‘Where shall we go?’ I ask her as we amble through the hazy sunshine towards South Kensington Tube station. ‘Where are all the hip young kids of London at these days?’
Peach gives me a look as if I’ve just asked her to explain exactly how and why ITV’s Splash! ever pulled in an audience. ‘How should I know?’
‘Um, haven’t you worked in London for, like, five years? Don’t you go out?’
She crosses her pashmina more tightly round her body and throws me an embarrassed glance. ‘I usually just knit or read in my room. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m a little—’
‘Shy? Nooo. You’re kidding me!’ I peek across at her. Her shoulders are hunched, head down, mass of tumbling mousy curls hiding her gentle, round face. ‘Peach . . . have you ever been to a bar? A club?’
She gives a tiny quick shake of the head.
I gasp in astonishment. ‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-six.’ She sighs. ‘In my defence, I grew up on a farm in Alabama and left the US before I was legally allowed in any establishment that served alcohol. And then I got here and I never quite got the hang of meeting people. I went to a pub once. But that was just for a ploughman’s lunch.’
I cannot believe it. This woman is twenty-six years old and she has never been to bar or a nightclub!
It’s like my whole life has been leading up to this very moment. Going out is my raison d’être. Partying is my purpose. Peach could be my protégée. She’s young. She’s still got a few years left before she turns to the dark side of long-term relationships and babies and TV development deals and Farrow and Ball paint shades. I could teach her everything I know, and in doing so create the best going-out buddy of all time! At least for the next two to four weeks.
I grab her chubby hand in excitement and quicken our step towards the Tube.
‘Watch and learn, my little one,’ I say with a mad smile. ‘Watch and learn.’
Chapter Twenty
Dancing with a chap is a terrific way to engage in chatter, while making the best of your figure. A Good Woman moves gracefully, elegantly across the dance floor. She avoids complicated or exuberant moves and always, always lets the gentleman lead.
Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, 1955
‘Here’s to pear cider!’ I hold up my bottle in a toast.
‘And to the United States of America!’ Peach adds, happily clinking her bottle to mine.
Following a cheap and tasty chippy dinner, then a pub crawl round Soho, we settle in to a small booth at Twisted Spin, a trendy basement club that the popular Love/London blog calls ‘London’s freshest indie and rock venue’. The music is well selected and loud – but not so loud that you can’t hear anything else, the cider is reasonably priced, and it’s got the kind of dark, sexy, industrial vibe that completely disconnects you from the outside world and all of its crap. Here is my utopia.
It’s taken Peach a while to warm up – for the first hour or so our conversation was pretty stilted and mostly based on the recent heatwave and what types of weather we both liked or disliked or didn’t mind. Thankfully, by the time we reached the third pub, the beers had loosened her up a little and she is, as I hoped, turning into an excellent going-out companion, if a teensy bit of an unusual one.
‘Jess!’ she yells over the sounds of Arcade Fire blasting out through the club speakers. ‘Shall we think of a nickname for you?’
‘Huh?’ I squint at her.
‘To call you.’ She muffles a burp. ‘Like friends do. Everyone in The Goonies had a nickname and they were the best of friends. Chunk. Mouth. Data. I’m Lady P. What do you want to be called?’
Earlier, Peach confessed that she’s always found it difficult to meet new people because of her social anxiety and shyness. As such, all her information on how to make friends seems to be based on TV and films she’s seen rather than real life. With her beer-induced confidence, and in a bid to bond by finding out ‘what makes me tick’, she’s been asking me a series of questions. Including what my favourite colour is (green), if I had any pets as a kid (no – Mum always said that it was extra responsibility we didn’t need), and best and worst things that have ever happened to me (a question I gracefully avoided by suddenly needing a wee). And now she wants us to think of a nickname for me. So, yes, fairly odd. But between the bizarre questions and beneath the hunched shoulders, Peach seems funny and intelligent and sweet. I feel a bit bad that I probably won’t be around long enough to develop the kind of deeper friendship she seems to be looking for. Besides which, even if I wanted to – which I don’t – after what happened with Summer, I’m not sure of my capacity to be anything other than a ‘super-cool fun-times’ mate. But if Peach wants to practise being friends on me, I don’t mind. Especially if it means a nice break from the How to Catch a Man Like It’s 1955 project.
