Girls’ Night In
Girls’ Night In
Jessica Adams
Fiona Walker
Chris Manby
An unparalleled collection of stories by some of the best female writers commissioned specially for this collection, with royalties supporting War Child, the charity dedicated to alleviating the suffering of children affected by war.A collection of short stories from some of the biggest names in fiction: bestselling authors Jessica Adams, Fiona Walker and Chrissie Manby commissioned 31 stories which are combined here in a fabulous anthology in aid of War Child. Contributors include Candace Bushnell (Sex in the City), Jenny Colgan, Freya North, Marian Keyes, Jane Green, Lisa Jewell, Wendy Holden, Isabel Wolff, Fiona Walker, Cathy Kelly, Polly Samson, Helen Lederer and Patricia Scanlan.All royalties from the publication go to War Child.
GIRLS’ NIGHT IN
Edited by Jessica Adams, Chrissie Manby and Fiona Walker
Copyright (#ulink_80fcd171-5a2d-5a36-b318-a0182b73bbfd)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2000
Compilation © 2000 HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd For copyright details of individual stories, see here (#u76c4a686-f323-543f-8b12-8f276b084b2e)
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015
Cover illustration © Cherie Chapman
All characters and incidents in this publication are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780006514855
Ebook Edition © MAY ISBN: 9780008132972
Version: 2015-06-02
In and Out Copyright © 2000 Freya North
Dougie, Spoons and the Aquarium Solarium Copyright © 2000 Jenny Colgan
The Power of Two Copyright © 2000 Fiona Walker
The Truth is Out There Copyright © 1999 Marian Keyes
Rudy Copyright © 2000 Lisa Jewell
A Swimmer’s Tale Copyright © 2000 Stella Duffy
Post Haste Copyright © 2000 Isabel Wolff
Cassandra Copyright © 2000 Cathy Kelly
Access All Areas Copyright © 2000 Jane Owen
The E-Male of the Species Copyright © 2000 Wendy Holden
Love on the Underground Copyright © 2000 Jessica Adams
Fairweather Friend Copyright © 2000 Patricia Scanlan
Something Different Copyright © 2000 Clare Naylor
The Itch Copyright © 2000 Polly Samson
Morro Copyright © 2000 Alecia McKenzie
Flung Copyright © 2000 Adele Parks
Pull Me in the Pullman Carriage Copyright © 2000 Helen Lederer
The Plain Truth Copyright © 2000 Claire Calman
Mr Charisma Copyright © 2000 Yasmin Boland
The Sun, the Moon and the Stars Copyright © 2000 Pauline McLynn
The Shell of Venus Copyright © 2000 Victoria Routledge
Man with a Tan Copyright © 2000 Anna Maxted
Storm Clouds Copyright © 2000 Sheila O’Flanagan
Caravan Copyright © 2000 Rosalyn Chissick
The Seven Steps from Shag to Spouse Copyright © 2000 Tiffanie Darke
Lip Service Copyright © 2000 Karen Moline
Saving Amsterdam Copyright © 2000 Chrissie Manby
A Form of Release Copyright © 2000 Daisy Waugh
Hurrah for the Hols Copyright © 2000 Helen Simpson
No Worries Copyright © 2000 Sarah Ingham
Re: The World Copyright © 2000 Amy Jenkins
Contents
Cover (#uf76a3bca-ccec-5ce3-a1ff-ccb6232d1eee)
Title Page (#u8ccb57d8-291d-5224-a2a4-169262d668d1)
Copyright (#ulink_d13dca2c-7292-5ace-be2a-733ca3840711)
Introduction Neil Morrissey (#ulink_99c24bcd-4cba-5999-bccf-926624b1613a)
In and Out Freya North (#ulink_0b8cee10-c8b8-528c-b1a6-205d29cc4c4a)
Dougie, Spoons and the Aquarium Solarium Jenny Colgan (#ulink_037af09e-2291-507d-9f57-60adc41eb54a)
The Power of Two Fiona Walker (#ulink_ab80c12d-1b35-52dd-8437-572ef1a2eb95)
The Truth is Out There Marian Keyes (#ulink_00055e04-6df9-5aaa-8460-1606110dc9aa)
Rudy Lisa Jewell (#ulink_d83b22ff-7f22-5798-be71-6864b676c65f)
A Swimmer’s Tale Stella Duffy (#ulink_c6663755-bf52-51b4-b35f-fa9653e08acd)
Post Haste Isabel Wolff (#ulink_a8399514-2cbb-54bd-a60a-d1e0520d2b1e)
Cassandra Cathy Kelly (#ulink_daa68c87-e41d-522e-b9d4-0d9523a485e6)
Access All Areas Jane Owen (#ulink_4df40156-e79e-5dc7-8109-a368d61bfac7)
The E-Male of the Species Wendy Holden (#ulink_0cfdab06-9603-5f7f-91e6-700de9654c4e)
Love on the Underground Jessica Adams (#ulink_71ed3341-c5fd-5540-9330-01019e070b00)
Fairweather Friend Patricia Scanlan (#ulink_59aa74de-e52d-5b06-8258-486f2c292bea)
Something Different Clare Naylor (#ulink_ef6a605a-207b-5a08-84d6-1d2b6c48e937)
The Itch Polly Samson (#ulink_1eff7e1a-1095-5629-8e82-730933f642da)
Morro Alecia McKenzie (#ulink_76297031-9b2c-5d74-9a39-ae7e923aa3e7)
Flung Adele Parks (#ulink_40fe63cd-fac6-5e25-9ee9-d3d2cd4da111)
Pull Me in the Pullman Carriage Helen Lederer (#ulink_f680fe1d-b948-5df2-a27b-60d9a0039c3a)
The Plain Truth Claire Calman (#ulink_e3a2acd2-e58c-51b9-9d97-12374bcb18e2)
Mr Charisma Yasmin Boland (#ulink_fe58190e-d5d0-5c9e-9861-cafee21d59fa)
The Sun, the Moon and the Stars Pauline McLynn (#ulink_c6df56b5-a30a-53b4-a065-0d2e6d478ffd)
The Shell of Venus Victoria Routledge (#ulink_b15ebea8-0a08-5c23-b395-a08e1cbedb6a)
Man with a Tan Anna Maxted (#ulink_74e9f68b-e238-5254-84d2-2b23881f50ea)
Storm Clouds Sheila O’Flanagan (#ulink_c5334bb0-be5f-553a-b093-c0498fc657c1)
Caravan Rosalyn Chissick (#ulink_4b0a17e2-5ec5-506b-a936-ec843962a077)
The Seven Steps from Shag to Spouse Tiffanie Darke (#ulink_a5afee98-2600-5260-8a6c-0d3db2e768f1)
Lip Service Karen Moline (#ulink_95fff1e2-fe63-5c95-81a0-fb56741c7029)
Saving Amsterdam Chrissie Manby (#ulink_319c1050-f2cd-5972-bd97-b752699b4538)
A Form of Release Daisy Waugh (#ulink_7986e976-9bc4-5497-8ef5-e20e89ef4b65)
Hurrah for the Hols Helen Simpson (#ulink_689055c9-622b-5a4b-a344-9f261178e234)
No Worries Sarah Ingham (#ulink_43b51d95-f9d6-524a-a998-624ce82b7df7)
Re: The World Amy Jenkins (#ulink_ea05d0b9-faa5-517e-8437-7e5ea7054e51)
Acknowledgements (#ulink_217e52e1-31da-585d-b1b0-4d11cdb5614b)
About the Publisher
Introduction (#ulink_a4d64007-485e-571b-9946-c2a368bbd0af)
It’s difficult to see what devastatingly handsome men, heart-breakingly wet tissues and the odd glass of Cava have in common with a school in Rwanda and a playground in Kosovo. But here, in this glorious book, you have it.
This book was the brainchild of writing friends Chrissie Manby, Jessica Adams and Fiona Walker. Meeting up for drinks one night, they talked about the host of young women whose unique brand of fiction currently top the book charts, and decided to bring all that talent together in one book for one terrific cause. Scribbling ideas on napkins, they were determined from the outset to create a book that raises spirits as well as funds. Within twenty-four hours, this unique collection was born.
The approaching deadline saw stories flying across the internet and writers who had previously been head to head in the book charts asking each other for advice. Of course, there were a few obligatory girls’ nights out to discuss narrative structure over a glass or two as well! With best-selling authors from the UK, Ireland, America and Australia donating their stories free of charge, the generosity and enthusiasm of all involved has been extraordinary.
One pound from every copy of Girls Night In goes towards War Child’s Safe Play Programme in the Balkans and an educational programme in Rwanda. In Kosovo, thousands of children have been left without anywhere to play, have fun, or have a normal childhood. In Rwanda most girls have no access to education. So thanks for buying this book – you’ve just helped these children, have a great night in on me.
Why War Child Are Great:
Since it was founded in 1993, War Child has alleviated the suffering of tens of thousands of children throughout the World. Providing mobile bakeries and supplying insulin to stricken warzones, the charity directs aid where it’s needed most. But they do not disappear when the guns have stopped shooting and the fires have died down. They are also instrumental in healing the psychological damage caused to children by their experiences of war.
The money raised from this book will fund two essential projects:
The Safe Play Areas Programme runs throughout the Balkans on land cleared of mines, unexploded bombs and rubble. War Child builds playgrounds where children of all ethnic backgrounds can play without fear, encouraging them to make friends and build bridges for the future.
In Rwanda, girls rarely have the opportunity to be educated into their teens – in fact as few as 8% complete primary school and are able to go on to secondary school. In partnership with Girls’ Night In, War Child will fund essential improvements to a girls’ school near Kigali, ensuring that a greater number of young girls are given the opportunities taken for granted throughout the West.
Freya North
Freya North was born in London but lives in rural Hertfordshire with her family, where she writes from a stable in her back garden. A passionate reader since childhood, Freya was originally inspired by Mary Wesley, Rose Tremain and Barbara Trapido: fiction with strong female leads and original, sometimes eccentric, characters.
In 2012 she set up the Hertford Children’s Book Festival, which she continues to run. She is an ambassador for the charity Beating Bowel Cancer and a judge for the CPRE Rural Living Awards. Her 14 bestselling novels have been translated into many languages and published around the world.
In and Out (#ulink_c619a976-72ea-517b-8bfe-332f51c581d2)
Freya North (#ulink_c619a976-72ea-517b-8bfe-332f51c581d2)
‘Lady – is your nose itching?’
Finty McKenzie took the palm of her hand from the tip of her nose, where it had been doing all manner of pressing, rotating and jiggling, and looked up. Locating the owner of the husky mid-Atlantic drawl, he who had posed the question, she alighted on an elderly man, clad in plaid.
‘You got an itchy nose, huh?’ he pressed, not waiting for an answer. ‘Honey! Doncha know? You’re gonna kiss a fool!’
The exclamation mark soared instantly from floor to ceiling of the plush hotel bar, but it was the word ‘fool’ which reverberated; the ‘f’ having been expelled from teeth and lips like a bad taste, the ‘1’ lingering on a very spiked tongue tip. The aged American chuckled extravagantly (because he knew what he was talking about), Finty whooped with sudden laughter (because she hadn’t a clue what he was talking about), but Brett, the man sitting next to her, he who had been bedding her these past three months, gave no hint of reaction.
To prove a point, but not quite sure what, or to whom, Finty affectionately kissed Brett in front of the American. This served to make the man guffaw so heartily that a fit of coughing befell him and expedited his exit from the bar.
‘What a character!’ Finty laughed.
‘Shoot me when I get like that,’ Brett said measuredly. Immediately, Finty experienced a quite violent reaction which she had come to term ‘a moment’. She’d never had one until she’d met Brett. Every so often, something he would say or do would, for a moment, alarm her so severely that it would course through her blood like acid. The searing horror came as much from self-disgust that she could be with such a man, as from his crime itself. However. Here she still is. These were but moments. And she wasn’t sure from where they originated. Head or heart. And which should rule which? These were but moments. Wasn’t she just looking for things to throw at the relationship? She’d scold herself for sabotaging something that might well be very good indeed. More tolerance, that’s what’s needed. But from him or her? She had justified the thinly veiled racist comment he had once made as but a momentary aberration. And he’d only been joking, of course, when he’d asked her to make his bed the morning after they’d first slept together there. And he had a migraine that night he left her stranded in Soho in the early hours. It had been OK. She’d found a cab almost immediately, just a street or three away. And Brett had phoned the next day to explain that he suffered from migraines. That they made him do strange things. Like leave people in the centre of the city at an unseemly hour. Of course, of course. All forgiven.
