Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Coarse language must not ever cross the lips of a well-bred Good Woman! ‘Gosh, darn it’ may occasionally be acceptable at times of high frustration.

Matilda Beam’sGuide to Love and Romance, 1955

‘You must be Jessica.’

I recognize the timid voice from the intercom as a heavy-set girl with a shy, slightly buck-toothed smile and a dusting of freckles across her nose opens the door. She’s in her mid-twenties and pretty in a scrubbed, wholesome, countryside kind of a way. She’s wearing a cream-coloured apron over her long skirt and huge navy T-shirt, and her frizzy, mousy brown hair is tied back into a thick plait.

‘I’m Peach.’ She doesn’t quite make eye contact but offers a chubby hand, the nails short and painted with clear varnish.

‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, taking her hand. ‘Though I’m not feeling quite so peachy, I’m afraid.’ I indicate the now almost fully ripped bin bag.

‘No, no. Um, my name is Peach,’ she says quietly, rounded cheeks turning blotchy red. ‘Um, Peach Carmichael. I’m Mrs Beam’s assistant.’

‘Oh! Cool name.’

Grandma has staff!

‘Mrs Beam will receive y’all in the parlour.’

She’ll receive me in the parlour? I snort and look around, half expecting Cousin Matthew to pop out from under the stairs. I’d totally do Cousin Matthew.

We head into the flat and the beautiful, magnificent dwelling I was expecting to see, based on the outside appearance of the building, does not materialize. At all. The entrance way is grand and wide, of course, but it’s really dingy too. I peer at the ceiling and see a huge, extravagant crystal chandelier, but only one of the bulbs is lit up – the other eight are busted. We turn a corner and walk down a dimly lit hallway. Wow. There’s clutter everywhere. It’s absolutely chockablock with stuff. Loads and loads of stuff. I bump into a stone bust of some dude’s head, and then stumble backwards into a clunky old vacuum cleaner, finally tripping up on a tall stack of newspapers. It’s like playing hallway Mousetrap. I topple over and land on my bum, my face squashed up against a misshapen tennis racket.

‘Hallllp.’

Peach spins round in horror. ‘Oh my.’

‘I thought I was messy!’ I yelp, peeling my face off the racket and pressing on my ankle to check for damage. Peach holds out a hand to pull me up.

‘Are you hurt? I’m ever so sorry. I’m so used to weavin’ and dodgin’ about this hallway, I forget it’s an obstacle course for guests.’ She shrugs slightly. ‘Not that we have many guests, mind you, besides Gavin the postman.’

‘I’m all right.’ I scramble back up and brush down my skinny jeans.

Stepping carefully over an intricate mother-of-pearl grandfather clock face, I look around me in astonishment. This hallway is David Dickinson’s wet dream. Which might be the grossest thought I’ve ever had.

‘Wow, you guys should do a Cash in the Attic.’

Peach looks serious. ‘We can’t even get the attic door open. Mrs Beam … well, Mrs Beam likes her belongings around her.’

‘Yeah, I can see that.’ I negotiate a side table with two old, unplugged telephones on it. What the actual fuck?

And then Peach opens another big door and ushers me into a large, grand room. The ceilings are just as high as in the hallway, and one claret-coloured wall is festooned with a gallery of gilt-framed oil paintings. The other three walls are taken up with crammed-to-the-brim bookcases. I hear the wails of that creepy 1950s Bobby Helms song ‘My Special Angel’echoing out from an old-fashioned record player by the huge sash window. And there in the far corner of the room, sitting primly on a stiff-looking duck-egg-blue chair, head buried in a book, is my grandma. She’s thin, and although she’s sitting down, I can tell that she’s tall. Her silvery white hair is styled in what I reckon is supposed to be a Grace Kelly-style chignon, but there’s a mass of frizzy tendrils escaping at the temples, creating a kind of wild halo effect. Grandma peers curiously up from her book and I see that, like me, she’s wearing glasses. Only hers aren’t cool tortoiseshell ones but big red ones that are winged at the corners with those super-thick lenses that make eyes look cartoon-massive. She looks a bit like a Tim Burton creation. And not in the good way.

‘Um, Mrs Beam, Jessica Beam is here to see you.’

The old woman gasps.

Eek.

A grandma. My grandma.

This is bizarre.

This is too freaking bizarre.

What am I bloody doing here?

It was such a ridiculous idea.

That stupid uncomfortable itch starts to crawl over my scalp.

