But it’s a lie. There isn’t anything to look forward to here. The only reason Leo has got feelings for me is because he thinks I’m this ‘alternative’ vintage posho who likes poems and Renaissance art and is super fascinated and amazed by every single blummin’ thing he says and does.
Even so, he’s surprised me and . . . I like him.
But I can’t. Not now. Not when I’ve spent my whole life avoiding this very situation.
I think about Mum. About what she told me on the day I left for university, just six months before she . . . well. She stood on the doorstep of our house, eyes swimming with tears, and put her hands firmly on my shoulders.
Never give your heart away, my darling. If you lose it, you might not get it back, and then there’s nothing left. Don’t be foolish like your mum. Trust me.
I clench my fists tightly as I hurry towards Grandma’s house.
This is dangerous. These feelings are dangerous.
Ugh, I acted like a sappy fool back in that park. I didn’t even recognize myself, getting all melty like that. What was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking. I can’t risk it. I can’t risk ending up like Mum.
I inhale sharply and blow out steadily in quick succession, trying to focus.
There’s only one thing for it.
I can’t see Leo Frost again.
I have to call off the project.
I’m completely ready to storm into Bonham Square and demand to Grandma and Peach that the project is over. That How to Catch a Man Like It’s 1955 is simply no longer a possibility, that there have been creative differences, that they are just going to have to figure out their problems without me, that everything is not my responsibility, and why all of a sudden is it supposed to be my responsibility?
When I get to the drawing room, the door is slightly open. Peach and Grandma are hanging out on the sofa watching Scott & Bailey on the telly.
Grandma is sipping from a little tumbler of sherry and fidgeting with her blouse collar. Peach – Mr Belding sprawled comfortably on her lap – keeps peeking towards the window, probably wondering when her friend will return. Grandma gasps, riveted, as Suranne Jones nicks a goateed criminal. Peach giggles at Grandma’s reaction and tickles Mr Belding’s belly.
This is their life.
With a lurch of the stomach, I get a sudden vision of Grandma clutching onto the railings of Bonham Square as burly bailiffs ransack the place, kicking her out onto the street. Then I picture Peach, interviewing for a room-mate position at some rough, crowded, flatshare in Peckham, and the amount of anxiety that living with new strangers would cause her.
My shoulders slump as I come to a stark realization.
I think I have feelings for these people too.
I smack my own head. What is going on? I’m turning into a right loser.
I watch Grandma and Peach watching the telly. Two weeks ago these people were complete randomers to me. And now . . .
Oh, who am I kidding? I can’t bloody call off the project. I can’t let them down. Especially not because I’m scared of how I feel about a boy I barely know. I rub the back of my neck and take a deep breath.
Dammit.
Right. Change of plan. The only thing I can do in this horrid situation is try to ignore these ridiculous feelings for Leo sodding Frost. To keep my head down, work super hard on the project as Lucille, get Leo to declare his love for me as quickly as is humanly possible, write those stupid first twenty thousand words, get this book deal, write the rest of the book, save the world and then do one. Maybe to the Caribbean. Then I will send Leo a letter of apology for tricking him for cash and my heart will be safe and I’ll live happily ever after, alone on a beach.
I sigh to myself, and at the sound of it, Peach notices me in the doorway. She jumps up from her chair in excitement. ‘Jess!’ she says happily, as if I’ve been stranded on a desert island for a month. Grandma gives me a huge smile. Never before in my life have two people been so genuinely pleased to see me.
‘Hello, dear,’ Grandma says. ‘How did it go?’
‘Did you kiss him?’ Peach asks.
I kick off the high heels and plop into Grandma’s blue chair. ‘I did.’
Grandma presses her hands to her cheeks. ‘Oh!’
‘What was it like?’ Peach says eagerly.
It changed everything.
‘Erm . . . ’
I can’t tell them the truth about that kiss. They can’t know how complicated it has made stuff, how ridiculous I am, how I’ve totally let the side down by thinking that Leo Frost’s kiss was possibly the best kiss I’ll ever have, that I reckon under his clothes he has a body to rival Ryan Gosling’s in Crazy, Stupid, Love, that he loves Grease 2 and knows all the songs even better than I do, that he got me a sick bag and knows exactly what it feels like to lose your mum, and that he rapped in public to make me laugh, and is brilliant at drawing, and those eyes, and that he smells so delicious, totally grown-up, like rosewood.
