The Heat Is On Read online

  ‘It’s a nice dream,’ says Charlie, bringing me back to the topic of conversation while we have some privacy, ‘but it would be huge.’

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ I tell him, now determined I’m going to consider this seriously. ‘We need to see the numbers and the plans and we can’t make this decision at a party, no matter if Patty has already chosen the soundtrack.’

  He squeezes my hand.

  ‘That’s why I need you by my side. I’m far too emotional about that place; you need to keep me grounded.’

  I nod and putting my hand over his, we seal a silent pact to keep each other safe. A little shiver tingles through me.

  ‘It’s exciting and scary at the same time isn’t it?’ I say, ‘but people say you should do the things that scare you.’

  ‘It’s not always the best advice,’ says Charlie. ‘I wouldn’t swim through a crocodile pit or get up to a Patty-led conga. Just think, this might make us eligible for International Business of the Year.’

  Charlie lights up the words with his hands. I was utterly obsessed with Mercury winning a business award last year. I’d been through so much with the divorce that I desperately needed to win, just to prove things were finally on the right track. We eventually won the People’s Champion category and the memory of getting up onstage to collect it still sends an overwhelming wave of joy flooding through my body. I have the cut-glass trophy boxed up in bubblewrap, ready and waiting to take pride of place on the mantelpiece of my new home. We also each got a very fancy fountain pen with ‘Entrepreneur of the Year Winner’ engraved on it. Mine lies in my top drawer and I take it out every morning, sitting it on my desk so customers can see it and I can relive the joy of that night.

  ‘Now, now, no getting carried away, we’re taking this one step at a time,’ I remind him.

  ‘Obviously.’ Charlie pauses and then shoves me excitedly. ‘But can you believe we’re even considering this? We’ll be mixing with the celebs – we could even invite your hero over for inspiring us.’

  That seals it.

  ‘Richard,’ I’m saying as I show my hero around our fabulous resort, ‘as you can see we’ve followed your advice on the next big thing. It’s not quite Necker but I hope you’ll enjoy it here. Come and meet Charlie, he insists on running the cocktail bar himself.’

  We’d sit down to sunset-coloured cocktails specially created for the visit by Charlie. I’d be wearing expensive white chiffon and be barefoot enjoying the feel of the warm sand on my feet. Obviously I’d have had several hours of hardcore pumicing so my tootsies would be beautiful.

  Come to think of it, I wonder what happened to all the little fishes that used to nibble people’s feet? They can’t have released them into the ocean can they? They now have a taste for human flesh after all – that’s a B-movie eco-disaster just waiting to happen…

  ‘Yoo hoo,’ calls Charlie and I shake myself back to reality but I’m still concerned about those fish. I must google that.

  ‘You get the prospectus,’ I say, shaking myself from my gorgeous dream, ‘and then maybe we could take some time to think it through without the help of our enlightened friends.’

  I nod at the scene in front of us; Patty has started teaching the boys her Gangnam-style moves and it’s not attractive. There isn’t an ounce of rhythm between them and I’m not sure what dance Jack is doing but it bears no resemblance to anything else going on.

  ‘Yep, I don’t think we’re going to get a sensible suggestion from this lot now,’ acknowledges Charlie.

  ‘Err, serious bunch over there,’ Patty yells from the dance floor/lounge rug. ‘If you’re not joining in then we seem to have run out of bubbly over here.’

  ‘Dear lord!’ I leap up to get another bottle and avert this major crisis affecting my friends.

  Pretty Vacant

  Patty opens the door with only a small grunt of a greeting.

  ‘The Prosecco-fuelled conga fighting back?’ I laugh as she groans remembering it.

  Despite both feeling slightly worse for wear, we’re off for Sunday lunch and a catch-up. Taking no chances, we’re walking to our local pub and as we set off from Jack’s house, I have to drag her away. They’re blowing kisses to each other until we’re thankfully out of sight.

