The Vintage Guide to Love and Romance

by Kirsty Greenwood

  I stiffly shuffle over to the large bathroom mirror, trying not to exert myself too much due to the pure danger of breathing too hard in this ridiculous get-up. I bet I look ridic—

  Oh.

  Wow.

  There I am.

  What I see before me is not a freak of nature, but sort of a more elegant version of Jessica Rabbit. My waist is tiny, but it doesn’t look that peculiar, it just makes my hips and boobs look bigger – a quintessential hourglass. The shoestring straps of the summer dress show off my now creamy-coloured shoulders and décolletage, and while the bare flesh of my breasts is covered up completely, they still look, and are quite literally, knock-out tits.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I say eventually. ‘Maybe you’re right about the look.’

  ‘Well, of course I’m right about the look, Jessica, dear.’ Grandma gives a nonchalant shrug, delicately pushing her red glasses up her aquiline nose. ‘I’m Matilda Beam.’

  Rose Beam’s Diary

  5th May 1985

  I spent every day this week with Thom. Mum and Dad think I’ve been doing extra hours at the gallery, but really I’ve been visiting Thom at his flat near the theatre. He lives with three other actors and he does not live well. There are no curtains at the windows and it’s as if no one has emptied an ashtray in a month. But there’s a scruffy energy about it, you know. Lots of expressive artwork on the walls and always hip music playing. Thom’s room is in the eaves of the house. Mostly we just lie in his bed, guzzle red wine and talk about what we hope for. He comes from Manchester, and has always dreamed of being an actor in Hollywood. I’d like that too, I reckon. Perhaps one day we’ll get to go together and become movie stars! Impossible, I know, but it’s nice to dream, isn’t it? On Thursday night I told Mum I was going to a Bach concert with Claire-Marie, but really Thom took me to a casino. I’ve never been to a casino before. It was brilliant fun until Thom lost one hundred pounds on the roulette. Luckily I have more than enough money in the bank to help him out. Of course, he hates the idea of taking money from me, but he only lost it because he was trying to show me a good time and I know he’ll pay me back. Money means nothing when you’re in love.

  R x

  Chapter Sixteen

  Apply powder generously. Press on as heavily as can be and remove the excess with soft cotton wool. What a smooth and radiant look you have achieved!

  Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, 1955

  The afternoon flies by in a manic flurry of dress-fittings, nail painting (an aptly named pale pink shade called ‘Cotton Candy’) and hair waving. I’ve been forbidden from removing the corsetry all day, and, as such, have just about got used to the fact that as long as I take super-shallow breaths and don’t move too much at all, I will not die in this get-up. At four o’clock, Peach reluctantly leaves us to carry out a bunch of her chores around the house, while Grandma applies my make-up for the evening.

  No sooner has she smeared on the first swipe of thick, musty-smelling foundation than her watery blue eyes make contact with mine in the mirror for the first time all day.

  ‘Jessica, dearest, now that Peach is attending to other matters and it is just you and I, I would like to have a word with you about last night.’

  Oh man, I was hoping she’d forgotten about catching me in flagrante delicto by now, or at least decided that the whole event was too mortifying to bring up.

  ‘I’m, er, I’m dead sorry you had to see that,’ I apologize earnestly. ‘I’ll put something in front of my bedroom door next time. Or maybe I can get a lock. I’ll pick one up from B&Q this week.’

  Grandma smooths the foundation over my face with a deft and sure touch.

  She sniffs. ‘I don’t think you should see that man again, Jessica.’

  Um, what now?

  ‘Sorry?’ I squint at her reflection. ‘Are you kidding?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I am not a lady who kids. I simply think that if we are to embark on this project, it needs to have your full attention. Courting somebody new when you have already agreed to devote your time to seeking the affections of Mr Frost strikes me as a terrible idea.’

  ‘I’m not courting Jamie though. We’re just having sex. No strings and all that. You don’t need to worry, honestly, I can focus on the project just fine.’

  Grandma’s eyes widen. ‘But a Good Woman must remain virtuous until marriage,’ she gasps.

  I snort. ‘Bit late for that now.’

  She purses her lips. ‘Jessica, you will do well not to be so impulsive. To not give in so easily to your immediate desires – it’s a sure-fire way to get yourself into trouble.’

