‘No, probably not,’ I said reluctantly, suddenly very tired.
‘Have you got ID on you?’
‘Yes, driving licence, bank card. I’ve even got my passport.’ He copied all the details.
‘We have a client who would like this, so I am in a position to help you out.’
Eventually he wrote me a cheque for £5,000. He would probably sell the necklace for at least £15,000, but I’d gone past caring. I took the cheque and left the shop and tried to forget the memory of Clayton slipping it over my head and kissing my throat as he did so.
As soon as the cheque had cleared, I would divide the money and send half of it off to one of Mum’s pet projects in the rainforests and the other half to the Ted Blake cancer charity. They might as well benefit twice over. That seemed fair.
So that was the necklace gone. But there was still the leather jacket lurking at the back of the wardrobe. Clayton Silver had so many designer clothes I don’t suppose he’d even noticed it was missing. I’d drop it in the charity shop next time I was passing. On the other hand, unlike the necklace, he hadn’t actually given me the jacket, had he? Better do the decent thing, I suppose. I found the biggest Jiffy bag I could, stuffed the jacket in and posted it back to Clayton.
That was me done with him for good. All links severed.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I was just heading home from the post office—trust me to want to send a jacket back at the busiest time of the year—when my phone rang.
‘Tilly! Are you busy? Can you join us? We’re having a celebration!’
‘Who’s us?’ I asked Matt, confused.
‘Dexter and me.’
‘What are you celebrating?’ My mind raced through a whole load of different possibilities.
‘A joint project. Come over and we’ll tell you all about it. We’re in Harry’s Bar, at the back.’
At first I didn’t recognise Dexter. I had forgotten about his new haircut and that he was quite so good looking. He’d also swapped his trademark baggy jumper for a stylish jacket. Very worn, a bit shabby, but still swish. I spotted him and Matty before they noticed me. They were sitting side by side in one of the booths, their heads bent over a notebook. Despite the ten-year age difference, they looked at ease together, well matched and not just because they were the same height with those long legs. It was something about their body language, their expressions as they looked up and spotted me.
Dexter’s grin was just as cheerful as always. That hadn’t changed. They both stood up to greet me and it suddenly dawned on me that they were now a couple. I wondered if it had yet dawned on them.
‘So what’s this exciting project then?’ I asked as Dexter poured me a glass of wine.
‘Look!’ said Matty, her eyes bright with enthusiasm as she pushed a small scrap of newspaper towards me. ‘Dexter brought me this!’
I looked. It was a small, smudgy advert showing a large dilapidated building with another one, only slightly smaller and slightly less dilapidated, next to it. ‘Hartstone chapel and schoolroom.’
‘It’s a property advert,’ I said. ‘It’s the chapel opposite the pub.’
‘That’s right,’ said Dexter. ‘After leaving it empty all this time, the local authority has finally decided to sell it.’
‘So?’
‘So I thought I might try and buy it. And it struck me that Matty might want to be in on the deal. That’s why I’ve come down to see her, to talk about it.’
Now I was baffled. ‘You want to buy the chapel?’ I asked. ‘You and Matty?’
Matt nodded, grinning.
‘You want to open the chapel again at Hartstone?’
‘Yes!’
‘Oh.’
I wondered for a moment if I really knew my newfound cousin at all. She was going to reopen a chapel? I mean, I knew they took such things seriously up there on top of the world, but it’s not the sort of thing a model usually does with her earnings.
‘Not as a chapel, you idiot!’ Matty was laughing. ‘As a gallery. A photographic gallery. All those photos Dexter’s been collecting. All those he’s going to take to go with them. They’re just piling up in the back of the pub. It’s a wonderful project, but absolutely hopeless unless we have somewhere to display the end result. The chapel would be perfect! It’s vast and has an upstairs gallery and lovely fancy stonework and huge windows. It would be a wonderful gallery and part of the history of the dale. Ideal!
