The Not So Perfect Plan to Save Friendship House: An uplifting romantic comedy

by Lilly Bartlett

  ‘June sends her regrets,’ I tell everyone. ‘She’s out with Callum.’

  ‘He’s her Mr Bingley!’ Laney says with a sigh. She’s definitely the most romantic one here.

  ‘They’re hot and heavy now,’ Sophie says. ‘Good for her. I wouldn’t mind a little of that.’

  ‘Sophie!’ says Laney.

  ‘What? I might be seventy-eight, but there’s still some life in me. Have you seen him? Besides, Laney, you’re younger than me. You might be in with a chance there.’

  ‘As if!’ Laney laughs.

  There’s a core group of six of us: me, June, Nick, Dot, Laney and Sophie. But everyone is welcome and others do come and go, depending on what we’re reading. It was standing-room only when we did Fifty Shades of Grey. If you want to be mortified, try talking erotica with women old enough to be your nan.

  ‘Now we’re all here,’ Dot says, ‘and welcome to Tamsyn. Let’s make a start.’ She perches her reading glasses on the end of her nose and opens her book. She doesn’t read from it, though. It’s all in her head. ‘“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”’

  ‘Ha, show me one,’ Tamsyn says. That gets a laugh from the others, but I see the little gold digger for what she is. Not that Nick is minted. Far from it, judging by what June says he makes.

  It’s her grandfather she’s got the shovel out for. Every time she sees him, she acts like she’s his best friend. It’s disgusting. Terence is horrid, but I have to give him credit in one respect. He doesn’t suffer fools. And he thinks Tamsyn is a fool. I could almost like him for that.

  ‘Does that mean the story’s not as relevant today?’ Dot asks.

  ‘It’s very relevant,’ I say, thinking of Mum. She wasn’t silly or weak like Mrs Bennett, but the social climbing? Lizzy’s mum was an amateur by comparison. ‘Loads of people still think that way. Maybe they’re not as obvious about it, but it’s still there. Look at Millionaire Matchmaker, or The Bachelor. They’re always about super successful, rich men who women have to compete for. It’s depressing.’

  ‘’Twas ever thus,’ comes the voice from the doorway. We all look over to see Maggie standing there. ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’

  Laney goes pale. ‘Oh, my. Oh. I’m so sorry. I forgot. I asked Maggie to come.’ She rushes over to push another chair into the circle. ‘Here, Maggie, come sit by me.’

  We’re all trying not to stare at her. Nothing odd to see here, except that she’s lived with us for two years and never willingly come downstairs before. How did Laney do that?

  She’s sitting straight up on the edge of her chair, not slouching like the rest of us. Her long silk cardigan has a gold diamond pattern on it and it flows over her wide-legged trousers to her knees. She’s not got the brightest outfit in the room, though. Sophie holds that title tonight, in her pink and red skirt with purple legwarmers. But there’s no doubt that Maggie’s is the most commanding presence.

  It’s not until I remember the soup incident that I look over to see Tamsyn giving her the evil eye. Maggie catches her gaze and holds it till Tamsyn looks away. Ha.

  Dot leads the questions. This is the part I like most. I always come away from book club buzzing with thoughts. ‘Lizzy shows herself to be against these ideas early on. What do we think of her?’

  ‘Which one is Lizzy?’ Tamsyn asks.

  ‘She’s the main character,’ I say. For God’s sake. Why is she even here? But I know the answer. He’s sitting right beside me.

  ‘Oh, right, her. I love her! She’s such a kick-arse, isn’t she?’

  I have to bite down my sigh. I assumed she’d spout some total nonsense for me to wholeheartedly disagree with. ‘Just think how ahead of her time Jane Austen was,’ I concede. ‘She was going against society two hundred years ago to say that women had a raw deal.’

  Tamsyn is nodding. ‘She’s great. She does those aristocratic characters so well. Like Anna Karenina.’

  There’s an embarrassed silence.

  ‘Anna Karenina!’ splutters Maggie.

  ‘That wasn’t Jane Austen,’ Dot says gently. ‘Leo Tolstoy wrote it.’

  ‘Who cares who wrote it?’ Tamsyn says. ‘Keira was amazing.’

  It takes me a second to catch on. ‘Are you talking about the film?’

