Chapter 30

Chapter Thirty

Avoid first date awkwardness by embarking on a double date. Not only is it fun to dine out with chums, the conversation is sure to never run dry!

Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, 1955

I’m having a freaky dream − about a ghost wearing a corset, having an arranged marriage with Michael Carrington from Grease 2 − when I’m woken by Peach shaking my shoulder. Her big farm-girl hands are much stronger and more aggressive than I think she realizes. I push her off before she dislocates something.

‘Ow! Jeez, Peach,’ I mumble, rubbing my sleep-crusty eyes. ‘This better be an emergency.’

‘Gavin’s here!’ she breathes.

‘Huh? Gavin?’

‘The postman,’ she reminds me, with just a touch of exasperation. ‘He brought a package that needs a signature. I didn’t order anything, and I know Matilda didn’t. Was this your work?’

I grin innocently because it was me. I knew she’d put it off, so I ordered a little something online that would need signing for.

‘Is it a big package?’ I say drowsily. ‘A big, hard package?’

Peach frowns. ‘Hush. You said you would come and stand by me when I asked him out. For support. Come on!’

I sit up in the bed.’ Er . . . can I at least get dressed?’ I indicate my sleep-hair and old AC/DC tour T-shirt-slash-nightie.

‘No, now, you promised.’ She throws me what I think is her version of a withering glance. It’s a slight, sweet, pursing of the lips. ‘Lady P needs you,’ she says solemnly.

Gad.

I down some water from the glass at the side of the bed, pull on my dressing gown and reluctantly trudge downstairs behind an extremely fidgety Peach.

We get to the front door, and sure enough, there is Gavin the postman in his shorts, holding a small parcel in his hands.

‘He’s got a tiny package,’ I whisper to Peach.

‘Quit it,’ she hisses back, turning to Gavin with an overly bright smile. She looks weird. ‘Hiiiii, Gavin. H-hii.’

‘Um, hi.’ He raises a curious eyebrow at my presence.

‘Yo,’ I wave sleepily. Don’t mind me!’ Taking the small oblong box off him, I sign the little electronic box thingy. We all look silently at each other for a few seconds.

I nudge Peach with my shoulder and give her an encouraging look.

‘Ah . . . yeah, Gavin, I was . . . I was . . .’ she starts, her full cheeks turning a shade of deep ruby red. ‘I . . .’

‘Peach. W-would you . . .’ Gavin begins, trailing off with a look of pure embarrassment. ‘Uh . . .’

Oh no.

We stand there for another thirty seconds while the pair of them make increasingly fumbled attempts to ask each other out. This is why alcohol was invented.

Peach turns to me with an embarrassed grimace, her shoulders hunching right back up to her ears.

It’s time to invoke my fourteen-year-old self.

‘Gavin. This is my beautiful friend Peach.’ I indicate Peach. ‘Do you wanna go out with her?’

Gavin laughs nervously and furiously nods his head, his little red baseball cap wobbling a bit.

‘And Peach, do you want to go out with Gavin?’

‘Y-yes.’ Peach beams.

‘Awesome.’ I nod firmly, grabbing a pen from the side table. ‘Gavin, write your number on here.’ I hand him the package.

He scrawls down his number with slightly shaking hands.

‘I . . . I . . . I’ll call you,’ Peach eventually gets out, her voice as squeaky as it’s ever been.

‘Cool,’ Gavin replies, smiling shyly at Peach. ‘See you. Bye, Peach.’

‘Bye Gavin!’

‘Er . . . bye,’ I say pointedly as he races off back down the stairs. He doesn’t look back, just hurries off out of the building. I tut. What am I, a ghost?

When he’s disappeared from sight, Peach whoops with relief.

‘Phewee! I can’t believe it, he said yes!’

‘Well, course he did.’ I wiggle my eyebrows. ‘Looks like someone’s gonna get laid!’

I’m winding her up, but she smiles dreamily in response.

‘I can’t wait!’ She holds her hand up for a high-five, which I take up enthusiastically. ‘I can’t wait to get laid. Things are finally starting to happen for old Peach Carmichael!’

I stuff the unopened package in the hall dresser drawer along with the rest of the post, and after making a couple of brews, Peach and I wander out onto the drawing-room balcony, where we lean against the railings and look out over the perfectly manicured park opposite. It’s another sweltering morning and the heat makes the distant skyline throb and flutter.

I gulp down my strong coffee, enjoying the zing of the caffeine coursing its way through my body, and tilt my face up to the sun.

‘So where do you think you’ll go on your first date with Gavin?’ I ask her.

