The Lost Guide to Life and Love

by Sharon Griffiths

  Sharon Griffiths

  The Lost Guide to Life and Love

  With love to the Amos men—

  Mike, Owen and Adam—who

  filled my life with football.

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Tilly’s Recipes

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  By the same author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Suddenly, the photographers stopped slouching and snapped to attention. They threw their cigarettes into the gutter and hoisted cameras into position, jostling for space and a good angle as the limo glided right up to the red-carpeted steps.

  Dazzling flashes of light filled the autumn air alongside shouts of ‘Over here, Clayton!’ ‘Give us a smile, Tanya!’ ‘This way, darling!’

  Before the limo pulled away, two taxis arrived. More shouts, more flashing lights. A glimpse of the top of a blonde head, a sparkle of jewellery, a protective male arm. Then a glimpse of expensively cut jackets and a fluid athletic movement as more men sprang from the taxi almost before it had stopped.

  Our queue pushed forward, straining to see. ‘Who is it?’ I asked Jake, as I put my hand on his shoulder and tried to jump up and look. My view was blocked by the huge presence of the security man, whose massive head seemed to grow straight out of his shoulders, his broad chest straining the seams of his jacket.

  ‘Clayton Silver and some other footballers, I think,’ said Jake, over his shoulder, ‘and a couple of those girls off Hollyoaks or EastEnders.’

  ‘Oh, I hope we get in!’

  The footballers and their glittering girls went in through the canopied entrance, shielded from view by a phalanx of security men and the tubs of trees on each step. The taxis sped off, the cameras stopped flashing, the photographers went back to slouching and the queue pushed forward, impatient to be in. A beautiful young man in an impossibly tight shirt was checking names off on a clipboard. Ahead of us a group of girls—all long legs, long hair, huge eyes and glossy, scarlet lips—were pleading with him, but it was no good. He shook his head. The security men motioned them away out into the dark. The rest of us watched, fearful that we too would be rejected. It’s probably easier to get into heaven than Club Balaika.

  When Jake had said he knew someone who knew someone who could maybe get us in, I was first of all stunned that he’d suggested it. Not normally his sort of thing at all. But things hadn’t been too good between us. We had hardly been out together for ages, so I guessed this was his way of making up for being so offhand lately. I’d agonised over what to wear—my bed had vanished under discarded outfits—and had finally settled on a chain-store knock-off dress, but adding a bit of class with my funky rainbow earrings that had cost me a week’s wages on a working trip to Paris. I’d treated myself to a whole load of new smudgy eye makeup too, not that anyone would really see it in there…

  Now at the Balaika, the people before us were allowed in. Did that mean that we were more or less likely to be? We were at the head of the queue now. I tried to look cool, above it all, as if I wasn’t bothered whether we got in or not. I fixed the beautiful young man with what I hoped was an ironically amused glance as Jake gave him our names. He checked us on his clipboard list, looked me up and down in a totally uninterested way, then gave a brief nod and we were in. I tried not to yelp in glee.

  The club was hot, dark and crowded, a lot smaller than I’d imagined and way smaller than our usual haunts but it certainly smelled more expensive, swirling with perfumes and colognes that were tantalisingly subtle. And the people, oh they were definitely more expensive. No chain-store knock-offs here. Every inch of flesh on display—and there was a lot—was honed and toned, polished and glossed. Every strand of hair gleamed. Every smile dazzled. There wasn’t an ugly girl there. Each one looked as though she had spent the whole day, her whole life, getting ready to come out. Bet they hadn’t had to rush home from work, dive into the shower and dash to get ready. These girls had all the time in the world. Time to acquire expensive tans, perfect hairstyles and stunning bodies, and, above all, a careless confidence, almost boredom. The men with them had all the assurance that money brings and something else—reflected pride? Ownership?

  Jake and I made our way in to the bar, trying to look as though we belonged, Jake’s journalist eyes flitting here and there, noticing everything, his eyes blinking as though he were taking rapid instant-camera shots. I was busy looking down—so many wonderful, wonderful shoes. Just slips of leather in jewelled colours, leopardskin, gold and silver—sometimes even all together—narrow straps, towering heels, exquisite decoration. All miniature works of art and engineering that these girls wore so casually on their elegant, narrow, bony feet. You just knew that they had at least twenty more pairs at home.

  There was nowhere to sit down. Well, there were plenty of tables in alcoves where laughing groups sat round ice buckets full of champagne and bowls of strange-looking drinks. But to get a seat you had to reserve a table and you could only reserve a table if you were going to spend serious amounts of money. Not hard, as Jake muttered, going pale as our two drinks took a huge chunk from his credit card. We were definitely out of our league. But we could pretend for a night.