  Maggie’s mouth drops open as she reaches for her flower brooch.

  But Tamsyn’s not reading the room very well. ‘Film, book, it’s the same thing, really. It’s the story that matters, right?’

  ‘Well, no, not really!’ I say. ‘That’s why this is a book club, Tamsyn, not a film club, or a podcast club or a whatever-you-want club!’

  ‘Don’t have a stroke, Phoebe. I know it’s a book club. All I’m saying is that the medium’s not as important as the story. Films bring them to millions more people than the book ever did. And to people who’d never read the book, so wouldn’t know the story otherwise. Isn’t that a good thing?’

  Nick is nodding.

  Yes, fine, she might be right. I could still punch him for agreeing with her.

  Tamsyn settles down after that. Maggie doesn’t say another word, even when the debate gets heated over whether Darcy is meant to be wholly unlikeable from the start. Personally, he appeals to me even at the beginning, but clearly my taste in blokes is questionable.

  ‘Nick?’ Tamsyn asks as we finish the meeting. I can tell what’s coming from her wheedling tone. ‘Could I have a ride home again? Please? I’ll make it worth your while.’ It’s all I can do not to mimic her. Meh-meh-meh-meh-meh-meh.

  ‘Sure, no problem,’ says Nick. He can hardly keep the excitement out of his voice as she smiles her Isla Fisher smile. That smile has completely ruined Wedding Crashers for me.

  I can tell myself a million times that this is nothing more than him being a calculating career climber, sucking up to Tamsyn because of who her father is. I have told myself that every day since she started here. He probably is a sucking-up calculating career climber, and that’s bad enough. Though it’s no secret. He told me when he first started that he’d do anything to prove himself in his job. He wasn’t joking. That’s not an attractive trait, but there you go. It’s easy enough to overlook when he’s got so much else that I love. Loved.

  This isn’t only about trying to get ahead at work, though, and the sooner I accept that, the better off I’ll be. How many more ways do I need to be smacked in the face with the obvious? Must they actually have sex in front of me?

  When the new residents start arriving later in the week, it’s fair to say that their families look a lot happier about it than the men do. Aside from feeling as welcome as a cold sore here, they’re having to give up whatever independence they had. They’re now officially in care. That’s got to sting.

  Max wouldn’t miss the chance to pretend he’s Lord Muck. He’s been in the office annoying June since before she even had her tea this morning. We’ve got three arrivals today, two more tomorrow and the rest over the weekend.

  Max is a great one for swooping in when there’s any whiff of glory to snatch. Even though it has been June who’s done all the work, reviewing the applications, answering a million questions to put the families’ minds at ease and sorting out the rooms.

  If anything goes wrong, Max’ll disappear just as fast. Which is why Nick and I are waiting with June for the first man to arrive. She needs the support.

  ‘We missed you at book club,’ Nick tells June. ‘But it sounds like you had more exciting plans. When do I get to meet your Mr Bingley?’

  I answer her confused look. ‘We christened Callum Mr Bingley at book club.’

  ‘He was the nice one, right?’ she says. Then she smiles. ‘That’s all right, then. I’ll see what I can arrange. Why, Nick, do you want to inspect him?’

  Nick laughs. ‘Of course, why else? I want to make sure his intentions are honourable.’

  ‘I’m more of a fan of his dishonourable intentions,’ she says. That
makes Nick squirm.

  ‘What’s up with Sophie?’ I murmur to June as the first new resident’s car pulls up in the drive. Dot and Laney are talking quietly together, while Sophie stands a bit apart from them. I can’t help noticing that she’s not in her usual exercise top and legwarmers. She looks like she’s dressed to meet the Queen later for tea. Plus, her face looks different. She’s well-powdered as usual. For a second, I think it’s because her deep brown eyes are fringed with mascara, but it’s because she’s not wearing her glasses.

  ‘That’s what we all want to know,’ June whispers back. ‘I’ve got my suspicions.’

  So do I. Sophie looks like she’s taken a leaf out of the Pride and Prejudice playbook on how to catch a husband.

  The man who sat through Rosemary’s photo collection appears at the door. His daughter has a grin plastered to her face, and he manages a fleeting smile before his expression settles back into one of worry. Maybe he’s wondering where Rosemary is. He’s safe for the moment. She’s running the art group in the garden. The flowers in the borders are looking a little worse for wear now that it’s the end of the summer, but she still finds enough to paint.

