Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Gossip is inelegant. A Good Woman minds her own business.
Matilda Beam’sGood Woman Guide, 1959
‘This will be your room for the night.’ Peach opens a door on the second floor and shows me inside.
‘Oh no!’ I whisper, jogging backwards out of the bedroom with a terrified moan. I’ve never moaned in fright before, but this shit just got real. The room is filled with dolls. Not cute, toy dolls that wee themselves like you have when you’re a kid, but those serious-looking oldey-timey porcelain dolls that are as creepy as hell. There are loads of them lined up against the three huge floor-to-ceiling windows and sitting on top of a set of antique drawers. At least twenty of them are standing on the hardwood floors in various positions of activity. One of the dolls is holding a tiny doll replica of itself. I am gripped by fear.
‘Why?’ I say, venturing cautiously back inside. ‘Why so many dolls? Why would anyone do this?’
Peach gives a small shrug. ‘I don’t know. But I think they’re awful cute. That one’s my favourite. I call her Felicity.’ She points to a ringletted brunette doll sitting on a human-sized gold and blue striped armchair. It’s wearing little glass glasses and looking worriedly into a small book. I hate it. I hate Felicity.
The centre of the room holds what I suspect is London’s largest bed. It’s triple the size of my bed in Manchester and has a massive cushioned headboard upholstered in silk, the colour of which Summer would refer to as dove grey. Ordinarily I’d take a run up and fling myself onto it, have a good bounce. But after everything that’s happened today, I’m just not in the mood.
‘Well, that was fucking weird.’ I lie down on the bed, arms and legs spread out like a starfish. ‘I feel like I’m in some ridiculous abstract nightmare. Matilda Beam is crazy. I can’t believe we’re related. No offence. I mean, what was she talking about, “fixing me” and “redeeming herself”. She’s odd isn’t she?’
‘Oh, that’s just her way,’ Peach says softly, delicately emptying my bag of clothes. I offer to help, but she shakes her head no. ‘Matilda feels things very strongly. She’s a woman who is full of heart.’
‘Not that full of heart,’ I grumble. ‘I don’t mean to self–pity, but I lost my house and my best mate and my job and my − my pride today. I only wanted to borrow a bit of money, which she clearly has loads of and which I absolutely would have paid back, and she said no. Just like that! Without even a thought!’
‘Oh no, that’s nothin’ to do with you. Matilda Beam is completely and utterly broke.’ Peach suddenly clasps my blue lacy top to her bosom and uses the other hand to clamp to her head. ‘Oh jeepers. I did not mean to let that slip. Please forget I said anything. Oh d-dear.’
I sit up again.
‘Broke? Grandma is skint?’ I indicate the grand room, the fancy antique furniture. ‘How?’
‘Hmmm.’ Peach frowns, loping over to the huge window and opening a balcony door. ‘I’ll let some air in, shall I?’
‘Oi, don’t worry.’ I scooch over to the edge of the bed and dangle my legs off. ‘You can tell me!’ I do my trustworthy smile. ‘I’m part of the family. I have a right to know. Plus I’m leaving not tomorrow but the day after. She’ll never know you told me. Come on. Why is she broke? Isn’t this house worth, like, a million quid?’
‘Five million,’ Peach replies promptly, a look of guilt flitting across her earnest face. She looks down. ‘Oh dear, I really shouldn’t … Mrs Beam always says that gossip is the height of inelegance.’
‘Er, it’s not gossip if it’s true, though. Tell me, Lady P!’
She smiles slightly at the nickname, her defences wilting. ‘I … I guess you are leaving soon … ’
‘No diggity, no doubt, I will be out of here in two days.’
‘Oh … all right then, I suppose it won’t do any harm. Well, you see, the truth is that Jack, your grandpa, left Matilda with an awful debt. He was a drinker, made some terrible investments over the years and lost all of their money.’ She hesitates. ‘I don’t think I should be … ’
‘Go on, Lady P, don’t worry.’
She bites her lip. ‘W-well … When he died, Matilda sold the bottom floor and remortgaged the rest so that she could pay off the enormous debts, and what was left she has used to keep going. But now the money has almost completely run out.’
‘Shit.’ I blink. Mr Belding – who has followed me upstairs – climbs onto my lap and I idly stroke his ears. ‘Why doesn’t she just move house? It must cost a fortune to run this place. She should just sell up. I don’t get what the big deal is.’
Peach nods, eyes wide. ‘You’re right, the bills here are huge, but Matilda Beam is, well, she’s about as stubborn as a mule. She won’t give up this house. It’s been in the Beam family for years and years and then some. It was supposed to be passed down to her daughter and their daughter and—’
‘Me! The daughter’s daughter, that’s me!’
Peach gasps. ‘Of course, I guess it is.’
‘This house could possibly one day be mine?’ I jump up from the bed and walk around the room, trying my best to ignore the dolls. I get a vision of me as lady of the manor. Wafting about like I own the place, which I would. I could throw some truly game-changing parties in this house.
Peach gives me a grave look and I realize that my fantasizing is pretty inappropriate, given the story she’s telling me.
I lean forward. ‘How do you know all the goss anyway?’
She looks down at her loafer-encased feet. ‘I’ve been here for five years now. Mrs Beam ain’t much of a sharer, but I suppose you can’t help but pick these things up.’
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how does she afford you if she’s so skint?’
Peach glances at her hands, red-faced. ‘I’m afraid she barely does at the moment. I have room and board. Room, mostly. But she lets me have days off whenever I need them, and, well, I can hardly leave her now. She needs me. I’ve been in l-love with London since I was a girl and by working for Matilda I get to live here. And it’s not every girl from Alabama gets to live at one of the finest addresses in the world.’ She juts her soft chin. ‘Anyhow, she’s fixin’ to get her books republished and then, hopefully, everything will be all right. Someone’s coming tomo—’
‘Books republished? What books?’