  As my eyes got used to the dim but changing light—an icy blue made everyone look like ghosts, almost green, like aliens from a cheap science-fiction film. I thought I could recognise some of the people—someone from a boy band perhaps, or the guy who played Hugh Grant’s little brother in something. But maybe it was just a look. All the guys looked like Hugh Grant’s little brother. Handsome is as handsome does, as my mother used to say, quoting her fearsome Granny Allen; but handsome is still very nice to look at. Everyone seemed to know each other—lots of shrieks and greetings and extravagant air kisses. I couldn’t see the footballers but there was no VIP area—the whole place was a VIP area—just a series of booths leading off the main room, and I guessed they were in one of those. Then I stopped looking, made the most of the music and leaned into Jake for a dance, surrounded by all the beautiful people.

  This was all for work, of course. For Jake, everything revolves around work. Clubbing isn’t his first choice for a night out. And such a club…I spotted Kit Kenzo, who does that late-night music programme, all over the girl who does the football reports. Then that earl who’s a model, and I couldn’t help gazing at him over Jake’s shoulder. This was beginning to be fun. Then a tall elegant girl with the most perfect shoulders gazed with interest and a hint of envy at my earrings. Good.

  As the
night wore on, the music grew louder (great DJ), the atmosphere looser. Even the beautiful people looked not quite as beautiful now and not quite so bored. I wanted to keep dancing, but Jake was standing by the bar, watching people over the top of his bottle of Asaki.

  ‘Come on, Jake, let’s dance,’ I said, putting my glass back on the bar and taking his hand, trying to encourage him onto the dance floor. I wanted to make the most of this.

  ‘Yeah, OK, Tilly,’ he said, kissing the top of my head, a rare show of affection these days. I glanced up happily to meet the warmth of his gaze, but instead I could see he was watching someone on the other side of the room. I turned to see a couple of middle-aged men in expensive suits coming in and going round to one of the booths. I recognised one of them—Simeon Maynard, a billionaire businessman who had come from nowhere to buy Shadwell, the premiership football club that Clayton Silver played for. Presumably that’s who he was drinking with. A few minutes later a waitress went over with ice buckets of champagne.

  Of course this was why we were here. For weeks Jake had been researching some big story. Not quite sure what it was about—he didn’t talk about work so much to me these days and we were increasingly like ships that passed in the night—but it was hard not to notice all the newspaper cuttings about Maynard piling up in the flat.

  I danced close to Jake, my arms round his neck, but he didn’t bend into me, the way he usually did. Somehow it felt as though he wasn’t there with me at all. Or didn’t want to be. After a while I gave up, stood back from him, let my arms drop to my side. At the same time, the two actresses who’d been drinking with the footballers and Maynard were coming out of one of the private booths and heading rather unsteadily across the floor.

  Now Jake took my arm and whispered in my ear, ‘Try and listen in to their conversation. See if they say anything interesting.’

  Excuse me? He was definitely beginning to lose it. I looked at him and shook my head, and then followed the actresses downstairs to the Ladies. At least I’d get a sit-down. My strippy-strappy shoes were beginning to give me strippy-strappy blisters; there’s a limit to what party feet gel insoles can achieve.

  In the Ladies, there was a whole different party going on. Small groups of girls giggled round the washbasins. I didn’t look too closely at what they were doing, but I don’t think they were sharing their holiday snaps. A girl with a face straight from a Pre-Raphaelite painting lay slumped across an armchair, her eyes shut, her minuscule handbag dropped on the floor. She groaned slightly. I must have looked alarmed because a blonde with the sort of tan you only get from sunbathing on the deck of mega-yachts said dismissively, ‘Leave her. She’s always the same after too much of the house hooch…’ she paused…‘on top of everything else.’

  Other girls in their tiny dresses, as leggy as storks, leant forward into the mirrors, pouting provocatively at their own reflections as they brushed back manes of expertly highlighted hair.

  The actresses I had followed had already emerged from the cubicles, swaying, laughing loudly. They joined the girls at the mirror.

  ‘Not sure about this lip gloss. Too red, I think. What do you think?’ said the dark one, peering at her image.

  The fair one looked at her through the mirror and concentrated hard. ‘No, you’re probably more of a reddish pink. Me, I always prefer a pink. My colour consultant told me it brings out the warmth of my skin tones.’

  ‘Yeah. I can see that.’

  Riveting stuff. They snapped their handbags shut and tottered off. This was what I was supposed to be listening to? What had got into Jake? What had it to do with any story he was working on? Of course, if he talked to me more about what he was doing, then I might have more of an idea.

  Suddenly the room emptied, instantly, magically. ‘The princes?’ one girl breathily asked another. ‘Both of them? Oh, yes please. Such good fun. And I just so adore the bodyguards.’

  Out they all swarmed, a mass attack that would strike terror into even a prince. All except the girl slumped in the armchair, who was now at least sitting up and looking less green.

  I was about to follow them. A chance to dance with a prince—well, within a few yards of one, at least—was too good to miss. I was just drying my hands on one of the neatly rolled little towels when the door suddenly burst open.

