The end.
OK, so it had more holes than a doily, but I enjoyed it. I could see it as a movie too, with Anne Hathaway playing Francesca, George Clooney as poor Dirk and the little girl from Les Mis playing the young me.
However, the truth was probably far more like this:
Scenario Two: the gritty version
Francesca Boyle, a fourteen-year-old neglected crack addict, has a boyfriend who beats her up. One day he rapes her, then vanishes. She is left to bring the baby up alone and social services say she’s not up to the job. She’s a bit sad for a while when the baby has gone, but she soon adapts. Recently she has gone into rehab and has . . .
I didn’t carry on. I wasn’t a fan of that version; it made me feel sad. I contented myself with watching the first movie in my head. This time I saw it in Spanish with subtitles and a vivid palette of colours, as if Almodóvar had directed it. The motorbike ride from the City to Liverpool, up the M1 then the M6, was surprisingly exciting.
I had asked Gracie if she would change her mind. I wasn’t requesting that she did, just checking whether she thought she would. The contract was up on our flat and we were meant to be signing the new one in a month. She claimed it couldn’t have come at a better time for her. I wasn’t as certain. I reassured myself that I wasn’t going to be homeless. I counted my blessings that, due to my recent bereavement, I would, one day soon hopefully, be quids in at the bank. But what was I going to do then? I really should start climbing the property ladder and buy a place of my own, but if I did get the extortionate £175,000 for Mum’s house, what might that buy me in London? A small kitchen on the outskirts of Peckham perhaps? If I was lucky?
My phone beeped. I knew who it would be before I looked at the screen. My wonderful lady and mistress. The wording of her text was suitably concise:
Wig. Plane. Yes?
I sighed. And quickly punched back:
On it.
No response came. No ‘Thank you’, or ‘Cheers, sweetheart’, or ‘You’re an angel.’ Silence. I was officially her bitch. But for how much longer? Another text. I tutted and looked, but it was from Jude.
Take as much time as you need. I’ll be waiting.
My fingers hovered over the phone.
Then I decided I would write to him. Tonight in bed. But what would I say? It’s not me, it’s you? It’s not you, it’s me? I prefer seeing you from a distance on the stage?
I could decide that later.
I flipped open my laptop and the screen blinked into life. I waited while the internet connection recognized the Wi-Fi. My job for this evening was to book Sylvie’s wig a flight to Canada in time for the tour. She was having a new one made in New York and she needed me to get it couriered to the airport and flown to Vancouver ready for our arrival. I needed to book it a seat in the cabin and not in the hold, and I had to book it first class, presumably so the better breed of people there wouldn’t be tempted to poke about with the box and wonder what was in it, then try and steal it. It was a ridiculous job, but someone had to do it. Instead of going straight to the British Airways website, however, I found myself looking at property websites. I was wrong: £175,000 wouldn’t buy me a small kitchen in Peckham; it would buy me a small briefcase in Nunhead. Where was Nunhead? Just as I was Google Mapping Nunhead, I heard an email ping into my inbox.
God. Sometimes she did this. Sometimes she forwent her love of texting me to send me a missive via email. This would tend to happen when she was in a foul mood and wanted to rant about something. She found it easier to attack the keyboard of her desktop than the screen of her smartphone. I checked the time. It was just after eight. Maybe she was drunk and had forgotten she didn’t have the chicken breasts and was incandescent that she’d had to make do with pasta and pesto. Nervously I minimized the web page I was on and brought up my emails.
Oh good. It wasn’t from her. It was an email from Google. It showed a link to something I’d set up an alert for ages back. I’d almost forgotten that I’d done it.
Coincidentally, it was from an estate agent’s website.
I clicked on it. And read.
Property for Rent: 32B Gambier Terrace, Liverpool L1 TBW
And in an instant, and with a rush of excitement, I knew exactly how my movie would play out.
I phoned the estate agent’s the next morning from Sylvie’s apartment. She was out with Michael doing a photo shoot for a new calendar called ‘Stars and Their Dogs’, in aid of Battersea Dogs Home.
