by Freya North
‘Sorry?’
‘Oh, come on, Vita – I’m Suzie. The Suzie. We’re together – so back off.’
Vita was shaking, not just because Suzie had hung up on her, but because the level of aggression had been horrible. People were usually nice to Vita – probably because her line of work was to provide lovely items to gladden the heart. Even the mad old shoplifting lady went about her crime with a genuinely sweet smile and a warm, Hullo, lassie. Vita tried to tell herself to judge a person by the company they keep – so what did this say about Tim and Suzie? And yet part of her felt unnerved, undermined and small. Embarrassed too – because a sappy sorry was all she’d managed and it really was the wrong word to use when what she’d meant by it was pardon. Her mind twisted away from the reality of the situation – that Suzie’s unpleasant ownership of Tim probably came just from insecurity. Vita didn’t stop to think how she obviously loomed pretty large for Suzie too. It didn’t cross her mind that Tim didn’t know about the call and that Suzie had deleted it from the list, slipped the phone into her bag and smuggled it back into his jacket a little while later.
*
When her hands had stopped shaking and her voice didn’t sound too brittle, Vita phoned Candy, relating what had happened in such a tumble that for a while Candy wasn’t sure who said what and whose phone was whose. But once Vita was all talked out and was ready to listen, Candy said something that made her think.
‘Where’s the triumph in leaving you for someone like that?’ she said to Vita. ‘Do you see? This should make you feel good. The triumph would be if he’d progressed from you to someone superior. By that I mean more gorgeous – not that that’s possible, darling – someone brighter, more successful. Has he? How does this woman measure up to you, Vita? Think about it. She doesn’t! She’s not the new you. She doesn’t even come close. If she’s the best that man can get – then his barre is set pretty damn low.’
Vita actually took notes, scribbling frantically on the back of an envelope no doubt to transfer some of Candy’s pithiness to Post-its later.
‘And don’t boost his ego by mentioning it to him,’ Candy said. ‘Bloody men – they do love being between two women. Whether they’re being fought over – or fucked.’
‘Candy!’
‘It’s the most clichéd male fantasy, honey,’ Candy said before vaulting onto her high horse. ‘I absolutely guarantee you that the man you meet next will be an improvement on Tim. Do you know why?’ She didn’t wait for Vita to answer. ‘Because you learned from your heartache, while he didn’t. He ignored it. He hasn’t dealt with any issues. The natural scheme of things in this universe of ours dictates that until he does, his life will be flatter, poorer and much worse than it was. Karma, honey. It’s the law of karma.’
Vita did love Candy’s moral indignation, her outrage, her passion – they were her trademark, they were contagious.
‘There are character traits you’ll no longer tolerate, basic moral coda on which you’ll insist,’ Candy was saying. ‘I know Michelle’s said the same and it’s true. You are destined for a much better relationship because all you wanted and worked for was a good relationship in the first place. Meanwhile, look at what shit-for-brains has gone and done for himself – look what he’s settled for.’
My lovely sweary friend, Vita thought. Michelle – sensitive and wise. Candy – a firecracker of identical unwavering support, but expressed at top volume with a potty mouth.
‘I know,’ said Vita, ‘I do really know. I promise you.’
‘Then you need to start acting like it, cupcake,’ Candy said. ‘Which means what he does and who he’s with should hardly dent your thoughts. Certainly, it shouldn’t take up an entire phone call and all my choicest fulminations at – blimey – at almost midnight.’
‘OK.’
‘Vita, you started to take as the norm the way he treated you, the way he behaved. You won’t know what’s hit you when you have the good relationship – the normal relationship – that’s so coming to you.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do. And I’m going to bloody love every moment of saying told-you-so.’
Rick
It was to be an early start on the first Thursday in July – but not that early. On the morning of the trade show, Vita was woken not by the alarm clock – when she reached for it, she saw to her annoyance that there was still half an hour to go – but by a peculiar noise. Very peculiar. Dull but unmistakable thuds, no rhythm, no pattern, just every now and then thud thud thud. Accompanying this was sporadic screeching. Part car, part angry child, part something last heard on a David Attenborough wildlife programme. Both noises kept her paralysed in bed for a while. What the hell was that? And that? Who’s out there? What on earth is going on? Gingerly, she crept to the window, stooping low and peeking out as if expecting to confront some hideous monster direct from Roald Dahl.
