Coco Pinchard, the Consequences of Love and Sex: A Funny, Feel-Good, Romantic Comedy (33 page)

‘You’re adding sugar to Coke? Do you know what sugar does to babies?’ said Chris in horror.

‘It’s a craving Chris,’ snapped Marika. ‘And I have two babies in here.’

‘What does sugar do to babies?’ I asked.

‘It makes them sweeter,’ said Marika. ‘Now back to you Cokes. Unlike you, I have been reading my baby books and it says that in the final weeks of gestation the mother emotionally pushes the husband away to care for her baby.’

‘I can’t stand the word gestation,’ said Chris.

‘But this is about Rosencrantz as well,’ I said.

‘Who is also your baby,’ said Marika. ‘He needs you.’

‘What was it like when you came out of rehab Chris?’ I asked.

‘Tough. I came and stayed at your house, remember? When your mum and dad went off on the QEII.’

‘See, you needed a home and you came to my house, I mean our house. Shit, I’ve only been married for eleven months. What if he leaves me…’ my voice trailed off when I realised that could be true.

‘He won’t leave you hun,’ said Marika.

‘He won’t,’ added Chris.

‘What should I do?’

‘I hate to get all businesslike Cokes,’ said Chris. ‘But I need to know if you’re going to buy Strangeways Farm. I’ve had another offer, and I need to tell them yes or no.’

We parted ways on Baker Street. I grabbed some milk in the Tesco Metro then made my way home. I waited for the traffic light to change then waddled across the road. I reached the pavement and rounded the corner to my house. I stopped. The pavement in front was being cordoned off. A van had pulled up, and some young guys in jeans and sleeveless hi-visibility jackets were unloading red plastic barriers. I watched as they placed them on exactly the same bit of pavement as my dream. I looked at the steps up to my front door in the distance, but it was empty.

‘Excuse me,’ I said to a one of the guys. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Re-surfacing,’ he said putting down the last barrier.
 

‘With cement?’ I asked.

‘Yeah.’

I clutched my chest in horror. ‘Since when?’

‘There’s been a sign up about it for a month,’ he said pointing to a tiny square taped high up on the lamppost. It was written in a miniature script, impossible to read. It must be a co-incidence, I thought.
 

I walked along a little then stopped. I had a feeling someone was behind me.
 

I turned.
 

A woman who looked like Regina Battenberg had just crossed at the traffic lights further down and was walking towards me. She wore jeans and a dark short-sleeved blouse. Her long black hair was down. The woman spotted me and started to hurry towards me. I panicked, dropped my shopping and began to waddle away like a mad little weeble.

I heard the woman call my name. I turned, and saw she was gaining on me. I hurried even more. I had an image of this Battenberg-a-like putting her head down and galloping towards me like a werewolf clutching a knife. I gave a squeak of fear and ran up the steps to the front door. I scrabbled around in my handbag for my keys… I dropped them on the floor… I was now in a blind panic. She had now reached the end of my road, just a few houses away. Any second she would appear between the gate posts. I pulled the dead woman’s grabber from my bag and lunged for the front door key…. I hooked the grabber through the key ring and hoisted my keys up. I found the right one and scrabbled at the lock until it went in. I turned the key, fought my way through the door and slammed it shut, locking the dead bolt and pushing the chain across.
 

I nearly peed myself when Rocco barked, I stumbled forwards, knocking a pile of letters off the hall table with my bump. I saw my sweaty wild face in the mirror.

‘It was a daydream,’ I said. I waited for half a minute, I breathed. Then the doorbell rang! I looked at Rocco. It rang again. I put the chain on and opened the door.

The woman stood facing me on the doorstep. She had on flat tennis shoes, blue jeans, the aforementioned black blouse, and a canvas bag slung over her shoulder. She looked to be in her sixties; her long hair was dyed black and hung loose, but she had a pale face devoid of make-up

‘Hello, Coco dear,’ she said. ‘It’s me. Regina Battenberg...’

I looked her up and down. Her eyes were very tiny, her lips were thin.

‘Don’t you recognise me dear?’ she said.

‘No.’

‘Good. I’m going incognito. Can I please come in?’

I opened the door and she came in.
She took her shoes off.

‘Would you like a drink? I think I’ve got some nice white wine in the fridge.’

‘No thank you, but a soft drink would be fandabidoze,’ she said. She seemed nervous. We went into the kitchen, and she perched on a stool at the breakfast bar whilst I got a jug of lemonade from the fridge. I watched her cuddle Rocco, her red nails disappearing into his pale fur. My mind was whirring, it was all so
bizarre
.

‘Regina. You’re going to have to help me out,’ I said putting down the jug and pulling two glasses out of the cupboard. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I’m here to say sorry,’ she said, but first I have to give you this. She opened her bag, pulled out a little white envelope and slid it across the breakfast bar. On it was written “MUM x” I tore the envelope open and inside was a note from Rosencrantz.

I looked up at Regina who was watching me closely. I leaned across and tried to hug her but my bump nearly knocked her off her stool. She laughed and came round to hug me from the side. The shoulder of her blouse smelt of lavender.

‘Are you okay dear?’ she asked.

‘No. Not really all that fandabidoze…’ I grinned. ‘Thank you for doing this.’

‘He’s a lovely lad Coco. I’ve seen him somewhere before…’

‘He’s my son.’

‘Oh, I know that. Was he in a play, or was it a film?’

‘He was in
Chasing Diana Spencer: The Musical,
at the Edinburgh Festival… Remember? You had a show up there too.’

