To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: New plan
Darling Daughter.
I planned to bring this up this morning, but Sam’s rather startling and exciting news threw me off. I also had the niggling feeling that it might be better for you to process this when we’re not face to face. It’s time to talk numbers. I’ve checked the spreadsheets and it’s not good.
Molly, the party last night, and all the emotional fireworks therein, made me realise a few things. The first was that Sam is the happiest I’ve ever seen him. That led to the second thought; I want you to be that happy, and I don’t think you are. I know how this drive to make a success of yourself niggles away at you, especially when the revenues aren’t exactly, well, forthcoming.
To feel like you’ve really achieved in business the only way to do it is absolutely by yourself. Get an impartial investor who believes in your business, put their money to good use, and start making profits for everyone involved. I think me giving you start-up loans has muddied the waters a bit, darling. I’m your mum; I want to give you every chance in life to succeed. But in becoming the Bank of Mum I’ve just added extra pressure in a way that’s not helpful. Personally or professionally.
With numbers like this I’m not sure cacti are quite the gap-filler we thought they could be. If I was you, I’d cut my losses and move on. Find a fresh idea that will really bowl people over and give them what they didn’t even know they needed.
But I want to bring some reality into this situation. Tough love, as Oprah would say. I would like you to pay me back the two loans owed by the wedding next year. No interest, but the initial sums I transferred to you. Darling, I know it sounds harsh but I’m confident it’s the best way to move forward with a clean slate. And I have every confidence that you’ll do it. You’ll be a stellar success very soon. Out of this world. You’ll quickly by-pass your old mother. But I am offering one olive branch.
If you can’t find the money I can get you a position as trainee manager for one of my new stores. We’re venturing further into the Midlands, so they’ll be an opening in Milton Keynes soon enough. I know what you’re thinking, but it’s hardly the third world, Molly. Think about it.
Anyway, this is me pulling down the shutters at the Bank of Mum. I’ll reopen in a year and we’ll see where we stand then. But I’m deadly serious, Mollypops: this is the year for you to take real control of your career. Alone.
Mum x
Molly stared at the screen and gulped. Take control. Alone.
Chapter Nine
Saying goodbye to Sam and Iris at the airport was every bit as emotional as Molly expected it to be. She was welling up just at the sight of Sam’s boarding card and passport laid out on the coffee table before they’d even left for Heathrow. Molly worried her soppy side would completely take over in the terminal – just like it did whenever she watched Home Alone and Kevin’s mum finally makes it back. Blub. But showing girly tears in front of her brother was not really the done thing – in the Cooper dynamic, Molly had always been the straight one, the sensible one, the one who would remove spiders from the bath. She couldn’t go all Kate Winslet at the Oscars now. She had to go for Kate Winslet in The Reader instead – steely and resolute, but without the Nazi tendencies. Oh God, thinking of Kate made Molly recount the ending of Finding Neverland and suddenly she needed a tissue all over again.
Cleo had a last-minute meeting in Tokyo and couldn’t come with them to say goodbye. To make up for it, she had wangled a night free in an amazingly swish Tokyo hotel for Sam and Iris, though, should they end up exploring Japan on their travels. As far as Molly could make out, their itinerary was pretty vague – fly to Hong Kong, after a few days there fly to Sydney, hook up with some old friends in the big, colourful city and then see what happened. Along the way they’d have to find casual work to tide themselves over, but Sam was just glad ‘not to have to touch other people’s limbs all day.’ Except Iris’s, of course.
Big sister Molly had gone from worrying about Sam being far away in exotic, wild places, to thinking just how utterly she’d miss him for those twelve months, to reluctant excitement about the wedding as plans took shape, to utter, selfish delight that the two lovebirds would soon be out of her hair. As happy as she was that Sam and Iris were totally in love with each other – in a ‘You’re just too good to be true, can’t take my eyes off you’ way – she had just about had her fill of the cooing, the tickling, the smooching and the pet-name calling. Molly was tempted to march into the Peckham swimming pool and ask to borrow their No Heavy Petting sign. Molly was now so used to referring to her little bro and his missus as a collective term that she and Rachel tried to come up with one of those funny joined monikers, like Brangelina, or Jedward, over a cup of coffee or three. Unfortunately, melding Sam and Iris just left you with something that sounded a lot like Psoriasis. After Rach and Molly had mused on just how funny that could be (caffeine always made them that extra bit giggly) they decided that maybe it wasn’t the sexiest of comparisons for two hot young things in lurve. But they decided to file it away for a speech at the wedding, nonetheless.