Even at that early hour, a fine day was in the making; wisps of coral-coloured clouds were already filtering off a pale blue sky like dreams drifting away in one’s reverie. There was no one out there. The garden was still. Vita straightened a little, craned her neck, tried to see over the tangle of Mr Brewster’s hedge into his garden. Thud. Where was it coming from? There it was again. This time, she looked down to see a small, unripe pear fall to the ground. Then the screeching again, a dreadful noise, irate and threatening. Then silence. She looked up and, staring back at her from the branches of her pear tree, was a most peculiar bird with virulent green plumage. Vita thought, I must be dreaming, you don’t get parrots in Hertfordshire. But high up in the pear tree were two – wait! Three! Four! All of them clashing with the peaceful morning, clashing with the subtle hues of the foliage and the vibrant green of the young pears, clashing with what should be a delicate dawn chorus at this hour, clashing with all that was meant to be natural and normal to a small back garden in the home counties.
Had they seen her? If they had, they didn’t care. If they had, they’d have seen her start to grin, fascinated to see them peck at the unripe pears whilst posturing to each other like rock stars mid-act; looking just as exotic and incongruous as if a band had been perched in the branches. They worked at the pears quite viciously until they fell, then they moved on to another fruit. Well, what a sight! A smorgasbord for parrots! Vita praised the munificence of her very own pear tree as she dressed. She went quietly into the garden but by that time, though still early, the birds had gone. Plundered fruit lay around the ground like delicacies spoilt children had taken just a bite of. Would they come again – and if so, perhaps at just a slightly more civilized hour, please? There were plenty of pears, plenty!
Vita enjoyed trade shows. There were two a year that were essential to attend. Mostly, Tim had gone, justifying that she was a liability because she ordered far too much merchandise purely because she liked chatting to the traders. Then he softened this by saying he was rubbish in the shop. The truth was, he wasn’t rubbish. He just found it boring. He didn’t like customers and he didn’t much like the stuff the shop sold, but that’s why he mastered the trade shows early on – he could select objectively. And he didn’t fall for schmooze partly because it was a tool he used himself to such great advantage. He knew never to buy whilst there but always to show interest, to talk numbers, to take cards and give out his own. He would bring Vita pictures and information, the occasional sample and then he’d sit her down and show her spreadsheets of their stock, their sales, their forecasts. He’d tell her to think about Easter or Christmas or Halloween or Valentine’s. Then Tim would place the orders. He liked hearing the supplier’s surprise – Well! What do you know! That good-looking guy who we spoke to at the show, who wouldn’t commit, whom we swapped cards with? He’s placing an order and a good one at that! This strategy always enabled Tim to secure the lowest unit price.
Double-checking and double-locking, Vita left the house with mixed feelings. She was looking forward to the show – but a text from Tim reminding her not to buy a thing made
her wonder if she should go at all.
‘Stapler.’
Living on your own can make you introverted – yet instead of talking to yourself, you say things out loud.
‘Stapler,’ she said again, going back into the house and delving into kitchen drawers, the shoebox in the cupboard under the stairs on which she’d nicely stencilled Bits ’n’ Bobs. No stapler. And then she wondered if she had a stapler of her own, whether the one she’d been using for the last few years had been Tim’s all along and, as such, would have been in a drawer or box at his place bearing a Post-it note saying LEAVE. Momentarily she thought back to those strange dark days of moving out – how, when she’d come to remove her belongings, she’d read those Post-its as notices hounding her to go, rather than marking the items of his which were to stay.
She locked up again and gave herself a quiet talking-to. All of that was last year, remember, and, after Candy’s talk the other night, Vita decided to perform a mental sidestep any time she felt her mind drift off to time gone by, or Tim Gone – Bye! as she was calling it, emblazoning it on Post-its.
