The Vintage Guide to Love and Romance

by Kirsty Greenwood

  Gasp. There’s a Matilda Beam! Living at somewhere called Bonham Square in Kensington. The electoral roll shows the year 2013 as the most recent one registered and the age seventy-seven. That’s got to be her. It has to be. Matilda Beam is hardly a common name.

  ‘You fucking genius,’ I breathe, digging into my jeans pocket for some money.

  ‘What’s that, love?’ Skanky Elaine says, one gammy eye on Kirstie Allsopp simpering into the camera.

  ‘You, you’re a – hic – geniush. You’re absolutely right. I do have a grandma. An alive grandma. And I think, well, I think she might be loaded. Man, I should have thought of this ages ago! Wow, I wonder how much time I’ve wasted.’ I hurriedly pay the bar bill and hop down off the bar stool with a wobble. ‘She’ll be able to lend me some money. A loan or sommat. I’ll be able to go travelling straight away. I’ll go to flippin’ Jamaica! Yasssss! I’m going to go home, pack an overnight bag and catch the train back to London right away. There ish no time to lose.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Skanky Elaine frowns. ‘You’ve had a fair amount to drink, love. You sure this is the best idea?’

  ‘No, I’m not sure, Skanky Elaine. I’m not sure at all. But’s the only bloody idea I’ve got.’

  Going on the hunt for your long-lost grandma when you’re sad and drunk on a Tuesday afternoon is an unusual idea. In the back alleys of my mind, I know that perhaps I should be thinking this whole thing through more carefully: maybe making a few phone calls, verifying that Grandma actually still lives at the Kensington address I found on Google, or is definitely, absolutely still, you know, alive. But desperation plus tequila equals mental things, and I am desperate and so full of tequila. My decision to do one is further solidified when I arrive back home to pack and find that Summer has guests over. I’ve only been out of the house for an hour or so, and now I can hear them giggling in the kitchen. The unmistakable pop of a champagne cork echoes out through the hallway.

  What the fuck?

  Are they celebrating?

  Jeez. She must really want me out! I hurry wonkily to my room, flop onto the bed for a moment and try to have a cry. I do my best to squeeze out a tear, just one teensy little tear, but of course it doesn’t happen. As expected, I remain cryless.

  Unable to find any proper luggage, I hurriedly pack a bin liner of clothes, grab my laptop bag and sneak back down the stairs and past the giggling festivities in the kitchen. As I reach the front door, Mr Belding darts out of the living room, a curious look upon his fluffy face. He’s wearing a tiny purple pork-pie hat today in aid of the hours of pictures Summer will be taking of him later for her Instagram page. Poor thing. Destined for a life of preening and posing instead of playing and purring.

  I hear another burst of laughter from the kitchen and the clinking of glasses in a toast. Someone, Holden, I think, calls out, ‘Here’s to the rise of Summer!’ Christ. They’re congratulating her on getting rid of me. Today really has taken the grimmest turn.

  I exhale steadily, a hot flicker of resentment piercing my chest. Then, without really thinking about what I’m doing, I scoop our kitten up under one arm and leave the flat.

  Spending the last of my life funds on a ticket, I catch the train to London for the second time in less than a week. Which, when you’re pissed, carrying a huge bin bag of dirty clothes, a laptop bag and smuggling a kitten inside your leather bomber jacket, is not the most joyful of experiences. Especially when the bin liner gets a hole in it and the gusset area of your bobbly grey thong is poking out for everyone to see, including the guy you were sadly yet stoically eyeing up at Euston.

  Now I’m standing outside a massive white stucco-fronted house in Kensington.

  This is it: Grandma’s house.

  I take a few rapid deep breaths and press a little silver buzzer on the wall. Almost immediately, a high-pitched female voice sounds out through the intercom speaker.

  ‘Hello?’

  It’s a bit crackly. Grandma, or not Grandma?

  I haven’t got a clue.

  Shit, I don’t even know this woman. Can I really just show up and ask for a loan when we’ve never even met? I look down to where Mr Belding purrs contentedly from inside my coat as if maybe he knows the answer. He doesn’t. He knows nothing.

  What am I doing? The booze has pretty much worn off now and all that remains is the harsh reality of who I really am: a kitten-nicking, book-deal-ruiner with a bag of skanky clothes and a bit of tequila-induced acid reflux.

  ‘Um, I hope y’all don’t mind me asking but w-what are you doing out there? Can I help you? Are – are you in trouble?’