  ‘Nick!’ Max snaps. ‘Don’t let them stand there with their bags. Help them. June, will you please show Mr Campbell to his room?’

  Max’s order propels Nick towards the Campbells to take the suitcases.

  ‘We’ve also got a few small pieces of furniture, and some books, in the car,’ the woman says. ‘You did say that’s all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ June says. ‘Absolutely. We want all our residents to feel like their room is their home. It is their home. With the bonus of having friends under the same roof and three meals a day that they don’t have to cook.’ When she smiles at Mr Campbell, his smile back is real, and grateful.

  ‘I’ll be happy to help you move in,’ Nick tells Mr Campbell. ‘Just let me know and I can move the furniture, help you unpack, whatever you want.’

  So Nick’s now the manservant around here too.

  But Max isn’t pleased with Nick’s offer. ‘This is a private family moment,’ Max says. ‘Leave them to it. I’m sorry,’ he says to the Campbells, as if Nick’s not standing right there. ‘He shouldn’t be overstepping like that.’

  ‘Oh… okay,’ says Nick. ‘I was just trying to help.’ He looks like a lost little boy.

  Mr Campbell picks up the smaller case.

  ‘Nick! Help the man with his case!’

  ‘But you said not to move them in.’

  ‘Bring their cases up, Nick. Don’t barge in on private family things.’

  My heart goes out to him as he wrestles Mr Campbell’s suitcases into the tiny lift and June takes them to his new room.

  ‘See? That wasn’t so bad,’ I say to Laney, Dot and Sophie when Max has gone back to the office. ‘I’m sure Mr Campbell will fit in well once he gets used to being here.’

  Dot freezes me with her look. ‘Phoebe. If we wanted to live with men, we wouldn't be here.’

  Laney nods but, I can’t help noticing, Sophie keeps still.

  Chapter 14

  We always knew this would be a hard weekend for Dad. There’s the double whammy of Dad’s and Mum’s birthdays three days apart. That used to seem like a nice, easy stroke of luck. One weekend visit, one party and, if I asked Mum what she wanted for the house, one present for them both. She always did the planning for their party, and Dad always claimed it was over the top and unnecessary. Though I suspect he loved it because it made Mum so happy to stun and amaze their friends.

  I’m not saying they didn’t have fun. Only that that wasn’t the point. As Ms Austen said: ‘For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?’ Although Mum never tolerated being the sport. She only liked to do the laughing.

  Dad definitely doesn’t want anything social this year. That might be because he’d be sad to have a party without Mum, or maybe it doesn’t seem that long since she died (though it has been nearly six months). It’s probably a little of both.

  Will is already in the great room when I arrive. Miracle of miracles, my brother has found time to spare in his diary of ultra-important other things to do. ‘Hi,’ I say, giving him a quick hug. He’s still in his suit, but he’s undone his tie.

  He’s reading something on his phone. ‘Hi yourself. Did you get Dad a present?’

  ‘You can sign the card. Give me twenty-five quid. It’s that beer-brewing kit he’s wanted, by the way.’

  He hands me £30. I’m not giving him change. Finder’s fee. I take the card out of my bag. Otherwise he’ll forget to sign it. Not that Dad’ll think it’s really from both of us. He knows Will as well as I do. ‘Sign it before dinner. Did you ring him?’

  ‘When?’

  I turn on the oven and unload the cool bag. All the ingredients to cook Dad’s favourite meal: chicken parmesan with Hasselback potatoes and mac and cheese. It’s a cheesy carb overload, but he loves it.

  ‘Today?’ I say. ‘For his birthday?’

  ‘I’m here today,’ he says. ‘You did, of course, being perfect.’

  ‘That’s Ms Perfect to you.’ He ignores me. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Garden,’ Will says, not looking up. What is it with people and their phones? I may as well be talking to Tamsyn. Except I know he’s reading work emails. It’s what he does every waking second that he’s not actually at work. When Tamsyn ignores me she’s probably snapchatting and putting big-eyed filters on her selfies.

  The long end-of-summer days mean we can eat outside on the patio furniture. It was Mum’s birthday present to Dad last year, so it’s fitting.