  ‘Blimey you have got it bad.’

  ‘I have,’ she sighs. ‘But he’s funny, clever and totally devoted to me. I mean, what more could a girl want?’

  ‘Not much,’ I reply. ‘Maybe a wine tap in the kitchen.’

  ‘His subscription to the Wine Club comes pretty damn close; there’ll be a case on the doorstep every month.’

  ‘Sold to the lady with the drink problem,’ I laugh. ‘Marry this man straight away.’

  ‘Well…’ says Patty, and links arms with me as we walk along, ‘I do have some news on that front. He’s asked me to move in with him and I’ve said yes. I know we haven’t been together long but it feels right, so I’ll put my place up for sale as soon as you’re ready and then it’s off to the house of lurve for me.’

  I don’t know what to say. The past forty-eight hours have been quite bizarre and it all started with Patty coming home. At the time, I thought it meant that things would go back to the way they were but I can see now that it doesn’t.

  ‘Wow, that’s fabulous,’ I murmur. ‘Things are really changing aren’t they?’

  ‘But the changes are good aren’t they? The new resort sounds fabulous,’ she continues. ‘If you get it, you’ll be rushed off your feet with new customers. At least you’re going to be busy. I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to do now.’

  ‘I know we joked about it at the party, but don’t you just want to spend more time with Jack?’ I ask.

  She shakes her head. ‘I’d love to but hospitals aren’t exactly overstaffed these days and besides which he really loves what he’s doing. We’ve been back less than a week and I think I’ve seen you more than I’ve seen him.’

  ‘You could have stayed at home with him today, I wouldn’t have minded.’

  ‘His shift starts in an hour,’ replies Patty shaking her head. ‘Nope, I have to find a new mission in life. You saw the panic in his eyes when he thought I might be at home moping all day.’

  I’d like to bet she wouldn’t stay at home moping; if I know Patty she’ll be getting up to all sorts and begging me to join in. As much as I love her, I do have a business to run.

  ‘Then we’d better find you something quickly,’ I say, hoping that she sees my comments as the generous concern of a true friend rather than an act of self-preservation. ‘Any idea of what you’d like to do?’’

  Our walk takes us through the park where the candyfloss cherry blossom is starting to bud. In a couple of weeks, those glorious flowers will completely transform this little suburban patch of green.

  ‘I could become a dog walker,’ she says on seeing someone handling four cockapoos.

  ‘You hate the cold,’ I remind her, nodding at her current ensemble.

  She pulls her big coat tightly and snuggles into her scarf.

  ‘I’d only work summer.’

  ‘So precisely when people are prepared to walk their own dogs?’ I say. ‘Anyway, I can’t imagine you want to give up the world of entertainment completely. The hounds wouldn’t provide much of an audience unless you can teach them to howl in harmony.’

  ‘You could be right there.’

  Leaving the park, we continue down a road of small businesses. Patty studies every shop sign we pass searching for the solution to her unemployment.

  ‘A funeral home,’ she suddenly declares. ‘I’d never be out of work there.’

  ‘What on earth would you do?’

  ‘Well, people are having themed funerals now, aren’t they? Like an Elvis one – I could sing “Crying in the Chapel” or “Can’t Help Falling in Love”.

  She has a spring in her step now and I can see she’s on a roll.

  ‘In fact there are loads of songs I could do. There’s the rea
lly weepy one, “I Wasn’t Expecting That”, I can’t watch the video any more, it has me in floods.

  ‘Plus all the classics – “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door”, “Don’t Fear the Reaper”, oh, and “Seasons in the Sun”, she continues. ‘That is so sad and everyone would know the words; there wouldn’t be a dry eye in the service. I’d have everyone with their hankies out.’

  She starts humming the chorus to the Terry Jacks’ classic.

  ‘I doubt there’d be applause at a funeral, either, when you’ve finished,’ I remind her, ‘just a kind of awkward silence. Could you cope with that?’