Stapler. She needed a stapler before going to London. She went via the shop and left a note for Jodie who’d be opening up in a couple of hours. It was still early.
Jodie – don’t hesitate to call if there’s a prob. I have borrowed one of the caterpillar staplers – have taken a red one as they’re the least popular. Good luck and enjoy, Vita.
PS: Tim says no discounts for friends and family. Sorry.
* * *
Alexandra Palace; that Victorian pantheon of glass domes and grand halls and giant potted palms, straddling an elevated position with far-reaching views over parkland, over the ladders of streets crawling up and down Haringey like zips, to London beyond. The radio mast, rocket-like, proclaiming this place a summit and, as the plaque attests, an apotheosis of communication, with the BBC’s first public television transmissions made from here in 1936. Vita loved the view. She’d never lived in London, had no desire to and hadn’t spent much time there at all but she’d been to this part a few times and when she stood outside the Palace (she’d heard other people call it Ally Pally but she liked to call it the Palace) and soaked in the view, she felt a surge of excitement. Yonder lies my capital city!
The trade show was humming already. The stands were colourful and varied and at odds with the standardized cubicles provided. Most had bowls of sweets, or free biros or useless fluffy things to give away. The scent of stewed coffee and batches of slightly dried-out croissants permeated. Vita couldn’t remember the last time she’d been at a show. And this one was very large and she was suddenly looking forward to her day very much indeed.
‘The beauty of these – Mouse in a House, Ted in a Bed, Mole in a Hole – is that it’s a collection, of course.’ Rick Edwards looked at Vita levelly. ‘Kids love them – and parents do too, because it makes buying birthday presents for other kids so easy.’
‘I see,’ said Vita, wanting to order loads of each but trying to sound like Tim.
‘Look at this little fellow: Dog in a Clog. Isn’t he a superstar?’
‘Adorable,’ said Vita. And then she cleared her throat and said, ‘Interesting.’
‘I did ask the manufacturer if they’d consider Ants in Pants.’
‘I like that,’ said Vita.
‘I was joking – Mrs?’
‘Vita.’
‘Mrs Vita.’
‘No – Vita – Whitbury. Miss.’
‘Richard Edwards. Rick.’ They shook hands. ‘Here.’ He gave her the small plastic house whose hinged roof revealed an open-plan living area with fixed plastic furniture and a small, removable mouse.
‘Thank you!’ Vita inspected it. ‘I will think about it.’
‘Oh, come on,’ Rick said, ‘you love it! How many can I put you down for? Buy at the show and they’ll be in your shop by the weekend. If you’re not reordering by early next week, I’ll give you your next batch at fifty per cent off.’
This made a lot of sense to Vita. She thought, This is the way that Tim does business, surely. She felt slightly flushed, she’d only been in the show for an hour or so and had taken lots of cards and information, using her stapler often.
‘Miss Vita,’ Rick said sternly, ‘you look concerned.’
‘I should pass this by my – business partner.’
‘Bring them over!’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Not here?’ Rick baulked and Vita suddenly thought how Tim was really more of an investor than a partner.
She looked at Rick, she liked his open smile, his dark eyes which were looking at her enquiringly. She liked the way he had a Mole in a Hole in one hand, and a Ted in a Bed in the other. ‘OK,’ she said.
‘Good girl,’ he said and she liked that, she liked it because actually, he looked a fair bit younger than her. He rattled off unit prices and discount bundles and she nodded carefully and tried to do mental maths.
‘I’ll start with ten of each.’
Rick shook his head. ‘That won’t see you through Saturday.’
She wasn’t sure what increments she should advance with. ‘Twenty?’
‘Good.’
‘But I want a good price.’
‘It’s an excellent price,’ said Rick, ‘with my special guarantee too.’
‘I wanted a better price still,’ said Vita, getting into a stride she didn’t know she had. ‘Times are hard – pocket money is frozen.’
Rick laughed loudly. ‘Miss Vita – you’re a horror. OK.’ He thought about it. ‘I’ll give you twenty-five of each. How’s that.’
