Humbugs and Heartstrings

by Catherine Ferguson

  ‘He’s lovely, you know. He’ll do anything for me. He’s my best friend, really.’

  ‘Sounds great.’ I suspect a ‘but’.

  ‘But we never have sex.’ She frowns. ‘We’re like brother and sister. All the excitement has completely gone. But the thing is, I do love him.’

  ‘That’s a bummer,’ I agree. ‘Couldn’t you try to spice things up a bit?’

  She pushes her glasses up her nose thoughtfully. ‘What? Like handcuffs or role play or something?’

  I shrug. ‘Might be worth a go.’ I try to imagine Shona handcuffed to a bed but it’s a bit of a stretch.

  When we get back to the office, the first thing I do is check my emails.

  Still nothing from Mr McDonald.

  Oh, God.

  I’ve frightened him off with my self-indulgent outpourings.

  He’d better not have forgotten his promise to get me a great deal.

  ‘There’s something going on,’ I tell Fez later, watching him chop a red onion dangerously fast.

  We’ve recently got into a nice Friday night routine of dinner and a catch-up at his place.

  ‘Shona’s convinced we’re going to lose our jobs.’

  ‘Why? Have you been inhaling too much of the office oxygen? Or were you caught doodling with an office biro?’

  ‘Oh, ha ha.’ I wish I’d never mentioned the pens.

  ‘I’m surprised she hasn’t told you to write very, very small.’ He grins. ‘To save on ink.’

  ‘She was joking about the pens. I think.’

  Fez shrugs. ‘She’s anal about other things.’

  ‘True, but she’s always rationed the paperclips. And the heat. And the compliments.’ I sink my chin gloomily on the heel of my hand. ‘I think she might be selling up. She had a meeting with our main rivals the other day.’

  ‘Why would she sell up?’ He throws chopped red peppers into the spaghetti sauce. ‘She must be raking it in.’

  ‘That didn’t stop you, did it?’

  ‘No. But I wanted a simpler life, out of the rat race.’

  ‘You couldn’t be more different. Carol would rather have money instead of a life. You’d rather have the life.’ I pull a face at him. Fez built up a successful computer software company from scratch then sold it because he decided he wanted to learn the building trade. When I asked him why, he laughed and said he’d always liked working with his hands and solving problems, and eventually, he wanted to be able to build his own house. Plus, he wouldn’t have to attend another tedious business meeting or corporate dinner ever again in his entire life.

  ‘I still can’t believe you’re learning carpentry.’

  ‘Among other things.’

  I glance at him slyly. ‘Is it to attract the women? You know, hefting wood about and being all hot and sweaty and macho.’

  He grins and chucks the onions into a pan. ‘You do talk a load of shit.’

  ‘Yes, but it is high time you had a woman in your life. I mean when was the last time you – you know … ’

  ‘Talk about the pot calling the kettle!’ He points his knife at me. ‘Why don’t you practise what you preach?’

  I snort. ‘No time.’

  Fez shakes his head sadly.

  ‘But it’s true! If I’m not in the office, I’m running errands for The Boss or I’ve got my head down someone’s loo because one of our regular cleaners is off sick. Or I’m round at Mum’s making sure they’re okay and supervising Tim’s hospital appointments. How can I fit a social life into a routine like that?’

  He looks at me oddly for a second. Then he filches a string of spaghetti from the boiling water and, tipping back his head, tests it for firmness. ‘You fit me in.’

  ‘That’s different,’ I laugh. ‘You’re my best friend.’

  I’m expecting him to smile at the compliment. But instead, he wipes his hands on his jeans and turns away to get wine from the fridge.

  ‘Well, you’re coming to my Christmas party even if I have to box you up and have you delivered.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  When he had a large staff, Fez’s Christmas parties were legendary. He’s decided to continue the tradition this year by holding a party for friends.

  I know I have to go. But I haven’t been to a big bash like that for ages, not since my London days. And apart from anything else, I’ve got nothing to wear.

  To change the subject, I say, ‘Hey, did you see what was on that DVD you brought me the other night?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I deliberately didn’t look. I thought you should watch it first – in case there was anything risqué on it. Why, is it good stuff?’