‘Brett gives me a fucking migraine,’ Sally said, peering into the oven and wondering if it was the slightly grimy door that made the Marks & Spencer luxury cheese puffs look golden or if they were indeed ready. ‘How long?’
‘Three months, must be,’ said Chloë distractedly, rocking against the radiator as if forgetting how hot it was each time her bottom met it.
Sally stared at her. ‘The cheese puffs,’ she said with theatrical kindness, raising an eyebrow at Polly and fixing Chloë with a look of exaggerated pity.
‘Oh, them,’ said Chloë in a bid to patronize Sally for ranking cheese puffs higher in the grand scheme of things than Finty and Brett, ‘almost eight minutes.’
‘But they look ready,’ Sally protested, saliva shooting around her jaw and her stomach reminding her that crisps and a pot of coleslaw at lunch had not hit the spot.
‘You leave them be for another four minutes,’ Polly warned, brandishing the empty carton for emphasis and opening a bag of hand-cooked vegetable crisps in a futile bid to lure Sally away from the oven. ‘Here. And wine while you wait. It’s my bloody oven.’
It was Polly’s turn to host the Gathering. Though, as hostess, her responsibilities were minimal apart from ensuring that ready-made luxuries were in the oven, that the corkscrew was foolproof and that any live-in lovers had been banished. The Gathering was a monthly institution, founded instinctively three years ago when all four girls found themselves dumped and depressed and desperate to do voodoo. They had convened with a need to exhaust their repertory of expletives, to drink much vodka and perform a cleansing ritual Chloë had read about which entailed the burning of a bunch of sage and much chanting. The swearing and the smoke from the sage gave them giggles, they soon found themselves quite drunk on spirits bottled and natural, and their sense of personal justice and order in the world was restored. Where their hearts had hurt at the beginning of the evening, now their sides ached from laughter. They decreed that such a restorative tonic should not be restricted to times of crisis but should become a mainstay of every month. Raucous in Richmond at Polly’s place or dancing in Dean Street until the proprietor told them to leave; chilling out at Chloë’s or conversing animatedly at a Conran restaurant; a few sniffs rapidly devolving into mass sobbing at a chick-flick at the Leicester Square Odeon, or getting stoned and saying not a lot at Sally’s. Wherever they were, their sense of togetherness could make a month make sense. In or out, they’d shake it all about, kiss each other liberally at home time and look forward immensely to the next gathering.
‘I think I’m planning my life, and doing the things I’m doing, safe in the knowledge that I can always Workshop-Through-It at our Gathering,’ Polly had once said, to much nodding all round. Which was why Finty’s absence was so unfathomable. Rather insulting. Just a little worrying, too.
‘Don’t like,’ said Chloë, wrinkling her nose.
‘I’ll have yours, then,’ said Sally, fanning her mouth and eyeing Chloë’s cheesy puff.
‘Brett,’ Chloë said. ‘Don’t like him.’
‘You’ve only met him once,’ Polly protested.
‘As have you,’ said Chloë, ‘and did you like him?’
Polly gave Chloë a swift smile of defeat. ‘No.’
‘Ditto,’ said Sally who’d burnt the roof of her mouth but couldn’t possibly admit to it and therefore took another cheesy puff. ‘I don’t like what he’s doing to her.’
‘Do you mean that he’s taking her away from us?’ Polly, who feared this to be the case, asked.
‘No,’ Sally said, ‘not that. More, I feel that he’s detrimental to her self-confidence; which is why she jumps to his beck and call.’
‘Forsaking us for him,’ said Polly.
‘Yes,’ Sally clarified, ‘but I can’t believe it’s because she deems him preferable, nor that she’s taking advantage of us.’
‘I think he’s a harmless creep,’ said Chloë, ‘way way out of Finty’s league. I think she’ll figure that out soon enough. When the novelty of new sex abates.’
The three women fell silent.
‘However, I, for one, cannot believe that sex with him can make up for his questionable personality,’ Chloë continued, ‘nor for it taking precedence over the Gathering.’
The three women fell silent.
Was their concern for their friend’s welfare with this man? Or that they rued the fact that their hitherto sacred coven might be fallible? An era ending? If they conceded that this was the case, weren’t they investing a harmless creep with more power than they felt he warranted?
‘My point is,’ Sally said, using her hands for emphasis to prevent herself from succumbing to a fourth cheesy puff, ‘Finty should be here, not there. I think it’s indicative of a floundering relationship that she isn’t. It’s only one night a month. She has a duty. I mean, when have any of us ever rejected a Gathering?’
‘You did, you old tart!’ Polly cajoled. ‘When you first started seeing Richard. When he was going to seduce you with his culinary skills.’
‘Yes,’ Sally said patiently, ‘but he did. And then I married the man.’ She peered into Polly’s fridge and brought out reduced fat guacamole and humous. ‘See me now – banning husband from home on a monthly basis – grounds for divorce, surely! Mind you, if he ever objected – well, grounds for divorce, surely.’
‘Oh God!’ Chloë exclaimed. ‘Please don’t let Finty marry Brett!’
The girls made noises and gesticulations of a mass vomiting session and then giggled guiltily. Perhaps Finty really was in love with the man. Perhaps he was a really lovely chap who wasn’t very confident in company. Or merely had an awkward manner, rather than no manners at all, which is what they all suspected. Perhaps he was to be on the scene for months, even years. He would remain great gossip fodder – as long as Finty remained oblivious to the fact. Suddenly, along with the vegetable crisps and rather luminous guacamole, the three women also passed around a smile steeped in slight suspicion and discomfort. It occurred to them that perhaps their own partners had been the subjects of such unfavourable scrutiny. Maybe still were. No. Surely not. Richard was such great company. William was sensitive. Max always had them laughing. And the fundamental difference was that these three men were openly at ease with their respective partners and her friends. Whereas Brett had stiffened when Finty had kissed him in front of them and he’d squirmed when Sally had burped, when Polly had sworn, when Chloë had touched his knee in a bid to extend welcome, to establish familiarity.
‘Where was he taking her anyway?’ Chloë asked, uncorking a bottle of Semillon and giving Polly the thumbs up at the bumper bag of oven chips held aloft for their approval. ‘Where have they gone that could possibly be preferable to oven chips, low fat dips and our delectable company?’ She burped under her breath, as demurely as she could. Sally responded with one that made the rafters tremble.
Peanuts. Finty detested peanuts. She hated the taste and she couldn’t abide the smell. And now Brett reeked of peanuts. But more loathsome than this was what he was doing to them. He was snatching little handfuls by contorting his fingers over the bowl like the hands of an Action Man doll. He was then bouncing his clutch up and down in his palm as if panning for gold, before pushing his whole hand against his mouth. His trousers. He was wiping his fingers over his trousers, leaving salt there, before doing Action Man Hands and reaching for the bowl again.
This is nuts. This is crazy. I want Marks & Spencer finger-food.
‘How about sashimi?’ Brett suggested. ‘There’s a place near here. We use it for business lunches. They know me.’ For Finty, who’d never ordered anything medium rare in her life, let alone raw, the thought of it turned her stomach at a slightly faster rotation than the peanuts. ‘Stop rubbing your nose,’ Brett said, irritation in his voice manifest in the way he swirled the ice around his glass. ‘Go and blow it, for God’s sake.’
Ladies Toilets. Haven. Peace and camaraderie. Hair products and perfume and mints laid out by the basins. An attendant handing out paper towels and a part-of-the-job smile behind sad (part of the job) eyes. Finty locks herself in a cubicle and sits there awhile. Her nose itches but there’s nothing to blow. She pulls the chain though there is nothing to flush. She washes her hands automatically and checks her reflection. If there’s sadness behind the toilet-attendant’s eyes, Finty’s gaze is underscored with a flatness. It shouldn’t be so. She should be having a wonderful time. She’s on a date. Being wined and dined. Whined at and to dine on foodstuffs she doesn’t like. But there’ll be sex too. That’s to look forward to. Though she’ll close her eyes and conjure Brad Pitt.
‘Gorgeous skirt!’ marvels a stranger.
‘Thanks!’ Finty replies, all smiles.
‘Nice bloke too,’ says the stranger’s friend, ‘but doesn’t he like his peanuts!’
‘Yeah!’ says Finty, wondering why she’s lacing her voice with a hasty approximation of affection, or possessiveness; and suddenly craving her own girlfriends desperately.
Must call them. Just to say hullo.
The entrance to the bar is the foyer of the hotel and, though Finty has both battery and strong signal on her mobile phone, she eschews privacy, opting for the payphone.
‘Hullo?’ Polly answers, with a voice suggesting outrage that there is such an intrusion on a night when she’s gathered her soul mates around her.
‘Hey!’ says Finty with commendable bounce.
‘Finty!’ Polly shrieks and suddenly the phone has been given to Sally, then Chloë, before all three attempt to listen and chat en masse. Finty says something about peanuts and her nose and an old man clad in plaid. But the girls are too eager to tell her that she should be there with them, on the third bottle of wine, now called vino-darling, with her stomach full of fancy morsels.
‘I’d better go,’ says Finty all breezy, ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Have fun.’
‘We are!’ they sing. ‘We are!’
Finty replaced the receiver and rested her head against the side of the booth momentarily before quite literally pulling herself together.
‘Young lady!’ It was the elderly American gentleman. ‘Your nose still itching?’ Finty smiled and shook her head. ‘So you wised up and dumped the guy?’ Finty smiled and shook her head. ‘Steak!’ The man proclaimed, ‘I’m going out to get me a steak. Aberdeen. Angus. Horse. I got to have steak – why don’t you join me?’ Finty smiled and shook her head. ‘More nutritious than peanuts,’ he said. Giving Finty a shrug and a wink, he had the doorman summon a taxi. Comforted that he knew about the peanuts, Finty returned to the bar.
‘It’s half-eight and she’s phoned,’ Chloë assesses.
‘Wonder why?’ Sally contemplates.
‘Hmm,’ Polly ponders, offering more wine and oven chips.
‘Any ketchup?’ Sally asks. Polly shakes her head and begs forgiveness.
‘Did Finty say where she was?’ Chloë asks. Polly shakes her head. The three of them had forgotten to ask. Unforgivable.
On approaching Brett, who was very obviously cleaning his teeth with his tongue, Finty was pleased to see the peanut bowl had gone. But it was returned, replenished, just as soon as she sat down. Brett winked at the waitress. And then he winked at his girlfriend. His Action Man hand reached for the peanuts. Finty diverted her gaze for fear of hitting him and scanned the bar with a half-smile fixed to her face. She tuned in to the sounds surrounding her. Animated chatter. Music. Bursts of laughter. Clink and clank of glasses and china and ice. Brett munching peanuts, rubbing his salty fingers on his trouser legs. Her involuntary sigh was loud, but the silence between Brett and her was louder. Sally, Chloë and Polly had each, at some point, marvelled to Finty how wonderful silence between partners could be. Chloë had termed it ‘the ultimate in communication’. Polly had defined it ‘proof of compatibility’. Sally had proclaimed it ‘a seal of safety’. For Finty, it was as uncomfortable as the fake smile she was forcing upon her lips.
It’s not even a loaded silence – of things left unsaid, or wounds being licked or issues being brooded over, Finty realized, it’s the result of there being very little to say. Soon enough he’ll say, ‘Another drink? Shall we eat?’ and after that, sex and sleep.
‘Another drink?’ asked Brett, ‘or shall we go and eat?’
‘What’s your favourite colour?’ Finty asked him, turning her body towards him, making an effort and really wanting to know.
‘What?’ Brett replied, because he really didn’t understand the question. He frowned at Finty and winked at the waitress who sauntered over with notepad and attitude.
‘Film!’ Finty tried. ‘What’s your favourite film?’
‘Another G and T?’ Brett asked her, now perplexed to the point of irritation.
‘Never heard of that one!’ Finty said lightly, nodding at the waitress to affirm her drink.
‘I’m going to the bog,’ Brett said with fatigue, as if to suggest it was a place far preferable to Finty’s company and Top Ten questionnaire.
‘Desert Island Discs?’ she implored in vain as he rose and left.
What are mine this week? She pondered, enjoying how impossible it was to select only eight pieces of music. And then it struck her that she would really rather be on a desert island with no music at all than with Brett, even if he placed the world’s jukebox at her disposal. She glanced around the room. A couple, much her own age, sat locked in each other’s company; no limbs touching, just engrossed, obviously stimulated, undoubtedly in love. Near to them, a group of four women. A gathering, a girls’ night out – replete with the essential alternation between whispering, giggling and shrieking ‘No! Oh my God!’ Their conversation was shared naturally, their laughter and interaction unforced and obviously highly cherished. Finty didn’t want to be on a desert island; she didn’t want to be in the West End. She wanted, desperately, to be in Richmond. The waitress arrived with the replenished drinks. Finty glanced at her watch. It was gone half nine.
