Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Falling in love with your chosen chap can feel like flying – enjoy this sensation, you have certainly earned it. But do be careful not to lose your head. A Good Woman must remain focused on the goal.

Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, 1955

After approximately two hours of sleep, I wake up at six a.m. and immediately call Valentina.

‘Hello?’ comes a bleary voice. Valentina sounds half asleep. I thought all successful people woke up very early? That’s what Summer always said whenever I slept in past ten a.m.

‘Yo, Valentina. It’s Jess. Sorry to wake you, I’ll bell again later.’

‘Jess? I’m awake, stay right there.’ I hear some shuffling about and Valentina clearing her throat. ‘Jess Beam, you delicious kitten. Lovely to hear from you. How are things?’

‘I had another date with Leo last night.’

‘Great, did he take you somewhere fabulous this time? The Ivy? He’s very fond of the Ivy—’

‘No, we went to the National Gallery.’

‘Oh! Really? He always visited the gallery alone when we—’

‘Look, I wanted to ask you, Valentina, did Leo ever talk to you about his mum?’

‘No, no he didn’t. He rarely shared anything of his past, as I remember. Why do you ask – wait . . . did he . . . did he talk to you about his mother?’

‘Yup.’ I put the phone onto loudspeaker and place it on the duvet beside me.

There’s a gasp on the other end. ‘Gosh, that’s very unusual. He’s such a closed book of a man.’

‘Did he talk to you about his art?’

‘His art? What art? Do you mean his adverts?’

‘No, his sketches.’

‘Leo sketches? Sketches what?’

‘I don’t know, I only saw one. Of an old man in a boat.’

‘A man in a boat? Was it good?’

‘It was amazing.’

‘Gosh, Jess. Gosh. He never told me he liked to draw, not in six weeks. And he shared this with you? On your second date?’

I nod, even though she can’t see me. ‘We talked about it a bit, yes. And then he told me he liked me. That he found me refreshing. That he’s never, um, met a woman like me before. Is this normal?’

There’s a pause. And then, in a very excitable tone of voice, Valentina says, ‘It is not normal. This out-of-the-ordinary behaviour can only mean one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Matilda Beam’s 1950s romance tips must be working. They must be working magic. I suspected they might, but this is beyond! Matilda must be thrilled. Wow. Keep on doing what you’re doing, clever Jessica,’ Valentina continues happily. ‘The scoundrel Leo Frost deserves everything that’s coming to him.’

‘Does he? Does he definitely?’ I ask, a slight spike of guilt darting through my chest.

Valentina laughs knowingly, the sound of it blasting out of the loudspeaker and echoing through my room. ‘Oh, he might be showing you a different side now, Jessica, but think of all the women before you. The ones whom he cast aside, treated like trophies, did not show his sketches to. You’re doing this for them. For women all over London. Be strong. You are a warrior, Jessica. A warrior.’

I think about all those broken hearts. Broken hearts are dangerous things. I think about my mum’s broken heart.

‘OK,’ I say firmly, punching my fist down onto the duvet.

I am Jessica Beam – noble and true hunter of cruel, hard-hearted knobheads with really nice mouths.

‘And write,’ Valentina urges. ‘Write it all down for me. Everything. Write like the wind, my love!’

‘Yes. Will definitely write like the wind. Thanks, Valentina.’

‘It’s my pleasure. Keep me posted, duckling.’

‘Will do.’

‘And Jess?’

‘Yeah?’

Her voice goes kind of low and growly.

‘Annihilate that rat.’

‘Yep. Fo sho. I’ll do my best.’

Hanging up, I turn to Mr Belding, who’s languishing across the end of the bed.

‘What the fuck I got myself into?’ I ask him, raising my hands to the air.

He answers by licking his own butt.

‘You are of no use,’ I grumble, and head to the bathroom for a wee.

* * *

The weird nervous feeling I had last night has settled back in and I really need to clear my head. Nothing like a good top-secret run to do that.

I change into my running gear and sneak downstairs as quietly as I can. I know where all the creaky floorboards are now, so I hop and step over each one like I’m doing an Irish jig.

In the downstairs hall I bump into Peach coming out of the kitchen, wearing a long pale yellow dressing gown, hands clasped around a mug of coffee, corner of toast hanging from her mouth. Damn. I thought everyone was still in bed.

Peach gasps in surprise. ‘Jess, you’re up early! What’s happening? Is something wrong? Are you unwell again?’

Then she spots my lycra-wear and trainers and frowns.

‘You’re going running? But I thought Matilda told you not to run on account of your masculine calves.’