I wait for an answer, but it doesn’t come

‘Peach?’ I open my eyes and glance over at her. She’s staring over the balcony, her cup of coffee halfway to her mouth as if she’s in a trance. ‘Peach?’ I repeat loudly. What’s she doing? ‘Earth to Peach!’

‘A first date,’ she says, a tremor in her voice.

‘Huh?’

‘I’m gonna have to go on a first date with Gavin. Alone.’

‘Yeaahhhh . . . Wasn’t that sort of the point of, you know, just asking him out . . .’

Her nostrils flare and she nods rapidly. ‘Sure, but . . . I was so excited that he said yes, I didn’t think of the reality of the situation. I’m awful on first dates, Jess. Terrible. I’ve only been on one of them in the past six years, and my hands shook so much that I accidentally knocked over the candle on the restaurant table and set fire to my date’s menu. Then, at the end of the date, when we were supposed to kiss − ’ she looks down at the floor, her chubby cheeks blazing − ‘I broke wind real loudly and my date heard. I was so nervous. It was mortifying.’

I laugh out loud and then stop just as quickly when I realize that she’s not kidding.

Panic-faced, Peach puts her mug on the balcony ledge and starts taking big gulps of air. Then she sinks to the floor, presses two fingers to her throat and starts counting under her breath.

‘Are you OK?’ I say, sitting down with her.

‘My pulse is racing. Oh God. I can’t do it. I have to cancel the date I just made with Gavin. It’s not worth it. I don’t need to have sex, do I? I can live just fine without it. It’s probably not even that good anyway. I mean, how the fiddle can I do this? You just saw what happened out there. You had to talk for us! I’m not ready . . .’

‘You are,’ I say firmly. ‘You’re just having a teeny bit of a wobble. All dates are a bit awkward at first, and then you just sort of relax into it. Honestly, by the end of the night you won’t even know why you were worried!’ I gently take her hand away from where it’s pressed against her neck. ‘Calm down. You’ll be ace.’

She looks up at me, wide-eyed. ‘But I can’t do it alone. You . . . you have to come with us, Jess.’

‘What? On your date? No!’

‘Yeah. I feel better when you’re there.’

I grimace. ‘Wouldn’t that be a bit . . . third wheel.’

‘No, no. I just need a buffer. You have to come. I reckon I’ll mess everything up on my own.’ She starts flapping her hands at her face as if to cool herself down – she’s having a full-on panic. ‘Say you’ll come with me, Jess. I might never get this chance again! Please? Please!’

Oh God, she’s totally losing her nerve. She can’t back out now.

‘Look.’ I quickly pat her shoulder. ‘Why don’t you, I don’t know, why don’t you come to the ball? I’ll see if Leo can get a couple of extra tickets. That way, you have me there as a buffer, but it’ll be a less awkward group situation.’

She swallows hard, her breathing starting to slow down. ‘OK . . . That would work. Are . . . are you sure?’

No. I’m not. But I don’t know how long I’ll be hanging around here for, and if she chickens out on Gavin now, she might never get to have sex, ever. I can’t be responsible for that. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.

‘Yeah, it’s no worry,’ I assure her brightly. ‘It’ll be nice and busy and much easier than a one-on-one dinner-date with the guy.’

Peach takes a deep breath and gives me a small, shaky smile. ‘Oh, I don’t know what I’d do without you, Jess.’ She grabs my hand and sandwiches it between both of hers. ‘I’m so, so glad we met. Because of you, things are finally starting to get better.’

On the outside I cross my eyes at her in a ‘don’t be so soft’ kind of way, but on the inside, for the third time in three days, I get a happy tingling feeling. I think this is what they call the warm fuzzies.

Jessica Beam, you need to get a grip.

* * *

Something terrible is happening. Since kissing Leo Frost, it’s like the floodgates have been yanked open and all the mushy feelings have been coming thick and fast, like projectile spew, but even more gross. On Monday I let Grandma hug me again, and on Tuesday I hug her. I have many long conversations with Peach about her upcoming date with Gavin at the ball (Leo was totally cool about them joining us), and I actually listen to her anxieties about what they’ll talk about and give her advice about sex, like, you know, a real friend would. If I wasn’t already worried that my hard shell is softening too much, Grandma and Peach point out my slightly gooey mood at dinner on Wednesday night.

‘Gosh, if I didn’t know how much you despised Mr Frost, I’d almost believe you were a little giddy about him!’ Grandma jokes breezily, to which I choke on a pea and splutter, ‘No, you are,’ before angrily stabbing my fork into the chicken breast.

