A Hopeless Romantic (12 page)

“What?” said Laura, wondering what on earth she could mean. “It’s not wonderful. I feel like a complete fool. I’ve lost my best friend, I’ve lost my job, I’ve behaved like an idiot.”

“I think it is wonderful,” said Mary, standing up. She went into the kitchen. “You fell in love, well, that’s wonderful. All right, it was with completely the wrong man. But it’s over now, and the best of it is, no more secrets. No more living your life in half shadow, which is what it seems to me you’ve been doing these last few months.”

“Yes,” said Laura, staring into the gloom of the kitchen. “I hadn’t thought of it like that. But—I’m always doing it, always falling for the wrong person. I’m so stupid.”

“No, you’re not,” said Mary. “You just haven’t met the right one yet. And until then, at least you’re not lying to everyone you know anymore.”

“I know,” Laura said. She squirmed a bit in her seat. “But…I know this sounds awful, but…”

“What?” said Mary.

“I quite liked all of that,” Laura confessed. “The secrecy. The drama of it. If I’m completely honest, I think that was partly it. Isn’t that awful? That’s what makes me feel so bad about it all. What a nasty person I must be.”

It was dreadful, when she thought about it with the tiniest bit of hindsight, to admit this was the case. That a small part of herself was such a masochist, so enjoyed putting herself through all of this. That she liked hearing sad songs on the radio and staring gloomily out the window late at night. The tears in her eyes as she walked home of an evening, thinking about how much she loved him and how great they were together. It was so adolescent.

“Laura, darling, every woman does it at some point in her life,” said Mary. “You’re not a nasty person. You’re an honest person. You’ve absolutely shown how incompetent you are at cloak-and-dagger stuff, my love, and that’s wonderful, too. It’s not in your nature, Laura, it never has been. You’ve always been honest, since you were a tiny thing. It’s best that way.”

“It’s boring that way,” said Laura.

There was silence from the kitchen. Laura thought maybe her grandmother hadn’t heard her.

“I mean, it’s such a boring way to live your life,” she said.

Mary appeared in the doorway, holding two more gin and tonics. She set them down on the raffia mat at the center of the coffee table. She put her hand on Laura’s shoulder.

“Darling, never say that.” She spoke quietly. “Never say that. Living an honest life is the best gift anyone can have, believe me.”

She sat down heavily in the wicker chair.

“Really?” said Laura.

“Really,” said Mary firmly. “Besides which, I think you may have had a lucky escape. No, listen”—because Laura’s expression was mutinous—“honestly. This way, you’ll come to realize you were better off without him. I promise, you will.”

“Don’t, Gran,” said Laura. “I know. I know. It’s just—really hard.”

“It’s true,” Mary said. She drummed her fingernails on the chair arm. “You never got to the next stage, thank God. The stage when you’re together with him, and both of you are walking down the street, and a girl walks past who looks exactly like—whatever the girlfriend’s name is, what is it?”

“Amy,” said Laura.

“Yes, exactly,” said Mary, as if this was further evidence. “And instantly, the guilt starts up in your mind. The recriminations. Is he looking at her, is it awkward, does he still find her attractive? Does he think he made an awful mistake?”

“Well…” said Laura.

“It’s a life half lived. That’s what you would have had, believe me.” Mary leaned forward to pick up her drink. “And that, my darling girl, is not your destiny.”

“Well—”

“Trust me.”

Laura didn’t know what to say, but something about her grandmother’s expression told her further questioning would be dangerous. After a few seconds, Mary sighed and smiled, and the twinkle reappeared in her eyes.

“You are a very great girl, Laura darling, you do know that?”

Laura didn’t know what to say, it seemed such a completely untrue remark, apart from anything else. So she was silent.

Mary watched her, and she said, “I know you don’t think so, but you are. I am so proud of you, of the way you are. Xan would be so proud to see how you’ve turned out, you and Simon.”

“Hardly,” said Laura. “He’d disown us. Well, me. If you can disown your stepgrandchildren, which I don’t think you can.”

“You’re not listening,” said Mary slightly sharply. “I am proud of you, Laura, and do you know why?”

“I am listening. Why?” said Laura, hastily swallowing some more of her drink.

“The quality you castigate yourself most about—your tendency to fall in love with the most inconvenient people—is what I love about you, darling.”

