The Vintage Guide to Love and Romance

by Kirsty Greenwood

  When there’s another knock at the door I expect it to be Grandma bringing more dehydration sachets, but it’s not. It’s Jamie. He trails in, followed by a small boy in a Leeds United football kit and clutching a football under one arm. Dashing in behind the pair of them comes Grandma, who hurries over to feel my forehead for the gazillionth time.

  ‘Jessica, dear, the doctor’s surgery isn’t open on a Saturday so I took the liberty of telephoning Dr Qureshi downstairs. Unfortunately he wasn’t there, so young Doctor Abernathy here – ’ she says his name with a wrinkle of the nose; to be fair she has seen his balls – ‘has agreed to take a look at you and Peach in order to check that nothing more serious is occurring here. I shall, ahem, leave you to it, Doctor Abernathy.’

  Her chin wobbles for a moment and then she bustles out of the room.

  Jeez.

  ‘Um . . . hey,’ I say with a sigh. ‘I’m all right, really. Sorry she rang you, we just ate a shifty kebab the other night is all. She’s a bit of a worrier.’

  The young boy darts over to the balcony door and gazes out onto the big park opposite Bonham Square. ‘Whoa, I can see for ages up here!’ he yells with glee.

  ‘This is Charlie, my nephew.’ Jamie grins proudly.

  Ah, yes. He did say his kid nephew was coming to visit this weekend.

  ‘I was showing him around the clinic when Old Lady – um, Mrs Beam called to say you were unwell. Say hello to Jess, Charlie.’

  ‘Hello, Jess,’ Charlie says shyly, wandering back over from the balcony to get a good look at me in all my pukey glory. ‘What team do you support?’

  ‘Oh, um. Well, I don’t know . . . ’ I eye his top. ‘Leeds United?’

  Right answer. Charlie’s punches the air and Jamie laughs at my quick thinking.

  ‘Aw, cool, a cat!’ Charlie skips over to the tub chair where Mr Belding is stretched out beside Felicity the doll. He kneels down on the carpet and gently takes Mr Belding’s paw into his own little hands.

  ‘You play nicely with the cat, Charlie,’ Jamie says in a soft burr. ‘I’m just going to examine Jessica here so we can make her all better.’

  Charlie nods solemnly.

  ‘I’m fine, honestly.’ I roll my eyes. ‘There’s no need for you to—’

  Jamie shuts me up by sitting down on the side of the bed and shoving a temperature stick in my mouth. He pulls a stethoscope from around his neck, slipping the cold metal up the back of my nightie. This is weird.

  ‘OK, your pulse is a little fast, but not weak, so you’re probably not dehydrated.’

  He takes out the temperature stick and examines it. ‘No fever.’

  Pushing lightly on my shoulder so that I lie down, he flattens his palm against my stomach and has a good feel about. I think about the last time he had his hands in that area. I drift off a little into that far more pleasant memory.

  ‘How are your stools?’ he asks brightly.

  And straight back to earth I tumble.

  ‘Go away!’ I sit up and push him off. ‘I’m fine. I told you – it was a kebab and too many beers.’

  He laughs, rubs his hand over his beardy face and stands up. ‘Yeah, you’re all right. Like you say, just a wee case of food poisoning. Plenty of fluids, OK? And only dry toast to eat until you stop spewing.’

  I shake my head. ‘Nice terminology, Doc. Fine. Fine. I have my orders.’

  He leans closer to me on the bed and kisses my cheek.

  ‘Gerrof.’ I shrug him away. ‘I’m gross.’

  ‘Get better, you. I’ll see you soon . . . in secret?’ he whispers, giving me a knowing grin. And then in his normal voice, ‘Come on, Charlie. Our next patient awaits.’

  Charlie quickly jumps up from the floor, startling Mr Belding who proceeds to screech and dart into the air, knocking Felicity off the tub chair and onto the floor, where her melancholy face loudly smashes into three sharp pieces. At the noise, Charlie starts crying. Really loudly.

  I jump up worriedly in the bed. Jamie hurries over to Charlie. ‘Whoa, watch your feet, buddy!’ he warns, scooping the kid up into his arms and looking at him with a tenderness that makes my neck prickle.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he says with a grimace once he’s calmed Charlie down via lots of hugging and shushing. ‘Kids, you know.’

