by Penny Parkes
‘Come on,’ said Dan, clearly welcoming some relief from the intensity of their conversation. ‘Taffy keeps telling me about his random acts of kindness – you can be mine for the day. Sit down here and whip your sock off.’
‘Oh, Major!’ cried Holly, when the offending toe was revealed in all its glory. ‘You’re such a trend-setter: you’ve only gone and got the gout!’
Chapter 28
‘I have come to the conclusion,’ said Elsie in a gravelly voice the next morning, ‘that nostalgia just isn’t what it used to be.’ Holly hesitated on the doorstep, unsure how to respond to such a pronouncement before her first cup of coffee on a Saturday.
‘I just wanted to look in and say hello,’ she said in the end. She held up a punnet of strawberries and a melon. ‘Fruit medley for breakfast?’
Elsie gave her a querulous glare. ‘And would that be to replace my lovely flakey croissants, by any chance? You and that bloody carer woman have been conspiring against me enjoying my food – no salt, no butter, no fun . . . I tell you this, Holly Graham, I may live longer, but dear God, will it feel longer too!’ She paused, an unusual flicker of guilt flitting across her features. ‘By the way, Sarah is wonderful and fabulous and I don’t think I actually said thank you for organising all that.’
Holly just smiled, it didn’t bother her that technically the thank you was still outstanding – as long as Elsie was comfortable and happy, it was one less thing for Holly to worry about.
Somehow every hour this week had brought yet more new challenges and commitments, until her dreams had become filled with images of herself spinning plates on tall sticks, running madly between them. She didn’t know what it meant that the plates in question were the hideously patterned ones from Milo’s mother, or that there were one or two that never seemed to stay up, no matter how vigilant she was.
In her quieter moments, which were few and far between, she did wonder whether her subconscious was trying to tell her something – maybe she couldn’t keep all the plates spinning, all of the time. Did she need to follow Elsie’s advice and pick her battles a little more selectively?
Elsie plonked the proffered fruit onto the sideboard in the hall and wordlessly shepherded Holly through to the dining room where the volume of photographs, newspaper clippings and memorabilia had increased by a factor of ten.
‘Where have you been hiding all this stuff?’ gasped Holly, looking around her. Elsie’s house had always been the epitome of streamlined elegance. Not for her, the cardboard boxes of photographs stacked on top of the piano, or the random collection of trinkets and special memories lying dusty and ignored on the windowsill.
Elsie gave a very Gallic shrug. ‘I have my special cupboard. It’s all been quietly rotting in there for the last few decades. I’m not even convinced that bringing it out into the light of day was my best idea. But I have to get some bits together for my meeting.’ She looked cross. ‘It’s a lot more work than I’d realised.’
She plonked herself down into the carver chair at the head of the table and it was obvious to Holly, at least, that Elsie had been ignoring all the advice to rest and recover, preferring to gather her proverbial rosebuds while she may.
She graciously ‘allowed’ Holly to hustle around making her a warm drink, something she would never have permitted even a few short weeks ago. For Elsie, being the hostess meant being the most important person in the room, the star of her own little mini-drama. The fact that Elsie was content just to sit back and allow Holly free range of the kitchen cupboards did not bode too well. Clearly, thought Holly, a morale boost was called for.
‘Did you find the magazine spread for your Oscar win?’ Holly asked as she cleared space on a side table for Elsie’s ginger infusion – another compromise, as Elsie’s beloved espresso had been consigned to the bin.
‘I did. Although, to be honest, I don’t look half as wonderful as I’d remembered,’ Elsie grumbled, indicating a beautiful vintage copy of Vogue, whose muted colours and tones were so archetypal of its age that Holly could barely believe it was real. Her own love of ‘vintage-style’ led to her kitchen being filled with reproduction biscuit tins and postcards. But this – this was the real deal.
Holly delicately flicked through the pages, where photographs were interspersed with line drawings and top tips for housewives. ‘Do take a moment to refresh yourself – your husband relies upon you to be delightful and entertaining when he gets home from work. Put a ribbon in your hair and greet him with a smile and a drink. He’s had a long day,’ Holly read aloud with a grin. ‘It’s like a different world. Can you imagine the look on Taffy’s face if I did that? He’d think I was having a stroke.’ She clapped a hand over her mouth in appalled silence at her faux pas, eyes wide with shocked disbelief at her tactlessness.