As Sam and Iris shuffled their feet and glanced over at the check-in desk for the twenty-eighth time, Molly got the distinct impression that they were eager to get on their way. And who could blame them? Outside, the rain was tickling the large windows and forming wide, unavoidable puddles the colour of weak tea. The cost of a round-the-world airfare? Many, many thousands of pounds. Escaping the British weather? Priceless.
Molly leant up on her tiptoes to hug her brother and said into his ear, ‘Have the best, best time. Email a lot – and send postcards.’ She released Sam from her brief squeeze and stood back.
‘Alright, Grandma.’ He rolled his eyes and stuck his hands in his pockets, like a real man, hopelessly awkward at sad moments.
‘You will keep him in sight at all times, won’t you, Iris? And don’t put him in charge of the tickets. Sam worked in University College Hospital for a full year and thought it was St Pancreas station he was going through every day. He thought it was named after the discovery of the internal organ. The silly arse.’ Molly shook her head. Iris laughed.
‘Yes, thank you for that. One last parting shot for me to cherish while I’m away.’ Sam narrowed his eyes at his ever-bossy older sister, and hoisted his huge rucksack on to his shoulder. ‘Come on, little chicken, we should get off.’
‘OK, monkey face,’ Iris looked up at him with clear, adoring eyes. ‘I’ll just say goodbye to Mols. You get in the queue.’
Sam loped off obediently.
‘Nice handling. I approve.’
‘Thanks, I have what I like to call my Spam filter – I just hear the bits I want to and block out the rest.’ As Molly chuckled, Iris caught her off-guard by picking up one of Molly’s hands and sandwiching it between her far daintier set. ‘I promise I’ll look after him,’ she said with sincerity, never breaking eye contact.
Molly looked down at her Converse. ‘I was just mucking about, he’s not that stupid real—’
‘I know. But I also know how you worry about him, how you’ve always worried about him since you were kids. Sam told me about Cleo having to work a lot and your dad …’
‘Being a useless twerp?’ Molly supplied, deadpan.
‘I was going to say not being on the scene much, but I suppose that cuts to the chase. Sam said you were the one he knew he could always go to, the one who really understood what it was all like. You’re his rock.’
Molly sniffed and straightened her shoulders. She felt that prickle behind her eyes. It was as bad as Kate Winslet almost dying in Sense and Sensibility all over again. Curse that woman’s emotive performances! With a deep breath, Molly held back the soppy tears and gave Iris a hug.
‘Hurry up, women!’ Sam shouted across the lanes of patiently queued holidaymakers. ‘Babe, we need to check in soon so I can get the extra leg room.’ Iris rolled her eyes discr
eetly at her future sister-in-law and darted off to take her place next to Sam.
Molly walked off towards the tube.
‘Mollypops!’ came a shout from behind her.
‘Yes?’ she shouted back, aware that her many onlookers were amused to see that a fully grown woman had answered to a name better suited to a Pekinese.
‘Be gentle on John, won’t you? I wouldn’t want you to think you can interfere in his problems, give him advice, boss him about like a second brother. OK?’ Sam laughed, satisfied that his sister had been publicly embarrassed for good measure and that he’d just planted a little but important seed in her head.
Molly continued her speed-walk to the tube entrance. Just in front of the barriers, Molly paused mid-stride to find her Oyster card. As she looked up to flip an annoyingly loose bit of hair out of her eyes, she saw someone she wished she hadn’t. Worse, they had seen her too.
‘Molly?’
‘Ryan.’
‘Hey, how are you?’ Ryan, Molly’s boyfriend from back in her Bristol University days, stood in front of her, a mid-sized wheelie suitcase now stationary beside him. He was obviously baffled and a little embarrassed and a quick look over his shoulder told Molly that he wasn’t alone.
