by Fiona Gibson
‘I’m impressed, Viv,’ Tim murmurs with a smile. ‘You’re obviously more persuasive than I’ve ever managed to be.’
So here we are, Chrissie and I, a few hours later, in the lively local pub where we managed to bag the last vacant table. We have already eaten elsewhere, at a nearby Italian. It was Chrissie who decided on stopping off here on the short walk home, which surprised me. Even more surprisingly, it would appear that the two men sitting nearby are attempting to chat us up. It feels bizarre and unintentionally hilarious – as retro as a Girl Friday tank top.
‘Off the leash tonight then?’ the sandy-haired one remarks.
‘Yes, we’re allowed out very occasionally,’ I reply.
‘Two young ladies like you?’ asks his friend (shaven head, tiny spectacles, full sleeve tattoo).
‘Looks like it.’ Chrissie laughs. ‘Will we be safe?’ She has already had a glass of red wine in the restaurant – a large one! – and giddily announced that it had whooshed to her head. And now, in her rather slinky black dress, heels and red lipstick, she is eagerly quaffing her second. I nearly fell over when she appeared on my doorstep, all dressed up and ready to go.
‘Well, if the two of you are forcing me out,’ she’d retorted, ‘I thought I might as well go for it.’
There’s more joviality from the men, who have introduced themselves as Tony (sandy-haired) and Gus (shaven). While they’re bantering between themselves I lean forward to Chrissie: ‘So which one d’you fancy?’
She snorts. ‘Oh, I’m not fussy. Either will do. Shall we have another wine?’
I look at her. ‘Are you sure?’ Whilst I’m not averse myself, I don’t want to be held responsible for corrupting her. ‘I expressed some milk for later tonight, just in case,’ she says conspiratorially.
‘Good work,’ I say, grinning. And so we have another drink, and are flirted with so ineptly – it’s all clumsy compliments – that I become aware of observing the process as if we are all in a nature documentary: So, here’s what happens when two males in the wild are looking to mate.
‘Are you two sisters?’ Tony wants to know.
I splutter at this. I’m dark-haired and curvy, Chrissie’s blonde and slim; plus, there’s the minor issue of me being fifteen years older. ‘No, we’re just friends,’ I reply.
‘We’re brothers,’ he announces, ‘from other mothers.’
‘So you’re friends, then,’ Chrissie remarks dryly.
‘Yeah, but if we were brothers,’ Gus adds, ‘we’d be twins ’cause we were born on the same day.’
‘Really! That’s amazing.’ She is showing herself to be quite at ease in licensed premises.
‘Guess how old we are,’ Tony urges us.
I blink at him. The amusement factor is waning now, and I’m starting to think: perhaps we should head home and check if Tim is ‘coping’?
‘I don’t really enjoy the guess-my-age game,’ I reply.
‘Why not?’
‘Because,’ Chrissie starts, before I can answer, ‘no one ever wants to play it unless they think they look remarkably young for their age.’
I turn to her, pleasantly surprised by her attitude tonight. The ‘we don’t say no’ approach to parenting, plus the sage toothpaste, had coloured my view of her, but she’s far sassier than I’d ever imagined. ‘You’re absolutely right,’ I say. ‘I’ve always hated it too, and I could never figure out why.’
‘It’s a vanity thing,’ she observes.
‘Yes, it absolutely is!’
‘He’s fishing for compliments,’ she adds with a wink.
‘Aw, just have a guess,’ Tony says, frowning.
‘Fifty-five?’ Chrissie deadpans.
‘Hey,’ he exclaims. ‘We’re forty-two!’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I really am rubbish at this game.’
I’d have hoped that that would put a lid on it, but the men seem to be stuck on the topic of age, and now they are loudly telling us how ‘natural’ we look. ‘It’s great that you’re not the types to have stuff done. I mean, the whole ageing thing is so much easier for men,’ Gus observes.
‘Is it really?’ I ask. ‘Why’s that, then?’
‘We don’t have to worry, really. It just happens. It’s no big deal.’
I catch Chrissie’s eye, and she understands immediately and starts to pull on her jacket. ‘So, how d’you think it is for women?’ she asks.
