Читать книгу A Hopeless Romantic - Harriet Evans - Страница 11

Laura worked for an inner-city London council, as a schools and business co-ordinator. She loved her job, contacting local businesses, trying to get them to support their nearby schools, arranging volunteer reading programmes or school sponsorships – where companies or individuals could sponsor a school, donate money, and feel good about themselves. She loved it because she could see how it made a tangible difference, how much disillusioned company secretaries enjoyed reading with a six-year-old once a week, or how much it benefited a school to have a thousand pounds for new computers that some corporation or anonymous donor could easily spare. She had been there for nearly four years now, and the previous year had been put in charge of their new fundraising scheme, and the reading volunteer programme, which meant a lot more work, but she loved it. At least, she used to love it. Like everything these days, it seemed to have lost a little of its allure.

If Laura had stepped back from her situation, chances are she would have seen that she was behaving badly. The trouble was, her lack of perspective meant she couldn’t see the main reason why she was in thrall to Dan: he made her feel gorgeous. He made her feel devastatingly attractive, that she was so powerful to him he had to have her, he couldn’t control it. It made her feel just marvellous, and a little bit dirty too. It was dangerous, because Dan was like all the others, in that Laura had fallen for him hook, line and sinker, without really stopping to think about it. Only this time it was harder and deeper than ever before – and with no control over the situation she’d got herself in, and no endgame in sight. Having always thought of herself in the bottom half of the class in terms of looks, attractiveness and intelligence – not to mention sporting prowess – Laura couldn’t quite believe the effect she had on Dan.

Laura knew she wasn’t working as hard as she should; she knew her boss Rachel was on her case about things. She knew she hadn’t been a good friend, or daughter, or sister, since Dan came along. She forgot birthdays, she was late for work, her mind wandered. But she consoled herself with the knowledge this was a temporary situation, and in a few short months – by the summer – they would have sorted it out and could be together. And then she would make everything all right.

Dan just needed a push, that was all. Just a little something to let him know she wasn’t going to wait around forever, that she had deadlines of her own, too. She had another life apart from him and she was neglecting it, he had to see that.

The following Wednesday afternoon, Laura was in the office when the phone rang. It was pelting with rain, which rattled on the windows of the shabby, draughty Victorian building in Holborn. It was an old school, and hadn’t been redecorated since the pupils had been moved into the big glass comprehensive south of the river, close to London Bridge, in 1972. In summer Laura would wander up to Lamb’s Conduit Street and around the Inns of Court. On days like today she and her four other colleagues stayed inside, reheated soup in the ancient, sticky microwave and huddled around the fan heater which guzzled electricity and dispensed minimal heat.

Laura looked up wearily from her emails and glanced suspiciously at the caller display panel. A teacher from St Catherine’s primary school nearby had said she would be calling to discuss a problem with the latest batch of teaching volunteers, who’d just started at the school once a week, helping individual children with their reading. This was a pretty big firm of financial advisers called Linley Munroe, and it was something of a coup to have them onboard – perhaps they might be induced to get involved in other ways. Laura didn’t particularly like Mrs McGregor, though she could see how devoted she was to the school and the children. She knew from experience that Mrs McGregor was the kind of person who had her own world view and couldn’t be persuaded that anyone else’s was admissible. In her own way, she was pretty hard-line, especially since her arrest during the demo she’d organised the previous spring at the NUT conference. This had renewed her zeal in a way that made her even harder to deal with, and Laura knew why she was ringing – she made the same complaint, along different lines, every year. Laura picked up the phone with a heavy heart.

‘Hello?’ she said tentatively.

‘Laura? Laura Foster?’ came a slightly husky voice down the phone.

‘Yes,’ said Laura, resigned.

‘Oh Laura, I really must talk to you. I’m afraid this is a very bad situation, very bad indeed. Something’s going to have to be done, it’s a disaster. A catastrophe.’

‘Yes, hello, Mrs McGregor,’ said Laura.