‘Then there’s space for a gallery just for Dexter’s work. And in the schoolroom next door we could have another gallery with changing exhibitions, so there would always be something new for people to see, and a place for local photographers to exhibit their stuff. And where the education authority built those dormitories and bathrooms and things, we could have a café. What do you think?’
She was so excited, so enthusiastic, her hair in a wild halo around her head, her eyes shining. She looked stunning.
‘Well, yes. Fantastic!’ I said. ‘But are you sure? I mean, can you just do something like that?’
‘It’s all right,’ said Dexter, as he looked sideways at Matty’s laughing face. ‘I’ve had unofficial talks with the authorities and we should have no problem. Quite the opposite; in fact we might even get a few grants.’
‘Right. And who’s going to run it? I mean, what about your work and your degree and stuff ?’
Matt rested her chin on her hands, in the process sending waves of her hair rippling over her shoulders. A couple of other customers nudged each other, knowingly. Even in a place as sophisticated as this, Matty looked extraordinary. ‘What better project could there be?’ she asked.
‘Dexter will be up there to see to all the building stuff. But I’m up and down all the time as it is. I guess I’ll just be up and down there even more, won’t I?’ She smiled at Dexter. ‘There’ll be long holidays, weekends. The course is only three years, after all. Then I’ll be a proper photographer, just like Dexter. The perfect partnership.’
The pair of them bubbled with their ideas and their enthusiasm and I was soon as drawn into their plan as they were.
We drank a triumphant toast to the success of the Hartstone Chapel Gallery. And another toast. And another. Thoughts turned to food.
‘Sushi, that’s what I fancy,’ said Dexter, surprisingly. ‘Something I can’t get at Hartstone.’ When we agreed he strode out to find a cab and it struck me that, like Matty, he was just as at home in the streets of London as he was on the high fells of Hartstone.
So the three of us spilled into Matty’s favourite sushi bar and kept coming up with more ideas for the chapel that they hadn’t even bought yet.
‘Keep the blue ceiling!’
‘One gallery has got to be edgy. Stir it up a bit.’
‘Themes—weddings, parties, work!’
‘Café. Must do proper food.’
‘Cards, posters, books!’
And so it went on. Each suggestion Matt scribbled on the ever-growing list on her notebook.
As I chased the last little bit of nigiri round my bowl I smiled to myself. ‘What would Granny Allen say?’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It had been a good day. I’d had lunch with Polly and Susannah. They’d been great while I was recuperating, popping in and out of Mum’s, keeping me up to date with the gossip, taking me out for lunches. Now the party season was in full swing, they were trying to get me out most nights too. But after Halloween, I’d had my fill of parties.
‘Ah, we’re not grand enough for you these days,’ moaned Polly. ‘Now you’ve been mixing with celebs and have got a top model in the family.’
She was grinning widely as she said that, so I knew she didn’t mean it. Which is precisely why one day I’d introduce them to Matty. They’d all get on well.
‘Anyway, I’ll let you off,’ Polly was saying. ‘You being a heroine and still a bit feeble. But you’ve got to come to my brother’s engagement party and we have to squeeze in one more lunch before Chris
tmas.’
How could I refuse? ‘I’ll have you know I have been in this bar since eleven thirty just to make sure of a seat,’ said Susannah as I found her in among the bags and parcels of the Christmas shoppers grabbing a drink.
It was good to feel life was getting back to normal. Good to be back at work too.
Everyone had been very kind. We’d agreed I could go in late and leave early. ‘Heroines get special deals,’ said my boss. He was really keen on my ‘Celebration’ idea too.
So now, when Polly and Susannah were trying to persuade me to go shopping with them, I had to refuse.
‘Sorry. I’m working. I have a very posh children’s party to go to. Though before that,’ I realised, as I scrabbled round in my bag, ‘I’d better call in at my mum’s. I must have left my iPod there.’
We walked down the road together, still chatting happily before going our separate ways. ‘Don’t forget Jamie’s party!’ yelled Polly in farewell and I nodded back happily to show that I’d be there. But as I turned off by myself, I felt suddenly down again. Although everything was going well, I still felt—well, a bit adrift, really. As if something wasn’t quite right, as if something was missing.
