by Daisy Waugh
Scarlett doesn’t answer. Her mother has sworn her to secrecy but now that Fanny’s asked, now that it’s more or less out in the open, she can’t – she can’t – keep it to herself any longer. ‘I actually finished that story,’ she bursts out. ‘My novel. I mean, in the red book. I finished it and I showed it to Kitty.’ (Kitty insists on the ‘Kitty’. She says ‘Mum’, ‘Mummy’ etc. sound bourgeois and sentimental.)
‘Really? That’s nice. How nice. And did she enjoy it?’
Scarlett smiles slyly. ‘I know what you’re thinking, you know.’
‘You do?’
‘You think Kitty’s a bad mother.’
‘Oh!’ Fanny laughs in surprise. ‘Well, I wasn’t. No, I wasn’t thinking that.’
‘I don’t think you like her very much.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I mean, of course – I mean, yes, I do.’
Scarlett rolls her eyes. ‘No, you don’t. It doesn’t matter. Loads of people don’t.’ She shrugs. ‘She’s hard to get to like, in a way. But once you’re used to her you realise…’ She falls silent, remembering her mother coming in to her room last night. She remembers the warm smell as she swooped down, and brushed her lips against Scarlett’s hair. ‘She’s a bit of a wild flower, that’s all.’
Fanny laughs. ‘A wild flower?’
‘I know,’ Scarlett nods. ‘You were going to say we’re all wild flowers, really.’
‘Was I?’
‘Of course we are. Especially you.’
Fanny’s not sure whether to be flattered or offended. ‘I am?’
‘But she’s had a horrendous time, you know,’ continues Scarlett smoothly. ‘Having to look after me…’
Fanny frowns, shakes her head. ‘I don’t believe that, Scarlett. I can’t think of a nicer child to look after than you. I think your mother’s incredibly lucky.’
‘No. I mean because of my back and everything. I’m very hard work.’
‘You’re not hard work. You’re lovely,’ she says quietly. ‘And if, as you say, we are all wild flowers, Scarlett, then I reckon you’re one of those rare wild orchids people risk their lives to steal from dangerous jungles.’
Scarlett giggles.
‘And, seriously, if your mother doesn’t appreciate that—’
‘That’s not what I meant. My mother appreciates me…She appreciates me a lot…’ But suddenly Scarlett looks as though she’s going to cry.
‘Well, good,’ Fanny says briskly. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Right then, Wild Flower, where shall we put these wretched posters?’
They settle on a space outside Robert White’s classroom and Fanny climbs on to a chair to staple them to the wall.
‘Because you can actually read it, if you want. Would you like to?’
‘Read what?’ Fanny says vaguely, distracted for the moment by negative thoughts of Kitty.
‘Kitty sent it off to her agent in London, who says he’s going to sell it for lots of money to an actual publisher. He says he’s very confident he can sell it. That’s what he said.’
Fanny swivels round on the chair, dropping the poster.
‘It’s going to be all my words. And on the cover it’s going to be by me and my mother: by Scarlett and Kitty Mozely. It’s going to be like that.’ By Scarlett and Kitty Mozely. The five words fill the room, Scarlett’s pleasure in putting them together making them come out unnecessarily loud.
‘By Scarlett and Kitty? But Kitty didn’t—’
‘It’s better like that. Apparently, we’ll get lots of “sympathy votes”.’ Scarlett rolls her eyes. ‘With us being mother and daughter, and me—Looking like this. He says we’ll get our pictures in all the newspapers.’
‘I’m not sure I understand. Am I being stupid, Scarlett?’ Fanny jumps down from the chair and sets herself on the edge of a nearby table. ‘I mean, it’s fantastic. Obviously. But I don’t see why a novel which you’ve written—That’s right, isn’t it? You wrote it.’
‘I told you I wrote it. You saw me writing it. In my red book.’
‘No, I know you wrote it. I’m just saying I don’t understand why your mother’s putting her name on it as well.’
Scarlett sighs. ‘I just explained.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter,’ Scarlett snaps. ‘For God’s sake, who cares?’
Fanny takes a second to absorb this. ‘Of course. I’m sorry.’ She laughs. ‘Well, congratulations!’
Scarlett nods. ‘You can read it if you want,’ she says again.
‘I’d love to.’
Immediately, Scarlett undoes her satchel and pulls out the red book. ‘Only don’t show it to anyone. If they see it like that, they’ll know it was all written by me. And that would be awful.’