‘ . . . smells,’ I say a tad dreamily, wandering off into my reverie.
‘Does he?’ Peach says with interest. ‘He smells?’
‘Oh.’ I come back to earth instantly. ‘What? Um . . . Yep. He . . . smells disgusting. He reeks. Like a rubbish tip.’
Grandma blinks. ‘He looks clean on all the googly pictures we saw.’
‘Well, of course that’s what he wants you to think,’ I say with a cocky look that belies my wibbling insides.
I have no clue what I’m talking about. I’m so messed up right now. Stupid Leo and his stupid game-changing mouth.
‘Gosh,’ Grandma says, wrinkling her nose. ‘I suppose you never really know about a person, do you?’
‘Nope,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll, er, slip him a Trebor mint next time. Spritz him with deodorant when his head’s turned.’
‘When is the next time?’ Peach asks.
As if on cue, my phone rings. It’s him. My hands shake a little and I drop the phone onto the rug. I’m nervous. What a loser. Peach gives me a suspicious look. ‘Answer it, Jess.’
I nod slowly, pick up the phone and press the loudspeaker icon. ‘Hello,’ I say evenly.
‘You’re not in bed yet? What about that beauty sleep?’ Leo jokes.
‘Oh, you,’ I titter, as Lucille as can be.
‘I just wanted to call and tell you that I had a really, really great time today, Lucille. Really bloody great.’
Grandma presses a hand to her chest, while Peach does a big thumbs-up.
‘Me too,’ I choke out.
‘You darted off so quickly, I didn’t get a chance to ask you . . . ’
‘Ask me what?’
‘Well, the thing is, it’s the London Advertising Association ball on Saturday, and I was hoping you’d come with me, as my date.’
At the mention of a ball, Grandma gasps in delight, shoots up from her chair, opens up the liquor cabinet, takes out another two glasses and fills them up with sherry. When I’ve agreed to attend the ball and the call is finished, she hands Peach and me a glass each.
‘I think somebody is smitten!’ she exclaims excitedly.
‘Who? What?’ I hiss. ‘Who now?’
‘Mr Frost,’ Grandma says, giving me an odd look. ‘Sounds like the scoundrel is smitten with you. Or with Lucille, as the case may be.’
‘Oh. Yeah. Definitely.’
‘We are exactly on track. You are an absolute marvel, Jess. I must admit, I had my doubts, but you have been an excellent student.’ Her eyes fill up. ‘I’m so proud of you.’
She’s proud of me.
Nobody has ever said that to me before.
Grandma reaches over and pulls me into a hug. She gives me a little squeeze and I expect the uncomfortable itch that usually occurs at public emotion to make its way over my body.
But, to my surprise, it doesn’t come.
Chapter Thirty
Avoid first-date awkwardness by embarking on a double date. Not only is it fun to dine out with chums, the c
onversation is sure to never run dry!
Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, 1955
I’m having a freaky dream – about a ghost wearing a corset, having an arranged marriage with Michael Carrington from Grease 2 – when I’m woken by Peach shaking my shoulder. Her big farm-girl hands are much stronger and more aggressive than I think she realizes. I push her off before she dislocates something.
‘Ow! Jeez, Peach,’ I mumble, rubbing my sleep-crusty eyes. ‘This better be an emergency.’
‘Gavin’s here!’ she breathes.
‘Huh? Gavin?’
‘The postman,’ she reminds me, with just a touch of exasperation. ‘He brought a package that needs a signature. I didn’t order anything, and I know Matilda didn’t. Was this your work?’
I grin innocently because it was me. I knew she’d put it off, so I ordered a little something online that would need signing for.
‘Is it a big package?’ I say drowsily. ‘A big, hard package?’
Peach frowns. ‘Hush. You said you would come and stand by me when I asked him out. For support. Come on!’
I sit up in the bed. ‘Er . . . can I at least get dressed?’ I indicate my sleep-hair and old AC/DC tour T-shirt-slash-nightie.