‘I don’t know about a nickname, but I’ll have a good think about it. I do know one thing though, Peach,’ I grin, taking a hefty swig from my bottle. ‘It’s about time we were dancing.’
Before I’ve even finished the sentence, Peach is out of the booth and shaking her sizeable backside over towards the dance floor. A Klaxons song blasts out across the club. At the opening riffs, she whips her thick curls around and starts air-drumming. I cheer and whoop, impressed by her unexpectedly awesome moves, before joining her on the floor, where we proceed to jump about the place like a couple of giddy fools.
I knew she had potential.
We dance for ages, and though it’s kind of difficult to move freely bound up in all this underwear, it feels brilliant to let go and laugh and be silly and loud without judgement. We take a breather so that Peach can nip to the loo while I buy us another round of the delicious-flavoured vodka shots that are on offer. Carrying the drinks over to a bench by the dance floor, I almost drop them when I spot, not two feet away and chatting to a crowd of glam people who look totally out of place in this club, Summer.
As in my Summer.
What the actual fuck? Why is she at Twisted Spin? And what the hell is she doing in London? Summer spots me and does a double-take, her eyes widening in an expression of shock that I’m guessing mirrors mine exactly.
‘Jess?’ I can’t hear her but I see her mouth my name. She stalks over, icy mojito in hand, looking extra amazing in a tiny white playsuit and towering nude patent heels. She nudges her way through the other revellers to get to me.
Great.
I was having such a lovely time too. What the chuff am I supposed to say to her? Could I just forgo all civil conversation and mini-pinch her instead? I mean, surely she deserves it for being such an absolute turd.
No. Violence is never the answer.
When Summer reaches me, she air kisses both of my cheeks, something she only ever does when she’s had a few drinks, and even then only with people she doesn’t know that well. We used to greet each other with a cool fist-bump.
‘I can’t believe you’re here! It’s sooo good to see you!’ she chirrups, casually wiggling her almost-prizewinning bum to the music. She’s acting as if she hasn’t recently ruined my life, like she didn’t screw me over to get a TV show and then kick me out of my home. ‘What are you doing in London? How long have you been here for? I’m here for meetings about my show.’ She thumbs at the crowd of shiny people she just left. ‘Those guys are from the production company. They’re great. Just, like, so clever and super-full of ideas for the SITC brand.’
‘Oh,’ I say flatly, casually bopping my head to the music in a way I hope indicates how little of a fuck I give and how so not jealous I am.
‘Yeah, I’m not sure this club was quite the best place to bring them though.’ She grimaces. ‘Love/London said Twisted Spin is one of 2014’s freshest indie and rock venues, but it’s actually a bit of a dive, isn’t it?’
I roll my eyes.
‘So we’ll probably end up at Soho House anyway. That’s where all these TV and film types hang out. Anderson always said it was his favourite p
lace to go for a drink in London. He’s in town, you know? He’s doing Graham Norton this week, so he might be there tonight. Not that I’m bothered or anything. I’m with Holden now, obviously.’
Why is she telling me this? I give her a blank look and neck my shot. And then Peach’s shot.
‘You look different,’ she announces, taking in my new strawberry-blonde hairdo and tiny waist with narrowed eyes, a flicker of something – annoyance, maybe – crossing her pretty features.
‘It’s for a project I’m working on,’ I say stiffly.
‘A project? What project?’ She looks surprised. What did she expect? That I’d be wallowing in a corner without her?
The opening riffs of Arctic Monkeys’ ‘Do I Wanna Know?’ kick in and we adjust the speed of our casual half dancing, half standing accordingly.
‘It’s nothing,’ I say. ‘Just a writing thing.’
As if I’m going to tell her about working with my grandma. She’d love that.
‘Oh. Good for you. I’m super glad you’ve found something to do.’ Her enthusiastic intonation is entirely unconvincing. ‘I was really worried about you. You just took off without saying goodbye. Where have you been stay—’
‘Yeah, I was overwhelmed by all your worried calls and texts, there were so many of them, practically a mountain of messages from you.’ I shake my head, irritation making my teeth clench.
Why is she even talking to me? Does she not realize she’s done anything wrong? How dare she try to act like everything is A-OK?
