Chapter 35

Chapter Thirty-Five

Forgiveness is living proof of true love.

Matilda Beam’s Good Woman Guide, 1959

I stay on Jamie’s couch for the next couple of weeks because the mere thought of even seeing, let alone talking to Grandma makes me feel irate and sad all at the same time. Peach drops my stuff off in Bayswater and calls me with regular updates about Mr Belding (as happy as ever) and Grandma, who’s apparently pretending to be all right in the day, showing round potential buyers for her house, but then spends the nights crying. Which makes me feel kind of terrible.

I meet Kiko once or twice when she comes to see Jamie. At first she’s a little wary of my friendship with him and the fact that I’m sleeping on his sofa, but I soon warm her up with my sunny disposition, and I really think there’s a chance that, at some point, we’ll become actual mates. Kiko even helps me to pick out an age-appropriate present (a bubble-making machine) for the first birthday party of Betty’s son Henry, which I travel down to Manchester for. Don’t get me wrong – the whole thing was super boring − but the fact that I turned up and endured two hours of screaming kids made Betty so surprised and pleased that it was totally worth the pain, and she’s since sent me a Facebook invite for a house party she’s planning on having in September.

Speaking of Facebook, Summer is on there more than she’s ever been. Now that she’s back with Anderson, she’s forever posting selfies and statuses about their ‘amazing love’ and how she’s #superblessed to #haveitall. I try to be Zen about the whole thing, but the truth is that what she did at the ball was so needlessly mean that seeing her smug face all over the Internet just winds me up. So I unfriend her. And then, on the day she’s set to announce the cast of her new TV show (which, annoyingly, Stylist magazine are calling the most hotly anticipated show for 2015) exclusively on Summer in the City, I log into the site using my password and send every page link on the site to a YouTube video of Rick Astley’s ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ in a sort of mass Rick Roll. I do it every day for a week until she finally pegs on that it’s me and changes the passwords. But by that time her reputation as a tastemaker has already been sufficiently dented and there’s a headline in BuzzFeed that says ‘Summer Spencer’s Bizarre New Obsession with Rick Astley’, which makes me howl with laughter.

I attempt, a lot, to get in touch with Leo so that I can apologize properly. I ring him a gazillion times, but it goes straight to voicemail. I email him, but apart from my regular newsletters and one lovely offer of ‘great and joyous wealth’ from a Nigerian prince, my inbox remains woefully empty. I even turn up at Leo’s apartment one night, hold my iPhone above my head (I couldn’t locate a boom box) and blast out Peter Gabriel’s ‘In Your Eyes’ like John Cusack does in one of Leo’s favourite 80s films. But Leo doesn’t appear to be at home, and an exhausted-looking woman on the next floor up leans out of her window and tells me to stop being so selfish and shut the fuck up, else she’ll call the police. To which I profusely apologize and shuffle away sadly.

I try to accept being frozen out by Leo. He’s well within his rights to never want to speak to me again − after all, I massively lied to him. I even pretend to myself that I don’t care that much, that it doesn’t really matter, that I’ll get over it soon enough. But I’m not sure that’s true. I think constantly about his usually dancing green eyes full of betrayal, his gorgeous confident mouth downturned. Then I think about what he’s doing right at that moment, if he’s thinking of me, who he’s hanging out with, and if they’re laughing together. These inconvenient thoughts keep me awake almost every night. Eventually, when I can no longer bear the notion that he might never really know how sorry I am, I wake up one Friday morning and catch the tube to the Strand. I blast open the doors to Woolf Frost and march determinedly up to the receptionist.

‘I need to see Leo Frost immediately,’ I say firmly.

The receptionist glances up from her computer, a bored expression on her young face. We met last time I was here, but she doesn’t recognize me in my normal clothes and glasses, my hair scraped back into a messy bun.

‘He’s not here.’

‘Where is he? I need to see him. It’s urgent,’ I say, urgently.

She shrugs idly, grabs a packet of Maltesers from under her desk and opens them really slowly.

‘Hello?’ I prompt.

She tuts. ‘He left the company. Resigned a week ago now.’ She munches delicately on a little sphere of chocolate.

‘What? He resigned? Why?’

Her eyes scan the reception area and she lowers her voice. ‘Are you a client?’

‘No. I just need to talk to him. Where is he?’

‘OK, well, you didn’t hear it from me, but there’s this rumour that Leo Frost left the company to become an artist. Silly sod. Old Rufus is fuming! I hear Leo’s gone to France for a couple of weeks. Wants to paint the sea there, or something.’ She giggles to herself and rolls her eyes as if she thinks the whole thing is clearly the action of a wuss. And a month ago I might have thought exactly the same thing. But I think about the paintbrush I gave to Leo at the ball, and though my heart aches at the fact that he’s not even in the country, a warm, light feeling sparkles in my chest and I can’t help but smile to myself.

Leo Frost: Artist.

