‘Books republished? What books?’
‘Her Good Woman guides?’
I give Peach a blank look.
‘Oh, you must know?’ she says quietly, fingering the hem of her apron. ‘Mrs Beam wrote them way back in the 1950s, before you and I were a twinkle in anyone’s eye. Surely you know about those?’ Her mouth drops open in disbelief when I say no. ‘You really don’t know, do you? Those books were practically an institution. My own dear memaw back in Alabama had all five of them. I couldn’t believe it when I realized who I was working for. Thought I might get some tips straight from the source, thought it might help my c-confidence – I’m a little shy, you see – but, well, Mrs Beam doesn’t talk right much about the old days. I can’t believe you didn’t know about her books . . . ’
‘I had absolutely no clue,’ I say in astonishment.
Wow. Grandma is a writer too. A published writer. This is such a massive piece of information to not know. It strikes me that Mum really told me absolutely nothing about my grandparents. For the first time in my life I wonder what on earth happened for them to become so estranged?
‘It’s been exciting,’ Peachy goes on, taking coat hangers out of the wardrobe. ‘The publishers are sending some big gun round here tomorrow to talk about the possibility of reprinting. And then, hopefully, everything will be all right.’
I nod, mind blown. Wow.
Peachy sighs and gathers the heap of clothes up in her arms. ‘I best get these clothes laundered. I’ll run you that tub too, shall I? You wash the day away and I’ll get some newspaper and milk for the kitty. What’s his name?’
‘Mr Belding,’ I answer. Which reminds me, I should probably let Summer know he’s with me. She’ll be worried by now, I muse guiltily.
‘I loved that show. I always wanted a bedroom like Kelly Kapowski.’ Peachy smiles dreamily, her slightly protruding teeth making her look like a timid little rabbit. ‘Would you like anything to eat before I go, not that we’ve got a great selection, mind. A pot of tea? A glass of warm milk? I’ll be making one of those for Mrs Beam anyway, so it’s no trouble.’
I yawn again, overcome with a feeling of bone-tiredness. Today has been pretty damn overwhelming.
‘I don’t need anything to eat or drink, but that bath sounds perfect right now, Peach. Thank you.’
‘No problem.’ She opens the door and then turns back round. She doesn’t meet my eye but smiles, almost to herself. ‘I – I liked talking with you.’ And before I can reply she hurries out of the room, clicking the door shut behind her.
I must be very knackered because I end up falling asleep in the bath, and when I wake up, all the fluffy lavender-scented bubbles have disappeared and the water is cold.
I climb out of the large, roll-top tub, wrap myself in a huge soft blue towel and trot, shivering, back into the bedroom. Wrapping another towel turban-style around my head, I take my blue-checked pyjamas – some of the few clean items of clothing I brought with me – out of the bin bag and pull them on before climbing into the huge mega bed. I pick up my iPhone from the side table to text Summer and let her know that Mr Belding is with me, but before I can press the text message icon, my last visited site – Facebook – pops up with a fresh notification. Summer Spencer has written a new status. I click on the red circle.
SUMMER SPENCER
Guys, I’m utterly THRILLED to announce that I have an American TV development deal with Seth Astrow’s production company for Summer in the City! Success has been a looooong time coming and it feels like an utter dream come true. Woop! #noregrets #summerinthecity
What the hell is this?
I don’t understand.
I stare at the phone, my heart thudding. An American TV development deal? Huh? Has this just happened? But this morning . . . I click open the comments – there are loads of them – and frantically scroll down. Everyone we have ever known is leaving congratulations and best wishes and always knew you’d be famous comments. Someone has written ‘Amazing, Summer! But I thought you were going for a book deal?!’
Yeah, me bloody too, mate. I click further down for Summer’s reply.
I know Seth Astrow from when I was with Anderson, I saw him again at a book party I was at last week! He loves SITC and wants to put it on TV in America. He said Rachel Bilson might be interested in playing me. I can’t believe it!
