by Jill Mansell
‘Darling, aren’t you in a hurry to leave?’
The moment she said it, Miranda perked up. As she bent to give Florence a hug, she whispered, ‘Cheer up, soon be over.’
Verity pointedly looked away as Miranda’s abbreviated pink and white polka-dotted skirt rode up her smooth brown thighs.
‘I can see your pants,’ Jason crowed.
‘Have a good time.’ Fondly, Florence patted her arm. ‘Miranda’s found herself a nice young man,’ she explained to Verity and Bruce when the door had closed behind her.
Verity, who disapproved mightily of Miranda’s indecently short skirts and iridescent highlights, said coolly, ‘Has she indeed? And what color is his hair…mauve?’
***
Chloe hated it when her mother was right and she was wrong, but this time there was no getting away from it.
No matter how hard she tried to juggle the figures, they simply wouldn’t balance.
‘You see, that’s you all over,’ Pamela Greening declared, ‘living in cloud-cuckoo land. If this is how much you bring in,’ she tapped the sheet of paper with her pen, ‘and this is how much you have to shell out’—another triumphant tap—‘well, let’s face it, you’re sunk.’
Chloe rubbed her aching temples. She didn’t know which was worse, struggling to add up or having to listen to her mother’s incessant outpourings.
‘Set about getting that husband of yours back, that’s what you’ve got to do.’ Pamela nodded briskly
Oh God.
‘Mother, I know Greg. He’s not going to change his mind. I’m on my own now.’
‘Ah, but you’re not on your own, are you? You’ve got a baby on the way. You can’t live on fresh air, my girl. Not that you could call London air fresh.’ This last remark was accompanied by a snort of contempt.
‘I’ll give up this flat. Find somewhere cheaper,’ Chloe said wearily.
‘Oh yes, that’ll do the baby a power of good, growing up in some filthy tenement with muggers and drug addicts lurking on every corner. No no no,’ Pamela Greening went on, her expression firm. ‘Have another talk with Greg. I’m sure he’ll help out. After all, that’s what husbands are for.’
Chapter 17
‘You see, the thing is, Mother,’ said Bruce, ‘if we go through the bank, the amount of interest they’d charge would be extortionate. Then it occurred to me that you’ve got all that money sloshing around in your accounts…and it’s not as if you’re using it for anything…’
Verity had taken Jason through to the kitchen in search of Coca-Cola. As soon as Bruce had pulled his chair closer to hers and assumed an earnest expression, Florence had known what to expect.
Her heart had sunk.
It’s my birthday and what do I get? A brief duty visit from my family and a request for money.
A request for more money, Florence amended. Whatever had happened to the last ten thousand…and the twenty before that?
‘How do you know I’m not using it? I may have plans,’ she said calmly.
Bruce shot her a look of disbelief.
‘Plans to do what? You don’t have a business to keep running. You never do anything, go anywhere…’
‘I know.’ Florence shrugged, indicating with a wiggle of her empty glass that a refill wouldn’t go amiss. ‘So maybe it’s about time I started. Doing things and going places,’ she mused, enjoying the expression on her son’s face. ‘Jolly expensive things and frighteningly expensive places.’
‘Okay, fine, but surely you can spare some cash.’
Bruce’s neck had reddened, signalling his discomfort. Normally, Florence remembered, she said yes straight away and scribbled out a check on the spot.
Oh Bruce, I’m your mother, not a gourmet meal-ticket for life.
Aloud she said, ‘Darling, pour me another drink, would you? Plenty of ice this time.’
In the kitchen a lot of furious whispering ensued.
‘I don’t know why she has to be so difficult,’ Florence heard Verity hiss. ‘You’ll get everything when she dies anyway.’
‘Is Granny going to die?’ Jason sounded enthralled. ‘When, soon?’
If this were a P.D. James thriller, Florence thought, I’d be lucky to see out the night.
Wheeling herself over to the kitchen doorway, she announced, ‘I’m sixty-two, Verity, not a hundred and two.’
