I reached between us, slipped the chocolate buttons from her hammy clutch and popped one into my mouth.
New scenes arrived the next morning. People snatched them from the ADs and gasps reverberated round the room as they flicked through the scripts and noted the changes. Scott’s scenes were rewritten so they could be blocked in such a way that we never saw his lower left leg. Many scenes had to be cut and most were compromised. The head of costume tossed her script to the floor and ran off in tears. Art department members said it was impossible and went outside to smoke and scuff their retro Doc Martens in the driveway shingle. The director got on the phone and yelled at LA.
For the next two days we only filmed until lunch and the afternoons were given over to the crew to implement the changes. It called an end to Scott Vander’s parties as cast and crew spent their evenings prepping the amendments. Joe kept me entertained by reading my teenage poetry in funny voices to my mobile’s message service. He still hadn’t gone back to work, but apparently my vegetable garden was flourishing and anyway, he was too busy taking afternoon tea and scones with Harriet, Arthur and Brutus in the burgeoning warm weather. I hadn’t had much news on the Ned and Sophie front, except for another delivery from Sophie – cheese this time (calcium for baby’s bones) – which Joe had the good sense to get rid of (eat immediately), but that could have been because Douglas was busy with his new girlfriend Jemima and Helen was getting fit for the summer by taking home boys in their early twenties and bonking their student brains out. I still hadn’t spoken to Alex. I’d realised that Cal’s ‘kind’ offer had hurt. It meant that while they were busy planning their perfect wedding and perfect future they were also judging my life choices. Probably measuring their lives against mine and giving each other slow pitying shakes of the head.
Mum was in Buenos Aires sourcing furniture for the homes of the rich but it didn’t stop her texting me drivel to the tune of:
I had a dream last night you were having a girl.
But it means nothing because I also dreamt I
got a fringe and I would NEVER do that.
Then two minutes later:
I’m still a little teary about it.
Thirty seconds later:
I would look awful with a fringe.
A week later normal filming days resumed and everyone was bumping along as before, just a little more tired and a little more grouchy. Except me. I was having a fabulous time. And it was entirely down to that grainy incriminating photo. If I felt partial to a KitKat, I had only to tap my phone on my chin and raise my eyebrows in the direction of Martha’s on-set rucksack. If the director needed another take and we were out of official ‘on-set child hours’, I’d waggle my phone in Martha’s direction and she’d shut her protesting yap-hole and nod a begrudging assent. I helped myself to her crisps; I let the kids watch Looney Tunes during dinner; I chatted with Claire and Caroline during lighting set-ups instead of making Archie run his word-perfect lines over and over till they lost all meaning. And I ate dinner with the crew every night which had the additional bonus of Martha being unable to pick up alcoholically impaired crew-members so therefore had blissfully silent nights. There were no more dawn walks round the lake; no more end-of-week reviews about how terrible I was.
‘Without that photo you have nothing,’ she whispered to me one day at the end of the catering table by the sauces and dressings. ‘You’d better sleep with your phone because I will get hold of it. And when I do—’
‘You’ll do nothing, right?’ I said pleasantly, like we were simply discussing the recent change in season. ‘Because you’ll realise I would’ve already emailed it to my friends and myself for safekeeping.’
Martha pinched her lips into a tight circle, gripped the tomato ketchup and mumbled vicious incantations. I floated away from the sauces and settled at a lunch table next to Archie, who was attacking his steak with a knife and making zombie cat noises while Tilly giggled next to him.
‘What’s new with you?’ Andrew sat down at our table with his carb-free lunch.
‘Nothing much. I’m still researching a way of giving birth that requires no ripping or slicing and will leave my body in the exact same shape it was prior to all this . . .’ I waggled my fingers over my body ‘. . . stretching.’
‘Good luck with that.’
‘And there’s the dread of trans-seasonal dressing to overcome.’
‘It does seem a major hurdle to happiness,’ he said, laughing.
‘When you have my mother it’s a very serious matter.’ I pulled out my phone and scrolled. ‘This is from her last week.’ I affected my mother’s voice. “Darling. It’s officially spring. Please tell me you are not thinking about three-quarter trousers”.’
