The Heat Is On Page 13

I had no idea how on earth I was ever going to arbitrate an amicable settlement here. Patty had entered Mum’s sacred domain and I couldn’t see it ending well.

  ‘Then there was the Irish Cream,’ continued Patty. ‘Were you aware that for most of the morning your mother props up the sampling trolley downing little cup after little cup of booze?’

  ‘You can’t talk,’ said Mum, and I had to agree on that one. ‘You’re not supposed to drink the samples and I saw you from behind the teacakes.’

  ‘Did you spend your entire day hiding in the bread aisle spying on Patty?’ I asked. ‘Peering through the Krispy Kreme iced rings like a masked superhero.’

  ‘This is serious,’ Mum frowned. ‘Mornings are biscuits, cakes and cocktails or drinks for ladies. That’s how it should be and demonstrators shouldn’t scoff everything.’

  ‘She complained about me,’ Patty protested. ‘And now, thanks to her, it’s not my job any more. I’ve been asked not to go in again.’

  ‘Mum,’ I sighed.

  She struggled to find a look that says triumphant and apologetic at the same time. I told Patty how sorry I was but Mum just left the house murmuring that she was right and Patty was wrong. I felt guilt and despair that this didn’t work out for my friend.

  ‘I’m sure she didn’t mean it to end this way,’ I told Patty. ‘She’s stubborn but wouldn’t do anyone any real harm.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she replied at the time. ‘I’ve got another interview next week. But I’m free at the weekend if you fancy doing something?’

  ‘I’m busy,’ I replied too quickly, ‘with Michael.’

  So it’s a bloody good job he said yes to this, and no, I certainly don’t want to go with Patty.

  Come the weekend, Michael picks me up and we set off. I’m really looking forward to having somewhere of my own to come back to each evening. I’ve lived in other people’s houses for nearly eighteen months now and whereas I wasn’t ready to settle anywhere when my divorce first happened, I now know who I am and how I want to live. I have a vision of the type of furniture I want to buy. When I was married there was always a compromise. I love the overstuffed soft fabric sofas that swallow you up and hug you when you lie on them – my ex liked the more sensible firm-seated stain-proof leather. Of course we always went with his choice as it’s hard to argue against practicality. At least I managed to persuade him to go for tan leather rather than the black he wanted. What is it about men and black leather? As we drive along, I drop a few hints that this will definitely not be on my shopping list.

  We drive out to a rather fancy furniture emporium on the borders of Cheshire. I am determined that I will not shop anywhere with one of those perpetual half-price sales. The more people protest that I’m getting a bargain, the more I’m sure that I’m definitely not. Michael has washed the car and we’ve both dressed up a little more than we’d normally do for a shopping trip.

  ‘I thought we could go out to lunch afterwards,’ he tells me. ‘There’s a pub not far away with a good reputation.’

  I smile at him – he’s taken the hand I offered in apology and lightly embraced it. I positively skip out of the car when we pull up outside the store and taking Michael’s arm, I walk tall ready to design my future home. After all, this is also the place the photographers will come when we win International Business of the Year for our Formentera venture. Perhaps Michael will be in that picture, too.

  The store is huge and as much as I love shopping, I can’t imagine what it must be like for the assistants in furniture shops. For many years they used hard-sell techniques so we customers avoided their advances like a fox running from the hounds. Nowadays they’re keen to tell us that they won’t hassle us but they’re there when we need them. If no one needs them they hang around not even allowed to sit down on the sofas. I hate it when people come into our shop and say they’re ‘just looking’. I can usually tell what type of holiday they need and if they’d just let me help I could have them happy and on the way to their perfect destination. If they don’t ask, they’ll probably end up arguing and settling for something fairly average. I determine to keep the assistants busy today and ask for lots of help. We make our way through the dining section into living rooms.

  ‘When I was a kid,’ says Michael out of nowhere, ‘I dreamed of being locked in a big department store overnight – especially at Christmas. I was going to hide in one of the wardrobes until closing time and then I’d come out. I’d get biscuits and chocolates from the food department, build a big Scalextric from the toy department and then fall asleep in a king-sized bed. If we ever walked through the furniture department, I’d be on the lookout for the perfect wardrobe.’