Elsie let out a volley of laughter that must have echoed through to the third floor. She clutched at her sides as the tears rolled down her face. ‘Well, thank God for that,’ she managed eventually. ‘You can stop talking to me like I’m breakable and be real with me. I know I’m not supposed to be having any fun, but fun is my raison d’être, Holly – don’t take that away from me in a tidal wave of low fat yoghurt and boredom! If it makes you feel more constructive, just give me one of those placebo thingummies – I gather they can be terribly effective.’ she said drily.
‘But I just . . .’
‘I just, I just, I just,’ mocked Elsie, the twinkle back in her eye for the first time in weeks. ‘Would you listen to yourself qualifying every statement? Even your e-mails apologise for themselves. Stop subordinating every request you make!’ She paused for a moment. ‘I bet Julia doesn’t,’ she taunted, knowing exactly how to push Holly’s buttons.
‘No, she doesn’t, but then she’s also rude and abrasive and irritates everyone she works with!’
‘Is she, though?’ asked Elsie pointedly. ‘If Dan phoned up and asked for some figures without chit-chat, wouldn’t you assume he was busy and efficient? Why is it so different for Julia? Or you?’
‘That’s not fair,’ countered Holly, ‘I just like to make sure that . . . what?’
‘Just?’ Elsie asked.
‘May I remind you, madam, that I came over here bearing fruit and a hug. You can’t start bossing me around without caffeine in the house.’
‘Your decision, not mine – I’d be sipping a lovely espresso with a pain au chocolat if it was up to me!’
Holly scowled. ‘I don’t apologise for myself all the time. That’s not true!’
Elsie pulled her enormous iPhone out of her pocket, its screen almost as big as a paperback book. She tapped on her e-mails and began to paraphrase. ‘I was just wondering if you’d had chance to look at the diet sheet . . . Just logging in to check . . . I just thought it might be nice . . .’
She put her phone down and shrugged. ‘We can call it post-grad level if you like, but the just simply has to go . . .’
Holly paused, remembering every one of the e-mails that Elsie had quoted. ‘And what if I just wanted to soften my request? Or ask you to do something I knew you wouldn’t want to do? Am I supposed to be giving up on manners too?’
Elsie grinned like a Cheshire cat. ‘Oh, Holly darling, just look at the progress you’re making!’ She waved her hand in the air to dismiss her own use of the word. ‘This time last year, you would have accepted my advice as gospel and not even questioned it – now you’re really thinking . . . But I promise you this, for the next few days, you’ll be thinking about the justs as well . . .’
‘I just might,’ teased Holly in reply. ‘Now, are you going to show me this Oscar picture of you in all this chaos or do I have to dig in and find it myself?’ She smiled to herself as they flicked through the news cuttings in front of them, thrilled beyond measure that Elsie felt up to bossing her around. And there was even a small chance that she might just be right, Holly conceded.
The photograph of Elsie at the Oscars was in the Style and Entertainment section when they found it and
it took up half the page. Dressed in swathes of jade silk, she was languorously draped over the arm of some chiselled-jawed, Brylcreemed hunk of a man, whose name was synonymous with early Hollywood.
‘Didn’t he turn out to be gay?’ Holly asked, genuinely intrigued.
‘Well, darling, he had to start batting for the other team eventually; he’d already shagged his way through every starlet in a ten-mile radius of the Studio. There was simply no one else left,’ Elsie said drily. ‘Of course, what the poor chap lacked in passion, he certainly made up for with physiology, if you catch my drift.’
Holly laughed at Elsie’s attempts to be coy. She never had got the hang of a euphemism and tended to be oblique to the point of confusion or blunt to the point of offence. It was actually one of the things that Holly found so endearing about her. For all her polish and sophistication, deep down she could be a bit of a klutz and, for Holly, it gave her hope that her own clumsy ways need not be the end of the world.
‘So, you mentioned a meeting?’ Holly prompted, pleased to see that bossing Holly around and reliving her lost youth had brought some colour to Elsie’s cheeks. ‘Are you planning a reunion of dishy movie-stars, because I could pop home and get my camera . . .’