  I don’t know.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about it.’ I breezily wave him away and pull a pissed-off Mr Belding onto my lap. ‘I’ll clean this up in a bit. You go and see Peach. Thanks for coming. It wasn’t awkward at all.’

  He hovers by the door looking worriedly down at the broken doll.

  ‘Go! It’s fine. It’s just a doll!’ I say with a shrug. ‘Honestly, it’s really no big deal.’

  Oh, but it is a big deal. It is apparently a very big deal. When Grandma spots smashed-up Felicity on the floor, she almost crumples down there with her. I thought I had seen the worst of Grandma’s emotional meltdowns, but I hadn’t. I really hadn’t.

  ‘Shit, I’ll clean it up, OK?’ I crawl quickly to the end of the bed in horror. ‘I was just, you know, waiting for a fresh burst of energy before I did it. No! Don’t cry! It was a total accident.’

  Grandma gathers the body of the doll up into her arms, holds it to her chest and bawls. She doesn’t even notice that I said shit.

  Fuck.

  ‘We’ll get a new one,’ I try. ‘I’ll pay for it. I’ll get one today.’

  Grandma slowly sits down on the chair. She takes a shaky breath.

  ‘There are no new ones,’ she mutters, delicately straightening Felicity’s pinafore.

  ‘I’m sure they sell them at Argos,’ I say brightly. They always sell that sort of tat at Argos. ‘I’ll have a look, shall I?’ I grab my phone from the side table and open up the Internet icon.

  ‘You don’t understand. This was Rose’s doll.’

  ‘What?’ I drop my phone onto the duvet. These were Mum’s dolls? I knew she was unstable, but . . . porcelain dolls?

  ‘These are all her dolls,’ Grandma sobs, indicating the many creepy porcelain dolls positioned around my room. ‘Jack and I bought her a new one for every birthday from her first. This one is the last one we gave to her before she . . . ’

  Grandma dissolves into tears.

  ‘Before she what?’

  ‘Before she left. And now it’s gone. Broken, and I cannot fix it. I will never be able to fix it.’

  My eyes scan the large room, counting out the dolls. Including Felicity, there are twenty-five of them. One a year for twenty-five years.

  Mum was twenty-five when she got pregnant with me.

  That can’t be a coincidence. Shit, was I something to do with why she left Matilda and Jack?

  I’m not sure I even want to know the answer. It never does any good to dwell on the past. But suddenly I’m really, really curious.

  ‘Um, why . . . why did Mum leave?’ I ask lightly, the crawling sensation already making its way over my head. I clench my fists and ignore it. ‘I mean, she never talked about her life here, about you or Granddad Jack. Was it . . . ’ My voice goes unusually small. I swallow. ‘Was it because of me? Was it my fault she left? Because, you know, she was pregnant with me?’

  Grandma meets my gaze, blinking as if she had momentarily forgotten I was in the room. She takes a sharp breath, removes her specs and fiercely wipes the tears from her eyes with her embroidered hanky.

  ‘Of course not, Jessica,’ she says, speedily dabbing at her nose and attempting to be brisk. ‘Your mother left home because she . . . she wanted to be independent. It was nothing to do with you, dear. Nothing at all. You mustn’t think that.’

  I frown. I don’t want to push her and I really don’t want her to cry any more, but . . . something doesn’t add up.

  ‘But . . . if she left home because she wanted to be independent, then why did you guys never speak? Why have we only just met? Why—’

  Grandma interrupts me with a gasp. ‘Goodness, is that Peach I can hear? Is she . . . is she calling fo
r me?’

  I scrunch up my face. I hear nothing.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do believe I hear Peach.’ Grandma picks up the pieces of Felicity and clutches them close to her chest. ‘She must be very unwell. I must go and see to her right away.’

  ‘Wait—’

  Grandma ignores me, dashing out of the room super quickly. From the hall she calls, ‘Rest up, dear. We have a busy week ahead. Lots to do!’

  If I wasn’t already sure that Grandma was hiding something about my mum, I’m certain of it now.

  And I’m going to find out what it is.

