The Doris Day Vintage Film Club

by Fiona Harper

  ‘No,’ said Maggs, and the rustle of leaves told Claire she’d gone back to arranging the flowers. ‘You could have thrown it away or put in a drawer out of sight. But you didn’t. Why don’t you just read it?’

  Claire kept looking at the back door, at the blurry green shapes moving in the evening sunshine behind the textured glass. ‘I don’t want to. I told you that.’

  Maggs’s voice lowered, lost its ever-present edge. ‘Laurie would have wanted you to.’

  Claire snapped her head round to look at Maggs. ‘You don’t know that.’

  Maggs nodded. ‘I do. I was her best friend, remember. She could tell me things that were too painful and raw to discuss with family. He ran out on her too, when he left. Hardly even sent a Christmas card, although she tried to stay in contact. She always hoped he’d come back one day, older, wiser, ready to be part of your family again.’

  Claire felt her eyes fill. It made her cross. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘She didn’t ever get that chance to repair what had gone wrong,’ Maggs said. ‘But you have that chance. You can do it for her.’

  On the outside Claire stayed very still. Nobody would have guessed that a million conflicting emotions were rushing through her at that moment like an electricity current. Nobody but Maggs.

  She felt her lips form into a sneer as the next words left her mouth. ‘Then I hate him for that too. For not coming back sooner. For breaking his mother’s heart.’

  Maggs snorted softly. ‘Must admit, I don’t much like him, either. But you know what your grandmother was like. She never stopped hoping, never stopped believing in people, even when everyone else gave up on them. If what she prayed for all those years has finally come to pass, I just think it’s a shame to waste this chance.’

  Claire inhaled then exhaled heavily. ‘Is that why you’re so keen on me doing it? On reading it?’

  Maggs nodded. ‘Yes. For Laurie. But also for you.’

  Claire was so surprised she let out a little huff of a laugh. ‘For me?’

  ‘I see how lonely you are.’ Claire started to shake her head, but Maggs continued, ‘I see it, because I know what it feels like.’ She paused to give Claire a meaningful look. ‘But I had a life full of love and happiness with Sid before that happened. You’ve hardly even begun yours yet and you’re intent on cutting yourself off from love.’

  Claire felt as if a big hole had opened up inside her and she was teetering on the edge of it. She kept very still, just in case. ‘I’m trying not to be like that. I really am.’

  Maggs’s serious expression thawed a little. ‘I know.’

  They spent the next few minutes in silence. Maggs finished arranging the flowers and Claire just watched her, hypnotised. Better that, than delving too far into what Maggs had just said.

  Maggs placed the vase on the wide windowsill behind the kitchen table. ‘He was a lot like you as a child, you know.’

  It took Claire a few seconds to work out who Maggs was talking about. ‘My father?’ That seemed hardly believable. He’d been made of steel – wrapped up in a deceptively charming coating, to be sure, but made of steel all the same. She’d been neither as a child. Too cowed to be strong. Too shy to be charming.

  ‘He was optimistic and kind. Sensitive.’

  Claire shook her head slowly. ‘I can’t believe that.’

  ‘Too sensitive. His father knocked that out of him quick smart.’

  Claire stared straight ahead. She didn’t want to think of her father like that. Small. Weak. Trembling behind the lounge door, waiting for her grandfather’s judgement. Judgement that might have been meted out with a switch or a strap.

  Maggs came over and leaned on the kitchen counter beside her. Close, but not touching. Only an arm’s length away. Maggs was quite a bit shorter than Claire, so it wasn’t the top of her bottom that rested on the ledge, but the small of her back.

  ‘You see things differently as an adult from how you understood them as a child,’ she said simply. ‘He became a monster in your mind – a villain – but maybe he’s just a man who’s made mistakes, one who wants a second chance.’

  Claire turned her head to look at Maggs, whose jaw was hard and eyes beady.

  ‘Maybe it’s time to find out?’