Last week? My back stiffens. I get a flashback to the blond guy in sunglasses Summer was talking to all night at the Davis Arthur Montblanc party. She said he was someone she knew through Anderson. Oh my God. Was that Seth Astrow? My heart drops as it all slots into place. The champagne popping from this morning probably had nothing to do with me and everything to do with this fancy telly deal that Summer made behind my back. Why on earth would she do this without me? And why so sneakily?
Another comment pops up from a mutual university friend.
Bet Jess is thrilled! You guys are so clever!
And then an immediate reply from Summer.
Jess has decided to go in another direction, which is probably for the best . . . ☺
What the fuck? I don’t want to go in another direction!
She said, this morning, that she was destined for bigger things and didn’t need me any more. Was she talking about this TV thing? I know I fucked up at the party, and I know she’s super ambitious, but surely she’s not that mean. She’s practically just kicked me out of the way.
The towel falls off my head and my wet hair drips onto my face, creating makeshift tears instead of the real ones that elude me. It’s not like there’s anything I can do about it. I own none of the site, I signed nothing. Not even an employment contract. I feel like such a dick. Telly is way more lucrative than books. With an irritated grumble, I switch off my phone. I won’t send Summer that text message just yet. She can stew a little longer about the whereabouts of Mr Belding, for all I care. Not that she seems to have noticed, now that she’s going to be a celebrity TV person.
‘Son of a bitch,’ I hiss to myself and punch the pillow like people always suggest you do when you’re feeling stressed. It’s a high-quality pillow and my hand just bounces right off, which is really unsatisfying. I lie back on the huge bed and one of the springs uncoils, poking me sharply in the hip.
I don’t want to be melodramatic or anything, but I think this might be the second worst day of my life.
Rose Beam’s Diary
19th April 1985
Is it frivolous to reckon that I’ve met the man I’m going to spend the rest of my life with? Oh, I don’t fricking care if it is frivolous. My whole body is fizzing. Even my elbows. It’s 3 a.m. and I don’t know how I’ll ever sleep with this feeling. It’s not just lust. Maybe a little lust, but mostly it’s a connection. I actually felt it like it was a physical thing! I sound so silly, I know, but I’m allowed to sound silly here, aren’t I? Let me tell you about him – I need to get it out onto this page so that I don’t forget. Ignore the scrawly handwriting!
So . . . his name is Thomas Truman. Thom. And I met him just five hours ago. Thom Truman. Isn’t that like the coolest name? I was at the Blue Canary with Victoria and we were dancing to this daft, energetic song by Whitney Houston. Then a tall, eccentric-looking guy strode across the dance floor and, of course, I assumed he was heading for Victoria because, well, they always do. But he came straight to me and leant in close. He said:
‘I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t dance with you tonight. Even if it is to this horrible song.’
Which is a tad excessive, I know, but he said it in such a non-sleazy, genuine kind of way. He had a northern accent, which I think helped with the sincerity. He’s not my usual type. His hair is dark and wavy and down to his chin! And he was wearing a patterned cravat, which I would normally loathe on any man, but on him it just looked cool and stylish. I would say he was a cross between Rob Lowe and Adam Ant, with a dash of David Bowie. But much better, if that makes sense? Of course I said yes, and we danced for the next three songs whi
le looking at each other’s faces constantly. Later, Victoria was chatting up the DJ and so I sat down for a drink with Thom Truman. And you’ll never guess what? He’s an actor. I know! And not a jobless/resting/wannabe actor like me. He’s playing the part of Benvolio in Romeo and Juliet at The Old Vic! He’s invited me to go and see him next week, and I don’t think I have ever been as excited for anything in my life. I hoped he would kiss me before V and I left for home, but he didn’t and now I feel like I will never have a good day again until I know how his lips taste.
Wow, listen to me. Probably in years to come I’ll look back on these diaries and think myself such a loser for getting so caught up with a man just five hours after meeting him. But I hope not. Something tells me I’m going to be seeing a lot more of Thomas Truman.
My arm is aching now so I shall leave you and get to bed where I will dream of TT’s dancing green eyes and try to get the Whitney Houston song out of my head.