The children’s party was part of my ‘Celebration‘ series. I’d mentioned it to Matty and she, of course, knew an actress who was giving an over-the-top birthday party for her four year old; Matt had sorted it for me to go along. If you’re going to discover a long-lost cousin, one with a bulging contacts book is just the sort to have.
‘Kezia’s fine about it,’ said Matty breezily. ‘Having your picture in a glossy magazine, even over a table of cupcakes, never hurts. And I guess the red-tops will use the pic too.’
The actress’s house wasn’t far from Mum’s flat, so it was easy to call in there on my way. Mum was sitting at the dining table, address book to hand, surrounded by piles of Christmas cards.
‘Just doing the last few,’ she said.
The room, full of light and warmth and the heavy scent of freesias—Bill’s latest offering—was welcoming and familiar. But very different. I still had to get used to the changes in my mother. She and the flat had always carried a slight air of anxiety, as if there was always a great list of work to be got through and no time to play. Now she was making the Christmas cards—previously yet another task to be dealt with as briskly as possible—seem a positive pleasure.
She’d put on a little bit of weight since her accident. Hardly surprising as she normally was never still and a broken ankle does slow you down a bit. And of course Bill had been bringing her all those wonderful meals. She was still enviably slim, but just a little rounded, softer. She’d lost that hardness that I’d noticed that day I’d had lunch with her at the beginning of October.
‘You look pretty,’ I said, without thinking.
‘Pretty?’ She looked surprised as she laughed. ‘Gosh, it’s a long time since anyone called me that.’ But she looked pleased. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I have an idea for you.’
While I’d been staying at home, I’d spent a lot of time talking to Mum and Bill about the food producers I’d met up north, raving about the chocolate and the ice creams, the cheeses, the puddings and the proper meat.
‘I think we can do more in Frankie’s,’ she said. ‘We should be thinking about British producers. Give them a real alternative to supplying the supermarkets, try and use more local produce, even if they can only supply a few branches. If we have a real network of suppliers, we can cover the lot. I’ve thought about it before, but it’s so tricky and time-consuming, hunting out all the small producers. But you,’ she said, giving me one of her fierce looks, ‘have already done a lot of the hard work. You’ve got lots of contacts. Could you find more? What do you think?’
I thought of all the lovely people I’d met who put their heart and soul into producing good-quality stuff. Getting their food into Frankie’s would be brilliant for them and brilliant for us too.
‘It would be great. Gives them a bigger market and us something different. Win win.’
‘Exactly,’ said my mother. ‘I’ve had a few thoughts about it, but I wondered if it was something you’d like to take on. Well, think about it, anyway. It’s a way of taking Frankie’s forward. If you wanted to be involved, that is.’ She looked at me, suddenly anxious for my approval.
‘I do, yes, definitely,’ I said, intrigued by the idea, already thinking of possibilities. My mother was actually asking me for help. What’s more I could do it. After the night in the fog I reckoned I could do anything. I could certainly sort out a selection of small producers. ‘Yes, I could do that for you,’ I said.
‘That would be good,’ said my mother, smiling, ‘a good step into the future.’
‘We’ll have a proper talk about it. But in the meantime, I have this children’s party to go to,’ I said, hiding my surprise at her suggestion by making a great show of hunting for my iPod, which I finally found in the fruit bowl.
‘It looks cold out there,’ Mum said, ‘you must wrap up warm. I know it’s not far. But I still think it’s too soon for you to be out and about.’
‘I’m fine, Mum. And I’ve got my nice warm coat.’
‘Well, take a scarf. Here—’ and she reached out for the scarf that Becca had made, which was hanging over the back of a chair—‘borrow this. Then I know you’ll be nice and cosy.’
‘OK, if it keeps you happy.’ Anything for a quiet life. ‘And I’ll definitely think about the small supplier stuff. It’s a great idea.’
I pulled on my coat and wrapped Becca’s scarf around me. The appliquéd flowers seemed to glow with the scraps of cherry red velvet at their centres. I rushed along the road to the posh party, wondering about the change in my mum, and felt somehow extra warm and safe and looked after.
