A Year of New Adventures

by Maddie Please

  I imagined myself for a moment behind a counter in a pink nylon overall doling out custard with a ladle as big as a bucket or slices of rubbery pizza to children who would pull a face and throw half of it away. To me school dinners meant all sorts of ghastly things. Perhaps things have changed? Anyway, wasn’t I supposed to be having adventures? Perhaps I could get a job as a chalet maid in some cute Alpine village? Or a nanny to some adorable millionaire’s children?

  ‘What about those companies who need occasional staff for functions? My brother did it the summer he left school. He went to a load of really glam events. Race days in Cheltenham and private bashes – that sort of thing. He said they used to tip well too because by the end of the night the guests were all completely twatted on free booze. He stopped doing it though when he tripped and ladled gravy into someone’s handbag by mistake. They didn’t seem to want him after that. Still, I’m sure you wouldn’t do such a thing. I’ll dig out the phone number.’

  ‘Great, it would be super.’

  It sounded awful; how embarrassing would that be? Job sharing with a load of sixth formers? What was the matter with me anyway? I had a load of GCSEs and A levels. I had a degree. I wasn’t thick. I had to get my act together and soon.

  We finished Helena’s nails and had a short discussion about whether she needed her toenails painted to match.

  ‘But I’m going to be wearing ankle boots,’ she said.

  ‘Yes? And?’

  ‘Well, and trousers.’

  ‘Yes but – you know.’ I jerked my head to one side and widened my eyes at her.

  ‘Know what?’

  Really, Helena was amazingly slow sometimes.

  ‘You know,’ I repeated with greater emphasis.

  Helena gave me a pained look. ‘I’m wearing ankle boots and socks underneath them. So how is Nick going to get to see whether I’ve painted my toenails or not?’

  ‘If you take them off?’

  ‘You can’t take your shoes off in a Michelin restaurant,’ Helena scoffed. The penny finally dropped. ‘Oh I see where you’re going with this. Honestly, Billie, I’m not going to sleep with him! Am I? Not on a first date! What do you take me for?’

  I sighed. ‘Well he’s a bloke. He’s single. He seems keen. You like him. You’ve been on your own for a while. Why wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Like a shot! Well not with Nick obviously. Have you got new underwear?’

  ‘No I haven’t! Oh God, should I get new underwear? But then I’d feel like such a prat if I spent a load of money on new knickers and he didn’t want to see them. I’d be sitting there all evening wondering if he did. It would really put me off. So no, I’m not going to put myself under a load of knicker-focused pressure.’

  ‘There you are then, decision made. Are you going to have your hair up or down?’

  ‘Up. No down. No up. Oh God, I don’t know,’ Helena said.

  ‘Down, then you don’t have to worry about it?’ I suggested. ‘And you can twirl your hair between your fingers and toss it around in a seductive and fascinating way. As long as there aren’t candles on the table of course.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. Excellent. Good choice.’

  ‘See, we’re making progress here,’ I said happily.

  I topped up our wine glasses and we toasted her new Russian Star nails. Then we talked a bit about Nick and she filled me in on the details of his latest phone call when they had apparently talked for an hour and a half about nothing in particular by the sounds of it.

  ‘He even mentioned holidays – he said he fancied doing something different.’

  ‘What like bog diving or painting the kitchen ceiling?’

  ‘No nothing like that. You can be very obtuse sometimes. He usually goes to see his family or a friend in France, but he just said he fancied a change. Do you think he meant with me?’

  ‘Well you were on the phone for an hour and a half, didn’t you ask him?’

  ‘Well no, I didn’t want to seem too keen.’

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake! How old are you? I know! Why don’t you suggest you go away to a romantic hotel in Scotland together? One of those castle sort of places. You can go for long walks across the brae and kick through the heather and warm up afterwards in front of a log fire with hot toddies. You’ll have kippers for breakfast every morning or porridge with salt instead of sugar. There will be a kilted retainer with a wee tartan bonnet. He’ll be called Angus and he’ll call you ma bonny wee lassie and another one called Torquill will play “Mull of Kintyre” on the bagpipes outside your bedroom window at six-thirty every morning.’

