Sitting Pretty Page 6

  I called her a drama queen and we were both still chuckling when we said goodnight.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I dreamt I was sitting in a theatre waiting for Alex, his seat empty beside me. There was a couple, in seats much closer to the stage, having an argument. I couldn’t hear what they were saying and I could only see them from behind, but that was enough. He was wearing a cornflower blue shirt, his dark hair just resting on the collar, and his movements and gestures were Mediterranean. Why was he sitting with her? What were they arguing about?

  I called to him but, while other people around me turned to me with disapproving shushes even though the show hadn’t yet started, he didn’t hear me. So I got out of my seat, edged my way past the people seated in our row, and made my way down to theirs. Except when I got to where I thought they were, I couldn’t find them.

  ‘Alex!’ I started calling in one of those not quite shouts we use when we only want to attract the attention of one person and not that of everyone else around them. As if it’s the human alternative to the kind of whistle that can only be heard by dogs. ‘Alex!’

  There was no sign of him or his companion – who I wouldn’t have recognised anyway – but I kept on calling. More people were looking at me, tutting and muttering amongst themselves, but I didn’t care. I ran further down and scanned the faces, all the way to the front, even though I knew they hadn’t been that far down when I saw them. Not a sign of them.

  I ran back up towards where my seat had been so I could look towards them and get my bearings again, but now I couldn’t find my seat either. The lights were starting to dim but I couldn’t stop running up that never ending aisle.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘Wakey wakey, rise and shine,’ Mum cooed, as she brought me a cup of tea in bed the next morning. ‘We’ve just had a little walk to the paper shop. Oh, and I’ve put the washing machine on, seeing as the pixies seem to have left a load of T-shirts and things in it last night.’ She raised an eyebrow at me.

  ‘Aw thanks, Mum. I was going to do it as soon as I got up,’ I said, guiltily. I’d forgotten to say anything about it last night.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she waved it away with her free hand. ‘It’s a lovely day, so it’ll dry quickly on the line. Full English in half an hour? I expect my new boyfriend will join us, but he’ll only want a sausage!’

  ‘Very funny, Mum,’ I groaned, wishing I hadn’t told her about my misinterpretation of her note.

  ‘Fried eggs or scrambled?’ She put my cup and saucer down on the bedside table.

  ‘Scrambled, please,’ I yawned. Nobody made scrambled eggs like my mum, all creamy and peppery and … I snuggled back under the floral duvet and then realised what she’d just said about the dog. ‘Don’t give Rex any sausage,’ I shouted, as she was closing the bedroom door behind her – I’d thought she was joking last night, when she told me that was what she’d called him. I wondered how many Andrex puppies there were out there called Rex.

  ‘All right. I’ll just give him some bacon,’ I heard her chuckle. She knew how to wind me up.

  Damn! I was wide awake now. I’d have to have a lie in tomorrow – I certainly wouldn’t be getting one on Monday. This weekend was going to turn into a busman’s holiday if I wasn’t careful.

  Sitting up and reaching for my tea, the full daylight horror of the newly decorated guest room battered my senses. It felt as if I’d been hit around the head with the entire Diary of an Edwardian Lady catalogue from my childhood, while being kidnapped and held hostage in the floral fabrics department of Liberty’s. There were enough cabbage roses, sprigs of honeysuckle, and big green leaves to give an agoraphobic nightmares. It was a bedroom that Hyacinth Bucket woman would have been proud of – and what a sad indictment of my television viewing over the years, that I knew that. It had been bad enough last night, by bedside lamplight, but in the harsh light of day it was extraordinarily claustrophobic.

  I gave an involuntary shudder, took a sip of my hot tea and nipped along to the bathroom, nearly tripping over he who was not to be given bacon or sausages.

  ‘How do you fancy a little trip along Oxford Street today?’ Mum asked as she put my overloaded plate down in front of me. Two rashers of bacon – rind on. She’s the only person I know who can still find that in the shops. Two sausages, a creamy cloud of scrambled eggs, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms to complete the meal and, just in case a square inch of plate should still be visible, a Daddy Bear-sized spoon of baked beans. This was a breakfast fit for a well-built workman who’d been doing manual labour since the crack of dawn. And it was the most beautiful thing I’d seen or smelled since … well … probably since last time I came home for a visit. My stomach rumbled in both anticipation and appreciation and I could feel myself salivating. Rex was salivating too, all over my feet, but he was wasting his time doing the puppy dog eyes thing with me. They reminded me of Alex’s eyes, huge, soulful, the colour of dark chocolate.