  Maggs looked back at the handbag, at the scruffy corner to the letter sticking out the pocket. Slowly, Claire walked over to it. She pinched just the corner of it with thumb and forefinger. It slid out easily. She felt as if she’d just crossed some kind of threshold, as if there could be no going back, even though the letter was still as snugly inside the envelope as it had been when she’d arrived.

  She felt as if she was in a dream world as she pulled out the folded sheet of paper – nice paper, she noticed – and read it. It was as if another Claire was standing there reading the words and she was floating at the corner of the ceiling, looking down on herself.

  Dear Margaret

  I don’t know if this letter will reach you, but I have to try. I am looking for Claire, my daughter. I don’t know if you know where she is, or if you remained friends with my mother, but my mother is not the kind to lose friends or family easily. I have learned that one has to be quite determined about it.

  Claire stopped reading. She felt her insides boiling, just like the furred-up kettle had only ten minutes earlier, the anger rising to the surface in great bubbles that shook her so hard, she was sure Maggs must feel the reverberations through the kitchen counter.

  Maggs had been right. Gran had tried to keep in touch, but he’d rejected her. She closed her eyes. Why would she ever want anything to do with this man? He wasn’t her father. Not really. Just provided some raw DNA to get her going.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ Maggs said quietly.

  Claire looked at her. Her whole jaw trembled as she answered. ‘I’m not sure I can continue.’ She very much wanted it to rip it into confetti and post it piece by piece down the plughole of Maggs’s kitchen sink but, somehow, she managed to focus on it once again.

  I know I have made mistakes. I want make amends. It’s the right thing to do. I hope you can find it within you to help.

  Yours sincerely,

  Martin Bixby

  Claire looked up at Maggs, her mouth slightly open. ‘That’s it? You’ve been going on and on at me about reading that?’

  Maggs nodded.

  Claire didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Less than nothing. “It’s the right thing to do”? What the heck does that mean? No mention of loving me or missing me or even an “I’m sorry”!’ She slammed the letter down on the counter and walked away from it.

  Maggs kept her voice quiet and steady. ‘He may not say he’s sorry, but he might mean it. Why else would he get in contact?’

  Claire almost laughed. Maggs clearly had been nipping too much of whatever she kept in that hip flask. ‘You’re joking, right?’

  ‘No.’

  They stared at each other.

  ‘Remember the iceberg, pet. Some people have a hard time saying what they feel. Even if they really, really want to.’

  Claire was about to say that wasn’t good enough, but then she noticed the grim set of Maggs’s mouth, flattened out, the muscles drawn tight to prevent even the hint of a wobble. Her eyes were begging Claire to understand.

  And Claire did. Maggs had always found it hard to let her feelings be known too. She chided and nagged Claire, but Claire knew she loved her fiercely, just the way she loved Maggs back. It was just a bit of a stretch to think her father was in any way similar.

  However, she owed Maggs a lot. At least giving her the benefit of the doubt about this one thing.

  ‘Okay,’ she said hoarsely, nodding at the finality of what she was saying. ‘Okay. You can tell him you know where I am, but that’s all. We’ll see if he can be bothered to do anything with that.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

  From: claireb
ixby@farfaraway.com

  To: nica453@monstermail.com

  Subject: Trip ideas

  Dear Nick,

  It was lovely to chat the other morning. I’m really pleased you think Far, Far Away was the perfect place to come to plan your trip. I wondered if you’d had a chance to think about some more personalised destinations? If not, maybe asking yourself the following questions might help you narrow the field down. (Excuse me for using ‘she’ below, but I realised I didn’t ask what your girlfriend’s name was):

  1. Is she the outdoorsy type who likes walking and sailing or would she prefer to spend time at a spa being pampered?

  2. Which would she enjoy most – a summer’s day out in the countryside or the bright lights and bustle of a night out in the city?

  3. If you think about her clothes and jewellery, are they quirky and individual, from markets and independent shops or does she tend to go for understated and elegant pieces, possibly by well-known designers?

