When Life Gives You Lemons: The hilarious romantic comedy

by Fiona Gibson

  Izzy shrugs. ‘I’d love it if we had a baby here. If you had a baby,’ she adds.

  ‘Um, well, I’m afraid that won’t be happening, love.’

  She nods gravely. ‘Because you’re not with Dad anymore?’

  ‘Er, well, yes, but actually, I’m a bit too old now.’ Please don’t ask about baby-making now, I will her. I’m not against her knowing, of course I’m not. They’ve started on the basics at school, just the body parts, stuff like that, and I’m not planning to promote any ‘special kisses’ nonsense. It’s just … I’m not up to it at this precise moment.

  So, hoping she’ll forget about babies, I usher her upstairs for her bath; and later still, I chatter on, looking through her books for something she might like me to read to her. I keep pulling out stories to show her, but she doesn’t seem interested.

  ‘Are you really too old to have another baby?’ she asks from her bed.

  I look around, taken aback momentarily. ‘I kind of am, love. But that’s okay, you know? I’m very lucky to have you and Spence.’

  ‘When do women get too old?’ she wants to know.

  I smile; what a question. ‘For babies?’ She nods. ‘Um, it just gets more difficult to make a baby as you get older. In your forties, I mean, although it depends on the person. Everyone’s bodies are different.’

  ‘Were you old when you had me?’

  ‘Not really, sweetheart. Older than some mums, yes – but not ancient.’

  She nods and seems to be mulling this over as I pull out another book and sit down on her bed.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes, love?’ I am primed for more baby-related questioning.

  ‘D’you mind if I read by myself now?’

  I look at her, confused for a moment. ‘D’you mean just tonight? Or would you prefer that from now on?’

  ‘I’d prefer it. I’m nearly eight.’ She smiles.

  Something seems to twist inside me as I kiss her forehead and get up from her bed. ‘I know you are, honey. And I also know you’re a good reader.’

  I say goodnight and leave her to read by herself, still feeling a little strange as I make my way downstairs. So much so that I can’t settle to anything; so I step out to the garden and sit at our wrought-iron table on the patio for a while, just being quiet. Only a couple of stars are visible tonight, and without the app I can’t identify them.

  So, Izzy doesn’t need me to read her stories anymore. I suspect that she hasn’t for a while, but wasn’t sure how to break it to me.

  No need to be sad, I decide as I wander back into the house. I’ve loved reading those bedtime stories, first to Spencer and then to Izzy; all the dragons and witches and elves. I’ve loved the feeling of a warm, sleepy child snuggling next to me, transfixed by the tale. But moving on from that stage is just the natural way of things, and it hardly amounts to rejection. My daughter is just growing up.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Thursday, October 3

  ‘Viv, hi … is it Viv? Or d’you prefer Vivienne?’

  ‘Everyone calls me Viv,’ I reply, jumping up from the chair in the foyer as Hannah greets me. We shake hands, and she beckons me into the office. While the public parts of the museum are all polished wood and ornate chandeliers, the staff areas appear to have a more beleaguered air. The grey carpet in the cavernous space is grubby, and desks are cluttered with paperwork, the odd tired-looking plant, and wire trays bearing messily stacked folders.

  There’s tons of stuff on the walls: calendars depicting wildlife and city scenes, and posters of various exhibitions held here – Jewels From The Tombs, Pictish Village Life, Curios Under Glass: The Art of Taxidermy. All look slightly yellowed and are curling at the edges. There’s a smell of dust and a hint of disinfectant. Various whiteboards and charts have apparently been scribbled on in haste – unless everyone has terrible handwriting around here – with marker pens. I follow Hannah through to a smaller room, right at the back of the main space, presumably so we have privacy, although the only other staff I have seen this evening were the front desk personnel.

  ‘Please, take a seat,’ she says. This is far cosier, more like a snug than an office. There are two squashy armchairs upholstered in burgundy velvet, with a small low table in between.

  I spot my proposal sitting there.

  Hannah picks it up. For a moment, she doesn’t say anything. I’d guess her at late thirties; her face is make-up free, apart from a neutral lipstick, and she is wearing a khaki linen button-through dress and tan flats.

