After a few pints, John had morosely informed them that he had to drive round to various friends’ places where he’d been sofa surfing for the last seven or eight weeks and start collecting up his possessions. Apparently he had a cast-iron skillet in Hounslow and a surf board in Brixton. Molly just hoped he’d come out of his shell (the polite way of saying he’d cheer the arse up) once he was settled in his own room and with a home for his cooking accoutrements and sporting goods. Molly turned to Sam, who was looking out at the ragged football matches taking place on Peckham Rye. The Clock House pub had a beautiful view of the wide green expanse. And they did a mean curry, to boot.
‘And you are sure about this?’
‘Mollypops, how many times—’
‘I know, I know. But it’s all pretty … sudden.’ She added quickly, ‘Not that I don’t like Iris, because I absolutely do. She never floods the bathroom floor after a shower and always brings pudding when you cook dinner. She’s a cracker, but why do this crazy travelling thing now? Maybe you should give it another six months, see how things pan out. Why rush it?’
Sam gave a smile that made his eyes wrinkle. ‘Because I just know. The contract I had at King’s is just about to end, Iris is completely fed up with her job in advertising. She couldn’t sell one more car insurance firm if they held a stapler to her head. She pretty much has an irrational hatred of fat, Italian opera singers. Especially if they have comedy moustaches and rhyme things with ‘Compare’. But more than that, sis, I just … I have never felt this way. It’s like nothing else really matters that much now that I have her in my life. Do you know what I mean?’
Molly stayed quiet.
‘You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll still have all my qualifications when I get back. People will always need help with their torn ligaments and dodgy discs. Plus, I’ll have a wicked tan and might talk Thai!’
Molly still didn’t look convinced but bit her tongue and swirled the ice cubes in her G&T.
‘Honestly,’ Sam said. ‘it feels like … it feels like it’s forever. I think Iris is The One. Wait, scrap that – I know that she’s The One. I’d do anything for her and, right now, I just want to whisk her off to somewhere hot and balmy where she can wear a bikini ninety percent of the time.’
‘Too much information,’ Molly replied, ‘but if it’s what you really want: OK. And Iris is sensible, so I can at least trust her to keep you away from Malaria hot spots and Thai whisky. Little Samwise, my little bro!’ Molly hugged Sam over the table, scattering some dry roasted peanuts to the floor and turning Sam’s neck pink with embarrassment. ‘Sorry for the PDA but you’re my little shorty, I worry about you,’ Molly said as she sat back down.
‘You’re forgiven, as long as you stay that side of the table for the rest of the day. Oh, I didn’t tell you – Mum’s throwing me a party. A going-away party.’
‘Oh, really? That’s nice, then. Is she going to hire The Wolseley, like she did for her fiftieth? I’m not sure I can cope with a cocktail dress at this stage in my diet. Rach is talking about signing us up for those extreme boot camp fitness things.’ Molly pointed over to the park, where two teams of perfectly sane grown-ups were being raced, chased and abused by two camouflage-wearing army types. The weirdest thing was the exhausted souls must have paid real English pounds for such a privilege. Molly didn’t mind her aerobic classes with the forceful Punisher − she would even jog round the park in good weather and a fully supportive bra − but she did draw the line at being called a lazy pig while she was face-down in the mud, struggling to do her third press up. Being able to fit into her 2002 size 10 jeans wasn’t quite worth that.
‘Nope, she’s going to get a tent in the back garden and do some buffet stuff, she says. Next weekend. Mum wants us there on Friday night to help sort things out. She’s also asked us to give her an idea of how many of our mates will come. Do you think you might bring anyone?’
‘Well, yes. I’ll ask Rach.’
‘No, Mols. Are you going to bring anyone? Like, any man?’
Molly frowned and looked just a touch appalled. ‘Eww. Why are you asking about my love life? That’s a bit too close for comfort, Samwise.’ Molly took a big chilly mouthful of her Gordon’s and shook her head.
Sam rolled his eyes. ‘John seems OK, doesn’t he? Bit sad round the edges, but I’m sure twelve months with you will perk him up.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Well, it took just one week of my moaning before you got fed up and decided to sort me out. I imagine John will be feeling the benefit of your bossiness – sorry, wisdom – before he’s unpacked his condiments. Hey, we should take him to Mum’s next weekend, cheer him up a bit and introduce to a few more of our homeys.’