  I know the questions seem random, but they really will help me start to pin down the right kind of trip suggestions for you.

  Many thanks,

  Claire

  *

  Dominic stared at his computer screen. He hadn’t ever thought something as insubstantial as an email could make you feel as if you’d been placed firmly at arm’s length but Claire had managed it. It dented the good mood he’d carried with him since yesterday morning a little. They’d been getting on so well until he’d put his stupid mouth into gear without thinking.

  Oh, well. The only thing to do was answer her questions and answer them well. He still wanted to prove to her he wasn’t the dunce in the romance stakes she thought he was, and he’d been thinking about what to do with his non-existent other half most of last night and had finally come up with a plan.

  At first he’d decided to dump her – before any firm bookings were made, of course – then the trip could easily be amended for one person, but after further thought he’d decided that maybe she would dump him instead. Guys would mock, see that as a sign of weakness, but Claire definitely wasn’t a guy, and it might just make her feel a little warm and sympathetic towards him too.

  Not that he liked to manipulate. That really wasn’t his style. But, given the two options, he’d be stupid if he didn’t choose the one that suited his goal, wouldn’t he?

  He pulled his keyboard forward and started to type.

  From: nica453@monstermail.com

  To: clairebixby@farfaraway.com

  Subject: RE: Trip ideas

  Hi Claire,

  Thanks for getting back to me so promptly, and thanks for the questions – I think! You’re right. I don’t really get where you’re going with these, but I’ll put myself in your very capable hands.

  The only problem was, now he was definitely going to have to answer those damn questions. Hard enough if the girlfriend had been real. Doubly so now he was basing her on Claire. A woman like Claire would expect him to know stuff about his girlfriend, the kind of stuff he hadn’t got a clue about Claire after only two meetings. He stared down at number one:

  Is she the outdoorsy type who likes walking and sailing or would she prefer to spend time at a spa being pampered?

  Hmm. He really didn’t know. On the two occasions he’d met her in the flesh, Claire had been immaculately put together, with neat little dresses and high heels. The spa seemed the obvious choice, but then he started to imagine her walking on a hilltop in the Peak District or up on top of a tor on Dartmoor and he could envision her there too. The picture in his head reminded him of an old-fashioned holiday photograph, one of those little ones with the thick white borders held in an album with black pages.

  He could see her sitting on a rock, turning to smile at him in red three-quarter-length trousers and a crisp white blouse, the warmth in her eyes hidden by a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses. He could also see her skipping lightly down a grassy footpath, turning back to laugh over her shoulder at him now and then.

  Okay, so he wasn’t quite sure about that one. Maybe he should just move on to number two?

  Summer afternoon or night out in the city?

  He let his lips puff out as he blew out a breath, then gave up keeping his fingertips hovering over the keyboard and instead planted his elbows either side and rested his chin on his hands.

  He shook his head. Once again, he could see her doing both. The summer afternoon carried on in the same vein as the little hilltop walking fantasy he’d had going, only this time it involved a long and lazy lunch at a charming little country pub by a stream, Claire choosing to sit under the shade of an umbrella so the faint freckles on her nose didn’t darken too much.

  Dominic sat up a little. She did have freckles, didn’t she? Just a light dusting. He hadn’t realised he’d noticed.

  But he could also imagine Claire dressed up, looking elegant in a form-fitting dress, hopping from a black cab in the West End, ready to walk, head held high, into a fashionable bar or Michelin-starred restaurant.

  He didn’t even bother with question three. What did he know about women’s clothes? He knew when they looked nice in something, but he hardly paid attention to designers and labels when he was in the back of beyond filming. The only requirements for most of his own clothes were that they didn’t fall apart on his rigorous trips and didn’t look too bad with a bit of dust or dirt thrown in.

  He frowned and repositioned his keyboard. He’d wanted to wow Claire with his insight and detail. Instead, he had nothing. He ended up finishing the email, trying to keep it jaunty and light without letting on he actually had nothing to say.