  ‘Thanks for taking the time to see me,’ she says with a bright smile. ‘I really appreciate it, especially after all the work you’ve done on this already.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ I say. ‘I was happy to come in.’

  ‘I won’t keep you too long, I hope.’

  ‘It’s fine, I’m not in a great hurry.’ I give silent thanks to Jules for having Izzy after school today.

  ‘Can I start by asking how well you know Penny?’

  So, here I go.

  I breeze through how our friendship began, with her walking her little dog, and how my daughter and I started meeting her regularly. And then how we heard all about Girl Friday; and before I know it I’m launching into a spiel about how I’ve known Isla since we were in primary school, and how the idea came about, and how brilliant it would be for the museum, and our city: ‘Because Penny is just a normal woman,’ I explain. ‘She didn’t come from a privileged background. She wasn’t trained in fashion, she never even went to college – she just did a bit of modelling and worked as a typist, yet she went on to become huge, in that world, for those few years. Not in a Studio 54 kind of way, not like a Christian Dior or a Coco Chanel, but a real, normal woman who was entirely self-taught, and got off her arse and made it happen—’

  I stop abruptly. I am sitting here with Hannah, a top person at this venerable institution, and I have just said ‘arse’.

  She looks me right in the eye and smiles. ‘And that’s exactly what I love about this idea.’

  I frown, confused.

  ‘I mean your absolute passion for it,’ she adds. ‘It shines out of your proposal – your enthusiasm and absolute belief in the project.’

  ‘Oh.’ I smile. ‘Well, thank you. I just feel—’

  ‘But when it dropped on my desk I was up to my eyes,’ she cuts in, ‘trying to convince the people who decide these things that the attack in the natural history department doesn’t mean we have to close permanently.’ Incredibly, her eyes well up. ‘I was up all night figuring out plans, doing budgets, trying to work out how we might recover from this, and it occurred to me …’ She looks down and flicks, seemingly randomly, through the pages of my proposal. ‘It occurred to me that, okay, we can repair the exhibits, we can sort that out. It’s not the end of the world really.’

  ‘I’m sure it can all be fixed,’ I say, as if I know anything about antique taxidermy displays.

  ‘Yes,’ Hannah says, ‘but then, when the dust had settled, so to speak, I started to think, the reason it happened – that crazy man barging in with the hammer – is because we are traditional, and that has its place, of course. But maybe an incident like that might be, well, not exactly good for the museum, it’s a colossal expense – but it might make us think about our future in a different way.’

  ‘In what way?’ I ask, not sure what she’s getting at here.

  ‘In a way that might make us more … broad-thinking,’ Hannah says, ‘and more appealing to a wider audience than we’ve ever attracted before.’

  She is still clutching my proposal. For a moment, I try to rein in the excitement that’s welling up in me. However, it’s occurred to me now that bunnygate caused Rose to think differently, too – radically, really, considering that the word ‘fresh’ had been unheard of at Flaxico. And suddenly we were propelled into the world of deli-type lines, recruiting young people, transforming the low boardroom into some kind of playroom, with huge TV screens, enormous L-shaped sofas an
d even a fish tank.

  ‘Unfortunately, we’re under severe budget restraints,’ Hannah adds, almost apologetically.

  ‘Yes, but it wouldn’t cost a lot,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ve worked out how we can pull together a Girl Friday collection, from vintage shops and collectors—’

  ‘Yes, I’ve read all that, you’ve gone into incredible detail—’

  ‘And the staging needn’t be expensive either. I used to work in theatre. I’ve managed productions where, honestly, you wouldn’t believe how little money we had. And a fashion show can be very simple. We’re just talking a basic runway, and seating of course. And I’m sure we can find plenty of models.’

  Hannah nods. ‘Once we have the clothes, we can start to do the graphics and the displays. That could all be done in-house …’ She pauses. ‘Would Penny be on board with all of this?’

  ‘Erm, I haven’t been through it all with her yet,’ I bluster, ‘as I wasn’t sure whether it would actually happen.’

  ‘You didn’t want to build up her hopes?’ she suggests.

