What Fresh Hell

by Lucy Vine

  ‘Franny!’ I gasp dramatically. ‘You’re really, really not supposed to smoke indoors, you must know that – especially not in a TV studio—’ I start, but she waves me away, smiling sweetly.

  ‘They’re not going to tell me what to do,’ she says, puffing happily. ‘It was fine back in my day and it’s fine now. I can’t be doing with all this worrying over everything. Everywhere I turn I’m being shouted at about yet another thing causing cancer. Chocolate causes cancer, chocolate saves you from cancer. Alcohol causes cancer, alcohol saves you from cancer. Vegetables cause cancer, coffee causes cancer, walking to the loo causes cancer, going to the loo causes cancer, being alive causes cancer—’

  ‘OK, yes,’ I interrupt a list that didn’t sound like it was going to end, ‘that’s true, but smoking definitely causes cancer. And other stuff.’ I fan a hand in front of my face, the smoke giving me an instant head rush. ‘Fine, but please put it out quickly if anyone comes in.’

  ‘Course I will, Delilah, my darling. I’m not stupid,’ she says, rolling her eyes at me affectionately. ‘I always put it out and blame one of the interns when anyone asks about the smell. Ha!’ she cackles, and I glance nervously over my shoulder at the canteen door. Her laugh really carries along these big echoey corridors.

  ‘So, anyway,’ I change the subject, watching her puff contently, ‘what have you done to Andrea this time?’ I am trying not to sound judgemental, but really, poor Andrea.

  ‘Oh, that idiot,’ she says happily, through a haze of smoke. ‘I am so sick of her asking me to bloody sponsor her for everything! This morning she announced that she’s planning on doing Dry September. Am I really going to sponsor her to not fucking drink for four weeks? Piss off am I!’ She throws her hands up in the air, exasperated, and ash flicks into her lap, settling in a neat pile and smouldering through her canteen smock. I notice there are several small burn holes, and wonder if it’s from the ovens or from a person regularly smoking indoors during work hours.

  Let’s not think about it.

  ‘Firstly, Dry September is not a thing,’ she shouts, leaning across the table towards me. ‘Dry January isn’t even really a thing, never mind Dry September. Unless you’re talking about that one boring man-less month I had in 1973!’ Franny cackles again. ‘And secondly, why should I give that moron my well-earned pension money to not do something? How is that difficult? You’re just not doing it. It’s easy. Unless she’s a raging alcoholic, in which case she should stop anyway.’ She pauses and looks thoughtful. ‘That’s a good idea, actually – I’m going to tell everyone Andrea’s an alcoholic.’

  I nod enthusiastically, mentally apologising to Andrea, who is a perfectly nice divorcee who always gives me extra chips when I am having a hard day.

  ‘Anyway,’ Franny goes on breezily, ‘when she sent around this latest email talking some nonsense about raising money for Green Peace or some other shit, I decided to start my own JustGiving page. I’m asking people to sponsor me in telling Andrea she’s a dickhead. I’ve already raised more money than her and I’ve only been going for half a day!’ She throws back her head, wheezing at her own joke.

  I wince. ‘It’s a little bit ruthless, Franny,’ I try.

  She looks outraged. ‘It’s not ruthless! If anything, it is ruth. I’m the most ruth person you could ever hope to meet. Call me Granny Ruth.’

  I’m torn. I know I should tell Franny off. It’s all very unkind, and she doesn’t even do anything around here. But I am also sick to death of Andrea’s constant emails about sponsoring her – I’ve had about eight in the last few months.

  A stern voice from behind me interrupts us. ‘What’s going on here, then?’

  I squeal, instinctively diving under the table. Once there, I realise it was possibly the wrong move. I’m afraid there is a chance it could come across as the tiniest bit childish and cowardly, and since I now recognise the stern voice as that of my runner, Sam, I have to say, I sincerely regret doing it.

  I clear my throat, and from under the table, I say loudly and casually, ‘Oh, I found that earring you were looking for, Franny.’