  ‘I don’t know, Mum,’ I hedged. ‘I’ve done an awful lot of walking this week. Even more than usual.’ Which was true if you added being dragged round Wintertown Park by Wendell to my usual dog walks. The last thing I wanted to do was wander round the shops. If I didn’t buy anything myself then she’d buy something for me, and I was already keeping my entire wardrobe in the back of my Sitting Pretty car. It didn’t need anything else adding to it or the suspension would go, and I’d have fun explaining the contents of my boot to Davina.

  ‘They’ve got some lovely things in the sale in Debenhams at the moment,’ Mum slotted the toast rack in front of me, between the salt and pepper and the butter, and sat down. ‘And the Christmas mayhem hasn’t started yet so you can still actually put one foot in front of the other without treading on somebody’s toes. I thought we could pop in to the bistro and have a spot of lunch.’

  ‘Mum, after this plateful I don’t think I’ll have room for any lunch.’ I noticed she was only having scrambled eggs, mushrooms, and tomatoes.

  ‘Well then, by the time we’ve done a bit of shopping we’ll be in perfect time for afternoon tea there,’ she smiled, a cajoling tone in her voice. How could I make her understand how much I didn’t even want to set foot outside the front door until I had to on Monday morning without telling her why?

  ‘We could do some baking and have our own afternoon tea,’ I suggested. ‘I was thinking,’ I carried on, warming to my theme, ‘about making you a nice lasagne or shepherds’ pie for dinner tonight anyway,’ I white-lied. ‘We could make your gorgeous chocolate cake and some scones and little sandwiches?’

  ‘I don’t think I have all the ingredients. We’d need to pop out and buy some bits.’ That thought seemed to perk her up. ‘We’ll make a list straight after breakfast. Now eat up!’

  My idea of a quick food shop in this area involved one of us nipping along to Morrisons on Chalk Farm Road, blitzing the shopping list, and getting back in the time it took the kettle to boil. But Mum had other ideas. I wasn’t in a position to argue too much as she insisted on paying, and I didn’t want to spoil her fun so, eco-friendly carrier bags in hand – more than I thought we could possibly need, which worried me, knowing my mother – I followed her into Whole Foods Market on Parkway. I noticed a few bits of multi-coloured tinsel and other festive bits and pieces were already starting to appear in odd windows. We were never going to be nipping in and out quickly.

  ‘Ooh, look at these gorgeous raspberries.’ Mum sniffed the punnet she was holding up and sighed. ‘They really smell like raspberries. They’re cheaper if you get two. Let’s make a Pavlova!’ Two punnets of properly-smelling raspberries went into the trolley. They were not on the list.

  ‘OK, Mum, we need,’ I consulted the list, ‘cocoa …’

  ‘Don’t those fresh corn on the cobs look delicious, too!’

  ‘They won’t go with lasagne, Mum …’

  And so it went on, me following Mum round the shop like a parent chasing a toddler round a sweet
shop. She really was determined to give us both a workout, lugging bulging bags of produce home. I was beginning to wonder if my mother was developing a shopping problem. Maybe I should buy her one of Sophie Kinsella’s Shopaholic books. Or maybe not – if I was right, she’d probably end up going out and buying the whole set.

  The kitchen looked like Mary Berry, Nigella, and the remaining Fat Lady had had a food fight in it by the time Mum and I had finished our Great Chalk Farm Bake Off. On the positive side, Mum had produced a stunning looking Pavlova, and fruit scones which would look at home served in the finest of cream teas. Slightly less positive were my efforts.

