It Had to Be You

by Lynda Renham

  ‘Oh what a year it’s been! [You can say that again, mine was great up until Christmas Eve.] So let me tell you all about our wonderful life this year. January was a bit of a struggle; Greg broke his thumb and couldn’t work for a couple of weeks. [Oh God no, how absolutely tragic.] It was a tough fortnight and we had to help him out with our savings, poor thing. [Crikey, you should have had my fortnight. I wonder if they have any savings left for me.] February saw me start my much anticipated Pilates class; I’m now a fully qualified Pilates teacher. I feel so blessed. [Pass the sick bag] Tom turned four and we are preparing him for school in September. He has already started playing the piano and has a real talent for music. [Yeah right] In March we whisked the family off on a mini-break to Austria for one-to-one skiing lessons, we felt we deserved it. Our swimming pool dream came true, just in time for summer. We had a lovely party to celebrate which was attended by the local councillor no less. [Deep envy, NOT] We hired private caterers, it made such a difference. A bit more expensive but Greg’s bonus more or less paid for everything, and we give thanks for that. [Ha, my bloody bonus did well too. Paid all of a parking ticket, an overpriced taxi, and a Christmas tree that almost took my eye out. Beat that if you can … But I do give thanks, I think.] In September Gabrielle was offered a place at an all-girls school and now she is the most popular girl of her year. [Bloody lesbian, no doubt] She is doing amazingly well. [I bet] Her teacher predicts all As for her GCSEs, we are so proud. An Oxford graduate if ever there was one. [More sick bags please].

  Are these people for real? Who the hell are they anyway? How can you get letters like this from people you don’t even remember? Maybe I should write my own belated round robin. Yes that’s what I’ll do.

  ‘Hi Everyone,

  I don’t suppose you give a toss but I’ve had a shit year. Things were going well up to Christmas Eve and then my boss decided to give me my Christmas bonus – oh, did I say Christmas bonus? I meant to say Christmas boner. So, this next year will be ‘challenging’ and ‘full of new opportunities’ as I struggle to survive jobless and homeless. Did I say homeless? Yes, that’s because I left my prick of a boyfriend at just about the same time as your little angels were passing their grade three piano exams and getting the school prize for being the best child ever, and not to mention coming out as lesbians at their all-girls school. So, spare a thought for me as your teenage daughter embarks on her gap year mission to feed the starving of Africa, as I will be on a mission to feed myself, and will be en-route to the job centre. And no, I didn’t have a holiday of a lifetime in the Bahamas last year as you all did, nor will I be having one this year. I may have a day trip to Skegness and I give thanks for that, and now you can all sod off. You boasting up your own arse pricks.’

  I sigh heavily and throw all the Christmas cards in the bin without reading them. There’s a limit to how much you can read of other people’s good fortune without tying a noose around your neck isn’t there? Honestly, I was never this bad tempered until Oliver slept with what’s-her-face. I turn off Rosemary Conley, I mean seriously, who wants to look like her anyway? And switch on Jeremy Kyle instead, far more entertaining. It’s always nice to see someone else suffering like you isn’t it? I glance nervously at the bills and breathe a sigh of relief when I see they are not so bad after all. I study another letter curiously. It looks frighteningly official. Oh no, what if my parking ticket payment didn’t go through? The postmark is the 28th December. It’s the 9th January now. I wonder if a relationship break-up counts as mitigating circumstances. Shit, this is all I need. My mouth goes dry as I rip open the letter. If I have to pay out any more money I seriously will have to consider selling my body. I scan the words quickly.

  Dear Miss Grayson,

  Please contact Mr Hayden, of Hayden and Carruthers to discuss your inheritance from Mrs Vera Cramton. The reading of the will is to be heard on the 2nd January at 10.15. We look forward to seeing you.

  Yours Faithfully

  Martin Hayden.

  Oh my God. Great Aunt Vera left me something in her will. That’s just amazing. I mute Jeremy Kyle and grab my mobile with my heart pounding. But I’ve missed the will reading. Hell, why didn’t I read my stupid post? I punch in the solicitor’s number and wait. It seems like forever before anyone answers. Please let it be money. I don’t care if it’s not a lot, just a little will help right now. Maybe my luck is finally changing.

  ‘Hayden and Carruthers, solicitors of repute, Samantha speaking, good afternoon, how can I help you today?’ says a woman in a squeaky voice.

  Blimey, that was a long speech. I’ve almost forgotten what I was going to say.

  ‘Hello, can I speak to Mr Hayden please?’

  ‘What is it concerning?’ she asks sweetly.

  ‘I’ve received a letter from you …’

  ‘Reference number please?’

  ‘I’m sorry, what,’ I say, quickly scanning the letter for a number and feeling the first stirrings of panic.

  ‘I can’t see one but …’

  ‘Just putting you on hold, are you okay to hold?’

