The Hopeless Romantic's Handbook

by Gemma Townley

  Sal looked at him sagely. The trick, she wanted to tell him, was not to worry too much about the point: You’d end up in a constant existential crisis and wind up gibbering in the corner like a halfwit. No, instead, you had to concentrate on brand values, winning concepts, and look forward to your next holiday. Or was that just her?

  “We’re still the best-selling brand of pain relief,” she said. “Can’t you focus on that?”

  Jim shook his head. “I cannot get the world’s health and beauty press interested in a newly packaged painkiller just because it’s a best seller. I’ve got targets for coverage, too. I’m the one who’s going to lose my bonus, not them. Their bit is easy.”

  Sal nodded sympathetically, although she wasn’t entirely sure she’d agree that developing the world’s best-selling painkiller was all that easy, and found her eyes gazing downward, back toward Jim’s arms. She’d never really noticed Ed’s arms. Sure, she’d seen them. There was nothing wrong with them. But she hadn’t been drawn to them particularly. She couldn’t even remember when she’d first seen them. Looked at them, rather. Properly, instead of just a glance that confirmed that they existed and that they weren’t deformed.

  Did other people marry people whose arms they barely noticed?

  “Do you work out, Jim?” she asked absentmindedly He stared at her, and she reddened again, realizing what she’d said, not to mention what she’d implied.

  “I don’t mean …” she stammered, “I mean … I just wondered. You look like you do, and I’ve been meaning to join a gym, so I was just asking…”

  But instead of treating her like a total freak, Jim was smiling. “I do, as it happens,” he said. “Just round the corner—Holmes Place. I’ll show you round if you like.”

  Sal nodded, not sure what to say. He’d probably leave it as an open invitation that she’d never take him up on. Within a few days they’d have forgotten all about it, she reassured herself.

  “How does tonight sound? After work—say sixish?”

  Jim had stood up and was looking at her, his pale blue eyes boring right into hers.

  Damn, she thought. So he’s not forgetting all about it, then.

  “Great!” she said brightly. “Tonight would be great!”

  Jim smiled again and walked out, leaving Sal shaking her head in disbelief at what she’d just done.

  She rubbed her temples and tried to refocus on the product details in front of her. Jim from PR was going to show her round his gym. How had that happened? She hardly knew the guy, and hadn’t been planning to join a gym, either. I’m going to the gym with Jim. It sounded like a children’s nursery rhyme or something. Comical and silly.

  But was it silly? It didn’t feel particularly comical. This was the start, she realized with a jolt. The start of the decline of her marriage to Ed. She just knew it. One minute she couldn’t remember what his arms looked like and the next she would be having torrid sex with Jim from PR. In the gym. He probably felt sorry for her—the sad, boring married woman from West Kensington.

  Except he hadn’t looked like he felt sorry for her. And what the hell else was she going to do after work—go home and wait around for Ed all night?

  Anyway, it was just a gym, for God’s sake. It would do her good to get some exercise. Maybe if she got herself back in shape her sex life would improve immeasurably. With Ed, that is. Not Jim. Certainly not Jim. Jim was just being friendly, and if his invitation had inadvertently turned a spotlight on the cobwebs within her marriage, that wasn’t his fault. It was her fault for letting things get to this stage. And it was up to her to remedy the situation.

  Quickly, as if to keep herself from changing her mind, she picked up the phone and dialed Ed’s number.

  “Ed Long.”

  “Hi, it’s me. Listen, I’m going to be back later tonight because I’m joining a gym!”

  “You? A gym?” Ed was laughing.

  Sal frowned. “Yes, me. I’m going with a friend from work. Jim.”

  “Yeah, I got the bit about the gym. But what’s the friend’s name?”

  “Ha ha,” Sal said. “He’s actually called Jim.”

  “You’re going to the gym with Jim?” Ed was laughing even more now.

  “Yes, I am, actually,” Sal said in an irritated tone. “So I may not be back in time to cook supper.”

  “Marvelous. Does that mean I can order a take-away?”