  I know Dad appreciates having us here. Otherwise he’d have to find friends to go out with, or stay home where he might get gloomy. Not that he’d ever admit anything emotional like that.

  He scoops up the last bit of mac and cheese from his plate. ‘That was delicious, Phoebe, thank you.’ Then he stares out across the garden, scanning the borders and the grass and the pool. His expression is full of regret.

  Of course, he must be sad, even with us here to distract him. Children aren’t a substitute for an absent spouse. And Mum was larger than life. She’ll have made a big hole to fill. Maybe he’s wishing he’d had more time with her, or said some things he never got the chance to say. He probably misses the mundane nothings that we take for granted in a relationship, and even the stuff that drove him mad. I miss those things too, and I didn’t live with Mum full-time. Sometimes the longing to see her again hits me randomly and has nothing to do with whatever I’m doing. Like when I’m brushing my teeth.

  I reach over the table to squeeze his arm. ‘What is it, Dad?’

  He sighs. ‘I’ll need to close the bloody pool soon.’

  That’s what he’s thinking? That draining the swimming pool is a real bugger of a job? He’s not pining for the way he felt this time last year when he and Mum shared their birthday party, or wistful over how she had wrapped the ten-seater table and chair set in about a dozen rolls of birthday paper, with a giant yellow ribbon like they put on cars that get raffled off, and got so excited for him to see his gift. He’s not even thinking how nice it is to have his children with him.

  ‘Do you ever swim in it?’ Will asks. They’re cut from the same stiff, scratchy cloth, my brother and Dad.

  ‘No,’ Dad says, ‘but your mother did. Valerie comes over sometimes to use it now. How’s work?’ He directs his question at Will. I tell myself that it’s because Will doesn’t talk to Dad as often as I do. Not that he’s more interested in Will’s answer than mine.

  As Will tells Dad all about his latest win – yes, he does talk like a wanker – I’m suddenly hit by such a wave of sadness that it takes my breath away. Mum should be here. She was only fifty-eight. Everyone at the home is older than that and they’ve all managed to stay alive. It’s not fair. Someone like Barb Stockton shouldn’t be dead. She had too much to do. People relied on her. She was too important.
r />   Let it be someone else’s mum.

  ‘Help me clear up the dishes,’ I say to Will. ‘We’ll be back in a minute, Dad.’ His birthday cake’s inside. ‘Will can make us tea.’

  He follows me back into the house. ‘I’m worried about Dad,’ I say when he closes the French door. ‘I can’t tell how happy or unhappy he is. Can you?’

  Will shrugs. ‘He’s just Dad. I’m sure he’s okay.’ He rinses the plates for the dishwasher while I get the cake out. ‘Mum was the one with the feelings, not Dad. If there was something really wrong, you’d know. You talk to him all the time.’

  ‘You should ring him more,’ I say. It’s a touchy subject, but when am I going to get him face-to-face again? Maybe Christmas. ‘I’m not saying you should be ringing him every day, but more than now.’ Then I play my trump card. ‘You know Mum would want you to.’

  ‘Oh, sod your guilt trip, Phoebe,’ he says. I sometimes forget that he’s no amateur in this. He grew up with Mum too. ‘I don’t have all the free time that you do. You should try working fourteen-hour days and then see how much you feel like chatting on the phone.’

  ‘You’re working too hard, then,’ I say. ‘The world won’t stop spinning if you take five minutes to ring your father.’

  Will shakes his head. That’s when I notice he needs a haircut. I can’t remember the last time he didn’t have it shorn every few weeks. He’s very particular about looking professional in his office. Luckily, I don’t have an office. June trims my ends about every six months with the kitchen scissors. ‘I’m not working hard enough, Phoebes.’ His jaw clenches as he says this. ‘Things aren’t great at work.’

  ‘But what about all your wins?’

  ‘They’re more of a draw, at best. It’ll probably be fine. We just need one or two things to come in by the end of the year. But it means everyone’s working like mad, so I’m not going to take my foot off the pedal now. Don’t say anything to Dad.’

  ‘I won’t. Let me know if you need anything, okay?’ Though I’m not sure that knowing how to make the perfect white sauce is as useful in banking as you might think.