The Vintage Guide to Love and Romance

by Kirsty Greenwood

  And then we spent this amazing time together. And I saw that behind that cocky, arrogant exterior was you. You. This kind, open, creative, gorgeous, sensitive man who wasn’t at all what I thought he would be. And I was so afraid of how that made me feel. Like you, I have a bit of an issue with commitment, and I didn’t want to admit that I might be falling for you because it’s never happened to me before, and I really never planned on it happening at all.

  A lot of what you saw (and liked about me, I hope) was really me. Jess Beam. Everything I said about your artistic talent was me. Loving 80s teen movies – me. Dodgem-driving like a maniac – me, telling that poem on the stage – me.Those kisses. Those kisses that I know you know were the best kisses either of us have ever had, ever. That was me.

  The thing is, Leo, while so much in my grandma’s Good Woman guides is rubbish anti-feminist crap that instructs women to be passive, subservient sidekicks to men, they do have a few good points. They taught me to be more patient, to really listen, to be more enthusiastic about new things and to, well, open myself up to a person for more than something uber-casual. You were that something more. You are that something more.

  I’m so sorry I hurt you. You didn’t deserve it and I’m gutted about the way things have turned out.

  Anyway, I’m rambling now probably, but I just wanted to explain things and to tell you how shitty I feel and how sorry I am about lying to you.

  Love, apologies, and mega best-of-luck wishes with your artwork,

  Jess.

  X

  P.S. If your grumpy upstairs neighbour tells you there was a creepy lass blaring ‘In Your Eyes’ outside your house, that was me. Sorry.

  P.P.S. I’m not at Bonham Square any more, so if you do, by any chance, want to get in touch with me, my email is msbeambastic@mail.com

  The novelty of being at Jamie’s house with nothing to do but Rick Roll Summer and think about Leo, while barely getting any sleep because of his room-mates’ sex noises, soon wears off. And when Peach invites me out for lunch one sunny Tuesday, I fall upon her invitation as if she’s just offered up a naked and ready-for-action James McAvoy.

  I travel to Le Petit Cafe in Kensington and wait for her to arrive. It feels weird not having seen Peach every day, and I find myself genuinely excited to catch up with her.

  So imagine my shock when it’s not Peach who walks through the cafe door, but Grandma. She glides in, tall and graceful in her dusky pink suit, her hair tied back in a chignon, her huge red glasses propped neatly on her nose.

  Fucking Peach. She’s completely set me up! And to think I was just having such lovely thoughts about her.

  I grumpily stand up from the table and gather my things to leave.

  ‘Please stay, Jessica,’ Grandma asks, her voice cracking. Sighing, I sit back down. As she joins me at the small wooden table, I get a waft of her Chanel No. 5 and my eyes instantly fill with tears. I wipe them away fiercely.

  I miss my grandma.

  But I’m so mad at her too.

  ‘I’m moving out of Bonham Square,’ she informs me, discreetly signalling over to the waitress.

  ‘I know. Peach told me.’

  ‘I’m downsizing. To an end-of-terrace in Dulwich.’ The waitress comes over and takes our order for tea. ‘It’s not quite Bonham Square, but it’s bright and spacious and in rather a nice area.’

  ‘Good. That’s good.’

  ‘I wanted to see you,’ she says, ‘to give you this.’

  She takes a crisp white envelope out of her purse and hands it over.

  Frowning, I open it up.

  It’s a cheque made out to the Mental Health Foundation. There are rather a lot of zeros on the end of the hand-scrawled number. I gasp.

  ‘Whoa.’

  ‘I was wrong to ask you to get involved with the project.’ Grandma sighs heavily. ‘I should have known it was not your job to fix my problems. I thought that my house was the only thing I had left in the world. And by trying to save it, I lost what was most important to me . . . and that’s you. Downsizing has left me plenty to spare. I thought that perhaps we could donate this in honour of Rose.’

  She sobs slightly as she says my mum’s name.

  ‘I’d like that,’ I nod quickly, the words catching in my throat. I swallow my own sob down. ‘Thank you.’

  Grandma takes a cotton hanky out of her handbag and dabs at her eyes with trembling hands.