  Sal sighed. This was what happened when you didn’t marry The One, she realized. They didn’t even notice when huge cracks began to appear in the marriage.

  “Yes, Ed, you can order a take-away,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “Cool. Listen, got to go, got another call—probably a tip. ‘Bye, honey.”

  And with that, Sal heard the familiar click. She had noticed a few months ago that she never hung up before Ed. It had struck her once when he’d hung up before their conversation had even finished because he’d got an e-mail; after that she’d realized that it happened every time. Even when she planned to end the conversation before he did, he managed to get in there first. Ed probably didn’t know what an empty sound the click of someone else hanging up was, she thought despondently.

  16

  The hospice wasn’t what Kate had expected. Somehow, the word hospice combined with cancer and patient had conjured up in her mind a picture of a Victorian hospital with iron grilles at the windows and a stern-looking matron in charge. Which she’d known was going to be wide off the mark, first because they weren’t in the Victorian era anymore, second because they didn’t have matrons these days, and third because Carole Jacobs had explicitly told her that it was more of a house than a hospital.

  But it was still a shock the following morning when, having lied to Magda that she had a dentist appointment so that she could see St. Mary’s Hospice for herself, she discovered that it looked like a home—not an institutional one but a real one. A place where people lived. It was a squareish building, Victorian (Kate noted that point with a certain amount of satisfaction), and very rambling for a London house. Somehow it felt as if it had been uprooted from a village somewhere and plonked down in the middle of South East London. Ivy was growing up the walls and, in some cases, through windows that had apparently been left slightly open at one point and were now permanently held that way by a green and living draft generator.

  It was also a shock that Carole Jacobs seemed to think that Kate could do something with this place for next to no money. It looked as if the whole place would crumble to the ground if you took one brick out of the middle of a wall, and that was just the outside. Kate hardly dared to see the state of the interior.

  “They were going to tear it down,” Carole said in her cheerful way as she opened the front door and signaled for Kate to go through. “We saved it, though, and look at it now. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Kate smiled cautiously. Carole Jacobs, she’d learned, was not a woman who liked to focus much on negatives. She had drive and determination, enough for a small army, and she appeared to believe that Kate could work miracles. Which was nice, really it was. But there were limits even to Kate’s creativity.

  Inside the hospice was even more dilapidated than the outside. Paint on the walls barely disguised large patches of damp, and wires trailed everywhere, taped to walls or floors so that they wouldn’t be a hazard. The place needed to be completely rewired, Kate realized in alarm. Most of the walls should be taken back to their bare bones and replastered. And presumably it all had to be done with the patients in situ.

  Still, that wasn’t her problem, she told herself. It wasn’t as if she was going to be involved. Advice, that’s all Carole had asked for. And that’s all she would be able to give, however much Carole flattered her.

  Taking a deep breath, she followed Carole down a short corridor and through a door.

  “And this is the dayroom,” Carole said proudly. “Everyone, this is Kate. From the television. She’s the one who’s going to transform this place.”

&nbs
p; Kate looked at her and raised an eyebrow. “Not transform,” she amended. “Advise on the transformation. Help, you know, in a consultative way…”

  Her voice trailed off as she took in the sea of smiling faces in front of her. There were five men and women sitting on armchairs in front of the television, three of them wrapped in blankets. There were four more women in the corner playing a game of cards, an elderly gentleman and a boy of about seventeen hunched over a game of chess, and a girl who didn’t look more than fifteen with her nose buried in a book, which she hurriedly put down when she saw Kate.

  Two of the women playing cards had scarves wrapped around their heads; the other two had obviously given up trying to disguise their baldness and were proudly exhibiting soft downy hair like that found on a baby’s head.

  “This is Betty,” Carole said, taking Kate around the room. “Betty’s going back to Charing Cross for surgery in a couple of weeks, and then she’ll be back here for her chemo.”

  Betty, a bright-looking woman in her sixties, held out her hand and smiled at Kate, her eyes twinkling. She didn’t look ill. She looked like someone’s mother. Maybe someone’s grandmother.