  We’d forgotten the fresh lasagne sheets even though they were on the list, and my cottage pie had been cooked at too high a heat, so was a bit crisp round the edges. And my attempt at Mum’s chocolate cake recipe felt like it could make a good door stop. I might just have got the plain and self-rising flour mixed up there. Mum insisted, however, that a good layer of butter cream slathered in the middle and on top, would solve all its problems. If only a good slathering of butter and icing sugar would sort my life out.

  Out of nowhere, a wave of sadness about Alex had washed over me while I was mashing the potatoes for the pie. He’d always teased me about my lumpy mash. Mind you, his mother used to faff about, shoving hers through a sieve, so I’d always thought, like most Greek sons, he’d been a little bit spoilt. It took me by surprise to find a teeny tiny traitorous part of me couldn’t help wishing he was here to tease me again.

  If Mum had noticed anything she hadn’t said. In fact, she’d barely mentioned him at all, much to my relief. She’d never been one of those mothers who asked a lot of questions, but had always encouraged me to come to her if there was anything I wanted to tell her. Growing up, my school friends had all been envious of her easy-going approach, but now it made me feel guilty that there were important things I should be telling her that I wasn’t. She’d be horrified to know my recent sleeping arrangements, but I just couldn’t bring myself to tell her. You’d think I was eight, not twenty-eight.

  ‘What do you fancy in the sandwiches?’ Mum asked over the top of the fridge door. ‘We’ve got that lovely piece of Double Gloucestershire with the chives in it. And the breaded ham. I could boil up some eggs and do egg mayonnaise, and I’ve got a nice tin of sardines somewhere …’

  ‘Mum! There’s only two of us,’ I chuckled, making her smile too. ‘Two types of sandwiches will be just fine. Let’s have one round of cheese and one of ham.’

  Instead of sitting at the dining table, we laid everything out on the coffee table and watched Mamma Mia on DVD, knees tucked under us on the sofa, while we scoffed our sandwiches, scones, and cake. The cake actually wasn’t too bad now I’d stuck the one-inch-thick layers of dense sponge together with half an inch of filling and plastered a further half an inch over the top.

  We sang along between mouthfuls of food and swigs of tea, Mum with some very interesting variations on the lyrics. Benny and Bjorn would be horrified if they could hear her version of Does Your Mother Know? I know I was.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  My dreams that night took on a Greek theme again, with me trying to get to one of the islands to meet up with Alex, but not being able to remember which one. My ticket was only in Greek and I couldn’t recognise a word on it.

  There I was, running around the Port of Piraeus like a lunatic, asking anybody who looked even vaguely Greek and who’d stop a moment, to read my ticket and tell me where I was supposed to go. Nobody seemed to understand me.

  Pou Einai …? – Where is …? That was about the only Greek phrase I could remember. Without the name of an island to tag on the end of it, however, there wasn’t much point in me saying it to people.

  I tried to see if I could match any of the writing on the boat signs with the writing on my ticket, but none of the letters matched to anything – they didn’t even seem to be using the same alphabet. The Greek alphabet had quite a lot of our letters with some boxy ones and some angular ones. The more I looked at my ticket the more squiggly the letters became.

  All I could think about was how I would ever see Alex again if I didn’t find the right boat. I was already exhausted, but it felt like I was destined to run round and round this port for ever.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sunday morning, Mum very thoughtfully took Rex out for a walk. Then she shut him in the utility room and put the joint of beef she’d bought in the oven, and headed off to the half past nine service at St Marks, leaving me to my much dreamed of lie-in. At least that’s what she told me she’d done – she could have gone on a shopping rampage for all I knew – I was still in the land of nod when she tapped on the door and brought me a cup of tea at ten to eleven.

  I couldn’t believe the time. But after our afternoon and evening of watching soppy films and stuffing our faces and a quick walk on Primrose Hill with Rex, an- uninterrupted, this time – soak in the bath tub had sent me straight to sleep. I woke up feeling refreshed and ready for anything. Which was just as well, as Mum had invited a couple of our old neighbours she’d bumped into at church round for lunch, proving she had indeed been there.

  ‘Oh good, you’re dressed.’ Mum glanced up from the oven where she was shaking her roast potatoes. ‘Can you lay the table, Beth? Best use the good china. Don’t forget the sherry glasses.’