  ‘It was – um – interesting. I was going to bring it over to show you but I couldn’t find it.’

  ‘By the way, have a look at that.’ He tosses something onto the table in front of me.

  I pick up the pamphlet and glance through it.

  It’s an advert for a new gallery that’s opening nearby in an old, renovated factory. I study the examples of sculptures, paintings and jewellery. They want new talent to exhibit.

  Fez is watching me.

  ‘And?’ I drop the leaflet on the table and fold my arms.

  He shrugs. ‘Thought you might be interested.’

  For a few seconds, a glimmer of excitement flares in my belly. Real butterflies at the thought of getting back to the work I love; the thrill of turning an idea for a painting or a glass vase into something real.

  Then I bring myself to heel.

  I’ve already proved that being creative doesn’t pay the rent.

  I have to be practical and focus on saving all the money I can for Tim’s operation.

  I will not let Mum and Tim down.

  Chapter Nine

  On Monday morning, there’s a jewel among the junk mail:

  Dear Ms Blatchett

  You’ve convinced me. Glass-blowing sounds incredible. I’d like to see your work.

  Sorry I took so long to reply but I was out of the country – and now I’m late for a meeting, but I’ll be in touch later.

  Ronald

  I make myself hold off replying till after lunch:

  Dear Mr McDonald

  Hope your meeting went well. You sound very grand for a reservations guy. ‘Out of the country’ indeed! I expect your Jag is waiting outside. Are penthouses all they’re cracked up to be?

  I send it off, then a minute later wish I’d remembered to press him on the hotel deal.

  There’s nothing else for it. I’ll have to send him another message.

  I’m only doing my job.

  Mr McDonald

  Have you got me that great deal yet? The Boss might murder me if I don’t come up trumps soon and you wouldn’t want blood on your hands, would you?

  Actually, Carol hasn’t even mentioned it. But just in case she does, I need to keep the lines of communication open. And besides, I’m enjoying my banter with Ronald McDonald. It’s the most fun I’ve had at work since – well, ever, actually.

  Next day, when I get back from lunch, Shona says, ‘Someone phoned while you were out. A Mr McDonald?’

  ‘He phoned?’ I blurt out.

  Shona looks over curiously. ‘Yes. About ten minutes ago. Why? Who is he?’

  ‘Oh, no one important.’ I adopt a casual, ‘I’m not really bothered but I suppose I’d better phone him back’ sort of expression. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Just that he’d email you. And he – er – hopes your goldfish is okay?’

  I laugh.

  ‘Is that a euphemism?’ asks Shona.

  ‘Sorry?’ I’m trying to open up my emails but the damn computer is being so slow today.

  ‘I just wondered if the goldfish is a euphemism,’ she says, with a sly grin. ‘You know, a word that’s code for something else. You’re looking very flushed.’

  ‘I know what a euphemism is,’ I snap, as a new wave of heat ramps up my under-blouse temperature.

  ‘So is it?�
��

  ‘No, of course it’s not a euphemism. It’s a goldfish.’

  She gives me an arch look. ‘I didn’t know you had a goldfish.’

  ‘Well, I don’t have to tell you everything, do I?’ I laugh.

  ‘I suppose not. So do you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have a goldfish?’

  Aha! At last I’m in. And yes, there is indeed a new email from Ronald McDonald.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘No, I do not have a goldfish, okay?’ I say incredulously. ‘Now can we stop this nonsense? I’ve got a … a thing to attend to.’

  She smirks. ‘Now that’s definitely a euphemism.’

  Dear Bobbie

  How did you know about the Jag and the penthouse? You’re obviously much cleverer than you sound. I hope your boss appreciates that fine intellect.

  P.S. Penthouses are great but they get a bit boring after a while – you know, same-old, same-old …

  I reply straight away, trying not to smile while I’m typing so as not to enflame Shona’s over-active imagination.

  A boring penthouse? My heart bleeds for you. Expect you also have a boring holiday home in the Caribbean and a boring yacht moored in the south of France.

  P.S. The closest I ever came to experiencing a penthouse was vicariously, through my hamster. He had a teeny-tiny top storey to his little hamster house …

  I wait till Shona goes to get coffee before checking for a reply.