‘Her Good Woman guides?’
I give Peach a blank look.
‘Oh, you must know?’ she says quietly, fingering the hem of her apron. ‘Mrs Beam wrote them way back in the 1950s, before you and I were a twinkle in anyone’s eye. Surely you know about those?’ Her mouth drops open in disbelief when I say no. ‘You really don’t know, do you? Those books were practically an institution. My own dear memaw back in Alabama had all five of them. I couldn’t believe it when I realized who I was working for. Thought I might get some tips straight from the source, thought it might help my c-confidence − I’m a little shy, you see − but, well, Mrs Beam doesn’t talk right much about the old days. I can’t believe you didn’t know about her books … ’
‘I had absolutely no clue,’ I say in astonishment.
Wow. Grandma is a writer too. A published writer. This is such a massive piece of information to not know. It strikes me that Mum really told me absolutely nothing about my grandparents. For the first time in my life I wonder what on earth happened for them to become so estranged?
‘It’s been exciting,’ Peachy goes on, taking coat hangers out of the wardrobe. ‘The publishers are sending some big gun round here tomorrow to talk about the possibility of reprinting. And then, hopefully, everything will be all right.’
I nod, mind blown. Wow.
Peachy sighs and gathers the heap of clothes up in her arms. ‘I best get these clothes laundered. I’ll run you that tub too, shall I? You wash the day away and I’ll get some newspaper and milk for the kitty. What’s his name?’
‘Mr Belding,’ I answer. Which reminds me, I should probably let Summer know he’s with me. She’ll be worried by now, I muse guiltily.
‘I loved that show. I always wanted a bedroom like Kelly Kapowski.’ Peachy smiles dreamily, her slightly protruding teeth making her look like a timid little rabbit. ‘Would you like anything to eat before I go, not that we’ve got a great selection, mind. A pot of tea? A glass of warm milk? I’ll be making one of those for Mrs Beam anyway, so it’s no trouble.’
I yawn again, overcome with a feeling of bone-tiredness. Today has been pretty damn overwhelming.
‘I don’t need anything to eat, but that bath sounds perfect right now, Peach. Thank you.’
‘No problem.’ She opens the door and then turns back round. She doesn’t meet my eye but smiles, almost to herself. ‘I – I liked talking with you.’ And before I can reply she hurries out of the room, clicking the door shut behind her.
* * *
I must be very knackered because I end up falling asleep in the bath, and when I wake up, all the fluffy lavender-scented bubbles have disappeared and the water is cold.
I climb out of the large, roll-top tub, wrap myself in a huge soft blue towel and trot, shivering, back into the bedroom. Wrapping another towel turban-style around my head, I take my blue-checked pyjamas – some of the few clean items of clothing I brought with me – out of the bin bag and pull them on before climbing into the huge mega bed. I pick up my iPhone from the side table to text Summer and let her know that Mr Belding is with me, but before I can press the text message icon, my last visited site – Facebook − pops up with a fresh notification. Summer Spencer has written a new status. I click on the red circle.
Summer Spencer
Guys, I’m utterly THRILLED to announce that I have an American TV development deal with Seth Astrow’s production company for Summer in the City! Success has been a looooong time coming and it feels like an utter dream come true. Woop! #noregrets #summerinthecity
What the hell is this?
I don’t understand.
I stare at the phone, my heart thudding. An American TV development deal? Huh? Has this just happened? But this morning … I click open the comments − there are loads of them − and frantically scroll down. Everyone we have ever known is leaving congratulations and best wishes and always knew you’d be famous comments. Someone has written ‘Amazing, Summer! But I thought you were going for a book deal?!’
Yeah, me bloody too, mate. I click further down for Summer’s reply.
I know Seth Astrow from when I was with Anderson, I saw him again at a book party I was at last week! He loves SITC and wants to put it on TV in America. He said Rachel Bilson might be interested in playing me. I can’t believe it!
Last week? My back stiffens. I get a flashback to the blonde guy in sunglasses Summer was talking to all night at the Davis Arthur Montblanc party. She said he was someone she knew through Anderson. Oh my God. Was that Seth Astrow? My heart drops as it all slots into place. The champagne popping from this morning probably had nothing to do with me and everything to do with this fancy telly deal that Summer made behind my back. Why on earth would she do this without me? And why so sneakily?
Another comment pops up from a mutual university friend.
Bet Jess is thrilled! You guys are so clever!
And then an immediate reply from Summer.
Jess has decided to go in another direction, which is probably for the best…
What the fuck? I don’t want to go in another direction!
She said, this morning, that she was destined for bigger things and didn’t need me any more. Was she talking about this TV thing? I know I fucked up at the party, and I know she’s super ambitious, but surely she’s not that mean. She’s literally just kicked me out of the way.
The towel falls off my head and my wet hair drips onto my face, creating makeshift tears instead of the real ones that elude me. It’s not like there’s anything I can do about it. I own none of the site, I signed nothing. Not even an employment contract. I feel like such a dick. Telly is way more lucrative than books. With an irritated grumble, I switch off my phone. I won’t send Summer the text message just yet. She can stew a little longer about the whereabouts of Mr Belding, for all I care. Not that she seems to have noticed, now that she’s going to be a celebrity TV person.
‘Son of a bitch,’ I hiss to myself and punch the pillow like people always suggest you should do when you’re feeling stressed. It’s a high-quality pillow and my hand just bounces right off, which is really unsatisfying. I lie back on the huge bed and one of the springs uncoils, poking me sharply in the hip.
I don’t want to be melodramatic or anything, but I think this might be the second worst day of my life.