Читать книгу Not Quite Perfect - Annie Lyons, Annie Lyons - Страница 14

Rachel watches Will disappear in a flurry of seven-year-olds. He looks small and even though she knows he doesn’t give their partings a second thought, she still feels sick to her stomach when she thinks about him growing up. She turns away quickly, trying to avoid conversation with the other mothers, but fails.

‘Rachel! Hi!’ It’s Verity, the toothy, overly keen year two PTA representative. Rachel has made it her life’s work to avoid people with the word ‘representative’ in their title. Today she is particularly keen to be on her way as Steve is starting work late so that he can drop Lily and Alfie at pre-school. Rachel is eager to enjoy some quality time with this week’s Grazia and a skinny latte.

‘Rachel,’ says Verity again with a sincere smile, the ‘like me, like me!’ vibes oozing from every pore. ‘I just happened to notice that you hadn’t signed up to help at our annual Nearly New Sale.’

Rachel’s heart sinks. It’s not that she objects to helping at school events, it’s just that socialising with the school committee members is more competitive than the Olympics. Last term, she had nearly come to blows with another mother when she suggested that they buy some cheap costumes for the end of term production from the pound shop. The mother had told Rachel that she was ‘creatively repressed’ and ‘morally corrupt’ for not making Will’s crab outfit herself. Rachel had then spent a miserable weekend constructing a papier-mâché crustacean that Will had refused to wear. Since that day, Rachel had vowed never to let middle-class guilt get the better of her again.

‘Oh sorry, I didn’t see the letter home. When is it?’

‘It’s on Saturday.’

‘Oh, we’re busy, we have a family do,’ says Rachel too quickly.

‘Week,’ finishes Verity.

‘Ahh, I think we might have something on that day too,’ she says knowing she has been rumbled.

‘Really?’ says Verity her tone changing, ‘because it would be a shame if people didn’t make the effort for their child’s school, don’t you think?’

‘Erm, sorry, Verity, I really have to go.’

‘Fine, Rachel, that’s fine. Just don’t expect to be voted onto the school committee. Ever.’ She delivers this final utterance like a judge who has just issued the death penalty.

‘Fingers crossed,’ mutters Rachel and scoots out of the school gates. Her mobile rings. It’s Emma.

‘Tartface! What news?’

‘We got the book!’

‘You are kidding me? A thicky like you?’

‘Whatever.’

‘Seriously little sis, well done. That’s very good news. When do we celebrate? I could do with a night out.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘I’ll tell you when I see you. How about drinks tomorrow? At the Pickled Pig?’

‘OK, great. You can buy me a drink and tell me how clever I am.’

‘Don’t push it. See you around eight.’

Emma tosses her phone into her bag and returns to the manuscript before her. She really wants to get started on The Red Orchid, but has promised that she’ll wait until Miranda has read it through first. Saskia, the brilliant but slightly fluffy fiction designer, pokes her head over her pod.

‘Hieeeeee!’

‘Hello, Saskia.’

‘Coming to Joely-Joel’s meeting?’

‘What meeting is that? The one where he patronises everyone in sight?’

‘Noooooooooooo sill-ee!’ trills Saskia. ‘It’s our monthly review of all the scrummy books coming up in the next three months,’ she adds cheerfully, curling her hair around her fingers in the manner of a six-year-old. In fact, today she is dressed just like a six-year-old apart from the inappropriate T-shirt with the slogan ‘Spank Me Hard’. This is teamed with a red check puffball skirt, blue and green striped legwarmers and silver ballet pumps. Her hair is pulled into two bunches like a Pekinese dog’s. It probably looks very hip, but Emma shudders at the sight of her and the dawning realisation that her opinions are starting to align themselves with those of her mother.

The prospect of a meeting in the company of Poochy Poo and marketing’s answer to Goebbels makes Emma want to quit her job and do something more fulfilling, like treating sewage. She takes heart at the fact that Philippa will be there and although she never gets a word in because of her fool of a boss, she’s a silent, eyebrow-raising ally of sorts. When Emma reaches the meeting room, Joel is sitting at the head of the long table talking in a loud voice on his mobile.