OK, chill out, Jess. Keep it casual, keep it light. Get her to like you, get her to lend you some of her megabucks, go to Jamaica. Ooh, or maybe New Zealand. Send her a nice postcard, pay her back, ring her at Christmas, blah blah, fly to Peru or St Lucia, live happily ever after, amen, etc. All good in the hood.

‘Er, hello. I’m Jessica. Jess,’ I say, awkwardly trying to shove my hands into the pockets of my skinny jeans before realizing that they’re those trendy fake pockets and I’m essentially just rubbing myself up. ‘I’m Rose’s daughter. Your granddaughter, actually. Sorry to turn up out of the blue uninvited, but … I couldn’t stay away. Er … I couldn’t fight it.’

Did I just quote an Adele song? Why am I acting weird?

‘I’ll leave y’all to it,’ Peach murmurs so gently that I barely hear her, then she lumbers, shoulders hunched, back out of the room.

Grandma squints at me and places her book onto the mahogany side table before standing up from the chair more fluidly than I thought she would, considering the whole being a gazillion years old thing. She’s wearing a stiff-looking pink wool skirt and a long-sleeved white silk blouse. One of the buttons on the blouse has a frayed piece of cotton trailing from it.

‘J-Jessica? Baby Jessica? Is it … is it really you?’ she exclaims in the most ridiculously posh accent. She presses a wrinkly hand to her chest, gigantic eyes blinking rapidly. ‘Oh my goodness me, you’re here!’

At fucking last! Someone on this earth is pleased to see me.

‘Yes!’ I say grandly, with a beatific smile. ‘I am here … Here I am.’

‘Oh, Jessica,’ she wails, a bit dramatically if we’re being honest. She looks up towards her intricately corniced ceiling and, shaking her head, says, ‘Thank you, God! Thank you for bringing her to me.’

Wow. OK. This woman is dead happy to see me. Why was I even worried about coming here for help? I can already taste the Sex on the Beach, feel the sun-warmed sand between my toes, the hands of a well-hung Australian hottie rubbing factor fifteen on my back. Summer can do one. She doesn’t need me any more? Well, I don’t need her. I’ve got a grandma now.

‘Yeah, it’s top, isn’t it?’ I grin. ‘I don’t know why we left it so long. To be completely truthful, I didn’t really think about you at all until this morning. Mum never really talked about … ’

I trail off as I notice Grandma is on the move. She’s inching towards me with her arms outstretched. Is she … is she coming in for a hug? She must be. On the telly, grandmas are always hugging people. Hugging and pinching cheeks and kissing you on the mouth.

Oh no.

As she gets closer, I notice her gigantic eyes are full of tears. Huge old-lady tears. My most prominent instinct is to back away, protect my cheeks from her bony, pinching hands, my lips from her lips. I am living my nightmare. I want to shout ‘Stay right where you are!’, but I know I mustn’t. It would be really mean to reject her emotional advance.

I’m just going to have to style it out.

Grandma moves with surprising speed and before I know it she is here, right in front of me. She grabs my face. Her hands are cold. As cold as ice.

‘Poor, orphaned, homeless Jessica. I’ve waited years for you. What a terrible time you’ve been through.’ She examines me with an expression of pure pity. ‘Look at you, you poor, impoverished creature.’

Huh? How on earth does she know I’m homeless and impoverished? And what is she on about − ‘waited years’? I’m all over the bloody Internet. If it meant that much then surely she could have tracked me down by now? It took me less than five minutes to find her.

Before I get the chance to ask what the fuck is occurring, her long thin arms close around me.

Grandma is a dementor.

I squeeze my eyes shut, hold my breath as she pulls me close and—

‘ -REEEEAAAOOWWW!’

‘Good heavens!’

‘Shiiiit!’

Mr Belding leaps out of my leather jacket.

Cockwaffle. I’d completely forgotten he was there! He darts up into the air, hissing, quite understandably, at the fact that he’s just been almost squished to death in a me-and-Grandma sandwich. Then he lands on my shoulder, claws piercing my décolletage in what I suspect is one of the most physically painful events of my life so far.

‘ARGH, MR BELDING, YOU SHITHEAD!’

My swear bounces off the walls of the huge room and echoes back at me. Grandma waddles quickly backwards in surprise, her nostrils flaring. Her lips wobble again. She’s got wobbly lips. Her face is now full on Cullen white.

‘Good grief,’ she croaks, reaching out for the arm of her chair to steady herself. ‘Good grief.’

‘Holy shit, I’m sorry,’ I mutter, trying to peel Mr Belding off my shoulder. ‘I forgot he was in there!’

‘Why … why on earth do you have a cat about your person?’ She points a long finger at Mr Belding balancing on my shoulder. ‘I can’t bear it! Is it some sort of street thing? A trick?’