All these untypical behaviours only reinforce the fact that I’m obviously in an increasingly dangerous situation here. Which makes it all the more vital that I keep my head down, get How to Catch a Man Like It’s 1955 over and done with as quickly as I can, and leave this place before the feelings get any worse. Because if I let things fester I’ll have no armour left at all, and before I know it I’ll become one of those people who cry over John Lewis ads or develop an interest in unicorn-related paraphernalia, or fall for a man who knocks you up, then shatters your heart, leaving you depressed for the rest of your life until you simply can’t deal with it any more . . .

So in the days running up to Saturday and the London Advertising Association Awards ball, I try my absolute best to focus and be the very model of a perfect vintage woman. I revise the Good Woman tips, use Pond’s cold cream on my face every single night, avoid Jamie downstairs like a criminal avoiding capture – though I’m on my bedroom balcony at Thursday lunchtime when I spot him outside the clinic with a pretty girl who I assume to be Kiko, and that makes me feel a bit weirded out − I barely go running at all, practise waltzing with Grandma, and I even manage to write ten thousand words of the book. When I send them to Valentina she responds with an email that simply says:

I smell a bestseller.

Which I show to Grandma, who, as expected, bursts into noisy, happy tears.

So everything is going exactly according to plan. And soon I’ll be done with all of this, loaded, and safely on a plane to somewhere lovely and warm and exotic and far away.

On my own.

Which is definitely for the best.

Definitely.

* * *

All week long, Grandma busies herself tailoring one of her old ball dresses for me to wear on Saturday. She does this super privately, in the manner of Dexter preparing a kill room. Apparently she ‘wants it to be a lovely surprise for me’. As if I could ever get giddy over something as sappy as a freaking ball dress.

Except that, to my dismay, I do.

On the afternoon of the LAAA ball, I’m chilling on the bed, intermittently playing bejewelled blitz, writing words for the book and Googling ‘help − how to stop sudden and unwanted mushy feelings seeping in?’ when Grandma knocks on my bedroom door.

‘You may enter!’ I call out, speedily deleting my search history and closing the lid of my laptop.

Grandma bustles in, holding a cream padded clothes hanger that displays the most gorgeous piece of clothing I have ever seen. Even more beautiful than my sequinned ‘Juicy’ knickers. I think I actually gasp out loud at the sheer beauty of it.

The ball dress is palest ice blue, with a silk, strapless, boned bodice that flares out onto a layered tulle skirt, stopping at mid-calf. At the gathered waist there’s an intricate band of silver lace, so subtly embroidered that you can’t see it unless you’re up close. It’s fucking amazing.

I dart over and touch the silk bodice − it feels cold and smooth beneath my hands, like the jumpsuit I was going to wear to The Beekeeper launch. People like me don’t get to wear dresses like this. People like me don’t care about wearing dresses like this! But it’s an incredible dress. The kind of dress Summer would fist-fight someone to get her hands on.

‘It will look wonderful with the strawberry blonde of your hair,’ Grandma beams. Then she glances at her watch. ‘Which we should perhaps make a start on now. We haven’t a great deal of time, and it must be perfect. Chop-chop.’

She carefully hangs the dress on the big wardrobe door and sashays downstairs to the kitchen where she has laid out all her rollers and brushes and setting lotions and potions and make-up like she’s holding a vintage cosmetics jumble sale.

Tonight, Grandma has decided that I will wear my hair in thick, smooth waves with an extreme side parting à la Veronica Lake. While I idly watch Netflix on my iPhone, she hums Doris Day songs and spends ages rolling my hair up into huge rollers, setting it with the hairdryer, and smoothing it down with hair serum before spritzing on enough hairspray to hold it in place during an apocalypse. I avoid choking to death by lifting up my vest and using it to cover my mouth and nose. As Grandma paints on my make-up (black liquid-lined eyes, curled eyelashes and crimson lips), I try to concentrate on the task at hand and not what Leo might look like in a tux.

When my hair, make-up and nails are complete, Grandma helps me into the vintage girdle, corset, a strapless version of the bullet bra and then, eventually, the dress. I hurry back downstairs to the big mirror in the hall, Grandma trailing excitedly behind me.

‘Fuck,’ I whisper in response to my reflection.

On this occasion, Grandma pretends not to hear me curse. To be fair, if she swore she’d probably say the same thing right now.

Because I look unreal. The crystal blue of the dress looks crazy with my cream-pale skin and rust-gold-coloured hair. My make-up is flawless, my hair is even more so, my neck looks longer, my waist even smaller, there’s not a false eyelash, patch of tan or pot noodle stain in sight.