‘Well, Laura,’ the voice was saying five minutes later. ‘I’ve told him. You may think you can come here and believe you’re doing something marvellous, helping these kids, so you can sleep easy at night in your big banker’s flat. Well, you can’t behave like that and get away with it. I’m not putting up with it any more, really I’m not.’

‘I explained the guidelines to him and all his colleagues, back in October,’ Laura repeated. ‘I’m sure this Marcus bloke’s just got his wires crossed. As I said, you know we’ve never had any problems with Linley Munroe so far, Mrs McGregor.’

She gazed at her in-box and looked flatly round the office. In Rachel’s absence, Shana was on another call, Tim was out on a visit and Nasrin was clearly reading Pick Me Up and not doing any work at all.

‘I don’t care,’ Mrs McGregor said quickly. ‘Laura, I’m afraid who they are isn’t relevant here, not for my kids, anyway. That Marcus – he’s a big thug. I know those kids aren’t perfect, but…’

‘Look,’ Laura cut in, wanting to avoid another ten minutes of Mrs McGregor. ‘I’ll talk to Clare at Linley Munroe, tell her to have a gentle word with Marcus. But I really don’t think he should be banned, Mrs McGregor. He’s obviously enjoying it, and – well, let’s face it – all he did was tell this boy to shut it – it could have been worse, couldn’t it? They call each other the most horrific things in the playground, don’t they?’

Her email beeped and her eyes flicked instantly to the screen. She opened the message and read, her heart pounding.

‘Do they?’ Mrs McGregor said. ‘Not in my experience, Laura. Sure, there are rude words, but…’

Laura wanted to reread and reply to the email. She said shortly, ‘Oh come on, Mrs McGregor. You know what I mean. Fuck, bum, willy, vag—And…’ she paused, realising what she’d just said, ‘er. Well, we used to, anyway. That sort of thing.’

Mrs McGregor was silent. Then she said, ‘Well, I must say. Honestly, Laura.’

‘It’s an illustration,’ said Laura briskly, marshalling all her inner resources and kicking herself ferociously on the ankle, whilst Nasrin and Shana gaped open-mouthed at her and started laughing. Laura flapped her arms at them to shut them up, and said, with what she hoped was an air of finality in her voice, ‘I’m sure if Marcus Sussman used inappropriate language he was doing so to try and communicate with them. But I totally understand what you mean and I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

Mrs McGregor droned on in the background, but Laura didn’t listen, only vaguely registering that she had to get rid of her in order to reply to this email.

‘…have to speak to Rachel about this, Laura, yes, I will. Nasty man. Smooth young prat with cufflinks who thinks he can treat these kids like dirt because he went to university and they didn’t. It’s vile. And I’m surprised at you for not seeing it.’

‘They’re ten, Mrs McGregor,’ Laura said, finally losing her patience. ‘Of course they haven’t been to university, don’t be stupid. Fine. Talk to Rachel, but I’m surprised you’re being so blinkered. I always knew you were an inverted snob but I didn’t think you’d let it derail the volunteer programme like this.’

‘Oh!’ Mrs McGregor inhaled sharply. ‘Laura Foster. You’ll regret this, I promise you. Yes you will,’ and she slammed the phone down.

‘Laura!’ said Shana, her eyes sparkling with the unexpected office excitement. ‘Fuck, bum, willy, vag? What the hell…?’

Laura put her head in her hands and moaned softly to herself.

‘It was brilliant,’ said Shana joyfully. ‘Best thing I’ve heard in ages.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Laura, finally looking up at Nasrin, who put the magazine down and gazed at her. ‘St Catherine’s again. Mrs McGregor. Stupid old bitch, I hate her,’ she said defiantly. ‘I’m going to get in trouble, aren’t I?’

‘She always makes a fuss, every year,’ Nasrin said placidly, picking up Pick Me Up again. ‘Rachel knows that, don’t worry. She’s just a sad old rebel without a cause.’

Laura turned back to her email again. Now she was free to read it properly, she didn’t want to. Mrs McGregor had spoilt her afternoon.