  Rose Beam’s Diary

  12th June 1985

  Mum has invited the Pembertons round for the vow renewals a week on Saturday. I know that she intends to tout me out like I’m some kind of prize cow for sale – she even gave me a pair of gloves she claimed she wore at some silly debut she had a hundred years ago. Gloves in summer. Christ. It’s not like I can have a tantrum either as she is so looking forward to the party and I don’t want to ruin her light mood. It’s never going to happen with Nigel and me. I’ve tried telling her a million times, but she insists that I give Nigel a chance because he’s a ‘perfect gentleman’ and that the notion that love happens at first sight is ridiculous. Well, I know it’s not ridiculous because I fell in love with Thom the first moment I saw him and he with me. I already know, in my heart, that I’m supposed to be with him. And that’s why I’ve invited him to the vow renewals as my guest. It’s earlier than I would like, but my hand has been forced. And I reckon this will be the easiest scenario in which to introduce him. Such an important party means my parents won’t cause a scene. They’ll be polite enough to meet him properly. Thom’s nervous, bless him. I wanted to tell him that of course he shouldn’t be, but I’d be lying. I’m nervous too.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A man needs to feel that he can share his innermost thoughts and desires with his sweetheart. Show your potential by encouraging your chap to talk about himself. Be attentive to his emotional needs and quicker than you can say ‘diamond ring’ he will see you as his greatest confidante!

  Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, 1955

  Over the following days, I try again to broach the subject of my mum with Grandma. On Sunday afternoon, while demonstrating how to list items on eBay at the kitchen table, I casually ask her once more why she and Mum didn’t speak to each other for all that time. Grandma avoids having to answer by feigning a sudden terrible headache that ‘must have been brought on by the ghastly lights of the computer machine’. On Monday afternoon, I try to catch her unawares after her nap. I wait patiently outside her door until she wakes up, and when she blearily comes out of her room, I corner her and ask what exactly happened the day my mum left. With wide eyes and sleep-rumpled hair, she stutters that she can’t quite remember, that it’s not a good time, that I mustn’t worry and that she’s suddenly very tired and, come to think of it, ‘rather needs a second afternoon nap’. Then, blinking rapidly, she shiftily retreats into her bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her.

  I try to push the unanswered questions away – I’m usually so good at refocusing my brain – but they continue to whizz and flutter around my mind like cheap glitter in a shaken-up snow globe. On Monday night, once everyone has gone to bed, I skulk downstairs and search the house for clues. I rifle through drawers and dressers and cupboards trying to find old letters or pictures, any evidence at all of my mum’s time here and what might have happened for her to become so disconnected from her own parents. But beyond the dolls and a single framed photograph of my mum as a teenager in a demure-looking party dress, I discover precisely bloody nothing. Once again, I find myself wishing that I’d asked Mum about her life when I had the chance. Maybe if I’d known more, if I’d forced her to tell me what happened, helped her to fix it, I could have stopped her from getting so ill.

  By Wednesday, I decide to hang fire on my secret investigation because life gets all kinds of busy and, to be honest, I’m grateful to be distracted from the unsettling Mum thoughts. Having listed all the hallway junk on eBay, we’re (thanks to my amazing descriptions) inundated with buyer bids, and in-between waking up early to squeeze in secret runs and sneaking out late to meet Doctor Jamie for sexy rendezvous at the clinic, I spend most of the days managing auctions, requesting feedback and packing up items for Peach to take to the post office. I read some more chapters of Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance when I can, watch Grace Kelly movies with Peach, and, under Grandma’s instruction, learn how to walk as a lady – shoulders back, arse tucked in, nose up, short, delicate swaying steps. So like a twat, basically.

  I try my best to get some words down for How to Catch a Man Like It’s 1955, but time seems to slip so easily away from me and I don’t manage to do anything more than an opening chapter.

  But I will.

  Definitely.

  The days race along, and by Thursday it’s time for my next night out with Leo. Despite my asking, he’s refused to give any clue as to what we’ll be doing, beyond asking that I meet him at the Fourth Plinth in Trafalgar Square at six o’clock. Based on the fact that I didn’t have a bloody clue what to talk to Leo about on our last date, I ask Grandma for advice as she’s getting me ready.

  ‘Of course, the aim this evening is to get Mr Frost to open up to you,’ Grandma declares as she wraps my pale ginger locks up into pin curls, securing each one with a purple crocodile clip. ‘Very early on, he needs to see you as someone with whom he can share his hopes and his dreams. A confidante. A partner!’