  ‘You haven’t lost me, you know,’ I say eventually. ‘I’m just really, really pissed off at you.’

  She opens her mouth instinctively, ready to tell me off for swearing, and then closes it just as quickly.

  ‘I’m so sorry I . . . pissed you off.’ She reaches over and takes hold of my hand. ‘I’ve been very selfish. So consumed with self-pity and grief. I couldn’t bear for you to see me the same way as your mother did. I thought, when you came through my door, that I had been given a second chance. And then I ruined it by involving you in my troubles.’

  The waitress arrives with our tea. Grandma adds milk and I add sugar, but neither of us takes a sip.

  ‘I’ll never forgive myself for what I did to your mother, Jessica. And however badly you think of me, I want you to know that I think that of myself. Please say you’ll forgive me.’

  ‘I forgive you, G,’ I say immediately.

  And I realize that I really do. None of us are innocent in this whole disaster; we’ve all been absolute turds in one way or another. Mum wasted so much of her life being angry and resentful. I don’t want to do that. I can’t do that.

  Grandma exhales steadily and picks up her teacup in still slightly shaking hands.

  ‘Peach tells me you’ve been wanting to go travelling. I’d like very much to pay for you to do that, Jessica. Where . . . where do you think you might like to go?’

  I look at Grandma’s wrinkly face and I realize how much I’ve missed seeing her every day, how nice it’s been to have someone – however nuts – to care about what you’re doing, how used to it I’ve become.

  Hmmm.

  The idea of travelling alone to Jamaica or Thailand or anywhere else really far away doesn’t seem quite as urgent as it once did.

  And then I laugh because suddenly I know exactly where I want to go, and it surprises the fuck out of me.

  ‘I was thinking maybe . . . South London?’ I suggest, taking a gulp of tea. ‘I dunno, maybe somewhere like Dulwich.’

  Grandma frowns for a second before she realizes what I’ve just said.

  ‘With . . . with me?’ She puts a hand to her chest. ‘You mean at my house?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I grin. ‘If you’ll have me, obviously.’

  ‘Oh, Jessica.’ She sobs out loud, which makes a few of the other diners turn to give us super-annoyed stares. ‘I will have you!’

  ‘Oi, take a picture, maybe it’ll last longer!’ I shout over to the staring customers, which makes Grandma chuckle and turn pink.

  She presses a palm to her cheek. ‘I can’t believe it! Say you’ll come back today, dear? I’ll have Peach prepare the spare room. Well, your room now!’ She looks over her shoulder and calls to the waitress at the cafe counter. ‘Cake, please! We simply must have cake to go with our tea!’

  ‘Cool.’ I laugh, calling over to the waitress to cut me a bigger slice. ‘I do have a few conditions, though.’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘You have to promise me no more girdle-wearing, I go running whenever I want, we tell each other the truth from now on and . . . you never, ever, buy me a porcelain doll.’

  Grandma holds her bony hand out in a flash. ‘Done.’

  I get back to Jamie’s with a spring in my step. He’s thrilled to hear I’ve sorted things out with Grandma. In fact, he seems a little too thrilled.

  ‘Jeez, thanks a lot,’ I say when he eagerly offers to help me pack my stuff.

  ‘I’ve enjoyed having you here,’ he grins. ‘It’s just . . . you’re a little . . . messy.’

  ‘I’m creative,’ I pr
otest. ‘There’s a difference, man.’

  He lifts last night’s plate of half-eaten lasagne off the coffee table. ‘Yeah, very creative. I’m a medical professional. I have to think of the hygiene.’

  I roll my eyes. Upstairs, I grab a black bin bag and start stuffing my clothes into it while Jamie doesn’t so much help as stand there watching. When I’m all done he calls me a taxi and we wait out on his doorstep for it to arrive.

  ‘Will we stay in touch?’ Jamie asks quietly, kicking at the pavement with the toe of his Converse.

  ‘We’d better do,’ I say, nudging him with my elbow.

  He runs a hand through his curls. ‘Good.’ He nods. ‘Good.’

  As the taxi pulls up at the kerb, I yank Jamie in for a hug. ‘You’ve been brilliant to me,’ I whisper. ‘And I’ll never forget it.’