‘Good. Great, thanks. How are you?’
A woman with an elegant soft bob of black hair and smooth cappuccino-coloured skin came to take her place next to Ryan.
‘Hi, I’m Grace. Nice to meet you.’ The gorgeous girlfriend smiled and held out her hand.
Ryan shuffled his feet and nodded towards Molly. ‘Grace, this is Molly. Molly from Bristol.’
A look of understanding passed between Grace and Ryan, and Molly wished very hard that she was on the 747 now taking off for Anywhere, Far Far Away. She had never before felt like such a useless little planet in orbit of a big sunny Earth, happily existing without her.
The gorgeous girlfriend’s smile remained unwavering.
‘So, are you just back from abroad?’ Ryan asked, wanting to fill the slightly awkward silence with something.
Molly appraised her old boyfriend for a split-second before she answered. He was still tall, that was no surprise, and neither was his athletic frame. Ryan was always a sporty type: Molly had liked that he could always be counted on to be out of her hair every Wednesday afternoon and Sunday morning as he scrummed about with the best of them. His chocolate-brown hair was thinning a bit, but strangely it gave him a smidge of extra maturity to balance out his goofy grin.
‘No, just seeing off Sam – you know, my brother, Sam. He’s going travelling with his fiancée for a year. Starting with Hong Kong, then Australia for a bit.’ Molly suddenly felt very self-conscious that she wasn’t wearing her best, bum-flattering jeans and that her T-shirt had croissant crumbs on it.
‘Hey, snap!’ Grace laughed softly. ‘Well, we wish it was for a year, but we’re going out to Sydney for a friend’s wedding and we’re stretching it out into a whole month.’
‘And we’re also … you know,’ Ryan stumbled over his words before petering out.
Molly had already clocked the big sparkler on Grace’s wedding finger. The fiancé and fiancée in front of her blushed. There was no one present who wasn’t feeling awkward right there and then. Molly wanted to close her eyes and pretend she wasn’t there. She had her suspicions that the Station Guard just behind her wanted to make a run for it too.
‘Congratulations,’ she said bravely and with some forced chipperness. ‘Have a great time. I should get back, actually. Lots going on with my … career at the moment, so … yes.’
‘I’m happy for you, Mols. You always said you wanted your own business. It’s all working out then?’
‘Oh, yes, definitely. Well, it will do, after I get a few things in place. Ha ha. Um, right, bye then.’
‘Yes, lovely to bump into you.’ Grace continued to smile through the uncomfortable, recycled air.
‘Bye, Mols.’ Ryan nodded and turned away, reaching for Grace’s hand. They walked off towards the BA desks, their wheelie trolleys following behind them like two dutiful children.
Molly just knew, with a dull ache, that the happy couple would be talking about her all through check-in.
The look of baffled shock and indecision that flickered across Ryan’s face during the first few seconds that he saw her standing in the ticket hall was more than familiar to Molly. It was the same look he’d had on the day they’d broken up, the day she’d told him that she was ending things. Seeing Ryan so happy with his fiancée weirdly freed Molly from any regrets – he was happy now, and trying to make things work while he was globetrotting for a whole year would have been impossible. It had stung like a bad burn to break up with Ryan – the burn that kept on stinging, for days and days – but she’d known it was ultimately necessary. Anyway, no use on dwelling about what might have been, Molly thought, as the tube carriage rocked her gently back and forth. That won’t put money in the bank.
Chapter Ten
Molly was quicker to recognise Patrick the next week when he turned up with a dozen shabby cardboard boxes and a similarly shabby John. Molly swept over John’s grey jogging bottoms, holey hoodie and scrappy stubble. His short brown hair showed flecks of grey, but also longer triangular patches where his home haircut with clippers had gone a bit awry. Sam’s last words came echoing back to her – ‘I wouldn’t want you to think you can interfere in his problems, give him advice, boss him about’. Did Sam think she had an eighth day in each week? Molly would be grafting to repair her Say It With Cacti revenue deficit over the next year, not slaving away over the wardrobe choices of a man who dressed only marginally better than an unemployed member of Blazin’ Squad. Chuh. The thought of wearing the logo’d Terracotta Barmy polo shirt day in, day out haunted her dreams. She had to think up a new business idea, and fast.