  I startle as the intercom crackles back into life.

  ‘Er . . . ’ I lean forward and speak into the intercom. ‘Hello. Uh . . . I thought my gran lived here. But you’re young and American, and I think she’s old and English, so I’m guessing she’s probably not here any more. So I’ll go. Sorry to have bothered you.’

  Brill. I’ve spent the last pounds I have in the world on some ridiculous grandma goose chase. I hate myself right now. Damn it, Jess.

  ‘Is Matilda Beam your grandma?’ the squeaky voice asks.

  ‘Er, yeah. I’m Jessica. Jess.’

  Immediately there’s a low buzz and a clicking noise as the shiny black door swiftly unlocks.

  Shit! My grandma is here?

  ‘We’re the second and third floor,’ the intercom woman says in a lilting southern American cadence. ‘Downstairs is a medical clinic.’

  ‘Oh! Right! OK, cheers, great. See you in a sec, then!’

  I push open the heavy door to find myself in a grand-looking lobby with a black-and-white chequered floor and, from what I can gather, a whole load of stairs. I bypass them straight away – lifts are always the easy and best option, I feel, and particularly so when I’m carrying a cat, a laptop bag and a bursting plastic bag.

  Oh, wait. No. There doesn’t appear to be a lift.

  ‘Knobs and bollocks,’ I grumble to myself, dropping the bin bag on the floor in despair. I cry to the heavens: ‘Knobs and bollocks.’

  I hate stairs at the best of times, but with all this stuff too? It’s going to be so haaard. Mr Belding snuffles in agreement.

  A door to the left of me opens and the head of a short, curly-haired man pops out. He looks a little younger than me and is wearing a starchy white doctor’s coat alongside his confused expression.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he says in a melodic Scottish accent, examining me and my wares with a suspicious frown.

  ‘Oh, yes please,’ I say. ‘I’m looking for the lift. Do you know where it is?’

  He clears his throat. ‘Um, this place was built mid-nineteenth century. It’s stairs only.’

  ‘Knobs. And. Bollocks,’ I grumble again as my worries are confirmed. ‘All this stuff is so heavy.’

  ‘You can’t say knobs and bollocks in here!’

  ‘Oh? And why is that?’ I peer at him. ‘Are you the boss of the whole building?’

  ‘Um, no.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘Well, because this is Doctor Qureshi’s cardiothoracic clinic. We’re treating people with problematic hearts. I don’t think those people want to hear “knobs and bollocks” being wailed outside the door when they’re already anxious and unwell and have quite enough to worry about.’

  He lifts his chin a little.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, guilt sweeping over me. ‘Yeah, I can see how that might be a bit annoying for them. I’m sorry. No more swearing. Are you Doctor Qureshi?’

  ‘No. I’m Doctor Abernathy. I work for Doctor Qureshi.’

  ‘Right. Cool. You fancy helping me with these bags, then?’

  ‘No, not really. I’m very busy at work – wait, who on earth are you?’ He narrows his eyes.

  ‘Your worst nightmare,’ I answer.

  I say this mostly because I’ve always wanted to say it and this seems like as good a time as any. Also because I still seem to be a tiny bit drunk.

  ‘Hmm, yes, I thought so,�
� he mutters, before leaning forward to peer at my boobs, eyes growing wide with astonishment. What the hell is this? What is he doing? I mean, to be fair, mine are pretty awesome boobs and have drawn many an admiring glance, though never so overt. Gross. He’s really staring. What a megaperv. I throw him my finest withering glance. ‘Ugh,’ I spit.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, leaning in further still. ‘But . . . do you know that there’s . . . there’s a cat in your jacket? Wearing a hat?’

  Aha, he’s only spotted Mr Belding. Not megaperving. I peek down and see Mr Belding’s little face popping out of the top of my coat. I give his ears a little tickle.

  ‘Yeah, thanks for the heads-up, Doctor Seuss. You know, I don’t even know why he’s there.’

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘I mean, I don’t know why I brought him here. I adopted him with my friend, but then I got a bit pissed and I was mad at her so I just kind of . . . took him. Anyway, don’t worry about all that. Will you please help me with my stuff?’

  The doctor looks at his watch before stepping out of the clinic door and closing it gently behind him.

  ‘Fine. But this does not make me an accomplice to the animal theft.’ He takes the bin bag and the laptop bag and leads the way up the stairs. ‘I will expect you to testify to that.’