‘Yep, yep, will do, OK, of course I can sort it. Speak soon, boss. Bye!’

Emma plonks herself next to Philippa.

‘On the phone to his mother again?’ she whispers with a wink. Philippa grins.

Saskia bounces in, her arms full of print-outs which she always refers to as her ‘children’. She takes her seat and Joel begins.

‘So the purpose of today is to review the past three months, look forward to the next three, see where we are and where we want to be. OK, people?’

No one speaks so Joel continues. ‘So, Emma. Talk us through the latest on these.’ He fans out copies of a crime series set in Cornwall written by an eighty-year-old female author. Joel doesn’t wait for her to speak. ‘You see, I think we should either bin these or look to re-jacket. Book Data seems to indicate around a twenty per cent sell-through, which is very poor.’

‘I don’t think three months of sales is enough to say one way or the other. I think we should publish at least six before we take any kind of decision,’ says Emma irritated.

‘Mmm,’ says Joel not listening. ‘Saskia has kindly mocked up some roughs. A bit less Miss Read and a bit more ‘read me’,’ he snorts vastly amused by his own joke. Philippa winces.

Saskia’s covers are horrific depictions of severed limbs, mutilated heads and general carnage.

‘Joel,’ says Emma, trying to remain calm, ‘the author is a lovely lady called Queenie and the books are really more Miss Marple than Slasher Central. I think we should continue as we are for the time being.’

Joel is riled. ‘Well, I think Digby would disagree.’

‘Well, Digby isn’t Queenie’s editor and while I am tasked with producing books that are fit for publication, I will have the ultimate say on covers, OK?’

‘Like I say, I think Digby might have something to say.’

‘And so might Miranda,’ retorts Emma aware that they are starting to sound like five-year-olds.

Philippa and Saskia shift uncomfortably in their seats. The rest of the meeting passes without further confrontation, but beneath it all Emma is seething.

‘I mean, who does he think he is?’ she complains to Ella on returning to her desk.

A beautiful array of pink and white lilies is waiting for her. She picks up the card. They’re from her godmother, Rosie: ‘Clever girl. Well done.’ Her phone rings. She picks it up smiling. ‘Hello-oo?’

‘Emma? It’s Mummy. You sound pleased with yourself.’

‘I am, thanks, Mum. Auntie Rosie just sent me the most gorgeous flowers.’

‘Oh.’ Her mother sounds perplexed. ‘Did I miss something?’

‘Oh sorry, I forgot to tell you. We got that book I was telling you about.’

‘Oh. Good. Well done. It’s a shame you didn’t think to tell us before your godmother. We’re only your parents.’

‘Sorry, Mum, and I didn’t tell Rosie. She must have heard. You know what she’s like.’

‘Yes I do. Anyway, Emma, Rachel and I are going to take you dress-shopping. How about this Saturday?’

‘Sorry, I can’t do this Saturday. Martin’s whisking me away for the weekend.’

‘Oh. Right. Is there anything else you haven’t told us? You’re not emigrating like your sister are you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh well at least Rachel tells us things first. Your brother-in-law is planning to move them all to Scotland.’

‘What?’

‘Exactly. So when you’ve finished living your life in isolation from your family, maybe we could set a date to look for wedding dresses?’

‘Don’t be like that, Mum. Look, I’ll take a day off. Maybe Dad can look after the kids and we can have a girly day with Rach?’

Diana doesn’t want to give in, but Emma can tell she’s softening. ‘All right, let’s say Monday week.’

‘Perfect. Wow, that’s big news about Rachel. I’m seeing her tomorrow and I thought there was something up.’

‘Yes well, maybe you can try talking some sense into her. Goodness only knows I’ve tried.’

Rachel takes a sip from her Styrofoam™ cup of coffee and does a quick head count. Lily and Alfie are engaged in a stand-off with an older boy on the play-bus, while Will is scaling the rope climbing frame, SAS-style. She sees Christa and Roger and waves. Roger jumps out of his pushchair with great excitement and runs over to join Lily and Alfie.

‘Halloo,’ cries Christa kissing Rachel on both cheeks. ‘Could Sue not make it?’