‘No, now, you promised.’ She throws me what I think is her version of a withering glance. It’s a slight, sweet, pursing of the lips. ‘Lady P needs you,’ she says solemnly.
Gad.
I down some water from the glass at the side of the bed, pull on my dressing gown and reluctantly trudge downstairs behind an extremely fidgety Peach.
We get to the front door, and sure enough, there is Gavin the postman in his shorts, holding a small parcel in his hands.
‘He’s got a tiny package,’ I whisper to Peach.
‘Quit it,’ she hisses back, turning to Gavin with an overly bright smile. She looks weird. ‘Hiiiii, Gavin. H-hii.’
‘Um, hi.’ He raises a curious eyebrow at my presence.
‘Yo,’ I wave sleepily. ‘Don’t mind me!’ Taking the small oblong parcel off him, I sign the little electronic box thingy. We all look silently at each other for a few seconds.
I nudge Peach with my shoulder and give her an encouraging look.
‘Ah . . . yeah, Gavin, I was . . . I was . . . ’ she starts, her full cheeks turning a shade of deep ruby red. ‘I . . . ’
‘Peach. W-would you . . . ’ Gavin begins, trailing off with a look of pure embarrassment. ‘Uh . . . ’
Oh no.
We stand there for another thirty seconds while the pair of them make increasingly fumbled attempts to ask each other out. This is why alcohol was invented.
Peach turns to me with an embarrassed grimace, her shoulders hunching right back up to her ears.
It’s time to invoke my fourteen-year-old self.
‘Gavin. This is my beautiful friend Peach.’ I indicate Peach. ‘Do you wanna go out with her?’
Gavin laughs nervously, and furiously nods his head, his little red baseball cap wobbling a bit.
‘And Peach, do you want to go out with Gavin?’
‘Y-yes.’ Peach beams.
‘Awesome.’ I nod firmly, grabbing a pen from the side table. ‘Gavin, write your number on here.’ I hand him the package.
He scrawls down his number with slightly shaking hands.
‘I . . . I . . . I’ll call you,’ Peach eventually gets out, her voice as squeaky as it’s ever been.
‘Cool,’ Gavin replies, smiling shyly at Peach. ‘See you. Bye, Peach.’
‘Bye, Gavin!’
‘Er . . . bye,’ I say pointedly as he races off back down the stairs. He doesn’t look back, just hurries off out of the building. I tut. What am I, a ghost?
When he’s disappeared from sight, Peach whoops with relief.
‘Phewee! I can’t believe it, he said yes!’
‘Well, course he did.’ I wiggle my eyebrows. ‘Looks like someone’s gonna get laid!’
I’m winding her up, but she smiles dreamily in response.
‘I can’t wait!’ She holds her hand up for a high-five, which I take up enthusiastically. ‘I can’t wait to get laid. Things are finally starting to happen for old Peach Carmichael!’
I stuff the unopened package in the dresser drawer in the hall along with the rest of the post, and after making a couple of brews, Peach and I wander out onto the drawing-room balcony, where we lean against the railings and look out over the perfectly manicured park opposite. It’s another sweltering morning and the heat makes the distant skyline throb and flutter.
I gulp down my strong coffee, enjoying the zing of the caffeine coursing its way through my body, and tilt my face up to the sun.
‘So where do you think you’ll go on your first date with Gavin?’ I ask her.
I wait for an answer, but it doesn’t come.
‘Peach?’ I open my eyes and glance over at her. She’s staring over the balcony, her cup of coffee halfway to her mouth as if she’s in a trance. ‘Peach?’ I repeat loudly. What’s she doing? ‘Earth to Peach!’
‘A first date,’ she says, a tremor in her voice.
‘Huh?’
‘I’m gonna have to go on a first date with Gavin. Alone.’
‘Yeaahhhh . . . Wasn’t that sort of the point of, you know, just asking him out . . . ’
Her nostrils flare and she nods rapidly. ‘Sure, but . . . I was so excited that he said yes, I didn’t think of the reality of the situation. I’m awful on first dates, Jess. Terrible. I’ve only been on one of them in the past six years, and my hands shook so much that I accidentally knocked over the candle on the restaurant table and set fire to my date’s menu. Then, at the end of the date, when we were supposed to kiss – ’ she looks down at the floor, her chubby cheeks blazing – ‘I broke wind real loudly and my date heard. I was so nervous. It was mortifying.’