‘Sorry, Florence, you weren’t meant to hear that.’ Tight-lipped, Verity braced herself against the fridge. ‘But it’s true, isn’t it? Bruce is your son. It’s practically his money, and I don’t think you’re being terribly sensitive here. Can’t you understand how humiliating it is for him having to ask you for something that’s rightfully his anyway?’
Since nobody appeared to be getting her that drink, Florence maneuvered past them and did it herself.
‘How much do you need?’
Bruce’s stubby fingers fiddled with the knot of his topaz Armani tie.
‘Fifteen.’
‘Fifteen pounds or fifteen thousand?’
Not in the mood for jokes, Bruce flicked her a glance and helped himself to a good inch of gin.
‘I’ll give you five thousand,’ said Florence.
Verity, looking as if a couple of hundred volts had just shot up her bottom, yelped, ‘Oh, come on, that’s not—’
‘If it isn’t enough,’ Florence went on, ‘I suggest you sell that shiny new Mercedes.’
Heavens, this was so liberating! Like wriggling out of the world’s tightest corset, Florence thought delightedly. I should have done this years ago.
‘You mean you want us to live like paupers, Mother? Is that it?’
‘I just think it would be nice to see you learning to support yourself,’ Florence said pleasantly. ‘Living within your own means instead of relying on endless handouts from me.’
‘Okay, if that’s how you feel.’ Draining his glass, Bruce pointedly examined his watch. ‘Anyway, we’d better be off. Don’t worry about us, Mother. The shop will probably go under, we’ll sell the house, Jason will have to go to some godforsaken state school, but don’t let that bother you for a second—’
‘Bruce, do you love me?’ Florence interrupted him in mid-rant.
‘What?’
‘Do you love me?’ Reaching for her cigarettes, she lit one, chiefly to annoy Verity. ‘Do you care about me, do you want me to be happy?’
‘That’s a ridiculous question.’ Still flushed with anger, Bruce shook his head. ‘Of course I do.’ He put his arm around Verity’s thin shoulders for emphasis. ‘We both do.’
‘It’s just, you’ve been here for over an hour.’ Florence gazed steadily at the pair of them. ‘And all we’ve done so far is talk about you. You haven’t even asked me yet how I am.’
She saw Verity give him a meaningful jab in the ribs.
‘Mother, I’m sorry.’ Like a small boy prodded into politeness, Bruce recited dutifully, ‘How are you?’
‘Extremely well, thank you. Feeling quite—what’s the word—rejuvenated.’ Florence beamed. ‘That’s the amazing thing about ruts, isn’t it? You don’t realize quite how much of one you’ve been stuck in, until someone comes along and hauls you out.’
Bewildered, Bruce said, ‘You’ve lost me, Mother.’ Surely this wasn’t something to do with religion?
‘I have met someone,’ Florence announced, ‘who makes me very happy.’
‘Good grief.’ Bruce’s double chins quivered, signalling his amazement.
‘A gentleman friend,’ said Verity. ‘Florence, how nice. I’m so pleased for you.’
‘We want to enjoy ourselves. Have fun,’ said Florence. ‘Travel the world, in style.’
‘So he’s retired.’ Bruce nodded with approval. Fellow must be loaded if he could afford holi
days like that. ‘What line of work was he in?’
‘Ooh, this and that.’ Florence gave her son and daughter-in-law a bright smile. ‘But he’s not retired.’
‘If he isn’t retired,’ said Verity, ‘how’s he going to manage to travel the world with you?’ Although with computers these days, she supposed, anything was possible.
‘Easy.’ The extravagant rings on Florence’s fingers flashed as she waved her hand. ‘He’s between jobs right now.’
‘So how can he afford to whisk you off—’
‘He’s not whisking me,’ Florence announced, ‘I’m whisking him.’
‘Mother, are you mad?’
‘He takes care of me. He makes me laugh. When I’m with him I feel alive again, for the first time in years.’ Calmly Florence blew a perfect smoke ring. ‘And I don’t care if people think I’m a silly old fool, because they don’t know what he’s really like. We’re happy, and that’s what counts.’