The plan had been for the photographer and me to get there just before the party started so we could get the birthday girl, Saskia, and her mum and the table of food before the hordes of four-year-olds attacked it.
Kezia had dressed for a photo shoot not a birthday party—skin-tight dress, towering heels and the most amazing make-up. The nanny, who brought Saskia in, was in jeans and flat pumps, hair tied back in a ponytail and definitely ready for action.
The huge room had been turned into a princess’s palace. Pink walls, with battlements and distant views and a slide that was a short cut from battlements to basement. The entertainers were setting up in the corner—a handsome prince, a smiley servant and a not-at-all-frightening dragon.
The food was amazing. A cake shaped like a castle, complete with princess on top. There were tiny cakes and savouries in the shapes of crowns, wands, hedgehogs, little white mice, ladybirds, sparkling sovereigns, tiny dragons, biscuits like bracelets. Brilliant stuff. Much too good for four-year-olds. The photographer did lots of pics with the birthday girl and her mother, the table, the castle, the food and the not-very-scary dragon, who kept poking his head in. It was good fun. Kezia was surprisingly down to earth and Saskia posed like a professional which, at four years old, she already was.
The mothers looked marvellous. Whether they were as dressed up as Kezia—and a few of them were—in designer jeans, or just top-to-toe Boden, there were so many flawless complexions, perfect hairstyles.
While the photographer took his pics, I was keeping out of the way in the corner when one of the mothers looked up from shepherding in her two children and said, ‘Oh hello, it’s Tilly, isn’t it?’
I blinked for a minute, trying to place this woman in her funky red and black spotted skirt and stripy jumper. Then I realised, as she tucked her children’s coats under one arm, and accepted a glass of champagne with the other, that it was Nell, wife of Clayton Silver’s team-mate Jojo François, whom I’d last seen at Ravensike Lodge on Halloween.
‘Better than the last party I saw you at,’ she said cheerfully. ‘What a nightmare! How are you? I heard you were an absolute heroine. Great story. I see you’ve recovered.’
‘Just about,’ I
said. ‘But it wasn’t the best night of my life.’
‘No, I think we all got out just in time. Even if you didn’t actually make it straight home. You were amazing. How on earth did you manage it? In that thick fog. You certainly saved Alessandro and his girlfriend. For which we should all be grateful. Mind you, I don’t suppose he’ll play at Shadwell again.’
‘No?’
‘Well, they’re going to have to sell most of their players, aren’t they? The atmosphere’s dreadful. Jojo’s been out with an ankle injury for the last three matches and I don’t know if that’s better or worse—sitting there watching them play dreadfully or playing with a side that hardly wants to be there. Training sessions are a nightmare, everyone’s fed up, disillusioned and backbiting—and with no idea what’s going to happen next, of course.’
‘Yes. I saw Alessandro. He was telling me about it. He’s just gone back to a little light training.’
‘Probably not much point. Jojo loved that club but he would be happy to leave as soon as he can. He’s hoping he might get a transfer to Paris St.-Germain after Christmas. Still, you’ll have heard enough of this from Clayton.’
‘No. I haven’t seen Clayton since that night.’
Nell looked surprised, then said, ‘Oh, well, that could explain why he’s been extra bloody difficult. Absolutely impossible, according to Jojo. And the fans aren’t helping. Booing the team doesn’t exactly encourage them, does it? And now of course Clayton’s lost his licence.’
‘Lost his licence? I didn’t know.’ I had a sinking feeling. I think I knew what was coming next.
‘Yes, he was in court yesterday. It’s in the papers this morning. Haven’t you seen them? He was caught doing over sixty in a thirty zone near King’s Cross a few weeks ago. What an idiot! They did him for dangerous driving, so it’s a year’s ban. Not even his fancy-pants lawyer could get him off. Personally, I think it’s amazing that anyone manages to break the speed limit with all the traffic. All he needs really.’
The Lost Guide to Life and Love Page 26