Divas Don't Knit

by Gil McNeil

  ‘I’ll tell him.’

  ‘I’m not joking.’

  ‘I know you’re not. That’s the best bit.’

  They both laugh.

  Blimey. It sounds like Sven might be in for quite a trying morning.

  We go downstairs to the room with the green velvet sofas, and Maxine brings in some tea and we sit looking at baby-blanket patterns, and it all gets rather bizarre; sitting talking about knitting with someone wearing a ball gown, with curlers in her hair and a fortune in diamonds hanging round her neck. She decides on a very simple pattern of knitted squares with a garter-stitch border, and starts looking at colours.

  ‘These two are pretty together.’

  She holds up the coffee and the caramel.

  ‘Let’s start with the coffee.’

  I show her how to cast on, and she concentrates, watching me closely, and then puts her hands in exactly the same position as mine.

  ‘Like this?’

  ‘Perfect. You’re a really quick learner.’

  She smiles. ‘What do I do next?’

  ‘I’ll show you how to do a knit stitch – it’s the basic stitch that everything else is built on. It’s really easy.’

  She’s done nearly four rows when Daniel comes in, looking very chirpy.

  ‘We’re ready whenever you are, angel.’

  ‘I just need to finish this row.’

  ‘What are you making?’

  ‘A blanket for the baby.’

  ‘Great colours.’

  He winks at me.

  ‘There, I’m done.’ She hands her knitting back to me and turns to Daniel. ‘Five minutes?’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Is Sven up there?’

  ‘Yup, ready and trembling.’

  ‘Good. Come up with me, Jo, and I can do some more while he takes these rollers out.’

  Half an hour later we’re outside by the lake and she’s sitting knitting on the stone steps, in a kind of cloud of bronze silk which is reflected in the water, with her feet bare, looking absolutely stunning. She must be freezing, but you’d never know it: she looks completely relaxed, without even the faintest hint of the fixed serial-killer-grin most of us end up with in photographs. And even though you know it’s her job, it’s still incredibly impressive, especially with so many people watching her and darting forwards to tweak her hair or make-up.

  ‘That’s gorgeous, angel. Just look down a bit.’

  She looks down.

  ‘I’ll be out of the top of this dress any minute. Being pregnant certainly does wonders for your cleavage.’

  Daniel laughs. ‘So I can see. Move the knitting to the left, just a bit … bit more. Perfect.’

  She carries on knitting but glances up occasionally. She’s got something on her cheeks which catches the light.

  ‘Beautiful.’

  She smiles.

  The magazine people are all in a huddle, nodding and looking very chic in various shades of black and grey; I think you must have to be anorexic to work on fashion in magazines, so I’m trying not to stand too close to them. They’re not particularly friendly, especially Stella, who I think is the boss because Ed keeps getting her glasses of water and generally fussing round her, and she keeps summoning Daniel for little chats. She gave me a quick but very thorough once-over when I arrived, but I don’t think she was terribly impressed with my Look. I thought my Aran cardigan would be perfect for standing around outside in the cold, even if it has gone rather baggy, but now I just feel like I’m a one-woman tribute to Starsky and Hutch.

  ‘Let’s try the rowing boat. We’ve set it up on the lawn, round by the trees.’

  There’s an ancient bleached grey boat propped up on the lawn, with the house behind it, surrounded by silver reflectors, with a rather anxious-looking Bruno standing to one side, but Grace doesn’t seem the least bit thrown by being asked to get into a boat in the middle of her lawn, and climbs in without a murmur. The boat wobbles and tilts, and Tony and Bruno rush forwards, but it settles and Grace sits down.

  ‘Great. I love it. Just let me check the light.’

  ‘Jo, can you come here a minute?’

  Daniel and Tony are moving umbrellas, adjusting the tripod, and peering at light meters.

  Grace hands me her knitting. ‘It’s gone wrong.’

  ‘You’ve just dropped a stitch, here, that’s all.’ I pick it back up for her.

  ‘Thanks. Christ, I’m fucking freezing.’