  Yes!

  Lucky hamster. And yes, you guessed it. Fabulous holiday villa in the Carribean and big yacht in Monaco. Your psychic powers are truly amazing. Have you ever thought of changing your name to Gypsy Rosalee?

  My reply:

  Never mind a psychic; I want to work in hotel reservations. The money is obviously eye-wateringly good.

  P.S. What’s your second car?

  A few seconds later:

  Second car: Maserati Quattroporte. Third car: BMW. Fourth car: Robin Reliant.

  I also have a very nice bike.

  I laugh out loud, just as Shona’s coming back in with a tray.

  P.S. Will have news later about the deal we can offer you.

  Silently, in my head, I punch the air.

  ‘She’ll be here soon,’ says Shona.

  ‘Who will?’

  She flashes me a ‘duh!’ expression. ‘The Sparkle Sisters? Ring a bell? Betsey’s coming in again at eleven.’

  That sobers me up.

  Oh God, yes, of course. Somehow it’s slipped my mind that our lives might be about to be turned upside down.

  If Carol really is planning to sell up, none of us will be laughing …

  I press the bell and start humming ‘We Wish You A Merry Christmas’ in a bored fashion, even before the festive chiming starts up.

  As a novelty bell ring, it has gone way beyond irritating. Especially in July. But Mum refuses to change it. She says it makes people smile.

  She comes to the door in stretch trousers and short-sleeved T-shirt, even though it’s early October and the evening is raw. Her cheeks bear the tell-tale flush of central heating turned up to the max. Last year, I bought her a ‘slanket’ to keep her warm on winter nights but she just laughed and asked me whether she ought to be considering bars on the side of the bath and a stair lift as well.

  I pop my head into the living room, batting away a length of tired gold tinsel that has come adrift from its mooring, and say ‘hi’ to my brother. He’s busy battling zombies on his Xbox, though, and can only manage a grunt in reply.

  I corner Mum in the kitchen.

  ‘How is he?’

  Mum nods. ‘He’s okay. Dying to go trick-or-treating.’

  ‘That’s weeks away.’ I frown. ‘And the name-calling?’

  ‘Oh, you know what he’s like.’ She shrugs helplessly. ‘He never tells me anything.’

  ‘He seems in good spirits, though.’

  She nods. ‘Although I was talking to Ryan when he came for a sleepover. Apparently Tim’s been telling everyone at school he’ll be six inches taller once he’s had the op.’

  We smile wearily at each other.

  Mum fills the kettle and bangs it down on the work top. ‘He’s been on that bloody waiting list forever,’

  ‘So hopefully it won’t be too long now.’ I sound a lot brighter than I feel.

  We stand in gloomy silence for a moment and I stare at the garish, plug-in Christmas tree that sits by the kettle. It could do with a good old dust. I’d like to sling it in the bin but then Mum wouldn’t speak to me for days.

  ‘I know you’re talking about me,’ Tim shouts. ‘I’ll be okay, you know. When can I get my Scream mask?’

  I smile at Mum and nip back through to the living room.

  ‘Can I come trick-or-treating with you?’

  I perch on the arm of the sofa and he looks at me in horror. ‘No way! I’m not going if you’re going!’

  ‘Thought you might say that.’ I stretch over for the socks that are lying in two discarded balls on the floor. ‘Tim, why do you always take these off?’ I brandish them at him with fake annoyance.

  He grins and annihilates another three zombies.

  ‘I could lurk at the gate, out of sight,’ I suggest.

  ‘No!’ he groans. ‘Please don’t say that to Mum. It would be so embarrassing having my sister there!’

  ‘I’ll buy you a new baseball cap if you let me come,’ I say, picking up his tatty old one and plonking it on his head. I know I’m overprotective, but I can’t help it. ‘Tim, put that damn thing off and talk to me.’

  ‘In a sec,’ he says, stepping up the action and concentrating on what looks like the final pitched battle with bits of bodies and blood spattering everywhere.

  ‘Result!’ he shouts, throwing down the controller.

  ‘A new cap?’ I remind him.