  “Charing Cross?” Kate asked, before she could stop herself. That was Tom’s hospital.

  “Yes, dear. We’re just around the corner from them. And this is Margaret, who’s going back home at the end of this week.”

  “I might not be,” Margaret said quickly. “I mean, I could stay a little while. If we’re going to be on television.”

  Kate smiled as she was introduced to them all. She talked to each of them about their stay in the hospice, about the cancers they were fighting, and about their relief to have somewhere to stay that wasn’t a ward, a place that didn’t remind them every minute of every day that they were very ill, that allowed them a semblance of dignity. She also found out that their favorite colors included blue, yellow, and pink, but not that nasty peachy pink color that reminded Margaret of sick. They smiled gratefully at Kate and seemed so excited about telling her small fragments of detail about themselves— about their families, their friends, the homes that they’d had to leave. Each of them had a story to tell. A story more courageous and difficult than anything she’d known in her life, and she felt at once both humbled and uplifted. She hadn’t known quite what she’d expected, but the people in front of her didn’t seem sick. They were fighters, locked in battle and cheerfully getting on with life in the meantime.

  “So,” Carole said eventually, when she’d taken Kate around the entire house, showing her the small bedrooms, the cramped staff quarters, and the dilapidated bathrooms. “I know there’s a lot to do, but what do you think?”

  Her eyes were shining with excitement, and Kate thought not for the first time that Carole was a dangerous woman.

  She took a deep breath. “You realize it isn’t just a redecoration job?” she asked. “I mean, you do realize that the wiring is shot, that there aren’t enough plug sockets anywhere, that the walls are damp and the bathroom fittings need to be replaced?”

  Carole’s face creased into a worried frown. “Oh dear. Is it really that bad? Couldn’t we just… brighten it up a bit?”

  Kate shook her head. “It’s a hazard,” she said matter-of-factly “And it’s cold, too. Half the windows have got ivy growing through them.”

  “Fresh air is good, though, isn’t it?” Carole offered.

  Kate shook her head again. “Not when heating is so expensive. Look, isn’t there any way of raising more money?”

  Carole looked at her sadly. “The trouble is, dear, most of the people who come to us don’t have much money. The ones with money have places to go. And we’re such a small charity—it’s really just a handful of us. We got some initial funding from Cancer Trust UK— they helped us buy the house in the first place, but the deal was that we took it from there, so to speak. We could hold a ‘bring and buy’ sale, but I don’t think you’re talking about a couple of hundred pounds, are you?”

  Kate looked down at the floor. What could she do? The only sensible advice she could offer was to forget all about any ideas of redecoration until they had some serious money.

  Carole studied her, then nodded. “I understand, dear. Please don’t worry. It was very good of you to come and see us—I know everyone really appreciated your visit.”

  Kate grimaced. She didn’t want to walk away. In her head she had already started doing some sketches, opening up the space, livening the place up with colors and fabrics that would make the residents feel more alive.

  But it was impossible. She wouldn’t even know where to start.

  “If we had the money, I could do it,” she said with determination, watching Carole’s face light up as she spoke. “Would do it, I mean. But we are talking about a lot, I’m afraid. Is there no one else you could ask? No one else who’d be willing to pay … ?”

  Carole dropped her eyes, then braced herself. “We’ll just keep saving up,” she said brightly. “Until we’ve got enough.”

  Kate nodded guiltily. It wasn’t as if she could wave a magic wand, it wasn’t as if she could just magic money out of thin air. “I’ll keep in touch,” she promised. “And if I think of any … shortcuts, I’ll let you know.”

  Carole smiled. “Thank you, Kate. Thank you so much.”

  For what? Kate thought with a sigh as she said good-bye and made her way quickly back to work.

  Phil walked over, his hand scratching his beard in a familiar gesture that Kate knew meant bad news. She was only an hour—maybe two hours—late, but already she’d had two text messages from Phil and a phone call from Magda, who didn’t seem remotely convinced by her “I’m at the dentist” excuse.

  “What is it?” Kate asked.