‘Do you think we could have some more peanuts?’ Finty asked. ‘A large bowl?’
‘No!’ PoUy laughed.
‘Oh my God!’ Sally shrieked, hiding behind her hands.
‘Oh yes indeed!’ Chloë confirmed. ‘And I’ll tell you something for free, it was weird at first – but bloody amazing before long.’
‘You old slapper!’ Polly said, clapping.
‘Sexual deviant, more like!’ Sally laughed.
‘I’m a bit pissed I think,’ said Chloë, theatrically forlorn.
‘You’d have to have been,’ Polly snorted, ‘to have done that!’
‘Better have some more vino-darling,’ Sally said, all doctor-like. ‘Here’s to you, you dirty, dirty girl!’ The three women raised their glasses and drank.
There was signal and battery on Finty’s mobile phone but again she went to the payphone in the foyer.
‘Lady! Let me guess, you’re calling for the rescue services!’ the now familiar American voice called softly to her as she was about to drop coins in the slot. Finty turned and regarded him quizzically. ‘Hey! You could have the fire brigade drench him with water, the police lock him up, or an ambulance take him away to a very special hospital.’
‘Look,’ Finty remonstrated, though it was against her better judgement, ‘he’s my boyfriend. You’re offending me.’
‘No,’ said the man, ‘I’m not offending you. Unnerving you, maybe. Offending you – no. I just had a terrible steak. I left most of it and, for some goddamn reason, a large tip too. I’m going to my room. Come use the phone from there.’
Finty didn’t think twice about following him into the elevator. But she did think of Brett. Fleetingly. And then she remembered the peanuts and the waitresses to whom he could wink, and she knew he’d be OK. For the meantime, at least.
‘I’m Finty,’ she introduced herself before disembarking the lift on the sixth floor.
‘And I’m George,’ the American said. They shook hands and he led the way to his room.
Rooms. The American had a suite.
‘Are you drunk?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Finty rued.
‘Hungry?’
‘No.’
‘Want to make that call?’
‘Please.’
‘Would you like a gin and tonic? And some room service?’
‘Yes please.’
‘Dial 9 for an outside line.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Hullo?’ Polly answers the phone. Finty can hear singing in the background. She knows it is Chloë doing her Gloria Gaynor. She can almost see Sally collapsed in a fit of giggles on the couch. She can envisage Polly sitting cross-legged on the floor with the telephone crooked under her chin while she rolls a joint.
‘It’s me again.’
‘Finty!’ Polly trills. Suddenly, the other two join her in a wonderful, if dissonant, chorus of ‘Finty McKenzie! Finty McKenzie!’ The volume is such that Finty holds the receiver away from her ear and the cacophony wafts into the room much to the delight of George.
‘Are you having a lovely time with Brat?’ Polly asks while Chloë in the background hisses, ‘Brett! It’s Brett.’
‘I’m not with him any more,’ Finty says. ‘I’m with George, in his hotel room.’
There is silence. She hears Polly repeat her last sentence verbatim, but with dramatic full stops between each word, to the other two.
‘Who the fuck is George?’ she can hear Sally gasp.
‘Where the fuck is the hotel?’ she can hear Chloë implore.
‘Are you OK?’ Polly says, suddenly sounding sober.
‘Ish,’ says Finty. ‘Can you come and get me?’
Sally, Polly and Chloë stare at each other. They are in Richmond. Not so much drunk as utterly sozzled and somewhat stoned to boot. They have a friend in need holed up in a hotel room with a man called George and a boyfriend called Brett in the bar beneath. The information is too much to digest, let alone act upon.
‘Finty,’ says Polly.
‘George,’ says Sally.
‘We need a cab,’ says Chloë.
Finty replaced the receiver and became engrossed immediately in the chintz of the curtains because it seemed like a safe place to be; lost in the swirls and details of something other than her own life. She was vaguely aware of someone unfolding her clenched fist and placing a glass in her hand, a plate on her knee; of someone stroking her hair and patting her shoulder. When the hand was removed, her shoulder felt chill and so she reached for the hand and placed it back there. She hadn’t the energy to swallow down the lump in her throat, or the wherewithal to prevent a large fat tear glazing and stinging her eye before oozing itself out to splat against the glass in her hand. The noise brought her back to the present.
‘Spoiled,’ she said quietly.
‘Hey,’ said an American voice soothingly.
‘But I have,’ she shrugged, as if it was a fait accompli. ‘I’ve spoiled his evening, your evening, their evening. And my own.’
‘Horse shit!’ George protested. ‘And bullshit!’
‘But the Gathering,’ Finty stressed, ‘it’s sacred. I turned it down for a man with a penchant for peanuts and the ability to make my nose itch.’
‘Well, hon,’ George said after a thoughtful slurp at his glass, ‘I guess you won’t be doing that again.’
‘A Man Called George!’ Sally proclaimed to the concierge, giving the counter an authoritative tap. ‘Please.’
The concierge bestowed upon her a look of great distaste, followed by a withering glance at Polly and Chloë who were sniggering behind the faux fig tree in the foyer.
‘George Who?’
‘He’s expecting us,’ said Sally, refusing to drop eye contact.
‘He’s American,’ Chloë added helpfully.
‘And he’s wearing plaid,’ Polly announced as some kind of open-sesame password.
‘Hi, I’m George,’ says George, ‘and she’s in there.’
‘Hullo, George,’ Sally says, eyes agoggle at his unexpectedly advanced years.
‘Hullo, George,’ says Chloë, eyes agoggle at the extent of his plaid-clad attire.
‘Hullo, George,’ says Polly, eyes agoggle at the opulence of his suite.
‘Hi, ladies,’ says George, ‘she’s in there. She’s expecting you.’
‘Finty!’ the girls cry with love and sympathy, rushing to embrace their friend.
‘Finty!’ they marvel, looking around and spying two bottles of unopened champagne on ice and platters boasting crustless sandwiches and miniature pastries.
‘Girls’ Night In,’ Finty says, very matter-of-fact. ‘George says we should gather here.’
They all look at George. He reminds Sally of her late grandfather. Polly thinks he must be a fairy godfather and then she thinks she must have had one joint too many. Chloë wonders fleetingly what on earth they are doing here in the sumptuous suite of a kindly stranger at gone 10 p.m. Finty wonders where on earth to start.
‘It all began when my nose started to itch,’ she tells Sally, Chloë and Polly who are gathered about her, wide-eyed and jaws dropped as if teacher is about to tell a story.
‘Champagne?’ George suggests, dimming the lights, opening a bottle and pouring four glasses.
‘Aren’t you joining us?’ Sally asks.
George looks rather taken aback, and clasps his hand to his heart for emphasis. ‘God no! It’s a Gathering. Out of bounds. Girls only. Anyway, I have business to attend to.’
And he leaves. He leaves them in one of the rooms of his suite, furnished with champagne and sandwiches. And pastries. And warmth. He leaves the girls, who are now giggling, wrapped around each other on a capacious settee. He has work to do.
The bar is still full and Brett is exactly where George last saw him and where Finty left him over an hour ago. Not that he seems to have realized. His winks at the waitress have provided fast-track service for his gin and tonic to have been frequently replenished. He’s thought only fleetingly of Finty because, in the three months they’ve been together, he’s only ever thought fleetingly of Finty anyway.
‘Peanut?’ George asks.
‘Why not,’ Brett responds.
‘Some advice?’ George asks.
‘Why not,’ Brett responds.
‘Don’t date women with itchy noses,’ George says, with a slap to Brett’s shoulder blades, ‘they’re not your type.’
Jenny Colgan
Jenny Colgan is the author of numerous bestselling novels – Little Beach Street Bakery and the Top 5 bestseller, Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop of Dreams, which won the RNA Romantic Comedy Novel Award 2013. Meet Me at the Cupcake Café was also a Sunday Times Top 10 bestseller, and won the Melissa Nathan Award for Comedy Romance 2012.
Dougie, Spoons and the Aquarium Solarium (#ulink_aae2e0b4-19ad-51df-9d36-32c6bff042ca)
Jenny Colgan (#ulink_aae2e0b4-19ad-51df-9d36-32c6bff042ca)
Doug’s toes popped into life like little exclamation marks hanging over the end of the bed, and he rubbed his sticky eyes and tried not to catch the gunk in his stubble. He let out a groan as last night crept back into his head. How had it ended again? Not well. He spooled it through his mind. OK. He met a pretty girl in a nightclub, they’d danced, grinning foolishly at each other because it was too loud to talk, they’d come back here, they’d drunk whisky, they’d skirted the whole snogging issue by talking drivel about his record collection for hours, then he’d finally managed to snog her. That much he was sure of. More than snogged her? He turned his head, and his face crinkled at an opened condom packet. Huh. He had definitely more than snogged her. So why the sense of utter foreboding?
She – Chloë, that was her name – was a dental assistant, which sounded revolting to him, but he’d liked her, definitely liked her – absolutely – wasn’t sweetly asleep and facing him on the pillow … Just in case he’d gone blind, he stuck out his hand and patted all around the bed and under the mattress. Nope. She was a thin girl, but not Flat Stanley.
Tentatively he sat up and stared round his twelve-by-twelve room. The cupboard was a possibility, but an unlikely one. It struck him what was wrong. She was gone, but her clothes were strewn all over the floor. Therefore, unless she was flapping along a mile away in an enormously long shirt and clown shoes, it meant that, well, it had happened again …
‘CHLOË?’ he shouted, hoping vainly that he might be able to do this without having to get out of bed and touch the icy floor. This didn’t feel like summer at all, as per bloody Doncaster usual.
‘CHLOË?’ There was no response. Sighing, he pulled the duvet round himself and landed heavily on the floor, then performed a speedy duvet-to-dressing-gown manoeuvre which didn’t involve exposing his entire naked body to the elements at any one time. He opened the door, but couldn’t see her on the landing.
Sighing again, he picked up her bra and used it as a glove puppet.
‘CHLOË! ’E ’ees ’olding me ’ostage! Save me! Save me!’
‘I’m out here, you twat.’ The voice sounded hostile.
Doug went out to the landing, but it still seemed empty.
‘Ah – good one.’
‘Up here.’
Chloë, entirely nude, was crouched trembling on top of the old wardrobe that stood in the hall to contain shit he hadn’t got round to throwing out yet. Doug stared at her.
‘Hello again. Ehm, is this a sexual thing, or are you just a really fanatical duster?’
‘Is it gone?’ growled Chloë.
‘Would you like some breakfast? I’ll make you break-fast-in-wardrobe if you like.’
‘IS IT GONE?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Doug, talking Fluffy out of his dressing-gown pocket.
Chloë screamed her head off.
‘You know,’ said Doug patiently, ‘he’s only a very baby python.’
Chloë continued to scream. Doug considered the situation.
‘I don’t suppose there’s any point asking you for your phone number, is there?’
‘Eek! Eek! Eek!’
Doug left the house for work eating a slice of toast and giving bits to Fluffy.
‘Why can’t we meet a nice girl, eh, Fluff? I mean, we’re nice guys, aren’t we?’
He turned into the road.
‘Hmm. I hope she doesn’t want to use the bathroom. I forgot to mention we had your dad staying for the weekend.’
From inside the house came the sound of glass breaking.
‘Eek! Eek! Eek!’
Doug and his fat friend Spoons had set up the Solarium Aquarium with the money Spoons got when his dad was hiding it from his dodgy road-haulage business. The Solarium had been Spoons’ idea: ‘People can come in, get all their reptile needs and a suntan at the same time – and it rhymes! Brilliant, eh?’
Doug took care of the reptile end, and didn’t quite share Spoons’ vision. He personally wouldn’t mind lying down completely naked and defenceless amidst lots of writhing dangerous things, but lots of people, apparently, did. The solarium wasn’t going too well at all, although it did mean Spoons got to be bright orange at all times. This didn’t help his pulling tactics though, as being fat, snaky and bright orange isn’t actually that much more attractive than, say, just being fat and snaky. Doug, being tallish, and ruggedish, was a bit of a looker for a herpetologist, and supplied much of Spoons’ fantasy requirements.
‘Tops?’ asked Spoons avidly.
‘Yes,’ said Doug.
‘Fingers?’
‘Yup.’
‘You did it?’
‘Yes, yes, yes.’
‘And you’re miserable?’
‘Spoons, I’m a sensitive guy, OK? Maybe I’m just looking for that little bit more.’
‘What, like up the bum?’
