The Vintage Guide to Love and Romance

by Kirsty Greenwood

  ‘Anything to eat?’ the waitress asks, pencil poised.

  Each of us orders the cheapest possible dish – a garden salad for Grandma and Peach and a side order of hand-cut chips for me. The waitress gives us a thoroughly irritated look before clomping back off into the cafe.

  Grandma inhales sharply and immediately dives into her handbag – a real Chanel by the look of the gold clasps – and pulls out a little leather notebook and silver pen.

  ‘Chop-chop then, we must get started,’ she says briskly. ‘Peach, you should telephone Mr Frost’s secretary right away to find out his schedule. We need to know his whereabouts in order to orchestrate a chance meeting between he and Jessica.’

  ‘Oh, don’t bother with that.’ I tap on my iPhone. ‘He’ll be here on Twitter – I can find out right now.’

  ‘Twitter?’ Grandma frowns. ‘Is that a telephone directory?’

  ‘No,’ I chuckle, showing her my phone. ‘Twitter is a social media site. Look! People update every few hours with their thoughts on the world, what their plans are, what they’re having for breakfast, pictures of animals they like the look of.’

  She shakes her head in wonder. ‘How terribly self-indulgent.’

  ‘It’s right popular, Mrs Beam,’ Peach says as the waitress brings out our lemonade. ‘Martha Stewart is on Twitter, you know.’

  ‘Dearest Martha is a Twitter?’ Grandma looks confused. ‘Whatever for?’

  I shrug. ‘It’s hard to explain why it’s so good. But it’s brill, trust me. Aha! Here he is. Leo Frost, see?’

  I click on his profile page, noticing that his avatar has been professionally shot. It’s black and white and manipulated by one of those hyper-contrasted Instagram-type filters. In the photo, Leo Frost is wearing a sharp black suit and smoking a cigar. The Manhattan skyline looms behind him.

  ‘Very handsome chap.’ Grandma nods approvingly.

  Peach squeaks. ‘Oh my, what a beautiful man. He looks like that actor Tom Hiddleston.’

  ‘He does not. Not really. He’s an idiot, anyway.’

  A wave of dislike rushes through me as I read Leo Frost’s Twitter bio: Leo Frost. Woolf Frost ad agency. Artist. Thinker. Man.

  Ew. What an absolute turd. I can’t believe I’m going to have to spend actual time with this knucklehead and, worse, pretend to like him. ‘Ugh,’ I hiss at the screen. Scrolling down past the hyperlinks and the conversations and the retweeted compliments, I see a tweet from four days ago.

  ‘Got it,’ I say in the manner of an FBI agent locating a perp. ‘Leo Frost is going to a funfair tomorrow night. It’s a pop-up retro summer funfair in Regent’s Park. The event company who run it are a big client of the agency where he works, by the looks of it.’ I google speedily like a pro. ‘The launch is tomorrow and Leo is a VIP guest.’

  ‘Wonderful. The funfair is a perfect place to approach Mr Frost for the first time, especially on a balmy midsummer’s evening. The scent of the cotton candy, the sound of young laughter . . . ’ Grandma sighs to herself and looks into the distance. ‘My precious Rose always adored the funfair as a girl. She was ever so fond of the carousel . . . ’ She trails off into her memories.

  I blink. My mum liked the funfair? I think of her face, drawn and always tired. I can’t imagine her anywhere near a funfair. At the doctor’s, the benefits office, crying in her bed, at Morrisons, yes. Never a funfair. It seems like such a stark juxtaposition. And to hear Grandma describe her as happy? Mum was pretty much the opposite of happy.

  I bite my lip, examining Grandma as she scribbles in her notebook. It strikes me once more that Mum had this completely separate life before I came along. She had a whole long, complex, funfair-going life that I know absolutely nothing about. To me she was just Mum, the person who took me to school (on the good days). The one who bought me books from the charity shop and wrapped them up in gift paper, even if it wasn’t a birthday or Christmas. The woman I loved so much and wanted to make laugh and smile and be happy again. Didn’t quite manage that, though.

  ‘Why didn’t you go to her funeral?’ I blurt out to Grandma before I can stop myself.

