by Maeve Haran
‘I’m thirty-eight, Mum. It’s up to me whether I’m involved with Hal.’
Stella ignored her daughter’s angry tone. ‘But not with my assistance.’ It was really tough, but she had to help Emma see what was at stake. ‘I’m sorry, darling, you know I love you, but I can’t do it. I’m afraid you’d better take Ruby home.’
Lifting Ruby off Stella’s shoulder and angrily grabbing her car seat with the other hand, Emma stalked out.
Stella was almost in tears when her mobile began to ring. She hated having to give her daughter an ultimatum like this.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Gran, it’s Izzy. Gran, check your phone. The French bulldog’s a star! Thousands of people have already shared it!’
‘Oh great,’ Stella murmured crossly. ‘That’s all I need.’ Now the owner would go absolutely berserk.
She’d behaved badly with Duncan Miller, antagonized her only child and offended a paying customer.
All told, what a wonderful day it had been.
Nine
————
When Duncan arrived in her garden he was surprised to find that Stella, still angry with herself over their last conversation, treated him with a brusqueness that bordered on hostility.
‘Right. What do you need to know?’ She raced straight on without waiting for him to answer. ‘The garden is an acre. We have had fundraising parties here before a couple of times, though nothing with musicians that needed to plug anything in, just string quartets, that sort of thing.’
‘Classy as opposed to noisy, you mean?’
‘We usually put up one of those marquees like a sail that stay open at one end. They’re cheaper and you can fit more people in.’
‘Do you think we need a marquee? More expense for you out of your fundraising?’
‘You’ve been in California too long. Even in summer it may pour with rain.’
‘That didn’t stop them at Woodstock.’ His grin was surprisingly appealing in an essentially serious man, but Stella was not going to respond to it.
‘Yes, well, Camley’s hardly Woodstock.’
‘What time do you want the great man to come on?’
‘About two would be perfect. Oh God, we haven’t even thought about how to organize it yet.’
‘Treat it like any concert. Decide how many you can accommodate and only sell that many tickets. You can throw in raffles and auctions, if you want to make more money.’ He looked around the garden assessing where lights and speakers would go. ‘Is there electricity in your studio?’
‘Yes. I often paint there all day.’
‘Can I see?’
She led him towards the studio, feeling suddenly flustered because they kept a large bed in there for occasional guests who didn’t fit into the house. How ridiculous of her. She pushed the door open. There was a scrabbling sound inside. ‘Oh my God. I hope it’s not that fox at it again.’ She couldn’t bring herself to look.
When she opened her eyes Duncan was smiling. ‘Not unless he likes to do it in a double bed.’
The back door of the studio was open and Jesse and Dora were halfway across the lawn. Jesse was trying to say sorry in sign language.
‘Oh my God, he’s only sixteen!’
‘You were only two years older when we first met,’ he said, his eyes on her face.
Stella couldn’t admit that she’d hardly noticed him then, so overshadowed had he been by his glamorous friend Cameron. Things had changed when she’d got to know him better, and begun to appreciate the quiet wit behind his social ineptness, but that wasn’t a quality eighteen-year-olds tended to fall for. ‘There’s all the difference in the world between sixteen and eighteen,’ she insisted, her sudden embarrassment making her tone harder than she’d intended.
‘She looked confident enough to be in charge, by the look of it. I’d say he was in safe hands.’
‘That is such a sexist thing to say,’ Stella burst out angrily. ‘The woman as temptress!’
‘I didn’t mean that women were temptresses at all,’ Duncan replied calmly. It made Stella furious that he seemed to think the whole thing was simply funny. ‘I just meant that this girl seems very cool and sophisticated. I would certainly have welcomed that at sixteen. Sex is terrifying at his age. Boys are supposed to know what to do, yet they haven’t the slightest idea. Girls are these remote terrifying beings, far more together than boys are. A girl has a mental age at least two years ahead of a boy and yet he has to understand the mysteries of giving her pleasure!’
Stella stared, taken aback by the sudden passion in his voice. Was he talking about her? Their encounter came back to her in all its excruciating detail.
