When Life Gives You Lemons: The hilarious romantic comedy

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘Oh, that Nick,’ he says, infuriatingly.

  I study his face, wondering what he’s getting at here, then stride past him on my way to take Izzy a drink of juice in the living room.

  He trails after me as if I am an estate agent, showing him around the house. ‘So, are you seeing quite bit of him, then? This Nick, I mean?’

  Izzy’s not there. I hear her pottering about upstairs. I switch off the TV and start to gather up her pens and colouring books from where she’s left them scattered on the floor. ‘Why are you asking me this?’

  ‘Oh, I just wondered, that’s all.’

  I frown. ‘He’s actually been helping me a lot with the show. And he’s going to make a film – a documentary – about it—’

  ‘A film? Wow!’

  ‘That’s what he does,’ I say impatiently. ‘It’s his job. So yes, he has been around here a fair bit, and he’ll continue to be, I’d imagine.’

  A small pause. ‘He’s from New Zealand, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I nod. ‘That’s where he lives anyway.’

  ‘And when’s he going back?’ he asks, affecting an almost comically casual air.

  I give him a look before marching back through to the kitchen. ‘I’m not sure exactly. Sometime in December, I think. Why are you so interested?’

  ‘I’m not,’ he protests, still hot on my heels, just like Bobby was, but without the endearing quality. If I went to the loo, would he try to follow me there too? ‘I’m sorry,’ he mutters, as if it’s dawned on him how bizarrely he’s behaving. ‘Of course, it’s none of my business if you’re, um, getting close to someone …’

  ‘If I’m getting close to someone?’ I almost laugh. ‘I’m not sure what you’re implying, but if you’re wondering whether there’s anything going on …’ I lower my voice to a murmur. ‘I can assure you there’s not.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ He steps back, looking shamefaced now. ‘I’m sorry. I really am. God, Viv, I can’t seem to be able to say anything right at the moment. The last thing I want to do is fall out or upset you.’

  I exhale. ‘I’d just like to get on with things now, if you don’t mind.’ Preparations for the show is what I mean – and my life. I want you to leave me alone to get on with my life.

  ‘Yes, of course. Sorry,’ he says again, then he calls up to Izzy to say he’s off now, and he’ll see her tomorrow. She says bye and waves from the top of the stairs – I don’t insist that she comes down to hug him – and just as he’s leaving he adds, ‘If there’s anything I can do to help – with the show, I mean, or your car, anything – just let me know.’

  ‘I think I’m okay, thanks,’ I say firmly as I see him out. He nods and turns away, making his way to his car. ‘Unless you can source a Pippa poncho?’ I call after him.

  He looks back, and his face brightens. For a moment, he looks like a child who’s been told he can ‘help’ to water the garden with the hose. ‘What’s a Pippa poncho?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say with a small smile. ‘At least, it’s nothing you can help with—’

  ‘Are you sure? Because, honestly, it seems like you have so much on your plate, and I only want to—’

  ‘It’s fine, Andy,’ I say firmly. ‘Thanks for your offer, I really appreciate your help and everything – but I’m fine, really. So goodnight.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Saturday, November 16

  Occasionally, at college, I’d be roped into ‘performing’ in a play – although I use the term loosely. I’d be the third cheerleader in Grease, a prostitute in A Streetcar Named Desire or simply ‘Girl’ in The Crucible, and only because I could move and speak, and was there, rather than due to any particular talent on the acting front. The truth is, an old kitchen cabinet dragged onto stage would have been more engaging to watch. And that’s what I’m reminded of now, as Nick sets up his camera in Spencer’s room. This is going to be terrible. I won’t know what to do with my hands or my face, and I’ll speak in a weird, posh voice – and now, inevitably, here it comes: a raging hot flush.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Nick asks, with a look of concern.

  ‘I’m just …’ I flap at my face with a Girl Friday sun visor (why didn’t Penny do fans?). ‘It’s a hot flush,’ I add. ‘It happens sometimes. It’s because of—’

  ‘Yes, I know what they are,’ he says, unflinchingly. ‘Can I help at all?’

  ‘Not really, unless you can do something about my hormonal fluctuations.’ I muster a smile.

  ‘That might be a bit beyond my capabilities.’ He pauses. ‘Look, I don’t want to put you under pressure,’ he adds. ‘Are you sure you’re okay to do this now?’

