by Susan Lewis
‘I don’t know. What’s going on?’
‘I’ll probably be in the office until about four. Angie and Graham are already there finalising a pitch we’re making in London tomorrow.’
‘So you work Sundays now, too?’
‘That’s what happens when you work for yourself, I thought you’d at least learned that by now.’
Stung, Oliver said, ‘So really there’s not a lot of point me coming home, if no one’s going to be there.’
‘I shall be fifty yards away, in the stable block, and with any luck I’ll be through around four. If you can make it, I have some news for you.’
Oliver was immediately wary. ‘What sort of news?’
‘It looks as though we’re going to get the commission for another series of Living Houses. If we do, Paul Granger’s keen to have you on board again.’
Oliver’s scowl didn’t lift. ‘But he’ll pay me this time, right?’
‘Oliver, in your position you should be thankful to be getting some experience ...’
‘I’m twenty-one, I have a 2/1 in Media Studies, I need to earn a living and my father is telling me to work for free. Way to go, Dad.’
‘If you don’t want the job there are plenty out there who do ...’
‘Not for nothing, they don’t.’
‘I haven’t said you won’t be paid, I’m just saying that it hasn’t been discussed and you shouldn’t make it a condition. Now, this conversation has to be over. Try to be home by five.’
After ringing off Oliver turned to Alfie.
‘So?’ Alfie said.
‘So?’
‘What’s the deal?’
‘You mean with my dad? Don’t let’s even go there.’
Alfie grinned. ‘Seems Thea’s impressed with him, even if you aren’t. I went on your Facebook page.’
Groaning as he rolled his eyes, Oliver said, ‘What the hell’s she on about, famous? He gave up all the reporting and news-reading crap over ten years ago.’
‘I’ll lay money it’s her mother who’s getting the hots. You know what women are like about celebs, and even if he’s not one now, what counts is that he was once.’
Oliver laughed. ‘He’d go mental if he heard you call him a celeb. He hates all that stuff.’
Alfie shrugged. ‘If it’s going to work for you ... What the hell?’ he exclaimed as Jerome suddenly burst into the room. ‘Didn’t any of you guys ever hear about knocking?’
‘Knock, knock,’ Jerome cried breathlessly. ‘Oliver, man, let me at the computer. We can’t miss this. What’s the time?’
Alfie glanced at the clock. ‘Eleven thirty-one, precise enough for you?’
‘Shit, it’s already started. Come on, Oliver, let me in.’
‘What’s happening?’ Oliver grumbled, vacating the chair.
‘Lisa Amos is filming someone having a Brazilian at half eleven and if anyone can guess who it is, we get to go with her at Lisa’s twenty-first the Saturday after next.’
Oliver and Alfie looked at one another. ‘What the hell’s he talking about?’ Alfie wanted to know.
‘God knows,’ Oliver answered.
‘Here it is!’ Jerome shouted, sitting back as a slightly blurry image came up on the screen.
Oliver and Alfie came to peer over his shoulder. ‘What’s a Brazilian?’ Alfie murmured.
‘It’s a girl thing, to do with waxing,’ Jerome explained.
‘Exactly what are we looking at?’ Oliver demanded.
Jerome didn’t seem entirely sure, until the webcam pulled back and the shot gained focus.
‘Oh my God,’ Alfie murmured, his eyes starting to bulge. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
Jerome was grinning and nodding. ‘Pussy,’ he declared, with great satisfaction. ‘Any idea who it belongs to?’
Alfie and Oliver were mute.
‘Come on you guys, you’ve got to fill me in if you know, because it’s the only way ... Shit, what are? Someone’s only covering it up.’
The three of them watched, mesmerised, as two delicate hands patted a long white strip over one half of the anonymous girl’s genitals.
‘Are you ready?’ a female voice asked off camera.
‘Ready,’ Jerome whispered.
‘She’s not talking to you, you idiot,’ Alfie told him. ‘Oh my God, what the?’ Instinctively they all three clasped their hands to their groins. ‘Tell me that didn’t just happen,’ Alfie muttered.