R x
Chapter Eleven
A well-rested woman is a Good Woman! A fruitful beauty sleep can be aided by a silk scarf around your hair, cold cream on your face and a glass of lightly warmed milk by your bedside.
Matilda Beam’s Good Woman Guide, 1959
I’ve been trying to get to sleep for the past forty minutes, and it’s just not happening. It’s still light outside, this bed is really lumpy, Mr Belding is a properly loud purrer and, quite frankly, my head is in a bit of a mess. Thinking about how to fix all the things in your life does not make for a happy, restful night. Anxiety snakes its way through my body, igniting every nerve ending and causing my foot to tap repeatedly against the old mattress.
Man, I need a cigarette. I know I absolutely shouldn’t because it might, you know, kill me and all that. But I need something.
I creep out of the bed, careful not to disturb Mr Belding, who is sprawled across the pillow next to me, and grab a Marlboro out of the emergency ten in my leather-jacket pocket. I pull on the skinny jeans and blue lacy top I was wearing earlier and head out into the hall. It’s silent apart from the ticking of at least three unsynchronized clocks. Peach and Grandma are probably sound asleep. Pulling the key from a mahogany wall hanger, I creep out and tiptoe down the ruby-carpeted stairs. Getting through the hall without making a sound is difficult. I dip and curve and wind my way around useless objects, being careful not to trip. I do quite a good job actually. I’m like Catherine Zeta-Jones and her sexy laser-dodging in Entrapment.
Opening up the door to the building, I descend two of the front steps and sit out on the third one, stone still warm from the sun. It’s half past ten and it’s not even dark yet. A gorgeous golden-pink glow illuminates the plush private park opposite Grandma’s house. Blimey. To live here. With a park on your front doorstep. The nearest park to me in Greater Manchester is also the hang-out of crackhead Jimmy, the local crackhead, and all his crackhead buddies.
I light up, and a minute or two later I hear the door click open behind me. I scooch over so that whoever it is can get down the steps.
‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t smoke out here,’ says a Scottish voice beside me. I turn my head to see the young curly-haired guy from before. The know-it-all doctor. Exactly who I wanted to see. Not.
‘Have you come outside just to tell me that?’ I ask with an exaggerated sigh as he stands in front of me, blocking my pleasant view of the park.
‘Yes. I’m afraid so.’
‘Were you, like, watching me out of the window or something?’
‘Um, no,’ he mumbles. ‘The clinic window is open and the dirty smell was wafting in. I couldn’t concentrate on my work.’
I stub out the cigarette underfoot. ‘Why are you still at work? Isn’t it a bit late?’
‘I’m studying for a summer-school exam. Doctor Qureshi lets me use the building.’
‘What exam?’
‘Well, I, ah, I will be doing a wet lab aortic dissection on a cadaveric porcine model in a few weeks and I want to get the theory down pat.’
‘Ooh. OK, that makes no sense to me, but it sounds hard.’
‘It is.’
‘Porcine . . . does that mean pig?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re operating on a pig?’
‘Porcine models are preferable for trainees, who are prone to making mistakes. Wouldn’t want to practise surgery on a human. At least not yet.’
‘Ew. Is the pig going to be alive?’
‘No. It’s a cadaver.’
‘Poor thing.’
He guffaws out loud as if I’ve just said something hilarious.
‘Why can’t you revise at your house?’ I ask.
He rubs his eyes. ‘My housemates are newly-weds. They’re doing what newly-weds do and it’s tough to concentrate with all their . . . sounds.’
‘What sounds?’ I ask innocently.
‘Love sounds, etcetera.’ He frowns and then stares pointedly at my cigarette on the ground, the last orange embers dying out to grey.
‘Gad. What is it now?’
‘You can’t just leave that there.’
‘Jeez. No swearing, no smoking, no leaving something on the ground for A TINY MINUTE. Who are you? The . . . Life Police?’
‘Um, no. But it’s littering. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this is a really nice street. It should be kept that way.’