  ‘I . . . I . . . ’ he starts, then sighs, his cheeks turning red. I don’t know what he’s about to say, but I interrupt it just in case it’s what I think it might be.

  ‘See you soon, Doc. And say bye to lovely Kiko for me.’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I will do.’ His shoulders slump for a second before he opens the boot of the cab and helps me to put my bags inside.

  ‘Well!’ I smile. ‘See you soon, I guess. I’ll ring you. Maybe we could go for a drink. Kiko too.’

  ‘Sounds great . . . ’

  ‘Fab.’

  ‘Be good, Jess,’ he says tenderly, his cute face stretching into a warm smile.

  ‘Never!’ I yell, climbing into the cab and slamming the door behind me with a clunk.

  The engine starts up with a roar, and as we trundle down the road I wave madly at Jamie through the back window. He waves back until eventually the car turns a corner and I can’t see him any more.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The most important step a Good Woman can take in seeking enduring love is to first love and accept herself, with kindness, respect and honesty.

  Matilda Beam’s Facebook status, August 2014

  Grandma and Peach – Mr Belding snuggled in her arms – are waiting for me on the doorstep of the Victorian terrace in Dulwich, grinning like fools and looking, for all the world, like family. I pay the cab driver, grab my stuff and race inside, where I’m immediately presented with tea and given a tour of the house. Grandma is right – this place is no Bonham Square, but in the world of normal, not mega-rich people like me, it’s spacious and airy and full of lovely cosy period features. The pair of them lead me up two flights of stairs to my room – a huge attic space with big open windows at either end and ramshackle oak beams across the ceiling.

  ‘What do you think?’ Grandma asks, pink-cheeked and expectant.

  I plonk onto the old bed, breathe in the fresh air sailing in from outside and smile.

  ‘It feels good to be home,’ I say simply.

  ‘Ooh, Jess!’ Peach squeals, coming to sit beside me on the bed. ‘I almost forgot to tell you, I finally thought of a nickname for you!’

  Oh God.

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘I hope you like it, I really think it’s the right choice, but just tell me if you don’t and we can think of something el—’

  ‘Just tell me, Peach!’

  ‘OK, the nickname I have chosen for you is – ’ she expands her arms and grins a mad, buck-toothed grin – ‘Lady . . . J! What do you think? Do you love it?’

  Brilliant. Fucking brilliant.

  Over the next month or so, my life settles into a lovely routine – something I’ve never really had or wanted before, but something I find brings me a sort of peaceful feeling inside. I get myself a part-time job at a small second-hand bookshop in Dulwich, where I serve customers every weekday afternoon from midday to five – it’s ace; the patrons are sweet and chilled and I get to read all the books whenever the shop is quiet.

  When I’m not working, and when Grandma is not studying for the Finance Management course she recently signed up for, we write our new blog, Matilda and Jess, together. Yup. We’ve started a blog of our own all about the Good Woman guides. It’s not just from the angle of meeting a man, though, but all about our opposing views on what it means to be a Good Woman, with lots of stuff about fashion, feminism, lifestyle and careers. We’ve had a fair few clashes in opinion, and Grandma insists that she controls the entire Facebook page, but other than that it’s going really well and we’re building a steady, loyal audience of readers.

  I still spend a lot of time partying with Peach (who, sadly, ended things with Gavin. Once he started actually talking to her, she realized he didn’t exactly set her lady business alight, so she’s still looking for the right first person to have sex with), but the difference these days is that, while I have a shit-ton of fun, I don’t get quite so messy that it affects everything else good in my life. It feels great to finally be taking control of what I’m up to, to not be the fuck-up in every room, to be working towards being a writer in my own way. I think that maybe I’m starting to figure out who I want to be, outside all the crap in my past. And I really like the way that feels.

  As busy as things are, I still find the time to check my emails a gazillion times a day, hoping that Leo has responded to my letter or is even back in the country. But there’s not a peep from him, not even on his social media pages, and I slowly start to get to grips with the fact that it really is over and I should probably start moving on.

  I’m sure the ache in my chest at missing him will go away soon.

  It has to at some point, right?