‘I think it did,’ Oliver responded. ‘Look, no hair on one side.’
‘Seriously mental,’ Jerome added. ‘Shit man, I have so got to find out who she is. It’s my only chance of getting some action.’ He looked at Oliver. ‘Do you recognise her?’
Oliver was incredulous. ‘Yeah, like this is how I always identify women.’
‘I’m guessing it’s a friend of Lisa’s,’ Alfie said helpfully. ‘I mean, if she’s going to the party.’
‘She’s a babe,’ Jerome declared. ‘You can tell, can’t you, you don’t even have to see her face.’
Alfie and Oliver exploded with laughter. ‘Sure, she’s a babe,’ Oliver agreed, ‘and because we’re such great mates of yours, we’re going to put ourselves on a mission to find out exactly who she is, and when we do, Jerome, my friend, she’ll be all yours.’
Chapter Four
‘HEY, MUM, IT’S me,’ Lauren cried into the phone. ‘Did you remember to pick up my car?’
Juggling her mobile as she unloaded her shopping trolley on to the conveyor belt, Emma said, ‘I’ve just been and the problem’s fixed, so it’ll be waiting when you get back from London. Is everything OK with you?’
‘Yeah, cool. Got a ton of revising to do. Where are you?’
‘At the supermarket, about to check out, so I ought to go.’
‘OK. Did you speak to Granny Berry today? She rang me trying to get hold of you.’
‘Yes, we had a long chat earlier. She wanted to know if I’m going to be in town at all before your performance exam, because she’s got some paintings going into an exhibition. I told her I wouldn’t miss it.’
‘Too right we won’t. Is Alfonso coming over from Italy?’
‘I believe so. Right, it’s me next so I have to go. I’ll call you later.’ As she rang off she heard the sounds of a commotion further along the store and looked up to find out what it was.
The young girl at the till in front of her was on her feet. ‘That is so amazing, isn’t it?’ she declared, beaming all over her face.
‘What is it?’ Emma said, trying to work out what was happening.
‘It’s one of them golden angels,’ the girl explained. ‘She’s just paid that old lady’s bill. Oh God, look at the old lady’s face. She’s so thrilled she’s crying.’
Recognising Mrs Dempster who lived on the same street as her, Emma found herself clapping and laughing along with everyone else. ‘So where’s the angel?’ she wondered.
‘No idea,’ the checkout girl replied. ‘Been and gone, I expect. Apparently they never hang around. She’s such a dear old soul, Mrs D. She’s my friend’s gran. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.’
Though she’d only spoken to Mrs Dempster on one occasion, when they’d spent a few minutes standing in the freezing cold outside Emma’s house wondering when the new gates were going to be fitted, Emma had no problem believing that the old lady was well liked simply from the kindliness of her smile, and the gentleness of her rheumy grey eyes. ‘I wonder what made them choose her?’ she said.
The girl shrugged as she sat back down and continued to scan the groceries through. ‘No one has a clue. We don’t even know they’re coming until they’re here. They just turn up, pick someone at random, pay the bill, in cash, and go.’
‘So they’ve been to this store before?’
‘Only once, about a month ago. They chose some really grumpy old sod that time. He was at the checkout next to mine, and you should have heard him carrying on. He kept telling the woman, angel, whatever,
to bugger off and mind her own business, he even tried to hit her with his stick. Then he finally got what was going on and you should have seen him. Honest to God, I nearly cried myself, it was so lovely seeing all the misery melting off his scabby old face. He turned out to have a bit of a lovely smile, and he even had teeth, which none of us expected. I reckon it was the first time anyone had done something nice for him in so long he’d forgotten it ever happened.’
Picturing the scene, Emma found herself wishing she’d thought of doing something like this when she’d had the money, even if on a smaller scale. Alas, she was in no position to do it now. ‘So how long has it been happening?’ she asked.