  I exhale. Izzy is out with her dad, so it’s an ideal opportunity to get this done; I’m feeling self-conscious enough without her insisting on watching, as I know she would. ‘Remember, I’ll shoot loads,’ he says, ‘and edit it down. So just chat naturally, like you usually do. It’ll be a conversation between us. Try to forget there’s a camera here at all.’

  I laugh. ‘I’m sorry, my brain won’t let me do that.’ But we start anyway, and as Nick prompts me with questions it starts to feel … well, not wholly natural, but not quite torturous either.

  ‘What about that trouser suit?’ he asks, indicating it hanging on Spencer’s wardrobe door. I explain its significance – the fact that it was the first outfit that the young magazines really picked up on, being so bold and beautifully cut, and it was featured widely. Soon, an actress in a soap opera wore it as her going-away outfit at her wedding, and that was it. ‘She was like an influencer of her day,’ I say. ‘Suddenly, this boutique stocked with affordable clothes that pretty much any girl could buy, became something everyone wanted a piece of.’

  He knows this, of course. But he nods encouragingly, and so I continue by explaining how, as each new piece has arrived, the Girl Friday ethos – fun, fashionable and full of life – began to come into focus for me.

  ‘I started to really get it,’ I tell him, holding up a banana-yellow cheesecloth tunic to illustrate my point. ‘I remembered how thrilling it was to go shopping with the money from my Saturday job, when I was young. I didn’t have Girl Friday, of course. That was gone by then. But it was a similar thing that Penny had set into motion the decade before. It was all about dressing up, feeling good, going out with my mates on the weekend.’

  I pause; I could almost be in my own teenage bedroom now – not my son’s – which Mum had allowed me to decorate, although my choice of purple cork-patterned wallpaper had baffled her. I wish she’d gone for something more classic, Dennis! she’d said to my dad. When I’d left home she’d redone it in magnolia.

  ‘When you grow up,’ I continue, ‘you accumulate all these responsibilities. You might enjoy yourself still – of course you do – but it’s a different kind of enjoyment. It’s not that feeling of pure, unadulterated fun and freedom that you have when you’re young. And that’s what this makes me feel.’

  I break off and look around the room, which is exactly how Spencer left it when he moved out. However, the band posters and haphazardly Blu-Tacked photos of him and his mates have been entirely obscured by the clothes I’ve strewn about everywhere. Even the window is mainly covered by a fringed suede jacket hanging there. Multicoloured patchwork dungarees hang from the back of the door, and there’s barely an inch of floor space visible for all the boots and shoes. ‘It’s like being young again,’ I add, grinning now, not caring how crazy that sounds. I have almost forgotten that the camera is there. ‘That’s what this whole project has been like for me, right from the start. It’s about joy.’

  I look at Nick, and he meets my gaze and he smiles. My heart does that thing again; that flip that catches me by surprise, as I’d never imagined I might have those kinds of feelings again, for anyone.

  He stops filming and rakes a hand through his hair. ‘That was brilliant,’ he says. ‘I knew you would be. That was just what we need.’

  ‘Are you sure I wasn’t j
ust babbling on?’ I grab a straw hat and fan at my face again.

  ‘Not at all,’ he says firmly, and I’m wondering now where it came from, that burst of confidence and ability to feel completely at ease? I might have thought it was something to do with Nick; he’s the professional, after all. He’s used to interviewing people, helping them to relax in front of a camera. It’s his job to coax the best out of people. But actually, I don’t think it was really his doing at all. Somehow, it just came from me.

  ‘Nick,’ I say as he’s leaving, ‘I’m thinking … maybe I should tell Penny tonight. We’re getting so close to the show now, and Hannah is keen to go full on with publicity, which makes sense of course. I don’t think I can hold her off for much longer.’

  He nods. Although it’s to be a free event, to attract as large an audience as possible – it’s about bringing people into the museum, not making money – it’ll still be ticketed and word is bound to get around. ‘I dread her finding out before I’ve told her,’ I add.

  ‘Yes, I think you’re right,’ he says. ‘Shall I ask her to drop in when she’s taking Bobby out tonight?’ Even though Nick’s staying with her, she still insists on doing the evening walk herself. My breath of air, as she puts it.