  It’s a hot, rainy afternoon in August and I’m lounging on my bed in the attic, working on posts for Matilda and Jess, when my mobile rings.

  ‘Hello?’ I say.

  ‘Jessica? Kitten-paw? Is that you?’

  It’s Valentina. What does she want?

  ‘It’s me,’ I answer.

  ‘Did you get the envelope I had biked over to you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not in Bonham Square now, I’m in Dulwich.’

  ‘I know, duckling. Matilda sent me a delightful notecard with the new address. It should be with you now.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ I frown as I make my way downstairs. What have you sent over?’

  ‘Well, Jess, about an hour ago I got a letter from Leo Frost.’

  I pause on the stairs. ‘What?’ My stomach dives to my knees.

  ‘And you are not going to believe what it was.’

  ‘What? What was it?’ I hurry down the rest of the stairs and to the front door, where I rifle through the post pile. There it is. A white A4 envelope addressed to me. Peach must have signed for it on her way out to the shops.

  ‘Have you found it?’ Valentina asks impatiently.

  ‘I’m just opening it!’ I say, my hands shaking.

  I carefully peel open the top of the envelope and pull out a small stack of papers. The top sheet of paper is a photocopy of a release form. It’s signed by Leo and it states that he’s giving us permission to use his name in How to Catch a Man Like It’s 1955.

  My heart starts to beat even faster.

  ‘Oh,’ I whisper into the phone.

  And then I look at the other pieces of paper, and what’s on them makes me drop the phone on the floor, where it lands with a thud. Because on each new piece of paper is a detailed, delicate line drawing. The first drawing is of me and Leo in a dodgem car. The next is of me in that weird, tufty hat, on stage at Little Joe’s Java poetry night. There’s one of Leo and me in the Da Vinci room in front of The Virgin on the Rocks. The sketches are intricate and breathtaking.

  I rustle through to the final piece of paper in the pile. It’s a drawing of me on the night of the London Advertising Association Awards ball. It seems Leo has remembered every detail of what I looked like that night, right down to the embroidering on the dress and the Ferris-wheel brooch. At the bottom of the drawing he has scrawled the words ‘For Jess’.

  I swallow down the lump in my throat and pick the phone up off the floor with barely working hands.

  ‘Val
entina, are you still there?’

  ‘I am.’ She sounds bemused.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I whisper. ‘Why . . . ’

  ‘Not only has Leo agreed to publication of How to Catch a Man Like It’s 1955, but he’s offered to illustrate it too.’

  I laugh out loud. What does this mean?

  ‘Perhaps he’s got a heart after all,’ Valentina says. ‘Shocking. I never thought it possible. I heard he left Woolf Frost. Perhaps agreeing to this is his way of sticking it to his father and the company? Either way, everyone here is thrilled, such a high-profile man as Leo wanting to be involved. We’re already talking about a sequel. Of course, I’ll need those words from you as soon as possible. We want to strike while—’

  ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe he did this.’

  ‘It looks like you’ve brought something special out in Leo, Jessica. Something I never had a hope of doing. But that’s OK. The heart wants what it wants, and I happen to have my eye on a delightful British actor I’ve seen at lots of parties lately. He’s very famous, so I can’t share anything more right now, but let’s just say that the game is afoot. Shall we make plans for lunch? I’ll tell you all about it then and we can—’

  ‘So Leo’s back in the country,’ I blurt, not able to concentrate on anything Valentina’s saying because my heart is pounding so loudly in my ears.

  ‘Seems so!’ she says.

  He’s back.

  ‘Valentina, do you mind if I call you back in a bit?’ I say, feeling a bubble of laughter rise in my throat.

  She chuckles. ‘Of course. Go to him, sweet Jessica. Go to him.’

  And so I do.

  I arrive at Leo’s apartment block in the Docklands sweaty and breathless, my cheeks red, my hair clinging to my forehead, my purple vest absolutely soaked through. I knock on his door, clutching the photocopied drawings in my hands. I look down at them for the gazillionth time and bounce with pleasure.

  The door opens, and there Leo is. He’s dressed down in a plain white T-shirt and jeans, his ginger hair wet from the shower.