‘About a year, I suppose. Sometimes they don’t come for ages, then just when you think it’s all over you get a great flurry of them turning up. The Lidl over by my auntie’s had six of them in the week before Christmas, so you can imagine what a fantastic present that must have been for the lucky ones. I just wish someone would drop in and pay my bill is all I can say, but I don’t suppose us what works here are going to get a look-in. Right, looks like we’re done, so unless the angel comes back that’ll be fifty-eight thirty-three, please.’
Relieved that she’d managed to keep the bill below sixty after shelling out ninety-two pounds for Lauren’s car, Emma handed the money over and after taking her change and receipt wheeled her trolley out to the car park. It was already pitch dark outside, and so cold that the rain started to freeze in tiny icicles on the fur around her hood. How lucky she was to have her own transport, because she’d caught the bus to the garage earlier without checking first if the car was ready. If it hadn’t been she’d be in the queue now with at least a dozen others, having to heft her shopping home on a Green Line.
Sorry that she didn’t have the courage to offer someone a lift, she continued on to Lauren’s Peugeot, loaded in her bags, and was just returning her trolley when she spotted Mrs Dempster amongst those in the pensioners’ transport queue. Not allowing herself a moment’s hesitation, she quickly went up to her, saying, ‘Hello, do you remember me? I live on the same street as you, at number forty.’
‘Of course I do, dear,’ the old lady smiled, her words coming out of her blue lips in ragged puffs of white air. ‘Emma isn’t it, and your lovely daughter, Lauren.’
‘That’s right. Can I give you a lift? I’m going straight home.’
‘Oh my goodness me, this is my lucky day,’ Mrs Dempster chuckled delightedly. ‘If you’re sure it’s no trouble ...’
‘Absolutely not. It would be my pleasure. Here, let me take your bags.’
A few minutes later, bundled into the front of the small car with the heater going full pelt and the wipers slicing back and forth, Emma steered them out into the traffic where nothing was going anywhere fast. ‘I’m afraid we’ve hit the rush hour,’ she commented with a sigh.
‘Oh well, I don’t suppose there’s any avoiding it. I hope you’re not in a hurry.’
‘No no, not at all, it’ll just be nice to get home and into the warm.’
‘Oh, that it will. I nearly never left the house today it was so bitter out, but I’m glad I did now, because if I hadn’t the angels would have missed me. Did you see what happened?’
‘It was lovely,’ Emma smiled.
Mrs D was beaming. ‘There’s a thing, isn’t it?’ she sighed happily. ‘I don’t never win nothing, me, and then suddenly this woman comes out of the blue, and I’m being chosen to have everything in my trolley paid for. I hardly knew what to say. That’s like giving me seventy quid. Can you imagine having that much you can just hand it over to a stranger? I can’t wait to tell our Alan, he’ll be tickled to death, he will.’
‘Alan’s your son?’
‘That’s right. He lives up Gloucester way, but he knows about these angels, because he was reading it in the paper when he came down with his family at Christmas. He reckoned it could be a sort of marketing thing that some rich person’s going to end up making a fortune out of, and I suppose he could be right, but you could hardly begrudge them that if they’re being so generous with everyone, could you?’
‘I suppose not,’ Emma agreed. ‘I’d love to know who’s behind it, wouldn’t you?’
‘Oh yes, especially after today, just so’s I could say thank you. Actually, I’ve already decided what I’m going to do with my little windfall. In fact, it couldn’t have come at a better time, because our Amy – that’s my youngest granddaughter – is going to be twenty-one in March. I can get her something a bit special now. She’ll like that. We should all have something special when we turn twenty-one, don’t you think?’
Resisting the urge to squeeze this dear old lady’s hand, Emma found herself thinking of her mother and how she’d probably do the same, and put Lauren and Harry’s two children at the top of her list of beneficiaries should she happen to enjoy an unexpected bonus. Phyllis was definitely a lot better in a grandmother’s role than she’d ever been as a mother.
‘I can’t help wondering how random these selections really are,’ Emma said to Polly on the phone later. ‘Do you reckon whoever’s behind it is in touch with social services, or Age Concern, or someone who can point them in the right direction?’