  ‘Maybe not and with all that crying, my mascara would be all over the place. I can hardly come home to Jack every night looking like that Alice Cooper. I’m not even sure whether I want to keep singing but what else can I do?’ There’s a brief pause before she adds, ‘I think I’ll phone Craig to see if he has any ideas.’ Craig is the talent manager who got Patty the gig on the cruise ship.

  ‘I thought he only did tribute acts.’

  ‘Oh no, he has more fingers in pies than little Jack Horner,’ replies Patty. ‘There’ll be something for me.’

  At that moment, the gastro pub we’re looking for appears, so I manage to avoid speculating on what that something might be. Patty rushes into the building, collar up against the relatively mild April weather. Anyone would think she’d been on a cruise all winter. Oh wait, she has. The pub has several stars to recommend it online and I’m struck by what makes a pub a ‘gastro pub’. There is definitely a look. You have to have bare floorboards, a dullish paint colour and witty slogans on the wall. You also have to put herbs in vases and flowers in the salad. Somehow all of this reassures people that the rest of the meal will be good. I wonder if there is an equivalent look for travel agents. Gastro-travel?

  ‘Are you going to gawp at the blackboard all day or can we sit down?’ asks Patty, reminding me that there’s also always a blackboard at these places.

  I join her at the table and peruse the menu, just checking for the flowers, and sure enough they’re there. Not that either of us will be sampling them. Today is not a day for salad; competitors were never conquered nor new vocations found through salad. We order two Sunday roasts (locally sourced, obviously) and a couple of glasses of Pinot Noir. Hair of the dog – it would be rude not to.

  ‘So,’ starts Patty wasting no time at all – her hands are folded in front of her as if she’s interviewing me – ‘tell me what’s really going on with you and Michael. He seems really nice and from what I saw he’s completely smitten. I can’t believe you’re just waiting for this perfect moment.’

  ‘Yes, he’s gorgeous,’ I tell her. ‘He really is. We get on brilliantly, we go places, have things to talk about and laugh together.’

  Patty sips her wine. ‘So why the wait then?’

  I hesitate. I vowed I wouldn’t tell her, but now that I’m here, I can’t help but think it would be good to talk this through with someone, someone who’s also just started a new relationship. I go for it.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want to. When we touch, it’s as if my body comes alive again.’

  ‘So what are you waiting for?’

  ‘I know this is going to sound daft,’ I whisper and she leans in, ‘but I’m really nervous. The last time I had sex was with Alan and I was so good then he upped and left me for someone else. I’m not sure I even know what to do any more. So I just thought if I wait and get the moment just perfect then, well, it would be easier.’

  ‘So what does perfect look like then? White linen, candles – that kind of thing?’

  I shrug slightly embarrassed by that clichéd vision but it is what I have in mind.

  ‘And have you booked in your vajazzler?’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘You must have read about it, everyone’s doing it these days. It might have started with a few celebrities but that’s what any man would be expecting in the sack. You can’t roll up with your grey wire wool when he’s expecting rhinestone.’

  I am horrified and for the very, very briefest of moments believe her. However, she can’t keep a straight face to save her life and the rocking shoulders are giving it away. I thump her, then take a big glug of wine.

  ‘It’s bad enough worrying about that grey wire wool,’ I say plucking up the courage to ask, ‘Seriously though, are we supposed to do something about it? Like dye it?’

  ‘What with?’ replies Patty, ‘L’Oreal’s Just For Pubes?’

  Of course our young waiter picks that exact moment to arrive at the table. The poor blushing lamb serves our meals and makes his escape as quickly as he can.

  ‘Because I have to ask you,’ continues Patty, ‘is he worth it?’

  She swooshes her hair à la shampoo commercial and I have to laugh along. We try to change the subject while we tuck into our food and agree that, if we could only take one food to a desert island, it would be roast potatoes. Meal over, it’s back to business.