  The girl who charged in wore a short sparkly dress that was definitely not a chain-store knock-off, but she could have worn a bin liner and looked stunning. Six feet tall with red hair piled on top of her head, she had the sort of cheekbones that make the rest of us just want to give up hope. She glanced quickly around the cloakroom, gave me the briefest of nods and raised her eyes to examine the high windows. Then, while I watched with my jaw dropping, she took off her shoes, stepped up onto the marble surround of the washbasins, reached up to push open the narrow window, then pulled herself up, wriggled through it and dropped out into the night.

  I pulled a chair over and jumped up, twisting my head to peer down through the window. The girl was loping easily down the back street, past a surprised security guard, towards a taxi rank. Her hair had come loose and my lasting image was of her in the light of the streetlamps, her copper-coloured hair streaming out behind her, shining, dazzling.

  Chapter Two

  ‘So, Tilly, did you get to dance with a prince?’ asked Bill, my godfather, the next day when I called in to his bistro. He and his kitchen staff were prepping up for lunch and I stood by the door of the kitchen, out of their way. While Bill talked to me, he was still keeping an eye on the chopping, slicing, searing, stirring going on all around him. I always loved watching him, cooking with him, tasting, experimenting. His restaurant kitchens had been a second home to me, and it was all down to him, really, that I was working for The Foodie magazine.

  ‘A prince? Sadly, no,’ I laughed, helping myself to a deliciously sweet cherry tomato. ‘It was impossible to get near them—and seriously uncool to try. So I don’t think I’ll be the next princess.’

  ‘Shame,’ said Bill, kissing the top of my head as he came past me with a tray of prawns. ‘You’d be a perfect princess. And it would be good for business too. The princess’s godfather! Everyone would want to come and eat here.’ He grinned at me. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you. Actually, I’ve come to ask a favour.’

  ‘Ask away.’

  ‘Jake and I are going up north for a sort of holiday.’

  ‘Sort of holiday?’

  ‘Well, yes, he’s got some project he’s working on. And I thought I could do some stories up there too, so we’re renting a cottage for a couple of weeks. I’ve got the names of some really interesting food producers—cheese-makers, chocolatiers, and a monk who makes cider from the monastery apples, but if you know of any more, it would be really good. And as long as I keep sending them plenty of articles, the magazine’s OK about me being away.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Bill, ‘I can give you some contacts. If you’re staying for lunch, we can sort it out then.’

  ‘Sorry. Can’t. I’m lunching with Mum.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Bill with a sigh, ‘your mother. How is she?’

  ‘Don’t you know? Haven’t you seen her recently?’

  ‘No. She has, she says, been far too busy. Too busy for anyone as frivolous as me.’

  Bill looked sad for a moment and I felt sad for him. He’d loved my mother for years. Hopelessly and helplessly. There was a small silence. I helped myself to another tomato.

  ‘These are really very good,’ I said as the juice spurted sweetly in my mouth. ‘They taste of sunshine.’

  Bill’s face brightened. ‘Yes, they do, don’t they? They’re from a new supplier. Tell you what…’ He picked up a generous handful of the tomatoes and popped them into a paper bag. ‘Give these to your mother, with my love. And I’ll email you some suggestions for those foodie pieces.’

  ‘Right. I’ll give them to her and I hope they bring you luck.’

  I gave him a hug and a kiss and set off with the
usual mixed emotions to meet my mother, Frankie Flint…

  Yes, that Frankie Flint, Fairtrade Frankie, the one who set up the chain of coffee bars. You’ll probably have heard of her. She’s always in the papers. There’s even talk of making a film about her.

  About how Frankie Flint and her husband Theo started a tiny little restaurant making delicious food so even though the chairs creaked and the tables wobbled it was quickly a huge success. Critics enthused about it, famous people ‘discovered’ it. Their friend Bill came in as a partner to help them. The day they had their first rave reviews in the colour supplements they held an impromptu party at Theo and Frankie’s house. In the middle of the afternoon, Theo popped back to the restaurant to get some more food and wine. He took Josh, their two-year-old son, with him.

  And in the middle of a sunny Sunday, on an almost deserted road, a drunk driver, just nineteen years old, jumped the lights and rammed straight into their car. If Theo himself had not had a couple of glasses of wine, he might have seen it coming and avoided it. Maybe. Maybe not. But he didn’t. Theo and the other driver died instantly. Baby Josh lingered on before he, too, died three weeks later. I think my mother would have liked to have died, too. But she had her daughter, me, aged five, to look after.

  Years later, probably when I was about ten, I came across a photo tucked into a book at home. It was a typical holiday snap of a family sitting around a café table in the sunshine. Father with a baby boy perched on his shoulders, a small chubby girl in big sunglasses reaching up to drink from a straw in a perilously tilted glass, and a young woman with long flowing hair laughing at the camera, eyes slightly screwed up in the sunlight, nothing more to worry about than the chance of some spilled orange juice.

  ‘Who are they?’ I asked my mother, who had gone pale at the sight of the picture.

  ‘That’s you,’ she said, pointing to the chubby toddler. ‘And your dad, and Josh, the year we went to France.’

  ‘But who’s that?’ I asked, pointing at the laughing woman.