Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Public houses and liquor bars are the residence of ne’er-do-wells. They are no place for a Good Woman. And certainly never an unmarried lady.

Matilda Beam’sGood Woman Guide, 1959

The Trap Inn is located at the end of our road. It’s a real dive of a pub. The seats are stained and threadbare, there are tooth marks on the beer mats and it smells like egg. But needs must, and it’s very close by, so, for now, the Trap Inn will be my place of solitude. I order a bottle of pear cider from the thin, gap-toothed barmaid who, from what I can gather, goes by the name of Skanky Elaine.

‘Pear cider?’ she says with a blink. ‘Pear? Cider? Pear Cider?’

‘It’s just like normal cider, but pear-flavoured. It’s delicious, trust me. Don’t worry, I can see you don’t have any. Just a beer will do, thanks.’

She nods and grabs me a bottle of Corona from one of the fridges. I take a couple of hefty swigs, hop onto the high stool at the bar, put my head in my hands and sigh long and low.

Well that was all a bit fucking intense.

I don’t know quite how to feel. Part of me feels really mad that Summer’s kicked me out of my own bloody home. But more of me feels sad that I’ve clearly upset her so much. It’s an uncomfortable rolling guilt feeling in my belly. I’ve not had that feeling since Mum. I can’t bear it. Summer’s been mad at me plenty of times, but she’s never, ever kicked me out. Not least because of the fact that, however much I get on her nerves sometimes, she still needs me to do the work. Ordinarily I’d leave it a couple of hours and then talk to her when she’s calmed down, but I get the feeling that that’s not going to work this time.

I peek up at the TV in the corner of the pub. Kirstie’s Vintage Home. More twee ‘let’s own a crumbly house and source old wooden apple crates for a coffee table’ crap. Great. Today is turning out to be a real shithead of a day.

Where the arses am I going to go now? I scroll through the contacts list on my phone. Well, Amy Keyplass and Mark Chunder are obviously out of the question.

Ooh, look. I’ll try Betty. Betty’s our journalist friend. She’s lovely and funny and her house is in Didsbury, which could be a cool place to hang for a while.

I pull out my phone and call her.

‘Yo, it’s J-dawg!’ I say faux brightly.

‘Who?’

‘Jess.’

‘ … Jess?’

‘Jess Beam! Betty, you big dope. What are you up to? It sounds loud there. Is that “Old Macdonald Had a Farm” I can hear?’

‘Yeah, I’m just arriving at Baby Sensory with Henry.’

‘Oh yeah, Henry! How old is he now?’

‘Eight months old. You’ve never met him.’

Yikes. She sounds pissed off. Is it really that big a deal that I haven’t met her baby? I mean, what would we even talk about?

‘Guess what, Bets? Now I can meet him. Summer’s gone and kicked me out and I need a place to crash. If I stayed with you I could babysit Henry whenever you liked. I mean, if your other babysitters weren’t available or if I didn’t already have any other plans, maybe … Hmmm, does Henry know how to dance yet? I could teach him to rock out to Bon Jovi!’

‘Why did Summer kick you out?’ she says flatly. ‘What did you do?’

‘Nothing! Why do you naturally assume it’s me in the wrong?’

Silence from Betty.

‘OK, I might have caused a tiny little scene at a book party. It was all a complete accident, but Summer’s having none of it. I’m sure she’ll calm down soon, but I think it’ll probably be best for me to just do one for a bit.’

‘I’m not sure I really want to get in the middle of all that, Jess.’

I hear the baby wail in the background.

‘Come on, just for a night or two, Betty Boo. Come ooooon. It’ll be like old times. I’ll bring some canned margarita and the Kings of Leon live DVD. Ooh, you’ve got the big house. We could − we could have a party! An epic house party!’ My mind wanders as I think about a special Spotify playlist for the party. Betty loves reggae music. I’ll Google ‘best reggae songs’ and put all of them on the playlist for her. I grab my trusty bic biro from my coat pocket and start scribbling ‘house party playlist epic’ on my arm. I manage to write ‘house’ before Betty shuts me down.

‘Um, as much … fun … as that sounds, I’m not sure my infant son will appreciate an epic house party. I’m sorry, Jess. I don’t think it’s such a good idea for you to stay. Good luck, though. We’re actually having a birthday party for Henry in August. I’d love for him to meet his auntie Jessica. I’ll text you the details nearer the time, shall I?’

‘Oh! Yeah, definitely…’ I say, feeling itchy at the words ‘auntie’ and ‘Jessica’ in the same sentence. ‘Sounds great!’

Not.