‘A bloody battle,’ he chuckles. ‘My ex-wife was always having things done to her face – Botox, massage, awful skin-peeling treatments that stripped off the top layer …’
‘The top layer of what?’ Tony asks, looking alarmed now.
‘Of her face,’ Gus exclaims shuddering, taking a fortifying sip of his beer. ‘I can see it’s not a big thing for you, Viv,’ he adds. ‘Having treatments, I mean.’
‘Can you?’ What possessed me to tell him my name? If I’m going to be out roaming in public I need to become more adept at this.
‘Yeah. That’s what’s so refreshing about you. You look great, just as you are …’
‘Thank you,’ I say graciously.
‘… for your age,’ he concludes.
I bestow him with further thanks as Chrissie and I leave the pub, because naturally, a woman should be grateful for any raggedy scrap of a compliment that might flutter her way.
Once outside, I grab her arm as we start laughing. ‘So that’s what it’s like,’ she announces, ‘out there.’
We start to speed-walk home. ‘Clearly. I’m so glad I’m single and able to start dating again,’ I remark with a smile.
‘Really? Are you sure you’re ready for that?’
‘I’ll never be ready for that,’ I exclaim. ‘Lovely night, though—’
‘It really was. Let’s do it again …’
‘But maybe somewhere else?’ I suggest, and she laughs.
‘Sure. And it’s true you know,’ she adds with a cheeky grin as we make our way down the street. ‘You do look good – for your age.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Wednesday, November 13
As arranged, Nick comes over while Izzy is at Brownies, and we run through our publicity plan in more detail. I have already drafted a press release and sent it over to Hannah for approval. Last night, Spencer’s joiner friends and I dropped into the museum where the boys measured up in order to put together a plan for a basic runway. As it’s in aid of the museum – and word has travelled about the trashing of the taxidermy – suppliers are apparently willing to offer materials at knock-down prices. For an institution that no one seems to visit very much, it certainly seems to hold a place in people’s hearts. In some ways, in creating a bit of storm in the local press, the stoat-liberating maniac did the place a favour.
So it feels as if things are starting to come together, although I suspect it’s something of a miracle that anything is happening at all. Isla and Hannah aside, the museum staff seem to be a particularly ponderous bunch, gliding around in a haze; they appear to operate on ‘museum time’. While I’m hardly the fastest-moving individual on earth, I found myself gritting my teeth and digging my nails in my palms while the kindly white-bearded man explained, so slooowly I could feel the final traces of collagen draining from my face, that the rear south wing will be the site of the exhibition. Forty-five minutes, it took, to explain something that could have been explained in fewer than thirty words.
Maybe it’s me who’s out of kilter, and I’ve just become too accustomed to the self-consciously dynamic, rather shouty atmosphere that pervades Flaxico’s headquarters these days. I fill Nick in on all of this, and find myself enjoying myself immensely, sharing all the details with him. His is an attentive listener, chuckling and smiling and chipping in.
‘It’ll be announced online soon,’ I remind him. ‘We’ll have to tell Penny before that happens.’ I’ve stopped all that ‘your mum’ nonsense; it felt ridiculous, and he is a bona fide adult after all.
‘Yep, we just need
to pick the right time,’ he says, ‘and I think you should be the one to do it, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I guess so.’ I muster a smile. ‘She is going to be okay about this, isn’t she?’
‘I’m sure she will be. She’ll be more than fine …’
‘As long as she feels consulted,’ I finish. ‘The way I see it, there’ll still be time for her to get involved. I need to find models, and that’s proving a lot trickier than I’d expected – the agencies are just too expensive. There’s hair and make-up too. I really want it to look professional—’
‘Of course you do.’
‘I’d hate it to be shabby and to let Penny down,’ I add, ‘so I think I’m going to have to pull in a lot of favours. Once that’s all sorted out, the outfits still need to be chosen and put together and styled. And I’m hoping that’s where Penny will come in.’
‘Yeah,’ Nick says. ‘That’s her forte, after all.’