  I climb out, staring at the ceiling and hoping that might’ve worked. When I chance a quick look at Sam, she is looking at me very innocently.

  ‘Well done on finding that earring, Lilah,’ she says, her eyes wide. ‘Franny is really lucky you were willing to get down there under the table so very quickly to look for it – and just as I came in and caught you guys smoking indoors.’

  Franny cackles and slaps a hand on Sam’s shoulder, forcing her into the chair between us. ‘Have a seat, kid,’ she says, and then adds conspiratorially, ‘Do you want a cigarette?’

  Before I have a chance to panic, Sam shakes her head. ‘No thanks, Granny Franny, I don’t smoke.’

  Ah, phew.

  Franny looks a little sulky that no one will smoke with her, but cheers up when Sam pulls a tub of M&S mini chocolate rolls out of her bag to offer around.

  ‘You really shouldn’t smoke, Granny Franny,’ Sam says, shovelling chocolate into her mouth. ‘Don’t you want to live to be a ripe old age?’ She snorts and Franny doubles over, hooting.

  ‘You’re great, you are,’ she tells Sam, and I feel proud of them both, just as Franny adds, ‘Do you want to sponsor me to annoy Andrea?’

  ‘The other lady who works here?’ Sam says, gesturing towards the kitchen, as if Andrea were still in there. ‘I already did. Five quid. Everyone was talking about it at lunch today and I heartily agree with your proposal. Seriously, if I get another one of her forms shoved under my nose when I’m trying to get my lunchtime plate of chips, I will lose my shit.’

  ‘You two . . .’ I halfheartedly attempt the moral high ground, but they both look at me with judgemental eyes that say: ‘You hid under the table five minutes ago.’

  My phone rings and I’m tempted to dive under there again when I see the number.

  Franny leans across, clocking the caller ID. ‘The scumbag!’ she pronounces and I grimace.

  It’s the council man who spoke to Ethel. He’s ringing me back at long, long last. I’ve left this guy four voicemails in the last couple of weeks and I can’t believe it’s taken him this long to get back to me. It’s outrageous. I kept trying to talk to other people in his office about what’s happening with the FU building, but they all said it was Mr Canid I needed and he would ring me back at his ‘earliest convenience’.

  And here he is.

  ‘Hello?’ I say, in my most grown-up phone voice.

  ‘Mrs Fox?’ says the man at the other end, who I have already decided is the worst person who ever lived.

  ‘Speaking,’ I say superciliously. ‘But it’s Ms, actually.’

  ‘This is Mr Canid from Manchester council,’ he says. ‘I believe you’ve been trying to get hold of me.’

  I sit up straighter, feeling powerful. He sounds like such a shit. I can tell from his voice that he’s in his fifties or sixties, and I’m picturing a wide, ugly tie, on a wide, ugly man.

  ‘I have, actually, yes. For a few weeks now,’ I say, my voice a pitch higher than I would like.

  ‘Apologies, I’ve been away. I only just got your message,’ he says, but he doesn’t sound the least bit apologetic.

  Messages PLURAL, I don’t say.

  Sam leans over to Franny and asks in a loud whisper, ‘What’s going on?’

  Franny elbows her and tells her to ‘shut up’ but then relents, whispering, ‘They’re trying to shut down the building where our Fuddy-Duddies United group meet. We don’t have anywhere else to go, and my girl Delilah is going to stop them.’

  We make eye contact across the table, and she gives me an encouraging nod. I stand up. It helps me feel in control.

  ‘Fine, well, Mr Canid—’

  ‘Canid,’ he corrects me, petulantly, even though it sounds exactly like what I said.

&nb
sp; ‘Canid,’ I repeat, irritation creeping into my voice. He’s already annoying me and I haven’t even started.

  ‘You’re not pronouncing it right,’ he interrupts me again.

  ‘I’m pronouncing it exactly the same way you’re pronouncing it,’ I say.

  ‘Canid,’ he says again.

  ‘CANID’, I shout back.

  He sighs, dissatisfied. ‘Don’t worry about it, Ms Fax. What do you need from me?’

  OH, THIS MAN. He’s so rude!