We end the conversation a tad stiffly, and I scroll frantically through the rest of my phone book. I call each of the people I consider to be my closest mates, but it turns out to be one bloody disaster after the next. Emily, who I met in Tunisia, is far too busy to put me up because of her high-pressure job as a human rights lawyer. Callum, a web design buddy, is properly mad at me for forgetting to answer his texts, especially after we slept together last new year. And my good mate Michelle, the bisexual bass guitar player, turns out to not want to be good mates any more, since apparently I’m not there for her enough ‘when it comes to the real, meta issues’ in her life.

‘I’ll have a tequila, straight up, please,’ I say to Skanky Elaine. She yanks her eyes away from the telly and idly pours one out into a little shot glass.

‘Bit early in the day for tequila, eh, love? Sommat troubling you?’ She hands over the drink with a bony hand missing its little finger. I down it and nod towards the bottle for an immediate top-up.

‘This is a tequila emergency,’ I declare. ‘My friends have deserted me, I have less than a hundred quid in the bank, I lost my job and I think I might be homeless.’

Skanky Elaine looks horrified, which oddly makes me feel a bit better. I take the refilled glass from her.

‘You know, I just don’t see what everyone’s problem is. Folk have different friends for different things, don’t they? They knew what I was like when they met me. I’m the carefree, fun, adventurous buddy, not the talk-about-your-emotions-and-cry-like-a-chump friend. Why do people suddenly expect me to be a different person? I’m no good with all that daft touchy-feely stuff.’

Skanky Elaine shrugs as I knock back the shot, her eyes flicking back up to the TV. ‘Just go and live with your mam and dad for a bit, flower,’ she says, as if it’s all so simple. ‘They’ll sort you out.’

I sigh. ‘I can’t. That’s the problem! My mum died yonks ago. I’ve never met my dad. All I know is that he was a horrible trickster of a bloke who left my mum before I was even born and broke her heart into a million pieces, from which she never recovered.’ I shake my head and down another shot. ‘I was planning on travelling the world again, but that’s all gone to pot now! Maaan.’

‘You poor love.’

Downing the next shot, I feel a satisfying warmth in my cheeks and everything softens around the edges. I examine Skanky Elaine. She seems nice. Not that skanky at all.

‘Can I stay with you at your house, Skanky Elaine? I could help out at the bar? I’ve always thought it’d be quite cool to live in a pub.’

‘No, love,’ she says. ‘I don’t think so.’

I nod and hiccup, graciously accepting her rejection. ‘Can I have another drink then?’

‘There’s an offer on doubles, love.’ She points up to the blackboard signage behind her.

‘Brill. Hit me up.’

She pours out the double. ‘Do you not have an auntie you can go to, duck? A granny? A godmother? A cousin? An ex?’

I shake my head. ‘Nope. I don’t have anyone.’ I sigh. ‘I’m a loner. All alone in this stone-cold worl … Oh, although … I think I do have a grandma, actually. Or at leasht I did. I’ve never met her. I don’t even know if she’s alive. I mean, she wasn’t at Mum’s funeral . . . at least, I don’t remember seeing her there, but then I don’t remember a whole lot about that day. Matilda, I think her name was… Thas right. Matilda Beam.’

‘You don’t even know your own granny? That’s bloody sad, that is, flower.’ Skanky Elaine gives a grimace, revealing a set of matt, green-tinged teeth and what I suspect is the reason for her nickname.

I rub my eyes, starting to feel a bit drunk. ‘Yeah, I s’pose it is sad.’ She and Mum never spoke, though I’m not sure why, come to think of it. ‘’pparently Grandma was shuper-rich, lived in this massive, fancy house in—’

Wait a minute.

I quickly grab my iPhone back out of my jacket and connect to the Internet browser with suddenly shaking hands. It takes me a little while because the tequila has made my fingers clumsy, but after three attempts I finally manage to google ‘Matilda Beam + Kensington’

The 192 website pops up. I click on it and scroll down blearily.

Gasp. There’s a Matilda Beam! Living at somewhere called Bonham Square in Kensington. The electoral roll shows the year 2014 as the most recent one registered and the age seventy-seven. That’s got to be her. It has to be. Matilda Beam is hardly a common name.

‘You fucking genius,’ I breathe, digging into my jeans pocket for some money.

‘What’s that, love?’ Skanky Elaine says, one gammy eye on Kirstie Allsop simpering into the camera.

‘You, you’re a – hic − geniush. You’re absolutely right. I do have a Grandma. An alive Grandma. And I think, well, I think she might be loaded. Man, I should have thought of this ages ago! Wow, I wonder how much time I’ve wasted.’ I hurriedly pay the bar bill and hop down off the bar stool with a wobble. ‘She’ll be able to lend me some money. A loan or sommat. I’ll be able to go travelling straight away. I’ll go to flippin’ Jamaica! Yasssss! I’m going to go home, pack an overnight bag and catch the train back to London right away. There ish no time to lose.’