I nod. ‘It’s essential, really. I mean, it’s her look. She created it. So she’ll be our …’ I pause, trying to think of the correct title. ‘Creative Director.’
‘Creative Director in Chief,’ he suggests, and we smile. It feels so right that Nick’s here, checking in and supporting me. But I can tell that he’s conscious of not overstepping things. When Andy and I were still together, I found myself often deferring to him, which seems ridiculous now. In all our years together, if there was a debate over the tiles we’d pick for the bathroom, or whose parents we’d spend Christmas with, he would generally get his way. Film choices, meals out, holiday destinations; I’d have my opinions but Andy had a way of turning things around so his choice would seem like the one to go for. I lost my backbone, it seems, and I’m almost ashamed of it now. Was it a gender thing, or the fact that he enjoyed more status, career-wise? I suppose I’d never been the most confident young woman. Anxiety had always niggled away at me, to some degree; my parents, although loving, were never the ‘You can achieve anything!’ types. Perhaps I felt flattered and lucky to have met and married someone like Andy. But everything’s different now, and for the first time I am acutely aware of being in charge of my own life, and it’s quite exhilarating.
I am definitely recovering, I realise; I was being truthful when I told Nick that I’m no longer angry with Andy. I used to compile mental lists of reasons why I was glad we’d split up, in an attempt to haul myself through the heartbreak. For instance: the ‘I think you’ll find’ thing. And the way he sometimes referred to his stomach as ‘my tummy’, as in: ‘My tummy really hurts’ (said in a whimpery voice whilst rubbing it with a pained expression). The way he’d ask: ‘Do we have any Rennies?’ That was another thing that drove me mad: this constant asking if we ‘had’ things, as if I were Monitor of Household Medicines (wasn’t he supposed to be the doctor in the house?) and could see into cupboards without opening them. And now it’s just me, with no adult male moaning about his acid reflux, or complaining that Shelley, Isla and I were ‘pretty raucous’ when we had an evening together around our kitchen table.
Somehow, since Andy left me, I’ve kick-started this project that seems to be well on its way to becoming a real event – and I’m the one driving it, ably assisted by the terribly handsome man who is sitting in my kitchen.
‘So, what else needs to be done?’ Nick asks now, finishing his mug of tea.
‘We still need more clothes,’ I reply. ‘There are certain key pieces that I haven’t been able to source yet.’
‘Really? What are you looking for?’
‘The Pippa poncho, for one thing.’
‘Oh, I remember that.’ He beams at me. ‘Featured on the cover of Honey magazine, I think it was. For years, we had the image blown up to poster size and framed on our living room wall. Mum wore hers constantly throughout a whole winter, until there was some disaster with it getting trapped in a car door and dragging along in the road.’
‘A hazard of the poncho, I’d imagine,’ I snigger.
Nick smiles. If he wasn’t my friend’s son, and we didn’t have business to attend to, I might … well, I might allow myself to have proper crush on him (a crush, at my age! Who’d have thought I was even capable?). I might even flirt a bit, like I did with the handsome tiler who came to do our bathroom, according to Andy, who kept teasing me: ‘Oh, look – we’ve got Bourbons all of a sudden. Are they his favourites?’ Yes, I would definitely flirt, if Penny hadn’t been giving me the occasional bemused look, and bringing him round to my house, parading him, as if anything is likely to happen.
‘I’m happy to do lots of phoning around,’ he says now, ‘but wish I could do more to help. What about the practical stuff? Is there more to do there?’
‘We’re okay with the runway,’ I say, ‘and Spencer and his mates are taking care of the music and lighting—’
‘How about I film it?’ Nick cuts in suddenly.
‘The actual show, you mean? Well, that would be great—’
‘Well, yes, I’d cover that. But I’m thinking more of the whole story, the preparations, the build-up to the main event. What d’you think?’
‘Yes, sure,’ I say. ‘But who’d be in it?’
‘Everyone who’s been involved,’ he says. ‘At least, as many people as possible … Mum, when she knows all about it. The models, make-up artist, hairdresser … maybe women who bought the clothes in the Seventies and loved wearing them out on a Friday night. And people who worked in the shops, if I can track them down …’
‘What about the museum staff?’ I ask.
