A Year of New Adventures

by Maddie Please

  There was a great deal of strap hauling and whispered conferencing with her colleague behind the curtain and when she had finished I was surprised to find I did actually have a waist. Who would have thought it? When I looked down I also seemed a bit reminiscent of Madonna in her Jean Paul Gaultier phase but I was assured it was OK. I’d get used to it. Well if nothing else I had somewhere new to rest my book.

  ‘Now do you need a sports bra?’ she said just as I was thinking I was past all my pain.

  Sports bra.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘Do I?’

  She pursed her mouth. ‘Well do you do any sport, play tennis, running – that sort of thing? All you young girls seem to go running these days; it’s very bad for your bosoms though, without a sports bra. You need firm support.’

  Sport. Tennis. Running. No of course not.

  I took a breath ready to tell her how unlikely I was to do any of those things and then stopped.

  I might? After all I was trying to do different things wasn’t I? Perhaps running could be my new pastime.

  ‘Yes, I absolutely do need a new sports bra,’ I said confidently. ‘Mine is almost worn out.’

  She brought back some garments that were apparently made from old wet suits in neon shades with thick straps and a lot more hooks and eyes than I was used to.

  ‘Give me a shout if you need a hand,’ she said and swished the curtain closed again.

  In less than five minutes I understood why people like Serena and Venus Williams need a team of people to follow them around the world. They probably have one designated person to help them into their sports bras every morning. No woman could put one on unaided in my opinion. Not unless she had no bosom to start with.

  I wrestled with the wet suit off-cuts for several minutes.

  ‘All right in there?’ my fitter called encouragingly through the curtain.

  At this point I was red-faced and sweating. I had one hook done up and the straps were flapping around my ears.

  ‘Fine,’ I said cheerily.

  ‘Well let me know if you need help adjusting the fit,’ she said. ‘They can be a bit tricky. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  By the time she returned I was exhausted.

  My fitter looked around the curtain and handed me some wet wipes.

  ‘Hot work isn’t it,’ she said.

  She hauled at the straps as though I was a horse and she was adjusting my saddle girths. Then she tugged at the back for a few minutes before she was satisfied.

  ‘That’s really lovely,’ she said, admiringly. ‘You won’t get better than that. They need to be tight, do you see?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, gasping for breath. It was quite possible I was going to pass out. Still it was another tick on my list.

  *

  I made good my escape and celebrated by buying some Kat Treatz for next door’s cat who had evidently appreciated being fed too often during his owner’s holiday and had taken to loitering in my garden. Then I went back to Uncle Peter’s bookshop where the young gum-chewing shelf-fitter had downed tools and gone for the day. The shelves he had been fixing seemed no further on than they had last week. Peter and Godfrey were in the shop, muffled up against the cold wind howling under the door and through the rickety window frames.

  ‘How are you getting on?’ I asked. ‘How’s it going?’

  One look around showed me it wasn’t good. This time there was no one in the shop. Peter was sitting behind the desk with a pile of paperwork while Godfrey leaned over his shoulder and gnawed at his thumbnail.

  ‘Oh you know,’ Godfrey said.

  ‘It’s a bugger,’ Peter said.

  ‘It’s just a bad time of year,’ I said, trying to sound positive. ‘Things will pick up when … when they pick up. In the warmer weather.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Uncle Peter said, ‘but it’s not just us. The big booksellers are playing with all the Aces. They do it their way. Not to mention Amazon. There always used to be space for us little independent shops too, but these days, well, not so much. There are so many books out there and people have never bought so many, they just aren’t buying them from shops like this one. They like to pick them up with the sodding potatoes and their horrible cheap wine.’

  ‘Calm down, remember your blood pressure,’ Godfrey murmured.

  ‘What can you do?’ I said.

  They both looked a bit blank.

  ‘Coffee and cake? People like to sit and browse and relax in bookshops these days.’

  Godfrey shook his head. ‘We don’t have the room; we thought about it when we had the flood and the chance to reorganize. But if you do you open yourself to breaking all sorts of rules and regulations. Health and safety, food hygiene, bloody Human Rights Act for all I know.’