‘God, man.’ I pick up the cigarette with the tips of my fingers, mosey across the empty road to a racing-green litter bin and drop it in. I cross back over, indicate the now clear spot on the ground and put my hands on my hips. ‘Happy now?’
‘Yes, thank you. You’re keeping Britain tidy.’
I glare at him, willing him to leave me alone. I really would like to get back to my one-woman pity party on the stoop.
He fiddles with his white coat for a moment.
‘Would you, ah, would you like a wee cup of tea?’ he says eventually. ‘I could actually do with a break.’
He shuffles from one foot to the other and puts his hands in his pockets. The tips of his ears turn red.
Aaaah, I know that look. The doctor totally fancies me. Blue lacy top – works every time.
I squint at him. He’s quite cute-looking, I guess. Bit short, but nice glossy dark, curly hair and warm, long-lashed brown eyes. Nerdy. But really quite cute.
I suppose a little kissing might be a reasonable way to cheer me up, help me relax after the stress of the day.
‘You got any booze?’ I say.
He looks surprised. ‘Er . . . Doctor Qureshi is Muslim, so no. No booze.’
‘Fair enough. Tea will do.’
He nods brusquely and we go back into the lobby of the building. He opens up the door to the clinic and we walk in, past a posh waiting room with lots of big comfy-looking tub chairs and oil paintings of gross squelchy-hearts on the walls.
We enter a small dark room. The windows are flung open, and a light breeze makes the blinds turn from side to side so that they look as if they’re doing the twist. Along one wall are two hefty filing cabinets, and in the centre of the room is a desk covered in textbooks and papers with scientific diagrams of heart stuff on them. I hop onto the corner of the desk and dangle my legs down.
‘Is this your office then, Doc?’
‘It is.’
‘It’s teeny. How do you treat people in here? I can barely fit in. What if you have to treat a larger person? What if you have to treat a wrestler?’
‘I don’t actually treat patients on my own, so a cupboard-sized office isn’t a problem because nobody is in here but me. I’m a part-time assistant. Mostly admin, to be honest, but it looks good on my CV while I’m doing my specialist cardiothoracic training, and I get to be around a genius surgeon every day.’
‘Why the white coat, then, if you’re just here to do admin?’
Jamie goes a little pink in the cheeks. ‘I’m still a doctor.’
‘Yeah, but you’re not doing any doctoring here.’
‘I, ah . . . I sup
pose I like how it looks,’ he admits with a self-conscious shrug before pouring bottled water into a small kettle.
I laugh. Jamie responds with an embarrassed chuckle.
‘So you’re going to be a heart surgeon too?’ I ask, as he pulls two mugs from his desk drawer. One of them is an NHS mug and the other has little pink hearts dotted all over it. Man, this guy loves hearts so much.
‘Yeah, that’s the plan.’
‘Sounds like hard work.’
‘It bloody is. But I love it.’ He rubs a hand over his five o’clock shadow. ‘What’s your profession, Jess?’
Hmm. What is my profession? Best friend dragger-downer? Grandma-botherer? Future best mate of crackhead Jimmy? Who the fuck knows any more?
I swiftly change the subject to something much easier.
‘You don’t have to actually make the tea, you know,’ I say, indicating the boiling kettle.
‘Excuse me?’ Jamie turns round. ‘I thought you said you want—’
‘We could just get straight to the kissing bit?’
‘I’m sorry?’ He drops a spoon; it clatters onto the floor. ‘I don’t quite . . . ’
‘Come on, Doc. Didn’t you invite me in here because you fancy me?’
He stutters and fiddles with a teabag. ‘Er . . . well . . . yes. I suppose I did, but—’
‘It’s fine. Chill. I’m not like most girls. You don’t have to woo me and all that fluff.’
He raises his eyebrows and looks down at his feet.
After a very long and awkward moment, I sigh and hop down off the desk.
‘Listen, Doc. Thanks for the offer of tea and all—’
But before I can finish the sentence, Jamie has scuffled over and gently pushes me back onto the desk.
The Vintage Guide to Love and Romance Page 9