* * *

Leaving Woolf Frost, I wander down to Little Joe’s Java. The place is much less busy than when I was here for the poetry night, and a lively samba-style music plays over the low din of late-morning customers. I order a cappuccino with extra whipped cream and ask the barista if he can lend me some paper and a pen. He cheerfully hands over a letter-headed notepad and a blue bic, and I take a seat on one of the squishy sofas. I start to write.

Dear Leo,

So I’ve been trying to get in touch via all the usual ways, but obviously you haven’t wanted to hear from me – totally understandable, but I hope that when you get back from France you’ll read this and know how truly sorry I am.

I was in a bit of a weird place when I agreed to take part in this project – I’d just lost my job and my home and was in search of a fast buck, plus my Grandma really, really needed my help. I was under the impression that you were some kind of sexist, womanizing shithead, and although that’s not exactly an excuse for fooling you, it made the decision to do it so much easier. To be honest, our altercation at The Beekeeper launch didn’t help; I genuinely thought you were a massive prick.

And then we spent this amazing time together. And I saw that behind that cocky, arrogant exterior was you. You. This kind, open, creative, gorgeous, sensitive man who wasn’t at all what I thought he would be. And I was so afraid of how that made me feel. Like you, I have a bit of an issue with commitment, and I didn’t want to admit that I might be falling for you because it’s never happened to me before, and I really never planned on it happening at all.

A lot of what you saw (and liked about me, I hope) was really me. Jess Beam. Everything I said about your artistic talent was me. Loving 80s teen movies – me. Dodgem-driving like a maniac – me, telling that poem on the stage– me. Those kisses. Those kisses that I know you know were the best kisses either of us have ever had, ever. That was me.

The thing is, Leo, while so much in my grandma’s Good Woman guides is rubbish anti-feminist crap that instructs women to be passive, subservient sidekicks to men, they do have a few good points. They taught me to be more patient, to really listen, to be more enthusiastic about new things and to, well, open myself up to a person for more than something uber casual. You were that something more. You are that something more.

I’m so sorry I hurt you. You didn’t deserve it and I’m gutted about the way things have turned out.

Anyway, I’m rambling now probably, but I just wanted to explain things and to tell you how shitty I feel and how sorry I am about lying to you.

Love, apologies, and mega best-of-luck wishes with your artwork,

Jess.

X

P.S. If your grumpy upstairs neighbour tells you there was a creepy lass blaring ‘In Your Eyes’ outside your house, that was me. Sorry.

P.P.S. I’m not at Bonham Square any more, so if you do, by any chance, want to get in touch with me, my email is [email protected]

* * *

The novelty of being at Jamie’s house with nothing to do but Rick Roll Summer and think about Leo, while barely getting any sleep because of his roommates’ sex noises, soon wears off. And when Peach invites me out for lunch one sunny Tuesday, I fall on her invitation as if she’s just offered up a naked and ready-for-action James McAvoy .

I travel to Le Petit Cafe in Kensington and wait for her to arrive. It feels weird not having seen Peach every day, and I find myself genuinely excited to catch up with her.

So imagine my shock when it’s not Peach who walks through the cafe door, but Grandma. She glides in, tall and graceful in her dusky pink suit, her hair tied back in a chignon, her huge red glasses propped neatly on her nose.

Fucking Peach. She’s completely set me up! And to think I was just having such lovely thoughts about her.

I grumpily stand up from the table and gather my things to leave.

‘Please stay, Jessica,’ Grandma asks, her voice cracking. Sighing, I sit back down. As she joins me at the small wooden table, I get a waft of her Chanel No. 5 and my eyes instantly fill with tears. I wipe them away fiercely.

I miss my Grandma.

But I’m so mad at her too.

‘I’ve moving out of Bonham Square,’ she informs me, discreetly signalling over to the waitress.

‘I know. Peach told me.’

‘I’m downsizing. To an end-of-terrace in Dulwich.’ The waitress comes over and takes our order for tea. ‘It’s not quite Bonham Square, but it’s bright and spacious and in rather a nice area.’

‘Good. That’s good.’

‘I wanted to see you,’ she says, ‘to give you this.’

She takes a crisp white envelope out of her purse and hands it over.

Frowning, I open it up.

It’s a cheque made out to the Mental Health Foundation. There are rather a lot of zeros on the end of the hand-scrawled number. I gasp.

‘Woah.’

‘I was wrong to ask you to get involved with the project.’ Grandma sighs heavily. ‘I should have known it was not your job to fix my problems. I thought that my house was the only thing I had left in the world. And by trying to save it, I lost what was most important to me . . . and that’s you. Downsizing has left me plenty to spare. I thought that perhaps we could donate this in honour of Rose.’

She sobs slightly as she says my mum’s name.

‘I’d like that,’ I nod quickly, the words catching in my throat. I swallow my own sob down. ‘Thank you.’

Grandma takes a cotton hanky out of her handbag and dabs at her eyes with trembling hands.