  ‘Good idea,’ I say. ‘I just want her to know now.’ And I smile, trying to summon the confidence that somehow filled me when he was filming tonight.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ he says, squeezing my hand. ‘Honestly, I’m sure she’ll be completely bowled over by everything you’ve done.’

  Later, 5 p.m.

  My mobile rings when I’m in the supermarket’s bakery aisle. ‘Hello, Viv? My name’s Tricia Spalding, from Love Vintage in Grange-over-Sands. You emailed me about a project you’re working on? A Girl Friday fashion show?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I say. After Nick left, and Andy brought Izzy home, she pleaded to cook dinner so we’ve nipped out to buy a few necessary ingredients. Somewhat unwillingly, I’ve left Andy at the house, mowing the grass like the eager-beaver helper he is now. Admittedly, it’s become wild out there, neglected due to my attentions being focused on the project. Even Tim had asked if I’d like him to cut it for me. What is it with all of these men, clamouring to assist me all of a sudden?

  ‘Thanks for calling,’ I continue. ‘I thought your shop looked great, from your website …’ I’m bluffing here. I have contacted literally dozens of shops, and it’s impossible to keep track, beyond noting who has already sent pieces, or has promised to.

  ‘Well, we only have one Girl Friday piece at the moment,’ she says, as Izzy takes charge of the trolley, ‘but I’d be happy to loan it to you. It’s pretty special so I’m not keen on posting it. Could you come over to pick it up?’

  ‘Where did you say you are again?’ I ask, giving Izzy a quick nod as she indicates the crumpets, not that they were on our list. She grabs a packet and drops it in our trolley.

  ‘Grange-over-Sands. The thing is, I’m closing the shop for a couple of weeks from Monday. I’m off to the States to source more stock for the shop. So, if you could maybe pop by tomorrow?’

  Pop by? I’m not sure quite how far it is, but I know it’s hardly ‘poppable’.

  ‘Would it have to be tomorrow?’ I ask. ‘Could you leave it with someone, and I can arrange to have it picked up?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I have way too much on at the moment,’ Tricia says, adopting a brisker tone.

  ‘Could you post it recorded delivery? Or courier it to me? I’d cover the cost, of course.’

  ‘No, things are always getting lost,’ she says, ‘and I want to make sure it gets to you. You see, this poncho—’

  ‘A poncho?’ I gasp. ‘You mean, an actual Girl Friday poncho? The Pippa poncho?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, as if to say, what else would it be?

  ‘Is it orange, brown and yellow, with pompoms at the neck?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it.’

  ‘And is it in good condition?’ I ask, my heart racing. I am in a state of heightened excitement over an item of knitwear, I realise. What has happened to me?

  ‘Everything we have is in excellent condition,’ she says, in a clipped tone. ‘So, look, if you’d like to borrow it, it’ll need to be picked up tomorrow, I’m afraid. I’d love to be more helpful but that’s the best I can do for you.’ It occurs to me now that perhaps she is testing me, to see how much I really want to borrow this thing. ‘D’you have my shop’s address?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, I do. And I’m sure I can sort something …’ But I have no car, I realise. Could I do it by train and take Izzy with me? It really is the last thing I need to fit into my Sunday, and I can’t see how it’s doable. Plus, I’m supposed to be meeting four actors for coffee in the afternoon; all striking, confident women whom I know from way back when we worked together, and who seemed amused but intrigued by the idea of a little catwalk modelling. With only two weeks to go now, I decided I’d have to pull out all the stops, or we’d have a mountain of clothes and no one to model them. A headache starts to niggle at my temples. Izzy has deposited a packet of iced doughnuts in our trolley and is marching off in search of Parmesan.

  ‘I’ll leave that with you then,’ Tricia says briskly. ‘If you could let me know when it’s being picked up, I’ll be sure to open up the shop.’

  Later still, 8.20 p.m.

  Nick has texted, saying that Penny is ‘staying over on the love boat tonight’, meaning Hamish’s narrowboat. So telling her will have to wait. Perhaps it’s just as well, as Andy is here again, having asked if he could drop off a couple of books he’d bought for Izzy to help with her wetland habitats projects.

  I seem to be seeing more of him than when we were together. Although his reasons for visits are valid, I’m not sure that we can continue in this way. But, for the moment, I’m putting on a cordial front for Izzy’s sake.