  ‘You need a USP,’ I said.

  ‘Like telepathy?’ Godfrey said.

  ‘No, you’re thinking of ESP; USP is a unique selling point. I’ve been reading up about it. Like buy one get one half price.’

  Godfrey looked doubtful. I decided to tell them my idea; if nothing else it would make me sharpen up my thoughts. Once it was out there I’d have to do it.

  ‘Look, I’ve been thinking about things. I’m going to get a website up and running this evening. I don’t need the wages you pay me. I’ve got some money to keep me going. I’ll be happy to work here for nothing if it would help? But what I want to do is expand the retreat business. Helena can’t spend any more time on it – she’s got a full-time job – but I certainly can. It’s what I like doing and I think if I was more organized and went about it more seriously I could make a go of it.’

  ‘Really?’ Uncle Peter said.

  ‘Yes really. I’m nearly thirty; it’s time I stopped messing about with student jobs and did something.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘You’re right. It is about time.’

  My mobile vibrated in my pocket and I took it out: a number I didn’t recognize.

  ‘Is this Billie Summers?’

  Well it might be; it depends what you want.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘My name is Jeff Ford-Wilson; I’m ringing on behalf of my wife Kitty. She would like to come to you for a week’s retreat. She has edits to do and the kids will be home from school soon and they’ll drive her mad.’

  This was beyond weird! Kitty Ford-Wilson? Why did I know that name? How had she found me?

  Hang on! The Kitty Ford-Wilson? The bestselling writer and internationally famous Kitty Ford-Wilson? The one who wrote Life’s Not Bloody Fair and Not in Your Size, Madam?

  ‘Um, yes of course. When did you have in mind? And how did you get my number? If you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘From Oliver.’

  ‘Oliver Forest?’

  ‘Yes, he’s a friend of Kitty’s, says you organize everything a knackered writer could need. And as soon as possible really. What do you say? I’d be really grateful. Oliver said a hundred and fifty pounds a day; I don’t care what it costs. I don’t care where it is within reason …’

  A hundred and fifty pounds a day? I never said that!

  ‘… she’s not fussy, she just wants somewhere quiet and comfortable with somewhere to write, no distractions, and intravenous coffee. And soon. Please. I’d be really grateful. And so would the twins. It’s nearly the school holidays. If I get Kitty settled somewhere I can take them to Center Parcs.’

  He was beginning to sound a tad panicky by now. His voice was getting a bit high-pitched. It sounded as though Kitty Ford-Wilson would make Oliver Forest look like a pussycat.

  ‘Perhaps a hotel?’ I suggested.

  ‘She hates room service – all that bowing and scraping over a pot of tea. She hates hearing other guests when she’s editing. If she hears a loo flushing it drives her nearly mad.’

  ‘A rented cottage?’

  ‘Yes, but she can’t cook. Well she can but she doesn’t, if you see what I mean?’

  ‘Oh, yes I see. Look, I’m sure I can do something. Can I get bac
k to you in the morning?’

  Jeff gave me his number and email address and rang off.

  I looked up to see Uncle Peter and Godfrey watching me.

  ‘So what was all that about?’

  ‘Oliver has recommended me to Kitty Ford-Wilson,’ I said. ‘I rather think that’s my first client.’

  Godfrey went over to the shelves and fished out Not in Your Size, Madam.

  ‘This Kitty Ford-Wilson?’

  I nodded. ‘She needs somewhere quiet to finish editing. Somewhere she can’t hear people or loos flushing.’

  We stood and looked at each other for a few minutes. Then we discussed the various options. Holiday cottage? Hotel? Yurt in a field?

  ‘Spare room,’ Uncle Peter said.

  ‘I haven’t got a spare room,’ I said. ‘Well not one I can use.’

  ‘So make it useable,’ he said. ‘What’s the point of having a spare room if it’s just storing junk? Or if you can’t be bothered, I suppose she could stay here with us. Although …’

  ‘She can’t stay with you! You’d drive her mad. You are up all night playing Scrabble and listening to Gilbert and Sullivan!’ I said. ‘And your spare room is a tip as well so don’t get funny with me. Last time I looked it was full of paperwork and books. And a broken filing cabinet.’