“Oh, Gran,” said Laura, trying not to sound impatient. “That’s just not true. It’s awful—I should get a grip, not—”

Mary banged her ringed hand on the arm of her chair, as if she were Elizabeth I inspecting the English fleet. “No, darling. You have a great capacity to love. Be careful. Use it wisely. But be proud of it. So much love in your heart. That’s why I worry about you.”

She coughed. Laura listened, relieved to be talking about it at last, but not really knowing what to say.

“I worry you will walk away from that. That this will close you up, make you forget how wonderful falling in love can be. Don’t.”

“Are you saying I should go out there and pick up the first man I see?” said Laura, trying to make light of it.

“No, no.” Mary shook her head crossly. “Just—promise me, darling. Don’t run away from it, not now.” She closed her eyes briefly. “I worry that you will. That’s all. Now, tell me,” she said, lifting the glass to her mouth and holding it there. “If you have nowhere to go on holiday next week, might this mean that you might want to keep me company with your parents in Norfolk? And that you’ll be there for my birthday lunch? Which, darling, I note you would have missed otherwise.”

Laura’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, shit,” she said. “Sorry.”

“What’s that?” Mary said, alarmed.

“Holiday,” Laura croaked, then stood up. “Holiday. With Dan. All booked. Have to cancel. No insurance.” She sank back onto the sofa.

“Well,” said Mary. “Ain’t that a pretty pickle.”

“No one in a western ever said that, Gran.”

“The hell they didn’t.”

“What am I going to do?”

“I’ll lend you the money,” Mary said instantly.

“No,” said Laura, shaking her head slowly. “No. I got myself into this mess. God. I’m going to get myself out of it. And then I’m never, ever looking at another man ever again.”

“Really?” said Mary, smiling.

“Really,”
said Laura fervently.

chapter eleven

S
lowly but surely, Laura’s rehabilitation had begun. When she got back from Mary’s in the early evening, slightly light-headed from the gin and wine her grandmother had pressed upon her, and full of good intentions, wanting to be like Mary, she cleaned the rest of her room from top to bottom, and then the rest of the flat, even vacuuming in Yorky’s room. She went out and bought fresh flowers, bunches of sweet peas and cheap anemones, for she had long known that a broken heart takes a while to mend, but as Mary always said, flowers in vases to look at go some way to help. And she bought food. She made supper, spaghetti with clams, scrubbing them clean for ages, cooking them in white wine, garlic, and lemon juice.

She didn’t feel suddenly light as a feather, or much better. She felt—numb. But a little hopeful. She was just glad she was out of bed, frankly. She told herself she would take everything as it came, not try to sort it out immediately, in the old impetuous Laura way.

When Yorky came back from work, they sat together and ate, chatting lightly over a bottle of wine, and Yorky asked, “What the hell happened to you?” and Laura repeated the story. Everything—Dan, the baby, the job, no money. Somehow, saying it all to someone her own age, who wasn’t necessarily on her side, made it worse, because then it was out there, finally true, not just in her head. Yorky whistled through his teeth as Laura finished. She held her glass of wine by the stem, looked into her lap.

“I’m sorry, love,” Yorky said. “I’m so sorry. I wish—”

“You wish you’d been wrong, and you wish I wasn’t so stupid,” Laura said lightly. “There’s no need to say anything. I just wanted to say sorry, Yorks. I’ve been a crap flatmate. And an even crapper friend. Not anymore. Things have changed now, okay?”

“Oh, right,” said Yorky uneasily. “How?”

Laura heard the tone in his voice, but carried on regardless. “How? How? Ha, well. New leaf, that’s all. I’ve seen the light. No more romance. It’s cold hard facts for me from now on, and that’s that. I’m not going to go on about it,” she said as Yorky coughed politely and settled back into his chair. “Seriously! I’m not. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Yeah, right,” said Yorky. He smiled. “You don’t have to change, Laura. We all love you just the way you are, you know.”

“Thanks, Yorks,” Laura said, “I mean it, seriously.”

“Right,” said Yorky, but she saw him hide a smile in his wineglass. Never mind, she thought. I’ll just have to show them all.

“So,” she said. “What about Becky? Any news?”

“Hah!” said Yorky. “She’s got a bloody boyfriend!”

“No! Oh, damn. How do you know?”