Andrew popped some undressed salad into his mouth and grinned.
‘I replied: “I’ll roll my jeans up”. Then she sent: “Footwear?” Then again: “And don’t say Birkenstocks”. Me: “Birkenstocks”. Her: “You have no mother”. And it goes on and on and on – and on.’
I passed Andrew my phone and he scrolled down, chuckling. His thumb had a clean, wide fingernail the shape of a flat clam. It was a sexy thumb.
‘Who’s Joe?’ he said after a few moments.
‘Oh, he lives with me.’
Andrew raised an eyebrow.
‘Not like that,’ I said. ‘He’s a lodger. Just temporarily.’
‘Oh really.’ Andrew said in a dubious tone. ‘Then what’s with this text?’
I looked at the phone and giggled. ‘It’s a joke.’ I took the phone back and enjoyed the split second my fingers grazed the sexy thumb. ‘He pretends to wear my underwear.’
‘Riiiight.’
‘Really!’
‘From the look of some of those texts I’d say he has a thing for you.’
‘You’re probably right. I sometimes forget how irresistible I am right now.’
Andrew shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Some people find the pregnant state very attractive.’
‘Only the weirdos. I look like a giant butternut squash.’
Andrew let out a burst of laughter.
‘But I’ll take the attractive bit if you insist.’
‘I do,’ he said with a grin.
In our last week at Bradley Manor I got a phone call from Joe.
‘What does the Tooth Witch look like?’
We’d long passed the point of ‘hello’, ‘how are you’, ‘I’m fine, and you?’ and went directly to the core of conversation.
‘What?’ I said, trying to pull my maternity jeans over my bump while cradling my phone between ear and shoulder.
‘The Tooth Witch? From your poem. What does she look like? Because I had a dream about her last night and I think she has long white hair and straggly—’
‘Joe?’
‘Yuh?’
‘You need to go back to work.’
‘I can’t. I’m still being sad.’
‘You sound fine to me.’ I stood in front of the mirror waiting to get off the phone so I could put my top on.
The stretchy fabric of my maternity jeans now hugged the bottom of my bump like a Lycra sling instead of being able to be coaxed over it. My maternity bra looked as if it had been modelled off the first bra ever invented. It was technical and unattractive and otherworldly, like an intergalactic breastplate. Boob armour for the well-endowed Stormtrooper.
‘We could go into business together,’ Joe suggested.
‘Doing what?’
‘Children’s books. You write the poems and I do the graphics. My mum thinks it’s a great idea. And I’ve got this plan for the “Button to Lovely Land” image.’
‘For god’s sake.’ Archie was due in Wardrobe in a couple of minutes and I still had the mammoth task of putting on my own socks. In my large state it was an increasingly difficult operation. I’d found an ingenious way of getting into my knickers: I held them with the tips of my fingers, spun them to get momentum and sort of lassoed them round my foot. But sock appli
cation was proving not as easily cracked, and I needed to devote some proper time to the activity. ‘I don’t even write poems any more.’
‘But you could,’ he said hopefully. ‘Anyway, there’s heaps here we could start with. Like the “Mushroom Men” one. Now, where is it? I had it a minute ago . . .’
‘Joe . . .’ I sighed. I heard him rustling pages.
‘It’s not far away . . . Yes, hang on, I left it in the bathroom.’ Joe’s footsteps echoed down the phone.
‘Ew! You were reading my poems on the toilet?’
‘No. I was in the bath.’
‘Did you use the bath oils my mum sent?’
‘Yes. Very relaxing.’
I sniggered. ‘They’re to soften my cervix.’
Joe was silent.
‘Joe?’
‘I feel violated.’
I laughed. ‘Maybe you should stop going through my stuff and get on with some work.’
‘All right.’ Joe sighed. ‘But will you at least think about the children’s book idea?’
‘No.’
‘Glad to see you’re open-minded.’ He sniffed.
‘Gotta go, Joe. To work. Like you should be. Bye!’