A woman with a broad Liverpool accent answered with a confident ‘Hello, pair o’ net curtains. How can I help?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Pair o’ net curtains. How can I help you?’
It was then I remembered that the estate agent’s was called Perronet Curtis.
‘Hello, sorry, yes. I was wondering if the property on Gambier Terrace was still available for rent – 32B. It came on your website last night and—’
‘’Ang on, love.’
I heard the click of fingernails on keyboard. It seemed to go on for ages, like she was breaking the Bletchley code.
‘Number 32B Gambier Terrace. Yest.’
She did, she actually put a ‘T’ on the end of ‘yes’.
‘I’d like to rent it.’
‘Ri-i-ight. I can arrange a viewing for that . . . this afternoon if you’re interested.’
‘No. I can’t come today. I’d just like to . . . rent it.’
‘Er . . . ’ang on, love,’ and then she put me on hold. ‘A House Is Not a Home’ started to play down the phone. Shirley Bassey. It made me smile. I realized my phone was shaking in my hand. I was either nervous or excited, or both. I was on hold for quite a while. When that song finished, the Pet Shop Boys’ ‘Rent’ started to play. It was quickly cut off.
‘Hello. Can I take your name, pleeeease?’ She elongated her ‘please’ to cover as many notes as doing a glissando on a piano.
‘Yes. My name is Holly Smith.’
‘OK, and can I take a contact telephone number from you, pleeeeease?’
I gave her my mobile number.
Could this really be happening? It seemed such a coincidence, too good to be true. It couldn’t be, could it?
‘Right, Mrs Smith, I’m gonna have to speak to the owner about this coz usually they want to meet their tenants before they go ahead and let it, you see.’
‘I’ll pay six months up front,’ I said.
There was silence on the other end.
‘I just really want to rent that flat.’
‘But you haven’t even seen it. We haven’t taken any pictures of it yet.’
‘I know. And I’m in London, so I can’t come and look.’
She lowered her voice. ‘But it might be a shithole. And you sound dead posh.’
‘I’m not posh. I’m just Southern. And it’s got sentimental value.’
‘What has, that flat?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh right.’
‘Could you . . . could you tell me the name of the person who owns it?’ I ventured. Because it could of course be Francesca Boyle, her actual self.
‘I can’t, Mrs Smith. On account of thingy. Data protection. Yest.’
I realized now that she was saying ‘yest’ because she was trying to poshen up her voice because she thought I was posh. It was quite endearing, if a tad bizarre.
‘Is it a man or a woman?’ I said. In a tone that said, ‘Cut the crap!’
‘It’s a woman,’ she replied, like she’d given a massive secret away and felt so guilty.
‘Is it a Francesca Boyle?’
‘Oh, don’t do this to me, Mrs Smith – what are you like?’ and then she lowered her voice. ‘It’s a Mrs Kirkwood.’
My heart sank.
‘Right. Fine.’
Although that could have been Francesca’s married name. It seemed churlish to ask this woman if she knew the owner’s maiden name; it didn’t feel like the sort of information you’d automatically divulge to a
landlord.
‘Mrs Smith . . .’
‘Please, call me Holly.’
‘Holly, love, you do realize six months’ rent is an awful lot of money?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘It’s over five grand.’
‘I appreciate that.’
I could almost hear her thinking, God, you lucky bitch, you must be loaded.
‘And you could come in at some point and sign the contracts and . . . give us a cheque?’
‘No. But I could do a bank transfer whenever you needed it. And I’m sure if you emailed me the contract, I could post it back to you. Or have it couriered.’
‘Right. Well, I’ll tell the owner.’
‘Mrs Kirkwood?’ I said, just checking.
‘Oh, Holly love, what are you like?’
Desperate, I felt like responding, but I just chuckled instead.
‘You do know it’s partly furnished?’
‘Yes, I read that online.’
‘And you do realize that a lot of the stuff in these furnished flats is shocking?’
I loved the way she said ‘shocking’. It sounded like ‘shokkkin”.
‘I don’t care. I want that flat. What d’you think my chances are?’