A holiday is a great idea. You and me, nothing else. Imagine what we could do all week. Why don’t you start thinking about where to go. July is best for me, by then everything’ll be sorted. We can celebrate properly. I want you.

Dxx

Laura blushed with pleasure. The email, the email she’d been waiting on for over two days since she’d tentatively emailed him on Monday to ask if he thought they should go away. And here it was. He wanted to go away with her, everything would be sorted by then – so when was he going to talk to Amy? And then they’d be together. He was serious about her, she knew he was. Going on holiday, that was a big step, but they were ready for it. They’d spent so much time together they knew each other better than most other couples, and they certainly got on better than most other couples – look at Dan and Amy, she thought, and then realised they weren’t the best couple to compare Dan and herself to. Laura rolled her eyes at her own stupidity, but her heart was singing, and the rest of the day passed more pleasantly than she’d expected.

The next day it was still raining, and Mrs McGregor wrote a letter of complaint to the local education authority about Laura. She faxed it to Laura’s boss Rachel, who gave Laura a formal warning. She had no choice, she said, looking firmly at Laura as she twiddled a pencil between her fingers. Laura watched the pencil, sliding in and out and around, and wondered what all the fuss was about. Mrs McGregor was wrong, she was a horrible woman and she was wrong. Marcus Sussman was a bit hearty but he seemed to be a nice man: all he’d done was to tell a kid who called him ‘a fucking cunt’ to shut the fuck up – well, was that so bad? No, not in her book. Who cares, she thought, mentally shutting down and blocking out the memory of Mrs McGregor’s droning voice.

‘I won’t say I’m not disappointed,’ said Rachel, leaning over her desk towards Laura. ‘I thought that was one of your strengths, people management. You’ve always been so good at it, Laura. They love you at St Catherine’s, too. What happened?’

Laura looked at her and felt tears start in her eyes. She was being stupid, she knew it, behaving so irresponsibly, but she didn’t know how to start to explain. So she just said, ‘Oh, you know. I just – she really was so vile. I just couldn’t take it any more. I’m really sorry, Rachel. You know it won’t happen again. Can I ring Mrs McGregor and apologise?’

Rachel smiled at her, slightly more warmly than before. ‘Of course. Thanks a lot. You know how it is, Laura. We have to follow procedures. You know that. Just don’t let it happen again. And watch that Marcus Sussman. You’re sure he’s OK?’

‘Absolutely,’ Laura said. ‘I promise she’s making it into something from nothing. This is the last time, I won’t let you down.’

‘So, darling,’ said Angela Foster that evening, smoothing the sofa cushion over with her hand. ‘How’s work?’

She glanced around the sitting room, as if she expected a troupe of tiny tap-dancing mice to can-can out from a hole in the skirting board and pirouette off with her handbag.

‘Fine, fine,’ Laura said hastily. ‘Today was…er, fine. Thanks so much for these, they’ll look great.’ She gestured to the pastelspotted blinds her mother had bought her from John Lewis as a belated birthday present. ‘It’s so nice of you to bring them round, Mum, you shouldn’t have.’

‘Not at all, darling,’ said Angela. ‘And I wanted to see my girl. We haven’t seen you for such a long time, you know. You’re so busy these days.’

Laura changed the subject hastily. ‘So, Mum. Have you got time for a cup of tea or do you have to go?’

Angela looked at her. ‘I can see you’re longing for me to stay,’ she said dryly.

‘No, of course I am,’ Laura replied hastily. ‘Of course. Do stay. I’ve got some biscuits, too. Sit down, Mum. I’ll put the kettle on. Sit down, make yourself at home.’

‘I’ll try,’ said Angela, lowering herself gingerly onto the blue sofa with its tea-stained arms and cigarette holes in the cushions. She moved aside Paddy’s copy of Maxim with her heel and sat with her ankles neatly crossed. She smiled up at Laura.