  Grandma quickly looks up from her notebook. A lock of her frizzy silver hair falls out of her chignon. She blinks rapidly beneath her red spectacles and opens her mouth as if to say something before closing it again. Looking around at the cafe tables surrounding us, she eventually opens her mouth again.

  ‘I-I had . . . a terrible . . . chest infection,’ she says slowly. ‘Sadly, I was too unwell to go, I’m afraid.’ I notice her hand shake a little. She notices me noticing and puts it on her lap underneath the table. ‘Jessica, this is hardly the place to talk about such things.’ She purses her lips. ‘We’ve got a lot of work to do and only a little time in which to do it.’

  What an odd response. I frown at Grandma. She looks back at me for a moment – her expression inscrutable – before her eyes slide away and she goes back to note-making.

  I take a big gulp of my lemonade and try to clear my head. I don’t like thinking about Mum. It makes my brain and my insides ache.

  I wonder if it’s too early for a glass of pear cider?

  Why am I asking? It’s never too early for pear cider. I signal over to the waitress.

  Rose Beam’s Diary

  26th April 1985

  What a night! The most important of all the events – Thom Truman and I kissed. And it was even better than I imagined. He has stubble, which I don’t think I’ve ever experienced before. It made everything feel so much more grown-up. Before he kissed me, he stared at my mouth for what in reality was probably just a few seconds, but to me felt like an entire year. Wow. Before the kiss, I’d been to see him in his play at The Old Vic. He was wonderful. Far, far more powerful than the drip who played Romeo.

  Afterwards we, along with Victoria and Thom’s friend John (an excellent Mercutio), went to a pub. Of course I’ve been to loads of pubs at university, but this one was different. It was down a little side alley and they had burly men on the doors. Inside, everybody seemed to know Thom. Not only that, they all seemed to love him. I didn’t get the impression that the patrons were real Shakespeare fans, so it must have had something to do with his natural charisma, of which he has an absolute ton. By proxy, I was very popular too and the people were so lovely to me. Thom didn’t leave my side all night, always making sure I was comfortable and that my glass was never empty. Later on, a few of us went into another room for a card game. It was all very serious and tense and I was an odd mixture of nervous and excited. Thom won and that’s when he kissed me. He said I was his lucky charm! I think he might be mine too.

  R x

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Good Woman does not indulge in intercourse until after the wedding ring is on her finger. After all, why should he buy the cow when he can get the milk for free?

  Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, 1955

  Following my ill-timed funeral comment, the rest of lunch is stilted and awkward. We eat our food in silence, and as soon as we return home Grandma hurries off to her room for her afternoon nap. Peach is dispatched to town for various project supplies, and I’m given instructions to read the first two chapters of Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, paying extra special attention to a chapter entitled ‘Making a New Male Acquaintance’. I go upstairs to my bedroom, drag the tub chair out onto my balcony and sit in the sun with the first of the guides, flicking forward a few pages to the correct chapter. I skim over the text, snorting at some of the more ridiculous suggestions.

  Catch a Good Man’s attention by ‘accidentally’ dropping your glove and allowing him to retrieve it for you.

  Never talk about clothes with a Good Man – he is not interested in your new dress. Find out about what he is interested in and only talk about that.

  Speak to your chap in soft, soothing tones, almost as if you’re keeping a delicious secret.

  I can’t decide whether to laugh or throw the book at the wall in rage. What a lot o
f bollocks. May as well just remember to ‘act like a wimp’ and be done with it. I cast the guide aside and turn my face up to the sun, letting my eyes flutter closed. I try hard to keep it out of my head, but I can’t help but think back to Grandma’s reason for not coming to Mum’s funeral. I might have been so drunk on tequila that I barely remember any of it and Summer might have had to drag me there, but I went. You don’t miss a funeral. Not for a chest infection anyway. I can’t help but think Grandma is hiding something. She was so cagey and cross afterwards. But why would she hide anything? And why, come to think of it, if she’s so pleased to see me now, has she never tried to get in touch before? And why – while we’re in a suspicious mood – does she think it’s a reasonable choice to keep porcelain dolls at her age?