‘Street thing? Whaaa?’

‘Oh goodness, do you use its body for warmth? To elicit sympathy when, dear God … when you’re begging for coins? Is that why it’s wearing a hat?’

Begging for coins? Wait − does she think I’m properly homeless?

I did not expect that I would be the confused party in this scenario, yet right at this moment I’m even more puzzled than I am any time a character in EastEnders sleeps with Phil Mitchell.

I successfully unhook Mr Belding from my shoulder and set him down on the floor. He saunters towards Grandma but she shoos him away with a neatly folded copy of The Lady.

‘I’m not actually homeless!’ I say. ‘Well, I suppose I am, technically, sort of homeless. But not in the, er, the tramp way. At least not yet . . . Why the heck would you—’

‘You don’t need to hide it, Jessica. I may be elderly but I am not senile. I certainly know a down-and-out when I see one. Only a vagrant would carry their worldly possessions in an old, shabby plastic bag. Only a vagabond would be forced to wear a pair of child-sized trousers. The coarse language, the scent of rough liquor … ’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘The unwashed clothing … ’ I peek down and spot the grey thong once again peeping out of the top of the bin bag. Shit. I thought I’d stuffed that back in.

‘You’ve got the wrong idea about—’

‘As if it wasn’t already clear enough, you have written the word “house” on your hand.’

I look down at where I started writing ‘house party playlist epic’ on my hand. I rub at the biro before plonking down onto a navy velvet chair by the window.

‘Look, I think we’ve totally got our wires crossed. I’m one hundred per cent not a street dweller. I promise. These are not a child’s denim trousers. They are awesome skinny jeans. They’re supposed to be super tight. It’s sexy! And I’ve had a really shitty day, ergo the smell of tequila − you know how life gets. I’m using a bin bag because I was in a mad rush and couldn’t find a suitcase. See? A complete misunderstanding. Can we please start over again?’

Grandma doesn’t answer. Just bites her lip, fiddles with the cotton thread on her blouse and stares at me through narrowed, watery eyes.

Fuck. This is not going to plan. I need to recover the situation. Warm things up a bit before I ask to borrow money. I shall use my sunny disposition.

‘Your house is really lovely,’ I say with my sunniest, most granddaughterly smile. ‘Properly fancy.’ Peering around, I notice, on the wall, a portrait of a grand-looking woman sitting regally beside a Dalmatian. ‘I like your picture.’ I point up at it. ‘What a stunning girl! That bone structure. Gorgeous. She’s the absolute image of Kiera Knightley!’

‘That is my father. Your great-grandfather.’

‘Oh God, I’m sorry. The cheekbones … I just thought . . . ’ I swallow the words down, my face buzzing with heat. ‘What’s your book?’ I swiftly change the subject, noticing the hardback resting on her side table. Good old books: always a safe topic.

I wander over and pick it up. Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I immediately picture Sean Bean’s bum. ‘Ooh, saucy,’ I say in an odd drawl that sounds a bit pervy. Argh.

I cough. ‘I do love to read, you know. Must run in the family! I read everything. Not just books. Also newspapers, magazines, leaflets, posters … er, greetings cards, road signs, books again. Minds. Ha-ha. Only kidding … or am I … ?’ Grandma’s mouth drops open. I clear my throat again. ‘Yeah, yeah … Read, read, read, that’s me! Might as well call me Jessica Beam Reading Machine. Or Jessica Beam Madam Readalot. Um. Something like that, anyway… er … ’

‘Oh, dear me.’ Grandma’s eyes brim with fat tears once more. ‘I do believe you’re experiencing some kind of emotional crisis. This is not a surprise, considering . . . ’ She clasps her bony hands together. ‘Where is your husband, Jessica? Where is he to help you?’ She looks frantically around the room as if this husband might suddenly magic up from behind the walnut dresser.

I snort. ‘I promise you I’m not having an “emotional crisis” − so not my thing. And as for a husband? I’m only twenty-eight. I obviously don’t have a husband.’

Grandma purses her lips extra tightly so that the edges of them turn as white as her face. ‘You are one of those … career women?’

‘Er, actually, nope. I lost my job as a blogger today.’ I give a sad shrug. ‘Which was extra rubbish because I lived with my boss. Who was my best friend. So I lost my house too.’

‘A blogger? Dear God.’ She sways slightly.

I wonder what she thinks a blogger is? Now is probably not the time to explain.

‘I can fix all of this,’ she whispers, almost to herself. ‘You did the best thing to come to me. Let me redeem myself. Let me help you.’

She wants to help me! This is it. This is my cue.