  ‘I’ll swear on the Holy Bible that you knew nothing about it,’ I reply solemnly as Mr Belding snuggles himself back down into the soft satin lining of my jacket and dozes off. ‘Unless they offer me some kind of lighter sentence deal.’

  ‘Great, thanks. So you’re going upstairs to see Old Lady Beam?’

  ‘I am. She’s my gran.’

  ‘Ah. I didn’t know she had any family . . . I’ve never seen anyone visit . . . um, sorry for calling her Old Lady Beam.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind.’ I lower my voice. ‘To be honest, I’d actually kind of forgotten she existed until, ooh, about five hours ago. I’ve never met her before. She doesn’t even know I’m coming!’

  ‘Wow. So you don’t know anything about her . . . ’

  ‘Nope. Zip. It’s kind of cool when you think about it. Like Surprise Surprise, but, you know, not shit.’

  ‘Yes. Right.’

  When we finally reach the top of the stairs, the doctor drops the bags, holds out his hand and says, slightly breathlessly, ‘I’m Jamie. Dr Jamie Abernathy.’

  ‘Hey.’ I take his hand and give it a hearty shake. ‘I’m Jess. Ms Jessica Beam.’

  ‘Good luck in there, Ms Jessica Beam.’

  ‘Why would I need luck?’ I adjust my glasses on my perspiring nose. ‘I’m her granddaughter. Grandmas love granddaughters, it’s basic human nature.’

  Why is he raising an eyebrow like that?

  Chapter Nine

  Coarse language must not ever cross the lips of a well-bred Good Woman! ‘Gosh, darn it’ may occasionally be acceptable at times of high frustration.

  Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, 1955

  ‘You must be Jessica.’

  I recognize the timid voice from the intercom as a heavy-set girl with a shy, slightly buck-toothed smile and a dusting of freckles across her nose opens the door. She’s in her mid-twenties and pretty in a scrubbed, wholesome, countryside kind of a way. She’s wearing a cream-coloured apron over her long skirt and huge navy T-shirt, and her frizzy, mousy brown hair is tied back into a thick plait.

  ‘I’m Peach.’ She doesn’t quite make eye contact but offers a chubby hand, the nails short and painted with clear varnish.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, taking her hand. ‘Though I’m not feeling quite so peachy, I’m afraid.’ I indicate the now almost fully ripped bin bag.

  ‘No, no. Um, my name is Peach,’ she says quietly, rounded cheeks turning blotchy red. ‘Um, Peach Carmichael. I’m Mrs Beam’s assistant.’

  ‘Oh! Cool name.’

  Grandma has staff!

  ‘Mrs Beam will receive y’all in the parlour.’

  She’ll receive me in the parlour? I snort and look around, half expecting Cousin Matthew to pop out from under the stairs. I’d totally do Cousin Matthew.

  We head into the flat and the beautiful, magnificent dwelling I was expecting to see, based on the outside appearance of the building, does not materialize. At all. The entrance way is grand and wide, of course, but it’s really dingy too. I peer at the ceiling and see a huge, extravagant crystal chandelier, but only one of the bulbs is lit up – the other eight are busted. We turn a corner and walk down a dimly lit hallway. Wow. There’s clutter everywhere. It’s absolutely chock-a-block with stuff. Loads and loads of stuff. I bump into a stone bust of some dude’s head, and then stumble backwards into a clunky old vacuum cleaner, finally tripping up on a tall stack of newspapers. It’s like playing hallway Mousetrap. I topple over and land on my bum, my face squashed up against a misshapen tennis racket.

  ‘Hallllp.’

  Peach spins round in horror. ‘Oh my.’

  ‘I thought I was messy!’ I yelp, peeling my face off the racket and pressing on my ankle to check for damage. Peach holds out a hand to pull me up.

  ‘Are you hurt? I’m ever so sorry. I’m so used to weavin’ and dodgin’ about this hallway, I forget it’s an obstacle course for guests.’ She shrugs slightly. ‘Not that we have many guests, mind you, besides Gavin the postman.’

  ‘I’m all right.’ I scramble back up and brush down my skinny jeans.

  Stepping carefully over an intricate mother-of-pearl grandfather-clock face, I look around me in astonishment. This hallway is David Dickinson’s wet dream. Which might be the grossest thought I’ve ever had.

  ‘Wow, you guys should do a Cash in the Attic.’

  Peach looks serious. ‘We can’t even get the attic door open. Mrs Beam . . . well, Mrs Beam likes her belongings around her.’

