Just a Girl, Standing in Front of a Boy (19 page)

‘I think we need to be playing calming classical music when we capture him, so he doesn’t get aggressive,’ Mum gabbles as she ransacks her way through our CDs.

I stand gaping at her.

‘Mum! I think if we stop referring to it as a capture or a kidnap, it would probably be a good thing.’

‘Oh, right, sorry, love. We’re just going to seize him temporarily.’

I open my mouth but then close it quickly. I feel this is a battle I am losing.

‘Are you all sorted?’ I ask, turning to Al.

He nods.

‘I feel so alive,’ Mum gushes, which seems a little insensitive seeing as Doris isn’t, but I don’t mention it because there’s a knock on our door. It causes us all to freeze.

‘Someone must have left the downstairs door open,’ Al whispers. ‘Are you expecting anyone?’

‘Not me,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll go,’ I say, as I walk to open it. It could be Steve Wilmot, I think, but then I remember he doesn’t know where I live yet. I open the door a tiny fraction. It’s Matt. He’s wearing his grey work suit with a purple tie. He looks incongruously smart against our tatty landing.

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you, you’re not shagging anyone are you?’

‘That’s not funny.’

‘I thought it was.’

‘Maybe it was a little bit.’

We share a smile, which seems bizarre under the circumstances.

‘Why don’t you answer my texts?’

‘Because I don’t know what to say,’ I reply sadly.

‘Can we have a chat?’

‘Matt, I’m so sorry, but it’s, um… yes, I want to chat but… it’s just not a good time.’

‘I won’t be long. Two minutes is all I need to say what I need to say.’

‘OK, but you’ll have to say it here.’

Matt’s body suddenly jolts, he steps toward me and tries to see round the door.

‘You’ve got him in there, haven’t you?’

‘No, no, God, it’s not like that!’

‘Then why can’t I come in?’

‘Matt, it’s just that…’

‘Fan, are you all right?’ It’s Al, looking over my shoulder. I hope he’s taken his clava off. I tip my head to look. No, course he hasn’t.

‘Jenny, there’s a man in a balaclava in your flat!’ shouts Matt in alarm.

‘No, no, no! It’s not like that! It’s Al!’

‘What the hell’s going on?’

‘We’re just messing around.’ I sigh. We’ll be here all night. ‘Come in.’

I drag him swiftly past the musketeers while he splutters a variety of expletives. For some reason I lead him into the bathroom.

‘Jeez, this bloody plant,’ he says, swiping at the leaves around him. He is practically in Matilda. Two people and Matilda is quite a squeeze in our bathroom.

‘I’m so sorry. It’s not the best time,’ I explain.

‘So who was it?’

‘Who?’

‘The bloke you slept with.’

Lie, Fan, this is one occasion when it is perfectly acceptable to lie.

‘I don’t know.’

I really need to work on my perjury.

‘You shagged some bloke you don’t even know?’

‘Y-e-e-s.’

Matt laughs. ‘Fan, I’ve never seen you lie. You’re appalling at it. You’d never make it in business.’

I sigh. ‘It was Al.’

‘Al?’

‘Yes.’

‘The big bloody ginger?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your flatmate?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right, bloody hell. Look, Fan,’ he puts his head in his hands. ‘I’ve thought about this, and we’re about to make a big commitment and sometimes that makes people do things that are out of character…’ He tails off suddenly. ‘Bloody massive Al with the weird hair?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you want to sleep with him again?’

I shrug.

‘That’s really encouraging, Fan.’

‘I don’t know what I’m thinking, Matt. I slept with him, I’ve been fancying someone else. I really don’t want to get married at the golf club. Everyone keeps saying we’re not well suited.’

‘Who?’

‘Just. People.’

‘But, but, we’re going to get married and have a life together, and I’ll take care of you and you’ll take care of me.’

‘I know all that, Matt, but you do boss me around.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘You do.’

‘Fan, you’re making this up.’

‘Why would I make it up? See, I’m not even allowed an opinion.’

‘Hang on! You slept with someone else.’

‘Yes, because I’m confused.’

‘Confused.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I’ll still take you.’

‘But, Matt, I don’t know whether I want to be taken.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t think you really want me, either. The real me. I don’t think you even know the real me and that’s my fault not yours.’

‘I don’t even understand that.’

‘If I told you that I tried reality and it wasn’t much cop, what would you say?’

‘What?’