‘Yes, of course. There’s Isla, Hannah – and you, of course.’ His gaze meets mine and he smiles.
‘Me?’ I exclaim. ‘But I’m not staff—’
‘No, but you’re making this thing happen!’
I look at him, stuck for words for a moment. ‘I can’t be in your film, Nick,’ I mutter, shaking my head. ‘Sorry, but that’s so not my thing …’
‘But you’d have to be,’ he protests. ‘It’s only happening because of you. Think of all the hours you’ve put in, all that effort and energy. How could I possibly make a film without you in it—’
‘But I’m not an actor or a presenter,’ I say firmly. ‘I’m a behind-the-scenes person. I always was. That’s why I became a stage manager, and it’s probably why I’m a PA now. I’m a doer, a fixer …’
‘Hey,’ he cuts in, briefly touching my hand across the table. ‘You’re all of those things, but you’re so much more. Please, Viv. I’ll make sure it’s as painless as possible. It might even be fun. Please say you’ll be in my film.’
This has to count as the most unexpected thing anyone has ever said to me. And of course, because it’s him, I regain my composure and smile graciously and say, ‘All right, I’ll do it, if you insist. As long as you get my best side.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Friday, November 15
Disconcertingly, Andy has taken to dropping in more regularly when it’s not even one of his Izzy days. It happened a couple of days ago – apparently, there were some crucial books he needed, which I didn’t even have – and now here he is again, ostensibly to ‘look at’ my car, which I happened to have mentioned has died on me.
He had the good manners to call before showing up, but only with fifteen minutes’ notice. He seems a little lost, and is looking thin around the cheeks. There’s a definite lack of sparkle in his eyes these days, and I’m starting to understand that life didn’t turn out quite how he thought it would, when he left me. But that’s not my concern. I’m still not even sure what he wants from me; surely he’s not nurturing some hope that we might get back together? Whatever’s on his mind, he seems disappointed when I tell him my car is being taken to the garage first thing tomorrow, and that his assistance won’t be required.
‘Are you sure I can’t have a quick look?’ he asks.
‘The garage guy knows this car,’ I say, trying to remain patient, ‘and he reckons it’s something serious with the water-cooling system. I don’t think you
poking about under the bonnet would have much effect.’
Now that’s been confirmed, I wait for him to leave. But he hangs out with Izzy for a while, quizzing her about school and even – irritatingly – watching a cartoon with her, despite having never shown any interest in doing so before.
It is, I realise with a gnawing sense of unease, as if he doesn’t want to go home. I could ask him to go, but don’t really want to in front of Izzy; by God, I’ve done my utmost to make it seem as if everything is friendly and cordial between us, and I’m not going to crack now. Perhaps that’s something I should focus on, during my next life coaching session: my previously undiscovered ability to pretend?
‘Izzy was saying the fashion show’s going ahead,’ he says casually, having wandered through to bother me in the kitchen.
‘Um, yes, it is.’ I continue with putting away cutlery. ‘Penny doesn’t know about it, by the way, in case you happen to run into her. Not that that’s likely, I know.’
‘Really? She has no idea?’
I toss in the last fork and turn to look at him.
‘No.’
He frowns. ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’
Sometimes, I swear he can’t possibly realise how irritating he is. I must have become desensitised to it – immune, really – during all our years together, otherwise I’m sure I would have lynched him.
‘Nick and I think it’s best.’
Andy looks at me, steadily, as if trying to bring me into sharper focus. ‘Nick and I?’
‘Yes,’ I say firmly, determined not to rise to the bait. ‘I didn’t want to tell her at first, in case she dismissed it before we’d even had a chance to get things started. And now it’s definitely going ahead, and has gained momentum, but it’s never seemed like quite the right time. So Nick and I think …’
‘Nick and I?’ he says again, looking at me quizzically from the doorway.
‘Why d’you keep saying that?’ I glare at him.
‘Oh, nothing,’ he blusters. ‘I just wondered.’
‘You wondered what? Who Nick is? He’s Penny’s son. You met briefly at Izzy’s party, remember?’