‘Stella . . .’ he began and she knew he was going to mention that occasion so long ago. Suddenly she felt eighteen again, and just as embarrassed and shy.
Deliberately she steered the conversation to safer waters. ‘So it’s all right for us to announce the concert and start selling tickets?’
‘Certainly.’ He seemed amused that she needed to change the subject so abruptly. ‘What are you calling it?’
‘We thought Rock for Regeneration. Actually it was the headline in the Evening Standard.’
‘Perfect. We will need to come and do a sound check on the day. We don’t want to make Cameron look like a prat. Though he does seem quite capable of doing it by himself.’
‘Thanks a lot then, Duncan. We really are grateful.’
‘Think nothing of it.’ Duncan had clearly taken a cue from her sudden brisk manner. ‘Cameron and I couldn’t get out of Camley quick enough. Time we came back and paid our dues.’
She saw him back through the garden. ‘Good luck with the tour.’
‘Thanks, and thanks again for your help. I hope we don’t need to call you again.’
It was only when he’d gone that she realized she hadn’t even offered him the cup of tea she’d promised.
When Stella switched on her phone, she found six messages from the owner of Millie, the French bulldog. Oh God, she was going to give the man his money back. When you got your dog painted, particularly if it was wearing socks to protect your white carpets, you didn’t expect to find it going viral on YouTube or whatever it was. The final message was from Jesse. It read: So sorry, Gran, didn’t mean that to happen. Will call later.
She decided it might be more politic to actually visit the dog’s owner rather than ring. She stopped and picked up a placatory bottle of fizz on the way. He lived in a rather faceless modern block on the outskirts of Croydon.
Stella rang the bell twice and was about to go away, feeling relieved, which was stupid as the whole point of coming had been to apologize in person. Stella Ainsworth, you wimp, she was just telling herself when the door opened.
‘Stella!’ the beautiful young man who owned Millie almost shrieked. ‘You got my messages, then?’
Stella held out the sparkling wine. ‘Yes, that’s why I came. To apologize.’
‘But Millie’s a star! All my friends are getting socks for their dogs and I even got a tweet from a Swedish manufacturer who wants to feature her in their ad campaign!’
‘You’re not annoyed, then?’
‘No, I’m absolutely thrilled. Let’s open the champagne now!’ They went into his flat which was almost entirely white apart from the eye-popping painting of Millie in pride of place in the centre of the wall. ‘Who needs a feature wall? I’m featuring Millie!’
And Millie did indeed look very pleased with herself, lying on the taupe leather sofa with her head on a cushion.
‘Isn’t she priceless?’ demanded the delighted owner. ‘You’d think she knew she was a star! She’s not really allowed on the sofa but I thought I’d make an exception. Millie, darling, you’re princess for a day!’
The message from Jesse was harder to resolve. What did the modern grandmother do in these circumstances? Almost being caught in the act by your own gran would probably put the brakes on and sixteen, after all, was hardly a child. The o
nly real worry was that she hadn’t seen any sign of a condom, but then maybe it hadn’t gone that far. Dora seemed such a confident girl that she probably carried her own. In Stella’s youth, that magical decade post-Pill and pre-Aids, they’d thought condoms horrid slippery things. Now she knew they were de rigueur. How difficult modern sexual etiquette had become.
She wouldn’t mention it to Emma, she decided. Her life seemed to have enough complications already.
Without the Airstream in the back garden, or any emergency administration of fluids, life could seem rather flat and Stella was grateful for the launch of the vintage market tomorrow.
When she got home, Matthew was excitedly waving an official-looking letter at her. ‘It’s from the council! They’re so pleased with what we’re doing that they’re offering a grant if we can regenerate some cheap office space in the area as well.’
‘Where on earth are we going to find office space?’ Stella read the letter through, remembering the girl who had set up her desk in a self-storage pod because it was the only place she could find. ‘Maybe the council should just approach Big Yellow Storage.’ She noticed that Matthew was putting on his coat. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘Down to the King’s Arms. Fabia wants to check it out for these tango lessons she’s supposed to give.’
