‘Unless she’s gone on holiday for a fortnight.’
‘S’pose.’
Iggy had come round to watch the launch night of Hell Hole with me. He’d arrived with a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses. Five minutes into the show we’d started a drinking game, knocking back a shot of the hard stuff every time someone said, ‘Oh my God.’ Iggy had invented the game when the first contestant entered the Hole and kept saying, ‘Oh my God.’ She’d said it quite a bit, but thankfully, the following two contestants hadn’t, so I was able to take a much-needed vodka break.
Jax was still away. Her phone was now going to answerphone. I was starting to think I’d never see her or the diary again, but something told me Iggy was right – she’d be back soon enough, no doubt full of apologies.
‘D’you fancy something to eat?’
I had finally been to a supermarket and filled the fridge with some long-overdue provisions.
‘Yeah, if you want, Pips.’
I hauled my backside from the couch and slid through to the kitchen in my socks. A builder-type person had been in a couple of times in the week, rehung my wall cupboard and verified that the electrics were OK. I had taken a photo of the 1980s wallpaper on my phone, before the cupboard returned, and now used it as my screensaver. I bunged an oblong rustic pizza in the oven and started preparing a salad.
When I heard someone shouting, ‘Oh my God oh my God,’ in the living room, I realized contestant number one was back with a bang and allowed myself a childish chuckle. The slam of glass on coffee table told me Iggy had taken another shot.
I could then hear a roaring crowd and the over-toothed presenter shouting into a microphone, ‘Are you ready to meet contestant number four? Are you? Are you?’
And then more roars.
I drifted off to the one thing I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about for the last few days. Rose. And her daughter. She had told me at the dinner at her house that she didn’t have kids. Irish Alan had said something in the garden about neither of them having any family. Why had she then pointed to a photograph of her mother in the living room? And why had she said to Hattie Jacques that the letter from America was from her daughter? Had she been lying to me? Did she have a secret child, or was she lying to Hattie? Who had sent Francesca a letter, and why did she feel the need to lie about the sender? I started humming ‘Letter From America’ to myself, singing only the words: ‘Lochaber no more . . .’ Which were my favourite lyrics ever in a song. Then I stopped. The voice in the living room sounded familiar.
‘People say I’m mad, but basically I’m really kooky, quirky. You name it, I’ve bought the T-shirt, worn the high heels!’
No. It couldn’t be.
‘The other thing you need to know about me is I have a gift? I’m, like, totally psychic? I have a spirit guide with me. She’s here now, and basically I talk to the dead a lot.’
I put down the balsamic vinegar and slid to the living room.
‘Look at this knobhead,’ said Iggy. ‘And she’s from Liverpool. Silly bitch, giving us all a bad name.’
‘Ssshhhh!’ I hushed him with a finger to my lips.
‘Eh?’
On the screen, larger than life, was the one and only Jax.
‘I’m really loud, I’m really zany, and I’m really, really deep. Like the ocean? Or the deep end of a swimming pool?’
My neighbour Jax was on the television.
‘I don’t think I’d have sex in the Hole, coz . . . I’m really moralish?’
Moralish? Really? Did Jax just invent a new word?
Jax was on the telly as a contestant in Hell Hole.
Jax who I was hoping would be home soon to return my biscuit tin to me.
‘But I’d never rule out finding true love. I’m dead roman-ticky?’
Jax was locked away in a TV studio for a show that ran for six weeks.
‘What is it, Pips?’ asked Iggy.
‘It’s her.’
‘What?’
‘That’s Jax.’
‘You are joking.’ He sat forward in his seat and stared in disbelief at the screen.
‘. . . Oh my God! I’m getting a message through!’ And then she closed her eyes and put her finger to her ear. When she opened them again, she said, ‘I hear there’s loads of spirits in there. Something tells me I’m gonna love it in the Hole.’
The programme then cut to the over-toothed presenter standing atop an artificial crater.
‘People of Great Britain, I give you contestant number four, the one and only . . . Jax!’
Jax was then lowered towards the crater on a harness and chain, waving desperately to the crowds of people standing round the crater. She was wearing one of her zany Fifties polka-dot dresses and a tiara. She had a faux-fur (at least I hoped it was faux) shrug on her shoulders and Nineties platform trainers. The crowds were, understandably, booing her.
‘Jax, it’s time to go –’ and the crowd joined in now ‘– in the Hole!’
And then, suddenly, the chain was released and Jax fell down into a hole at the bottom of the crater. I looked to Iggy. He looked to me. And he said what I was thinking.
‘How the fuck are you gonna get your diary back now?’
On screen, Jax was tumbling down the slide that led into the Hole. I plonked myself beside Iggy, unable to take my eyes off the screen.
‘This is a disaster. She could be in for six weeks.’
‘Nah, the irritating ones get voted out first these days.’
‘But what if everybody likes her? What if she wins?’
‘Pips, she’s mental. She’s looney tunes. They’ll eat her alive.’
‘But she might. Remember Jaydenne? Series six? She actually had a nervous breakdown on screen and ended up winning.’