Fanny bites her tongue. She opens the book, flicks through it. Every page is dense with Scarlett’s tiny, neat handwriting. ‘Are there going to be pictures?’ she asks and then remembers Kitty in the pub, shouting about Louis doing her illustrations. She snaps the book shut and stands up. ‘Anyway,’ she says quickly. ‘Well done. Will you let me know what happens? When do you hear?’
‘The agent’ll call Kitty,’ Scarlett says, with a sweet hint of grandeur, ‘and then, I suppose, Kitty’s going to call me. She might even telephone me here at the school. She might. If it’s good news. Or there might already be news at home.’ Scarlett indicates the book. ‘You can take it with you if you like. Just for tonight. It’s all been typed out by someone in London anyway.’ She giggles. ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it, Miss Flynn? I keep thinking I’m dreaming.’
Just then the door bursts open and Ollie barges in. ‘Oi, ugly!’ he yells. ‘Oh. Hello, Miss Flynn. Didn’t see you there.’ He turns back to Scarlett. ‘What the hell are you doing, you idiot? Lenka and me have been waiting for you for about three hours!’
‘Really?’ says Scarlett, trying to look surprised. ‘Why?’
‘You’re supposed to be coming back with us. Don’t pretend you didn’t know because you did.’ He steals a sideways glance at Fanny. ‘Anyway, I want to get home so I can do my homework.’
Fanny chuckles. ‘You haven’t got any homework, Ollie. Scarlett was just helping me with some posters.’
‘And then I’m getting a lift home with Miss Flynn.’
‘Yeah, right. Come out and tell that to Lenka. She’s refusing to leave without you. So hurry up. Your mother’s there. Oh! Hey! That’s unusual! What a surprise! Scarlett’s mother’s sitting around in my house for a change.’
‘No need to be rude, Ollie,’ Fanny says.
‘I wasn’t. I was just commenting on the fact that it was a surprise. Because Kitty’s never at our house, is she, Scarlett?’ He flicks on a smile; it’s very cold. Scarlett blushes. She’s frightened of him. ‘Come on,’ he says to her, ‘hurry up. Stop wasting my time.’
Kitty’s opened a third bottle of wine, and finished the organic chocolate, and her telephone still hasn’t rung. Geraldine has moved on from complaining about Fanny’s maltreatment of Ollie and is now bullying Kitty about putting herself forward to be a school governor.
‘Only trouble, I don’t think Fanny Flynn likes me very much,’ says Kitty, smirking slightly, and pouring herself another glass of wine.
‘Yes, but it’s not up to Fanny, is it?’ replies Geraldine. ‘We can do it through the vicar. Actually, I’ve already mentioned your name to him.’
‘Oh, really?’ Kitty pulls a face. ‘And how did he take to that?’
‘As a matter of fact,’ Geraldine says smugly, ‘he’s expecting us both at church this Sunday morning!’
Kitty scowls. ‘Annoying of you. I might be doing all sorts of other things on Sunday morning.’
‘Yes, well, I dare say. Talking of which – what news on Louis? You’ve gone rather quiet on that. Not having any luck?’
‘Louis!’ Kitty says irritably. ‘I had him round to take some photographs of Scarlett and me. At the crack of dawn as well, because the little sod refused to come
round any later, even though I was paying him.’
‘You did what?’ Geraldine hoots with laughter.
‘Shut up.’
‘And you actually paid him?’
‘Well, I will. Almost certainly. If he ever sends me an invoice. Anyway, it’s not the point. He took the photographs. It all went very well and he’s sent me some prints and I’ve sent him a marvellous fan letter and so on. Which he’ll adore. Because creative people like Louis love that sort of thing. We crave encouragement.’
‘And?’ Geraldine demands impatiently.
‘Well – exactly. And? Not a peep. Obviously he’s dashing around the county, taking pictures of geriatric lottery winners or whatever. But one way or another he’s playing bloody hard to get.’
‘Maybe, Kit, maybe he actually doesn’t want to be got. Has that occurred to you?’
‘Don’t be annoying, Geraldine.’
‘No, but seriously. Perhaps he and Fanny—’
‘No, no, no. They’re definitely not. She was in the pub with Messy McShane last night – who’s looking grotesquely pregnant, by the way. Disgusting. When’s she due? And Fanny Flynn was looking about as bloody miserable as a thirty-whatever-she-is spinster can look…Urghh.’ Kitty shudders. ‘I really don’t like that woman. Something about her. She’s so bloody smug…’
‘Which is why,’ Geraldine says, ‘if we’re going to be governors, which we are, we need to go via the vicar. Right? As I say, I dropped a note through his door, and Clive and I have invited them for a drink after Sunday’s service, he and his wife – though I’m not entirely certain he has one. Does he have a wife? I don’t suppose you know?’