  ‘Why would they do that? It sounds ghastly. I like the sound of the hot toddies though.’

  ‘It’s what Scottish people do. Like I’ll be seeing you just now when they mean goodbye. And long may your lum reek.’

  ‘Yours too.’

  ‘Oooh I can just see it now. You and Nick snuggled up on a sheepskin rug in front of the fire. And you’ll be getting all hot and steamy and snogging fit to burst and then Angus the kilted retainer will come in with a new tree to put on the fire. And he’ll step over you both very tactfully and say, “Have you no had your tea?”’

  We fell about laughing and Helena topped up my wine.

  ‘You have got to tell me what happens,’ I said. ‘Or text me under the table.’

  ‘I certainly won’t!’

  ‘Well nip out to the loo between courses.’

  ‘No chance! There are nine courses! He’ll think I’ve got cystitis.’

  Helena started to fidget. ‘Do you think we should do my toenails then?’

  ‘Perhaps we should. Just to be on the safe side? You know. In case.’

  ‘You’re awful!’

  We painted her toenails.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The following morning it had stopped raining and next door’s cat was sitting on the kitchen windowsill watching me with an unblinking stare. I fed it again to make up for not really liking it, made a chocolate sponge, and took it down to the bookshop with more coffee and tea for Godfrey and Uncle Peter.

  I found them in much the same state as they had been the previous day. Uncle Peter was standing in wellington boots in the middle of the shop although now the water level had gone down and it was only up to his ankles.

  ‘Hullo,’ he said with a brave attempt at a smile. ‘More refreshments – how marvellous! You are a treasure.’ He paddled over to the foot of the stairs. ‘Godfrey, there’s cake. Come down!’

  Godfrey, still in the same disreputable trousers and jumper, came thumping down the stairs from their flat.

  ‘You are an absolute saint!’ he said. ‘It’s bloody freezing up there.’

  ‘How’s it going?’ I said.

  ‘I think the worst is over. The water’s going down anyway,’ he said, ‘and the forecast isn’t predicting any more rain.’

  ‘Well that’s good isn’t it?’ I said, cutting comforting hunks of cake and handing them out on paper napkins.

  ‘I suppose,’ Godfrey said gloomily. He gave a huge sigh. ‘I got through Beatlemania and Watergate, I can deal with two feet of dirty water in the shop.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ Uncle Peter said, clapping him on the back.

  ‘What did the insurance people say?’

  ‘They’ll pay up but of course it will take time to sort this out and naturally the premiums will go up next year. If they will insure us at all. There’s a builder coming round later and the fire brigade are going to be pumping the water out of the drains later so that will be something fun for us to watch,’ he said gloomily.

  ‘Now then, Godders,’ my uncle said wagging a finger at him. ‘We don’t want any defeatist talk. That won’t win the war will it? Buck up, man, stiffen the sinew, stretch wide the nostril and all that sort of stuff.’

  ‘Oh all right then,’ Godfrey sighed, taking a piece of cake. ‘So what are you up to, Billie? Any progress on the job hunt?’

  ‘
Well nothing yet but it’s early days. I’ll find something. Perhaps I could sell my hair? Or one of my kidneys?’

  ‘I wonder how much you’d get for a kidney?’ Uncle Peter said. ‘They wouldn’t want one of mine; mine have been well pickled in brandy over the years.’

  ‘Anyway, we’d better get on. There’s a lot of stuff to take to the tip before it starts stinking the place out. The insurance people say we can; they’ve taken photos as evidence. I know the council will collect it at some point if I ask them.’

  ‘Can I help?’ I said. ‘I’ve got the Land Rover. It’s no trouble and it’s filthy inside already so I don’t mind the mess.’

  ‘Well if you’re sure?’ Godfrey said looking marginally more cheerful. ‘I don’t think my car would allow it. I’ll happily pay for your diesel?’

  Godfrey had a very smart little Morgan 4/4 that he washed and valeted every week. The thought of putting muddy boxes of wet books into its weedy little boot was too depressing for words.

