Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty-Nine

A chaste kiss in public is acceptable, anything more than that slips into the realm of ‘heavy petting’ and that sort of behaviour is highly uncouth.

Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, 1955

Leo and I make out on the bench for a very hot and steamy twenty minutes, and it is so good that I completely forget where I am, who I’m with and what I’m supposed to be doing. Or not be doing, as the case may be. A grumpy park keeper interrupts to inform us that there has been a complaint from a young family passing by and that we should not be fornicating like this in a public place. Giggling like idiots, we leave the bench and carry on walking round the park. For the whole rest of the way around, we chat about anything and everything, and every five minutes we look at each other and burst into wild laughter for no apparent reason. Like we can’t quite believe how good we are at kissing one another. At how amazing that felt. My adrenalin is pumping. He won’t let go of my hand. This is ridiculous. I am ridiculous. But . . . the way his body just felt to my body. It wasn’t simple randiness in the usual way when I fancy someone. It was kablam!

When Leo pushes me up against a sycamore tree for another round of kissing, I participate willingly. I care about nothing else other than how excellent it feels – like I’m melting into a puddle of warm, buttery awesomeness

Leo Frost. Artist. Thinker. Man. Jess melter.

‘Oh, Lucille,’ he groans, nuzzling my neck.

My eyes fly open.

I jump away from the kiss.

Lucille.

Lucille.

This is not real.

It’s fake.

Leo thinks he’s kissing someone entirely different. He’s not kissing me like that. He’s kissing Lucille.

I mentally shake myself. I have to get a fucking grip, and fast.

‘Lucille, what’s wrong?’ Leo says, his eyes flashing with concern as I back away from him.

‘I . . . I need to get home. I’m running late,’ I mutter, nodding quickly as I scan the park for the nearest exit. ‘It’s time to go now. I have to get my, er, my beauty sleep.’

Leo chuckles. ‘Oh no, is that like I need to wash my hair?’

I laugh too, but it comes out as a bit manic.

Leo takes hold of my hand again. ‘We could go back to my place?’ He gives me a wolfish grin.

My vagina says yes. YES.

‘No!’ I yell. ‘I really do have to go or I’ll . . . be late.’

‘Late for what?’

‘Er, work. Yes. I have lots of work to do . . . for my charity. For the squirrels. Urgent squirrel business. Bye. Bye now!’

And before he can convince me to stay with another one of those other-worldly, mind-fuck kisses, I spin round, tuck Grandma’s parasol under my armpit and race off out of the park.

* * *

In desperate need of cooling off, I decide to jog back home to Bonham Square. It’s not easy in these high heels and I keep tripping up as I go. God knows what I look like, trussed up in this weird sailor dress with my pointy boobs, stumbling through the fanciest streets of London holding an antique lace parasol and angrily muttering ‘fuck . . . fuck . . . fuck . . . balls . . . fuck’ to myself every few steps.

My head is in a massive mess. A twisty whirl of confusion. What is going on? All my life I’ve been very, very careful not to get too giddy about a bloke. God knows, Mum’s warnings about letting people get too close to hurt you scared me off for life. I thought I was way smarter than that.

But I’m not.

I’m an idiot. A fool. A sucker. A chump. An idiot fool sucker chump.

I’ve been so convinced that Leo Frost is a turd, and was so focused on behaving like a made-up person around him, that the real me has been left defenceless, and now I think I’ve got . . . feelings.

Feelings. Urgh. I can feel them, these feelings. Whizzing around my insides and making me feel excited and scared and worried and super horny and like there might be something to look forward to, maybe.

But it’s a lie. There isn’t anything to look forward to here. The only reason Leo has got feelings for me is because he thinks I’m this ‘alternative’ vintage posho who likes poems and Renaissance art and is super fascinated and amazed by every single blummin’ thing he says and does.

Even so, he’s surprised me and . . . I like him.

But I can’t. Not now. Not when I’ve spent my whole life avoiding this very situation.

I think about Mum. About what she told me on the day I left for university, just six months before she . . . well. She stood on the doorstep of our house, eyes swimming with tears, and put her hands firmly on my shoulders.

Never give your heart away, my darling. If you lose it, you might not get it back, and then there’s nothing left. Don’t be foolish like your mum. Trust me.

I clench my fists tightly as I hurry towards Grandma’s house.

This is dangerous. These feelings are dangerous.

Ugh, I acted like a sappy fool back in that park. I didn’t even recognize myself, getting all melty like that. What was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking. I can’t risk it. I can’t risk ending up like Mum.

I inhale sharply and blow out steadily in quick succession, trying to focus.

There’s only one thing for it.

I can’t see Leo Frost again.

I have to call off the project.

* * *

I’m completely ready to storm into Bonham Square and demand to Grandma and Peach that the project is over. That How to Catch A Man Like It’s 1955 is simply no longer a possibility, that there have been creative differences, that they are just going to have to figure out their problems without me, that everything is not my responsibility, and why all of a sudden is it supposed to be my responsibility?

When I get to the drawing room, the door is slightly open. Peach and Grandma are hanging out on the sofa watching Scott & Bailey on the telly.

Grandma is sipping from a little tumbler of sherry and fidgeting with her blouse collar. Peach − Mr Belding sprawled comfortably on her lap − keeps peeking towards the window, probably wondering when her friend will return. Grandma gasps, riveted, as Suranne Jones nicks a goateed criminal. Peach giggles at Grandma’s reaction and tickles Mr Belding’s belly.