  Well no I’m not. I’m very anxious actually, but before I can reply there is a click and I’m listening to music. Correction, I’m listening to something, but I wouldn’t have the gall to call it music. It’s that drive you to despair stuff that should be banned. It’s seriously criminal. I’m sure they play it in the hope you’ll hang up before they get back to you. You can almost hear them saying, ‘Another one bites the dust’. They can’t even play it at the right speed. I crush a cheese biscuit between my fingers and feel my teeth grind. Seriously, if it wasn’t for the fact that I may be inheriting a fortune I would hang up. The music sounds like it is coming from an old gramophone with a slow turntable. It’s excruciating, it really is. It’s the music you hear at a crematorium service, you know, at that moment when someone’s coffin goes through the curtains. That painful moment when you want the whole thing to be over and, just in case you don’t seem upset enough, they play this music to induce the tears. My heart races and I feel sick. I feel my finger hover over the off button on the phone. If I wasn’t depressed when I made this call I will be soon. There is a click.

  ‘All our operators are busy at the moment. Your call is important to us, please hold,’ chirps a slightly robotic voice.

  Yeah right. And back to the droning music.

  ‘Hayden and Carruthers, solicitors of repute, Samantha speaking, good afternoon, how can I help you today?’

  Déjà vu or what?

  ‘Hi Samantha, you had me on hold. It felt a bit like a pre-execution dinner to be honest.’

  ‘Oh yes, do you have your reference number?’

  She’s totally ignored me.

  ‘No, there isn’t one actually. I have …’

  ‘There is always a reference number, right at the top of the letter.’ she says abruptly.

  I feel the hairs on the back of my neck bristle.

  ‘I assure you Samantha, there is no reference number,’ I say firmly.

  Silence and then,

  ‘You’re sure the letter is from us?’

  Does she think I’m some kind of dimwit?

  ‘The letter has your name on it,’ I say.

  ‘My name?’ she asks puzzled.

  ‘Not you personally, but the solicitor’s name …’

  I’m beginning to wish I had never started this.

  ‘And your name is?’

  I’m so tempted to say Lady Gaga.

  ‘Binki Grayson.’

  ‘Binki did you say?’ she repeats.

  Blimey she recognises me. It must be millions that Aunty Vera has left me. Wait till I tell Muffy.

  ‘Yes, that’s …’

  ‘That’s an odd name.’

  What a cheek.

  ‘I say, you’re not …’

  ‘No I’m not. It’s Binki with an …’

  ‘Oh, are you okay to hold?’

  ‘No,’ I shout.

  Click and I’m b
ack in the crematorium. I’ll be stabbing myself soon. I groan and the phone clicks again just as the television automatically turns Jeremy Kyle back on.

  ‘So you’ve slept with fifteen of your fiancé’s friends?’ shouts Jeremy to a spotted face woman.

  I don’t believe this.

  ‘Hello, Miss Grayson?’

  I wonder if I should explain that it isn’t me that has slept with fifteen of my fiancé’s friends.

  ‘Yes,’ I answer quietly, thinking it best not to get on the wrong side of her.

  ‘Putting you through to Mr Hayden now.’

  Thank goodness. Another click and there is a male voice.

  ‘Miss Grayson? I’m pleased to hear from you. We were thinking you had perhaps gone away for Christmas.’

  ‘Something like that,’ I laugh.

  ‘Right, let me have a look at what we have for you,’ he says thoughtfully.

  I cross everything and say a quick prayer.

  ‘Ah yes, I remember. Mrs Vera Cramton.’

  I hear a rustle of papers.

  ‘Here we are. Yes, your great aunt has left you Driftwood.’

  I don’t want to seem ungrateful but what did Aunty Vera expect me to do with an old plank of wood?

  ‘Driftwood,’ I say feeling my heart sink.

  ‘We have the key if you would care to collect it. If you could bring your passport, we can hand it over.’

  ‘Key?’ I echo.

  He laughs.

  ‘To the property. Driftwood is a house just on the outskirts of Hampstead Heath. Lovely name don’t you think?’

  ‘Great Aunty Vera has left me a house, are you sure?’ I ask.

  ‘There’s no mistake. If you could bring your driving licence if you don’t have a passport.’

  What a cheek, of course I have a passport. I’m a woman of the world after all. A property in Hampstead Heath? Oh my God. I never even knew Great Aunty Vera had a house. She never mentioned it. Thank you, thank you so much Aunty Vera. It is bound to be worth at least a hundred thousand, if not more. I can barely control my excitement and have to fight back a scream.

  ‘Yes yes of course. Is it a large house?’

  ‘I don’t have those details I’m afraid.’

  Oh well, it’s a property. He didn’t say caravan did he?

  I arrange to pick up the key tomorrow. I click off the phone and cheer. I feel vindicated. I call my hairdresser Wesley, and book myself an appointment for the morning. Oh yes, I am a woman of property now. Stick that up your arse Oliver Weber.

  Chapter Seven

  My exuberance is quickly dampened by Muffy and totally quenched by my mother.

  ‘It’s probably a complete dump,’ says Muffy, chopping a green pepper.

  I’m sure they were happier when I was falling apart. I was just starting to get a new perspective on everything too. This could be a turning point for me but oh no, not according to Muffy and Mother.