‘Well, you’re not DSS if you can afford six months’ rent, so I’d say they were pretty good.’
Good. Good. Oh my God, I was really nervous now. Maybe someone up in heaven was looking after me. Who, though? Could Mum/Jean really be my guardian angel? And if she was, wouldn’t she be impeding this process of attempting to find Francesca?
‘How soon can you speak to Mrs Kirkwood?’
‘Well, I’m not sure if she works, so I don’t know how easy it’ll be to get hold of her. You know, we do have some nicer properties on Gambier Terrace.’
‘No, it has to be that one.’
‘OK. Well, leave it with me, Holly love, and I’ll see what I can sort out for you. Yest?’
‘Yest,’ I echoed.
Gosh, we were getting on well. Like giggly teenagers. It almost felt like we’d do a succession of ‘You hang up’ ‘No, you hang up’s, but she rather briskly cut me off and I stared at my phone wondering what on earth I had done.
Damn. And I’d still not booked the wig’s flight to Vancouver. I hurried to Sylvie’s computer and fired up the internet. I was just logging into the BA website, doing exactly what I should have been doing the previous night, had I not instead spent the evening Google Earthing the life out of Gambier Terrace, when the buzzer went, alerting me there was someone at the door. I skidded to the entryphone (wooden floors, over-enthusiastic Thai cleaner, recipe for disaster) and found it was some delivery men with Sylvie’s new sofa. Or, as she liked to call it, banquette. I buzzed them up and three minutes later two burly lads in jeans and parkas were carrying the pink monstrosity into the main lounge.
Sylvie already had two white leather sofas facing each other across a coffee table as the focal point of this room, and she’d not said where she wanted it to go – and in all honesty I’d forgotten it was coming today as I’d been so preoccupied with my impending call to Perronet Curtis. So I just got the burly lads to place it at the end of the room, in front of an art deco sideboard Sylvie had had flown in from Miami that housed her Olivier awards. As they hacked off the brown cardboard the settee was wrapped in, I was reminded what a horrendous piece of furniture it was.
It was basically a massive pair of hot-pink velvet lips. It was allegedly based on a historic design by Salvador Dalí inspired by the shape of Marilyn Monroe’s mouth. I saw the burly lads looking rather quizzically at it.
‘It’s based on a Dalí design. Apparently,’ I proffered.
‘Each to their own, darlin’,’ the more burly of the two said.
‘Personally, I think it’s hideous.’ I smiled. And signed on their handheld electronic device. And they laughed.
I saw them nosing at Sylvie’s gold discs on the wall in the hall on the way out. And heard the less burly of the two saying, ‘Never heard of her,’ as they headed for the lift.
An hour later, after speaking to several contacts in VIP services at BA, I had successfully booked first-class travel, plus couriering of a wig from Manhattan to Vancouver. I was feeling pretty pleased with myself when I heard the front door go.
‘The sofa’s here!’ I called out perkily, hoping it would put her in a reasonable mood. Michael scurried in and ran round in excited circles at my feet. I bent to tickle his nose and something came off on my fingers. A brown stain.
‘Is Michael wearing make-up?’ I called again.
And then I heard it.
One of the most ear-piercing screams I had ever heard in my life. I jumped up and skidded through to the lounge. Sylvie was standing in front of the sofa with steam practically coming out of her ears.
‘What . . . is this?’ she snarled.
‘Your banquette.’ Why did I sound so frightened?
‘I . . . hate it!’ she screamed, and she started ripping off her faux-fur poncho.
‘Oh. You liked it in the shop,’ I said gently, trying to calm her mood. The poncho had stuck round her neck, so I ventured closer to help her off with it. She batted me away.
‘I loathed it in the shop, but you made me buy it!’
‘I-I didn’t!’ I stammered.
She turned to look at me. I thought she might hit me she looked so angry. I also thought she might choke, as the poncho was taking on noose-like proportions round her neck.
‘What did you say?’ Her voice was small now, which made it all the more threatening.
‘Sylvie, I was never keen on it, but you thought it was camp.’
‘Camp? Camp! Who do you think I am, dear? Danny La fucking Rue?’