  ‘Shall I get you a shawl or something?’

  ‘No, just give me your cardigan for a minute.’

  I take it off and wrap it round her shoulders.

  ‘It came out bigger than I wanted it to.’

  ‘Did you make it? God, how long did that take you?’

  ‘Not long – it was on big needles. But Archie adopted it, he liked wrapping himself up in it while he watched telly and putting his legs down the sleeves, which hasn’t helped.’

  She laughs and the boat rocks slightly. ‘You must bring your kids round sometime. I’d like to meet them.’

  Daniel comes over.

  ‘Ready when you are, angel. Will you be wearing that, then?’

  ‘Sadly, no.’

  He grins.

  The sun keeps coming out and then going back in again, which makes Daniel swear and swap cameras, but finally he’s finished and we all go inside for coffee and mini-croissants which Sam’s just made, along with almond pastries and plates of fruit. The magazine people look at the pastries with varying degrees of longing, but nobody actually eats anything, apart from me and Tony, who wolf them down. Grace is upstairs getting into her next outfit, and Daniel’s on the phone, arguing with someone in Paris.

  ‘If you wanted to crop my stuff you should have fucking asked.’

  Tony rolls his eyes. ‘They never learn.’

  Grace comes in, wearing layers of white beaded silk and beautiful soft white trousers.

  ‘I can’t do these bloody trousers up; Gwen’s had to cut a chunk out of the waistband.’ She puts a hand across her tummy. ‘And it’s only going to get worse.’

  Actually, she does look slightly more pregnant today.

  ‘Sam, can I have one of my teas please, darling?’

  ‘Coming right up.’ He passes her a tiny almond pastry.

  ‘Great. My favourite.’

  Ed comes over to us. He’s been standing with Stella, but she’s gathered her troops around her and they’re all busy writing things down in smart leather notebooks.

  ‘It’s going brilliantly isn’t it? And you looked amazing, darling, bloody amazing. And very calm, which makes a nice change.’

  She flicks a flake of pastry at him. ‘I think it’s the knitting – it’s really helping me to zone out.’

  ‘Let’s put it in all our contracts, then, and Jo can be on standby. She can be like our horse whisperer.’

  ‘So what does that make me then? Fucking Red Rum?’

  ‘Fabulous legs, highly strung, loves winning things. Sounds spot on to me.’

  She puts her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You’re like the opposite of a horse whisperer, did you know that, Ed? Every time you open your mouth I want to kick you.’

  He turns and kisses her hand as Maxine comes over.

  ‘They’re ready whenever you are.’

  ‘Right. Tell them five minutes.’ She sips her tea. ‘So remind me, it’s Emily Pankhurst, right?’

  Ed nods.

  ‘And Simone de Beauvoir.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right. Christ, I hate fucking interviews.’

  She turns and smiles. It’s really strange; she seems perfectly normal and then she’ll move or smile in a certain way and you suddenly remember who she is, which is a shock, every single time.

  ‘Thanks very much, Jo. Let’s fix up another session soon – talk to Max. Right, Ed, let’s get this over with, shall we? And no pulling faces like you did last time.’

  ‘I’m sorry but she was so stupid
I couldn’t help it. “When did you first realise you were beautiful?” Please.’

  Grace laughs.

  Maxine starts to gather up the cups so I collect the ones on the window sill along with some plates of half-eaten fruit and put them in the kitchen.

  ‘Thanks. Have you got your diary with you?’

  ‘Yes, it’s in my bag. Actually, where is my bag?’

  ‘In my office – you left it in the living room. I’ll just finish up in here and then we can go and get it.’

  ‘Are you off, then?’ Daniel hands his phone to Tony.

  ‘Yes, in a minute.’