Laura sighed and hurried into the kitchen, glancing anxiously at her watch. Dan had said he’d come round later, and she didn’t want the two to collide. Not that it was likely they would – he only ever turned up after the pubs shut, whereas her mum was usually in bed and fast asleep by that time. She hunted desperately in the cupboards as she waited for the kettle to boil, searching for biscuits of some description, but of course could find none, and then one of the kitchen unit doors finally gave up the ghost and pitched itself sideways, the MDF cracking and ripping as the door fell flat on the floor. ‘Shit,’ Laura said, picking it up and wedging it back into place again. She had heard similar sounds the previous night, very late, after Paddy had got back from a marathon drinking session, and suspected he might have done exactly the same thing himself, leaving it as a nasty surprise for her the next day. No biscuits, then. Laura grabbed some slightly soggy Carr’s water biscuits and took them back into the sitting room with the tea instead.

‘How nice,’ said Angela, taking one. ‘Hm.’

‘I couldn’t find any biccies,’ said Laura. ‘So sshh, just enjoy them.’

‘The flat’s looking nice,’ Angela said, obediently changing the subject. Laura gritted her teeth. Her mother was a Grand Master of the art of faking it. Laura knew she didn’t do it on purpose, but her superbly repressed nature meant that whenever an unkind or negative thought crossed her mother’s mind, she obviously felt she had to atone for it by saying the opposite of what she thought. It was quite a good barometer, actually. ‘What a lovely short skirt, darling!’ meant ‘I am embarrassed to go with you dressed like that to the Hunts’ wedding anniversary party, you look like a common prostitute.’ Or ‘Your friend Hilary is very lively, isn’t she? Dad loved talking to her,’ meant ‘Your friend Hilary drinks more than is socially acceptable at a barbecue buffet lunch in Harrow and is nothing more than a jail-bait husband-stealer.’

‘Thanks, Mum. It’s a bit of a tip at the moment. Paddy’s been on half-term and he just lazes round reading newspapers all day in his dressing gown.’

‘Ahh,’ said Angela fondly. She had more than a soft spot for Paddy. ‘How is James?’

It was strange, Laura thought, musing over this, that James Patrick could read mothers – and his female friends – like open books, and yet be so disastrously out of sync with the opposite sex for the rest of the time. Half-term had been notable for Paddy’s attempts to catch the attention of the girl in the flat downstairs, which involved hanging around the stairwell and by the pigeonholes for half the day, and smiling mysteriously, raising the eyebrow he’d now learnt to raise, and generally looking like an unemployed spy. The girl in the flat downstairs – whom Laura had met, she was called Becky and seemed really nice – simply cast him looks of something amounting to concern for his mental state every time she saw him. He was despondent about it, because he really liked her. And before he’d decided he fancied her, and had started acting like a lunatic, they’d actually got on quite well, during the few times they’d chatted. Added to which, Mr Kenzo from the flat opposite now thought Paddy was clearly a delinquent or else some kind of dodgy sex practitioner, and spent a lot of time watching him watching Becky, which all contributed to the atmosphere of light comedy pervading the stairwell of the block of flats.

‘He’s fine. Bit gloomy at the moment.’

‘Any girls on the horizon?’ said Angela hopefully.

Laura didn’t want to get into Paddy’s love life with her mother. She cast around for something else to say about him. ‘He’s giving me a hard time –’ Laura stopped, cursed herself and then went on, ‘– for not tidying up more,’ she finished, inwardly hugging herself for her own ingenuity.

‘Well, I’m sure he’s right,’ said Angela. ‘You are a bit messy. Still, it’s nice to live with someone who is too, isn’t it? You’re only young once, it does no one any harm to leave the Sunday papers strewn about once in a while.’

‘True, very true, Mum,’ Laura agreed with a grin. Angela sipped her tea and smiled back at her over her mug, a lovely smile with her eyes, and Laura thought how pretty her mum would be if she’d only do that more.

‘How’s Aunt Annabel?’ Laura said after a pause. Annabel had a beefy-faced husband and was the mother of the dreaded Lulu and Fran. A long time had passed since Laura and Simon happily played with Lulu and Fran on the beach in Norfolk as children. Now they were all grown-up, Lulu was a trust-fund skeleton who hung around with posh Eurotrash, and Fran was a porky, demented sports physio, with a loud, bellowing voice. Simon and Laura spent every family gathering trying to avoid them.