‘If I said that I’d tried reality and it wasn’t much cop what would you say?’

‘I’d say you were talking nonsense, Fan, because you are. But I still want to marry you.’

‘I’m sorry, Matt. I really am.’

‘But I booked the golf club. I told my bosses.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Fan, please don’t do this.’

‘I have to, Matt. I’m sorry,’ I say, and I close my eyes because I really mean it. I am sorry. But I do have to do this.

But Matt’s out of Matilda, out of the bathroom. I’ve never seen anyone move so fast. I leg it after him, just in time to see him swipe his fist at Al, who ends up on the sofa. Al groans. Mum screams and Matt bolts out through the door.

It seems the wedding is definitely off now.

It’s all done. Steve Wilmot has heard the Dictaphone message. Apparently he cried. Hearing Philippa say that made me a feel a bit strange. Then when she said, ‘I’d forgotten how much we used to like Steve, Fan,’ I felt even stranger. I don’t want to think of him having a heart, it’s easier for me to pretend he doesn’t have one. Still, at least it’s done. Apparently, my mother told him he should be ashamed of himself for how he treated me. She shouldn’t have done that, he had just lost his nan and, really, there’s no point in bringing up an incident that happened so long ago and making him feel bad for it. I certainly wouldn’t do it myself, but I do quite love that Mum did. My mum fought my corner for me; that feels very special. They had already booked the golf club, so it was very lucky that the musketeers intervened when they did. Funny old world.

Actually what is funny, well, not funny ha ha but funny wow, is the extent of my crush on Joe King. I have got more going on in my life now than I’ve ever had before: Mum having a midlife in my flat, breaking off an engagement, people getting punched in my living room, my favourite patient dying and me being appointed chief funeral organiser. So, you know, I should have stuff on my mind, shouldn’t I? Yes, Fanny, you should. But I don’t really. It’s
all
Joe King. Other thoughts do make an appearance, but they all end up at the same place, with me in the arms of Joe King. I think back to how it felt on the curb when his arm was around me, and my stomach does a little Joe King flip.

Oh no, someone’s trying to hand me a sample pot. By far the worst part of my job. I shake my head and point at the letterbox with the big sign saying
SAMPLES
HERE
.

Wow, someone’s just pushed the heavy surgery doors open with some serious welly. Marge and I share our ‘can’t be that ill if they can do that’ raised eyebrow look, and then turn our attention back to the door to see who it is.

My tummy tightens in a knot. No, it can’t be her, I think. She strides to the counter. It is. She leans forward so that I can see her closely, the way she hasn’t blended her foundation on her lower cheek, how she’s tried to cover up a spot on her chin, the small shadows under her eyes. She looks as though she’s trying to place me. I know I’ve changed since school. People rarely recognise me. But I recognise her. It’s Michelle Cullet.

‘I’m looking for Jenny Taylor?’ she barks. No pleasantry. She was never one for a pleasantry. And I so love a pleasantry. A ‘hello’, an ‘excuse me’, a ‘how are you?’, a ‘gosh, how’s Monday treating you?’, a ‘it’s turning into a lovely day’. A pleasantry costs nothing. Little free nuggets of niceness that make such a difference to a day.

I don’t answer. She stares at me. Then she furrows her brow. ‘It is you,’ she says.

She takes a step back and looks around the surgery. Her expression of disgust increases in intensity by the moment. Suddenly I see the place with her eyes; it’s not aided by one of the elderly male patients standing beside her, scratching an egg stain off his lap.

She looks back at me. ‘I thought you’d come to nothing. I didn’t think it would be quite this bad.’ She snorts a laugh. ‘I’m just dropping by to tell you that we’re having her wake at the golf club. We had to pay a big deposit up front. It’s non-refundable. She may have wanted some party of the frigging century but we can’t lose that money. And you can stay out of my family’s affairs.’

Marge is standing next to me now. I didn’t notice her get up. But I am aware that she’s tensing an arm and clenching a fist. Blimey. I think Marge the Heavy is going to thump Michelle Cullet! We can’t go walloping people. We’re a doctor’s surgery. Peace and Love, man. I turn to stop her. But I don’t think it’s my brightest move to put myself in the way of a moving fist with seventeen stone behind it.

‘Arrrghhhh!’ I cry, as her fist catches the side of my face and knocks me to the floor.

‘Fanny!’ Marge cries.

‘You lot are mental,’ Michelle exclaims and walks out.