‘Look, Summer,’ I say, with the best withering glance I can muster in my tipsy state, ‘I’m on a night out with a friend and we’re having a really fun time, so I should—’
‘Who? You don’t have any friends.’
Do not mini-pinch her. Do not mini-pinch her.
‘A new friend, actually. So, you know . . . bye. Good luck with your TV show. Forgive me if I don’t watch it.’ I spin round on my heel, preparing for a dramatic exit, but Summer grabs the top of my arm and pulls me back.
‘The show just happened, Jess,’ she says, eyes wide. ‘I didn’t, like, plan it. It was an opportunity that came up for me and I simply couldn’t turn it down. I mean, you wouldn’t have enjoyed it anyway – it’s a lot of responsibility. I did you a favour, really, not involving you. After everything, why can’t you just be happy for me?’
I throw her off my arm. ‘You’re a liar!’ I hiss in disbelief. ‘I spoke to Valentina Smith. I know you turned the book deal down. You met Seth Astrow at that launch party and you knew exactly what you were going to do. You completely screwed me over! At least have the fucking decency to own it.’
She looks guilty for a brief moment, but before she can respond, Peach stumbles back from the loo and into the conversation with a guffaw.
‘Sorry I took so long in there! I met a nice lady in the toilets and we got to talking. She has a little cat too!’ She gives a tiny hiccup. ‘She showed me a picture on her phone but it was a little cross-eyed and nowhere near as cute as Mr Belding.’
Busted.
‘Sorry, what did you just say about Mr Belding?’ Summer frowns, looking Peach up and down. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Peach Carmichael,’ Peach answers brightly. ‘Jess’s BFF. Nice to meet you.’
‘Jess?’ Summer glares at me. ‘Why is this strange, random person talking about Mr Belding? Where is he? Do you know where he’s gone?’
Now it’s my turn to look guilty.
‘Actually, I’ve got Mr Belding, Summer,’ I admit, huffing through my cheeks. ‘I . . . took him when I left.’
‘What?’ Summer’s face contorts into an uglier version of itself, all pretence of niceness vanished in an instant. ‘You took him? You took our cat? Who does that, Jess? Who the fuck steals a cat?’ She sniggers. ‘That’s messed-up, even for you. I mean, I knew you had issues, but . . . wow. I’ve had Holden looking everywhere for him. You better bring him back. My Instagram traffic has really dipped since he’s been gone. I almost had more followers than fucking Carol Vorderman and now they’re dropping like flies.’
She’s unbelievable.
‘Mr Belding doesn’t even like you!’ I bellow angrily. ‘You dress him up in clothes he hates and make him pose for pictures for hours on end. It’s no life for a kitten. It’s no life at all.’
‘Yeah,’ Peach squeaks suddenly. ‘He’s happy staying with us!’
She’s right. Mr Belding is happier with us, or at least with Peach. And I quite like having him sleep on the pillow next to me. I quite like it a lot.
‘I don’t think so.’ Summer throws Peach her frosty glare. ‘Cool new friend, Jess.’ She smirks.
Peach gasps, her rotund cheeks colouring.
Summer looks at me with a faint sneer of pity and superiority. It’s a familiar expression. At that moment I realize that’s how Summer has always looked at me. Like she’s better than me. Like I’m her ridiculous sidekick; there to do her work, to roll her eyes at, to have one over on, to feel better than.
Not any more.
‘Who chose Mr Belding from the RSPCA, Summer?’ I ask her with as much calmness as I can manage.
‘What’s that got to do with anything? He belongs to us both.’
‘It was me. I chose him. You were busy getting your hair dip-dyed, if I remember correctly. You phoned me from the hairdresser to remind me that I had to get the most photogenic one. And who signed the adoption papers?’
‘That doesn’t mean a thing!’
‘Doesn’t it? I don’t own any of Summer in the City because I didn’t sign anything, remember? But I did sign the papers for Mr Belding. So technically, he’s mine. And . . . I’m giving him his freedom.’
I lift my chin. I am Jessica Beam – brave and noble rescuer of Internet cats in captivity.
‘You can’t do that!’ she splutters. ‘You . . . can’t!’
I shrug. ‘You know what, Summer? I think I just did.’ I turn to Peach and link her arm through mine. ‘Come on, Lady P. Let’s . . . let’s blow this joint.’