I roll my eyes and do some stretches, holding onto the stair banister for support. ‘My calves are awesome, OK, there’s nothing wrong with them. Running makes me feel better. Don’t tell her you saw me sneaking out, will you?’

‘You want me to keep your secret?’

‘Do you mind? Grandma will just be upset if she finds out, and she’s had no major meltdowns for two whole days now. It would be cool to keep it that way.’

‘Our first official secret,’ Peach almost whispers, smiling to herself. Then she puts her coffee cup down onto the side table and inhales through her nose. ‘I will keep your secret, Jess. In fact, I’ll come with you on your run. I will participate in the deception.’

‘Oh, no, you don’t have to do that. I trust you.’

‘I would like to.’

‘But … I run alone. I run hard.’

‘You don’t have to run alone any more,’ Peach says reasonably. ‘You have Lady P now. I will run with you. I’ll get changed right now. Meet you outside in five minutes.’

I try to think of a reason to protest, why I should go running alone. But it’s super early and my brain isn’t all lit up yet, and I can’t think of the reasons. I nod my assent and Peach flies past me, lumbering quickly up the stairs to get changed.

* * *

Five minutes after setting off on our run, I am full to bursting with the reasons I usually do this on my own. Top of the list is the fact that running is my lovely alone time, peace and quiet, a time to think and listen to my music and focus on nothing but the steady pound of my heartbeat and the feel of the air whipping at my skin. Peach has other ideas about what a run is. First of all, she thinks that ‘run’ is a euphemism for medium- to slow-paced walking with a stop-off for frothy coffee along the way. Secondly, Peach wants to talk on our run. She wants to talk a whole lot. Since our night out at Twisted Spin, it’s like Pandora’s box has been opened and a new, chattier Peach is starting to emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon. Which is great. It’s awesome that she’s starting to feel more confident – her shoulders aren’t as hunched, she’s mumbling less, it’s fab. But I’m still the only person she feels comfortable talking to, which means that everything she wants to say out loud, she says to me. And after twenty-six years of barely talking to anyone, there’s a lot of stuff she’s feeling the need to share. By the time we’re halfway down Kensington High Street, I’ve zoned out a bit.

‘. . . and then at senior prom it was all planned out, but Lyle lost the room key and the mood sorta fizzled. And I never quite got around to it. And that’s the story of why I’m still a virgin. Then in 2004 I decided—’

My mind zones back in immediately. ‘Wait – what?’ I stop outside Marks &Spencer’s and turn to Peach. ‘What did you just say? You’re still a virgin?’

Peach nods. ‘I sure am. Not for lack of wanting, just lack of opportunity, I guess.’

‘Wow,’ I breathe. I lost my virginity at eighteen. On Summer and mine’s first night out together at uni, actually, the week after my mum died. I can’t imagine having reached twenty-six without doing it. Sex is ace. How does she get her kicks? How does she cheer herself up? I examine her curiously.

‘I have got my eye on someone,’ Peach grins, taking a hefty gulp from her water bottle.

‘Who? Who?’

She fiddles with her ponytail of frizzy curls. ‘Gavin.’

‘Who is Gavin?’

‘Our postman, duh!’

Aha, the stocky blonde fella.

‘He’s cute,’ I say approvingly as we cross over to the other side of the road.

‘I know.’ Peach smiles wistfully, her round cheeks pink. ‘But he’s sorta shy too. I’ve been taking all that eBay stuff for delivery so I’ve seen him lots at the post office recently, but we’ve never managed to say more than a few words to each other. I wanted to ask you a favour, actually.’

‘Go on.’

‘I feel more . . . confident when you’re there, if you know what I mean? Like I can talk a little easier.’

I don’t know quite what she means, but nevertheless, at her words, I get a tiny flutter of pleasure in my chest.

‘So I was hoping that the next time Gavin came around with the post, you would answer the door with me. I wanna ask him out for a date and I don’t know if I’d be able to do it unless you were standin’ by me.’

I laugh. ‘You’re going to ask him out? That’s awesome.’ I give her a high-five. ‘It’d be my pleasure to stand there creepily looking on during that intimate moment. Oh God, Peach, you should totally tell Gavin that you want his special delivery. Ooh, I know, ask him if he’s got a big package for you. Please ask him that.’

‘Should I really ask him that?’ Peach’s gentle grey eyes widen solemnly.

‘Er, no. No, I’m kidding, Peach. Don’t say that . . . at least not yet.’

‘You’re weird.’ Peach guffaws to herself in a vexed way, as if I’m the peculiar person in this duo.

‘Can we do some actual running now?’ I moan, hopping up and down on the spot. ‘We’ve got barely any time left and Matilda will be awake soon.’