‘I know. Section Night was mental.’
‘Literally.’
‘But it’s different now. People like wielding their power with the dickheads. The quiet ones stay the distance. The loud ones . . .’ and he made a hacking action at his throat.
He might have been right. I really hoped he was.
‘Well, there’s only one thing for it.’ I picked up my phone. ‘I’m going to have to phone to evict her. What’s the number?’
I watched the rest of the show with a scowl on my face. Usually I would have been excited to know someone in Hell Hole, but the fact that she had taken something of mine and not given it back was barring my enjoyment. Why, oh why, oh why hadn’t I just answered the door when she knocked that night? I couldn’t dislike her too much: she had at least tried to return it to me. And the suitcase of clothes made sense now – she was packing in preparation for her television debut. It was beyond a joke.
A beep from my phone told me I’d received an email.
‘Someone’s popular!’ grinned Iggy as I picked it up. I half expected it to be from Jax, which is when I realized I was a little bit tipsy. Well, who wouldn’t be when contestant number one, Geena from Surrey, was OMG-ing like nobody’s business? I thought it would say, ‘Sorry about the Hell Hole hellish nightmare. Get the diary back to you ASAP. Jax xxx’
But when I looked, it was from Rose:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Hello
Hello Holly,
Haven’t heard from you in a bit, so thought I would drop you a quick line to check everything was OK with the flat. I believe the kitchen is back together now LOL. Hope everything’s OK, anyway. Sorry about the other night. Hope it didn’t spoil what for me was a lovely evening. You’re a great girl and your parents must have been very proud of you.
Bye for now,
Rose x
My fingers hovered above the screen. Dare I? Dare I?
‘What you thinking, Pips?’ Iggy enquired. He didn’t miss a trick.
‘Sometimes in life, Iggy, you have a “fuck it” moment.’
‘You what?’
‘When you do think, Fuck it, and
then do something impulsive.’
‘You sound hilarious when you swear.’
‘This . . . is a “fuck it” moment.’
And I typed:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Hello
Hi Rose,
All good here, thanks, and yes, all is good in the kitchen now LOL.
LOL? I never wrote, ‘LOL’!
Something bizarre happened the other day. I visited F in her care home and got chatting to the matron. Or manager. Or whatever it is she’s called. She said F had had a letter once from America and you said it was from your daughter.
I was a bit confused. Thoughts?
H x
P.S. I was just asking her if anyone ever got in touch. Wondered if either of the sons had contacted her, etc.
I pressed ‘send’ and heard it whoosh out into the ether. I had wanted to add, ‘And why do you have a padlock on one of your bedroom doors?’ but I didn’t want to appear too nosy. I waited for her to reply. And waited. And eventually put the phone down. Maybe she was one of those middle-aged people who visited the computer once a week and therefore didn’t know when emails had arrived. But then I heard another ping. Yes, she’d answered.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Hello
Blimey, you’re a proper Miss Marple LOL. I don’t have a daughter, of course. I was just fibbing to shut that woman up – she is SO nosy. And at the time things were going missing from F’s room and I thought it was her, but it wasn’t. So yes, I was being a bit cautious. Sorry for the confusion. I haven’t forgot that I said I’d ask around for you about the boys. I am doing a cut and colour on someone tomorrow and am hoping she will be able to throw some light on the matter. She used to know F years ago, I believe. Will keep you posted.
Take care,
R x
Again my fingers hovered over the screen. Buoyed by the booze, I felt the need to reply and make everything OK between us. It was lovely, this warm feeling I had about Rose that hitherto I’d never experienced. And just as I was toying with what to say in return – ‘Hey! Let’s go to an “Owl and the Pussycat” convention soon’ for instance – another email pinged in.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: I Know I Said . . .
Hey Holls,
I know I said I would wait for you, but I got the message from you loud and clear – don’t bother! Anyway, just in case you hear it from anyone else, I am now seeing Henrietta from the wind section. Remember? You met her at the cheese and wine evening we went to. Anyway, she says hi, as do I. Things are going really well for us and I’m sure you’ll wish us well.
Keep happy,
Judith x
Judith. That was my pet name for him sometimes. I reread the email. Even though he knew why I had come up North, he didn’t make reference to it once. I wasn’t sure how I felt about what he was telling me. Relief, in part. And yes, there was a little pang of anger. And, oh, blame the shots, but I replied quickly:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Henrietta
Fatty Arbuckle?
X
Hahahahaha. Thank you, Darren, for the perfect put-down. Jude replied instantly:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Grow Up
That’s offensive.
To which I replied:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Deal With It
She’s offensive.
And almost immediately he retorted:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: And Anyway
She’s stick thin now, actually, because she had a gastric band fitted. Not that it matters. I’m not that shallow, as I thought you knew. Clearly we should never have been together.
I didn’t reply this time. Because two of the words in his mail jumped out at me from the screen. Gastric band. It was as if they were written in neon. I instinctively looked up to the ceiling as I wondered . . .