‘Joe’s still poorly. How are you?’

‘Good, danke.’

‘Coffee?’ asks Rachel finishing her first and ready for another.

‘Nein danke, your English coffee tastes like scheisse.’

Rachel laughs. ‘It’s actually Nescafé which I believe is a Swiss company?’ she says with a grin.

‘Ja perhaps, but they are not as bad as your Pot Noodles, hey?

‘Touché! So, how are things with you?’ asks Rachel as they find a bench.

‘Fine. I think you and Sue were perhaps a little shocked by the things I told you on Monday, yes?’

‘It does sound like you’ve got a lot on your plate.’

Christa laughs. ‘I love you English and your metaphors. My life is really not so bad. Rudi is a good man really. He looks after us. We are going to have a wonderful family holiday next month.’

‘Oh lovely. Where are you going?’ asks Rachel thinking of Disneyland or a villa in Spain.

‘We are sehr lucky as that lovely Cowell man is letting us use his yacht.’

Rachel is amazed. ‘As in Simon Cowell?’

‘Nein!’ Christa snorts as if this is the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard. ‘Nein, silly, his brother, Nicholas. He is not nearly as rich. He only has one yacht while Simon has, I think, six or seven.’

‘Well, that will be fantastic.’

‘Ja, for sure. You should come!’

‘Oh I don’t think so.’

‘Ja! It would be so much fun. There are always many famous people dropping in. Last year Paris Hilton was there and Bruce Willis. Paris was so sweet with Roger and Bruce is lovely. He told me to call him if Rudi and I ever split up.’

‘Really?’ says Rachel, wishing that Sue was there.

‘Well, you know. Have a think about it. Talk to Dave,’ she adds.

‘Steve,’ corrects Rachel.

‘Yes, him too. Roger!’

Christa strides off to rescue her bilious-looking son from the roundabout, which Lily and Alfie have been spinning a little too fast.

‘Mum! Look at me!’

Rachel looks over to see Will at the top of the climbing frame.

‘Well done, Will. Clever boy.’

She catches sight of Verity talking with intensity to another mother. She lifts her hand to wave, but Verity looks away, pretending not to see her. Rachel sighs as her phone beeps with a text. It’s Steve: ‘Dn’t b md bt gt 2 wrk l8 agn. Lkng 4wrd 2 w/e. Love u, sx’

Rachel punches a reply ‘OK. Going fr drnks wth Em 2mrrw.Pls cn u b on time, r’

Steve answers: ‘Wll do my bst. C u l8tr. x’

Rachel throws her phone into her bag and calls to the children. ‘Right who wants pizza? Mummy’s treat!’

Richard Bennett is feeling smug as he strides into the entrance hall of the Battersea riverside apartments. The lobby is tastefully decorated with modern-looking canvasses and the discreet lighting gives a warm glow that says ‘you really want to live here’. Richard breathes in the aroma of a new and untouched world, a million miles away from the piss and vomit stench of his East Dulwich flat’s corridor.

‘Mr Bennett?’

He turns smiling, ready with effortless charm. He is delighted by the form and features of the person before him. She holds out a perfectly manicured, soft hand.

‘Sophie Chancellor. Delighted to meet you. I think you’ll like what I’m about to show you,’ she adds with mild innuendo.

‘The pleasure will be all mine,’ Richard replies, knowing that this sounds corny, but also knowing that he is talking to a casual acquaintance. He has nothing to lose.

‘Please follow me.’

He follows her into the lift, enjoying a shameless view of Sophie’s perfectly sculpted behind, enveloped as it is in an hourglass-tight, knee-length skirt. As they travel to the ninth floor, Richard observes the curve of her neck and notices her checking him with a coy, sexy smile. They emerge from the lift and she leads him to the end of a corridor, then takes a sharp right, stopping at door number 915.

‘Here we are. Home,’ she says with a smile as she turns the key.