  ‘Sounds like a film script – Adventures in Macy’s – or something like that. I need a wardrobe, we’ll go up after sofas and see if there’s one big enough for you.’

  ‘It wouldn’t work here – they don’t sell Scalextric.’

  We reach the sofas and I spot an assistant deciding whether or not to come over and talk to us. I smile at him and approach him directly.

  ‘Could we have some help please?’

  The way his face lights up, I could have just told him he’d won the lottery. I explain the new duplex in the converted mansion house, describing the high ceilings and big windows.

  ‘I want something that makes you sigh with delight every time you sit on it.’

  ‘And it has to be wine proof I’m guessing,’ he adds, showing remarkable intuition; after all, he’s only just met me.

  I protest that I’m as sober as a judge (honestly) then follow him past the leather into the velvet section. I stroke the wonderful fabric, almost purring with delight. This is exactly what I’m looking for; my ex would never have allowed this in the house. The assistant tells me I can have any design in this fabric but suggests a very plush corner unit.

  ‘This needs a large room to do it justice,’ he says, ‘but by the sounds of it, that’s exactly what you have.’

  I think I do but fortunately the ever-practical Michael has brought the room dimensions with him. He checks them and tells me I certainly do have the space for it. I think I’ve actually started salivating over this sofa imagining Michael lying down one side and me on the other with my head in his lap. As if reading my mind he takes one side and puts his feet up patting the space beside him. I look at the assistant briefly and he tells me to go for it. I take my side and lie back. I kick off my shoes and let out a relaxed sigh – I guess this is the one then. Still sitting on the sofa we pick up the swatch book and flick through the colours. There are lots of pale colours verging on neutral and although I envisaged a pale minimalist look for the new place, there are some beautiful shades here. Bold colours for a brave new start. There’s a gorgeous teal that takes my eye – it would be so different and when the photographers do come round, the teal will complement my chestnut hair perfectly. I can’t admit to the guys that I’m choosing a sofa colour to match my hair, though, can I?

  ‘That’s the one,’ Michael suddenly says, ‘opulent, indulgent and rather sexy. Like someone we know.’

  He’s picked a deep damson which is all of those things. I love it and I’m all a-flutter with the added flattery. I nod in agreement – it is beautiful.

  ‘It would also probably hide the wine stains better than the teal,’ adds the assistant.

  Sold to the lady with no shoes on.

  Having made the first decision rather easily, we have a wander around the rest of the store; we have to find that wardrobe after all. I don’t see anything I like but Michael still indulges me by getting into a couple, trying them out for size while pretending to be checking the build quality. He peeks out of one and waves me over.

  ‘You could fit in this one, too,’ he whispers, ‘they’ll never find us.’

  I drag him out telling him I want the lunch he’s promised me. We walk through the rest of the store arm in arm passing the bed and mattress department. Michael pauses looking at the signage that tells
us that a mattress should be replaced every eight years.

  ‘I should think about doing that,’ he says. ‘I can’t think when mine was last replaced, certainly more than eight years ago. My back’s been aching of late.’

  ‘Ugh, then you definitely need to buy a new one,’ I tell him, in truth thinking more about him sharing it with his ex-wife than the state of his spinal health. ‘I insist.’

  He sits on the edge of a few. ‘Too soft,’ he says then, ‘far too hard.’

  Finally, just like Goldilocks, he finds one that’s just right. He lies back.

  ‘I like this one, really supports your back without being rock hard. Come and try.’

  I join him bouncing on the edge and then lying down say, ‘Yep, you’d get a good night’s sleep on this.’

  ‘Michael, how lovely to see you.’ A high-pitched voice causes us both to bolt upright like naughty school kids caught having a snog. A glamorous-looking woman – probably older than me but working hard not to show it – is smiling at us, or more likely, him. Her lipstick colour matches her nails and it’s a very flattering colour but I imagine she won’t be happy when she looks in the mirror and finds it across her teeth, too. She looks me up and down.

  ‘And moving on, too, I’m so pleased for you.’