  As for the questions, I think I’ve learned after our recent meeting that I’d better give them some thought rather than typing the first thing that comes into my head. I’ll get back to you very shortly.

  Nic

  And then he realised how she’d spelled his name in her email – the same way she’d written it on the napkin at the party.

  Not ‘Nic’, but ‘Nick’.

  His finger hovered above the ‘k’ key, but he didn’t press it. Just that one little letter felt like a big fat lie. Worse than the ones he’d already told. Probably because he’d stumbled his way into those ones. This one would be a choice.

  He sighed and got up from his desk. Bin day tomorrow. He’d better put his recycling out. How he’d actually remembered the right day he wasn’t sure. He must be getting into the rhythm of life back here now. He wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or fed up about that.

  He looked at the stack of magazines standing – well, falling over and spilling onto the floor – in the corner of his spare bedroom. She was right. He did get too many. Not because they weren’t useful, but because he wasn’t here long enough to digest the information from one a year, let alone multiple subscriptions.

  He walked over to the pile, grabbed the top one and tore the plastic wrapping off, then he flicked through to see if there was anything of interest. There wasn’t, so he threw it on the floor, making a new pile, and picked up the next one.

  Two hours later, the teetering stack was gone, replaced by a large pile of magazines to recycle, a smaller one of issues to keep and a cloud of shredded plastic wrapping in between them. He went to get a bin bag.

  He just about managed to fit the discarded magazines in his paper bin and heaved it outside to sit next to the pavement, wearing a hoodie for disguise in case Claire should look out her window. Then, before he went back inside his front door, he carefully tiptoed across the hall to where her recycling bin sat ready for the next morning in the little nook at the bottom of the stairs. He picked it up and took it out to stand next to his. The least he could do after the countless times she’d done that for him.

  When he came back in the front door, he looked up the stairs. Was she in there? Probably. It was now close to midnight. Quietly, he crept back inside his flat and reached for a scrap of paper. He was going to use the plain back of a printed leaflet for The Bombay Palace, then stopped himself
. He thought about Claire’s letters, about the lovely thick paper, the way the blue ink of her fountain pen flowed across the paper.

  He didn’t have nice stationery. He didn’t have much stationery at all. But he could at least use a clean, fresh page nicked from the printer and a fineliner with steady ink, rather than the ballpoint which sometimes decided to deposit sticky blobs of ink on the paper and sometimes didn’t. Using both those items, he wrote a short note, letting her know she didn’t have to worry about her recycling bin – it hadn’t been stolen, just put in the proper place – then he crept up the stairs to post it through her letterbox. Hopefully, she’d find it before she left for work in the morning.

  When he got back to his desk, he found the email he’d written to Claire still open on his computer and realised that he hadn’t pressed ‘send’. It seemed odd, corresponding in these two very different ways. He was having to be so careful on both fronts, not to reveal his identity, not to say the wrong thing. He knew, even though on the face of it he was lying to her – by omission mainly, rather than outright deception, by not putting right what she’d got wrong – it still felt as if it was the right thing to do. The fair thing to do, so they could get past the awful first impressions they’d created and discover the truth beneath.

  He stared at the bottom of the email. He couldn’t add that ‘k’. It was too much. In the end, he hit the backspace key twice until he’d just signed off as ‘N’. That much he could live with.

  And then, in a moment of pure honesty, he hastily typed the following as a postscript:

  Thanks for all your help and sorry I’m so rubbish at this.

  It felt good to say something real amongst all the half-truths and sidestepping. Before he could change his mind, chicken out and keep his ego undented, he pressed send and heard the whooshing noise as it disappeared into the ether, travelling from server to server around the country, maybe even the world, only to reappear feet away in the flat above.

  *

  Claire heard her phone ping as she lay in bed reading. For a couple of seconds, she stayed absorbed in the thriller, but when she got to the bottom of the page, she leaned over and took a look at her phone on the bedside table. She knew she ought to go back to her book, to find out what happened to the girl being chased through moonlit woods, but she saw the subject header.