‘Hmmm.’ Skanky Elaine frowns. ‘You’ve had a fair amount to drink, love. You sure this is the best idea?’

‘No, I’m not sure, Skanky Elaine. I’m not sure at all. But’s the only bloody idea I’ve got.’

* * *

Going on the hunt for your long-lost grandma when you’re sad and drunk on a Tuesday afternoon is an unusual idea. In the back alleys of my mind, I know that perhaps I should be thinking this whole thing through more carefully: maybe making a few phone calls, verifying that Grandma actually still lives at the Kensington address I found on Google, or is definitely, absolutely still, you know, alive. But desperation plus tequila equals mental things, and I am desperate and so full of tequila. My decision to do one is further solidified when I arrive back home to pack and find that Summer has guests over. I’ve only been out of the house for an hour or so, and now I can hear them giggling in the kitchen. The unmistakable pop of a champagne cork echoes out through the hallway.

What the fuck?

Are they celebrating?

Jeez. She must really want me out! I hurry wonkily to my room, flop onto the bed for a moment and try to have a cry. I do my best to squeeze out a tear, just one teensy little tear, but of course it doesn’t happen. As expected, I remain cryless.

Unable to find any proper luggage, I hurriedly pack a bin liner of clothes, grab my laptop bag and sneak back down the stairs and past the giggling festivities in the kitchen. As I reach the front door, Mr Belding darts out of the living room, a curious look upon his fluffy face. He’s wearing a tiny purple pork pie hat today in aid of the hours of pictures Summer will be taking of him later for her Instagram page. Poor thing. Destined for a life of preening and posing instead of playing and purring.

I hear another burst of laughter from the kitchen and the clinking of glasses in a toast. Someone, Holden, I think, calls out, ‘Here’s to the rise of Summer!’ Christ. They’re congratulating her on getting rid of me. Today really has taken the grimmest turn.

I exhale steadily, a hot flicker of resentment piercing my chest. Then, without really thinking about what I’m doing, I scoop our kitten up under one arm and leave the flat.

* * *

Spending the last of my life funds on a ticket, I catch the train to London for the second time in less than a week. Which, when you’re pissed, carrying a huge bin bag of dirty clothes , a laptop bag and smuggling a kitten inside your leather bomber jacket, is not the most joyful of experiences. Especially when the bin liner gets a hole in it and the gusset area of your bobbly grey thong is poking out for everyone to see, including the guy you were sadly yet stoically eyeing up at Euston.

Now I’m standing outside a massive white stucco-fronted house in Kensington.

This is it: Grandma’s house.

I take a few rapid deep breaths and press a little silver buzzer on the wall. Almost immediately, a high-pitched female voice sounds out through the intercom speaker.

‘Hello?’

It’s a bit crackly. Grandma, or not Grandma?

I haven’t got a clue.

Shit, I don’t even know this woman. Can I really just show up and ask for a loan when we’ve never even met? I look down to where Mr Belding purrs contentedly from inside my coat as if maybe he knows the answer. He doesn’t. He knows nothing.

What am I doing?The booze has pretty much worn off now and all that remains is the harsh reality of who I really am: a kitten-nicking, book-deal-ruiner with a bag of skanky clothes and a bit of tequila-induced acid reflux.

‘Um, I hope y’all don’t mind me asking but w-what are you doing out there? Can I help you? Are − are you in trouble?’

I startle as the intercom crackles back into life.

‘Er … ’ I lean forward and speak into the intercom. ‘Hello. Uh … I thought my gran lived here. But you’re young and American, and I think she’s old and English, so I’m guessing she’s probably not here any more. So I’ll go. Sorry to have bothered you.’

Brill. I’ve spent the last pounds I have in the world on some ridiculous grandma goose chase. I hate myself right now. Damn it, Jess.

‘Is Matilda Beam your grandma?’ the squeaky voice asks.

‘Er, yeah. I’m Jessica. Jess.’

Immediately there’s a low buzz and a clicking noise as the shiny black door swiftly unlocks.

Shit! My grandma is here?

‘We’re the second and third floor,’ the intercom woman says in a lilting southern American cadence. ‘Downstairs is a medical clinic.’

‘Oh! Right! OK, cheers, great. See you in a sec, then!’

I push open the heavy door to find myself in a grand-looking lobby with a black and white chequered floor and, from what I can gather, a whole load of stairs. I bypass them straight away − lifts are always the easy and best option, I feel, and particularly so when I’m carrying a cat and a bursting plastic bag.