‘He did, until about a year ago. Don’t you remember? She died.’
Geraldine clicks her tongue. ‘How embarrassing…But you will come, won’t you?’
Kitty glances restlessly around the room. She hates to be pinned down, least of all to a date with a bloody vicar, a grieving bloody vicar. ‘Anyway, where the hell are the children?’ she asks irritably. ‘Shouldn’t they be back by now?’
Just then, just as she’s giving up on it ever ringing, her mobile bursts into life. Kitty jumps and all the layers of white clothing jump with her; she’s not reacted so fast in fifteen years. She lunges for her telephone and her white organza shirtsleeve catches on a wineglass. She knocks the empty camembert plate to the slate stone floor and sends the telephone skidding across the table after it. Both land at Geraldine’s feet. The plate smashes into several pieces, but the telephone rings on. Geraldine stoops to pick it up.
‘Out the way!’ orders Kitty. She snatches the telephone from her. And stares at it, panic-stricken. ‘Fuck! Geraldine, fuck! Help me! How do you answer this fucking thing?’
Geraldine takes it from her, pushes the appropriate button with her shiny, painted fingernail, and coolly hands the telephone back.
‘Yes?’ says Kitty. ‘Is that you?’
A long pause.
‘Is it you?’ Kitty spits it out again.
A chuckle from old Twiglet Prick. Gleeful and sadistic. ‘Depends which “you” you’re referring to, really, doesn’t it?’
‘Don’t be fucking clever,’ snaps Kitty. ‘I’m having palpitations. David, sweetheart—’ She tries hard to pull herself together. Breathes in deeply. Exhales. Makes herself smile. ‘Lovely to hear from you. How are you? So tell me. I’m having…heart…palpitations. What’s the news?’
‘The news, my dear, is very good.’
‘It is? So—’ She pauses, offers a light but hysterical laugh. ‘David, you’re killing me. What’s “good” when it’s at home? What is it exactly?’
‘It’s actually better than good…It’s actually better than better than good. Are you ready, angel? Are you sitting down?…They think you and Scarlett are going to be, not the next J. K. Rowling, unfortunately, but the next Roald Dahl. Which, of course, as you may remember, is how I pitched you. Anyway, they fell for it.’
‘Yes?…Yes?’
‘Is Scarlett with you?’
‘What? No! For Christ’s sake, David. What have they offered?’
David says, ‘Don’t you think that she ought at least to be with you when I break the news? Shall I wait? When’s she getting back?’
‘I don’t know. Now. I mean later. It doesn’t matter. I’ll tell her when she gets in.’
‘She’s a very talented girl, you know, Kitty,’ he says, suddenly serious. ‘I mean it. A real talent. Little did I know, when I suggested you write something together, what a little gem—’
‘I know, I know,’ Kitty says impatiently. ‘I know that. Of course, she’s got youth on her side. Obviously. I mean, if I’d started younger—If I’d been encouraged the way Scarlett has—David, stop messing about. Tell me, before I have a heart attack and actually die and you’ll have death on your hands. What’s the offer?’
‘£250,000.’
Kitty screams. She throws the telephone in the air and this time when it lands on the slate stone floor it smashes into several pieces. Kitty doesn’t even notice. ‘Geraldine!’ she yells, and she takes Geraldine in her arms and starts dancing around the table. ‘I’m rich! I’m rich! I’m-rich-I’m-rich-I’m-rich! Ha, ha! Fuck everyone! Fuck them all! Because I’m RICH! Does old Mrs Hooper-Dooper sell champagne at the village shop? I’m RICH. Of course she doesn’t, the silly old bag. Let’s go to Lamsbury and buy champagne. Fuck it, let’s buy a case! Geraldine, I’ve done it! I love you. I love you! I love everyone. I love the world!’
Geraldine’s holding the dustpan and brush and several pieces of the smashed camembert plate in her hands, and she has a nasty feeling that the telephone which Kitty threw into the air has left a mark on her expensive floor. But she manages to put all that aside; to put aside, for a moment, the current of resentment that Kitty’s fortunes should be rising just as hers and Clive’s appear to be settling in for a freefall. She has never seen her old friend look so happy.