Molly held open the front door as the guys trudged in with the first set of boxes.
‘Hi Patrick. How are you? Sam’s room is the first right at the top of the stairs.’ Molly pointed up from the cramped entranceway, indicating the stairs that led to their first-floor flat.
‘Yes,’ Patrick looked at her as if she’d just turned into Jessica Simpson, and accordingly spoke very slowly. ‘I know. I’ve been here before.’
Molly slapped palm to forehead. ‘I knew that.’ Desperate for a distraction, she asked, ‘Does anyone ever call you Pat?’
‘Never,’ said Patrick as his long legs clambered up the stairs.
‘Nickname? Everyone has a nick name,’ Molly called as he disappeared from sight, into the flat.
‘Just the one you already know. The one I’d rather no one used any more, especially not around my mum.’
‘So people just call you Patrick?’ Molly puzzled as Patrick descended the stairs again with quick, fluid steps.
‘Yes. It’s a crime that we live in a world where people call you by your actual name. Broken Britain.’ Patrick shook his fist at an imaginary ASBO youth, as he stood by the front door.
‘Ha ha. Well, just watch it. Because I’m now determined to think of something catchier to call you. So far I’ve got a shortlist of Sarky Git, Cheeky Git and plain Git. Take your pick.’
‘Um.’ Patrick pretended to think it over and rubbed at his clean-shaven chin. ‘No. Want to give me a hand with your boxes of books, mate?’ he turned to John, who had just been standing like a statue made out of wet flannels in the hallway as Patrick buzzed around him.
‘Yeah,’ John mumbled. ‘Right. OK.’ He followed Patrick out to the car.
‘I’ll put the kettle on!’ Molly shouted out to them. Against her better judgement, her mind began to whir as she caught a glance at the bent, grubbily-hooded head of John at the car boot.
* * *
Patrick had hung around that morning, helping John unpack his things, drinking three cups of tea and finishing off Molly’s Penguins before he nipped back in his car to head home. John then shut himself in his new abode and didn’t come out for the rest of the weekend
, it seemed to Molly. But she figured he must have had the odd silent bathroom trip. At least, she hoped he had. But otherwise, John seemed to be a very quiet flatmate.
‘I’m not complaining,’ Molly said softly to herself as she revelled in having the living room all to herself, with no gangly males or intertwined lovers messing up the throw cushions. But she soon found a few niggles to silently complain about as John’s first week in the flat wore on. If Molly cooked and offered John some dinner, he would venture out of his cave, but from the moment John’s fork hit the plate he didn’t utter a word, he just vacuumed up the food silently at a rate that left Molly worrying for his digestive tract. No compliment to the chef, no thanks, just pure consumption. Molly conceded that he did look at her, nod and mutter, ‘Was nice,’ before he got up to leave the table and scurry back to his room. But mostly it felt like Molly had just opened a Kinder Egg and found her very own teenage son inside.
‘Must still be the aftershocks of the breakup,’ Molly self-soothed at the sink, ploughing through the washing up alone. She thought back to when Rach broke up with Rick and wouldn’t get out of her dressing gown for 72 hours straight. She would only answer to the name Miss Havisham as she cried into her kitchen roll.
Molly scrubbed off some welded cheese sauce from her casserole dish and tried her best to channel some patience. Ommm, I am calm, Ommm, I am all things cheerful, Ommm I am Lorraine Kelly’s long-lost love child. Giving up on the scrapes of pasta now very much at one with the Pyrex, Molly put the dish into soak and went off to see if Rach was free to waste a good few hours in the pub. Suddenly she felt like her G&T levels were dangerously low. For the best part of the working week she’d tried new (and some would say drastic) markets for her prickly and unloved products, convinced it was worth one last shop. The South London garden centres knew her from a mile off now, so she got to thinking outside the box: hospital gift shops. But after trying King’s just up the road and the further afield Chelsea and Royal Marsden, Molly just made her overdraft bigger, what with hitting her Oyster card so much just to be told that spikey plants were a huge health and safety hazard around the young, old and infirm. Great.
The Bad Boyfriends Bootcamp Page 7