarily comforting.
‘How was Rose?’ she enquired, reluctantly raising her face from his cashmere cardigan.
‘More at a loss than I’ve ever seen her,’ Lou replied. ‘A strong lady having to face her own weakness and not liking it one bit. She asked if you’d do her a favour and check out some convalescent homes.’
‘Of course.’ Sal handed him a glass of wine.
‘But the real problem is the long term. The words sheltered housing – I think that’s what you call it here – make her come out in hives. She’s frightened of being alone, Sal.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ Sal almost replied, but didn’t want to admit her own weakness. ‘Which reminds me,’ she added pointedly, ‘why on earth are you even thinking of investing in my friend Claudia’s mad scheme in Surrey?’
‘Maybe Rose isn’t the only person frightened of getting old.’
‘You, old?’ she smiled back. ‘You’ll never be old. Just more experienced at life.’
‘Thank you.’ He bowed. ‘My favourite daughter’s nearby. Besides, I love olde England.’ He went quiet for a moment. ‘Hey, what about Rose moving into your friend’s anti-retirement village? You said she wanted all ages. What was her description? A cross between a student flat and a kibbutz. Rose would fit right in. And didn’t you say something about Rose knowing the old aristo who owns it? An old flame from the past?’
‘Well, she did seem a bit coy when she mentioned him. Look, Lou’ – Sal knew her friend would kill her for saying this – ‘this scheme of Claudia’s. It’s never going to happen. She hasn’t even persuaded her husband yet.’
Lou shrugged, smiling his light-up-the-room smile. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure. Her son-in-law – Douglas is it? – has done some basic calculations on how to use the space as well as a very cute sketch of how it all might look.’
He pulled out his iPad. There, all in black and white, was Douglas’s vision of Igden Manor as some kind of twilight towers.
Sal reeled in shock. There was something about seeing it like that all down on paper that made her feel it might actually happen.
Lou’s next words only served to enhance the impression. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m going down there tomorrow to help your friend discuss a lease.’
‘What?’ Sal squeaked. ‘She never said anything to me!’
‘She’s got a lot on her plate, what with her parents . . .’
‘And an unexpected
guest – your robot,’ Sal added acidly.
‘Now, now. I gather Hiro’s quite a hit locally. He’s a nice little guy.’
‘He’s not a guy at all,’ snapped Sal. ‘He’s a lump of metal with computer chip for a brain!’
‘You’ve got to be more open, Sally,’ Lou teased. ‘The world’s changing. Artificial intelligence is everywhere. Robots are a reality even if Hiro is a hundred times more sophisticated than they are.’
‘Well, I preferred it the other way. When I still had a job.’
Lou put his arms round her. ‘Come on, you’re a strong woman.’
The sympathy in his voice was too much for her. The Sal who had lived alone all her life, always self-supporting, getting through cancer without telling anyone, suddenly collapsed. ‘I’ve been so stupid, Lou. I’m about to be jobless and I’ve always spent to the hilt. Even this flat’ – she looked around at her stylish refuge, the one place she’d been able to retreat to and lick her wounds when life got tough – ‘is only rented. If I wasn’t earning and couldn’t pay, I’d lose this place as well.’ To her absolute horror she found she was crying.
Oh my God – the thought drummed into her consciousness – every bloody article we’ve ever run about impressing men says to be strong and independent and here you are blubbing like a very ancient baby!
But Lou, wonderful Lou, didn’t seem in the slightest bit fazed. ‘Look, I’m going to Surrey to help Claudia because negotiating leases is my business; it would be crazy not to offer my help when I’ve said I’ll invest. And when I get back I’ll take a look at your lease. You never know, maybe there’s a pot of gold at the end of it.’
‘Would you?’ Even that was comforting, though not as comforting as if he’d said, ‘Beautiful Sally, come back to Brooklyn and live with me there.’
But clearly he wasn’t going to. Maybe it was time she accepted that opting to stay here and get involved in Claudia’s mad scheme seemed to matter to him. And maybe it ought to start mattering to her.
‘Why don’t you look for a convalescent place for Rose down in Surrey and then, if this Igden Manor looks like it’s happening, she can come and see it.’