‘You haven’t lost me, you know,’ I say eventually. ‘I’m just really, really pissed off at you.’

She opens her mouth instinctively, ready to tell me off for swearing, and then closes it just as quickly.

‘I’m so sorry I . . . pissed you off.’ She reaches over and takes hold of my hand. ‘I’ve been very selfish. So consumed with self-pity and grief. I couldn’t bear for you to see me the same way as your mother did. I thought, when you came through my door, that I had been given a second chance. And then I ruined it by involving you in my troubles.’

The waitress arrives with our tea. Grandma adds milk and I add sugar, but neither of us takes a sip.

‘I’ll never forgive myself for what I did to your mother, Jessica. And however badly you think of me, I want you to know that I think that of myself. Please say you’ll forgive me.’

‘I forgive you, G,’ I say immediately.

And I realize that I really do. None of us are innocent in this whole disaster; we’ve all been absolute turds in one way or another. Mum wasted so much of her life being angry and resentful. I don’t want to do that. I can’t do that.

Grandma exhales steadily and picks up her teacup in still slightly shaking hands.

‘Peach tells me you’ve been wanting to go travelling. I’d like very much to pay for you to do that, Jessica. Where . . . where do you think you might like to go?’

I look at Grandma’s wrinkly face and I realize how much I’ve missed seeing her every day, how nice it’s been to have someone – however nuts – to care about what you’re doing, how used to it I’ve become. Hmmm. The idea of travelling alone to Jamaica or Thailand or anywhere else really far away doesn’t seem quite as urgent as it once did.

And then I laugh because suddenly I know exactly where I want to go, and it surprises the fuck out of me.

‘I was thinking maybe . . . South London?’ I suggest, taking a gulp of tea. ‘I dunno, maybe somewhere like Dulwich.’

Grandma frowns for a second before she realizes what I’ve just said.

‘With . . . with me?’ She puts a hand to her chest. ‘You mean at my house?’

‘Yeah.’ I grin. ‘If you’ll have me, obviously.’

‘Oh, Jessica.’ She sobs out loud, which makes a few of the other diners turn to give us super-annoyed stares. ‘I will have you!’

‘Oi, take a picture, maybe it’ll last longer!’ I shout over to the staring customers, which makes Grandma chuckle and turn pink.

She presses a palm to her cheek. ‘I can’t believe it! Say you’ll come back today, dear? I’ll have Peach prepare the spare room. Well, your room now!’ She looks over her shoulder and calls to the waitress at the cafe counter. ‘Cake, please! We simply must have cake to go with our tea!’

‘Cool.’ I laugh, calling over to the waitress to cut me a bigger slice. ‘I do have a few conditions, though.’

‘Go on?’

‘You have to promise me no more girdle-wearing, I go running whenever I want, we tell each other the truth from now on and . .. you never, ever, buy me a porcelain doll.’

Grandma holds her bony hand out in a flash. ‘Done.’

* * *

I get back to Jamie’s with a spring in my step. He’s thrilled to hear I’ve sorted things out with Grandma. In fact, he seems a little too thrilled.

‘Jeez, thanks a lot,’ I say when he eagerly offers to help me pack my stuff.

‘I’ve enjoyed having you here,’ he grins. ‘It’s just . . . you’re a little . . . messy.’

‘I’m creative,’I protest. ‘There’s a difference, man.’

He lifts last night’s plate of half-eaten lasagne off the coffee table. ‘Yeah, very creative. I’m a medical professional. I have to think of the hygiene.’

I roll my eyes. Upstairs, I grab a black bin bag and start stuffing my clothes into it while Jamie doesn’t so much help as stand there watching. When I’m all done he calls me a taxi and we wait out on his doorstep for it to arrive.

‘Will we stay in touch?’ Jamie asks quietly, kicking at the pavement with the toe of his Converse.

‘We’d better do,’ I say, nudging him with my elbow.

He runs a hand through his curls. ‘Good.’ He nods. ‘Good.’

As the taxi pulls up at the curb, I yank Jamie in for a hug. ‘You’ve been brilliant to me,’ I whisper. ‘And I’ll never forget it.’

‘I . . . I . . .’ he starts, then sighs, his cheeks turning red. I don’t know what he’s about to say, but I interrupt it just in case it’s what I think it might be.

‘See you soon, Doc. And say bye to lovely Kiko for me.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I will do.’ His shoulders slump for a second before he opens the boot of the cab and helps me to put my bags inside.

‘Well!’ I smile. ‘See you soon, I guess. I’ll ring you. Maybe we could go for a drink. Kiko too.’

‘Sounds great . . .’

‘Fab.’

‘Be good, Jess,’ he says tenderly, his cute face stretching into a warm smile.

‘Never!’ I yell, climbing into the cab and slamming the door behind me with a clunk.

The engine starts up with a roar, and as we trundle down the road I wave madly at Jamie through the back window. He waves back until eventually the car turns a corner and I can’t see him any more.