‘Right.’ There were a million things she ought to be doing but she couldn’t miss Fabia’s arrival at their unappealing hostelry. ‘I’ll come along with you. We need to make sure they’ve ordered enough hot dogs anyway.’
Matthew didn’t point out that she could just as easily achieve this by phone.
Through the gloom of the public bar, which seemed tobacco-stained even though smoking had been banned for almost ten years, they discerned that the landlord had not exactly achieved a Grand Design or even a quick makeover. The pub looked much the same.
Debora, wearing her usual calm smile and an enormous flowery tent dress, emerged from the gloom looking remarkably cheerful. ‘Don’t despair,’ she whispered, ‘it’s much better outside. He’s promised to put up the bunting and install half an oil drum filled with charcoal. He says the other half of the drum is played by his friend’s steel band and they’ll be coming too. So as long as we make sure the customers only go in the garden and not the pub it should be OK.’
Debora, to their amazement, had managed to get hold of a glass of white wine. ‘It isn’t too bad, actually. I should grab the bottle. It may be the only one they have.’
‘Thank you so much for all your hard work.’
‘Actually, I’m really enjoying it. You’d be surprised how dull life can be when Cameron’s behaving himself. There’s very little for me to do.’
‘Have you seen Fabia?’ Matthew peered through the gloom.
‘Gone to put her shoes on in the Ladies. I imagine it’s not an experience she’s used to. It’ll be freezing cold, have a ten-watt bulb and no toilet roll. Ah, here she comes! I told you those shoes wouldn’t be flatties!’
Fabia, in a slinky black dress in some expensively clingy material, a flower in her hair, tottered towards them in red shoes with extremely high heels and an ankle strap.
‘OK.’ She snapped her fingers and, to general amazement, the music came on. ‘I will start with Matthew.’
‘Lucky man,’ breathed Debora.
But before the show began they were treated to a potted history of the dance, whether they liked it or not. ‘Tango from Argentina must not be confused with the Flamenco or, God forbid,’ she stared at Stella and Debora as if they were exactly the kind of cultural lightweights who would make this mistake, ‘that stupid Apache dance where the man flings the woman all over the room. Tango is subtle. Tango is erotic.’
She took Matthew’s hand and placed it firmly on the middle of her back. She put hers in the same position on his, then placed her hand in his. ‘What makes tango the dance of seduction is that the man has the woman completely in his power. It is his hand on her back that impels her, gives her no choice but to follow him.’
Matthew, Stella recognized, was looking frankly alarmed. The KA regulars, clutching their unerotic pints, stared stolidly at their fellow man in this, his hour of potential humiliation. Fortunately for all concerned, Fabia had adopted the man’s role for the purposes of demonstration.
Slowly they progressed across the pub floor. Tango seemed to be a kind of quickstep, but with your feet sliding sexily as you moved, and your movements slower than in conventional ballroom dancing. ‘Not sure they’d win on Strictly,’ Stella whispered.
‘Thank God that’s over,’ Matthew confided as the music finally stopped. ‘What I need is a pint of Sheepshagger PDQ.’
‘I thought you were doing very well at being subtly erotic,’ Debora congratulated.
‘Thank you, Debora. I do my best.’ Matthew raised his Sheepshagger.
They all sat down in a corner of the pub, feeling like the lady mayoress who’d arrived to open a bazaar.
‘Thanks so much, Fabia.’ Stella decided some PR was in order. ‘We’ll knock up a banner and hang it up outside the pub. The idea is that the cost of the lessons will go towards the Regeneration fund; that way we can charge much more than usual.’
A thought struck Fabia. ‘What if nobody wants a lesson?’
‘Matthew will, won’t you, Matthew? Especially as you’ve shown him some steps. And Bernie. And I’m sure we can persuade my son-in-law Stuart onto the floor. Plus with your lovely Roxy tweeting about it I’m sure hundreds of people will show up for the market and be dying to learn the tango!’