‘I just don’t understand it. Every time I meet a nice girl she goes screaming in the opposite direction.’
‘Yeh, that happens to me too.’
‘After she’s met Fluffy. But I’m just … I just need to meet a girl who shares my interests, you know what I mean.’
‘If I met a girl who shared my interests,’ reflected Spoons gloomily, ‘we’d just wank all the time. I’d never see her.’
Suddenly, outside the shop, loud yells were heard and there came the sound of a car crashing. The shop bell tinkled. Spoons and Doug looked at each other and raised their eyebrows.
Into the shop strode a dramatically beautiful woman, all shiny black hair and slashed red lipstick. She was wearing a long, expensive and unnecessarily fiddly coat which looked designer. However, none of these things screamed attention to themselves quite as much as the eight-foot boa constrictor draped round her neck like a – ahem – boa.
‘What a beauty!’ said Doug and Spoons both at once.
‘Thank you,’ said the woman, flushing.
‘We meant the boa,’ said Spoons.
‘I know,’ said the woman.
Spoons nudged Douglas unnecessarily hard.
‘Get off with her!’ he whispered loudly.
‘Can I help you, madam?’ said Doug, gulping.
‘It’s Jumbo,’ she said. ‘We’re new in town. I’ve come to buy him everything he needs – no expense spared. Also, do you know of anywhere I could get a fake sun-tan around here?’
Doug and Spoons’ eyes grew as round as a cross-section of the rare Australian ring snake.
Her name was Maia, and she had been brought up in Indonesia. She took to the Fluffster immediately, coiling him round her little fingers like a rope trick. The Fluffster, however, didn’t take to Jumbo AT ALL and scuttled back to the safety of Doug’s inner pocket after realizing he was – at this age at least – being pretty comprehensively out-snaked.
Maia was a primary school teacher, but had had to leave her last school after an incident she didn’t seem to want to talk about too much; although now, six to eight weeks on, there were still definite signs of distension in Jumbo’s belly.
Doug was in love.
‘Would you, ahem …’
Maia had wandered out of the solarium covered only in a very slinky towel and Jumbo, which reminded Doug all too pleasantly of Nastassja Kinski. Spoons was gulping and quietly trying to stop hyperventilating in the background.
‘Yes?’ she purred.
Doug sighed. Asking girls out wasn’t normally one of his problems. It was usually about the six-hour mark that his troubles started … but this one had him floored.
‘I mean, if you’re new in town …’
It occurred to him for a second that Doncaster probably didn’t have a great deal to offer somebody this exotic. Maia, however, smiled widely.
‘Oh, could you show me around? Do you know any good chip shops?’
Behind him, Spoons made a high-pitched whining sound.
Doug wandered up on time to Harry Ramsden’s. Jumbo appeared to have a long piece of leather string coming out of his mouth attached to another woman’s hand. She looked a bit shellshocked, and Maia appeared to be giving her two hundred pounds.
‘Just two,’ she said to the shocked waiter as they swept into the restaurant. ‘Jumbo’s already eaten.’
Maia launched ahead, just as Doug noticed Chloë getting up to leave with a clutch of squealing girlfriends. She raised her eyebrows at him.
‘Playing with the big boys now, I see.’
He stopped.
‘Look, Chloë, I’m sorry about the other night …’
‘Oh, don’t worry about it at all. I’m clearly just not slimy enough for you.’
‘Snakes aren’t slime – Oh, forget it. And I am sorry.’ He’d forgotten how pretty she was. She looked like a dancer, even just pulling her coat on.
‘Well, if I ever start up a tarantula collection, I’ll ring you.’
‘Douglas! Our table’s ready!’
Chloë smiled and walked out of the restaurant, giving him an extremely wide berth.
‘Spoons, please, just stop panting like a dog. You’re steaming up the cases.’
‘I just … Oh, please tell me. Please.’
‘There’s nothing to tell. We talked a lot about snakes and the shop. Entirely, in fact, about snakes and the shop. She’s thinking about opening up a branch in Melton Mowbray.’
‘That’s brilliant! Global entrepreneurs, definitely. Er … were you feeling her up whilst you were doing it?’
‘No. To be honest, I wouldn’t have felt entirely secure vis-à-vis Jumbo and my right hand.’
‘What – you mean you didn’t score?’
‘Nope.’
Spoons slumped.
‘Fuck! Dougie, I could have taken her out and managed that.’
‘I’m just … I mean, she’s everything I’ve ever wanted – she’s bright, she’s beautiful, she loves members of the reptile family …’
‘She tans …’
‘She tans …’
‘And the problem is, exactly?’
The bell tinkled. Maia stalked in looking like a Bond girl in a tight red leather jacket, Jumbo practically caressing her left breast. She looked breathtaking.
‘Darling, which football team do you support?’
‘Ehm, Newcastle. Why?’
‘I thought so …’ Maia drew a team strip and two tickets out of her bag. ‘And here – I bought an extra sock and cut the foot off so that Fluffy can wear a strip too.’
Doug reached out his hand and held Spoons up before he fainted.
‘Where’s the office? I’ll go and put it there for you, and you can try it on when you’re not scooping out gecko poo.’
‘Ehm, uhm, it’s through the back …’
She sashayed off and vanished.
‘If I were you I’d take one of those little garter snakes over there and use it as a WEDDING RING,’ predicted Spoons.
‘I would too,’ said Mr Nebbington, who came in every day to stare at the animals in a vaguely disconcerting way for hours on end.
Fluffy popped out of Doug’s pocket. He was obviously just looking around – but it looked weirdly like he was shaking his head, that was all.
‘What’s she doing in the office?’ asked Spoons, fifteen minutes later. ‘Maybe she stripped naked and is rolling herself in butter and Smarties,’ he added thoughtfully.
‘Hmm,’ said Doug, and went through to have a look. Maia and Jumbo were hunched over what looked like a huge pile of files. He cleared his throat, and she straightened up guiltily.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Ehm … actually, I was looking for a catalogue. I, ehm, want to buy Jumbo a little cowboy hat.’
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’
She shrugged. ‘Well, he ate the beret.’
Doug looked back at the papers. ‘I’m not sure …’
‘No, definitely not – Ooh, look! My shoelace is untied!’
Before Doug had a moment to think, she stretched fully over from the waist, bending away from him. Her skirt hitched up and up …
Doug shook his head. His life didn’t usually feel much like a porn film. He had, in fact, not quite believed that woman actually ever behaved like this. But the fact was, unless she was wearing a very bizarrely patterned pair of knickers, Maia didn’t have any pants on. He wondered briefly if she’d possibly just forgotten, but his reliable trouser snake rather thought otherwise.
She turned her head up to him coquettishly from somewhere near the floor.
‘Will I get to see you tonight?’
‘Uh-huh-huh huh, ehm, rather!’
He watched a part of her beginning with ‘b’ sashay out the door. And, sadly, it wasn’t her brain.
The problem, thought Doug to himself as he put on his tie, was … could this maybe be perhaps just a little too perfect? It was like ordering a pizza and getting a five-course banquet delivered to your door, made up of all your favourite foods – say, in Doug’s case, five different types of pizza. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d done to deserve it.
‘So did you think up the solarium idea all by yourself?’
‘No, that was Spoons. He thought it would be good ‘cause it rhymed.’
‘Wow. How did he raise the internal necessary backing capital … er, I mean, you know, the cash to buy the shop and stuff?’
They were sitting in a Café Flo. The management had found them a whole private section, which seemed amazing. Well, he assumed it was the management. Certainly the room had got up and walked out en masse.
‘Wouldn’t you rather talk about something else?’ said Doug. ‘Like – I don’t know … what’s your favourite film?’
‘Anaconda,’ she said firmly. ‘Waiter, has your kitchen got rats?’
‘Of course not, madame!’
‘Shame. Anyway, back to Spoons …’
Still, she seemed keen enough to come back to his flat. And she was wearing a spray on dress, which on another woman might have looked a bit tarty, but on Maia looked – well, high-class expensive-hotel tarty.
Doug grinned at his trusty wardrobe as he made coffee. He didn’t think they’d be needing that tonight.
Sure enough, when he returned, Maia stood in his bedroom, completely naked, except for the omnipresent Jumbo. Doug nearly dropped the coffee. He wished Spoons were here – not joining in, just to see it for one second and then have to go home again. She was magnificent.
‘Do you know what really turns me on?’ she purred.
‘I would guess that would be snakes,’ said Doug.
‘No!’ She caught hold of his tie and pulled him slowly towards her. He felt unbelievably turned on, even with the knowledge that, if he so wished, Jumbo could bite off his head like a cocktail cherry.
‘Money.’
‘Money? I thought you were a primary school teacher.’
‘I want you to talk money to me, Dougie. It really turns me on.’
‘Ehm, God, I don’t know … florin?’
She pulled him closer and kissed him hard on the lips, till he thought the top of his head was going to explode.
‘Tell me … tell me how much money the shop makes.’
‘What? I don’t underst – Jesus!’
She was on her knees and had unbuttoned his trousers.
‘Tell me, Dougie …’
‘Oh God, don’t stop that.’
‘I will if you don’t –’
‘Three thousand a week give or take … oooh.’
‘Yes, yes …’
Doug had his eyes tightly shut now. His mind was being blown, amongst other things.
‘And how much of that do you pay in VAT?’
‘What!? No, no, please don’t stop.’
‘How much do you pay in VAT?’
‘Oh … my … God.’
‘How MUCH?’
‘Nothing. NOTHING! NOTHING! Ahhhhhh …’
‘A honey trap?’ said Spoons, eating a honey doughnut at the same time and seemingly unable to distinguish between the two.
‘I think you’re going to get nicked. I’m really sorry, Spoons.’
‘It’s my dad’s fault. Those bloody lorries.’ He sighed. ‘Undercover. Who would have thought the Inland Revenue would be so thorough?’
‘I know. She took us in, right enough.’
‘I mean, where the hell did they find a woman who loved snakes and suntans and chips and Newcastle United and who would fancy you as well? Must have taken them ages.’
‘No, Spoons, you see …’
The door swung open, tinging loudly. Maia and Jumbo stood there with four menacing-looking men in pinstriped suits with briefcases strapped to their wrists.
‘It’s all through the back,’ she announced. ‘Take it down.’
She faced the boys.
‘No hard feelings. It’s just business.’
They stared at her.
‘So, I mean … where did you get Jumbo?’ asked Doug.
‘His real name’s Mambo. He’s professionally undercover too. Oh and there’s …’
She nudged Jumbo/Mambo, and the snake lifted its huge flat head. There was a clicking, whirring noise.
‘… a miniature camera implanted in his head. Painless, I assure you. But extremely useful.’
Doug shook his head in disbelief.
‘Well, for what it’s worth, you really convinced us you loved that snake.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Just doing my job. Really, when I’m not working, they make me want to vomit, scream, run away and burst into tears.’
Spoons, who hadn’t been listening, nudged Doug hard.
‘Doug … does this mean you’re not going out with her any more?’
Doug clasped him on the shoulder.
‘Yes, Spoons. Yes, it does.’
‘Ehm … can I go out with her then?’
‘Spoons, she’s going to put you in prison.’
‘Yeh, but when I come out, maybe?’
‘Spoons, she’s not really who she says she is.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Spoons miserably.
‘We’ll talk about it,’ said Maia crisply. ‘Perhaps over forms lla-95c. See how co-operative we both can be.’
Spoons was beaming as she led him off into the unmarked vehicle.
‘Hello, snaky man.’ Chloë was walking down the street carrying two bags of shopping with her hair in little bunches and her summer sandals on. Doug felt his heart lurch.
‘Hello there. Ehm … you know, I’m not really involved in that line of work these days.’
‘Oh really?’ she said, putting the shopping bags down.
‘No, I kind of … gave it up. I think in future I’m going to stick to the more rectangular animals.’
She nodded. ‘What, like bears and stuff?’
‘Bears, maybe … anything with right-angles. Giraffes, stuff like that.’
‘Huh.’
They looked at each other for a bit.
‘So do you … ?’
‘Well, maybe …’
They both spoke at once, then smiled foolishly at each other.
‘Yeah, all right,’ said Chloë.
Later, walking away, Doug patted his pocket.
‘Don’t worry, Fluffster. I’m sure she’ll come round sooner or later …’
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Jessica Adams
Fiona Walker
Chris Manby
An unparalleled collection of stories by some of the best female writers commissioned specially for this collection, with royalties supporting War Child, the charity dedicated to alleviating the suffering of children affected by war.A collection of short stories from some of the biggest names in fiction: bestselling authors Jessica Adams, Fiona Walker and Chrissie Manby commissioned 31 stories which are combined here in a fabulous anthology in aid of War Child. Contributors include Candace Bushnell (Sex in the City), Jenny Colgan, Freya North, Marian Keyes, Jane Green, Lisa Jewell, Wendy Holden, Isabel Wolff, Fiona Walker, Cathy Kelly, Polly Samson, Helen Lederer and Patricia Scanlan.All royalties from the publication go to War Child.