‘Of course, yes. So many things are a blur…’ she took a sip of her lemonade and looked off into the distance, contemplating.

‘So, you were in
Pathways
with Rosencrantz for?’

‘Alcohol? Yes. My name is Regina Battenberg and I’m an alcoholic.’

‘I always thought you were a bit eccentric.’

‘I am dear, but I’m also a swallower when I should really be a spitter.’

‘What?’

‘Wine Coco. When I started out I only used to have a drink with my supper. But
Window Box Winemaking
changed everything. There were product launches, and television shows, personal appearances at vineyards. I grew up very poor Coco. Spitting out perfectly lovely wine was abhorrent to me, so I swallowed. I swallowed an awful lot…’

‘But you’re better now?’

‘Yes. I experience every day with an alarming clarity.’

‘Are you writing a new book?’

She laughed.

‘I don’t know if there is much market for a teetotal holocaust denying wine connoisseur.’

‘You didn’t deny the holocaust.’

‘I can barely remember what I said Coco. But that is not why I’m here. I’m here to apologise to you, for my ninth step. I’m very sorry.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘I knew you were eating Pippin’s dog biscuits…’

‘That’s okay.’

‘And I stole that slot on ‘This Morning’
from you…’

‘You did?’

‘And do you remember when you came to watch my show at the Edinburgh Festival?’

‘Yes.’

‘And I called you up on stage to do that bit where an audience member stomps on the grapes in the bucket.’

‘It was a bowl…’

‘Yes a bowl. Well I planted that corn plaster in the bowl.’

‘I know you did.’

‘I could see how embarrassed you were when I held it up to the audience.’

‘I was.’

‘I’m sorry… You have such nice feet Coco. I kept seeing you around Edinburgh wearing such elegant sandals.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Look at my feet!’ she said pulling off the socks she was wearing. Her feet were lumpy and swollen with a prominent bunion on each toe. ‘I’ve got such horrible feet.’

I realised then and there that Regina Battenberg was no longer my nemesis.
 

‘What are you going to do?’ I asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I’ve earned all this money. I thought maybe I should start to enjoy it. My son and his wife live in Australia, and they’re expecting. I think I might pay them a visit, let my hair go grey, and fade into delicious obscurity.’

She gave me another big hug. As she was leaving I asked if she knew what Angie was doing.

‘The last I heard she went to Burning Man,’ said Regina.

‘Burning Man? The thing in the desert?’

‘Yes.’

‘The hippyish thing with no mobile phones, no hair straighteners… no irony?’

‘That’s the one dear,’ she said. She kissed me on the cheek and made her way down the steps. At the end of the road hailed a taxi. She still had to go and apologise to Martin Amis and Sue Pollard. Quite why, I’m not sure. We’ve said we’ll keep in touch. I’ve no idea if we will.

Adam came home late after his double shift at the bar. I showed him the letter, and explained to him what had happened.
 

‘We should go for it,’ I said. ‘We should accept the offer and move to the farm.’

‘You won’t regret this Cokes, I’m going to make an amazing new life for us,’ he said and threw his arms around me.

Thursday 4th July

So much has happened in the last 24 hours. After his initial excitement, Adam has gone into panic mode. We phoned Bonham & Son last night and accepted the offer. I then phoned Chris and told him we were going to buy Strangeways farm.

Then Adam quit his job at the bar, and I booked a removal company to come and re-pack everything.

‘I’m so unprepared to start a micro-brewery,’ said Adam. ‘That batch of beer I made was disgusting… What are we going to do?’

‘We need a habitable house first. I’m not having our baby live in that place with the single glazing, Formica and floaters in the loo…’

Friday 5th July

We met Chris and drove out today to Strangeways Farm. When we opened up the house, my nesting instinct kicked in with a vengeance. I marched round, with Chris and Adam running after me.

‘These have all got to go,’ I said pointing at the crumbling appliances in the kitchen.

‘I’ve got my baby belling stove, and that Euro 2008 beer fridge which could tide us over,’ said Adam.

‘No. I want a completely new kitchen like the one I’ve got at home.’

‘Cokes. You could have the baby any day… isn’t it too much?’

‘You wanted to do this Adam, and I do too. But our baby must have the same quality of life as we do in London. Like the Queen Mother wanted when she was booted out of Buckingham Palace.’

‘She wasn’t booted out, her daughter became Queen,’ said Adam.

‘And what she actually said was that she wanted to be kept in the style as to which she was accustomed,’ said Chris.

‘You got that Adam? The style to which I am accustomed. So we’re having a new kitchen.’

‘Have we got enough time?’ he asked.

‘Well you’d better get cracking,’ I said. Adam nodded nervously and wrote it down. We then went upstairs.

‘This bathroom needs to be ripped out. I want a shower and a bath, no worries if we can’t get a bidet; I only ever used ours at Christmas to defrost the turkey. Put in a heated towel rail and new double-glazed windows. In fact double-glaze the whole house. No, triple-glaze!’
 

We then went to the bedrooms.

‘Hire a skip, get rid of it all…’ I said shuddering at the wonky little single beds. ‘What’s under these carpets?’ Chris and Adam hurried to the corner and pulled up a piece of the thin moulding carpet. Underneath were floorboards.

‘Lovely. Hire a sander and a polisher.’ We came back downstairs.

‘I want a new front door, and a new back door, thick wood with proper locks and no glass. I want a new toilet down here.’ I said as we came into the hall. ‘We also need fast broadband, telephone, a Sky box, and a letter box with those little bristles on it.’

‘Why with bristles?’ asked Adam. A gust of wind roared round the house and lifted the letterbox up with a thwap.