  ‘Yes, she is probably right darling,’ agrees Mother as she cleans up behind Muffy.

  I wouldn’t mind but it isn’t even her kitchen. Honestly, talk about dissing the first bit of good luck that comes my way.

  ‘It may not be,’ I say while feeling a little twinge of doubt.

  Supposing they are right and it is just a dump? No one seems to know about this house that Great Aunty Vera apparently owned. It will probably turn out to be a tiny tumbled down studio apartment in the back streets, well that’s not so bad is it? It’s more than I have at the moment, and I can always sell it.

  ‘She never said a word about a house. Mind you, she was very secretive. Even your gran doesn’t know about it and she was her sister. I can’t for the life of me fathom why she left it to you though,’ mumbles Mum while emptying the dishwasher. God, I so wish she would sit still for five minutes.

  ‘Gran can barely remember me,’ I scoff. ‘So we can’t really take anything she says as gospel.’

  ‘Well, that’s true,’ quips Dad from behind the paper. ‘And you did visit her from time to time when you were younger. She probably had no one else to leave it to. Old people do that kind of thing don’t they? At least she didn’t leave it to her cats.’

  ‘You see,’ I say triumphantly. ‘I’m the youngest relative she had and she wanted someone to make the most of it.’

  ‘Well I don’t know why she rented a flat in Knightsbridge if she owned a house.’

  ‘Perhaps it was an investment and she rented it out,’ I venture.

  ‘We’re only trying to prepare you, just in case,’ says Muffy. ‘You don’t want to get a shock. Not another one.’

  Thanks for reminding me.

  ‘But you should still get your hair done,’ says Mum tactfully, taking the salad into the living room. ‘Just in case you meet a nice man.’

  ‘Men are off limits,’ snaps Muffy. ‘Don’t even go there. Isn’t that right Binki?’

  I nod and think of Oliver. I wonder if he will ask for my half of the rent now that I have moved out.

  ‘Just be prepared is all we’re saying, just in case it is a pile of rubbish,’ says Dad.

  For goodness’ sake, not my dad too.

  ‘Can’t one of you be positive about this? It might be a really nice house that I can sell for a good price.’

  ‘Can’t think why we didn’t know about it then,’ says Mum, gently dusting breadcrumbs from the table.

  I give up.

  ‘Anyway, at least you’re getting your hair done,’ says Mum. ‘That’s good.’

  I really do give up.

  *

  ‘Where have you been chérie?’ cries Wesley. ‘I thought you had died or something worse.’

  Is there anything worse than dying I wonder? The wonderful fresh smell of shampoo and hairspray reaches my grateful nostrils. You have to admit there is nothing like a bit of pampering is there? I shall emerge looking like Pretty Woman. If only I had her spending power, now that would be cheering. Wesley gingerly touches my shoulder-length blonde hair and pulls a face.

  ‘You look like you’ve been reincarnated as a horror film heroine,’ he says bluntly.

  ‘That’s a bit unfair,’ I grumble.

  ‘Tsk, what have you been using, Lincoln Beer shampoo, or simply beer? I don’t know if I can do anything with this. Anyway this is my battle, come along, come along. If Wesley Dumont cannot make you beautiful then no one can.’

  With a swish, in the manner of Derren Brown, he produces a robe and I glide into it. Oh, a bit of luxury. It feels so good. I’m gently led to a chair and within seconds I am surrounded by helpful trainees offering me Hello! magazines, coffee and biscuits. I’m stuck in front of a mirror and forced to confront myself. I look at my reflection in horror. I’ve developed lines and my eyes are all puffy and swollen. It’s all this crying and emotional stress, either that or it’s the bad lighting in here. I wonder how Oliver looks. He’s probably too busy to give me a second thought. No, that’s not true, he has been texting me every day. I really should answer him. I wonder if he’s got lines. He certainly won’t have puffy eyes. I can’t imagine Oliver crying all day somehow. He says I’m overreacting. My God, what a nerve, I mean it’s not like I found him masturbating on the loo is it? That would have been shocking enough, but I found him humping some bimbo with a look of ecstatic pleasure on his face. I shudder at the memory. Maybe I should put it behind me, but then every time he has a work do, or goes out with his mates I’m going to think he is with Brown Nipples again aren’t I? Anyway, I don’t know if I could have sex with him again knowing it has been, well, you know where? And who knows what she’s got, apart from huge nipples, and voluptuous hair. I wouldn’t mind some of her looks but I don’t particularly want her brand of chlamydia, thank you very much.

  ‘Mince pie?’ asks Lucy. ‘We’ve got tons over from Christmas?’

  I grab two and stuff one into my mouth. What if he’s been with her before? I may already have her brand of chlamydia. Why was he humping her anyway? It’s not like I said no that oft
en, apart from the suspenders and the saucy sailor outfit. Well, I looked ridiculous. I felt like something out of a cheap porno film and Oliver dressed as a pirate rather dried up any sexual juices I may have produced and I felt like we were in an X-rated version of Pirates of the Caribbean.