‘Absolutely no idea,’ Polly replied, ‘except if you go back over the list of winners I don’t think you’ll find everyone is really hard up or about to be thrown out on the streets. There was one woman a few months ago who turned out to be the managing director of a garden centre. To her credit, she doubled the amount she’d saved on her grocery bill and donated something like two hundred quids’ worth of plants and stuff to a local care home. Which just goes to show, what goes around, comes around. At least some of the time. Oh, hang on, that must be the five fifty easyJet from Geneva going over.’
Grimacing and laughing, Emma said, ‘And Billy Fudge, who happens to be on board, is going to be late for the award ceremony he’s attending on behalf of his wife who’s raised thousands for a cancer charity, but whose terminal illness has kept her at home.’
‘Blimey, I didn’t realise the poor woman’s condition had got that serious,’ Polly quipped. ‘Should we drive out to the airport to pick him up?’
‘No, because then we’d have to collect the Willoughby family, who are returning nine days earlier than expected from their ten-day ski trip, because their house has burned down.’
‘Oh God, does anyone on this plane have a happy story?’
‘Luckily, there’s Fabien, who has just landed the lead role in a feature film all being shot in Bath.’
‘Much better. And speaking of jobs, how did things go today?’
Giving in to the urge to refill her wine glass, even though she’d had a large one already, Emma said, ‘Great interviews at two agencies, so now I wait to see what they can set up. Actually, one of them suggested I go on a catering course, which was extremely helpful.’
‘What a cheek. Had she bothered to acquaint herself with your history?’
‘God knows, but maybe what she was saying was that it would help to have some official qualifications. How are things your end?’
‘Well, not too bad. In fact, I might have had a visit from an angel myself today. Not at the supermarket, but here, at home – and he didn’t drop in, he was at the end of the phone. He’s quite a new client actually, his little boy, Taylor, joined us back in October. I’ve never actually met Daddy because it’s always Granny who brings Taylor in, but I know he’s some kind of businessman with a company based in the centre of Bristol.’
‘What about Mummy?’
‘All I can tell you is that Taylor’s daddy – Alistair Wood’s his name – is listed as a single parent, so whether Mummy died or ran off into the blue beyond I’ve no idea. Anyway, I got this call around lunchtime today from said Mr Wood saying how sorry he was to hear that the nursery has bumped up against some difficulties and perhaps we could meet to discuss them?’
Emma was blinking. ‘So is he offering to help in some way?’
‘I’m not sure. I know I should have asked, but I was so taken aback that I didn’t think to ask anything until after he’d rung off.’
‘When are you seeing him?’
‘He’s coming here at seven o’clock next Tuesday. Oh, hang on, Melissa’s shouting something ... She wants to know where to get hold of Lauren tonight. Apparently she’s not answering her mobile.’
‘She’s rehearsing with Donna,’ Emma told her, ‘so I expect they’ve got their phones turned off.’
After relaying the answer Polly returned to the line with, ‘Is she coming home this weekend?’
‘As far as I know I’m picking her up from the train on Saturday morning.’
‘OK, I’ll pass it on when we’ve finished. They’re probably trying to sort out what party, or wine bar, or nightclub they’re going to. So, where were we?’
‘Mr Wood.’
‘That’s right, but actually, moving on from there, something ...’ she paused as another plane roared over Emma’s back garden, ‘something occurred to me this morning that might be of some interest to you.’
‘Go on,’ Emma prompted, emptying half a carton of tomato soup into a pan to start heating it up.
‘Well, a couple of years back there was this series of articles in the local paper about the lives of ordinary Bristolians. It was a young girl who wrote them, I forget her name, but they were really good, kind of relevant and funny, even tragic sometimes. Something happened to her, I can’t remember what it was now, but she ended up moving away. Anyway, the point is, she was going round interviewing people at a time when things weren’t nearly as dire as they are now and there were still stories to be told. So think how many must be out there now.’
‘So what are you suggesting, that I go round knocking on people’s doors asking if they’ll tell me their saddest stories?’
‘Not exactly, or not at first, anyway. What I’m saying is why don’t you get hold of someone at one of the local papers or magazines and offer to write a similar series, on spec, but if they run them they have to pay.’