I’ve never, ever said let’s blow this joint before, but I heard it on a film once and it seems the kind of hard-core thing you should say at a moment like this. Peach links my arm, a look of blatant admiration on her face. And with that, we strut out of the club, leaving Summer staring furiously after us.
In an effort to re-buoy the mood of the night, Peach and I end up in a late-night karaoke bar, wailing 80s power tunes until the small hours. Of course it works – there’s nothing a bit of ‘Love Is a Battlefield’ at full blast cannot fix. It’s past curfew when we get back to Bonham Square, munching on greasy kebabs from a dubious nearby takeaway and quoting our favourite jokes from 30 Rock.
In order to avoid waking Grandma by even attempting to navigate the hallway of doom, we scramble up from the bottom windowsill to my bedroom balcony instead, clutching onto the cast-iron railings for dear life. Jamie was right. This is much harder and more dangerous than it looks. Luckily, Peach manages to yank me up quite easily with her mega farm-girl strength.
‘I think this was the besht time of mah life,’ she whispers as we tumble into the quiet, darkened bedroom, trying to muffle our laughter like a pair of giddy teenagers. When the single working grandfather clock echoes throughout the house, chiming three times, Peach laughs even harder. ‘Three a.m.,’ she breathes in delighted disbelief. ‘I feel alive! I feel like I can achieve anything! What a night!’
I grin back at her. In spite of the unexpected and grim altercation with Summer – maybe even because of it – it was a pretty damn good night, all things considered.
Once Peach has drunkenly wobbled off to bed, I pick Mr Belding up from the stripy tub chair where he’s lazily stretched out beside Felicity, the world’s most ominous-looking doll.
I give him a merry smile. ‘You’re my cat now,’ I tell him, wonkily carrying him over to his spot on the pillow. ‘And, as Felicity is my witness, I promise you this, Mr Belding: you will never, ever have to wear sh
it cat clothes again. I . . . ’ I take a deep breath, ‘I release you.’
Mr Belding doesn’t respond per se, but I like to think I can see a smidgeon of relief cross his furry face.
I am so drunk.
Chapter Twenty-One
A Good Woman must always be enthusiastic. Even when faced with an unsavoury situation, it is always best to put on a happy face.
Matilda Beam’s Good Woman Guide, 1959
The next morning, Grandma is in an offensively brisk, go-getting sort of mood and fully expects Peach (pale of cheek and maybe still a bit pissed) and me (a complete shadow of a woman) to follow suit. Now that she’s agreed to clear out some junk, she wants us to tackle the hallway of doom immediately and find all the things we might be able to sell on eBay.
On the one hand it’s great, because it means that I got through to her yesterday and we might be able to put off the bailiffs for a little longer, but on the other hand it’s completely shit, because Peach and I are experiencing a level of hangover that you can only cure by lying absolutely still for a long time while someone nice feeds you Fanta through a straw while making sympathetic mewing noises.
I really wanted to go for a run before starting any work – it’s the next best medicine after lying still all day – but Grandma insisted that all the running is probably making my calves bulky and mannish and that I should only exercise by doing gentle stretches instead. Which is bollocks. Gentle stretches are for losers. I love running and don’t plan on giving it up for anything or anyone, regardless of how muscular my bloody calves get. However, where How to Catch a Man Like It’s 1955 is concerned, I promised I would stick to Grandma’s rules, so – added to sexing it up with Jamie – pounding the pavements is just another thing I will have to do in secret.
By mid-afternoon, Peach has vommed twice, I have dozed off once and we have, against all odds, managed to sort, label and photograph almost everything in the hallway. We’ve come across some absolutely cracking stuff, including three gorgeous copper pans, an antique Tunbridge chess set and loads of retro vinyl records. Apart from a silver pocket watch that belonged to Jack (which she cried over for twenty-five whole minutes and declared she would take with her to the grave), Grandma’s been fairly stoic about what we get rid of. I’m pretty impressed with how staunch she’s being about it. I do find it a tad odd that we haven’t discovered anything of Mum’s among the hallway junk – after all, she lived here for years. I don’t ask why though, in case Grandma bursts into uncontrollable tears again, something I can barely handle even without the cracking headache and dicky tummy.
The Vintage Guide to Love and Romance Page 17