I look like someone else entirely.

I am Lucille.

I think of Leo’s reaction when he sees me and get an excitable flip in my gut.

Then I mentally mini-pinch myself. This is fake. Must not get carried away. Keep focused.

Peach gallops down the stairs.

‘Oh, heck, Jess. You look like you’re going to the Oscars.’

I spin round and laugh out loud in delight. Peach looks epic. Her usually frizzy dark blonde hair is all shiny tumbling curls, pinned up at the back with tiny jewelled clips. She’s wearing a gorgeous midnight-blue taffeta ballgown, a matching satin wrap draped round her shoulders. The colour of it looks amazing against her glowing pink skin.

‘You look awesome,’ I say to her. ‘Gavin will be speechless.’

Peach’s smile plunges into a frown. Shit. I forgot that Gavin being speechless is a very real possibility.

‘I’m kidding!’ I speedily correct myself. ‘And anyway, even if things are a bit stilted, remember − I will be there to lubricate the wheels of conversation. Don’t worry.’

‘Promise?’

‘Fo sho.’ We fist-bump, at which Grandma gives us both a puzzled shake of her head.

Grandma fusses with my hair again, smoothing down any flyaway strands with her thin hands, and my mobile trills once to let us know that the town car Leo ordered to pick us up is waiting outside.

‘Remember, Jessica,’ Grandma says as we head to the front door. ‘Tonight, you are representing Leo on his most important night of the year. You must be the very image of elegance. The woman every gentleman at the ball wants to be with, the woman that every other woman longs to know the secret of. How you conduct yourself tonight could make or break the entire project.’

I pull a face. ‘Jeez. No pressure then.’

Grandma takes hold of my hand and gives it a squeeze. Her magnified eyes are, once again, teary with emotion. ‘I believe in you, dear’

Ugh. Another warm and fuzzy fast approaching. I give her a swift kiss on the cheek. It leaves a crimson imprint, adding a shock of colour to her translucently pale skin.

‘Thank you, G. Thanks for the belief. Cool. Awesome. OK.’

I quickly open the dresser drawer and grab the package that Gavin delivered the other day. I tear off the jiffy bag to reveal an oblong box wrapped in shiny navy giftpaper.

‘What’s that?’ Grandma asks.

‘Oh, um … it’s just a … a mascara I bought. I’ll open it on the way.’ I stuff the package into my silver and pearl clutch. The end of the box pokes out of the top. Grandma frowns suspiciously. Ignoring her, I turn to Peach, who’s clasping her evening bag, eyes wide with nervous terror about her first date with Gavin. Her first adult date ever.

‘Let’s do this thang,’ I yell, though it comes out sounding a little weaker than I intend it to.

‘Have fun!’ Grandma calls, as if this is a real, genuine social event for us and not just part of our wicked plan.

When we’re halfway down the stairs, Grandma leans out of the door.

‘Wait! Wait!’

Peach and I spin round, wobbling on our heels. ‘What is it? Have we forgotten something?’

Grandma looks down at her feet. ‘Um, The Facial Book thing you like on the Internet?’

‘Yeah?’

‘How do I . . . locate that on the online computer machine?’

‘You want to go on Facebook?’

Her lips wobble. ‘I might.’ She lifts her chin. ‘I don’t know yet.’

Peach and I look at each other in astonishment and laugh out loud. Loads of bizarre things have happened these past few weeks, but Matilda Beam social networking might just be the weirdest one yet.

I hastily issue Grandma instructions on how to access Facebook on the computer machine and hurry back down the stairs, through the lobby and outside.

Shitballs. Jamie’s there. He’s pacing up and down the pavement in his doctor’s coat, talking into his phone. Probably to Kiko.

When he spots us, he ends the call then drops his mobile, clumsily catching it just before it hits the floor.

‘Hello, Doctor Abernathy!’ Peach says brightly.

‘Hullo!’ he responds, shoving his phone into his trouser pocker. His eyes flicker towards me. He coughs. ‘Hi, Jess.’

‘Hey!’ I give an awkward wave. This is weird. I’ve extra carefully avoided him all week. I have no clue what to say. Peach looks between the two of us curiously.

Jamie swallows hard. ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he says eventually in a soft, low voice.

‘Why, thank you!’ Peach responds, beaming. She smooths down her taffeta skirt. ‘You are too kind, Doctor.’

‘We should probably go now!’ I take Peach’s hand and drag her out to the waiting car. ‘Take care, Jamie! Bye!’

‘Yes … bye.’

I know Jamie watches us as we leave, but I don’t look back.