GIRLS’ NIGHT IN
Edited by Jessica Adams, Chrissie Manby and Fiona Walker
Copyright (#ulink_80fcd171-5a2d-5a36-b318-a0182b73bbfd)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2000
Compilation © 2000 HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd For copyright details of individual stories, see here (#u76c4a686-f323-543f-8b12-8f276b084b2e)
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015
Cover illustration © Cherie Chapman
All characters and incidents in this publication are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Source ISBN: 9780006514855
Ebook Edition © MAY ISBN: 9780008132972
Version: 2015-06-02
In and Out Copyright © 2000 Freya North
Dougie, Spoons and the Aquarium Solarium Copyright © 2000 Jenny Colgan
The Power of Two Copyright © 2000 Fiona Walker
The Truth is Out There Copyright © 1999 Marian Keyes
Rudy Copyright © 2000 Lisa Jewell
A Swimmer’s Tale Copyright © 2000 Stella Duffy
Post Haste Copyright © 2000 Isabel Wolff
Cassandra Copyright © 2000 Cathy Kelly
Access All Areas Copyright © 2000 Jane Owen
The E-Male of the Species Copyright © 2000 Wendy Holden
Love on the Underground Copyright © 2000 Jessica Adams
Fairweather Friend Copyright © 2000 Patricia Scanlan
Something Different Copyright © 2000 Clare Naylor
The Itch Copyright © 2000 Polly Samson
Morro Copyright © 2000 Alecia McKenzie
Flung Copyright © 2000 Adele Parks
Pull Me in the Pullman Carriage Copyright © 2000 Helen Lederer
The Plain Truth Copyright © 2000 Claire Calman
Mr Charisma Copyright © 2000 Yasmin Boland
The Sun, the Moon and the Stars Copyright © 2000 Pauline McLynn
The Shell of Venus Copyright © 2000 Victoria Routledge
Man with a Tan Copyright © 2000 Anna Maxted
Storm Clouds Copyright © 2000 Sheila O’Flanagan
Caravan Copyright © 2000 Rosalyn Chissick
The Seven Steps from Shag to Spouse Copyright © 2000 Tiffanie Darke
Lip Service Copyright © 2000 Karen Moline
Saving Amsterdam Copyright © 2000 Chrissie Manby
A Form of Release Copyright © 2000 Daisy Waugh
Hurrah for the Hols Copyright © 2000 Helen Simpson
No Worries Copyright © 2000 Sarah Ingham
Re: The World Copyright © 2000 Amy Jenkins
Contents
Cover (#uf76a3bca-ccec-5ce3-a1ff-ccb6232d1eee)
Title Page (#u8ccb57d8-291d-5224-a2a4-169262d668d1)
Copyright (#ulink_d13dca2c-7292-5ace-be2a-733ca3840711)
Introduction Neil Morrissey (#ulink_99c24bcd-4cba-5999-bccf-926624b1613a)
In and Out Freya North (#ulink_0b8cee10-c8b8-528c-b1a6-205d29cc4c4a)
Dougie, Spoons and the Aquarium Solarium Jenny Colgan (#ulink_037af09e-2291-507d-9f57-60adc41eb54a)
The Power of Two Fiona Walker (#ulink_ab80c12d-1b35-52dd-8437-572ef1a2eb95)
The Truth is Out There Marian Keyes (#ulink_00055e04-6df9-5aaa-8460-1606110dc9aa)
Rudy Lisa Jewell (#ulink_d83b22ff-7f22-5798-be71-6864b676c65f)
A Swimmer’s Tale Stella Duffy (#ulink_c6663755-bf52-51b4-b35f-fa9653e08acd)
Post Haste Isabel Wolff (#ulink_a8399514-2cbb-54bd-a60a-d1e0520d2b1e)
Cassandra Cathy Kelly (#ulink_daa68c87-e41d-522e-b9d4-0d9523a485e6)
Access All Areas Jane Owen (#ulink_4df40156-e79e-5dc7-8109-a368d61bfac7)
The E-Male of the Species Wendy Holden (#ulink_0cfdab06-9603-5f7f-91e6-700de9654c4e)
Love on the Underground Jessica Adams (#ulink_71ed3341-c5fd-5540-9330-01019e070b00)
Fairweather Friend Patricia Scanlan (#ulink_59aa74de-e52d-5b06-8258-486f2c292bea)
Something Different Clare Naylor (#ulink_ef6a605a-207b-5a08-84d6-1d2b6c48e937)
The Itch Polly Samson (#ulink_1eff7e1a-1095-5629-8e82-730933f642da)
Morro Alecia McKenzie (#ulink_76297031-9b2c-5d74-9a39-ae7e923aa3e7)
Flung Adele Parks (#ulink_40fe63cd-fac6-5e25-9ee9-d3d2cd4da111)
Pull Me in the Pullman Carriage Helen Lederer (#ulink_f680fe1d-b948-5df2-a27b-60d9a0039c3a)
The Plain Truth Claire Calman (#ulink_e3a2acd2-e58c-51b9-9d97-12374bcb18e2)
Mr Charisma Yasmin Boland (#ulink_fe58190e-d5d0-5c9e-9861-cafee21d59fa)
The Sun, the Moon and the Stars Pauline McLynn (#ulink_c6df56b5-a30a-53b4-a065-0d2e6d478ffd)
The Shell of Venus Victoria Routledge (#ulink_b15ebea8-0a08-5c23-b395-a08e1cbedb6a)
Man with a Tan Anna Maxted (#ulink_74e9f68b-e238-5254-84d2-2b23881f50ea)
Storm Clouds Sheila O’Flanagan (#ulink_c5334bb0-be5f-553a-b093-c0498fc657c1)
Caravan Rosalyn Chissick (#ulink_4b0a17e2-5ec5-506b-a936-ec843962a077)
The Seven Steps from Shag to Spouse Tiffanie Darke (#ulink_a5afee98-2600-5260-8a6c-0d3db2e768f1)
Lip Service Karen Moline (#ulink_95fff1e2-fe63-5c95-81a0-fb56741c7029)
Saving Amsterdam Chrissie Manby (#ulink_319c1050-f2cd-5972-bd97-b752699b4538)
A Form of Release Daisy Waugh (#ulink_7986e976-9bc4-5497-8ef5-e20e89ef4b65)
Hurrah for the Hols Helen Simpson (#ulink_689055c9-622b-5a4b-a344-9f261178e234)
No Worries Sarah Ingham (#ulink_43b51d95-f9d6-524a-a998-624ce82b7df7)
Re: The World Amy Jenkins (#ulink_ea05d0b9-faa5-517e-8437-7e5ea7054e51)
Acknowledgements (#ulink_217e52e1-31da-585d-b1b0-4d11cdb5614b)
About the Publisher
Introduction (#ulink_a4d64007-485e-571b-9946-c2a368bbd0af)
It’s difficult to see what devastatingly handsome men, heart-breakingly wet tissues and the odd glass of Cava have in common with a school in Rwanda and a playground in Kosovo. But here, in this glorious book, you have it.
This book was the brainchild of writing friends Chrissie Manby, Jessica Adams and Fiona Walker. Meeting up for drinks one night, they talked about the host of young women whose unique brand of fiction currently top the book charts, and decided to bring all that talent together in one book for one terrific cause. Scribbling ideas on napkins, they were determined from the outset to create a book that raises spirits as well as funds. Within twenty-four hours, this unique collection was born.
The approaching deadline saw stories flying across the internet and writers who had previously been head to head in the book charts asking each other for advice. Of course, there were a few obligatory girls’ nights out to discuss narrative structure over a glass or two as well! With best-selling authors from the UK, Ireland, America and Australia donating their stories free of charge, the generosity and enthusiasm of all involved has been extraordinary.
One pound from every copy of Girls Night In goes towards War Child’s Safe Play Programme in the Balkans and an educational programme in Rwanda. In Kosovo, thousands of children have been left without anywhere to play, have fun, or have a normal childhood. In Rwanda most girls have no access to education. So thanks for buying this book – you’ve just helped these children, have a great night in on me.
Why War Child Are Great:
Since it was founded in 1993, War Child has alleviated the suffering of tens of thousands of children throughout the World. Providing mobile bakeries and supplying insulin to stricken warzones, the charity directs aid where it’s needed most. But they do not disappear when the guns have stopped shooting and the fires have died down. They are also instrumental in healing the psychological damage caused to children by their experiences of war.
The money raised from this book will fund two essential projects:
The Safe Play Areas Programme runs throughout the Balkans on land cleared of mines, unexploded bombs and rubble. War Child builds playgrounds where children of all ethnic backgrounds can play without fear, encouraging them to make friends and build bridges for the future.
In Rwanda, girls rarely have the opportunity to be educated into their teens – in fact as few as 8% complete primary school and are able to go on to secondary school. In partnership with Girls’ Night In, War Child will fund essential improvements to a girls’ school near Kigali, ensuring that a greater number of young girls are given the opportunities taken for granted throughout the West.
Freya North
Freya North was born in London but lives in rural Hertfordshire with her family, where she writes from a stable in her back garden. A passionate reader since childhood, Freya was originally inspired by Mary Wesley, Rose Tremain and Barbara Trapido: fiction with strong female leads and original, sometimes eccentric, characters.
In 2012 she set up the Hertford Children’s Book Festival, which she continues to run. She is an ambassador for the charity Beating Bowel Cancer and a judge for the CPRE Rural Living Awards. Her 14 bestselling novels have been translated into many languages and published around the world.
In and Out (#ulink_c619a976-72ea-517b-8bfe-332f51c581d2)
Freya North (#ulink_c619a976-72ea-517b-8bfe-332f51c581d2)
‘Lady – is your nose itching?’
Finty McKenzie took the palm of her hand from the tip of her nose, where it had been doing all manner of pressing, rotating and jiggling, and looked up. Locating the owner of the husky mid-Atlantic drawl, he who had posed the question, she alighted on an elderly man, clad in plaid.
‘You got an itchy nose, huh?’ he pressed, not waiting for an answer. ‘Honey! Doncha know? You’re gonna kiss a fool!’
The exclamation mark soared instantly from floor to ceiling of the plush hotel bar, but it was the word ‘fool’ which reverberated; the ‘f’ having been expelled from teeth and lips like a bad taste, the ‘1’ lingering on a very spiked tongue tip. The aged American chuckled extravagantly (because he knew what he was talking about), Finty whooped with sudden laughter (because she hadn’t a clue what he was talking about), but Brett, the man sitting next to her, he who had been bedding her these past three months, gave no hint of reaction.
To prove a point, but not quite sure what, or to whom, Finty affectionately kissed Brett in front of the American. This served to make the man guffaw so heartily that a fit of coughing befell him and expedited his exit from the bar.
‘What a character!’ Finty laughed.
‘Shoot me when I get like that,’ Brett said measuredly. Immediately, Finty experienced a quite violent reaction which she had come to term ‘a moment’. She’d never had one until she’d met Brett. Every so often, something he would say or do would, for a moment, alarm her so severely that it would course through her blood like acid. The searing horror came as much from self-disgust that she could be with such a man, as from his crime itself. However. Here she still is. These were but moments. And she wasn’t sure from where they originated. Head or heart. And which should rule which? These were but moments. Wasn’t she just looking for things to throw at the relationship? She’d scold herself for sabotaging something that might well be very good indeed. More tolerance, that’s what’s needed. But from him or her? She had justified the thinly veiled racist comment he had once made as but a momentary aberration. And he’d only been joking, of course, when he’d asked her to make his bed the morning after they’d first slept together there. And he had a migraine that night he left her stranded in Soho in the early hours. It had been OK. She’d found a cab almost immediately, just a street or three away. And Brett had phoned the next day to explain that he suffered from migraines. That they made him do strange things. Like leave people in the centre of the city at an unseemly hour. Of course, of course. All forgiven.
‘Brett gives me a fucking migraine,’ Sally said, peering into the oven and wondering if it was the slightly grimy door that made the Marks & Spencer luxury cheese puffs look golden or if they were indeed ready. ‘How long?’
‘Three months, must be,’ said Chloë distractedly, rocking against the radiator as if forgetting how hot it was each time her bottom met it.
Sally stared at her. ‘The cheese puffs,’ she said with theatrical kindness, raising an eyebrow at Polly and fixing Chloë with a look of exaggerated pity.