Oh, wait. No. There doesn’t appear to be a lift.

‘Knobs and bollocks,’ I grumble to myself, dropping the bin bag on the floor in despair. I cry to the heavens: ‘Knobs andbollocks.’

I hate stairs at the best of times, but with all this stuff too? It’s going to be so haaard. Mr Belding snuffles in agreement.

A door to the left of me opens and the head of a short, curly-haired man pops out. He looks a little younger than me and is wearing a starchy white doctor’s coat alongside his confused expression.

‘Can I help you?’ he says in a melodic Scottish accent, examining me and my wares with a suspicious frown.

‘Oh, yes please,’ I say. ‘I’m looking for the lift. Do you know where it is?’

He clears his throat. ‘Um, this place was built mid-nineteenth century. It’s stairs only.’‘Knobs. And. Bollocks,’ I grumble again as my worries are confirmed. ‘All this stuff is so heavy.’

‘You can’t say knobs and bollocks in here!’

‘Oh? And why is that?’ I peer at him. ‘Are you the boss of the whole building?’

‘Um, no.’

‘Then why?’

‘Well, because this is Doctor Qureshi’s cardiothoracic clinic. We’re treating people with problematic hearts. I don’t think those people want to hear “knobs and bollocks” being wailed outside the door when they’re already anxious and unwell and have quite enough to worry about.’

He lifts his chin a little.

‘Oh,’ I say, guilt sweeping over me. ‘Yeah, I can see how that might be a bit annoying for them. I’m sorry. No more swearing. Are you Doctor Qureshi?’

‘No. I’m Doctor Abernathy. I work for Doctor Qureshi.’

‘Right. Cool. You fancy helping me with these bags, then?’

‘No, not really. I’m very busy at work – wait, who on earth are you?’ He narrows his eyes.

‘Your worst nightmare.’ I answer.

I say this mostly because I’ve always wanted to say it and this seems like as good a time as any. Also because I still seem to be a tiny bit drunk.

‘Hmm, yes, I thought so,’ he mutters, before leaning forward to peer at my boobs, eyes growing wide with astonishment. What the hell is this? What is he doing? I mean, to be fair, mine are pretty awesome boobs and have drawn many an admiring glance, though never so overt. Gross. He’s really staring. What a megaperv. I throw him my finest withering glance. ‘Ugh.’ I spit.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, leaning in further still. ‘But … do you know that there’s … there’s a cat in your jacket? Wearing a hat?’

Aha, he’s only spotted Mr Belding. Not megaperving. I peek down and see Mr Belding’s little face popping out at the top of my coat. I give his ears a little tickle.

‘Yeah, thanks for the heads-up, Doctor Seuss. You know, I don’t even know why he’s there.’

‘Sorry, what?’

‘I mean, I don’t know why I brought him here. I adopted him with my friend, but then I got a bit pissed and I was mad at her so I just kind of … took him. Anyway, don’t worry about all that. Will you please help me with my stuff?’

The doctor looks at his watch before stepping out of the clinic door and closing it gently behind him.

‘Fine. But this does not make me an accomplice to the animal theft.’ He takes the bin bag and the laptop bag and leads the way up the stairs. ‘I will expect you to testify to that.’

‘I’ll swear on the Holy Bible that you knew nothing about it,’ I reply solemnly as Mr Belding snuggles himself back down into the soft satin lining of my jacket and dozes off. ‘Unless they offer me some kind of lighter sentence deal.’

‘Great, thanks. So you’re going upstairs to see Old Lady Beam?’

‘I am. She’s my gran.’

‘Ah. I didn’t know she had any family… I’ve never seen anyone visit … um, sorry for calling her Old Lady Beam.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind.’ I lower my voice. ‘To be honest, I’d actually kind of forgotten she existed until, ooh, about five hours ago. I’ve never met her before. She doesn’t even know I’m coming!’

‘Wow. So you don’t know anything about her … ’

‘Nope. Zip. It’s kind of cool when you think about it. Like, Surprise Surprise, but, you know, not shit.’

‘Yes. Right.’

When we finally reach the top of the stairs, the doctor drops the bags, holds out his hand and says, slightly breathlessly. ‘I’m Jamie. Dr Jamie Abernathy.’

‘Hey.’ I take his hand and give it a hearty shake. ‘I’m Jess. Ms Jessica Beam.’

‘Good luck in there, Ms Jessica Beam.’

‘Why would I need luck?’ I adjust my glasses on my perspiring nose. ‘I’m her granddaughter. Grandmas love granddaughters, it’s basic human nature.’

Why is he raising an eyebrow like that?