Vintage Babes (37 page)

‘Thanks. I’ve written another story, though I haven’t got it with me. If I bring it another time, please would you read it?’

I nodded. ‘I will.’

La Petite Bourriche was situated at the end of the High Street, towards the river. Previously a fishmonger’s shop, the restaurant was cottagey. It had whitewashed walls and tables covered in black-and-white gingham. A collection of bright pottery fish stood on a dresser. The frontage comprised floor-to-ceiling folding glass doors which, in the summer, were concertinaed back to allow the tables to spill out onto the pavement. Now, on a cool April evening, the glass doors were closed, but, seated at one of the front tables, Steve and I were visible to anyone walking by.

‘Annette and I had a long talk earlier and we’ve agreed that Debbie can move into my place tomorrow,’ he told me, when we had ordered our meal – sole meunière for two – and the wine had been poured. ‘It’ll give them time away from each other, a cooling-off period. Debs knows it’s temporary and, hopefully, won’t make too much fuss when it’s time for her to return.’

‘My guess is that she’ll soon get fed up with living at your place.’

He looked doubtful. ‘You reckon?’

‘Think about it. Apart from the lentil burgers, she’s got everything going for her at home. Friends along the road, her school nearby, a decent-sized bedroom with her boy band posters pinned to the walls.’

‘You’re right, but how do you know all this?’ Steve asked.

‘Because she’s told me. When we’ve discussed the stories she’s written, she’s told me all sorts of things. Also, Debbie’s promised not to play loud music or leave her bedroom untidy, and to let you watch your choice of TV. Keep her to it. And when she sees the disadvantages, she’ll decide she’s better off back home.’

‘I hope.’ He took a mouthful of wine. ‘For a while now, it’s seemed to be a case of whatever Annette does is wrong and whatever I do is right. Though God knows why.’

‘It was like that, at one stage, with Lynn,’ I said. ‘I had all the sulks, the moods, while Tom got all the smiles.’

‘Was this before or after your divorce?’

‘Before, when Lynn was in her early teens. She used to continually find fault with me, with things I’d done or something I’d said, and it would make me so cross. We had some ferocious spats. Doesn’t happen now, but I think as girls reach adolescence and the hormones are establishing themselves, there can be a tension in the mother/daughter relationship.’

‘You could be right. One thing which drives Annette mad is Debbie’s constant nagging to be allowed to have a pet. Seems every other girl on the planet has a dog or a cat or a hamster, except poor deprived her. And now Paul’s started pleading for a pet, too.’

‘The stories Debbie writes are usually about some kind of pet,’ I remarked.

‘Thank you for reading them. I appreciate it and I know she does, too. I’ve looked over the occasional one and commented, but she doesn’t rate my opinion. She rates yours.’

‘Her stories aren’t bad and they’re improving. Who knows, you could have a budding J.K. Rowling in the family.’

‘Then she’ll be able to keep her old dad in the luxury he deserves.’ Steve drank again from his glass. ‘Did Lynn tell you that we met this afternoon?’

‘No. She wasn’t in when I got home. She and a girlfriend, who has a daughter the same age as Beth, have taken their kids to a ceramics café.’

‘Which is?’

‘A place where you paint your choice of pottery – a mug, a plate or a bowl – with your own design, and have it fired and glazed. Then you buy it. If Debbie hasn’t been, she might like it. But you met Lynn?’

‘Yes, I saw her in the street and stopped her. You remember, this morning, Beth said her daddy was boss of the kitchen showroom? It set me thinking. The firm he works for is in the process of being taken over by a larger group and –’

‘I didn’t know that,’ I broke in.

‘Neither did Lynn, when I mentioned it. I heard about the deal through a guy I know in Ringley and, so far as I’m aware, it hasn’t been made public yet. But because the take-over means there’s some overlapping, a number of showrooms will be closed and staff made redundant.’ Steve frowned. ‘When Lynn said she hadn’t heard about the take-over, I’m afraid I told her that she should’ve done. Justin must know, and if they lived together and didn’t talk about something as important to them both as his work –’ He raised his shoulders in disbelief.

‘People vary.’

‘And how. But I’m afraid I annoyed your daughter. If looks could kill, I’d have been dead meat on the pavement. And she would’ve still stalked off.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve told her how foolish she’s being and received my fair share of ‘drop dead’ looks, too.’

‘Lynn said you’d called in her father at the weekend to talk sense into her, but no luck. You get on okay with him?’

‘Yes, though it’s rare we meet.’

Our fish arrived, accompanied by side dishes of fresh vegetables.

‘Me upsetting Lynn was the bad news,’ Steve said, as he picked up his knife and fork. ‘Now here’s the good news. You’re getting a pay rise.’

‘I am?’ I said delightedly.