  The need for sherry glasses told me exactly which old neighbours were coming to lunch. They had actually lived just round the corner from us while I was growing up – two little bird-like old ladies, sisters, I think, who probably weren’t old at all back then but just seemed so to a child. One of them had crocheted me an orange and turquoise poncho, I remembered. It’d be nice to see the old dears, but there’d be a lot of talk about knitting patterns, the old days when we lived up the road, and telling me how much I’d grown.

  Sure enough, at half past twelve on the dot, the doorbell rang. Mum was bent over the oven again, doing something with the Yorkshire puddings, so I answered it.

  ‘Hello,’ I beamed at them. Blimey! I didn’t know which was the eldest, but they both looked about a hundred and three – they really must have been old ladies when I was at school. ‘It’s lovely to see you again. Come in.’

  ‘Who are you?’ The one in the cream cardigan blinked at me and stayed put on the doorstep. ‘Who is she?’ she nudged her sister.

  ‘That’s Beth, dear, Vivian’s daughter,’ the one in the in the peach cardigan enunciated loudly in her ear.

  ‘Vivian’s girl?’ She peered at me, doubtfully.

  ‘Hello, Doris, hello, Celia,’ Mum called over my shoulder. ‘Why are you keeping them on the doorstep, Beth?’ She ushered them in while I shut the door. Neither of them wanted to be parted from their cardigans or the large, squishy handbags they each had hooked over their arms, so Mum led them along the hallway in a kind of slow motion, four-legged race towards the lounge. ‘Would you both like a nice little glass of sherry before we eat?’

  ‘What was that?’ This was the lady in the cream cardigan – I was going to have to find out which was which. I’d only ever known them both as Miss Wilkinson.

  ‘I’ll go and pour them.’ I edged back into the kitchen and lined up the four glasses – I’d have a tot of Mum’s cooking whisky in mine – this was going to be a very long lunch.

  ‘So the one in the cream cardigan who’s hard of hearing is Doris and the one in peach is Celia,’ Mum reminded me as I took their glasses in.

  ‘Right,’ I said, setting up a little mantra in my head. Doris is the deaf one, Doris is the deaf one.

  ‘It’s only us!’ Mum called as she came back in through the front door, Rex lolloping ahead of her and barking his hello to me. ‘Shall we have a cup of tea before starting on the washing up? Oh!’ She followed him into the kitchen. ‘You’ve already done it.’

  ‘Well, you cooked. Sit down, Mum, I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Mum and Rex had walked Doris and Celia ho
me, along with the remains of the roast beef for them and a couple of Mum’s scones from yesterday. I suspect Rex had been disappointed that the beef wasn’t a treat for him. Mum said she was being good with him, but I’d be very surprised if those puppy dog eyes of his hadn’t been scoring him all sorts of things she shouldn’t be giving him.

  ‘They were pleased to have seen you. They often ask after you.’ Mum hung up Rex’s lead. ‘Celia was wondering when you were going to be joining Alex in Dubai …’ She let that sentence dangle and I knew that if I didn’t say something about the situation she would definitely know that everything wasn’t as rosy as I wanted her to think.

  It wasn’t like Mum to put me on the spot, and I suspected Celia’s question had given her a nudge to do so. I didn’t want to tell her any actual lies even though I’d been lying by omission. But I had to think of something to say, and I had to think quickly.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  That night, my dreams found me looking into a wall of televisions in an electrical shop window. Each one of them had me on the screen. I couldn’t stop myself gazing at them in fascinated horror.

  In some, I was stretched out on the sofa in Henry Halliday’s back room with Talisker on my chest. In others, I was snuggled on his spare bed with Tal on the pillow next to me. In a few more, Anthony and Cleopatra were looking bemused to see me on their sofa. In another group of them, I was trying to escape the toxic rear end of Bart the stinky wolfhound.

  And there were plenty more. The screens went on. And on. And there I was, in high definition for all the world to see – well everyone else who was on that street anyway, which was very busy, wherever it was.

  Rushing inside, I tried to find somebody to turn them off, but although there were suddenly crowds of people milling about in the shop, nobody seemed to work there. I’d switch them off myself, I decided, and started to look for their cables to see where they were plugged in.