‘Hmm, that’s a good idea. Are you done with that pint, Spam? I’m going to the bar.’ Molly was halfway to the pumps before she turned back and shouted, ‘Oi! I am not bossy!’
Chapter Seven
In a classic example of male communication and all its shortcomings, what Sam had described as a ‘tent in the back garden and some buffet stuff’ was in fact just a little bit grander: one very large white marquee, big enough for a WAG wedding, and a team of professional chefs manning an outside barbeque and hog roast. A pretty relaxed party then, just as Sam described. And Molly hadn’t brought anything special to wear. Resorting to rooting around in the wardrobe of leftovers in her old bedroom, Molly had found just one dress. And some bizarre, overpowering mixture of nostalgia and vanity (the dress was now more than ten years old, but she could still fit into it! Thank you, pudgy, adolescent phase!) led her to actually wear it.
The burgundy spaghetti-strap dress was authentic Bay Trading, circa 1995. It went down to her ankles but had a slit up one side, to just above her knee. Some people could pull off the so-bad-it’s-good vintage look with an edgy haircut and big sunglasses. Molly was not one of those people. Plus, she realised, standing by the buffet table as the party got underway, there was quite a lot of cleavage going on. Sixteen-year-old Molly may have been plump, but it was seventeen-year-old Molly that first got the grown-up rack and had to invest in underwiring.
‘Molly! All hands on deck, sweetheart.’ Cleo strode towards her in Hobbs heels and carrying a stack of folded napkins.
Molly took the pile of lilac serviettes and put them on the buffet table behind her. ‘Bloody hell, Mum! They’re linen. I had no idea the party was going to be this big. Sam said it was little more than a barbeque. If I knew there’d be linen napkins and waiting staff, I would have had my Coast strapless number dry-cleaned.’
‘No you wouldn’t, Mollypops. You would have just hung it up in the shower to steam and hoped I wouldn’t notice.’ Molly considered a denial briefly, but you had to get up pretty early in the morning to outfox Cleo Cooper. In terms of Molly’s mental acuity after a heavy session in the pub the night before, it was nearly lunchtime. ‘But wherever did that come from? No, don’t tell me, it’s probably an American Apparel trend that just looks ghastly to old fogies like me,’ her mother continued. ‘Couldn’t you have borrowed something suitable from my wardrobe? And do stop fiddling with your cleavage, dear, that chef isn’t watching his langoustines.’
Molly sighed. ‘I can’t fit into your size eight stuff, Mother dearest. As much as I would like to, your Stella McCartney seams wouldn’t thank me for it.’ Molly took a deep breath. Though adulthood had brought many of the things her teenage self had dreamed of – independence, ability to swear freely, not eating your salad if you didn’t want to – she knew the fifteen-year-old Molly inside her was slamming doors and pulling a duvet over her head because her mum was skinnier than she was. That’s what a personal trainer you share with Myleene Klass will do.
‘Listen, if you had to appear as the face of a huge international company and be splashed on all sorts of internal newsletters and the odd marketing leaflet, then you’d feel the pressure to spend an hour a day on the cross-trainer, jet lag or not.’ Cleo surveyed the groups of assembled
family and friends, her sharp eyes scanning for anyone without a glass or putting a cigarette out in her marble urns.
‘Of course I don’t have to worry about that because I still haven’t made any money,’ Molly grumbled as she turned a strand of hair around and around her finger.
‘What, Mols?’ Cleo asked, her tone just that bit sharper as she sensed self-pity in the air, as pungent and unwelcome to the single mother as a dead hamster under the floorboards. Cleo gave Molly’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘We’re going to go through those balance sheets of yours tomorrow. I’m sure the solution is there, just waiting to be discovered. We’re going to get to the bottom of this one.’
Any little ray of hope was quashed by a big thunder cloud of misery as Cleo uttered those two last words. Because Say It With Cacti was a ‘One’: just one of Molly’s growing list of money pits, and she knew it. Maybe it was time to stop digging in this one and move on to greener, as yet unsullied, pastures. Maybe cactuses just aren’t my thing, she thought. They’re clearly not anyone else’s. And if there’s no market, there’s no point.