‘And so are Tony and Melanie. Your rise is larger percentage-wise than theirs, because you work a darn sight harder and have done for a long time. But they’re both knuckling down and the circulation figures are already showing signs of an increase, so I persuaded Mr Pinkney-Jones that rises all round were called for.’

‘Steve, that’s great. I appreciate it. Thanks.’

‘You may kiss me, if you wish.’

I grinned. ‘That’s very generous of you.’

He glanced out at the street, where two elderly ladies were passing, each with a small dog on a lead. ‘It’ll intrigue those who may be interested.’

Laughing, I leaned forward and kissed him. On the cheek. A smooth cheek which smelled faintly of a tangy aftershave.

‘The circulation figures are going up?’ I said, as we ate.

‘By a small percentage, but it’s a start.’

‘The advertising revenue must have increased, too.’

‘It has. When
The Bugle’s
sales began to rise, I suggested to Mr P-J that, not only should he increase my pay – which he did, thank goodness, because supporting an ex-wife and two children in one house and financing a place for myself takes a bit of doing – but –’

‘You were making a fair amount of increased profit for him, so he should’ve upped your pay without being asked,’ I protested.

‘True,’ Steve acknowledged. ‘But I also suggested he should allot me shares in the group, tying them in to my success. He agreed and I’ve done well out of the shares. Maybe I should ask him to allot you shares in the newspaper group, too.’

‘Why me?’

‘Because you were the true editor of
The Siren
and the reality is that you kept the paper going. If Eric hadn’t had you running things for him, it would’ve collapsed years ago.’

I smiled. ‘Thank you, kind sir.’

‘I’m not being kind. I’m telling it as it is.’

‘I appreciate that,’ I said seriously, ‘and I’d appreciate some shares.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thanks. Being expected to work wonders at
The Siren
must create a certain amount of pressure,’ I went on.

Steve nodded. ‘It does. There are nights when I lie awake worrying for what seems like hours.’

I looked at him in surprise. So Captain Cool was not so cool, after all. ‘You’ll manage it. You will work wonders,’ I said.

‘With your help.’ A dark brow lifted. ‘I hope?’

‘You can count on it.’

‘Alleluia!’

I laughed. ‘Okay, when you first arrived I wasn’t too pleased, but –’

‘Not pleased? Jesus, I lived in fear of my life. I was forever waiting for you to push me down the stairs or deliver a sharp kick to the sweetbreads.’

‘I restrained myself.’

‘Only just.’ The brow lifted again. ‘And now you’re a fan?’

I grinned. ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

When we had finished our sole, Steve took a folded sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket. ‘I was wondering if you would cast your eye over this? It’s my first editor’s column for
The Siren
;
you know the readership much better than me and I’d be grateful for your comments.’

I read the piece, which was about him coming to work in Dursleigh, a new location, but recognising the usual types of people – village stalwarts who were always ready to help, incessant grumblers, women who shouted ‘yoo-hoo’ across the street, teenagers who refused to put two tees in ‘bottle’ or one tee in ‘later’.

‘I like it. It’ll amuse the old ladies and all the other punters,’ I said.

Steve smiled, putting the paper back into his pocket. ‘Thanks. I feel happier about it now.’

‘You value my judgement?’

‘Implicitly.’

‘Then may I suggest that
The Siren
sponsors the village fête this summer? Duncan Kincaid suggested the idea to Eric year in, year out, but he always pooh-poohed it.’

‘Because it seemed too much like hard work?’

I nodded. ‘But the paper being a sponsor would create a vast amount of good will.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.

‘And have you ever thought of writing a book? ‘Journalism is literature in a hurry’,’ I quoted, ‘so –’

‘Which sage said that?’

‘Actually it was Richard Gere in the film
The Runaway Bride
.’

Steve grimaced. ‘Oh Lord. No, I haven’t thought of writing a book. How about you?’

‘Well, actually –’

All through the pudding, the coffees and liqueurs, we talked. And laughed. And the time flew by.

‘Great food, great company and a great evening,’ Steve declared, as he deposited me at my door. ‘We must do it again. Soon.’

‘To deceive Tina,’ I said, and wondered who I was reminding.

He shrugged. ‘Why else?’

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

When I arrived home
from
work the next evening, Justin’s car was parked outside. I eyed it with alarm. Why was he here? Had he come to play Snakes and Ladders with his daughter or – I went cold – might he and Lynn have decided to finalise their separation and were sorting out the practicalities? Were six years of loving and living together in the process of being clinically dismantled?

Turning my key in the lock, I opened the front door. I swallowed. ‘It’s me,’ I called.

If they were trading insults as they decided who should fall heir to how many teaspoons, I had no wish to walk in on it.

‘’Lo, Gran.’ Beth skipped along the hall looking, I was relieved to see, happy and at ease. This meant Justin’s visit must be a social visit – surely?

‘Hello, my darling.’

‘I’m going to be a bridesmaid,’ she announced, as I bent to hug her.