Richard pushes the door and is impressed. Every corner of the flat screams ‘I’m modern, I’m hip. You want me.’ From the granite breakfast bar and six-ring stove to the Bose stereo which blinks into life at the flick of a switch, it is everything Richard has longed for. All the endless research trips, the hours spent doing time at the British Library and the years writing, getting rejected, rewriting and then getting accepted as a proper writer, have been worth it. Richard turns towards the French windows that flank one side of the apartment and is breathless at the view. London in all its mish-mashed glory stretches before him looking wonderful. Richard turns to Sophie who is watching him carefully, allowing him to take in his surroundings.

Good at her job and probably a good shag too, he thinks.

‘You like?’ she asks in a teasing voice.

‘I do, but aren’t you forgetting something?’ he says.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You haven’t shown me the bedroom.’

Sophie smiles and it’s the smile of someone who loves her job, who is control of her life and who knows how to play a man. She unbuttons her blouse, slips off her skirt and stands before him looking gorgeous in black lacy underwear and as Richard correctly suspects, stockings and suspenders. Even Richard is speechless, not quite believing how his day and his life are turning out. Sophie walks down the corridor glancing backwards and beckoning to him. Richard grins and shakes his head before following her to the bedroom.

The Pickled Pig represents the waning soul of twenty-first-century public houses the country over. It once served this corner of southeast London as a cinema until the big cinema companies invented places called multiplexes and it went out of business. It then became a pub and got swallowed up by one of the big pub companies. This caused the locals to moan until they realised that the beer was actually a lot cheaper than before.

Emma is the first to arrive and selects a pint of local beer before finding a booth, far away enough from the bar to be quiet, but close enough to the action to get a good view of the locals, many of whom have been here since opening time. She studies the black and white photographs on the wall depicting old Penge and a man named Angry Tony who made his living selling potatoes and bizarrely, coffins. The evening is grey and wet and she sees Rachel push her way through the swing doors and shake off her umbrella.

‘Man, it’s chucking it down,’ she declares as she locates Emma. ‘Right, what are we drinking?’

‘Hello, Rachel. Nice to see you too. It’s called Stinky Pete and it’s quite good. Try it.’

Rachel takes a gulp and licks her lips,

‘Hmm, not bad. Want another?’

‘No, I’m fine for now thanks.’

Rachel returns minutes later with her drink and a packet of dry roasted peanuts.

‘Kids all tucked up?’

‘Yeah, but Steve still isn’t home, so –’

‘You left Will in charge?’

Rachel snorts. ‘Don’t be daft, Lily’s much more responsible! No, Tom is babysitting until Steve gets home.’

‘Tom?’

‘Our next-door neighbour.’

‘Oh, the dishy one.’

Rachel is surprised that she and her sister obviously have similar taste. ‘D’you think?’

‘Oh yeah, bit pudgy, but very cute. Like Russell Crowe.’

‘Steady on, he’s hardly a gladiator!’

‘Oh, so you have checked him out then?’ Emma teases.

‘So what if I have. I am a respectable married lady so it’s fine to look as long as you don’t touch,’ says Rachel in a superior tone.

‘I agree with the married bit,’ laughs Emma. Rachel flicks her sister the V-sign. ‘Anyway, sister dearest, when exactly were you going to tell me that you’re moving to Scotland?’

‘Aha, you’ve spoken to mother then?’

‘Yes but still, Rach, I’m your sister. You could have told me.’

‘Why do you think we’re having this drink? I wanted to tell you face to face. Don’t be so sensitive.’

Emma is irritated by the brush-off, but is interrupted by Rachel’s phone. Rachel glances at the caller ID and rolls her eyes, mouthing ‘Steve’ as she answers with a curt ‘Hi?’ Steve obviously has a lot to say and Emma watches Rachel’s face as her look transforms from one of mild irritation to impatient anger. Emma waits for the backlash and isn’t disappointed.

‘No, Steve, you bloody listen. You said you’d be home in time and you weren’t. Tom offered and I actually do think it’s OK to leave our children with him. He’s been more supportive than you have lately. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to hang up and moan to my sister about you.’ She punches the end call button with a defiant ‘Tosser!’

Emma looks at her sister. ‘You’re really very cross, aren’t you?’