‘Oh, them,’ said Chloë in a bid to patronize Sally for ranking cheese puffs higher in the grand scheme of things than Finty and Brett, ‘almost eight minutes.’
‘But they look ready,’ Sally protested, saliva shooting around her jaw and her stomach reminding her that crisps and a pot of coleslaw at lunch had not hit the spot.
‘You leave them be for another four minutes,’ Polly warned, brandishing the empty carton for emphasis and opening a bag of hand-cooked vegetable crisps in a futile bid to lure Sally away from the oven. ‘Here. And wine while you wait. It’s my bloody oven.’
It was Polly’s turn to host the Gathering. Though, as hostess, her responsibilities were minimal apart from ensuring that ready-made luxuries were in the oven, that the corkscrew was foolproof and that any live-in lovers had been banished. The Gathering was a monthly institution, founded instinctively three years ago when all four girls found themselves dumped and depressed and desperate to do voodoo. They had convened with a need to exhaust their repertory of expletives, to drink much vodka and perform a cleansing ritual Chloë had read about which entailed the burning of a bunch of sage and much chanting. The swearing and the smoke from the sage gave them giggles, they soon found themselves quite drunk on spirits bottled and natural, and their sense of personal justice and order in the world was restored. Where their hearts had hurt at the beginning of the evening, now their sides ached from laughter. They decreed that such a restorative tonic should not be restricted to times of crisis but should become a mainstay of every month. Raucous in Richmond at Polly’s place or dancing in Dean Street until the proprietor told them to leave; chilling out at Chloë’s or conversing animatedly at a Conran restaurant; a few sniffs rapidly devolving into mass sobbing at a chick-flick at the Leicester Square Odeon, or getting stoned and saying not a lot at Sally’s. Wherever they were, their sense of togetherness could make a month make sense. In or out, they’d shake it all about, kiss each other liberally at home time and look forward immensely to the next gathering.
‘I think I’m planning my life, and doing the things I’m doing, safe in the knowledge that I can always Workshop-Through-It at our Gathering,’ Polly had once said, to much nodding all round. Which was why Finty’s absence was so unfathomable. Rather insulting. Just a little worrying, too.
‘Don’t like,’ said Chloë, wrinkling her nose.
‘I’ll have yours, then,’ said Sally, fanning her mouth and eyeing Chloë’s cheesy puff.
‘Brett,’ Chloë said. ‘Don’t like him.’
‘You’ve only met him once,’ Polly protested.
‘As have you,’ said Chloë, ‘and did you like him?’
Polly gave Chloë a swift smile of defeat. ‘No.’
‘Ditto,’ said Sally who’d burnt the roof of her mouth but couldn’t possibly admit to it and therefore took another cheesy puff. ‘I don’t like what he’s doing to her.’
‘Do you mean that he’s taking her away from us?’ Polly, who feared this to be the case, asked.
‘No,’ Sally said, ‘not that. More, I feel that he’s detrimental to her self-confidence; which is why she jumps to his beck and call.’
‘Forsaking us for him,’ said Polly.
‘Yes,’ Sally clarified, ‘but I can’t believe it’s because she deems him preferable, nor that she’s taking advantage of us.’
‘I think he’s a harmless creep,’ said Chloë, ‘way way out of Finty’s league. I think she’ll figure that out soon enough. When the novelty of new sex abates.’
The three women fell silent.
‘However, I, for one, cannot believe that sex with him can make up for his questionable personality,’ Chloë continued, ‘nor for it taking precedence over the Gathering.’
The three women fell silent.
Was their concern for their friend’s welfare with this man? Or that they rued the fact that their hitherto sacred coven might be fallible? An era ending? If they conceded that this was the case, weren’t they investing a harmless creep with more power than they felt he warranted?
‘My point is,’ Sally said, using her hands for emphasis to prevent herself from succumbing to a fourth cheesy puff, ‘Finty should be here, not there. I think it’s indicative of a floundering relationship that she isn’t. It’s only one night a month. She has a duty. I mean, when have any of us ever rejected a Gathering?’
‘You did, you old tart!’ Polly cajoled. ‘When you first started seeing Richard. When he was going to seduce you with his culinary skills.’
‘Yes,’ Sally said patiently, ‘but he did. And then I married the man.’ She peered into Polly’s fridge and brought out reduced fat guacamole and humous. ‘See me now – banning husband from home on a monthly basis – grounds for divorce, surely! Mind you, if he ever objected – well, grounds for divorce, surely.’
‘Oh God!’ Chloë exclaimed. ‘Please don’t let Finty marry Brett!’
The girls made noises and gesticulations of a mass vomiting session and then giggled guiltily. Perhaps Finty really was in love with the man. Perhaps he was a really lovely chap who wasn’t very confident in company. Or merely had an awkward manner, rather than no manners at all, which is what they all suspected. Perhaps he was to be on the scene for months, even years. He would remain great gossip fodder – as long as Finty remained oblivious to the fact. Suddenly, along with the vegetable crisps and rather luminous guacamole, the three women also passed around a smile steeped in slight suspicion and discomfort. It occurred to them that perhaps their own partners had been the subjects of such unfavourable scrutiny. Maybe still were. No. Surely not. Richard was such great company. William was sensitive. Max always had them laughing. And the fundamental difference was that these three men were openly at ease with their respective partners and her friends. Whereas Brett had stiffened when Finty had kissed him in front of them and he’d squirmed when Sally had burped, when Polly had sworn, when Chloë had touched his knee in a bid to extend welcome, to establish familiarity.
‘Where was he taking her anyway?’ Chloë asked, uncorking a bottle of Semillon and giving Polly the thumbs up at the bumper bag of oven chips held aloft for their approval. ‘Where have they gone that could possibly be preferable to oven chips, low fat dips and our delectable company?’ She burped under her breath, as demurely as she could. Sally responded with one that made the rafters tremble.
Peanuts. Finty detested peanuts. She hated the taste and she couldn’t abide the smell. And now Brett reeked of peanuts. But more loathsome than this was what he was doing to them. He was snatching little handfuls by contorting his fingers over the bowl like the hands of an Action Man doll. He was then bouncing his clutch up and down in his palm as if panning for gold, before pushing his whole hand against his mouth. His trousers. He was wiping his fingers over his trousers, leaving salt there, before doing Action Man Hands and reaching for the bowl again.
This is nuts. This is crazy. I want Marks & Spencer finger-food.
‘How about sashimi?’ Brett suggested. ‘There’s a place near here. We use it for business lunches. They know me.’ For Finty, who’d never ordered anything medium rare in her life, let alone raw, the thought of it turned her stomach at a slightly faster rotation than the peanuts. ‘Stop rubbing your nose,’ Brett said, irritation in his voice manifest in the way he swirled the ice around his glass. ‘Go and blow it, for God’s sake.’
Ladies Toilets. Haven. Peace and camaraderie. Hair products and perfume and mints laid out by the basins. An attendant handing out paper towels and a part-of-the-job smile behind sad (part of the job) eyes. Finty locks herself in a cubicle and sits there awhile. Her nose itches but there’s nothing to blow. She pulls the chain though there is nothing to flush. She washes her hands automatically and checks her reflection. If there’s sadness behind the toilet-attendant’s eyes, Finty’s gaze is underscored with a flatness. It shouldn’t be so. She should be having a wonderful time. She’s on a date. Being wined and dined. Whined at and to dine on foodstuffs she doesn’t like. But there’ll be sex too. That’s to look forward to. Though she’ll close her eyes and conjure Brad Pitt.
‘Gorgeous skirt!’ marvels a stranger.
‘Thanks!’ Finty replies, all smiles.
‘Nice bloke too,’ says the stranger’s friend, ‘but doesn’t he like his peanuts!’
‘Yeah!’ says Finty, wondering why she’s lacing her voice with a hasty approximation of affection, or possessiveness; and suddenly craving her own girlfriends desperately.
Must call them. Just to say hullo.
The entrance to the bar is the foyer of the hotel and, though Finty has both battery and strong signal on her mobile phone, she eschews privacy, opting for the payphone.
‘Hullo?’ Polly answers, with a voice suggesting outrage that there is such an intrusion on a night when she’s gathered her soul mates around her.
‘Hey!’ says Finty with commendable bounce.
‘Finty!’ Polly shrieks and suddenly the phone has been given to Sally, then Chloë, before all three attempt to listen and chat en masse. Finty says something about peanuts and her nose and an old man clad in plaid. But the girls are too eager to tell her that she should be there with them, on the third bottle of wine, now called vino-darling, with her stomach full of fancy morsels.
‘I’d better go,’ says Finty all breezy, ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Have fun.’
‘We are!’ they sing. ‘We are!’
Finty replaced the receiver and rested her head against the side of the booth momentarily before quite literally pulling herself together.
‘Young lady!’ It was the elderly American gentleman. ‘Your nose still itching?’ Finty smiled and shook her head. ‘So you wised up and dumped the guy?’ Finty smiled and shook her head. ‘Steak!’ The man proclaimed, ‘I’m going out to get me a steak. Aberdeen. Angus. Horse. I got to have steak – why don’t you join me?’ Finty smiled and shook her head. ‘More nutritious than peanuts,’ he said. Giving Finty a shrug and a wink, he had the doorman summon a taxi. Comforted that he knew about the peanuts, Finty returned to the bar.
‘It’s half-eight and she’s phoned,’ Chloë assesses.
‘Wonder why?’ Sally contemplates.
‘Hmm,’ Polly ponders, offering more wine and oven chips.
‘Any ketchup?’ Sally asks. Polly shakes her head and begs forgiveness.
‘Did Finty say where she was?’ Chloë asks. Polly shakes her head. The three of them had forgotten to ask. Unforgivable.
On approaching Brett, who was very obviously cleaning his teeth with his tongue, Finty was pleased to see the peanut bowl had gone. But it was returned, replenished, just as soon as she sat down. Brett winked at the waitress. And then he winked at his girlfriend. His Action Man hand reached for the peanuts. Finty diverted her gaze for fear of hitting him and scanned the bar with a half-smile fixed to her face. She tuned in to the sounds surrounding her. Animated chatter. Music. Bursts of laughter. Clink and clank of glasses and china and ice. Brett munching peanuts, rubbing his salty fingers on his trouser legs. Her involuntary sigh was loud, but the silence between Brett and her was louder. Sally, Chloë and Polly had each, at some point, marvelled to Finty how wonderful silence between partners could be. Chloë had termed it ‘the ultimate in communication’. Polly had defined it ‘proof of compatibility’. Sally had proclaimed it ‘a seal of safety’. For Finty, it was as uncomfortable as the fake smile she was forcing upon her lips.
It’s not even a loaded silence – of things left unsaid, or wounds being licked or issues being brooded over, Finty realized, it’s the result of there being very little to say. Soon enough he’ll say, ‘Another drink? Shall we eat?’ and after that, sex and sleep.
‘Another drink?’ asked Brett, ‘or shall we go and eat?’
‘What’s your favourite colour?’ Finty asked him, turning her body towards him, making an effort and really wanting to know.
‘What?’ Brett replied, because he really didn’t understand the question. He frowned at Finty and winked at the waitress who sauntered over with notepad and attitude.
‘Film!’ Finty tried. ‘What’s your favourite film?’
‘Another G and T?’ Brett asked her, now perplexed to the point of irritation.
‘Never heard of that one!’ Finty said lightly, nodding at the waitress to affirm her drink.
‘I’m going to the bog,’ Brett said with fatigue, as if to suggest it was a place far preferable to Finty’s company and Top Ten questionnaire.
‘Desert Island Discs?’ she implored in vain as he rose and left.
What are mine this week? She pondered, enjoying how impossible it was to select only eight pieces of music. And then it struck her that she would really rather be on a desert island with no music at all than with Brett, even if he placed the world’s jukebox at her disposal. She glanced around the room. A couple, much her own age, sat locked in each other’s company; no limbs touching, just engrossed, obviously stimulated, undoubtedly in love. Near to them, a group of four women. A gathering, a girls’ night out – replete with the essential alternation between whispering, giggling and shrieking ‘No! Oh my God!’ Their conversation was shared naturally, their laughter and interaction unforced and obviously highly cherished. Finty didn’t want to be on a desert island; she didn’t want to be in the West End. She wanted, desperately, to be in Richmond. The waitress arrived with the replenished drinks. Finty glanced at her watch. It was gone half nine.
‘Do you think we could have some more peanuts?’ Finty asked. ‘A large bowl?’
‘No!’ PoUy laughed.
‘Oh my God!’ Sally shrieked, hiding behind her hands.