  I have known this woman for less than three whole days and she’s trying to tell me who I can and can’t sleep with? What the fuck? I inhale deeply and try to hold onto my patience, but I don’t quite manage it.

  ‘I’m a grown-ass woman, OK? Let’s just agree that my room is my room and my free time is my free time and as long as I do what you say when it comes to How to Catch a Man Like It’s 1955, then you have bugger all to worry about. Sorry, but it’s really none of your business who I spend time with. Jeez.’

  In response to my declaration, Grandma promptly drops the foundation tube onto the dressing table and starts to cry.

  Oh dear.

  Fuck.

  I can’t bear it when people weep in my near vicinity. Mum did it loads and I never quite knew how to make it better. What do I do? My chest tightens.

  ‘Matilda?’ I stumble over the words. ‘What’s wrong? Why are you crying? Shall I, er, shall I get Peach?’

  Her massive eyes glisten with tears that are magnified by the thick lenses of her glasses. ‘I only want to help you, Jessica. You are here now and we are family. I do worry.’ She grimaces, a look of guilt flitting over her face. ‘Your . . . your mother had the same impulsive nature, blindly followed her passions with no thought, and look what happened to her. If I could have made her listen to me, if she had just allowed me to guide her with my knowledge of how a woman ought to conduct herself, then maybe . . . ’ She trails off with a heavy sigh.

  ‘What?’ I say, my stomach churning. ‘Maybe she wouldn’t have killed herself?’

  Grandma gasps. My heart thuds.

  ‘Look . . . It wasn’t like it was your fault, was it?’ I say, awkwardly rubbing her thin arm. ‘She was always mega depressed because of her broken heart. Because my dad left her and she couldn’t get over it. Because she fell in love with the wrong person. It had absolutely nothing to do with you.’

  Grandma sniffs, takes an embroidered cotton handkerchief from her blouse pocket and daintily blows her nose.

  ‘Jessica . . . you don’t know . . . ’

  She fiddles with the lace trim of the hanky, hand shaking.

  ‘Don’t know what?’

  Grandma seems to have some kind of internal battle before exhaling heavily.

  ‘You don’t know . . . how pleased I am to have you here. Just tell me you won’t see young Dr Abernathy downstairs. At least not until we’ve done our work here. This is such a wonderful opportunity for both of us. We must be focused. A Good Woman is always collected.’

  I absolutely don’t agree.

  But Grandma is clearly having a bit of a wobble right now.

  Hmmm . . . I suppose I could always meet up for awesome Jamie sex in secret. I mean, what Grandma doesn’t know won’t upset her and if it will stop her sobbing all over the place.

  ‘OK, G. I won’t see him again.’

  Grandma breathes a sigh of relief.

  ‘You’re a good girl, Jessica.’

  Grandma continues to paint my face, occasionally saying things like, ‘The complexion must be roses and cream’, ‘Elizabeth Arden’s Flamenco will do wonderfully for a strawberry blonde in the summer time’, and the best one, ‘Apply eye shadow with a touch as light as a butterfly’s wings’. She says each thing in a strange melodic voice, almost as if she’s writing the tips in her head as she goes along. When she’s done, she han
ds me a pair of ugly white cotton gloves with tiny little pearls stitched across the cuffs. I do not like them. I do not like them one bit.

  ‘These beautiful gloves have given me much luck over the years. My own mother presented them to me on the night of my debut. It would mean such a lot to me to see you wear them.’ Grandma smiles at me hopefully. What will happen if I say no to the gloves? Will she start crying again?

  I harrumph and pull on the gloves. We meet Peach downstairs in the hall, where she’s leaning against the stair banister, Mr Belding snuggled in her arms. She squeaks as she catches sight of my finished look for tonight. ‘You look like Rita Hayworth!’

  ‘Do I?’ I sidestep an old film projector and a stack of Good Housekeeping magazines to get to the full-length gilt mirror by the front door.

  Wowser. She’s right. With everything put together – the hourglass shape beneath the summer dress, light rust-coloured hair with an extreme side parting and thick waves (immovable thanks to a mega blast of hair-setting spray), my make-up both delicate and transformative: pink lips, long, curled lashes and creamy rose-red cheeks – I must admit the effect is quite startling.