This, Stella realized, was a faux pas. Fabia did not like to be upstaged by her daughter. ‘All this technology,’ Fabia announced grandly. ‘It is not real life! They look at their screens all the time and do not see the grandeur of nature!’ She swept her arms operatically to embrace her surroundings.
Les arrived at that moment with a plate of hot dogs for them to sample.
‘Mustard, ketchup or mayo?’ he offered them proudly.
Fabia took a bite and spat it out theatrically. ‘But what is in this disgusting travesty of a meat product?’
‘She’s from Argentina,’ Stella whispered to Les in mitigation of this harsh pronouncement. ‘They take their meat very seriously.’
‘I dunno,’ Les began to look hunted. ‘It’s a frankfurter.’
‘You cannot give this abomination to people who pay to come to your local market!’ Fabia announced grandly.
‘What do you propose to give them instead?’ Debora enquired, trying not to grin.
‘Parillada!’ Fabia announced with a flourish.
‘Eh?’ Les shook his head dubiously. ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’
‘A proper Argentine barbecue. Beef, pork, ribs, blood sausage. And I will make pancakes filled with dulce de leche for the sweet tooth!’
‘What’s dulce de whatever it was?’ Les asked, looking like the survivor of a train crash.
‘I think it’s a bit like condensed milk,’ Stella explained. She’d seen some ice cream made of it in Waitrose. ‘You’ll do all this, plus the tango lessons?’
‘This is nothing.’ Fabia nodded modestly. ‘In Argentina the gauchos leave their women behind on the estancia, but not de Rosza women! We go with them into the pampas and milk the cows and cook the food whether they like it or not!’
‘Not in those shoes, you wouldn’t,’ Debora murmured under her breath, beginning to feel sorry for the de Rosza men.
‘We are used to hardship!’ Fabia announced, clearly relishing the role of saviour of their sad little venture. ‘I will talk to the Argentine meat board. I did some dancing for them. I am sure they will remember me.’
‘So am I,’ confided Stella to Debora.
‘By tomorrow? It’s very kind of you, Fabia. Maybe for next week.’
‘Tomorrow is long enough,’ Fabia announced, heading for the Ladies to change out of her tango shoes. ‘The meat market opens very early.’
‘I must admit,’ Stella c
onceded with dawning admiration, ‘Fabia’s quite something, isn’t she?’
‘I know,’ agreed Suze. ‘All that energy. She’d have been an exhausting groupie. Probably made them try every position in the Kama Sutra. I wonder why she’s bothering with us?’
‘Same reason as Debora, maybe. Volunteering makes you feel good. Surveys prove it.’
‘Wait for this, though. She told Debora she wants to take on one of the empty shops! She’s always wanted to open a retro emporium, apparently, and always been too busy travelling the world!’
‘Why would someone like Fabia want to open a shop in Camley?’
‘Because it’s free! According to Debora she’s flat broke.’
‘But wouldn’t she have to buy stock and all that?’
‘She’s intending to sell her own clothes. She’s got quite a collection.’
‘I can well imagine. Not that there’s much of a market for Arctic fox in the outer boroughs.’
‘She says she’s going to make this little corner the new Primrose Hill!’
‘By the way, girls, where do you want me to put this?’ Debora brandished a huge sign proclaiming VINTAGE MARKET THIS WAY. ‘I hate to be sexist but we need a man and a ladder to put this up, preferably one that’s handy with a screwdriver.’
‘I wonder what my nephew Jesse’s up to? Apart from misbehaving with girls and not revising for his AS’s? I’ll see if we can get him down here for a bit. He got an A star in woodwork. His parents weren’t impressed, poor lad. He got a C in everything else.’
Jesse was only too happy to escape revision for an hour or two and was soon merrily hanging the vintage market banner according to Debora’s demanding directions. He whispered an apology to Stella about the other day and begged her not to tell his mother.
‘How’s the tour going?’ he enquired as he climbed up the ladder.
‘Oh, fine. Cardiff loves him,’ Debora replied, handing him the sign. ‘They’ve declared him an honorary Welshman and given him the key to the city. I just hope the key doesn’t open too many pubs.’