‘D’you think?’ says Rachel. ‘First he wants to move us up north, then I find out he’d known for ages and now he’s playing the alpha-male working all bloody hours while my brain is dissolving due to lack of proper use. I dunno, Em, sometimes I just want to walk out the door and never come back.’

Emma is a little shocked by the outburst. She knows Rachel can fly off the handle and she knows she’s found it hard to adjust to life as a stay-at-home mum, but she’s never heard her talk like this before. Giving up is not something the Darcy sisters do and she’s never seen her as angry as this with Steve either. She’d always had them down as rock-solid and immune to the kind of vitriol she’s seen other couples develop after so many years and so many children. She knows better than to wind up her sister any further and decides that softly, softly might be the way to go.

‘Come on, Rach, you don’t mean that.’

‘Don’t I? Oh God, Em, I don’t know what I mean these days.’

‘Have you tried talking to Steve?’

Rachel looks at Emma as if she’s just arrived from Planet Stupid. ‘Of course I’ve tried talking to him. All I ever bloody do these days is try to talk to my husband, but he’s never bloody there!’

Emma sees the error she’s made but presses on like a woman on a suicide mission. ‘Well, I can babysit one night if you want to go out, you know, to talk.’

Rachel realises she’s been ranting and looks at her baby sister. Emma’s face is twisted with concern and Rachel sees a shadow of the four-year-old agreeing to let Rachel cut her hair, just to please her. Their mother had not been amused when she’d come upstairs to find her youngest daughter resembling a child with alopecia, especially when Rachel had tried to clarify the situation with the words ‘It just fell out, honest.’

Rachel smiles at the memory and at her sister. ‘Thanks, Em,’ she says with as much softness as she can muster. ‘I think Mum and Dad are having the kids at the weekend so we can try and sort it all out. Don’t worry, little sis, I’m just knackered, OK?’ Emma looks relieved. ‘So what have you been up to? Tell me about this gorgeous new author of yours. I presume he is gorgeous? Congrats on getting the book by the way. Sorry, should have said that before’. She knocks her pint glass against Emma’s in a feeble toast.

‘He’s just a nice bloke who’s written a really good book.’

‘Wow, Em, sounds amazing,’ says Rachel, feigning a yawn. ‘Let’s hope they don’t get you to write the marketing copy.’

‘Ha, ha,’ says Emma. ‘Oh by the way, I think Mum’s planning a dress-shopping trip. Are you up for it?’

‘I’m always up for it! Now drink up, little sis, it’s your round!’ By closing time, they have both drunk at least one pint more than is good for them, but Rachel doesn’t want to go home.

‘Let’s go for a curry!’

Emma hasn’t eaten since lunchtime and the thought fills her with an overpowering hunger bordering on nausea, but she agrees. They stagger out into the drizzly night and across the road to the pink neon-lit Bombay Fantasy. The waiters’ smiles are patient and accommodating and they are quickly led to an enormous table adjacent to the only other diners: three sweaty city boys, their faces red from alcohol with shirtsleeves rolled up and ties abandoned. Their ringleader, a mid-thirties chancer with a receding hairline and an air of being funnier than he is, leers towards them: ‘All right ladies?’

‘All right?’ Rachel replies with bravado.

‘So what are two gorgeous ladies like yourselves doing out alone?’

Rachel is in her element. ‘Trying to avoid cretinous men, but failing miserably,’ she retorts fixing him with a disappointed look.

Chancer likes this response. ‘Ha ha, get you. Are you lesbians then?’ he asks, as if this could be the only explanation for Rachel’s sarcasm.

Emma matches her sister’s look. ‘We’re sisters, half-wit.’

‘Even better! How about we finish up here and you can shake your booties back at my gaff?’ says Chancer nudging his friends.

Emma is about to open her mouth but Rachel holds up her hand to stop her. ‘We-ell,’ she purrs, ‘that sounds like a very tempting offer. Are you going to buy us dinner then?’

Chancer grins. ‘Of course.’

‘Why don’t we get it to take away?’ adds Rachel provocatively.

‘Wahey!’ Chancer and his monkeys whoop in agreement.

Emma pretends to drop her napkin and hisses, ‘Rachel!’