  ‘Ah but if you sorted out your spare room, you could have that bedstead we’ve got in the garage. You’ve been marvellous helping us out; now it’s our chance to help you. You’ve got a downstairs loo so she wouldn’t get annoyed every time you need a wee. She could have the upstairs bathroom and the box room to work in. The walls are so thick she’d never hear anything.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘It was on my list to get it sorted. I need to go and see.’

  Uncle Peter came with me.

  My house, old and odd as it was, did have thick, stone walls and it was as quiet as any temperamental writer could hope for. It would take a bit of doing but it was feasible. And I had money to buy a few nice things and some new towels. I didn’t think someone as sophisticated as Kitty Ford-Wilson would appreciate Ninja Turtles bath sheets.

  Out in the garden I could see Not My Cat sitting on the garden wall. I hoped Kitty wasn’t allergic or anything.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Kitty Ford-Wilson arrived six days later. I had spent several days cleaning and painting the spare room, assembling the bed (brass bedstead, porcelain knobs, really rather lovely) dressing it with crisp white bedding and plump pillows. There was a new towel stand laden with white bath sheets. The bathroom had been decluttered and cleaned and supplied with new toiletries. The box room, which might have been big enough for a cot or a tiny single bed, had been turned into a writing room for her.

  I’d managed this by decanting all my junk into Uncle Peter’s garage. And I do mean decanting; I’d practically hurled all the boxes of old books, kitchen equipment, and Christmas decorations in through his door – something he wasn’t too thrilled about.

  I’d then painted the box room a soothing sort of pale grey, put up new curtains, organized a chair, table, and armchair and even bought a coffee maker – the sort I’d always wanted, where coffee is kept on a hotplate. The day she was due to arrive I put a kettle, mug, sugar, tea, and a basket of home-made cookies in there and hoped for the best. She’d either like it or she wouldn’t.

  I’d been googling Kitty Ford-Wilson for days to find out more about her. She was obviously very successful, prolific, and important. From the few personal details I found out she sounded rather tricky.

  (She was quoted as saying she didn’t suffer fools gladly. But to be honest I’ve never met anyone who did.)

  More accurately she sounded impatient, bad tempered, and fond of a drink. Great.

  Having got into the clearing-out groove I decided to declutter my wardrobe and create the stylish palette of elegance I’d promised myself. After a couple of hours it became obvious I didn’t have the necessary garments to be either stylish or elegant. But I did have a lot of T-shirts with random food splatters across the front that no amount of washing would remove, ten pairs of jeans, none of which I could bear to wear for an entire day because they were too tight, and six shirts that didn’t button over my new sculpted and supported bosom.

  In the end I shoved some stuff into a black bin liner for the charity shop and the rest into the back of the wardrobe. It wasn’t exactly decluttering, but it was a start.

  A car pulled up outside my house just before three in the afternoon and Kitty’s husband – a small, worried-looking man – brought her bags in. He put them down to shake my hand.

  ‘Jeff Ford-Wilson. Pleased to meet you. I can’t tell you how grateful I am,’ he said, rather breathless. ‘Kitty is on such a tight deadline and things are going from bad to worse. I keep telling her it will be all right in the end, it always is, but that doesn’t seem to help. She gets very … The girls are back from boarding school tomorrow. I don’t think I could deal with … well let’s just say Kitty needs some space. I mean teenage girls are a nightmare aren’t they? It’s in their job spec. But still …’

  He kept up a continuous stream of apology and explanation until he had put all her stuff into the room.

  ‘She’ll like this,’ he said looking around. ‘She likes white bed linen and towels. And she takes up lots of space in bed so just as well it’s a double. That’s why I sometimes sleep … well never mind.’

  ‘Um where is she?’ I said when I could get a word in edgewise.

  Jeff looked up startled and for a terrible moment I wondered if he had forgotten to bring her or left her somewhere. He looked at his watch.