  ‘Yeah, I can see that.’ I negotiate a side table with two old, unplugged telephones on it. What the actual fuck?

  And then Peach opens another big door and ushers me into a large, grand room. The ceilings are just as high as in the hallway, and one claret-coloured wall is festooned with a gallery of gilt-framed oil paintings. The other three walls are taken up with crammed-to-the-brim bookcases. I hear the wails of that creepy 1950s Bobby Helms song ‘My Special Angel’ echoing out from an old-fashioned record player by the huge sash window. And there in the far corner of the room, sitting primly on a stiff-looking duck-egg-blue chair, head buried in a book, is my grandma. She’s thin, and although she’s sitting down, I can tell that she’s tall. Her silvery-white hair is styled in what I reckon is supposed to be a Grace Kelly-style chignon, but there’s a mass of frizzy tendrils escaping at the temples, creating a kind of wild halo effect. Grandma peers curiously up from her book and I see that, like me, she’s wearing glasses. Only hers aren’t cool tortoiseshell ones but big red ones that are winged at the corners with those super-thick lenses that make eyes look cartoon-massive. She looks a bit like a Tim Burton creation. And not in the good way.

  ‘Um, Mrs Beam, Jessica Beam is here to see you.’

  The old woman gasps.

  Eek.

  A grandma. My grandma.

  This is bizarre.

  This is too freaking bizarre.

  What am I bloody doing here?

  It was such a ridiculous idea.

  That stupid uncomfortable itch starts to crawl over my scalp.

  OK, chill out, Jess. Keep it casual, keep it light. Get her to like you, get her to lend you some of her megabucks, go to Jamaica. Ooh, or maybe New Zealand. Send her a nice postcard, pay her back, ring her at Christmas, blah blah, fly to Peru or St Lucia, live happily ever after, amen, etc. All good in the hood.

  ‘Er, hello. I’m Jessica. Jess,’ I say, awkwardly trying to shove my hands into the pockets of my skinny jeans before realizing that they’re those trendy fake pockets and I’m essentially just rubbing myself up. ‘I’m Rose’s daughter. Your granddaughter, actually. Sorry to turn up out of the blue uninvited, but . . . I cou
ldn’t stay away. Er . . . I couldn’t fight it.’

  Did I just quote an Adele song? Why am I acting weird?

  ‘I’ll leave y’all to it,’ Peach murmurs so gently that I barely hear her, then she lumbers, shoulders hunched, back out of the room.

  Grandma squints at me and places her book on the mahogany side table before standing up from the chair more fluidly than I thought she would, considering the whole being a gazillion years old thing. She’s wearing a stiff-looking pink wool skirt and a long-sleeved white silk blouse. One of the buttons on the blouse has a frayed piece of cotton trailing from it.

  ‘J-Jessica? Baby Jessica? Is it . . . is it really you?’ she exclaims in the most ridiculously posh accent. She presses a wrinkly hand to her chest, gigantic eyes blinking rapidly. ‘Oh my goodness me, you’re here!’

  At fucking last! Someone on this earth is pleased to see me.

  ‘Yes!’ I say grandly, with a beatific smile. ‘I am here . . . Here I am.’

  ‘Oh, Jessica,’ she wails, a bit dramatically if we’re being honest. She looks up towards her intricately corniced ceiling and, shaking her head, says, ‘Thank you, God! Thank you for bringing her to me.’

  Wow. OK. This woman is dead happy to see me. Why was I even worried about coming here for help? I can already taste the Sex on the Beach, feel the sun-warmed sand between my toes, the hands of a well-hung Australian hottie rubbing factor fifteen on my back. Summer can do one. She doesn’t need me any more? Well, I don’t need her. I’ve got a grandma now.

  ‘Yeah, it’s top, isn’t it?’ I grin. ‘I don’t know why we left it so long. To be completely truthful, I didn’t really think about you at all until this morning. Mum never really talked about . . . ’

  I trail off as I notice Grandma is on the move. She’s inching towards me with her arms outstretched. Is she . . . is she coming in for a hug? She must be. On the telly, grandmas are always hugging people. Hugging and pinching cheeks and kissing you on the mouth.

  Oh no.

  As she gets closer, I notice her gigantic eyes are full of tears. Huge old-lady tears. My most prominent instinct is to back away, protect my cheeks from her bony, pinching hands, my lips from her lips. I am living my nightmare. I want to shout ‘Stay right where you are!’, but I know I mustn’t. It would be really mean to reject her emotional advance.