  Hopes and freaking dreams? Wow. That sounds super heavy. I don’t know much about second dates, having never been on one before in my life, but that seems like a dead intense topic of conversation. Shouldn’t we be talking about Great British Menu or, I don’t know, favourite childhood toys?

  I frown at Grandma in the bulb-framed bathroom mirror. ‘Isn’t that a bit pushy? I mean, won’t it scare him off?’

  Grandma laughs out loud, her hand paused on my head. ‘A Good Woman is a little pushy from time to time, dear. Men don’t know what they want or what they need. It is our job to show them. Subtly, of course.’ She gives me a benevolent look. ‘People love to talk about themselves, Jessica. All anyone really wants is to be heard.’

  But . . . I’m no good at that. I’m no good at emotional stuff and listening and seriousness. I never have been. When you let people tell you their deep feelings, they expect you to tell them your deep feelings too. They call it sharing. And then you have to think about your emotional shit and everything gets sad and complicated.

  ‘On second thoughts, can I not just stick to being fake-fascinated by him instead?’ I try. ‘He seems to really like that.’

  Grandma tucks a strand of wiry silver hair behind her ear and gracefully shakes her head with a chuckle. ‘Of course he likes that. But I’m afraid we don’t have a great deal of time to do this, and tonight we need to deepen things a little. You must get him to open up, Jessica. Ask him lots of questions about himself. Prompt him to reveal his heart’s desires to you. Be a good and sincere listener and he will see you as a serious contender.’

  I pull a face. ‘Contender? For what?’

  ‘Why, for love, what else? Trust me.’ Grandma pats my shoulder and takes a tub of Pond’s cold cream off the countertop, ready to moisturize my face for the hundredth time this week. ‘Millions of women have taken my advice on how to make a man fall in love. I know exactly what I’m doing.’

  I cross my arms and grumble into the mirror. A whole entire night aimed at discovering Leo Frost’s hopes and dreams. Awesome!

  Not.

  ‘Wow.’ Leo smiles broadly as I do my new, slinky ‘lady’ walk to where he’s waiting for me at the Fourth Plinth – which is currently topped with this mental sculpture of a cockerel blaring ultramarine blue in the hot sun.

  ‘Wow,’ he repeats, drawing the word out across two syllables, green eyes taking in every inch of me with undisguised lust. To b
e fair, Grandma has done a cracking job tonight. I’m wearing another sundress, this time a saturated coral-pink colour that nips right in at the waist and with little cap sleeves instead of spaghetti straps. My feet are encased in turquoise Mary Jane high heels, and balanced on my nose is a pair of huge winged tortoiseshell Chanel sunglasses. With my pin-curled hair framing my elegantly made-up face, I’m totally channelling a 1950s bombshell – less goody-two-shoes Doris Day, more smoking-hot Ava Gardner.

  ‘You look good too,’ I purr, briefly tilting my sunglasses down with my forefinger. It’s true. Leo is dressed down in a fitted navy-blue polo shirt that shows off his broad shoulders, and tan chinos that demonstrate the admittedly pleasing shape of his bum. His quiff is still perfectly coiffed and dickhead-like, but out of the dapper suit he looks different. Less . . . dapper.

  I hold onto the memory of Valentina’s warning. Leo Frost is not to be trusted. He’s probably dressed like this because he knows how hot it looks. Well, I know better, so who’s the sucker here?

  Leo Frost. Artist. Thinker. Man. Sucker.

  ‘I got you a gift,’ he grins, reaching into the back pocket of his chinos.

  Aha! This is what Valentina said he would do. Give me extravagant gifts in order to ‘woo’ me into bed. Must be something small if it fits into his back pocket. Jewellery? A Eurostar ticket to Gay Paris? A little origami heart that he made all by himself?

  Leo pulls his hand out of his pocket and gives me . . . a small white paper bag?

  I tentatively take it from him and open it up. There’s nothing inside. He’s given me an empty paper bag.

  Huh?

  Oh!

  All at once, I get the joke. It’s an aeroplane sick bag. It’s not an extravagant gift at all. Leo Frost brought me a sick bag! I laugh out loud in surprise and make a great show of tucking the bag carefully into my purse. Well played, I think suspiciously. Leo laughs back gleefully and offers me his arm.