  ‘Kind of.’ I smile to disguise a flicker of panic. What the hell am I getting myself into here? ‘Her son is on board though,’ I add. ‘He’s completely behind it. He was there, of course, when she started out, and he’ll be a huge help when it comes to pulling the whole Girl Friday story together.’

  ‘Well, that’s great,’ she says warmly, ‘and I’m sure Penny will be delighted once we get things in motion. How could she not be, really? So …’

  ‘So, what you’re saying,’ I interrupt, barely able to contain myself now, ‘is that you want to go ahead?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Hannah replies with a wide smile, clutching the proposal to her chest. ‘We all think your plan is brilliant, Viv. So it’s a definite yes.’

  Part Four

  The Show

  Chapter Thirty

  A month later: Saturday, November 2

  Izzy wanted a camping party for her birthday. She was determined to recreate the Brownie experience in our garden, but as I was unwilling to risk any of our young guests suffering from hypothermia, I have transformed our living room into a sort of indoor camp site, complete with two new, cheap festival tents, plus strings of fake flowers, bunting and balloons.

  Silvery fairy lights are strewn across the ceiling, to create a starlit sky effect later tonight. Jules is here, ferrying food and drinks back and forth from the kitchen, ably assisted by Nick, who showed up with Penny. I was pleasantly surprised to see him, as I wouldn’t have imagined that a children’s party would be quite his thing. But as it is, he seems to be perfectly relaxed and happy to be here, gathering up wrapping paper and helping to rescue a collapsing tent, and in no hurry to rush away. Meanwhile Penny is observing the proceedings from a comfy chair, sipping her drink and nibbling on sausage rolls. Izzy was thrilled with Penny’s present of a set of four knitted doughnuts.

  And now Andy has appeared, laden with gifts from both himself and his parents (as today is Izzy’s actual birthday). I beckon him through to the living room where the main party action is happening and introduce him, briefly, to Nick: ‘This is Andy, Izzy’s dad.’ Once that’s out of the way, I catch Andy flinching at the sight of so many kids piling in and out of the tents. He checks his watch as if calculating how soon he can remove himself without seeing rude.

  Right now is the correct answer, which I try to transmit by giving him a ‘Thanks for popping round, now off you go’ kind of look – but my telepathic powers seem to be lacking today as he has taken it upon himself to try and make conversation with Penny, which must be a first.

  Andy: ‘How are you, Penny?’ He glances down at her glass. Is that a G&T at five-thirty in the afternoon?

  Penny: Indeed it is, and what of it? ‘I’m good, thanks, Andy. How are you?’

  Andy: ‘Oh, you know. Busy. The usual.’

  Penny: ‘No rest for the wicked, eh?’

  Andy, laughing awkwardly: ‘Ha-ha, yeah.’

  Penny, dryly: ‘Still at the hospital?’, which makes it sound as if it’s just a holiday job.

  Andy, disconcerted: ‘Er, yes. Yep, still hanging on in there.’

  Penny, patronisingly: ‘Good for you!’ She turns away from him and catches my eye, grinning playfully as I glide by – regally, I hope – with a tray of chipolatas. I smile back. Despite his presence, the party is going well. I’m proud of my ability to remain polite and cordial as Andy gets ready to leave.

  ‘Great sausages,’ he says. ‘Did you marinate them?’

  ‘I did,’ I reply, ‘with honey and soy.’ I blink at him. ‘Would you like me to stuff some under your windscreen wiper?’

  His mouth twitches and he laughs. ‘Oh, Viv.’

  ‘Don’t “Oh, Viv” me.’

  He inhales and fixes me with a look when we reach the front door. ‘That was some stunt you pulled, crazy girl.’

  Crazy girl? That’s a tad familiar, I feel. ‘It was a minor aberration,’ I correct him, ‘which I’ve apologised for and regret.’

  ‘Of course,’ he says quickly, hands shoved in pockets, ‘and you were entitled to be pissed off. Of course you were. Christ, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d done worse, if you’d, um—’

  ‘There’s no need to list all the things I could’ve done.’ On the doorstep now, I glance back into the house. There are shrieks of laughter, and I’m aware that I have left Jules and Nick in charge of proceedings. I imagine Penny is just sitting there serenely in the corner, sipping her gin.