Angela swallowed her tea daintily and said brightly, ‘Oh, she’s fine, I hear. Granny saw her a couple of weeks ago. Lulu’s got a wonderful new job reviewing restaurants and cafés for some magazine in Notting Hill. Isn’t that great?’

Angela said this rather mechanically. Laura said incredulously, ‘How can Lulu have a job reviewing restaurants? She hasn’t eaten anything since 1991.’

‘Darling,’ said Angela. ‘Don’t be mean.’

‘Oh come on, Mum,’ Laura said. ‘She’s anorexic. It’s not right to be that thin.’

‘I know.’

‘Why doesn’t Aunt Annabel do something about it? She could run the UN if she wanted to.’

‘They look at things in a different way from us, dear,’ Angela said vaguely. ‘They’re different. Thank god.’

Laura was taken aback. Any criticism of their relatives coming from the mouth of her usually perfectly correct mother spoke volumes. But she said nothing, and instead pushed the IKEA catalogue on the coffee table towards her mother. ‘So, Mum,’ she said. ‘Show me the new sofa you like? And look – here’s the lamp I thought looked nice.’

Angela grabbed the catalogue almost gratefully, and opened it. ‘The lamp with the blue shade, that’s the one you want?’

Laura nodded. Angela looked genuinely excited, as she always did when a conversation about reasonably priced furnishings was in the offing. ‘And once you’ve put these blinds up – ooh, it’ll look really lovely, especially with spring coming,’ she said, drinking her cup of tea. ‘I should be on my way soon, you know. Dad’s back from Norway tonight and I ought to have something ready for him, poor thing.’

Since Laura’s father George was an engineer, something slightly strange in IT development systems, neither Laura nor her brother ever fully understood what it was that he did. It seemed to involve lots of flying about on business, anyway. He was a manically overenthusiastic cook when at home, though, who loved everything from barbecuing to casseroling, and was more than happy to do the lion’s share of the catering in the Foster household. It had become borne in upon Laura over the years, however, that it was her mother who had always got stuck with the really mundane tasks, like the packed-lunch preparation or the spag bol on a Wednesday evening after work.

‘Ooh, what are you making?’ Laura asked.

‘Lasagne,’ said Angela firmly. ‘You know your father. He’ll be full of the joys of rollmops and herrings and smorgasbords. Well, I’m not having it, I’m really not. He can wait till summer’s here for that kind of thing.’ She drained the last of her tea and stood up. ‘Right, darling, I’ll be off.’

‘Oh, OK,’ said Laura. ‘Thanks so much for the blinds, Mum. They’re great. I love them.’

‘I’m glad, darling,’ said Angela, kissing her on the cheek. ‘Your Granny picked them out with me. She said they were very You. And – oh my goodness, that reminds me. I nearly forgot. Honestly, where am I these days?’

‘What?’ said Laura, handing her mother her coat.

‘Granny. You know it’s her eighty-fifth birthday in July? Well, we want to have a little party for her at Seavale then.’ Seavale was Mary’s house by the sea in Norfolk. ‘With Aunt Annabel and Robert, and Lulu and Fran.’ Laura groaned, but Angela ignored her and carried on. ‘I think Simon will still be away travelling, so it’s even more important you’re there. I just wanted to check – you’re around in July, aren’t you, darling? No holiday plans or anything?’

‘Well…’ Laura said. ‘Er.’

Angela looked at her. ‘Er?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Laura.

‘The whole of July? You’re not sure?’ said Angela disbelievingly.

‘Well,’ said Laura, collecting herself. Good god, she was being stupid. ‘Any time’s good. I was thinking…thinking I might be on holiday in July sometime, but I’ll wait till you tell me a date and then plan it round that. Of course I’ll be there. And do tell Granny thanks for the blinds, too. I love them.’