This is their life.

With a lurch of the stomach, I get a sudden vision of Grandma clutching onto the railings of Bonham Square as burly bailiffs ransack the place, kicking her out onto the street. Then I picture Peach, interviewing for a room-mate position at some rough, crowded, flatshare in Peckham, and the amount of anxiety that living with new strangers would cause her.

My shoulders slump as I come to a stark realization.

I think I have feelings for these people too.

I smack my own head. What is going on? I’m turning into a right loser.

I watch Grandma and Peach watching the telly. Two weeks ago these people were complete randomers to me. And now . . .

Oh, who am I kidding? I can’t bloody call off the project. I can’t let them down. Especially not because I’m scared of how I feel about a boy I barely know. I rub the back of my neck and take a deep breath.

Dammit.

Right. Change of plan. The only thing I can do in this horrid situation is to try and ignore these ridiculous feelings for Leo sodding Frost. To keep my head down, work super hard on the project as Lucille, get Leo to declare his love for me as quickly as is humanly possible, write those stupid first twenty thousand words, get this book deal, write the rest of the book, save the world and then do one. Maybe to the Caribbean. Then I will send Leo a letter of apology for tricking him for cash and my heart will be safe and I’ll live happily ever after, alone on a beach.

I sigh to myself, and at the sound of it, Peach notices me in the doorway. She jumps up from her chair in excitement. ‘Jess!’ she says happily, as if I’ve been stranded on a desert island for a month. Grandma gives me a huge smile. Never before in my life have two people been so genuinely pleased to see me.

‘Hello, dear,’ Grandma says. ‘How did it go?’

‘Did you kiss him?’ Peach asks.

I kick off the high heels and plop into Grandma’s blue chair. ‘I did.’

Grandma presses her hands to her cheeks. ‘Oh!’

‘What was it like?’ Peach says eagerly.

It changed everything.

‘Erm . . .’

I can’t tell them the truth about that kiss. They can’t know how complicated it has made stuff, how ridiculous I am, how I’ve totally let the side down by thinking that Leo Frost’s kiss was possibly the best kiss I’ll ever have, that I reckon under his clothes he has a body to rival Ryan Gosling’s in Crazy, Stupid, Love, that he loves Grease 2 and knows all the songs even better than I do, that he got me a sick bag and knows exactly what it feels like to lose your mum, and rapped in public to make me laugh, and is brilliant at drawing, and those eyes, and he smells so delicious, totally grown-up, like rosewood.

‘. . . smells,’ I say a tad dreamily, wandering off into my reverie.

‘Does he?’ Peach says with interest. ‘He smells?’

‘Oh.’ I come back to earth instantly. ‘What? Um . . . Yep. He . . . smells disgusting. He reeks. Like a rubbish tip.’

Grandma blinks. ‘He looks clean on all the googly pictures we saw.’

‘Well, of course that’s what he wants you to think,’ I say with a cocky look that belies my wibbling insides.

I have no clue what I’m talking about. I’m so messed up right now. Stupid Leo and his stupid game-changing mouth.

‘Gosh,’ Grandma says, wrinkling her nose. ‘I suppose you never really know about a person, do you?’

‘Nope,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll, er, slip him a Trebor mint next time. Spritz him with deodorant when his head’s turned.’

‘When is the next time?’ Peach asks.

As if on cue, my phone rings. It’s him. My hands shake a little and I drop the phone onto the rug. I’m nervous. What a loser. Peach gives me a suspicious look. ‘Answer it, Jess.’

I nod slowly, pick up the phone and press the loudspeaker icon. ‘Hello,’ I say evenly.

‘You’re not in bed yet? What about that beauty sleep?’ Leo jokes.

‘Oh, you,’ I titter, as Lucille as can be.

‘I just wanted to call and tell you that I had a really, really great time today, Lucille. Really bloody great.’

Grandma presses a hand to her chest, while Peach does a big thumbs-up.

‘Me too,’ I choke out.

‘You darted off so quickly, I didn’t get chance to ask you . . . ’

‘Ask me what?’

‘Well, the thing is, it’s the London Advertising Association ball on Saturday, and I was hoping you’d come with me, as my date.’

At the mention of a ball, Grandma gasps in delight, shoots up from her chair, opens up the liquor cabinet, takes out another two glasses and fills them up with sherry. When I’ve agreed to attend the ball and the call is finished, she hands Peach and me a glass each.

‘I think somebody is smitten!’ she exclaims excitedly.

‘Who? What?’ I hiss. ‘Who now?’

‘Mr Frost,’ Grandma says, giving me an odd look. ‘Sounds like the scoundrel is smitten with you. Or with Lucille, as the case may be.’

‘Oh. Yeah. Definitely.’

‘We are exactly on track. You are an absolute marvel, Jess. I must admit, I had my doubts, but you have been an excellent student.’ Her eyes fill up. ‘I’m so proud of you.’

She’s proud of me.

Nobody has ever said that to me before.

Grandma reaches over and pulls me into a hug. She gives me a little squeeze and I expect the uncomfortable itch that usually occurs at public emotion to make its way over my body.

But, to my surprise, it doesn’t come.