  She tilts her head sympathetically then moves away whispering to her friend who throws a look back at us.

  ‘Who and what was that?’ I ask getting up. Michael just shakes his head and promises to tell me when we get to the pub.

  The car journey is slightly awkward as I’m wondering whether she was an old flame or maybe even a fairly recent one. As much as I try not to ruin the fabulous morning we’ve had, I can’t think of any other topic of conversation, so sit quietly gazing out of the window. Fortunately, the pub isn’t far away and within twenty minutes we’re there and seated. Michael nurses his ginger ale while I take a sip of Sauvignon Blanc and wait for him to start.

  ‘She’s a neighbour,’ he says without looking up at me, ‘and she was friends with Jenny, or at least she used to come round for coffee every now and then. I’m not sure Jenny actually liked her; apparently she always had a complaint about someone or the other.’

  ‘We all know the type,’ I say. ‘But if she was a friend of Jenny’s she probably finds it hard to see you with someone else.’

  Michael shakes his head.

  ‘It’s not that, she was one of the “casserole crowd” when Jenny died. Neighbours I’d never even met suddenly emerged bringing pots of stew and trays of lasagne telling me I had to eat.’

  ‘I didn’t bring you any food.’

  ‘Thank heavens for that,’ he laughs and I pretend to be hurt. ‘It sounds really ungrateful but I didn’t want them there. They all came armed with a bit of homespun advice, too – honestly, I couldn’t escape from it. There was always someone or other telling me “I had to move on” or “Jenny wouldn’t want to see you starving yourself” – how the hell did they know what she’d have wanted?

  ‘Christine was one of the worst. She made herself a real regular and I heard later that she’d even told the others I didn’t need any more food as she’d look after me. She also used to do a bit of tidying up and I’m ashamed to say I just let her; it was far easier than arguing.’

  He swirls his ginger ale like a whisky and looks up at me for the first time in his confession.

  ‘Then one night, I was just settling down to watch the news and the doorbell goes. It was Christine with a bottle of wine in one hand and a beef casserole in the other. She was looking all made-up like she was back there in the shop and I just presumed she’d been out somewhere.’

  ‘Oh you poor naïve man,’ I say, knowing what’s coming next.

  ‘I remember feeling obliged to invite her in and the smell of her perfume as she walked past me into the house. It was so strong I think I choked on it.

  ‘I put out some glasses and cutlery then poured us each a glass. She knew where Jenny kept the crockery, so I assumed she would be serving the food and left her to it. To be honest, I just wanted the meal over with as soon as possible. She took a while, so I went into the kitchen to see where the food was and there was something different about her. It took me a while but then I realised she’d let her hair down and was doing all that swishy stuff with it. She walked over to me and took a glass of wine. I didn’t know what to do, so I picked up mine and took a huge mouthful. She stroked my hand and told me we’d have the beef afterwards, when I’d worked up an appetite.’

  I snort my wine. This is the worst seduction scene I’ve ever heard and I wasn’t even involved.

  ‘A bonk for a bourguignon,’ I say channelling Patty. ‘It seems a fair deal to me.’

  ‘It wasn’t funny at the time,’ Michael laughs. ‘I felt this panic rising in me. I couldn’t think how I was going to get out of it. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings but there was no way at all I was attracted to her. I told her it was too soon, I wasn’t ready to move on. After that I became referred to as “Poor Michael, you know – the one whose wife died.” ’

  The food arrives and we both focus our attentions on dividing out the condiments: tartar sauce for his fish cakes and a French dressing for my salad. We sit quietly and I wonder why he’s told me all of this now; he could have just said she was a friend of his wife’s.

  ‘So I know what it feels like to be rushed into something when you’re not ready,’ he adds quietly, looking directly at me.

  I stop eating and take both his hands across the table. ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘Well, we don’t seem to be getting any further than this, do we? I suppose I’ve never really been sure what you wanted or where this is going. I did try to ask if you wanted me to stay the night but even I knew it was a clumsy effort. I knew I’d made a mess of it.’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ I tell him, ‘but I panicked. And this may sound stupid but it’s been a while for me. Plus I’m not really that comfortable being at Patty’s or staying at your place, with all the memories it holds – especially the bed.’