Bruce didn’t like the sound of this at all. Suspicion wrinkled his forehead.
‘Why would people think you’re a silly old fool?’
With a careless shrug, Florence said, ‘He’s what you might call a younger man, that’s all.’
Oh, terrific.
‘How much younger?’
‘Look, it’s my life. If it doesn’t matter to us, why should anyone else be bothered?’
‘Mother. How much younger?’
‘Quite a bit younger than me. Oh, all right, all right,’ she admitted with a sigh. ‘If you must know, younger than you too.’
***
‘Look at you, all sparkly-eyed,’ Florence said fondly, when Miranda returned just before midnight. ‘No need to ask if you had a good evening.’
‘I did, I did.’ Kicking her shoes off, Miranda pirouetted around the sitting room.
‘So where is he?’
‘I’m playing it cool, keeping him keen.’ Dizzy from spinning, Miranda threw herself down on the velvet sofa. ‘Don’t want him thinking I’m a pushover. I mean, you know I am and I know I am, but he doesn’t have to find that out just yet.’
‘Tactics,’ said Florence. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘Me too.’ Miranda grinned. ‘So how was your evening?’
‘Remarkably similar, as a matter of fact. I refused to give Bruce what he wanted. Except in his case, of course, it was money.’ Florence’s mouth began to twitch. ‘Actually, I did a bit of a naughty thing tonight.’
Sitting up, Miranda hugged her knees.
‘Don’t tell me, you ate all the vanilla truffles. No, better than that, Jason kicked you too. You went berserk and dangled him by his ankles out of the window until he squealed for mercy.’
If Jason had tried to kick her, Florence thought, she would certainly have been tempted to go in for a spot of ankle-dangling.
‘I told Bruce and Verity I couldn’t give them the money they wanted because I needed it for myself. I said I’d got myself a toyboy and that we were going to take off together on a round-the-world cruise and spend spend spend until every last penny was gone.’
‘You didn’t!’ Miranda squealed and clapped her hands.
‘Oh yes. You should have seen their faces. Sheer bliss,’ sighed Florence. ‘When I assured Bruce that if we married he wouldn’t have to call Orlando Dad, he almost had a panic attack on the spot.’
‘They really believed you?’
Miranda was by this time crying with laughter. She wiped her eyes with the front of her black lacy top; being black, it was handy for soaking up mascara.
‘They believed every word.’
‘But…Orlando!’
‘Seemed like the kind of name a gigolo would have.’ Florence looked pleased with herself. ‘I didn’t plan any of this in advance, you know. All spur-of-the-moment stuff. I just made it up as I went along. It was brilliant, I was so impressed with myself…heavens, I could become the next Barbara Cartland.’
‘One’s enough,’ said Miranda. ‘Anyway, there isn’t enough pink lipstick in the world for the two of you. A fortune-hunting gigolo,’ she went on, reaching for the box of vanilla truffles and generously offering one to Florence. ‘What gave you that idea?’
‘Tom Barrett and his mail-order bride, the girl he brought over from Thailand. I told you about him, remember?’
Miranda nodded.
‘You told me it wouldn’t last.’
‘He knows that. Tom isn’t stupid. But he’s having fun, doing what he wants to do,’ said Florence. ‘And his daughter isn’t giving him grief about it. As long as Tom’s happy, she’s happy. She isn’t having a nervous breakdown at the thought of all the money she won’t be inheriting.’
‘So how long are you going to keep this up?’ Miranda spoke through a mouthful of truffle.
‘Ooh, a couple of months, I thought.’
‘A couple of months! Isn’t Bruce going to want to meet this no-good lover of yours?’
‘Probably.’ Florence shrugged. ‘But he won’t be able to, will he?’ She took a jaunty swig of Scotch. ‘I’ll tell him Orlando’s fussy about who he meets and that, basically, Bruce just isn’t rich enough.’