  I make a mental note to ask her. Not in a blurty way like I did at the cafe – that was awkward and she closed up like a clam – but maybe just in a subtle, casual way when the mood is right. Even though the very thought of those kinds of deep conversations makes my brain itch to the max, I find that my curiosity about Mum and Grandma has been well and truly piqued.

  I take off my glasses and prop my feet up on the rail of the balcony. I’ll get back to revising that silly chapter in just a second. But for now, the sun feels damn good. I could almost be abroad. If only . . .

  ‘Jessica? Are you all right? Jessica?’

  I come to with a start. I was having a lovely, almost hypnotic daydream about possible exotic travel options when all this shit here is done. I open my eyes to see Peach’s anxious round head blocking out the sun. I wipe some drool from the corner of my mouth.

  ‘Hey, Peach,’ I say blearily. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘I got your contact lenses, like you asked,’ she says, handing me a Specsavers bag.

  ‘Awesome, thank you. I think I dozed off. What time is it?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Is it? You were in town for ages!’

  ‘Matilda had a long list.’

  She follows as I drag the chair back into the bedroom. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from the glare of the sun outside. I plop back down in the chair with a sleepy sigh. Peach points to the end of the bed. ‘May I sit down?’

  ‘Course – you don’t need to ask. S’up?’

  Peach stares down at her T-shirt and fiddles with the hem. ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking that since you are here, and you said that your friends had abandoned you, and I never had many friends in Alabama and I can’t seem to find any here – I’m a little shy, you see—’

  ‘No kidding.’

  ‘I was hoping that . . . ’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I reckoned that m-maybe we could be friends?’

  ‘Oh.’ I nod. ‘Sure. Good idea. We are now friends.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, why not? Friends. It’s official.’

  Peach’s cheeks turn blotchy pink as she stands back up from the chair and wanders off to the door. ‘That’s great. I’m right pleased. Don’t worry about a thing, Jess, I’ll organize it all.’

  She dives off out of the room in a flurry of excitement.

  Wait. Organize it all? What’s she talking about?

  ‘Organize what?’ I call after her, but there’s no answer. ‘Peach? . . . Peach? . . . Peach?’

  Nope. She’s gone.

  Why is everyone always so weird?

  That evening at dinner, Peach keeps giving me bizarre, excited, conspiratorial looks, which I return with noncommittal smiles. Grandma seems to be in a much better mood after her nap and is regaling us with really long and winding tales of her younger years: her debut into New York society, the dances she went to and the clothes she wore, and how every man who ever set eyes on her wanted to marry her and was totally in love with her, and how much I need to learn if I’m ever going to be anywhere near as amazing as the amazing Matilda Beam. Honestly. I thought Summer was big-headed, but Grandma is something else. She’s tearfully gushing about the time she renewed her vows with Grandpa Jack, and it’s all very odd as I know none of the people she’s talking about, even though some of them are apparently my family. I try my best to pay attention, but I end up zoning out a bit, and when the front-door buzzer goes, I quickly grasp the opportunity for respite and jump up from my chair.

  ‘I’ll get it!’

  I hurry down the hall to the front door to find Doctor Jamie from last night (and again this morning – heh) standing there, hands in his white-coat pocket, shuffling his feet.

  ‘Hullo there,’ he says, trilling the ‘r’ in his Scots burr. ‘I said I’d call for you. So here I am. Calling for you.’

  I smile. He’s cuter than I remember him being. But maybe that’s because of last night and the whole making me come three times thing. Hmmm. I wouldn’t mind doing that again, actually – it’s not like I’ve got any other plans for tonight besides hanging out with the fun twins in there.

  ‘Can we go downstairs to the clinic again?’ I ask without preamble.

  ‘’Fraid not,’ he replies, running a hand over his stubble. ‘Doctor Qureshi is still there. He’s working late tonight. I was thinking we could, ah, go for a bite to eat. I know a great Greek place not far from here.’

  I pull a face. That’s a bit date-y. I don’t do dates. Dates lead to relationships and relationships lead to love and, as my mum always said, love leads to bitter hearts, and I don’t plan on getting me one of those.

  ‘I’ve just eaten.’ I shrug.

  ‘A walk then?’ he asks with a smile. ‘Kensington Square?’