“Because I effing saw him, didn’t I?” Yorky said bitterly. “I was walking down the stairs today,
really
slowly, just in case she came out of the flat. Ha. She came out of the flat, all right.”

“Yes? And?”

“With some bloke. Who she snogged for about five minutes outside. I walked past and they didn’t even say
hello
,” he finished sadly, as if it was the breach of manners that really upset him about the whole thing.

“Oh,” said Laura. “Sorry, man.”

“No sweat.” Yorky raised his glass. “Onward and upward, yes?”

“Yes,” said Laura, clinking his glass. “Onward and upward.”

The next day, Laura got up at eight-thirty. She knew what she was going to do. She showered and got dressed, putting on jeans and a strappy tank top, and smoothed her thick, shiny hair back into a plait.

She opened her chest of drawers, and from it pulled a bundle of letters from Adam, her Romantic poets university boyfriend, a series of cards from Josh, and the tiny, pathetic scraps of memories she had from Dan. A photo of him. His expired work security pass. The bill from their weekend away in the Cotswolds (which she had had to pay for). A condom packet—God, how pathetic. Yet symbolic, she thought wryly as she chucked it in the bin. All the letters and papers went into the cardboard box she’d brought from the cupboard. Then, with a heavy heart, she turned to her video collection, stacked up on the bookcase.

Into the box went her beloved Doris Day collection. In went
My Fair Lady, The Way We Were, Pride and Prejudice
(TV boxed set),
Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Gone with the Wind
, and
Brief Encounter
. She lingered over
When Harry Met Sally
—surely that was a comedy primarily, a fine piece of filmmaking, nominated for (she squinted at the case) an Academy Award for Best Original Screen-play—but she was firm, and it went into the box, to be followed by
Moonstruck, The Truth About Cats & Dogs, What Women Want
, and
Four Weddings and a Funeral.
Finally, with the heaviest of hearts, she picked up
The Sound of Music
, her personal favorite. Yes, the songs were great, but as far as Laura was concerned, it was all about the captain and Julie Andrews. The misunderstandings! The harsh words, the cross-purposes! The dance in the moonlight on the terrace! The—She stopped herself, and with her left hand pried the tape out of the frenzied grip of her right hand, and threw it almost viciously into the box. Gone.

She moved over to the bookshelf. Laura gulped. This was harder than she’d expected. She thought of Mrs. Danvers again, and hardened herself. Firm. Strong. Away with childish things. She put
Rebecca
on the bed, in case she needed to consult it. But into the box went all her Nancy Mitford books. In went all her Mills & Boon romances. She hesitated over her Jane Austen collection. Surely that was proper English literature, she shouldn’t be throwing it away! But, no, the Mrs. Danvers in her spoke again. You have never read them for academic enjoyment, Laura Foster, she said. You read them because they make you swoon and sigh and have striding men wearing breeches in them. In they go.

Finally, she reached the top shelf of her bookcase. With shaking hands, she picked up her Georgette Heyer collection. She knew it had to be done, but, by God, it hurt. Tears came into her eyes. One by one, she dropped each book in the box, watched as they slammed onto each other, the pale colors of the old paperback covers gleaming up out of the box at her. It was torture.

But no. They were wrong, and they had to go. And the box was full. Slowly Laura taped it up, then carried it out into the hall, down the stairs. Outside in the sunshine, she squinted up at the sky as she staggered like a drunk person down the path to where the rubbish bins were kept. She balanced the box on top of one, and was debating whether to open the bin and throw everything in or to just give the box to Yorky for safekeeping when a voice said, “Hello, Laura! How you doing today?”

“Hello, Mr. Kenzo,” Laura said. “I’m fine. Much better than the other day, you know.”

“I’m glad, I’m glad,” said Mr. Kenzo, who was carrying a balsawood box of fruit. He reached in, handed her something. “Have a peach, my dear.”

“Thank you,” said Laura, and bit into it. The rasp of the skin caught on the roof of her mouth, and she pressed her tongue up to the flesh and felt the sweet, musky juice flood down her throat. “Mmm,” she said. “My goodness! That’s delicious!”

“You look well today,” said Mr. Kenzo, considering her. “Hair nice. New skirt? Much better than on Saturday. My dear, you looked—my Gahd. Like a dead, drowned cat. Old.”

“Er,” said Laura, taking another bite, not sure how to respond. “Thanks?”