  He smiles. ‘I think I’m getting one for Christmas anyway. Pass me my drink.’

  I poke him in the stomach. ‘Please pass me my drink, dearest and most beautiful sister.’

  He hoots with laughter. ‘Please pass me my drink, most revolting and ugliest sister.’

  ‘That’s better.’

  As I retrieve his glass from the coffee table, a long white envelope falls to the ground.

  ‘Tea’s made.’ Mum comes into the room. ‘Tim, it’s high time you were in bed.’ She sees me holding the envelope and whips it out of my hand. ‘I need that,’ she says, pocketing it and disappearing again.

  I go through and she tells me with a weary sigh that I’ve just missed her new friend, Bunty.

  ‘She never gives up, that woman. I’ve told her I’m not thespian material but she won’t take no for an answer!’

  ‘Are they that desperate for new recruits, then?’ I laugh.

  Mum groans. ‘I think she’s decided I need rescuing from my dull little life. I’m sort of a pet project now that her husband’s died.’

  I sympathise. I’m all for Mum getting herself a social life but I’m not sure Bunty, who runs the local amateur dramatics club, is really her cup of tea. She’s tall and thin, very ‘jolly hockey sticks’ and about as subtle as a tank in a glassware shop.

  I used to try and persuade Mum to have a night out with her old friends. But she seemed happier to stay at home. So I was quite surprised when she showed me a leaflet from the am dram club and said she thought she might pop in and see what it was like.

  She came back full of it and I could tell she’d had a good night. The folk were so welcoming, she said. But it definitely wasn’t for her, she’d never have the nerve to get up on stage. She couldn’t imagine what she’d been thinking.

  Bunty, however, doesn’t seem to agree.

  ‘Their narrator’s gone into hospital for a hip operation.’ Mum pours the tea. ‘Bunty’s told everyone I’d be perfect.’

  ‘You should do it,’ I say. ‘I can babysit Tim on the nights you’re rehearsing.’

  Mum laughs. ‘I’ve told her I’d rather eat my own arm th
an get up on stage at the town hall in front of hundreds of folk.’

  ‘I’m not a baby!’ yells Tim.

  ‘Stop ear-wigging!’ I call back.

  ‘By the way, I was thinking about Fez’s Christmas party.’ She turns away and folds the tea towel. ‘I – er – went into that trunk of yours in the garage and pulled out some of your dresses. I put them in a bag over there.’

  I stare from her to the carrier bag on the counter. ‘You did what?’

  ‘It’s no big deal, Bobbie,’ she says firmly, wiping a spillage. ‘You’ve got some lovely stuff that you never, ever wear. It’s such a waste.’

  She brings the bag over and I catch a glimpse of turquoise silk. ‘Try them on.’ She pushes the bag into my hands. ‘Please. For me.’

  I flick my eyes to the ceiling but take it, just to please her.

  There’s no way I’m even going to look in there.

  Chapter Ten

  My phone is ringing when I arrive at the office next morning.

  Shona, who is walking past my desk, balances the coffee tray in one hand and bends to pick it up.

  ‘I’m here! I’ll get it!’ I shout and charge across to snatch it up before she gets there.

  She gives me a knowing look and murmurs, ‘Let me guess. Goldfish Guy.’

  I flash her a look of wide-eyed innocence – just as someone on the other end says, ‘Can you hold? I have Mr McDonald for you.’

  ‘Er, yes, of course.’ I’m somewhat thrown by the fact that Ronald McDonald in Reservations seems to have a secretary. I suppose they do things differently in London.

  I ignore Shona and put on my best ‘waiting for a very important business call’ expression, drumming my fingernails efficiently on the desk.

  Shona would dearly love to believe there’s something flirty going on here. But she would be wrong. Ronald McDonald and I are just two people who happen to have a similar sense of humour, that’s all.

  ‘Hi, how’s the hamster with the penthouse?’ he asks.

  ‘Gosh, well.’ I laugh. ‘Dead, actually.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay. I’m just about over it.’

  ‘When did you lose him?’

  ‘Er, twenty-six years ago?’

  He laughs and I join in. I must be louder than I thought because Shona and Ella both look over.