‘That is – acceptable.’ It was difficult for Vita not to laugh at herself and the incongruous sound of her chosen words and businesslike tone.
‘Lovely,’ Rick was saying, filling out an order form. ‘Sign.’
She signed. And only then did she read back through the order. Yes. Yes. Yes. He’d even written down his guarantee. And under that, she suddenly saw he’d written something else. ‘Payment on ordering. Delivery conditional on drinks after the show this evening.’ She read it again.
‘I can pay now,’ she said, with the company cheque book in her hand. ‘I can’t do the drinks, though. I’m not staying over.’
‘I can’t deliver, then.’
She was startled but he was smiling that unnerving, open, attractive smile. Lovely teeth. ‘I have to get back tonight.’
‘Husband?’
‘No – but—’
‘Boyf?’
‘No. No. It’s just—’
‘Cat? Dog? Mouse in your house?’
‘No! But—’
‘But?’
‘I hadn’t planned to.’
He looked at the shop address. ‘You’re hardly the back of beyond,’ he said. ‘It’ll be fun! Do it! It’s a two-day show! Just open up later tomorrow.’
‘I could call Jodie –’
Rick hadn’t a clue who Jodie was. ‘Great idea! Call Jodie.’
And Vita stood and let a barrage of thoughts scramble around. A drink. A night out. Freedom. Something new. Handsome boy with lovely teeth. Better discounts. And perhaps – just perhaps – fun.
‘I’ll phone Jodie,’ she said.
Rick nodded. There was a lovely pub in Muswell Hill that he knew. He’d take her there, perhaps. They’d start off at the exhibitors’ post-show drinks, and then end up at the John Baird, a pleasant stroll away in Muswell Hill. And then – well. Whatever. The drink would be nice – he liked her, she was pretty in a slightly careless way, her fringe a little too long, her top just verging on old enough to have gone a little shapeless but still promising nice breasts beneath, cropped jeans that were cool, perhaps a little incongruous for the show but still made her bum look good, sandals that would have looked better if she’d painted her toenails. But it was all natural, there seemed no artifice, no act at all and he liked that. He never really understood the attraction of power-dressed women. And of all the women who’d come to hi
s stand that morning, Vita was the youngest by at least two decades.
She wasn’t quite sure how to slope away. ‘Bye and thanks.’
‘I’ll meet you in the main entrance at six – that’s where the drinks are.’
She nodded.
‘Phone Jodie,’ he said.
‘I’m going to.’
She did. Jodie was fine about it. And then Vita wondered if she should tell Tim. And then she thought why should she? And then she remembered the times when he’d spontaneously decided to stay over after some show or some meeting and how his phone would be off, off all evening and the following morning, how he’d look bleary and slightly self-conscious when he returned. A lingering whiff of stale booze. Times gone by she’d dwell and fret but right now, she’s sidestepping the memory, chanting, Tim Gone – Bye! as she wanders from stand to stand.
At lunch-time, she took a walk to Muswell Hill, buying a small travel pack from Boots, wondering what to do about a room. And then she felt embarrassed, ridiculous. What if the drinks were boring? What if she felt uncomfortable? What if he forgot? What if he didn’t really mean it? What if, actually, Rick was a prick with all this Ted in a Bed stuff. And talking of ants in pants – she hadn’t a spare pair on her. Was there somewhere in Muswell Hill she could buy pants? The charming high street with its boutiques and organic food stores and artisan bakeries and aspirational homewares stores – would she be able to find simple white knickers?
No. Stop it.
She turned her gaze downwards and walked on, looking at the pavement, having to suddenly skirt around a man lying prostrate who turned out not to be drunk but to be painting tiny jewel-like designs on the splodges of old, dried-out chewing gum. How very Muswell Hill. How very un-Wynford. The shops, the pedestrians, the cars, the buggies, the kids in their bedecked Crocs – everything rather alarmingly hip and gorgeous. These weren’t just yummy mummies – these folk were direct from the pages of the Boden catalogue. In comparison, Vita, provincial at best, downright dowdy at worst. Suddenly she felt tipped right out onto the ledge of her comfort zone.