What if the woman upstairs had been here forever? What if it was Fatty Arbuckle? And she has had a gastric band fitted? And therefore lost loads of weight . . . ?
Iggy was speaking. I looked over to him.
‘What was that, Igs?’
‘I think I know how to get your diary back.’
‘How?’
‘Break in and take it.’
I thought, then shook my head. ‘Nice idea, but I couldn’t condone breaking the law for it.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘She’s got four locks on her door.’
‘I’ll break a window.’
‘No. It’s a really bad idea. We can’t. We can’t. We’re pissed. It’s the worst idea in the world.’
An hour later I was standing outside Jax’s door, waiting for Iggy to let me in. I was swaying a little – someone kept moving the wall I was leaning on – but I have to say this felt like the best idea in the whole history of ideas ever. It could not fail. Iggy was a genius and we were a crack team. We were the best. I even did a little air punch. And went, ‘Yay!’ in a tiny voice, in case any police were passing and did a spot-check to make sure no one was breaking into their neighbour’s flat. I also hoped that he’d get a move on so we could head back upstairs for some more shots. Shots rocked. And they’d really helped me see things more lucidly.
Iggy had climbed out of my kitchen window and slowly lowered himself, via a combination of drainpipes and brickwork, to the garden below. He’d then indicated for me to head downstairs. I was hopeful that Jax, being the scatty type, would have accidentally left a window open while she was away. Yes, she was bound to have done that.
Just then I heard a smash. Breaking glass.
Oh well, so she hadn’t. So what? It’s not like she was going to come back tonight and find the window broken: the first eviction from the Hole wasn’t till tomorrow night, and then she’d probably be cooped up in a hotel for a few days doing interviews for Heat magazine, and then she’d make her guest appearance on the spin-off show, Hell Hole: You’re Out! So she wouldn’t be back for ages and there’d be plenty of time to get a glazier round and pop in a nice new pane of glass.
I heard the locks of the door turning one by one. And then the door swung open and Iggy was revealed in all his glory. He had a startled look on his face as he said, ‘Bloody hell, Pips. This flat is mental.’ He stood aside and I ventured in.
The chaos of Jax’s interior design meant finding the diary was going to be a bit of a challenge, as it wasn’t immediately obvious where it might be. I had hoped she would just have left the biscuit tin out on a table or a bedside cabinet, but a quick scour of the premises revealed she had not left it on show. And so we began looking in drawers and under beds and down the back of sofas. We worked quietly and diligently. I joked that we should be wearing white paper suits because we were like a forensic team at the scene of a crime. At one point Iggy appeared in the lounge in a pair of Jax’s polka-dot heels and a humongous bow in his hair and called, ‘How do I look?’
It was just then that I heard footsteps behind me. I was near the open door to the hallway and turned, panicking suddenly, to see who it could possibly have been. But the carpet must have been loose, because as I moved forward, I tripped, falling to my knees with an embarrassingly girly squeal. I landed on the floor with a loud thud and felt the carpet burn my knees and hands. When I slowly looked ahead of me, I saw a pair of slippers appear in the doorway. As I looked up, I saw they had legs in them. And those legs belonged to the woman from the top flat. Helen Chance. I knew that was her name because I’d seen po
st for her in the hallway this week. She had a face like thunder.
‘What on earth is going on here?’
I scrambled to my feet as I heard Iggy running back to the bedroom, no doubt for a quick change.
‘Oh. Hi. It’s not what it looks like, Mrs Chance.’
‘Ms Chance. And you’re Holly, yes?’
‘I am. You see, we just staged a little break-in.’
‘Yes. I heard the window smash.’
This woman was furious. I think maybe we’d woken her, as she was dressed in a dressing gown and had a curler in her fringe.
‘But there’s a really good reason why we did.’
She folded her arms and raised an eyebrow.
‘You see, I gave Jax a box of mine for safe keeping. A biscuit tin, actually. And it’s got some really important papers in it. Only, we put Hell Hole on tonight – I know, guilty pleasure – and she was in it, and I really need my tin, so I thought we better get it back.’
‘So you decided to break in?’
‘Yes.’
Suddenly I felt myself sobering up. This was perhaps not the brilliant idea I’d thought it was. In fact, it might have been a particularly stupid idea.
‘I’m going to get a glazier round first thing tomorrow. She need never know we did this.’
‘And have you found the papers?’
Her voice was imperious, her vowels cut from a bygone era. She might have looked like a beanpole, but she had an air of Margaret Rutherford about her.
‘No,’ I said, sheepish.
‘No. And shall I tell you why you haven’t found it, Holly?’
I heard Iggy coming back into the lounge. I could sense him loitering.
‘Sorry?’
‘Shall I tell you why you’ve not found it?’
‘Er . . . yes, please.’
‘Because she gave it to me.’
And then she gave this tight smile. It was so fleeting. It was a real ‘fuck you’ smile. Which is very different from a ‘fuck it’ moment. Maybe those were best avoided, I thought.
The Girl Who Just Appeared Page 20