  Michael shakes his head and grips my hands tighter.

  ‘Is that why you want me to get a new mattress?’ he asks and I nod grimacing.

  ‘We’re as bad as each other,’ he sighs. ‘Jenny died eighteen months ago. She was ill for six months before that and we knew she was going. We had as much fun as we could in that time and we said goodbye properly. She made me promise I’d find someone else and I think I have now. If I have to change every stick of furniture in the house to make you feel comfortable then I will and we’ll start today going back to that shop and getting a new bed to go with the new mattress.’

  I feel a surge of affection and admiration for this man and the honesty flowing from him.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say as he lifts my hands one at a time and kisses them gently. ‘I’ve been really nervous.’

  ‘Well, it’s been a while for me, too,’ he continues, ‘so I might have forgotten how to do it anyway.’

  I giggle. ‘Well, I suppose we’ll find out when I get this new apartment, won’t we.’

  He clinks his glass against mine. ‘Roll on removal day.’

  Pictures of You

  When Josie called Patty to see if she knew anyone who understood digital television it set off a chain reaction. Patty called Craig who was delighted to hear from her as he had an audition for her on a home-shopping channel. The company producing the show would also be able to advise us on the live wedding channel if we won the bid for the island. And so we find ourselves with an appointment to talk about our idea.

  After work we all take the tram down to MediaCity in Salford Quays. Like many old industrial areas, it has been transformed recently and now houses internet and TV production companies. So instead of shipyards and canals ferrying goods to all parts of the country we have courtyards selling cappuccinos, and airwaves ferrying news and entertainment. I guess it’s our own version of Silicon Valley and it has a real energy and buzz; I live only
a couple of miles from this place but it’s a different universe. The huge glass-fronted buildings that house the main TV channels are like spaceships compared to the red brick Victoriana of the rest of the city. The BBC moved here a few years ago and I watch as a group of schoolchildren line up for a tour of the studios. They enter the building then nervously stop in their tracks – there’s a real live Dalek from the kids’ show Doctor Who in the foyer and he’s programmed to say ‘Exterminate’ whenever anyone walks by. I bet they’re going to behave for the tour guide now. It’s just a delight to watch.

  We check the address we’ve been given and move away from the docks. The production company we’re meeting aren’t in one of these glossy glass-fronted buildings looking out on to the river; they’re in an old warehouse behind all the glitz. The director of the production company comes into the reception to greet us. We’re meeting him before Patty does her screen test. Completely at home in this trendy otherworld, he looks just like the guy I saw waiting outside the bank manager’s office. I suddenly feel very suburban and yet I did try to dress for the occasion. How come two people can wear black jeans and a T-shirt yet one of them looks trendy and the other looks as if she’s just stepped out of M&S? Probably because she has.

  Josie looks very at home as we follow his lead into the studio. I have to say I’m very curious to see inside this mysterious world and am glad that we go into a proper studio for the conversation and not just an office. It’s a tiny area surrounded with thick black curtains and there’s a podium – like quizmasters have – on one side and a kitchen island at the other. A TV camera stands at the front of the space, so presumably it can swivel one way if they’re filming a cookery programme and the other way if it’s a quiz show. When you watch this you think it’s a huge space but it’s really no bigger than our shop. We’re shown to seats behind the camera – just where a studio audience would be. All around us people busy themselves adjusting lights and cables, each of them knowing their role instinctively.

  ‘So this was one idea,’ says the director. ‘It’s a full show about the wedding. It’s a couple of hours showing the journey up to the big day. We’ll have a presenter interviewing the couple about how they met, who proposed and how – the whole before thing. Then we’ll move on to the preparations, choosing the outfits, cake, rings and what they saw in Formentera; why they wanted to get married there. We have a bit about the tension leading up to the big day, maybe rings don’t fit, bridesmaid gets pregnant or flights delayed – we’ll find something. Finally, we’re there, it’s the big day, time to walk down the aisle. We’ll show some of the preparation on the island and then the presenter tells everyone to take their seats, we’re about to cross live to the ceremony. Cue the lovebirds walking down the aisle.’