  Nothing at all like me.

  If it wasn’t for the fact that I’m off to see the knob-prince, I might even be quite excited about the prospect of a summery night at the fair.

  ‘Remember, dear, keep it brief,’ Grandma instructs as I leave the house. ‘The aim of this evening is simply to bewitch and charm Mr Frost into obtaining your telephone number. Nothing more. No long conversations, Jessica. We need to train you up a great deal more before that. For now, simply look beautiful, be alluring and mysterious. Pique his interest enough for him to want to find out more about you.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Keep my mouth shut and look pretty. Like feminism never occurred. I get it. Stop fussing.’

  ‘It’s all in the chapter you’ve been revising, so I’m sure you’ll be fine.’

  Oh fuck, the chapter.

  I knew there was something I was supposed to do.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A lady must never be overconfident or brash when meeting a gentleman for the first time. Ideally, she will be introduced formally, but if not, chatting about the weather is an agreeable way into pleasant conversation.

  Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, 1955

  On the Tube, I spot a group of super-cool-looking twenty-somethings kitted out in elaborate fancy dress. A hunky blond guy dressed as a Ghostbuster waves me over as if maybe I’m headed for the same costume party as him. I wish. He pretends to zap me with his proton pack and gives me a sexy wink. Hmm. Could I just sack off the Leo Frost thing tonight, make friends with this crowd and jolly off to whatever shindig they’re headed for? That would be so much more fun and surely not quite as mental a way to spend my night . . .

  No.

  I can’t.

  I agreed to do this. And we really do need that money. Not just for my escape fund but also for Matilda – on my way out of the house tonight I spotted a small stack of final reminder bills in the unopened post pile. She caught me noticing them and her lips wobbled.

  I give the fancy-dress crowd a reluctant goodbye smile and get off the Tube to change at Piccadilly. When I arrive at Regent’s Park, the sky is still light but the sun is low and raspberry-pink. A gentle breeze carries the deliciously sweet scent of candyfloss beneath my nose.

  I wander onto the crisp, scorched grass and into the eye of the fair amongst a soundtrack of pulsing dance music, giddy laughter and jangling arcade games. I spot Leo Frost almost immediately. His rangy form pops up out of the crowd, glossy copper quiff shining like a beacon. He’s wearing a pale grey suit with a dapper burgundy handkerchief in the jacket pocket. His suit pants are pretty tight. Pre-tty darn tight.

  Leo Frost. Artist. Thinker. Man. Tightpants.

  He’s surrounded by besuited people – obviously big guns from the event company, there to show him round the fair.

  Seeing his uppity face lit by the colourful flashing lights of the fair only serves to flame my original dislike of the guy. Even the way he’s standing – long nose in the air, chest puffed out – gets on my nerves. He thinks such a lot of himself. If it wasn’t for him being a massive dick at the Davis Arthur Montblanc launch party, then Summer might not have sacked me or kicked me out, nothing would have changed and I wouldn’t even have to be in this bloody absurd situation right now. It’s going to take everything in my power not to betray how much his very existence annoys me, let alone pretend that I’m actually into him.

  Right. Focus, Jess. Grandma said that all I have to do tonight is get Frost to ask for my phone number. I simply need to catch his attention in a sweet and ladylike manner. And the instructions for how exactly to do that are in the first chapter of Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance.

  Which I didn’t properly read.

  In fact, the only thing I can remember from the book is something about dropping a glove to get a dude’s attention. That seemed to be very important . . .

  I covertly follow Leo Frost as he walks around the fair with the event organizers, being careful to hang back at least a few metres so as not to come across as suspicious. Patting down my stiffly lacquered waves, I slip off the soft cotton gloves, enjoying the feel of the breeze on my now sweaty hands.

  The group stops beside the coconut shy and the event organizers laugh super heartily at something Frost says. Chuh. As if anything he says could be that funny.

  Right, Jess. Time to get tonight’s task over and done with.

  I take a deep breath, lift my chin and wiggle across the grass towards the coconut shy. Passing by Leo, I casually let one of the gloves flutter to the ground and continue walking on as if I’m oblivious to my lost property.