‘Pish!’ dismissed Elsie. ‘I have no desire to see any of that lot again, thank you very much, especially with me looking half-dead and sounding like a lush. Actually, I have a commissioning editor from Heathergate Lorde coming to court me – well, my photographs probably – but either way, it’s a step in the right direction, don’t you think?’
Holly felt caught. She had no idea who Heathergate Lorde were, but it was clearly a big deal to Elsie and was at least taking her mind off next week’s trip to the Stroke Unit; she hadn’t mentioned it once since Holly had arrived and that was progress.
‘Oooh, which editor?’ she said in the end, hoping that Elsie would fill in the blanks, without the need to expose her own ignorance.
‘Jeremy Farnsworth. You know, the one who published all those amazing coffee table books last year – they were everywhere. Beautiful hardbacks with the most amazing collections of . . . Holly, darling, you’ve got that blank look on your face that you get when you’re pretending you understand. Am I going too quickly for you?’ Elsie’s voice may not have been as distinct as before, but she still managed a hint of amusement as she teased her guest.
Reaching across the heaps of papers, Elsie uncovered a stunning slab of a book that had been published last year to enormous acclaim and equally enormous pre-orders. ‘Imagine, little old me as part of this series.’ She reeled off a list of names that sounded like the equivalent of Debrett’s for Celebrities – only the timeless and legendary need apply, apparently.
‘Wow. I mean, that’s really . . . Crikey,’ said Holly.
‘Eloquence indeed,’ said Elsie, obviously enjoying her reaction. ‘Maybe I won’t hold you to being my Ghost Writer after all. But you will stay, won’t you?’
Holly looked at her watch and hesitated. There was so much to do. Taffy would be at mini-rugby with the boys until lunch, but there was still groceries and laundry . . .
‘Holly Graham, do not say that you’re considering missing this fabulous meeting for some pointlessly mundane job-list that will still be there tomorrow?’
Holly looked sheepish. ‘I’m afraid that’s exactly what I’m doing. I promised Taffy we could have a proper family Sunday tomorrow – a real day off. And I wanted to pop in on Lizzie too . . . So really, that means the mundane stuff has to be done today.’
‘I won’t accept no for an answer, you do realise that?’ Elsie said firmly and a little sulkily.
Holly laughed. ‘I thought you were training me up to stop being a doormat and to say no more often?’
Elsie stamped her foot in frustration. ‘I am. But not to me! You don’t say no to me, Holly.’
Thankfully, even Elsie could see the funny side of their exchange, as Holly was unable to hold herself together any longer and dissolved into laughter.
‘We could get Sarah to pop round to yours with a hoover and stock up the fridge while you’re here,’ wheedled Elsie, unwilling to admit defeat.
Holly fixed her with a very stern look. ‘Elsie, your carer is here to help you. Poor Sarah already has her hands full, no doubt – you cannot use her as currency so that I’ll drop everything when you want me to.’
‘I pay her wages,’ said Elsie. ‘And I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. Probably fed up of dealing with old farts like me. And please don’t take offence, Holly, but I’ve been to your house recently, it’s not as though the bar is set terribly high, is it, darling?’ She grinned suddenly, in that unnerving way she often did when she knew she’d overstepped the mark.
Holding up her hands in defeat, she made a counter offer. ‘Stay here for a bit, Holly, and help me cherry-pick the good bits and work out what to wear at least. I don’t know how many times I’ll get to meet this chap, but I’m pathetically keen to make a good impression. Without my voice on top form, I feel a bit like Superman without his powers.’
Elsie did make a valid point, Holly conceded. Yes, Elsie was beautiful and her eyes were indeed hypnotic, but it was the suggestive tones in her voice that had always been most persuasive. She had a knack for cajoling people into doing things they would never normally consider. It wasn’t even flirtation, more a gradual seduction into her way of thinking that both sexes were powerless to avoid.
The very fact that Holly hadn’t instantly rolled over and agreed to stay was a case in point. Normally it would have been a moot argument the moment Elsie set her heart on what she wanted.