  ‘I’d be glad to help. Might as well make the most of it before it falls to pieces completely. Look, I’ll go and get it now and we’ll make a start. And why don’t you both come round for dinner tomorrow night?’

  I spent the morning loading up the car and driving my soggy load to the council tip. Luckily the rather irascible man who made it his life’s work to turn people away with a triumphant smirk and send them to another tip thirty miles further on wasn’t around. A fair number of other people were doing much the same thing with trailers filled with sodden furniture and water-damaged appliances. It really was awful to see.

  By the time I returned the fire brigade had finished pumping most of the floodwater away, and Peter and Godfrey were sweeping the mud out with a couple of heavy-duty brooms.

  We went to the pub for lunch and Godfrey insisted on paying and then, filled with a glow of satisfaction, I went home. I wondered how Helena was getting on. I knew she was leaving work an hour early in order to get ready for her hot date.

  Back home the heating hadn’t come on and I dithered about starting it up early, but then in my new, economically sage frame of mind I decided against it and found a warm sweater instead.

  Full of cottage pie and chips from lunch (approximately half a million calories so not a great start to my new, healthy-eating regime) I didn’t feel hungry so I had a quick shower to rid myself of the mouldy bin smell that had settled in my hair and settled down to watch some junk TV and do the ironing. I caught the end of a programme about moving to live in the country – isn’t there always one of those on? Then there was a current events programme. I turned over to the news and then … suddenly there was Oliver Forest. On the television. In my sitting room.

  I nearly dropped the iron.

  He was looking exceptionally gorgeous in a sleek DJ and I registered a tiny blonde scurrying along behind him. They weren’t the main point of the clip, but they had been going into some awards event where the Prime Minister had given out the prizes. The news teams were all hoping for comment on some immigration figures that had just been revealed and Oliver had been in the shot.

  A closer look on pause and rewind, OK several closer looks on pause and rewind, showed it was definitely him, and with him was a wretched-looking Pippa in a straggly black dress that seemed to be in danger of falling off her skinny shoulders and her hair was in a complicated up-do.

  Lucky cow. Or thinking about it, perhaps not.

  I left the frozen image of Oliver on my television for twenty minutes while I finished the ironing. He was looking a bit unsettled I thought. The more I looked at his face, turned slightly to the left and looking over his shoulder at the camera, the more I thought it.

  At least he wasn’t wearing his plastic boot anymore; it would have ruined the look of his outfit. I even considered ringing Helena up to tell her or taking a photo of him on my phone; but to do so really did seem pathetic and rather stalker-ish so I didn’t.

  I put everything away and turned the television off. Then I put some music on and poured myself a glass of wine. Then I sent Helena a good luck text. And then I turned the TV back on. Oliver’s face was still there, frozen, his dark eyes suspicious. Pippa was looking up at him with a wary expression. I noticed she had her right forearm in some sort of support thing. Oh of course: her failed suicide bid down the stairs.

  I rewound the program and listened again to the strident shouts of the interviewer as she tried to get the Prime Minister to say something incriminating or resign or something.

  I’m always amazed when they do this. I mean when an MP is going through a scandal as MPs often do, why do reporters think shouting Are you ashamed of yourself, Minister? Have you always enjoyed kinky sex? Are you considering your position? Which position would that be then, Minister? will provoke some sort of response?

  I looked at Oliver’s face for a bit longer and got a bit blue. And I remembered how only recently he had been eating my food, sitting across the table from me, and on top of that he’d kissed me and I’d seen him naked.

  No, noooooooo.

  I mustn’t think about it. It was inappropriate and tasteless.

  Stop it. Stop it!

  He was on his way to some bookish event. I wondered what, so I spent an hour googling overblown glitzy, literary, black tie, London. Nothing came up, so I stared at Oliver a bit more and looked daggers at Pippa. She really did look miserable.

  Oooh, phone.

  It was Helena.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said.

  She sounded as though she was inside an echo chamber so I guessed she was in a loo.

  ‘What are you doing talking to me? How’s it going?’