‘Well that got rid of her,’ I remark when she’s gone.

‘It looks like she’s got a good thump on her.’ Mum winces as she delicately places a bag of frozen peas onto the side of my face.

‘I can’t believe she hit me,’ I squeak. ‘She was like an animal.’

‘Shhh,’ Mum soothes.

‘Twatted in a doctor’s surgery. I could probably sue.’

‘Shhh.’

‘Does it look angry, Mum? Does my face look red and angry?’

‘Oh, well, um, perhaps a little cross, yes.’

Brilliant, now I know what I’ll be wearing to Joe King’s party. A bloody great bruise. That’s not even the worst of it. Dr Flemming came out of his examination room when he heard the kerfuffle and suggested that I stay away from the surgery for the time being.

‘Two thirds of the inhabitants of this flat have been thumped in the last twenty-four hours. It’s practically a war zone.’

‘I’ll have to watch my back,’ Mum says.

‘What am I supposed to do now though?’ I wail.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Michelle said that Doris can lump it with a do at the golf club and Doris loathed the golf club. If she knew they were doing this it would break her heart.’

‘Well, the truth is, Jenny,’ my mum says, stroking my hair with her peas-free hand. ‘Doris will never know where she has her funeral.’

‘But how do you know that?’

‘Darling, she’s dead.’

‘Yeah, I get that bit. But she might still know. Her spirit might still be around.’

‘I didn’t know you believed in all that.’

‘Well, I don’t really know what I believe in. But I like to think there’s something else, don’t you?’

She nods and then suddenly I see tears welling up in her eyes. Oh dear, I’ve upset the emotional, menopausal woman.

‘Come here, softie,’ I say, reaching over to give her a hug. I love hugging my mum now. ‘Ooh, watch my face. I love you, Mum.’

‘Oh, Jenny, I love you too, so much.’

‘Tissue?’

‘I’m all right, but I think you should get the whiteboard, the balaclavas and the musketeers and we should hatch a plan.’

‘You’re worse than Al with the balaclavas.’ I laugh.

‘Jenny, it’s the most fun I’ve had in a long, long time.’

‘I’ll get the whiteboard. But it’s just the two of us, Al’s out with Gemma and Philippa’s working late. I could…’

I could call Joe King. But I won’t. That would a bad idea. Wouldn’t it?

‘Could what, love?’

‘Nothing, let me grab that whiteboard.’

I skip through to the lounge, heave the whiteboard out from behind the shelves and then I stomp back to the kitchen and erect it. I swiftly pull the top eight pages off and stuff them in our kitchen bin. There goes my dream wedding. Mum has already sourced her clava and is sporting it. I quickly fetch mine from my bag and put it on.

‘We’re going to ambush Doris’ funeral,’ Mum says with relish.

‘Mum, I think it’s important to keep the vocab under control when we’re discussing these missions.’

‘We’re going to organise the funeral she wanted.’

‘But what about the golf club do?’

‘The guests start off by going to the golf club do and then afterwards they go to the big bash that she wanted.’

‘Oh, I see. Oh, I see. Oh, I like it. But how?’

‘We have to hijack the golf club do.’

‘Mum, vocab,’ I sing.

‘Someone needs to get all the people who are at the golf club to go to the community centre.’

‘Yes. Who though? I can’t tell them. They don’t want me there. Oh. Oh. I know. Doris could tell them.’

Mother wasn’t expecting that.

‘Dave’s got Doris on film talking about her Big Send Off. We play that on a screen at the golf club and then tell everyone that after they’ve finished their cups of tea there’s going to be a knees-up in the community centre. Actually, we get Philippa to sort that bit out. If anyone can chat somebody up at the golf club to make all this work, it’s Philippa.’

‘Excellent,’ Mum says, as though we’ve just sorted out the tiny issue of who’s going to go and buy loo paper. ‘Right, so now we need to get on and organise her big bash.’

‘Mum, do you really think we can do this?’

‘Jenny Taylor, if anyone can, you can.’

And for some reason that comment makes me feel so happy I give her a kiss on the cheek.

‘Right, let’s make some lists,’ I say, taking off the lid of my marker pen. I’m instantly interrupted by my mobile phone ringing. ‘I should turn this off, we have work to be doing,’ I say as I fetch it from the kitchen surface. ‘Oh, it’s for you.’

I hand my mother my mobile phone, which is flashing the words
SIMON
THE
PLASTERER
CALLING
.