I laugh out loud and then stop just as quickly when I realize that she’s not kidding.
Panic-faced, Peach puts her mug on the balcony ledge and starts taking big gulps of air. Then she sinks to the floor, presses two fingers to her throat and starts counting under her breath.
‘Are you OK?’ I say, sitting down with her.
‘My pulse is racing. Oh God. I can’t do it. I have to cancel the date I just made with Gavin. It’s not worth it. I don’t need to have sex, do I? I can live just fine without it. It’s probably not even that good anyway. I mean, how the fiddle can I do this? You just saw what happened out there. You had to talk for us! I’m not ready . . . ’
‘You are,’ I say firmly. ‘You’re just having a teeny bit of a wobble. All dates are a bit awkward at first, and then you just sort of relax into it. Honestly, by the end of the night you won’t even know why you were worried!’ I gently take her hand away from where it’s pressed against her neck. ‘Calm down. You’ll be ace.’
She looks up at me, wide-eyed. ‘But I can’t do it alone. You . . . you have to come with us, Jess.’
‘What? On your date? No!’
‘Yeah. I feel better when you’re there.’
I grimace. ‘Wouldn’t that be a bit . . . third wheel?’
‘No, no. I just need a buffer. You have to come. I reckon I’ll mess everything up on my own.’ She starts flapping her hands at her face as if to cool herself down – she’s having a full-on panic. ‘Say you’ll come with me, Jess. I might never get this chance again! Please? Please!’
Oh God, she’s totally losing her nerve. She can’t back out now.
‘Look.’ I quickly pat her shoulder. ‘Why don’t you, I don’t know, why don’t you come to the ball? I’ll see if Leo can get a couple of extra tickets. That way, you’ll have me there as a buffer, but it’ll be a less awkward group situation.’
She swallows hard, her breathing starting to slow down. ‘OK . . . That would work. Are . . . are you sure?’
No. I’m not. But I don’t know how long I’ll be hanging around here for, and if she chickens out on Gavin now, she might never get to have
sex, ever. I can’t be responsible for that. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.
‘Yeah, it’s no worry,’ I assure her brightly. ‘It’ll be nice and busy and much easier than a one-on-one dinner-date with the guy.’
Peach takes a deep breath and gives me a small, shaky smile. ‘Oh, I don’t know what I’d do without you, Jess.’ She grabs my hand and sandwiches it between both of hers. ‘I’m so, so glad we met. Because of you, things are finally starting to get better.’
On the outside I cross my eyes at her in a ‘don’t be so soft’ kind of way, but on the inside, for the third time in three days, I get a happy tingling feeling. I think this is what they call the warm fuzzies.
Jessica Beam, you need to get a grip.
Something terrible is happening. Since kissing Leo Frost, it’s like the floodgates have been yanked open and all the mushy feelings have been coming thick and fast, like projectile spew, but even more gross. On Monday I let Grandma hug me again, and on Tuesday I hug her. I have many long conversations with Peach about her upcoming date with Gavin at the ball (Leo was totally cool about them joining us), and I actually listen to her anxieties about what they’ll talk about and give her advice about sex, like, you know, a real friend would. If I wasn’t already worried that my hard shell is softening too much, Grandma and Peach point out my slightly gooey mood at dinner on Wednesday night.
‘Gosh, if I didn’t know how much you despised Mr Frost, I’d almost believe you were a little giddy about him!’ Grandma jokes breezily, to which I choke on a pea and splutter, ‘No, you are,’ before angrily stabbing my fork into the chicken breast.
All these untypical behaviours only reinforce the fact that I’m obviously in an increasingly dangerous situation here. Which makes it all the more vital that I keep my head down, get How to Catch a Man Like It’s 1955 over and done with as quickly as I can, and leave this place before the feelings get any worse. Because if I let things fester I’ll have no armour left at all, and before I know it I’ll become one of those people who cry over John Lewis ads or develop an interest in unicorn-related paraphernalia, or fall for a man who knocks you up, then shatters your heart, leaving you depressed for the rest of your life until you simply can’t deal with it any more . . .
The Vintage Guide to Love and Romance Page 25