  He takes a step forward, but Tony mutters something about bandits at twelve o’clock, and nods towards Stella, who looks like she might be wanting another little word. He sighs, and smiles, and there’s a faint hint of something, a sort of mini-frisson as I start gathering up more cups, but I’ve got no idea what it means; he’s probably just being friendly, or he’s going to ask me for Ellen’s number or something, I’m totally out of practice at this coded conversation stuff, I lost my decoder a long time ago, and it was never that reliable in the first place. Someone can ask Ellen out for a drink and she’ll instantly translate this into either I’d like to rearrange all your clothing in a non-Trinny and Susannah kind of way, or I’d like to talk about work. And she’s nearly always right, whereas I was always getting it wrong before I met Nick, particularly at university, where I crashed and burned so many times I practically gave up. But with Nick it was different. He asked me out for a drink, and pretty much never went back to his flat again, except to collect his clothes.

  ‘I hope you have a great time in Venice.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He smiles, but Stella’s hovering now, looking very irritated.

  ‘Daniel, could I have a word?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He winks at me, and Tony hands him a coffee as I follow Maxine to her office, which is at the side of the house. It all seems very organised, with a year planner up on the wall covered in neat black writing.

  ‘It must be quite a job keeping track of everything.’

  ‘Yes, sometimes.’

  ‘What was that about Emily Pankhurst and Simone de Beauvoir, with Ed? If you’re allowed to say, of course, I don’t want to know anything that’s confidential or anything.’

  She smiles.

  ‘Ed sits in on most of her interviews; we always have copy approval but it’s useful to have someone with her, and she was checking what she’s going to cover; what’s already out there, what we’re giving them that’s new, that kind of thing. They’re both scripts she’s talking about at the moment.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well I’ll definitely go and see them, if she does them.’

  ‘They’re pitching the French one as the Bogart and Bacall of existentialism.’

  ‘I bet Jean-Paul Sartre would be thrilled.’

  She laughs. ‘Probably not, he sounds like a right bastard in the script. Did you know he left his whole estate to some other woman when he died.’

  ‘Did he? How bloody typical.’

  She smiles. ‘So, what about next Friday? We’re away until Wednesday, but Friday would work, around ten.’

  ‘That would be lovely. Should I bring anything, apart from more wool?’

  ‘Whatever you think. She tends to really go for things when she gets into them, so bring extra, and we’ll pay you, of course, for your time and everything. I’ll send you a letter. We ask everybody to sign a confidentiality agreement. I hope that’s not a problem?’

  She’s gone all steely again.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Good. Do you have a day rate?’

  ‘Not exactly. It won’t be the whole day, anyway, will it?’

  ‘Probably not, but I’ll check with Ed and we’ll come up with something for you.’

  ‘That would be great. And I meant to ask you, can I say something, in the shop I mean, about the shawls? That wouldn’t breach confidentiality, would it?’

  ‘No, that’s fine, you can say she bought them. But if the press ask you about anything else we need you to put them onto me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Great. We’ll see you on Friday, then.’

  Ellen’s watching telly when I get home, and looking much perkier than when I last saw her.

  ‘I’ve got a bottle of champagne in the fridge. I thought we could celebrate.’

  ‘Celebrate what?’

  ‘Your glorious new career. How was it?’

  ‘Extraordinary. She’s so beautiful it’s almost as if she’s not real, and then suddenly she’s normal again.’

  ‘Top moment?’

  ‘Watching her knitting in a rowing boat in the middle of the lawn.’

  ‘Sounds very Special. How was Daniel?’

  ‘Very busy, I didn’t talk to him much.’

  ‘You idiot.’

  ‘Ellen, seriously, I’m sure he was just being friendly last night.’

  ‘Maybe. We’ll see.’

  ‘They’ve asked me to go back next week for another knitting session, and she’s started on a baby blanket and she really seems to like it’.

  ‘Well, I’ll drink to that, and there’s something else we can be celebrating too, because they’ve found my weirdo stalker. And guess what? It was bloody Gary.’

  ‘Security Gary? Christ.’

  ‘I know. He was asking why I wasn’t in, Jess rang and told me all about it. He wanted to know where I was apparently, and Brian got suspicious and asked why he was so interested, and Gary punched him. God, I wish I’d been there. His nose was bleeding and everything, Jess said it was brilliant. And then he ran off.’