I did still write poems. Like the one I’d scrawled on the back of my script just the day before.
Martha oh Martha ate all of the pies
Most of us hope that she fucks off and dies
She stuffs her face silly
Rides every willy
And crushes men tightly in her cottage cheese thighs.
Poet Laureate material it was not, but it kept me entertained.
At the end of a very frustrating day (the chihuahuas refused to run after the campers and instead took to humping each other), while I sat on the sofa, the kids in bed, tapping away on a very important, highbrow document (I was emailing Helen about how much I hated Martha), Joe rang on skype. I clicked the answer button and Joe’s grinning face appeared.
‘Hey!’ he said.
‘Hi.’
‘Whatcha doin’?’
‘You’re bored, aren’t you?’
‘Never! There’s heaps to do here. Did you know your grandma had a Mills and Boon collection? What a grubby little grandma you had.’
‘Those are mine, and will you stay out of my bedroom.’ So accustomed was I to Joe’s upfront nosiness, my body declined to blush.
‘Oh really?’ he said, waggling a single eyebrow.
‘Is that why you called? To talk about throbbing members? Because if you want I can say the word “moist” over and over. Moist, moist, moist—’
‘OK, stop!’ He laughed.
‘Moist, moist, moist—’
Joe threw his hands over his ears. ‘LA LA LA LA – CAN’T HEAR YOU. LA LA LA—’
‘Moist, moist—’
Martha walked into the room.
‘Your skype sex technique is pathetic,’ she said, and continued her lumber down the hall.
I blushed.
‘OK, I’m stopping.’
‘LA LA LA LA . . .’
I waved my arms. ‘Joe! I’ve stopped.’
He dropped his hands and listened. ‘You’re done being gross?’
‘Done. Yes.’
‘OK, good. Because I actually called to tell you a courier dropped off a freezer box for you today.’
‘Another meat pack?’
He got up from the kitchen table, walked to the freezer and took out a plain white plastic tub. Like a big yoghurt container without a label.
‘No.’ He held it up, a knowing look on his face. ‘Ice cream.’ My jovial mood departed.
‘And it came with a note.’ He sat back down in front of the screen and reached for something out of view. ‘It says,’ he read from a piece of paper, ‘that this flavour is Salted Whisky Caramel, inspired by the “wicked” sauce you used to make.’ Joe looked up from the note. ‘How come you never make me that sauce?’
I chewed on my inner cheek.
‘Your mother said Ned had sold the vans,’ he said after a beat of contemplation.
‘I lied.’
‘He’s paid you back, though? And you’ve paid your Mum?’
‘No. That’s where your rent money goes.’
‘You’re lying to your mother.’ From atop his self-constructed pedestal he gave a sanctimonious tut-tut.
‘Yeah, well . . .’ I did not need a lecture from Mr Nosy Pants. I scrambled for an excellent defence. ‘You’re . . . scared of spiders.’
‘I’m going to ignore that pitiful argument – you’ll be embarrassed about it later.’ He stood, moved across the kitchen, opened a drawer and returned with a spoon.
‘Might I suggest,’ he sat back down in front of the screen, ‘that you still have feelings for Ned?’
I was most put out. ‘No, you may not!’
‘Then why are you protecting him? And compromising yourself?’
Why was I? I owed him nothing except maybe a very large invoice. It was just . . . Ned had such passion for these ideas. And even though none of them had worked and most were wholly implausible (starting a ‘pop-up’ rescue duck sanctuary in our back garden being one that sprang to mind) I was stirred by his conviction. Ned had ideas. And he acted on them. Lots of people had ideas. Lots of people spoke about them. Not very many acted. It dawned on me – and shocked me to realise – that I was sort of proud of him.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I know I should be demanding my money back and not lying to my mother, blah blah blah,’ I flapped my hands around. ‘And I know I should be worried about the future and of course I am, I mean, I’ve only just started saving again and I’m trained in nothing except being a Second AD, which is really not a suitable job for a parent, let alone a single one. So I should get my money back and get on with my life, but . . .’ I slumped my shoulders.