‘You could ring her up and tell her, she’d be over the moon. She’d love to hear from you. Maybe you could meet for lunch, she was saying she hadn’t seen you for a while.’ Angela wrapped her scarf carefully around her neck.

It was true. Mary was not usually offstage. She was normally someone Laura saw once every other week, even if it was just to pop in for a drink after work, or to meet for a coffee. But Laura hadn’t seen her for a while. She pushed the thought from her head, and the associated guilt, and said,

‘Yes, I must call her. I must. Just been quite busy. Now, safe journey,’ she added. ‘Paddy will be disappointed he missed you, you know how much he loves you.’

Angela blushed. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Thanks for the tea, darling. And call Granny. I’ll let you know when we decide for the party.’

‘Yep,’ said Laura, standing at the doorway. She waved as her mother disappeared down the curving staircase, and wandered back into the flat, kicking a stray football out of the way. As she stood in the hallway she realised it had been Christmas when she’d last seen her grandmother. That was ridiculous. It wasn’t as if she could say she lived in the middle of nowhere, either. Mary lived behind Baker Street – ‘within walking distance of Selfridges, good for the soul, my dear’ – in Crecy Court, a Thirties apartment block that Laura absolutely loved. It was like a step back in time, a veritable Who’s Who. She shared the block with Cedric Forsythe, an old Rank actor from the Fifties, who’d starred opposite Margaret Leighton and Celia Johnson; Jasper Davidson, a painter who’d lived in St Ives until he’d broken his hip three years ago; and Dilys Darcy, a long-forgotten Fifties crooner who’d been best mates with Alma Cogan and whose memory was sharper than a tack.

She went to pick up her mobile, to get her grandmother’s number off it. There was a text from Dan.

Can I come over? Have told Amy I’ll be late tonight. I really need to see you and I want you. I miss you so much, beautiful girl. Please say yes. D

As Laura stood holding the phone, the doorbell rang. She started, dropped the phone, and went over to the intercom.

‘Hello?’ she said.

‘Did you get my text?’ said the voice. ‘Is Paddy there? Can I come up?’

‘Dan?’ Laura said shakily.

‘Yes, it’s Dan,’ the voice said, amused. ‘Who else sends you text messages saying they want to come over and give you a good seeing-to? Am I one in a long line, should I join a queue?’

‘Aaagh,’ said Laura. ‘I was just confused. I was about to call someone and I was just conf—oh, come up, sorry, I’m just being thick.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Dan. He lowered his voice. ‘I can’t stay long, I just wanted to see you.’

Laura’s legs wobbled a bit and she smiled into the intercom. And then, out of nowhere, she found herself saying, ‘I’d love you to come up. But not if you can’t stay. Oh Dan, I’m sorry.’

‘What?’ said Dan.

‘I mean,’ said Laura, ‘you’re not just coming up for a quick fuck and then scooting off again. Not that that wouldn’t be nice. It would –’ and she almost wavered, then checked herself. ‘Hm. I want you too, but no, that’s not going to happen. I’m really sorry. Night, darling.’

‘OK,’ said Dan. He paused. ‘I’m sorry,’ he went on. ‘You’re right. Shit, oh well. I deserve it. Soon, soon, you know? Can you do me a favour?’

‘Depends,’ Laura said cautiously, dreading him asking her to come outside and do it on the porch.

‘Can you look out of the window and wave, just so I can see you tonight? Right, I’m off then. Bye my darling. I wish…’

‘Bye Dan,’ Laura said softly. ‘I love you.’

The line went dead as she stuffed her fist into her mouth. I love you? Why? Why had she said that? Damn. She ran over to the window, and gazed out across the quiet suburban North London street. The rain had stopped and the night was clear, and on the street below she could see a tall figure staring up at her. She opened the window and looked down, and there he was, a small figure below her, his gorgeous face turned up towards her.

‘I love you too,’ he shouted, and his voice echoed in the silence of the street. ‘I love you.’

Laura stood there, her eyes filled with tears. And then she blew him a kiss and shut the window.