  ‘Have they found him yet?’

  I think I might go and double-lock the front door.

  ‘Yes, the silly sod just went home – hardly master-criminal behaviour, is it? And then he hit two policemen, so he’s in custody, and they reckon he won’t get bail. They take it really seriously when it’s police officers you’re popping. So it’s all sorted.’

  ‘Thank God.’

  ‘That’s got to be worth a glass of champagne, don’t you think?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘So, about the Bitching thing tonight, is there some kind of initiation ceremony? Do you have to unravel a ball of wool and sing a special song while you stab yourself in the leg with a knitting needle, or anything like that?’

  ‘No, but we’ll make an exception for you, if you like. And no swearing if Olivia’s there, because she’s only sixteen.’

  ‘Then she probably knows more swear words than I do.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t think her mother would appreciate you running through them with her.’

  ‘Who’s the quiet one again?’

  ‘Angela Prentice.’

  ‘I’ll concentrate on her then.’

  ‘She’s very shy; she hardly speaks at all really.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that, I’ll soon get her out of her shell. I’m very good with shy people.’

  Oh dear. I think Angela might be needing more than a piece of cake and a sip of wine tonight. Actually, I think we all will.

  Chapter Six

  Trick or Treat

  The weather’s gone absolutely freezing, with thick frost every morning, and the radiator in my bedroom doesn’t really work so I’m sleeping with two duvets and a woolly hat. But when I woke up this morning I was boiling hot and breathless, like I’d hurtled straight into menopausal hot flushing, which wasn’t exactly encouraging, until I realised I’d left my electric blanket on all bloody night. And feeling like you’ve been parboiled isn’t the ideal way to start the school run, and I forget Jack’s PE bag so we have to walk back to get it, which makes us late. So all in all it’s been a sod of a morning, and it’s only five to ten.

  I’m standing behind the counter in the shop surrounded by pom-poms and knitted leaves for the window, trying to write a list of Things to Do Today without hyperventilating. Elsie’s gone
right over the top on the pom-pom front, and now she’s moved on to knitting a Christmas tree, like one she saw in a magazine made from lots of little sleeves, in different shades of green, and she keeps muttering about fairy lights, because she says it’ll be Christmas before we know it and she wants to get a head start. Christ, I wish I could get a head start on something – anything really – instead of feeling on the brink of total chaos all the time. The past few weeks have been manic. Grace has finished her baby blanket, and I’ve knitted the border for her and done all the sewing up, and now she’s making a baby cardigan while she’s in Paris having meetings about the Simone de Beauvoir film. And Ellen’s texting me daily because Harry’s jumper keeps going wrong, and she snapped one of her bamboo knitting needles, and had an altercation with the assistant in John Lewis because they’d run out of the size she needed, so I had to post some to her at work, which meant queuing up in the post office on Pension Day which took ages because everybody chats.

  The local paper have done a piece on the shop, with a picture of the shawl Grace bought, unfortunately modelled by Elsie over the top of her mad cardigan: she was so desperate to be in the picture I just couldn’t stop her. But despite the mortifying photographs we’ve still had lots of new people coming into the shop, some from as far away at Maidstone, which is all very gratifying, and we’ve been pretty busy, although there are days when we only have three customers and one of them is Mrs Marwell, who comes in for a biscuit and a quick sift through the charity basket. Ellen’s badgering me to contact more papers and magazines, but I’m putting it off until after Jack’s birthday party, when I can either work out a way to persuade Elsie not to wear her bloody cardigan again, or work out how to keep her out of the shop for a day or two; maybe Martin can help me with that. He’s nearly finished the shelves, which look great, although he still wants to give them another coat of wax according to Elsie, but he’s away on a training course in Coventry so he’ll do it when he’s back.

  I’m about to make a start on the new window display, after threading pom-poms onto transparent nylon thread, and stabbing myself in the finger repeatedly in the process, when Gran arrives. She’s wearing her Big Coat, which makes her look about three feet wider than she actually is.