* * *
The garden party was heaving by ten p.m. It was on the verge of being classed as ‘jumpin’ by Molly and Sam’s precocious teenage cousins as they flicked chocolate from the two fountains at the end of the elegantly staffed buffet table (one dark, one white, both fair trade of course). One look from Cleo and they ran off to find someone who might sell them a cigarette.
Molly had to admit that her mum’s garden was a pretty perfect venue for a party like this. The large Edwardian house had extensive grounds and Cleo had spent a lot of money and a lot of contractors’ time giving it a major overhaul into an all-bells-and-whistles posh family home. It kept some of her income in bricks and mortar, which she felt good about, plus it gave her somewhere for impressive client entertaining and big family functions. It was certainly a long way from a pokey two-bed flat in Divorce Towers.
The gorgeous planted borders and trees full of blossom were magically lit by lamps and fairy lights, twinkling so clearly it was as if they were just a reflection of the night sky. The little wooden boat Cleo left moored to the short wooden jetty bobbed and rocked in the water and created gentle splashing sounds that, along with the occasional owl hoot, provided the perfect pastoral soundtrack. No Cooper had ever set foot in that boat and none intended to – it was purely a piece of ‘set dressing’ the landscape gardener had brought in (professionally distressed to look like it had already punted its way around the Lake District). ‘Coopers keep their feet on the ground,’ Cleo would proudly remark if guests pointed out the lonely little row boat.
Seeing all the party paraphernalia on the lawn reminded Molly of her first venture after leaving No More Fat Cats: Retro Parties Inc, a party planning company that would recreate all those golden birthday parties of your youth, but with an added adult kick. A picnic table crammed with Party Rings, cake, cheese and pineapple – but the jelly would come in the form of vodka jelly shots and the tumblers of cola would all have a good glug of rum added. The take-up wasn’t a problem – she organised a few parties a week to start with. All the party-goers enjoyed themselves. But Molly didn’t enjoy hosing the vomit off the bouncy castles she subleased, and neither did the owners. Or the five-year-olds that had the same castle the next week and found the one corner Molly had missed in a hungover stupor. The lost deposits killed her bottom line, but sadly nothing could kill the memory of Timmy’s fifth birthday from his poor little memory. With all the profit washed away like so much vodka jelly regurge, Retro Parties became a thing of the past itself, after just nine months. Molly didn’t see the point in trying to prop up a dead duck: there were better ventures out there to venture into.
The food on offer in her mum’s large Windsor garden – complete with never-used tennis courts – was miles away from the cheap and nasty gunk Molly brought at Lidl for those nostalgia parties, but she was touched to see that Cleo had remembered a discreet pile of Party Rings, hidden next to a big bowl of freshly made profiteroles. Ahhh. Sam’s favourite. Cleo left Molly nibbling on the sugary treats to help remove a young cousin who was stuck to an ice sculpture by way of his tongue. An argument had broken out as to the best method: boiling hot water or brutal force. Cleo was willing to supply either.
Just as Molly was wrist-deep in the Party Ring bowl, looking for a yellow one, a familiar voice piped up.
‘Good golly Miss Molly!’ Rachel gasped behind her. ‘What the Devil Meets Prada are you wearing? I feel like I’ve just wandered into the All Saints audition room: where’s your bandana?’ The gorgeous blonde giggled rapidly.
‘Yes, thank you, Michael McIntyre. Ha bloody ha. I just … I didn’t have a dress and this was in my wardrobe and it sort-of fits so—’
‘“Sort of”? If you were an exotic dancer, I would have no problem with that statement. Lady, I dress people for a living and you wearing this, this … burgundy nightmare with double boob, goes against everything I believe in. I feel like I should report you for infringing my religious beliefs. It’s viscose for God’s sake!’ Rachel twanged a dress strap.
Molly hunched her shoulders forward a little. Rachel was judge, jury and executioner on her fashion crime. Hopefully she’d win a few points just by being out of her usual jeans, cowboy shirts and cardies.