  I am momentarily at a loss for words, furious at his brazenly unhelpful manner. And then all the lost words rush out at once.

  ‘You had a phone conversation with a colleague of mine recently – Ethel Galding – about the closure of the youth club building we use for our weekly group meetings. I want to know exactly what you think you’re doing and how the hell this has happened. We’ve had no notice, no warning. You had absolutely no right to blindside an elderly woman during a phone conversation like that. You knew full well you were dropping a bombshell and you deliberately did it to someone you obviously knew wouldn’t fight back. How dare you do that? How dare you think it’s OK to speak to her in the way that you did? How dare you act like it’s acceptable to throw a group of elderly women out onto the street with nowhere to go? There are no other buildings in the area we can all get to, you’re effectively shutting down our group. These are people’s lives you’re dealing with here. It’s despicable and you should be ashamed of yourself. Well, Mr Canid, I’m here now and I’m not such an easy target. I won’t be going down without a fight.’

  There is silence at the other end of the phone and I feel amazing. I feel articulate and angry, and adult. A surge of electricity and power bounces through me. I haven’t spoken to somebody like that in years. Maybe I never have. I know people see me as a pushover, but not now, not today. Oh no, sir! Today I am standing up for the weaker and the less fortunate. I am bringing down The Man. I feel strong and righteous and like I really can make this situation work out OK.

  He clears his throat. ‘It’s Canid,’ he says icily.

  I nearly scream with fury. I nearly smash the phone on the floor. I nearly punch the wall beside me.

  Wow, anger feels really good. How come nobody told me how great this feeling is before?

  ‘Mr Candice,’ I say sarcastically, my voice unrecognisable with all this amazing malice behind the words, ‘I want you to tell me how we’re going to fix this situation.’

  He sighs. I can hear his disinterest. I picture him loosening his big, fat, ugly tie on his big, fat, ugly body.

  ‘I’m afraid you can’t fix it, Ms Fox. You’re just going to have to find a way to live with it. I understand your passion, but it’s misplaced. And unless you’re willing to buy the building from us yourself – and I should mention here that it’s not for sale – then we’re closing the place and knocking it down come October. Since you are clearly very upset about all this, I offer the council’s sincerest apologies for the inconvenience. But I will also flag up at this point that we did, in fact, sent multiple letters. Firstly about the proposal, then about the appeal process, and then about the decision itself. And they all went unanswered and unchallenged.’

  Hold on, what?

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say, suddenly wrong-footed. ‘You definitely didn’t send any letters – that’s not true. There have been no letters, I’ve never seen anything like that. Where did you send these so-called letters?’

  On the other end of the line I hear him shuffling some papers, sighing again like he doesn’t have time for all my silly, womanly emotions. ‘They were addressed to a Ms Francine Fox,’ he says, reading. ‘That is the contact name we have. I assume she’s a relation of yours?’

  Fuck.

  I look at Franny, sitting there looking forlorn. She widens her eyes at me questioningly.

  ‘Hold on a second,’ I mutter into the mouthpiece, clicking the dickhead on mute.

  ‘Franny, did you get any letters from the council in the last few months?’ I say hurriedly, my voice as even as I can make it. ‘About the building? About evicting us?’

  Franny scowls. ‘Oh, maybe,’ she says dismissively. ‘Who keeps track of these things? If a letter’s not addressed by hand, I know it’s not going to be any fun, so I throw it away.’

  ‘FRANNY!’ I explode, and Sam, still sitting there quietly, looks awkward. Franny looks amused by my unexpectedly angry response and my frustration boils over. ‘Franny, get that smirk off your face!’ I say, my voice higher than usual. ‘We could’ve done something to stop this. We could’ve lodged a protest months ago when the decision was being made. They probably had open meetings about this, where members of the public could put across their point of view or complain about the decision. No one protested and now we’ve missed it all. He’s saying it’s too late. We’re out. The building will be gone by October. Why didn’t you tell me about the letters? I could’ve read them for you. I could’ve sorted this out.’