‘Oh yes indeed!’ Chloë confirmed. ‘And I’ll tell you something for free, it was weird at first – but bloody amazing before long.’
‘You old slapper!’ Polly said, clapping.
‘Sexual deviant, more like!’ Sally laughed.
‘I’m a bit pissed I think,’ said Chloë, theatrically forlorn.
‘You’d have to have been,’ Polly snorted, ‘to have done that!’
‘Better have some more vino-darling,’ Sally said, all doctor-like. ‘Here’s to you, you dirty, dirty girl!’ The three women raised their glasses and drank.
There was signal and battery on Finty’s mobile phone but again she went to the payphone in the foyer.
‘Lady! Let me guess, you’re calling for the rescue services!’ the now familiar American voice called softly to her as she was about to drop coins in the slot. Finty turned and regarded him quizzically. ‘Hey! You could have the fire brigade drench him with water, the police lock him up, or an ambulance take him away to a very special hospital.’
‘Look,’ Finty remonstrated, though it was against her better judgement, ‘he’s my boyfriend. You’re offending me.’
‘No,’ said the man, ‘I’m not offending you. Unnerving you, maybe. Offending you – no. I just had a terrible steak. I left most of it and, for some goddamn reason, a large tip too. I’m going to my room. Come use the phone from there.’
Finty didn’t think twice about following him into the elevator. But she did think of Brett. Fleetingly. And then she remembered the peanuts and the waitresses to whom he could wink, and she knew he’d be OK. For the meantime, at least.
‘I’m Finty,’ she introduced herself before disembarking the lift on the sixth floor.
‘And I’m George,’ the American said. They shook hands and he led the way to his room.
Rooms. The American had a suite.
‘Are you drunk?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Finty rued.
‘Hungry?’
‘No.’
‘Want to make that call?’
‘Please.’
‘Would you like a gin and tonic? And some room service?’
‘Yes please.’
‘Dial 9 for an outside line.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Hullo?’ Polly answers the phone. Finty can hear singing in the background. She knows it is Chloë doing her Gloria Gaynor. She can almost see Sally collapsed in a fit of giggles on the couch. She can envisage Polly sitting cross-legged on the floor with the telephone crooked under her chin while she rolls a joint.
‘It’s me again.’
‘Finty!’ Polly trills. Suddenly, the other two join her in a wonderful, if dissonant, chorus of ‘Finty McKenzie! Finty McKenzie!’ The volume is such that Finty holds the receiver away from her ear and the cacophony wafts into the room much to the delight of George.
‘Are you having a lovely time with Brat?’ Polly asks while Chloë in the background hisses, ‘Brett! It’s Brett.’
‘I’m not with him any more,’ Finty says. ‘I’m with George, in his hotel room.’
There is silence. She hears Polly repeat her last sentence verbatim, but with dramatic full stops between each word, to the other two.
‘Who the fuck is George?’ she can hear Sally gasp.
‘Where the fuck is the hotel?’ she can hear Chloë implore.
‘Are you OK?’ Polly says, suddenly sounding sober.
‘Ish,’ says Finty. ‘Can you come and get me?’
Sally, Polly and Chloë stare at each other. They are in Richmond. Not so much drunk as utterly sozzled and somewhat stoned to boot. They have a friend in need holed up in a hotel room with a man called George and a boyfriend called Brett in the bar beneath. The information is too much to digest, let alone act upon.
‘Finty,’ says Polly.
‘George,’ says Sally.
‘We need a cab,’ says Chloë.
Finty replaced the receiver and became engrossed immediately in the chintz of the curtains because it seemed like a safe place to be; lost in the swirls and details of something other than her own life. She was vaguely aware of someone unfolding her clenched fist and placing a glass in her hand, a plate on her knee; of someone stroking her hair and patting her shoulder. When the hand was removed, her shoulder felt chill and so she reached for the hand and placed it back there. She hadn’t the energy to swallow down the lump in her throat, or the wherewithal to prevent a large fat tear glazing and stinging her eye before oozing itself out to splat against the glass in her hand. The noise brought her back to the present.
‘Spoiled,’ she said quietly.
‘Hey,’ said an American voice soothingly.
‘But I have,’ she shrugged, as if it was a fait accompli. ‘I’ve spoiled his evening, your evening, their evening. And my own.’
‘Horse shit!’ George protested. ‘And bullshit!’
‘But the Gathering,’ Finty stressed, ‘it’s sacred. I turned it down for a man with a penchant for peanuts and the ability to make my nose itch.’
‘Well, hon,’ George said after a thoughtful slurp at his glass, ‘I guess you won’t be doing that again.’
‘A Man Called George!’ Sally proclaimed to the concierge, giving the counter an authoritative tap. ‘Please.’
The concierge bestowed upon her a look of great distaste, followed by a withering glance at Polly and Chloë who were sniggering behind the faux fig tree in the foyer.
‘George Who?’
‘He’s expecting us,’ said Sally, refusing to drop eye contact.
‘He’s American,’ Chloë added helpfully.
‘And he’s wearing plaid,’ Polly announced as some kind of open-sesame password.
‘Hi, I’m George,’ says George, ‘and she’s in there.’
‘Hullo, George,’ Sally says, eyes agoggle at his unexpectedly advanced years.
‘Hullo, George,’ says Chloë, eyes agoggle at the extent of his plaid-clad attire.
‘Hullo, George,’ says Polly, eyes agoggle at the opulence of his suite.
‘Hi, ladies,’ says George, ‘she’s in there. She’s expecting you.’
‘Finty!’ the girls cry with love and sympathy, rushing to embrace their friend.
‘Finty!’ they marvel, looking around and spying two bottles of unopened champagne on ice and platters boasting crustless sandwiches and miniature pastries.
‘Girls’ Night In,’ Finty says, very matter-of-fact. ‘George says we should gather here.’
They all look at George. He reminds Sally of her late grandfather. Polly thinks he must be a fairy godfather and then she thinks she must have had one joint too many. Chloë wonders fleetingly what on earth they are doing here in the sumptuous suite of a kindly stranger at gone 10 p.m. Finty wonders where on earth to start.
‘It all began when my nose started to itch,’ she tells Sally, Chloë and Polly who are gathered about her, wide-eyed and jaws dropped as if teacher is about to tell a story.
‘Champagne?’ George suggests, dimming the lights, opening a bottle and pouring four glasses.
‘Aren’t you joining us?’ Sally asks.
George looks rather taken aback, and clasps his hand to his heart for emphasis. ‘God no! It’s a Gathering. Out of bounds. Girls only. Anyway, I have business to attend to.’
And he leaves. He leaves them in one of the rooms of his suite, furnished with champagne and sandwiches. And pastries. And warmth. He leaves the girls, who are now giggling, wrapped around each other on a capacious settee. He has work to do.
The bar is still full and Brett is exactly where George last saw him and where Finty left him over an hour ago. Not that he seems to have realized. His winks at the waitress have provided fast-track service for his gin and tonic to have been frequently replenished. He’s thought only fleetingly of Finty because, in the three months they’ve been together, he’s only ever thought fleetingly of Finty anyway.
‘Peanut?’ George asks.
‘Why not,’ Brett responds.
‘Some advice?’ George asks.
‘Why not,’ Brett responds.
‘Don’t date women with itchy noses,’ George says, with a slap to Brett’s shoulder blades, ‘they’re not your type.’
Jenny Colgan
Jenny Colgan is the author of numerous bestselling novels – Little Beach Street Bakery and the Top 5 bestseller, Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop of Dreams, which won the RNA Romantic Comedy Novel Award 2013. Meet Me at the Cupcake Café was also a Sunday Times Top 10 bestseller, and won the Melissa Nathan Award for Comedy Romance 2012.
Dougie, Spoons and the Aquarium Solarium (#ulink_aae2e0b4-19ad-51df-9d36-32c6bff042ca)
Jenny Colgan (#ulink_aae2e0b4-19ad-51df-9d36-32c6bff042ca)
Doug’s toes popped into life like little exclamation marks hanging over the end of the bed, and he rubbed his sticky eyes and tried not to catch the gunk in his stubble. He let out a groan as last night crept back into his head. How had it ended again? Not well. He spooled it through his mind. OK. He met a pretty girl in a nightclub, they’d danced, grinning foolishly at each other because it was too loud to talk, they’d come back here, they’d drunk whisky, they’d skirted the whole snogging issue by talking drivel about his record collection for hours, then he’d finally managed to snog her. That much he was sure of. More than snogged her? He turned his head, and his face crinkled at an opened condom packet. Huh. He had definitely more than snogged her. So why the sense of utter foreboding?
She – Chloë, that was her name – was a dental assistant, which sounded revolting to him, but he’d liked her, definitely liked her – absolutely – wasn’t sweetly asleep and facing him on the pillow … Just in case he’d gone blind, he stuck out his hand and patted all around the bed and under the mattress. Nope. She was a thin girl, but not Flat Stanley.
Tentatively he sat up and stared round his twelve-by-twelve room. The cupboard was a possibility, but an unlikely one. It struck him what was wrong. She was gone, but her clothes were strewn all over the floor. Therefore, unless she was flapping along a mile away in an enormously long shirt and clown shoes, it meant that, well, it had happened again …
‘CHLOË?’ he shouted, hoping vainly that he might be able to do this without having to get out of bed and touch the icy floor. This didn’t feel like summer at all, as per bloody Doncaster usual.
‘CHLOË?’ There was no response. Sighing, he pulled the duvet round himself and landed heavily on the floor, then performed a speedy duvet-to-dressing-gown manoeuvre which didn’t involve exposing his entire naked body to the elements at any one time. He opened the door, but couldn’t see her on the landing.
Sighing again, he picked up her bra and used it as a glove puppet.
‘CHLOË! ’E ’ees ’olding me ’ostage! Save me! Save me!’
‘I’m out here, you twat.’ The voice sounded hostile.
Doug went out to the landing, but it still seemed empty.
‘Ah – good one.’
‘Up here.’
Chloë, entirely nude, was crouched trembling on top of the old wardrobe that stood in the hall to contain shit he hadn’t got round to throwing out yet. Doug stared at her.
‘Hello again. Ehm, is this a sexual thing, or are you just a really fanatical duster?’
‘Is it gone?’ growled Chloë.
‘Would you like some breakfast? I’ll make you break-fast-in-wardrobe if you like.’
‘IS IT GONE?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Doug, talking Fluffy out of his dressing-gown pocket.
Chloë screamed her head off.
‘You know,’ said Doug patiently, ‘he’s only a very baby python.’
Chloë continued to scream. Doug considered the situation.
‘I don’t suppose there’s any point asking you for your phone number, is there?’
‘Eek! Eek! Eek!’
Doug left the house for work eating a slice of toast and giving bits to Fluffy.
‘Why can’t we meet a nice girl, eh, Fluff? I mean, we’re nice guys, aren’t we?’
He turned into the road.
‘Hmm. I hope she doesn’t want to use the bathroom. I forgot to mention we had your dad staying for the weekend.’
From inside the house came the sound of glass breaking.
‘Eek! Eek! Eek!’
Doug and his fat friend Spoons had set up the Solarium Aquarium with the money Spoons got when his dad was hiding it from his dodgy road-haulage business. The Solarium had been Spoons’ idea: ‘People can come in, get all their reptile needs and a suntan at the same time – and it rhymes! Brilliant, eh?’
Doug took care of the reptile end, and didn’t quite share Spoons’ vision. He personally wouldn’t mind lying down completely naked and defenceless amidst lots of writhing dangerous things, but lots of people, apparently, did. The solarium wasn’t going too well at all, although it did mean Spoons got to be bright orange at all times. This didn’t help his pulling tactics though, as being fat, snaky and bright orange isn’t actually that much more attractive than, say, just being fat and snaky. Doug, being tallish, and ruggedish, was a bit of a looker for a herpetologist, and supplied much of Spoons’ fantasy requirements.
‘Tops?’ asked Spoons avidly.
‘Yes,’ said Doug.
‘Fingers?’
‘Yup.’
‘You did it?’
‘Yes, yes, yes.’
‘And you’re miserable?’
‘Spoons, I’m a sensitive guy, OK? Maybe I’m just looking for that little bit more.’
‘What, like up the bum?’
‘I just don’t understand it. Every time I meet a nice girl she goes screaming in the opposite direction.’
‘Yeh, that happens to me too.’
‘After she’s met Fluffy. But I’m just … I just need to meet a girl who shares my interests, you know what I mean.’
‘If I met a girl who shared my interests,’ reflected Spoons gloomily, ‘we’d just wank all the time. I’d never see her.’