  ‘Tell you what . . . ’ I lower my voice. ‘You go to the shop and get us some booze – Grandma only has sherry in and I think it’s out of date. It’s gross, either way – and then meet me at the balcony. Not the big balcony, because that one goes into the drawing room. The one above and to the left. That one’s the one into my bedroom.’

  ‘How will I get up there?’

  ‘I dunno. Climb? It’s not far. The one to the left, OK?’

  ‘Sounds dangerous. Can’t I just come in via the normal front door means?’

  ‘Do you know my grandma, Doc?’

  ‘Um, not really. We occasionally say hello when we pass each other in the hallway.’

  ‘All right, based on those brief interactions, does she strike you as the kind of woman who would let a bloke into her house for the purposes of making out with her granddaughter?’

  ‘She does seem a bit old-fashioned . . . ’

  I snort at the understatement.

  Jamie looks unsure. ‘Even so, climbing up that high still seems a little—’

  ‘Don’t be such a loser. It’ll be like Rapunzel. Or the end of Pretty Woman.’

  ‘Stop listing everything to do with balconies.’

  ‘Or Romeo and Juliet . . . ’

  ‘Fine. And then what will we do?’

  I wiggle my eyebrows in what I think is a sexy way.

  He nods once. ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes.’

  I hurry back to the dining room and make my excuses to the dinner table.

  ‘Boy, am I full!’ I say, patting my tummy. ‘And really sleepy. Super tired after all of today’s . . . excitement. I think I’ll go to bed now.’

  ‘But it’s only eight,’ Peach says, her sandy eyebrows dipping. ‘I thought we could . . . hang out. I . . . I hoped we could have iced tea in my room.’

  ‘Can we do it tomorrow? I’m worn out.’

  ‘Oh. Sure. All right,’ she murmurs, looking back down at the table.

  ‘Who was at the door?’ Grandma says, putting her knife and fork together on her plate and staring at me through narrowed eyes.

  ‘Oh, er . . . Jehovah’s Witnesses.’

  ‘At this hour?’ She peers up at the dining-room grandfather clock – the only working one in the house from what I can tell.

  ‘Time of day doesn’t matter when there are millions of souls to be saved,’ I say solemnly.
/>
  ‘Deary me. Rest up, then, Jessica. Beauty sleep is most integral in the life of a Good Woman!’

  ‘Of course, definitely, I totally agree!’ I say cheerily. ‘Bye!’

  I open the bedroom balcony doors for Doctor Jamie and can’t help but laugh when I hear him heave-hoing up the side of the wall. I wander out into the fiery evening sunshine and watch with amusement as he clambers over the rails of the balcony, a stripy plastic carrier bag dangling from his wrist and a look of genuine terror on his beardy face.

  ‘Oh, bugger,’ he pants as he finally gets his leg over the bar and tumbles onto the balcony with a thump.

  ‘Smooth. Real smooth,’ I tease.

  ‘That was highly dangerous,’ he huffs, red-faced. ‘I’m wearing brogues. A bloke is not supposed to climb in brogues.’

  ‘I’m not sure a bloke is supposed to be doing anything in brogues.’

  ‘Hey, lay off my brogues. Are you going to let me in?’

  ‘Come on in then, little Joey Potter,’ I chuckle, leading him through the balcony door and into the bedroom.

  He brushes off his cords and hands me the carrier bag. ‘Here you go, Dawson. Hello, cat.’ He crouches down to where Mr Belding is smooshing his furry body up against Jamie’s legs and gives him a soft behind-the-ear tickle.

  I climb up onto the bed and dive into the bag, emerging with a bottle of red wine, which I proceed to open with the mini corkscrew Stanley knife thing Doctor Jamie has attached to his keys.

  Jamie unties his shoelaces, kicks off his brogues and joins me on the bed, shuddering as he notices the porcelain dolls. ‘Christ Almighty, it’s like a Point Horror book in here.’

  ‘Creepy, right?’ I take a swig from the bottle.

  ‘There are so many of them. They’re . . . they’re looking at me.’

  ‘They are. Hatching evil plans, I reckon.’

  Turning his back on the dolls, Jamie pulls out his phone and fiddles with it until some horrible tinny-sounding muzak starts to seep out.