‘OK, yes, I may have gone a bit OTT. But my wonderful brother led me to believe it was going to be hotdogs in buns and beers chilled in the pond. How come you’re all dolled up?’
Rachel looked down at her very classy dove-grey jersey dress and twiddled the long string of pearls wrapped twice around her neck. ‘Oh, I emailed your mum to ask if I could bring anything. She said no, but sent me the link to the catering company in case we ever do a big event at the shop. I kind of worked out that a party serving seared scallops and pea puree on Chinese soup spoons was going to be pretty swish.’ A waiter walked past at that moment with a tray heavy with tuna sashimi and a square dish of dry ice, spilling waves of cloudy smoke down to the grass. Rachel held her hand over her mouth as she chewed the sushi she’d speared, and mumbled, ‘I borrowed this dress from the new inventory – so don’t spill anything on me; I’ve got to put it back tomorrow. But what Martin doesn’t know …’ She raised her shoulders with a smile and swallowed her mouthful of gloriously fresh fish.
‘Got to love those perks.’ Molly winked and scanned the crowds for whichever part-time actor would be circulating with the fabled scallops. She was a sucker for seafood.
‘I think someone has spotted your perks, Mols. Hmm, he’s nice. Do we know him?’
A tall guy over by the drinks table was looking right at Molly, and slowly raised his hand in a casual wave. He had dark, close-cropped hair and a half-smile that was drooping with each second Molly failed to return the wave.
Molly knitted her brows. ‘I think I know him but I can’t quite … oh, bums, he’s coming over. Quick, Rach, who is he?’ Molly flapped her hands.
‘I don’t know! It’s a Cooper party, for Noel’s sake!’ Molly’s love of Deal or No Deal was rapidly spreading. ‘Um, just look natural and yes, I suppose I would say I favour a Republic state but then who would we put on the stamps if we didn’t have a queen? She has such great hair styling for an OAP. Oh, hello, we didn’t see you there …’ Rachel seamlessly swerved from her fake-aren’t-we-grown-up-and-no-we-weren’t-talking-about-you conversation to greeting the rather attractive man who had just appeared behind Molly.
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ the stranger asked in a confident, wry tone. His brown eyes had a glint of mischief to them. ‘You didn’t remember me last time, either.’
‘I … uh …’ Molly’s lips now flapped as uselessly as her hands while she struggled to place this guy and remember why she should know him.
‘I’ve just seen, you know, that person we were talking about, Mols. See you – both – later. Bye!’ Rachel ditched her friend with an apologetic half-smile-half-grimace.
The man took a deep breath and let it o
ut slowly. ‘It’s Patrick.’
No flicker of recognition from the speechless Molly.
‘Naked Patrick,’ he admitted with a sigh.
‘Patrick! Yes. Of course I remembered it was you. Silly arse.’ Molly punched him on the shoulder playfully in a lame attempt to distract from her tea-strainer-like memory. Sam’s friend Patrick was one of the ever-present league of guys that been hanging round for so long they were pretty much like spare Sams. This was the Patrick who had introduced them to John.
‘I’ll take your word for it.’ He smiled, but also gave her a squint of doubt.
‘OK, it took me a few seconds. But that’s because I always think of you with no clothes on.’
Patrick spluttered a laugh.
As Molly babbled on, she didn’t notice Cleo approaching from over her shoulder, bearing two glasses of vintage champagne.
With roaring red cheeks, Molly tried to explain. ‘You know, I imagine you nude. I mean, not like nude nude but in the nude. That time. In the kitchen.’
Cleo decided this was a conversation she’d better leave to the younger generation. Slowly, she backed away and headed in the direction of a board member who looked in need of yet another drink.
‘That’s how I remember you, I mean. God, I’m not explaining this well.’ Molly pulled one hand though her dead-straight hair, which didn’t even cause so much as a fluff. ‘What I meant to say was, I know it’s you when you say Naked Patrick. Just “Patrick” means I have to run through all the Patricks I know.’
‘And how many do you know?’ Patrick knocked back the rest of his champagne but watched Molly over the rim of his glass.
The Bad Boyfriends Bootcamp Page 5