Suddenly, outside the shop, loud yells were heard and there came the sound of a car crashing. The shop bell tinkled. Spoons and Doug looked at each other and raised their eyebrows.
Into the shop strode a dramatically beautiful woman, all shiny black hair and slashed red lipstick. She was wearing a long, expensive and unnecessarily fiddly coat which looked designer. However, none of these things screamed attention to themselves quite as much as the eight-foot boa constrictor draped round her neck like a – ahem – boa.
‘What a beauty!’ said Doug and Spoons both at once.
‘Thank you,’ said the woman, flushing.
‘We meant the boa,’ said Spoons.
‘I know,’ said the woman.
Spoons nudged Douglas unnecessarily hard.
‘Get off with her!’ he whispered loudly.
‘Can I help you, madam?’ said Doug, gulping.
‘It’s Jumbo,’ she said. ‘We’re new in town. I’ve come to buy him everything he needs – no expense spared. Also, do you know of anywhere I could get a fake sun-tan around here?’
Doug and Spoons’ eyes grew as round as a cross-section of the rare Australian ring snake.
Her name was Maia, and she had been brought up in Indonesia. She took to the Fluffster immediately, coiling him round her little fingers like a rope trick. The Fluffster, however, didn’t take to Jumbo AT ALL and scuttled back to the safety of Doug’s inner pocket after realizing he was – at this age at least – being pretty comprehensively out-snaked.
Maia was a primary school teacher, but had had to leave her last school after an incident she didn’t seem to want to talk about too much; although now, six to eight weeks on, there were still definite signs of distension in Jumbo’s belly.
Doug was in love.
‘Would you, ahem …’
Maia had wandered out of the solarium covered only in a very slinky towel and Jumbo, which reminded Doug all too pleasantly of Nastassja Kinski. Spoons was gulping and quietly trying to stop hyperventilating in the background.
‘Yes?’ she purred.
Doug sighed. Asking girls out wasn’t normally one of his problems. It was usually about the six-hour mark that his troubles started … but this one had him floored.
‘I mean, if you’re new in town …’
It occurred to him for a second that Doncaster probably didn’t have a great deal to offer somebody this exotic. Maia, however, smiled widely.
‘Oh, could you show me around? Do you know any good chip shops?’
Behind him, Spoons made a high-pitched whining sound.
Doug wandered up on time to Harry Ramsden’s. Jumbo appeared to have a long piece of leather string coming out of his mouth attached to another woman’s hand. She looked a bit shellshocked, and Maia appeared to be giving her two hundred pounds.
‘Just two,’ she said to the shocked waiter as they swept into the restaurant. ‘Jumbo’s already eaten.’
Maia launched ahead, just as Doug noticed Chloë getting up to leave with a clutch of squealing girlfriends. She raised her eyebrows at him.
‘Playing with the big boys now, I see.’
He stopped.
‘Look, Chloë, I’m sorry about the other night …’
‘Oh, don’t worry about it at all. I’m clearly just not slimy enough for you.’
‘Snakes aren’t slime – Oh, forget it. And I am sorry.’ He’d forgotten how pretty she was. She looked like a dancer, even just pulling her coat on.
‘Well, if I ever start up a tarantula collection, I’ll ring you.’
‘Douglas! Our table’s ready!’
Chloë smiled and walked out of the restaurant, giving him an extremely wide berth.
‘Spoons, please, just stop panting like a dog. You’re steaming up the cases.’
‘I just … Oh, please tell me. Please.’
‘There’s nothing to tell. We talked a lot about snakes and the shop. Entirely, in fact, about snakes and the shop. She’s thinking about opening up a branch in Melton Mowbray.’
‘That’s brilliant! Global entrepreneurs, definitely. Er … were you feeling her up whilst you were doing it?’
‘No. To be honest, I wouldn’t have felt entirely secure vis-à-vis Jumbo and my right hand.’
‘What – you mean you didn’t score?’
‘Nope.’
Spoons slumped.
‘Fuck! Dougie, I could have taken her out and managed that.’
‘I’m just … I mean, she’s everything I’ve ever wanted – she’s bright, she’s beautiful, she loves members of the reptile family …’
‘She tans …’
‘She tans …’
‘And the problem is, exactly?’
The bell tinkled. Maia stalked in looking like a Bond girl in a tight red leather jacket, Jumbo practically caressing her left breast. She looked breathtaking.
‘Darling, which football team do you support?’
‘Ehm, Newcastle. Why?’
‘I thought so …’ Maia drew a team strip and two tickets out of her bag. ‘And here – I bought an extra sock and cut the foot off so that Fluffy can wear a strip too.’
Doug reached out his hand and held Spoons up before he fainted.
‘Where’s the office? I’ll go and put it there for you, and you can try it on when you’re not scooping out gecko poo.’
‘Ehm, uhm, it’s through the back …’
She sashayed off and vanished.
‘If I were you I’d take one of those little garter snakes over there and use it as a WEDDING RING,’ predicted Spoons.
‘I would too,’ said Mr Nebbington, who came in every day to stare at the animals in a vaguely disconcerting way for hours on end.
Fluffy popped out of Doug’s pocket. He was obviously just looking around – but it looked weirdly like he was shaking his head, that was all.
‘What’s she doing in the office?’ asked Spoons, fifteen minutes later. ‘Maybe she stripped naked and is rolling herself in butter and Smarties,’ he added thoughtfully.
‘Hmm,’ said Doug, and went through to have a look. Maia and Jumbo were hunched over what looked like a huge pile of files. He cleared his throat, and she straightened up guiltily.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Ehm … actually, I was looking for a catalogue. I, ehm, want to buy Jumbo a little cowboy hat.’
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’
She shrugged. ‘Well, he ate the beret.’
Doug looked back at the papers. ‘I’m not sure …’
‘No, definitely not – Ooh, look! My shoelace is untied!’
Before Doug had a moment to think, she stretched fully over from the waist, bending away from him. Her skirt hitched up and up …
Doug shook his head. His life didn’t usually feel much like a porn film. He had, in fact, not quite believed that woman actually ever behaved like this. But the fact was, unless she was wearing a very bizarrely patterned pair of knickers, Maia didn’t have any pants on. He wondered briefly if she’d possibly just forgotten, but his reliable trouser snake rather thought otherwise.
She turned her head up to him coquettishly from somewhere near the floor.
‘Will I get to see you tonight?’
‘Uh-huh-huh huh, ehm, rather!’
He watched a part of her beginning with ‘b’ sashay out the door. And, sadly, it wasn’t her brain.
The problem, thought Doug to himself as he put on his tie, was … could this maybe be perhaps just a little too perfect? It was like ordering a pizza and getting a five-course banquet delivered to your door, made up of all your favourite foods – say, in Doug’s case, five different types of pizza. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d done to deserve it.
‘So did you think up the solarium idea all by yourself?’
‘No, that was Spoons. He thought it would be good ‘cause it rhymed.’
‘Wow. How did he raise the internal necessary backing capital … er, I mean, you know, the cash to buy the shop and stuff?’
They were sitting in a Café Flo. The management had found them a whole private section, which seemed amazing. Well, he assumed it was the management. Certainly the room had got up and walked out en masse.
‘Wouldn’t you rather talk about something else?’ said Doug. ‘Like – I don’t know … what’s your favourite film?’
‘Anaconda,’ she said firmly. ‘Waiter, has your kitchen got rats?’
‘Of course not, madame!’
‘Shame. Anyway, back to Spoons …’
Still, she seemed keen enough to come back to his flat. And she was wearing a spray on dress, which on another woman might have looked a bit tarty, but on Maia looked – well, high-class expensive-hotel tarty.
Doug grinned at his trusty wardrobe as he made coffee. He didn’t think they’d be needing that tonight.
Sure enough, when he returned, Maia stood in his bedroom, completely naked, except for the omnipresent Jumbo. Doug nearly dropped the coffee. He wished Spoons were here – not joining in, just to see it for one second and then have to go home again. She was magnificent.
‘Do you know what really turns me on?’ she purred.
‘I would guess that would be snakes,’ said Doug.
‘No!’ She caught hold of his tie and pulled him slowly towards her. He felt unbelievably turned on, even with the knowledge that, if he so wished, Jumbo could bite off his head like a cocktail cherry.
‘Money.’
‘Money? I thought you were a primary school teacher.’
‘I want you to talk money to me, Dougie. It really turns me on.’
‘Ehm, God, I don’t know … florin?’
She pulled him closer and kissed him hard on the lips, till he thought the top of his head was going to explode.
‘Tell me … tell me how much money the shop makes.’
‘What? I don’t underst – Jesus!’
She was on her knees and had unbuttoned his trousers.
‘Tell me, Dougie …’
‘Oh God, don’t stop that.’
‘I will if you don’t –’
‘Three thousand a week give or take … oooh.’
‘Yes, yes …’
Doug had his eyes tightly shut now. His mind was being blown, amongst other things.
‘And how much of that do you pay in VAT?’
‘What!? No, no, please don’t stop.’
‘How much do you pay in VAT?’
‘Oh … my … God.’
‘How MUCH?’
‘Nothing. NOTHING! NOTHING! Ahhhhhh …’
‘A honey trap?’ said Spoons, eating a honey doughnut at the same time and seemingly unable to distinguish between the two.
‘I think you’re going to get nicked. I’m really sorry, Spoons.’
‘It’s my dad’s fault. Those bloody lorries.’ He sighed. ‘Undercover. Who would have thought the Inland Revenue would be so thorough?’
‘I know. She took us in, right enough.’
‘I mean, where the hell did they find a woman who loved snakes and suntans and chips and Newcastle United and who would fancy you as well? Must have taken them ages.’
‘No, Spoons, you see …’
The door swung open, tinging loudly. Maia and Jumbo stood there with four menacing-looking men in pinstriped suits with briefcases strapped to their wrists.
‘It’s all through the back,’ she announced. ‘Take it down.’
She faced the boys.
‘No hard feelings. It’s just business.’
They stared at her.
‘So, I mean … where did you get Jumbo?’ asked Doug.
‘His real name’s Mambo. He’s professionally undercover too. Oh and there’s …’
She nudged Jumbo/Mambo, and the snake lifted its huge flat head. There was a clicking, whirring noise.
‘… a miniature camera implanted in his head. Painless, I assure you. But extremely useful.’
Doug shook his head in disbelief.
‘Well, for what it’s worth, you really convinced us you loved that snake.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Just doing my job. Really, when I’m not working, they make me want to vomit, scream, run away and burst into tears.’
Spoons, who hadn’t been listening, nudged Doug hard.
‘Doug … does this mean you’re not going out with her any more?’
Doug clasped him on the shoulder.
‘Yes, Spoons. Yes, it does.’
‘Ehm … can I go out with her then?’
‘Spoons, she’s going to put you in prison.’
‘Yeh, but when I come out, maybe?’
‘Spoons, she’s not really who she says she is.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Spoons miserably.
‘We’ll talk about it,’ said Maia crisply. ‘Perhaps over forms lla-95c. See how co-operative we both can be.’
Spoons was beaming as she led him off into the unmarked vehicle.
‘Hello, snaky man.’ Chloë was walking down the street carrying two bags of shopping with her hair in little bunches and her summer sandals on. Doug felt his heart lurch.
‘Hello there. Ehm … you know, I’m not really involved in that line of work these days.’
‘Oh really?’ she said, putting the shopping bags down.
‘No, I kind of … gave it up. I think in future I’m going to stick to the more rectangular animals.’
She nodded. ‘What, like bears and stuff?’
‘Bears, maybe … anything with right-angles. Giraffes, stuff like that.’
‘Huh.’
They looked at each other for a bit.
‘So do you … ?’
‘Well, maybe …’
They both spoke at once, then smiled foolishly at each other.
‘Yeah, all right,’ said Chloë.
Later, walking away, Doug patted his pocket.
‘Don’t worry, Fluffster. I’m sure she’ll come round sooner or later …’
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Jessica Adams и Fiona Walker
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: An unparalleled collection of stories by some of the best female writers commissioned specially for this collection, with royalties supporting War Child, the charity dedicated to alleviating the suffering of children affected by war.A collection of short stories from some of the biggest names in fiction: bestselling authors Jessica Adams, Fiona Walker and Chrissie Manby commissioned 31 stories which are combined here in a fabulous anthology in aid of War Child. Contributors include Candace Bushnell (Sex in the City), Jenny Colgan, Freya North, Marian Keyes, Jane Green, Lisa Jewell, Wendy Holden, Isabel Wolff, Fiona Walker, Cathy Kelly, Polly Samson, Helen Lederer and Patricia Scanlan.All royalties from the publication go to War Child.