Chapter 18
For Chloe, the next two weeks were a nightmare. Every day, during her lunch hour and after work, she trudged from hideous flat to even more hideous flat, desperately searching for anything remotely habitable.
Every evening, when her mother phoned from Manchester, Chloe lied brightly to her, insisting she was fine and giving the impression that the only reason she hadn’t found somewhere else to live yet was because there were so many gorgeous properties to choose from.
And then there was work itself, more of a minefield nowadays than a shop, with Bruce feigning concern for her well-being when all the time—Chloe just knew—he was desperately plotting how he was going to sack her. His mood hadn’t been improved, either, by the news that his mother had taken up with some unscrupulous toyboy and was evidently planning to squander all her money on him instead of giving it to Bruce.
‘She’s gone barmy, completely barmy. I could get her committed for this,’ he raged. ‘As for the business,’ he muttered ominously, ‘I don’t know how I’m going to keep it together, I really don’t.’
The atmosphere in the shop wasn’t a happy one. And, sod’s law, the harder Chloe tried to be the perfect employee, the more things went wrong. Having never been late back from lunch before, she promptly earned herself two black marks in a week.
‘I’m so sorry, the bus broke down and I had to run the last half a mile,’ she gabbled, bursting into the shop at ten past two. The flat she had rushed out to view had gone before she’d got there; another one pound forty wasted on bus fares.
‘I need you to be here on time,’ Bruce told her, even though the shop was empty. As he noted Chloe’s lateness in his diary with secret satisfaction he announced ominously, ‘This isn’t good enough.’
As she was leaving that evening, Chloe saw a car she recognized parked on double yellows outside the shop.
Greg’s friend, Adrian, beckoned her over.
‘Chloe, it’s about your mother. These phone calls, they’ve got to stop.’
‘I’ve already told her that.’
Chloe reddened; every evening her mother delighted in recounting the details of her latest torrent of abuse. It was so humiliating. Not to mention pointless.
‘We have to keep the answering machine on all the time now,’ said Adrian. ‘It’s a real pain.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t want her doing it any more than you do.’ Chloe fiddled agitatedly with the newspaper in her hands. She had three more flats to see and was desperate not to be late.
‘Anyway, Greg’s moving out next week, so after that she’ll be wasting her breath.’ Adrian took a last drag of his cigarette
and flicked it into the gutter. ‘Maybe you could pass the message on.’
Chloe’s hands went clammy.
‘Greg’s moving out? Where?’
Adrian gave her a measured look.
‘Since your mother’s the reason he’s going, I don’t think he’d be too happy if I gave you the address.’
Be brave, be brave.
‘Is he…um, moving in with his girlfriend?’
‘I really can’t say. Chloe, don’t ask me any more questions, okay? I’m just the go-between here.’
At least he had the grace to look embarrassed. Chloe thought of all the meals she had cooked for Adrian during the first weeks after his own wife had left him. Then, he had been shocked to the core, frequently drunk and desperate for company. She had listened to his endless self-pitying ramblings, fed and watered him, even ironed his shirts when he’d told her Lisa had run off with their only iron.
How many times during those weeks had Adrian shaken his head and told her how grateful he was? ‘True friends, that’s what you and Greg are,’ he had burbled in maudlin fashion after his ninth or tenth can of Stella. ‘I mean it, I don’t know what I’d do without the two of you.’
That had been then, of course, and this was now.
A whole year later.
Adrian was over Lisa. And he was sober.
‘I’m looking for a flat as well,’ said Chloe. ‘Actually I’m late for an appointment. I don’t suppose you could give me a lift to Finsbury Park?’
‘I would,’ Adrian lied, ‘but I’m in a bit of a hurry myself.’
‘I’ve seen forty-three flats in the last fortnight. They’ve all been terrible.’ She gave it one last try. ‘Please.’
But it was no good. He wasn’t her friend any more; he was Greg’s.
‘Sorry, Chloe. I just can’t. You’d be better off taking the tube anyway.’
Better off jumping in front of it at this rate, thought Chloe as she watched the car pull away.