  Less than five seconds after I drop the glove, I feel a light tap on my shoulder.

  Yasssss! It worked! Amazing. Grandma is an actual genius.

  I spin round, ready to bewitch Leo Frost with a delicate yet alluring smile.

  Oh.

  Somebody has picked up the glove, but it’s not Leo Frost. It’s a chunky, middle-aged fella with a bushy black beard. He’s holding a piece of rope, attached to which is a small fairground donkey. The pair of them smell, quite strongly, of manure.

  ‘Oi, petal, you dropped your glove.’ The man grins, handing over the glove. ‘Here y’go.’

  Well, that’s it, then. The tips work. Grandma, meet my new beau: the Donkey Man.

  Smiling politely back, I thank him and take the glove, noticing, as I do so, that there’s a little brown mark on it. I try to tell myself that it’s not donkey shit, but in my heart, I know it is.

  I turn back and notice that Leo Frost and his cronies have abandoned the coconut shy in favour of a little shooting range behind the waltzers, where Leo is handed a toy gun and instructed to shoot the targets. He gets three bullseyes in a row. Of course he bloody does.

  Bit by bit, I edge through the crowds, closer to the gun range, waiting patiently for a lull in their conversation. Then I slink by him once more, dropping the glove.

  Where it lands on the wheel of a donut cart.

  Noooo!

  As inconspicuously as I can – which isn’t very, considering my outfit – I dive over and swipe up the scrap of material, which now has a grass stain and some wheel oil on it too! As I’m examining it, I hear Leo Frost speaking from above me.

  ‘ . . . yeah, she was easier than a two-piece puzzle, curves like you’ve never seen. Frankly, what choice did I have but to give her a quick ride before Martin took her back home.’

  The men in the group all laugh, and one even slaps his back.

  Ew. Who talks about women that way? What a disgusting, sexist turd. I cannot believe that Valentina went out with this bonehead.

  I shake away my strong desire to forget this whole project and just kick Frost really hard in the shins. Instead, I focus on a final attempt to ‘drop the glove’.

  Closing one eye, I take careful aim – it has
got to land in his field of vision if he’s going to actually spot it – but right before I can drop the bloody thing, two bulky teenage lads dart past me, shoving into my arm. I lose my grasp on the glove and it goes flying through the air, landing perfectly on the shoulder of Leo Frost’s slick grey suit.

  It’s all going wrooooong!

  Before anyone can realize that I am the dirty-glove flinger, I swiftly duck behind the candyfloss cart, out of sight and away from the scene of the crime.

  Leo Frost and the event-runners are mega horrified. Looking around in befuddlement, Leo picks the glove off between finger and thumb, smiles stiffly at the events people, and drops it into a nearby litter bin. He takes his burgundy handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabs at his shoulder.

  Brill. Well, Operation Drop the Glove has well and truly failed. Abort. Abort. Grandma said her mother – my great-grandmother – gave her those gloves, and now one of them is in the bin! Shit. I have to rescue it, but I can’t until later; Leo Frost is hardly going to be charmed and bewitched by me if he finds me rooting around in a manky bin.

  What the fuck am I supposed to do now? The only other thing I remember from the book is something about soothing voices. Speak to a good chap in a soft, low tone? Was that it? It sounds ridiculous to me. Either way, how can I even attempt to make contact if he’s constantly surrounded by all these funfair-event organizers?

  Aha!

  As if divine intervention has answered, I notice Leo strutting over to the big dodgems rink at the centre of the fairground. He hands a ticket over to a steward and excitedly folds his tall frame into a lime-green bumper car. Realizing that this could be my only chance to talk to him one on one, I jog over – which is super tough in the girdle and is more of a speedy waddle, actually – and before one of the other events people can join him, I nudge through, stealth it past the steward and dive at the car, throwing myself into the driver’s seat right next to Leo.

  He jumps in shock and blinks at me as if I’m a mirage.

  I gaze up at him from beneath my lashes. Please don’t let him recognize me from the book launch. He shouldn’t – I’m not wearing glasses or a onesie and my hair and make-up is completely different. I look nothing at all like the normal me. But still . . . pleeeease don’t let him recognize me.