‘I’m sure you can send it back.’ There I went again, ever the peacemaker.
‘I never even wanted a new banquette in the first place,’ she spat, and then went and kicked the lips. ‘You’ve made this place look like a tart’s boudoir!’
I couldn’t help myself. I tried to remain strong, but the timbre of my voice belied my fear. ‘With respect, Sylvie, we went shopping for a sofa because you were tired with the white ones. You wouldn’t buy something just because I liked it. My opinion’s not that important to you.’
She kicked it again.
‘And anyway, my opinion was, and still is, that it’s hideous.’
She spun round and in a flash I saw her arm swing back and before I could flinch she slapped me across the face. She almost span round herself afterwards. When she stopped, the poncho swirled about her like a dying maypole. I was so shocked I didn’t do anything for a second. My face didn’t hurt. I guess that was through shock.
‘Get out of my sight! And ring the shop and tell them I’m sending it back!’
And in a flash, not that I meant to, I found myself hurling my arm towards her and . . .
Oh sweet Jesus . . .
I slapped her round the side of the face too. It knocked her sideways and she fell in a heap onto the couch. The force of my slap made her bounce up and down a few times. She choked a bit as the poncho caught her neck. She ripped it down, looked genuinely shocked, and sat there saying nothing. My face was now stinging from her attack as the reality set in. I’m sure hers was too. Her wig had gone a bit skew-whiff too. Oh dear.
‘At least it’s . . . well sprung,’ I said, indicating her bouncing.
When eventually she spoke, it was almost a whisper.
‘You’re fired.’
I laughed. ‘Oh no I’m not. Because I quit.’
And then she chuckled.
‘In fact, Sylvie, you can stick your job up your egotistical anus.’
She gasped.
And I added, for dramatic effect, ‘So far and with such vigour that I hope it pops out the other side.’
I tried to march out of the room, but it was more like a series of skids, and went into her office to get my bag. Michael was sat by the desk chair, whimpering. I bent and tickled his n
ose. I then grabbed my bag, pulled out the keys to her apartment, thumped them onto her desk and headed for the front door. I opened it. Then I called back, ‘And for the record, I thought “Misunderstood Queen” was a pile of shite!’
I slammed the door behind me and went to the lift. I felt amazing, invincible; nothing and no one could stop me. This was what winning felt like. I was on top of the world!
Five minutes later I was sat on a bench overlooking the Thames, bawling my eyes out. Panic rose in me. What had I done? Was I doing the right thing? But then I remembered the slap and tried to get some perspective. I took out my phone and jabbed in a number. I called the estate agent’s in Tring.
‘Oh, Holly, I’m glad you’ve called,’ a guy called Guy said. ‘I’ve shown a few people round, but I can never get the heating to work.’
‘You have to thump the side of the box.’
‘I see.’
‘Anyone interested?’
‘Well, someone wanted to offer one twenty, but I told him you wouldn’t accept that. That’s why I didn’t call you.’
‘Accept it,’ I said quickly.
‘Holly?’
‘Take it. I want a quick sale. Take one twenty.’
‘But it’s worth fifty grand more than that.’
‘I don’t care. I want it off my hands. Are they in a chain?’
‘I didn’t even ask as I thought it was so low.’
‘One twenty’s fine. Thanks, Guy.’
‘Well, I’ll try to get them up. I’ve got targets to meet.’
‘As quickly as possible, please.’ And I hung up.
Oh God, Holly, I thought, what have you done?
FOUR
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Sunday
Dear Holly,
Thank you for your email. Sorry I didn’t reply sooner, but I have been into Birkenhead to get my hair and nails done. I am a trained hairdresser, so if you need to find a decent place for yours, I can recommend several in Liverpool (where you won’t get ripped off).
I am sorry to say I have never heard of Sylvie di Marco, but I mentioned her to some friends and they had and were very impressed. They reckon I’m renting the flat out to a celebrity LOL. But don’t worry – I am not a stalker. And I won’t go selling my story to the papers LOL.
The Girl Who Just Appeared Page 6