  “You seen them ceilings in the kitchen?” he asked, his face contorting into its usual pained expression. “You can’t go fixing new lights up there—the whole thing’s going to come down.”

  Kate’s shoulders dropped. She’d thought Sarah Jones’s insistence on having a leather sofa was bad enough—she didn’t need more problems. With a sigh, she followed Phil out from her vantage point in the hallway back toward the kitchen.

  “You see where you’ve marked them crosses on the ceiling?” he asked.

  Kate nodded. “Yes, the lights have to go there,” she said firmly, “because the kitchen table’s going to go right underneath. I want old-fashioned lights that come down low over the table, creating a cozy glow for family dinners when it’s cold outside.”

  Phil looked at her. “You know that this lot’ll never have family dinners, don’t you?” he said, shaking his head. “They’ve got a sixteen-year-old son who’ll be up playing computer games every night and old Mr. Jones’ll probably be down the pub.”

  “He won’t when this kitchen has become the haven he’s always longed for,” Kate said obstinately. “Sarah will cook delicious roasts and they’ll all sit down together and talk about their day. …”

  Phil raised an eyebrow. “I’m not being funny or anything, but from what I hear, Sarah Jones doesn’t want a kitchen table with low-hanging lights. She wants a chrome and leather sofa.”

  “Don’t you start,” Kate warned, wincing as little flecks of plaster started to float down from the ceiling. “I’m just doing my job, and we’ve all agreed that chintz is the look we’re going for here. Neither Bree Van De Kamp nor Camilla Parker Bowles would be seen dead with a leather and chrome sofa.”

  Phil’s smile was sardonic. “Wouldn’t they, now? Well, if that’s what you want, we need to board up the ceiling. Nothing’s going to hang from it otherwise.”

  “Fine,” Kate said gloomily, “board the ceiling. It’ll only set us back a few hours.”

  Phil pulled a face that suggested that ‘a few hours’ might be a tad optimistic, and mooched off. Kate turned to see Gareth walking into the room. Or, rather, flouncing in.

  “She hates it all!” he said desperately. “Kate, she just looked at it and shook her head. Didn’t even sa
y anything. I’d done a whole drawing of her with darker hair with some beautiful subtle highlights and she winced. Winced! Oh, God, it’s a disaster!”

  “You just explain it’s so she looks good sitting underneath the low kitchen light,” Phil said, pausing at the door, the corners of his mouth creeping upward. “I’m sure she’ll love it then.”

  “Ignore him,” Kate ordered. “He’s on his way to do some work, aren’t you Phil?”

  Phil grinned and departed. “And don’t worry,” Kate said, turning to Gareth. “She was the same with me. It was as if she hadn’t agreed to the concept or something. Ah, Magda!”

  Magda had just appeared, her forehead creased into lines. “What?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Jones seems to be having some second thoughts about the concept,” Kate said. “I wonder if you could maybe have a quick word with her—remind her what it was she agreed to. Otherwise this week is going to be seriously difficult.”

  “The concept. Yes,” Magda mused. The week before filming, paperwork was always biked to the next week’s victim, outlining the concept and budget and other details of the show. Until they had signed the papers, including a whole load of legal jargon that basically said they couldn’t blame the show for anything that went wrong whatsoever, work didn’t start. They usually left the courier there waiting, just to further encourage the victim(s) to sign it and quickly.

  “The thing is,” Magda said, looking nowhere in particular, “last Friday I got a bit sidetracked.”

  Kate frowned. “But they got the paperwork. Right?”

  Magda bit her lip.

  “Magda!” Kate shrieked. “If she hasn’t signed the paperwork we’re in serious trouble.”

  “Look, I’m on it,” Magda growled. “I do have other things on my mind, you know. Like whether we’re going to have a show to worry about in a few weeks.”

  “Are things really that bad?” Kate asked. “I mean, could they really pull it?”

  Magda sighed. “No one ever bloody cries on this show. We need life stories that blow people away, drama that has people sitting on the edge of their seats, and instead we get overweight housewives who can’t be arsed turning their lives around. I sometimes think we don’t deserve to stay on air.”