‘Of course,’ Peach pants, joining me in a couple of star jumps. Then she stops. ‘But first, let me tell you all about my life in 2004. It was January fifteenth, and the opening day of Alabama’s world-famous national peanut festival . . .’

I take off into a sprint.

* * *

Later that morning Grandma and I gather in the drawing room to tot up our eBay earnings. I get comfy on the sofa, place my laptop on my knees and call out figures to Grandma who, from her favourite blue chair, adds them all up on a massive old-as-time calculator.

As I get to the last sold item – an old Tiffany table lamp − I peek up at Grandma in excitement for the total. I watch her face, waiting for the smile to appear, the look of relief to soften her taut, worried features. But that doesn’t happen.

‘We didn’t make enough,’ she says in a small, dejected voice.

‘Whaaat?’ I jump up from the sofa and dash over to look at the calculator. ‘How? We sold so many things? People were going crazy over that stuff. This calculator is an antique – it must be broken!’

‘There’s nothing wrong with the calculator. We simply do not have enough for the minimum payment.’ Grandma’s lips start to wobble. Shit. She’s going to cry again.

I frantically recheck the numbers and add them up myself. Grandma’s right. We’ve made a fair amount on eBay, but not nearly enough for the stupid bank’s extortionate minimum payment.

‘In ten days they will take me to court,’ Grandma says in a panicky voice. ‘I’ll be evicted! I will lose my home, my memories, everything I have worked for.’

Argh, she’s spiralling off. Not again . . .

‘Stop crying!’ I say firmly. ‘It won’t help.’

Grandma looks up at my strong tone and frowns.

‘A Good Woman is never callous,’ she sobs.

I huff.

‘Well, a Modern Woman gets on with the shit that life has thrown her without melting down. Let’s be practical about this.’

It is not often that I play the role of sensible person in a situation. I feel like I’m wearing a costume.

Grandma hangs her head, her wispy hair falling over her face.

‘You can do it,’ I urge, pouring her a small cup of tea from the tray on the ottoman and handing it over to her. ‘You are Matilda Beam. Mega bestselling writer and romantic magician. You are the person who managed to get me to take out my hair extensions. If you can do that, you can bloody well sort this out.’

Grandma takes a sip of her tea. ‘Your hair is much lovelier now,’ she weeps.

‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ I tut, patting my gingery locks. ‘OK. So. Peach mentioned that you have some things in the attic. Shall I go up there, have a look through and see if there’s anything else we can sell on—’

‘No!’ Grandma interrupts, plonking the cup of tea back down on the silver tray with a clatter. ‘No, no. The attic is empty. There’s nothing in there. Nothing.’

I definitely remember Peach saying that there were so many things in the attic she could barely get the door open.

I narrow my eyes at Grandma. She avoids my gaze.

She’s lying.

I make a mental note to check out the attic as soon as I get chance.

‘Because there’s nothing to sell in the attic,’ Grandma continues, rising from her chair and wandering over to the drawing-room window. ‘I think the best thing to do in this short time is to speed up the How to Catch a Man Like It’s 1955 project.’

‘Speed up? How?’

‘Leo has shown a very definite interest in you. We ought to increase the time you and he are spending together in order to get to our conclusion at a faster pace and secure the deal with Valentina as quickly as possible. Once we have a full contract, I can show that to the bank as proof of future income. Perhaps then they will be a little more lenient. You have a date with Leo this evening, don’t you?’

Pretty much all I’ve been worrying about since last night. Well, that and Doctor Jamie and his annoying change of heart. Ugh. I nod and take a sip of tea.

Grandma wanders back over to her chair, straightens her skirt and sits back down. ‘Then tonight, it is time for your first kiss with him.’

I splutter out my tea. ‘I have to kiss him tonight? But the guides say I’m not supposed to kiss him until date five.’

Grandma gives me an approving glance. ‘You have been reading them! You’re right, my guides do advise that. But we are in an unusually time-sensitive situation. And a first kiss is a powerful thing. It can do the job of ten dates when it comes to forming a bond with your intended.’

At the mere thought of kissing Leo Frost, my cheeks burn up and my neck itches.

I do not like Leo Frost.

Spotting my blush, Grandma smiles a little. ‘Oh, Jessica, I know a first kiss is a lot of pressure, but don’t worry. I will teach you how it is done.’

I sputter out my tea a second time. ‘Er . . . what?’

Grandma dashes over to her TV cabinet and opens up the glass doors, selecting a bundle of videotapes from her collection, including Gone with the Wind, Breakfast at Tiffany’s and From Here to Eternity.

She taps the old plastic case of one of the films. ‘Everything you need to know is in here.’