  For a second she looks a little contrite and guilt fills me. ‘Sorry,’ I say quickly. ‘Look, this isn’t your fault. Sorry I shouted. You’re right, nobody really reads letters anymore. They should’ve emailed us or called sooner. And my name is on the administrative list too, there’s no reason they should’ve sent everything to you.’ I pause and add again, ‘I’m really sorry for getting cross.’

  She shrugs like it’s OK but she still looks wounded. I sigh and take Mr Cuntid off hold.

  ‘Hello?’

  He’s gone. Crap crap crap. It’s probably going to take me weeks to get him back on the damned phone. We don’t have time for this cat and mouse silliness. As if there’s any point trying to speak to him again anyway – he was the very opposite of helpful just now. And what would I even say?

  Shit. I feel like we’ve gone backwards. At least there was still hope before this call. It feels like that’s been crushed now. I feel crushed. He sounded so sure, so certain there was nothing we could do.

  And how was I pronouncing his stupid name wrong? I was saying it completely right! The guy is a lunatic. I bet he has no friends at all. I bet he had one friend one time, but then he kept correcting stuff that didn’t even need correcting, just to be mean, and then that friend was like, ‘OK, we’re no longer friends because you’re the worst and now you have zero friends again.’ And yet he still didn’t learn his lesson. What a dickhead.

  I look at Franny again. She’s slowly chewing on a mini chocolate roll from the tub and looking sad. Her yellow-stained fingers are fiddling absently with the lid and she suddenly looks really old.

  I decide there and then that I’m not giving up. We can’t just let this happen. They can’t take this away from us. I can’t let that moron on the phone win. The FU means too much to all those lovely women. And apart from all the other important reasons, I really don’t think any other venue would let Franny bring along Geoffrey’s ashes in an urn with her every week.

  From: DelilahMFox@gmail.com

  To: 15+ contacts in your address book

  Date: 15 August

  Hello lovely ladies,

  It’s me again, Lauren Bolt’s maid of honour. I think I’ve now spoken to each and every one of you individually over email or WhatsApp? If not: hello! Hope you’re having a really excellent week.

  I just wanted to update you on our October Marbella plans for Lauren’s hen do, as, after a bit of back and forth, I believe we do now have final confirmed numbers (phew!). Thanks everyone.

  SO!

  There will be 16 of us flying out to Puerto Banus on the evening of the 5 October, returning late afternoon on the Sunday, 8 October.

  We’ll be in a self-catering apartment, as it looks like we’ll be out and about a fair bit, but the price below does include a few meals out.

  For flights, accommodation and all the exciting hen-based activities we have planned, it’s going
to be £425 each. Really hope that’s OK.

  I’ve already paid the deposits on everything and need to pay for the flights in full this week, so would you guys all mind transferring the cash as soon as you can, ideally in the next few days?! So my fifth and favourite credit card doesn’t die too painful a death!

  Thanks so so so much in advance.

  You’ll find flight details and my bank details are highlighted in BIG RED LETTERS on the itinerary attached!!

  We’ll be sending around more info about things like the theme, and anything else you might need to bring along, in the next few weeks. Hope that’s OK.

  So excited!

  Lilah xx

  PS. Sorry to sound like a total broken record, but would you mind just replying to me? Think a few people got annoyed last time about all the group messages!

  From: RebekahSS31@hotmail.com

  To: You

  Cc: 15+

  Hi, can you give me your bank details?

  From: Katie.Jacks@barclays.com

  To: You

  Cc: 15+

  Hey Lilah,

  Katie Jacks here again!!!! Soooooo sorry again about allllll those emails you got last time! Lol!!! Hopefully my stupid email account won’t do it again this time!!!! Let me know if it does!!!

  Thanks for your lovely email, I’m soooo excited to meet you!!! So just let me know exactly how much you need from me and I will transfer this weekend!!!!

  Thank you soooooooo much, can’t wait!!!!!

  Katie xxxxxxxx

  From: Fiona89Mansfield@yahoo.co.uk

  To: You

  Cc: 15+

  Morning Delilah,