  ‘Okay,’ Andy says. ‘But, look …’ He rubs at his forehead. ‘You do know it really is over, don’t you? That, uh, thing I did, I mean?’

  That thing he did? That minor matter of him shagging Estelle Lang for months on end, and finally leaving me for her? That ‘thing’?

  I study his face for a moment, wondering how he expects me to respond. By commiserating on his newly single status? By digging him out a hot water bottle in case he gets chilly at night? ‘You did mention it,’ I remark.

  ‘Well, erm … I thought, maybe we could get together and talk sometime,’ he adds, ‘when things are less hectic.’

  ‘Talk about what?’ I ask, genuinely confused.

  He shrugs. ‘About, well … you know. Stuff. How we’re going to go forward with things—’

  Impatience is rising in me now. What is this, a board meeting on my doorstep? ‘D’you mean legally,’ I start, ‘or money-wise, or—’

  ‘Viv, when can we have some birthday cake?’ Ludo shouts from the hallway.

  ‘In a minute, love,’ I call back, silently thanking him for the interruption. Andy and I look at each other until Ludo has rejoined the other children in the living room.

  ‘That kid,’ he mutters with an eye-roll.

  ‘He’s much better now, actually. And, look, I really can’t discuss anything right now …’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Andy blusters, reddening. ‘I realise that. I didn’t expect to—’

  ‘I need to go back in,’ I say firmly. ‘I can’t stand here chatting. I’m sure you’ve noticed that I have a party going on.’

  Izzy and her friends are supposed to be settling down to sleep in the tents. But of course, they’re not. They are giggling madly with torches flickering on and off. Every so often, someone appears in the kitchen, claiming to be ‘starving’ and loads up a paper plate with supplies before disappearing again.

  At one point, Ludo sneaks out to the garden and trips, and I rush out to tend to his grazed knee (incredibly, Izzy invited him of her own accord and is clearly concerned about his minor injury). Jules left at around seven, and Penny followed soon afterwards to let Bobby out ‘to do his necessaries’, as she put it, leaving Nick and me together, alone. At least, alone with thirteen children.

  It’s not quite how I imagined tonight would pan out. As I thought I’d be left alone here, trying to maintain control, it’s been a delightful surprise, and Nick is lovely company. I realise I’m wrong to assume that the child-free – particula
rly child-free men – are keen to avoid large numbers of excitable children. At least, Nick has shown no signs of wanting to dash away.

  ‘Don’t keep him up too late,’ Penny chuckled as she left; her implication being that we might be up to something. But it is late now – it’s half past eleven – and, yes, we are up to something, although not what she might be implying. The thought of how she’ll react when she finally finds out about the museum project is enough to trigger a swill of nerves. But I’ve tried to push that aside as Nick and I have sipped mug after mug of tea, whilst discussing the project: specifically, how the fashion show might be staged and the exhibition presented in the space Hannah has allocated. We’ve come up with a decent publicity plan, combining both my theatre experience – often, I had a hand in promoting the productions – and Nick’s preferred tactics for publicising his own films.

  Finally, the children’s excitable chatter dampens down. I go through from the kitchen to say goodnight, and when I return, Nick looks round from the table. ‘That’s the party finally over?’

  ‘I can only hope,’ I reply, feigning an exhausted swoon.

  He laughs. ‘Seemed like it was pretty successful.’

  ‘It was, yes.’ I smile. ‘I even managed to be pleasant to Andy.’

  Nick raises a brow. ‘It seems very civilised between you two, from an outsider’s point of view.’

  ‘I suppose it is,’ I say with a nod. ‘At least, now things have settled. In fact …’ I pause. ‘He seems to want to be friends, as if the events of seven months ago were just a blip, and perhaps we can make everything better again if he’s charming to my friends, and praises my sausages.’

  Nick chuckles. ‘They were very good, Viv.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say grandly, grinning as I sit back down opposite him. ‘He’s also keen to stress that he and Estelle are no longer in contact, that it’s definitely over with her.’ I smirk. ‘But, considering his past record as an accomplished liar and fraud, they might well be planning their wedding.’