Joe waited.
‘I can’t take it away from him now,’ I said. ‘He’s achieving his dream. Finally.’
Joe watched me twiddle with my fingers. ‘What’s your dream?’
‘Umm.’ I frowned.
For life to be easy. For it to travel in a straight line for a while. Just so I can see what’s on the horizon for once. No twists, turns or dips in the road for a few years. No surprise babies or break-ups or friends shagging exes. Just a baby, an income and regular episodes of Miranda. I didn’t need a Happily Ever After; I needed normal. Normally Ever After.
‘To not shit myself when I give birth,’ I said.
Joe bobbed his head in a well-that’s-that-then manner and cracked open the sealed lid on the ice cream pot.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Trying the ice cream,’ he said, plunging the spoon in.
‘Throw it out. I don’t want it in my house.’
Joe nodded and brought the spoon up, a caramel-coloured creamy mound resting on top.
‘Get rid of it!’
‘OK.’ He put the spoon in his mouth.
‘Traitor.’
His eyes took on that glassy, faraway look you get when your taste buds are sending multiple messages of pleasure.
‘What’s it like?’ I asked grudgingly.
‘Horrible,’ he said through an ice cream-loaded mouth.
Only the dimmest of dimwits would have believed him.
‘Then why are you having another spoonful?’ I said as his spoon made yet another trip from tub to mouth.
‘To make sure.’
‘Throw it out.’
‘Will do.’ He ploughed the spoon into the tub again.
‘I can see you!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
‘What leaving party?’ I paced the courtyard, waiting for the next shot to be lit.
Archie sat on a garden bench feeding crisps to Ivan and Wayne, waiting patiently so we could take his tugboat to the lake. In two more days we would finish shooting, and I’d phoned Helen hoping to organise a much-needed catch-up. Douglas had a girlfriend I’d never met and Helen had a new ‘going out’ set of fr
iends. If I didn’t want to find myself alone every night watching Strictly Come Dine with Britain’s Next Top Baker I needed to reconnect with my friends. Especially now I was one friend down with Sophie ‘The Betrayer’ off playing house with my ex.
‘It’s Sophie’s party,’ Helen said and, unusually for her, she sounded a little uncomfortable. ‘She quit.’
‘Quit her job? Why?’ I knew it. She’d quit because Ned had won the EuroMillions and they were off to sail round the world and spend their days eating caviar and throwing money in the ocean.
‘We-ell . . .’ Helen picked over her words. ‘The ice cream vans have been booked for nearly every summer festival.’
‘So?’
‘They’ve had to buy another two vans and three of their flavours are being picked up by Selfridges.’
My head spun. Was Ned . . . successful?
‘What’s that got to do with Sophie quitting her job?’
‘Sophie’s invested in the business. She bought Gerry out. Ned was the brains behind it all, apparently. They’ve changed the name to Ned and Sophie’s Organic Ice Creamery,’ she said, making me stop pacing and lean heavily against a shiny Range Rover. ‘She bought the extra vans they needed and she’s quit to run the books. It’s all happening very quickly.’
Ned was successful. Shocking. And my mother’s natural home would be stocking three of his flavours. I drooped in my standing position. I’d stopped believing in Ned’s schemes after the time he’d convinced me to buy five thousand left-handed scissors from China to sell at a left-handers convention in Slough. I’d had to borrow money from Mum to pay the rent and after the scissors failed to sell (Ned blaming my marketing techniques, of which I’d employed none, that apparently being the entire problem) we’d stored the unwanted scissors in the bathroom, the kitchen, beside the bed, the sterilised needles cupboard at Uncle Mike’s surgery and in the car until we eventually dropped them off at a local community centre.
‘But Sophie loves working in TV!’ I said, my mind reeling.
‘I know!’ said Helen, much more animated now. ‘But it turns out that cotton-brained hippy is a whiz with numbers. She’s saved a third of her wages since the day she got her first job and she used to balance the books at her family’s cheese farm.’
How Not to Fall in Love, Actually Page 23