‘No need for Lamsbury,’ she says cheerfully, trying tactfully to disentangle herself. ‘We’ve got tons of champagne in the cellar. Anyway, the children are due back in a minute.’ She grins at Kitty. ‘Well?’ she says. ‘This suspense is all a bit much, Kit. Are you going to tell me? What the hell is going on?’
Kitty takes a deep breath. Her head is still spinning. ‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘Not until we’ve opened the champagne.’ And then, before Geraldine has moved a muscle, she blurts everything out. The way she understands it.
‘Scarlett and I have been plotting away, you see. Working terrifically hard – which is why you’ve seen so little of us recently.’
(Had she? Geraldine hasn’t noticed it.)
‘Actually, we’ve been working harder than I’ve ever worked in my life!’
‘How marvellous.’
‘And I’ve been longing to tell you, Geraldine, but Twiglet insisted we keep it absolutely top secret, because – well, I don’t know. People just love to see other people fail. Anyway, so we had this wonderful idea of doing a book together. I thought, Geraldine, between you and me, I thought doing something like this would work wonders for Scarlett’s confidence – and so on. Anyway. Cut a long story short. Old Twiglet Prick’s come up absolute bloody trumps. He’s sold our little book for – well,’ Hell. Why stop at £250,000? ‘Four – I mean, five hundred thousand pounds!’
‘Good God!’
‘£500,000!’ she says again.
‘Yes, I heard…I didn’t realise you’d even finished one. You are a dark horse!’
‘£500,000.’
‘Kitty!’ She’s rich, but even so – not as rich as Geraldine. So Geraldine can take her friend in her arms and give her a giant, heartfelt hug. ‘I’m so happy for you. You deserve it. You deserve it! Come on, let’s get that champagne.’
‘Actually, would you mind. I really need to call Louis. Why don’t you go and get the champagne and I’ll put in a quick call. Oh. And can I use your phone?’
28
Like many other wom
en over the years, Kitty Mozely has learnt Louis’s telephone number by heart. And for once he picks up.
‘Louis, darling!’ (Gotcha!)
He’s photographing a prize-winning, EU-subsidised organic tofu supplier on the other side of Lamsbury, and when he recognises Kitty’s voice, his heart sinks. But he doesn’t show it. Louis is always polite.
‘Hey, Kitty,’ he says pleasantly. ‘How’s it going? I was just going to call you.’
‘I’m so well! I’m so well! And I’m just so flattered you found the time to do those marvellous pics of Scarlett and me when you did. And I must pay you. Have you sent your bill?’
Louis hasn’t. Of course. He’s hopeless at that sort of thing.
‘No, but do listen. It’s not what I called about and I don’t want to take up any more of your precious time. Do you remember our little project? Which I was so excited about? Do you?’
‘Oh, God – yes,’ Louis says guiltily. ‘I meant to send you some of my illustrations…I’m sorry. I’ll do that tonight.’
‘Never mind the illustrations now. I mean, they’re very important, obviously,’ she adds quickly. ‘And we’ll have a little meeting with Twiglet about them. Very soon, I promise…No, the point is, sweetheart, I’ve just heard from the old Twiglet himself, and we’ve actually sold the bloody thing for – well—’ She laughs. ‘You’re not going to believe this, but for – well—’ Hell. ‘£650,000…’
It’s a funny thing, how a piece of news like that can alter one person’s perception of another. Louis can’t help it. He is impressed. And nor does he mind admitting to it. He is profoundly impressed.
Kitty listens to him stuttering amazement for some time before she finally interrupts. She says, ‘And I’m such an admirer of your talent. Your photographic talent, Louis. Of course, I can only guess about the rest…’ She gives a fruity, suggestive laugh and Louis (though the subsidised tofu maker is by now beginning to look quite impatient) finds himself laughing along with her. ‘I think the photographs you took of us last week are so splendid, I really want you to do more. What I’m going to do, Louis—Have you got a pen? I’m going to give you old Twiglet Prick’s telephone number, OK? Only do remember he’s actually called David.’ Another fruity laugh. ‘So talk to him. Because this is going to be a terrific news story – obviously. You know, mother love, selfsacrifice, hope-conquering-all, my career resuscitated and so on – and, of course, dear little Scarlett. So I want you to talk to him and make sure that you’re doing the photographs. OK? Tell him I simply refuse to be photographed by anyone else.’