‘Well, Mrs Beam, Grandma, there is something I wanted to ask you, actually. It’s a bit random, I know, but, well … is there any chance I could borrow some cash? Obviously I will pay back every single penny as soon as I get myself sorted out. I promise. But as you can probably tell, I’m in a bit of a tight spot and a little money would help to get me back on my feet again. And I know that we’re practically strangers, so maybe I could leave something of mine with you as insurance. Like a deposit-type thing. How about Mr Belding? Or this high-quality genuine leather bomber jacket? Whatever you want. What do you think? I’d be ever so grateful.’

Grandma lifts her elegant chin, silver eyebrows dipped, and gives a precise shake of her head. ‘Oh, Jessica, of course I will help you in any way I can − ’ Yessss − ‘but . . . I shan’t lend you money.’ Nooooo.

‘Oh. Right.’

My stomach clunks with disappointment. I’ve well and truly buggered this up. Of course she isn’t going to give me money. Why on earth would she? I’ve literally rocked up unannounced, perved on Lady Chatterley’s Lover, insulted her dad, revealed my most skanky set of grey knickers, had my stolen kitten jump out and scare the living daylights out of her and then topped it off with a casual loan request. What else did I expect her to say?

Fuck.

‘I won’t give you money, Jessica, but of course you should stay here with me.’ Grandma flings her arms around the grand living room to demonstrate ‘here’ before propping her red glasses back onto her nose. Her massive eyes stare me out. ‘I will help you through this.’ She gives me a worried, imploring-type look and steps forward, skinny arms reaching towards me once more.

I back away, escaping the embrace. I might well be in a gigantic life-pickle right now, but I’m pretty sure that living here with this bizarre, teary-eyed old lady who thinks she ought to ‘fix’ me is my actual worst nightmare. Yes, we may be related, but I know nothing about this woman and she knows even less about me. Mum, for whatever reason, made sure of that.

However … I’m all out of options. Really, truly out of options.

I stifle a yawn, pull out my iPhone and check the time. It’s already after bloody eight. Shit. What else am I going to do now? I suppose I could stay here for a couple of nights, just while I make some proper plans. I mean, who knows, maybe Summer will have cooled down in a few days. In fact, by then, she’ll have realized that Summer in the City is nowhere near as good without all my work and she’ll be begging me to come back …

I meet Grandma’s intense gaze.

‘Maybe I could stay for a couple of nights?’ I fight another yawn. ‘If, er, that’s all right with you?’

She breaks into a full-on smile. It transforms her face. She looks just like my mum.

Something tilts uncomfortably inside my chest and the itch on my head spreads over my whole body. This is not a good idea.

Taking a little white porcelain bell from her side table, Grandma gives it a delicate shake. Peach, a solemn look on her round face, materializes super quickly, almost as if she’s been earwigging outside the door.

‘Peach, Jessica will be staying with us for a while—’

‘Just a couple of nights.’

‘Please show her to the front guest room and help her to unpack her belongings—’

‘I don’t need to unpack.’ I pick up my bin bag. ‘No point, if I’m just going to leave again in two days.’

Grandma continues talking to Peach as if I hadn’t spoken. Her voice is Mary Poppins-ish. ‘There are plenty of clothes hangers in the wardrobe.’ Glancing down at my bag, she wrinkles her nose. ‘And a little laundry might be in order too.’ She steps closer and I tense up as I think she’s about to attempt hug 2.0., but instead she just really meaningfully examines my face. I shrink away from the intensity of her gaze. Her lips start wobbling again.

‘What a terrible time you’ve had, Jessica. But we will fix it. I will not stop until I have fixed this.’

Eeeeek. She’s totally nuts. I get a mighty urge to run out of the front door and never return.

Take a deep breath.Be sensible, Jess. It’s just a couple of days. You have no other choice.

‘Um … OK then.’ I shrug one shoulder. ‘Thank you.’

‘You are very tired, dear. I think a warm bath and an early night will be just the ticket.’ Grandma points a finger in the air. ‘A Good Woman must always get her beauty sleep! Breakfast is at seven a.m. and not a moment later.’

What is she talking about? Is − is she sending me to bed? Now? It’s not even nine o’ clock. Not that I want to sit up and talk to Grandma about what we’ve been up to for our whole entire lives, but I kind of thought she would. Especially since I’ll be gone soon and, let’s be honest, will probably never return.

And then, as if everything that has just happened is completely normal and not at all bizarre and awkward and maybe even a bit life-changing, Grandma returns to her chair and back into the sexually charged world of her book.

Sean Bean’s Bum.