  ‘Oh she wouldn’t come with me. She doesn’t like my driving. She’ll be here in a few minutes. Can we put the coffee maker on? That will settle her. I’m not sure about the cookies; Kitty is a bit weight conscious, like all you ladies. I don’t know why, because she’s a lovely shape.’

  He picked up the basket of cookies and looked at them rather doubtfully before putting them back.

  ‘Don’t be surprised if she throws them out. It’s no reflection … So you’re Billie, a friend of Oliver’s? What a nice man. He’s such a laugh isn’t he?’

  Laugh? Oliver Forest a laugh?

  ‘Oliver Forest the writer?’ I said as I followed him back downstairs. ‘A laugh?’

  ‘Golly yes, he has us in stitches when we go over for dinner. Kitty has such a crush … well never mind. Now then, I think we’re all set. She has lunch at one, tea at three-thirty, dinner at seven. Did I tell you she only eats off white china? I’d better go.’

  Jeff hurried out towards his car.

  ‘Don’t you want to wait and make sure she gets here OK?’ I said.

  He got into his car and lowered the window. ‘Crumbs no, she won’t want to find me here interfering with her chakras. I’ll be off. You’ve got my number haven’t you? Any emergencies let me know otherwise I’ll see you on Friday. Good luck, I’m sure it will be fine. Better than fine, I mean great.’

  He drove off with a jaunty wave through the window and I watched until his car turned the corner. Wow, Kitty sounded terrifying. I hardly knew what to expect. She appeared ten minutes later, and I wasn’t disappointed.

  *

  She arrived in a red Maserati, its twin exhausts booming a warning as she drove up the road to my house. Then she sat in the car apparently talking to herself until I realized she was finishing a phone call. By her expression someone was getting a tongue-lashing. She got out and stood looking around for a moment. I hurried out to greet her.

  The thing that struck me first was how ordinary she looked. Without the trademark crimson jacket, artful make-up, and bouffant hair styling of her book covers she looked like quite an ordinary, slightly stout, middle-class housewife. Apart from the knuckle-duster diamond on her ring finger. And the Gucci laptop bag.

  ‘Mrs Ford-Wilson?’

  Just in case there was any doubt.

  She shook my hand. ‘Kitty.
’

  I showed her to her room and she glanced around. Then we went to the makeshift writing area and she stood looking at it.

  ‘Yes,’ she said after a long, terrible pause, ‘it’ll do.’

  ‘The coffee is on. Would you like to help yourself? Would you like a cookie? Or some cake? Or both?’

  ‘No, no, no, and no thank you,’ she said, dumping her laptop bag on the table. She opened one of the bags that Jeff had left in the bedroom and pulled out a bottle of gin, which she handed to me. ‘Have you got any tonic? Full fat not slimline. Ice and lemon? I’m not going anywhere else today and I need a pick-me-up before I start work. I’ll be down in ten minutes, yes?’

  I scurried off to the corner shop to buy some tonic water and made up a rather stiff drink for her. Thirty seconds after the ice had hit the glass she came downstairs in an ugly housecoat and some raddled old slippers and sank down on my sofa with a sigh of pleasure. She had scraped her blonde hair back into a ponytail and she looked every one of her fifty-four years.

  She downed half the drink in one gulp.

  ‘That’s better. Now then,’ she said, ‘I know Jeff has sent you some advice, but I’ll just run through. Dinner at seven, no pasta – it’s too heavy. Salad, steak, bread – I love bread. Cheese, any. Red wine, not South American. OK?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Breakfast, seven-thirty. Toast, Marmite. Proper butter too, not that ghastly grease.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Lunch – any soup but not oxtail. Tinned is all right by me. French bread.’

  ‘Fine.’

  I took her glass away and refilled it; she looked at me with a sideways glance. There were deep wrinkles around her mouth that spoke of a lifetime’s disapproval of everything.

  ‘You’re not what I was expecting,’ she said.

  ‘Nor are you,’ I replied.

  ‘What were you expecting?’ She narrowed her eyes at me.

  ‘Someone older.’

  This is always a good answer to questions like this I think. You can’t go wrong with it unless it’s a policeman.