  ‘So, how’s it all going?’ he asks now, as we clear the table after Izzy’s baked courgettes. It twisted my heart a little to see how happy she was, all three of us eating together. Delighted with the books, she insisted he stayed to watch Izzy Cooks! and, naturally, to enjoy the resulting dish. ‘With the fashion show, I mean,’ he adds.

  ‘Pretty good,’ I reply. ‘I’m meeting the women who I hope will be our models tomorrow. At least, some of them. We need a span of all ages and it’s the older ones who seem to be trickier to find.’

  ‘Could you do it?’ he remarks, at which I laugh.

  ‘I don’t think so, do you?’

  ‘Why not?’

  I study his face, wondering if he’s having me on. Izzy is pottering about in her room, and Andy seems to be in no hurry to rush back to his flat. ‘I’m more of a behind-the-scenes person,’ I say. ‘You know that. And anyway, I’ll kind of have my hands full on the day.’

  ‘Have all the clothes arrived now?’ He really is taking quite a keen interest.

  ‘Nearly, but there are still a few things I need. I was really hoping to find a poncho, d’you remember me saying?’

  ‘Erm, I think so,’ he says noncommittally.

  ‘Well, I’ve found one, but it’s in Grange-over-Sands and the owner refuses to post it. I have to collect it, she says. Tomorrow.’

  ‘Really? Christ, I bet you don’t need that.’

  I sigh. ‘I’ve decided I can’t do it. Rearranging meeting the models is too complicated, and we’re kind of running out of time now. The posters have been designed, and Spencer’s friends, remember Callum and Mark—’

  ‘Er, yeah …’ he says vaguely.

  ‘Well, they’ve come up with a design for the runway. So, you know, we’re getting there.’

  ‘It’s so impressive,’ he says, perching on the kitchen table.

  ‘I’ll just have to forget about the poncho,’ I add. ‘Without a car it’d be a nightmare to get there.’

  ‘Where is Grange-over-Sands?’ he asks.

  ‘Well, it’s on the coast …’

  ‘Obviously …’

  My jaw tightens.
‘It’s in Cumbria, about a hundred and sixty miles away.’

  ‘I could do it,’ he says, affecting a casual tone.

  I look at him, wanting to laugh. ‘That would be crazy, Andy. Don’t be silly.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t,’ he says, sounding hurt.

  ‘You mean you’d do a five-hour round trip just to pick up a poncho?’

  ‘If it’s important to you, then yes, of course I would.’

  I stare at him, not entirely sure if he’s serious. And I can’t help but think of the time when we were having a birthday party for Izzy, and I’d promised to make mocktails with crushed ice, and realised I’d forgotten to make ice. Would he nip out to buy some? ‘Couldn’t you make some?’ he suggested. There wasn’t time, I exclaimed. Did he think I could freeze water instantly, perhaps by staring at it? I ended up rushing out and buying ice cubes myself, and he commented that I seemed ‘a bit agitated’ as I battered them into shards with a rolling pin.

  ‘What’s the address?’ he asks now.

  ‘This is mad, Andy. Just forget it. We can do without it, okay?’

  ‘But you said it’s iconic,’ he insists. ‘It’s the piece used in the famous adverts, you told me.’ My God, he’s started referring to a garment as a ‘piece’. Does that mean he’s actually been listening to me? ‘And if this shop has one,’ he adds, ‘and it’s the only one you’ve been offered, then surely it’s important to go and get it?’

  ‘Honestly, it doesn’t matter. We can do without it. If I’d been desperate I’d have asked Nick, but I decided it was far too big a trip—’

  ‘Just give me the address,’ he cuts in.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Why not?’ He frowns at me, clearly exasperated.

  ‘Because …’ I exhale. ‘Look, I know what you’re doing here.’

  ‘I’m not trying to do anything,’ he protests. ‘I mean, I’m just trying to help.’

  I look at him, holding back from what I really want to say, and what we both know; that he is trying to make it up to me. He wants – well, I don’t know what he wants exactly. Perhaps he just wants to make things right between us. We’re still Spencer and Izzy’s parents, after all; still a team, of sorts. But maybe it’s more than that, and he really thinks we could mend our marriage, and somehow get over everything that’s happened since he went to that conference, over a year ago now.