  ‘You know, you’re overthinking this,’ says Patty when the dishes are cleared away. ‘He’s smitten and you’re gorgeous as you are. If you wait for that “perfect moment”, it’ll never happen. Next time these sparks fly,’ she continues, ‘just go with it. See where it leads.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘There still might be new things he’s expecting that I don’t know about.’

  ‘Then you’re an extremely lucky woman and he is one lucky man. As I have lots of spare time at the moment, I will school you in the act of twenty-first-century lurve…’

  I don’t know what she says next. Patty is drowned out by my internal voices yelling, ‘Please nooooooo.’

  I sincerely hope Craig has a job for her, as this woman would be dangerous if left with time on her hands.

  After the meal, I manage to wave Patty off before any further ‘help’ is offered, then head home. Climbing out of my day clothes into my slouchies, I take a quick look in the mirror at what Michael would have in store if we ever got that far. I breathe in and hold my boobs up; I do take care of myself so I suppose it’s not that bad if we manage to get undercover quickly.

  As it’s Sunday night, Mum and I have our official Skype session with Zoe who has promised not to mention last night’s call in my mother’s presence. At seven o’clock on the dot, the doorbell rings and I let her in flustered and yelling, ‘I’m not late, am I?’ as she does every week.

  ‘No, as I keep telling you, we ring Zoe and I don’t do it until you get here, so you can’t be late.’

  ‘You say that but I’ve seen it on the news. There was this reporter in America hanging on in the background and the newsreader here was just carrying on their conversation not even knowing they had someone there.

  It’s sometimes, well, always, best not to argue with Mum. There is no logic to any debate she has. I simply fire up the tablet and place it in front of us then dial Zoe’s number.

  ‘Wait, my hair.’

  Mum brushes her hair and quickly applies some lipstick. She looks at me.

  ‘Are you staying like that? Zoe’s always really smart.’

  ‘It’s Sunday night, I’m relaxing,’ I protest. ‘It’s three o’clock in the afternoon over there.’

  ‘You could still make an effort,’ she whispers, ‘no wonder she’s emigrated.’

  ‘Who’s emigrating?’ asks Zoe from the other side of the world.

  My heart always skips a beat when I see my beautiful daughter’s face on the screen.

  ‘No one, don’t worry. How are you sweetheart?’

  Zoe tells us she’s fine, and she certainly looks it with her lovely tan and beaming smile. This adventure in New York seems to be suiting her down to the ground. When she and Jamie were first offered the chance to go over, they were hesitant because they didn’t want to leave me here. I insisted that she take this fabulous opportunity and they seem to have grasped it with both hands. Looking at her now, I couldn’t be more proud.

  ‘Zoe,’ yells Mum as if she has
to cross the Atlantic with her projection, ‘are my lips moving at the same time as I’m talking?’ She asks this at every session.

  ‘Yes Gran,’ laughs my daughter, ‘and that lipstick colour looks lovely on you.’

  ‘Some of us care about our appearance,’ comes the murmured response and pointed glare. ‘Now how’s your Jamie? And that hotel he’s building?’

  ‘Awesome Gran,’ Zoe states and with one word expressed so enthusiastically, I can tell that they’re both really living the dream and getting cosy with the culture over there.

  ‘I have to admit I don’t see much of him, he’s like, so into his work,’ she continues. ‘But I don’t mind at the moment because everyone wants a piece of him and it’s just brilliant.’

  I nod sagely but leap in glad to have at least one opportunity to dispense motherly advice.

  ‘That’s great and I’m glad you’re doing well, too, but you do have to find time for each other or the weeks will turn into months and you’ll have drifted apart.’

  ‘And your mother knows about things drifting apart,’ interrupts my mum as tactlessly as ever. I glare at her. She is after all talking to my daughter about her parents’ break-up.

  ‘You should have one of them date night things, put it in your phone to remind you,’ she continues, as she’s obviously seen this happen on TV. Mum is delighted when Zoe approves of the plan.