  ‘Great. He’s so nice. I mean nicer than I remember. He’s wearing a really smart suit. I’ve never had anyone take me out in a suit. Ever!’

  ‘Nor have I. How’s the food?’

  ‘Fine, I mean more than fine. I wish you were here so you could see it. I keep wanting to take pictures, but I read somewhere that’s a very naff thing to do and the waiters would sneer at us. We’ve got to the fifth course. It’s all been delicious. I had a teeny thing made of guinea fowl. I thought it said guinea pig at first and I was going to make a fuss. Good job I didn’t.’

  ‘Well go back and be charming and enigmatic and flick your hair about in a sexy and suggestive manner.’

  ‘Oooh I’m not sure I know how!’

  ‘Well do your best!’

  ‘OK.’

  Helena rang off and I refilled my wine glass. I wondered if anyone actually did eat guinea pigs? With salad or chips? Who knows?

  I turned the TV back on and looked at Oliver a bit more and then gave up the unequal struggle and took a photo of the screen on my phone. Pathetic really.

  Anyway, I saw there was a new Scandi-Noir detective series about to start so I decided to watch it. After all, nothing improves one’s mood better than seeing a slightly grubby blonde girl in a red dress running through a wood trying to escape a crazed killer in a duffel coat.

  And then running through an industrial wasteland – ditto.

  Followed by ten minutes looking out of the window of a grimy tower block and having an unintelligible phone conversation with said crazed killer still in his duffel coat with the hood up.

  Ten minutes on and the blonde was muttering sullenly into her mobile while a faceless stranger in a Volvo estate car smoked Sobranie cigarettes and watched her.

  On another day I might have enjoyed it, but I wasn’t really in the mood for a story that dragged along, rich with moody intensity and chunky sweaters.

  I wanted to watch a classic film, something fun and light-hearted to get me in a good mood, something schmaltzy and atmospheric. So I put on Die Hard. Perfect!

  I was about to finish my wine and go to bed when my phone buzzed with a text. It was of course from Helena.

  ‘Good job you painted my toenails!!!!! J’

  Well would you believe it?

  *

  The following day I checked my phot
o of Oliver and then basically did a rerun of the previous day except this time I made a banana loaf for Godfrey and Peter and took a load of cleaning stuff with me to the bookshop. My attempts to fill my life with exciting and daring things was getting off to an exceptionally bad start. I hadn’t even started on the decluttering or tidying.

  I made coffee and looked in the local paper for gainful employment. Even with my varied job history there wasn’t anything suitable. I wanted to go on holiday and even ‘unexpectedly cheap’ holidays cost some money. And anyway, I was getting fed up with doing half-arsed jobs, patching together a full week of employment but failing to really feel needed or valuable.

  That was the trouble, I realized, as though it was a Damascene moment; I didn’t feel as though I was useful. Making cakes was all very well but did it really matter? Was I just contributing to the British obesity epidemic Oliver was so concerned about?

  But on the other hand, people liked the writing retreats; I know they did. One day perhaps someone would mention Helena and me in their book acknowledgements.

  Heartfelt thanks to Billie and Helena, without whom this book would never have been finished.

  I stopped, a slice of cake halfway to my mouth. The idea was rather appealing all of a sudden. I must talk to Helena about it if I could ever prise her away from Nick. But hang on, she already had a job she enjoyed. She wouldn’t want to give it up just to help me do something would she? It wouldn’t be fair to ask. How could I do them on my own? I couldn’t. Could I?

  We spent the day scrubbing the last of the mud off the floor and washed the walls. Godfrey’s builder had taken the sodden shelving and the stair carpet away and the room so recently filled with enticing piles of books, a couple of velvet armchairs, and gorgeous notebooks and stationery was now empty and had a cold, unloved feel about it. There was a rhythmic hum from two dehumidifiers in the back of the room.

  ‘It’s taking shape isn’t it?’ Peter said with more enthusiasm in his voice than I would have been able to muster. ‘Now we’ve got everything cleared out, the builders can start. We’ll be back in business in no time, you wait and see.’