Chapter Ten London Tuesday 28 September 2004 #2
Gillian was Charlie’s best friend. They had gone to primary school together, bonding as Mary and Joseph in their first nativity play when Gillian had to say a terrified Charlie’s lines for him, then secondary school, after which Charlie left at sixteen to become an apprentice carpenter, and Gillian stayed on to do A levels.
By this time, their differences were apparent: Gillian was a determined character, academically smart and destined to go places.
Charlie was good with his hands and destined to stay exactly where he was.
But they remained good friends. When Charlie married Ann, Gillian was a bridesmaid, holding the bunch of sunflowers Ann had chosen for their heatwave summer wedding, then taking the train back to Sheffield after the front-room reception, to continue the second half of her first term at university.
Gillian became a well-paid art historian.
She had got her first job at a gallery in Belgravia, as a researcher.
Olivia was born and Gillian was proud to become her godmother.
Charlie continued making kitchens in old Victorian houses.
Ann gave up her job in the newsagent’s. Charlie lost Ann to cancer when Olivia was three years old, and became a single father.
It was funny, really, Olivia thought: Charlie was suspicious of rich people, believed most of them to be crooks, especially some of the property developers he came across, but Gillian was his exception.
Gillian may have bought a house in the posh part of Pimlico when Olivia was six, but she never changed a jot.
It was simple, really; they had always liked the same things, and they just got on together.
That was the story Olivia had been told all her life.
‘Here you are,’ Gillian said, perching on the edge of the sofa and pulling two wrapped presents out of her big bag for Charlie – one small and tubular, one flat and square. ‘Happy birthday, my old friend.’
Charlie’s face lit up as he opened the first gift. A planing tool with a sleek black handle. ‘Oh, great!’ he exclaimed. ‘Thanks! This looks good. Thanks so much.’
Gillian beamed. She shrugged off her cape muttering that it was like a ‘furnace’ in here. She watched Charlie open the second present.
It was a record. An album.
‘Northern soul?’ Olivia enquired.
‘Yep!’ said Gillian, beaming. ‘Old habits die hard. And it’s a limited edition. Digitally mastered.’
Charlie took the record to the ancient stereo system crouching on the sideboard in the corner of the room. He placed the record on the turntable, and he and Gillian grinned at each other.
‘Shall we?’ she said.
‘Why not?’ Charlie replied.
Gillian held out her hand, they rose from their seats and, to Olivia’s delight, they started to dance, right there on the busy floral carpet, that bouncy northern soul style of shuffling and foot-crossing and spinning.
Serious faces, but within seconds they were laughing like a couple of school children.
‘You still can’t beat it!’ Gillian announced, as the record came to an end.
‘No, you can’t,’ said Charlie, flushed and happy. Olivia felt sorry her present had not lived up to Gillian’s, but that was OK, she thought; she would make it up to him next time.
‘And we should get going,’ Gillian said, looking at her watch. ‘I said we’d be there by eight.’
‘Alright,’ said Charlie. He went to the small hall to get his coat.
‘Oh, aren’t you going to get changed?’ Olivia asked.
‘No. Should I?’ He pulled a contrite face at her. ‘We’re only going to look at a set.’ Apparently, Gillian had asked Charlie if he wanted to see the play, too, once it opened, but he had said no, visiting the set would be plenty enough and he wasn’t a fan of Shakespeare.
‘True,’ said Olivia, and she felt ashamed of her question, but Gillian shook her head and said, ‘You know what he’s like. A right old scruff-bag,’ with great affection, which made her feel better.
Charlie lit up a cigarette as they walked through the London streets. ‘You still puffing on those things?’ his best friend asked him.
Charlie looked unrepentant. ‘You used to smoke.’
‘I know.’ Gillian shrugged. ‘Then I read some stuff. Apparently, they’re bad for you now . . .’
‘They haven’t killed me yet.’
‘Well, you never know,’ said Gillian, rolling her eyes at Charlie’s daughter, ‘there’s still time.’
The streets were cold. The walk seemed quicker with the chat and the banter.
Olivia checked her own watch. She was really looking forward to this evening.
Celebrating her father’s birthday. Being with him and Gillian, and going to Shaftesbury Avenue with them to admire some carpentry.
And tomorrow night, she was going on a date.
At twenty-six, Olivia had found herself having a bit of a wild summer, full of mischief, confidence and slightly lowered standards, followed by a wildish September.
There had been lots of partying, mostly with Stella; quite a few dates.
Plenty of kissing – yes, it seemed the nineteen-year-old version of herself had returned – and far too many frogs.
There’d been no one she’d really liked. No one she’d particularly sparked with.
Tomorrow night was going to be different, though, and the thought filled her with tiny bubbles of frothing, fizzy excitement that threatened to spill out of her in a shiver.
The streets may have been cold but, inside her, Olivia was warm and lit up like a Christmas tree.
Tomorrow night she was going on a date with Leo Greene.