‘No problem,’ Holly agreed, mentally running through the contents of the freezer and wondering whether Taffy would find it amusing to play Ready Steady Cook with whatever ingredients she could muster. If she skipped the supermarket and concentrated on the laundry, she could still keep on track.
The tempting prospect of Sarah – the new behind-the-scenes superwoman of this household – whipping her life into shape was distracting for a moment before Holly’s moral fibre reasserted itself.
‘Let’s have a look at these diaries, then,’ she said. ‘Am I going to need therapy after reading them, or are they mainly PG?’
Elsie thought for a moment. ‘If you’re feeling delicate, my darling girl, I’d give 1974 a miss. And ’76 too. Maybe actually the whole of the ’70s, to be fair. We’ll read those another time, with wine,’ she said firmly.
The hours flew by and in no time, the chaos that documented Elsie’s life, loves and career was beautifully sorted and catalogued. Holly had nipped to the study and come back armed with box files, Post-its and a huge sheet of A3. Elsie may not have been terribly confident about meeting Jeremy Farnsworth, but at least now she was well prepared. She also had the most wonderful timeline scattered with salacious gems and nuggets that would surely be enough to seal the deal.
Holly sat on the end of the bed upstairs as Elsie changed into the second outfit she’d selected. ‘Honestly, Elsie, the first one was lovely. Do please save some energy for the meeting. He’s not coming here to see what you look like, is he? He’s coming to have a lively conversation. No point looking gorgeous if you’ve all the charisma of a dishrag.’
Elsie scowled. ‘Dear girl, have I taught you nothing? Of course he’s coming here to see what I look like. They’re hardly going to want some saggy old granny promoting their Next Big Thing, are they? Dead or gorgeous, Holly, those are the only two options for a woman of my age. And before you start having a go, no, I haven’t told them about the stroke. None of their bloody business.’
Holly looked unconvinced as she stepped forward to zip Elsie into a vintage Dior dress that probably cost more than Holly’s annual wages.
‘Tsk, when did you become such a doubting Desmond?’ Elsie chided.
‘Well, let’s see – today’s Saturday, so give or take, I’d say about three years now.’ Holly shrugged. ‘I’m getting better at recognising when I’m doing it thoug
h, so that’s progress, isn’t it?’
Elsie shook her head. ‘Honestly Holly, I do wish you’d try and move on a little faster. Not everyone you lose from your life is a loss, you know. Milo’s old news. And obviously, you’ll be utterly devastated when I go – but that will be rather different. Because, well, I’m fabulous and he was rather a shit frankly.’
Holly gaped attractively as Elsie ran on with her train of thought, with little sensitivity or regard for Holly’s reaction.
‘On the bright side,’ Elsie said, as if the thought had just occurred to her, ‘if I do drop dead suddenly, they can always call it a commemorative edition.’ The humour in that last comment was brittle and tight, clearly taking all of Elsie’s considerable strength.
Holly impulsively drew her fragile frame into an enormous hug, just as she would one of her boys, when they were being wide-eyed and brave, a trembly bottom-lip being their Tell.
‘Don’t mess with the dress,’ Elsie mumbled into Holly’s shoulder and she reluctantly let go.
‘Then don’t joke about you going anywhere,’ Holly managed.
‘You can’t even say it, can you?’ Elsie said, desperate to reassert her upper hand. ‘We all die sometime, Holly. I just would quite like a little more time, you know?’
‘I know,’ said Holly. ‘But you are okay, Elsie,’ she added quietly. ‘You’ve had a bit of a scare, but with medication and diet, we can do so much these days . . . Please don’t go frightening yourself unnecessarily.’
‘Hmmm,’ Elsie said, her face a mask. ‘I’m not immortal, Holly. And I know what you’re going to say – surely she saw this coming – but honestly, darling, I kept thinking old age wouldn’t happen to me. So, let’s just take these mini-stroke-thingies as a warning shot, shall we, and get a wriggle on and publish this bloody book?
‘And,’ Elsie continued, ‘I’d genuinely rather go out early with a bang than live without my independence. Without my voice . . . Well,’ she made an obvious effort to pull herself together, ‘that’s why I need this book deal. It will do more for my health than any amount of rat poison and low sodium what-not. It’s my last chance, do you see, Holly? My last chance to have my say.’