Rachel bobs her head under the table. ‘What?’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Getting us a free takeaway. Trust me.’

‘I don’t like the sound of this.’

‘Just meet me by the door in five minutes.’

They place their order. Rachel makes her excuses and goes to the toilet, flashing her cleavage as she passes the city boys, who wolf-whistle in appreciation. Emma attempts a smile and Chancer’s weasly, greasy-haired friend takes this as a come-on. ‘I think you’re in there, Jez,’ says Chancer with a nudge

Emma feels as if she might vomit and lurches to her feet. ‘I just need to go and check on my sister.’

‘You do that, darling.’

Rachel is talking to the waiter as Emma staggers up. ‘So those lovely men over there have kindly agreed to pay for our dinner. Thanks so much. Let’s go, Em.’

They make for the door.

‘Oi! What do you think you’re playing at?’ Chancer is on his feet now.

‘Run for it!’

Rachel grabs Emma’s hand and they sprint onto a bus that has just pulled into its stop.

‘You slags!’ shouts Chancer after them.

Rachel and Emma collapse onto the back seats and Rachel waves and blows kisses at their hapless pursuer, who is being ushered back into the restaurant by two burly Indian waiters, keen to obtain payment. The bus speeds off down the road leaving the city boys far behind them.

‘Ha!’ declares Rachel. ‘Another classic Darcy girl adventure! Em, are you OK? You look a bit green.’

‘Actually, I feel a bit –’ and she promptly vomits into the takeaway bag.

‘Oh, very nice,’ says Rachel, ‘you really can’t handle your drink, can you?’

They have only travelled two stops. The bus driver comes out of his cab.

‘Right, you two. Off!’

‘Sorry?’

‘You’ll have to get off the bus.’

‘But she’s ill and we’re two lone females.’

‘Not my problem, love. She’s obviously had too much to drink. You’ll have to get off. You’ll stink out my bus.’

‘Oh charming, very gallant, chucking us out into the cold. Come on Vomiting Veronica. You can stay at mine and you owe me a takeaway.’

She leads a shivering Emma off the bus and they stagger all the way back to Rachel’s house. Rachel drapes her sister over the wall while she fumbles for her keys. She sees a light come on in Tom’s hallway and is half-pleased and half-mortified when he opens the door.

‘Ah, Mrs Summers, how was the pub? Are you drunk?’

‘As a skunk, Mr Davies, and this,’ she picks up her almost comatose sister and waves a floppy hand, ‘is my sister, Emma.’

‘A pleasure,’ Tom declares. ‘Need any help getting in?’

‘If you could help me get old Chunder-Cheeks into the lounge that would be great.’ Rachel opens the door and between them, they manhandle Emma onto the sofa. ‘Thank you. You’re a gent.’

‘No problemo. By the way, Rachel, I got the feeling Steve wasn’t too pleased to find me here tonight. I just hope I didn’t cause you any grief.’

‘Oh Tom, it’s not you. Steve just needs to get his priorities sorted and I need to talk to him like a grown-up, but we will, I promise. Now shoo, Doris at number thirty-two would love to see you skulking out of my house in the wee small hours, but I don’t want to get a reputation.’

‘Of course.’

Tom moves to pass her in the hall, turning to look at her as he does so. Rachel, slightly drunk and not wanting to appear unfriendly goes to peck him on the cheek but mistimes her attack and ends up planting the kiss on the right-side of his lip. To Rachel’s mind, your next action in this kind of situation is the borderline between fidelity and adultery. She is drunk, but decides to brush it off with an embarrassed giggle. Tom smiles and the moment passes without incident, but as she shuts the door behind him, she leans against it and lets out a sigh. What are you playing at Rachel, you fool? she thinks.

She tucks up Emma, leaving her a glass of water. She tiptoes upstairs to the half-lit darkness of the marital bedroom. She undresses quickly and wriggles into bed beside Steve’s steady breathing form.

‘Steve? Are you awake?’

There is no response, which Rachel takes as either no interest or genuine sleep. She lies awake for the next hour or so, her mind heavy with worry until alcohol and fatigue transport her to a restless sleep.