Chapter Forty
Right here, right now
Through the living room window I can see Mrs Belcher’s budgie (not a euphemism), and Lucas, the postman, pushing his red trolley towards my front door.
I get up off the floor and adjust my kimono, although I’m fairly certain Lucas doesn’t think – or indeed hasn’t ever thought – that I am trying to flirt with him.
‘Good to have you back, Ms Pells,’ he says when I open the door.
‘Thanks Lucas.’
He roots around in his trolley and hands me a very thick A4 envelope. ‘I saw that news article about you last month. So I suppose that wasn’t your niece?’
‘No, Lucas. It was me.’
‘She wasn’t as friendly as you,’ he says, looking at his phone-meets-scanner device and holding it out for me to sign.
‘She wasn’t very happy,’ I say.
He looks confused for a second, then smiles politely, turns, and heads up the road towards Josie’s.
When he’s gone, I go through to the kitchen and sit at the table to open the envelope.
It’s a script that Maxine has been working on – she wants me to ‘make it funnier’.
Tucked in the envelope is also a book called Laughter Lines: A Primer on Crafting Comedy, which (sorry Josie) looks a lot more interesting than a story about a plucky wartime Irish girl.
But also, holy crap. It was easy enough to come up with punny headlines when nobody even asked for them, but this is a whole different kettle of fish.
Or barrel of laughs, should I say. Maybe that was funny?
Maybe it wasn’t though. This is a minefield.
An exciting one though. If minefields can be exciting… JEEZ.
My phone pings.
Good luck at your mum’s new flat today. See you tomorrow, 3pm OK? Hélo?se is making churros xx
Thanks Josie. 3pm great. See you tomorrow. Xx
Oh, I meant to say, now you’re back, you should check out what they’ve done to the old FILLINGZ on the high street.
Will do x
My phone pings again. It’s a sticker from Nandy, of Cassia drinking a cocktail, with the caption ‘Your new bestie’.
I snort with laughter. Nandy is coming down to stay this weekend and I can’t wait.
We’re having dinner here and Keith, Stephen, Josie and Laure are all coming too.
Josie wanted to invite Peach Jumpsuit but although she has a Senior Railcard, which makes it cheaper for her, she doesn’t like travelling after dark, so I’m not sure she’ll come.
Thankfully Nandy will be doing most of the cooking.
Come to think of it, I must check my oven for any cremated remains.
What was I thinking, to turn my back on these people, my people.
But they have been patient with me, and waited, and they might have told me off a bit, but they aren’t bearing a grudge, not one of them.
After Nandy hugged me in the bar in Soho, I must have said sorry about thirty times.
She called me all sorts of names (and yes ‘twat’ was indeed one of them), but once she’d got it off her chest, she was really tearful and said that she hated the fact that I had wanted to change myself so much.
I told her I don’t anymore, and that I didn’t realise how bloody lucky I am.
I also told her Cassia and I got drunk together, which she couldn’t believe, and when I told her I was wearing a Teletubbies onesie throughout, she nearly fell off her bar stool.
The removal men are just leaving when I arrive at the retirement flats in Bristol.
Simon is giving them a tip out the front and sees me pull up in Josie’s Kia.
I get out and walk towards him across the car park, clutching a bunch of chrysanthemums and a card.
By the time I reach him, he’s on his phone and barely looks up.
‘I’ve got someone called Subhan dropping off his paddleboard, so I need to wait out here.’
‘You’re renting a paddleboard? For Mum?’
‘No, Erica. For Sam.’ He looks up at me. ‘I see you’re back to your original human form.’ Why does he make everything sound weird?
‘I see you have a new obsession,’ I say, watching him tap furiously into one of his sharing economy apps. This feels more like the me and Simon I am used to.
‘Mum’s waiting for you inside. She’s excited to see you.’ His face softens slightly as he puts his phone in his pocket. ‘Erica… I get why you did it, you know.’
‘You do?’
‘Of course I do. We’re all looking for something, aren’t we? What happened with Interpol, and then the microdosing, made me realise I don’t always get it right either.’ He laughs, and in a moment of unprecedented self-awareness says, ‘I keep trying though.’
I think he’s going to hug me as he leans forward slightly, so I put out my arms. He doesn’t though, and instead takes both my hands so it looks like we’re doing some kind of Regency dance. It’s awkward. But it’s a lot better than usual.
Inside, the flat is piled with boxes and Alannah is unpacking in the tiny kitchen with the radio on. ‘Your mum’s in the bedroom,’ she calls out to me.
I put the flowers and card down on a chair and walk into a small but bright room off the hallway, with white cornices and pale cream walls.
The John Lewis clock is on the chest of drawers, and it fits perfectly.
There are two alarm cords and a bed that moves into a sitting position, like the ones you get in hospitals.
I feel that protective feeling again. She is old.
She really is. Maybe this was The Inevitable, nothing more.
Mother Pells is examining the mirrored walk-in wardrobe. She looks round when I come in, and I can see the remains of a scar on her forehead. ‘So much storage space, Erica, whatever will I put in here?’
I hug her, harder and longer than I can ever remember doing so.
She looks faintly surprised, so I release my grip a bit. ‘Dad would have loved the flat, Mum. He’d think it was a very good choice.’
‘I thought that too darling.’ She pauses, looking carefully at my face. ‘Sometimes I keep it to myself, you know, talking about your father. I don’t want to upset you. I know you were his favourite.’ She pauses. ‘And he was yours.’
I don’t – can’t – say anything.
She strokes my cheek. ‘You’re wearing a lot less make-up than usual.’
I nod. It doesn’t feel like a criticism though.
‘Where have you been, Erica?’
‘Time travelling, Mum.’
‘I wouldn’t mind going back in time.’ She laughs and sits down on the edge of the bed with a sort of groaning sigh. The bed hasn’t been made up yet, so it’s just a bare mattress.
‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,’ I say. ‘In fact, I think that right here, right now is probably the best place to be.’ And that’s the Fatboy Slim song firmly planted in my head.
She pats the bed next to her. ‘Now, tell me what you’ve been up to.’
I sit down and hold her hand. We’ve not been this close to each other for a long time. Her skin feels so loose, like it’s completely separate from what’s underneath. I stare at it, and notice that my hand looks really young next to hers.
‘I’m having a change of career, Mum. A bit late in the day but…’
‘We’re proud of you whatever you do, Erica. Me and your dad.’
‘Thanks Mum. I know that now.’
Later that day, I’m on the high street, grabbing some Settlers Wind-eze Plus from Boots and a few things from Sainsbury’s to make my cupboards look slightly less bare for Nandy coming to stay.
I can see Je Suis Belle up ahead, and the shop unit where FILLINGZ was, and can just make out a different sign over the door.
Remembering what Josie said, I get closer to have a look.
What does it say? I can see curly white writing on a wooden sign.
It seems pretty stylish, and not in a try-hard ‘hip-hop’ kind of way.
Also, thank god it’s not another cafe selling instant coffee and lardy cake.
I draw level with it and look up. It says, Brie My Guest. It’s a cheese shop. Glory be.
I can see it’s not quite open yet and there are a couple of men inside fitting fridges and units, and painting. I peer in and one of them turns around. His face is smiling, expectant, genuine.
It’s Gabe.
He sees me, then puts down the drill he’s holding and walks towards the door.
He’s wearing a blue t-shirt with paint splatters all over it, and jeans.
I notice it’s not just his hands that are freckly, it’s his arms as well.
Please don’t let him be angry with me, I think, although he has every right.
We stand in the doorway looking at each other.
‘You’re a sight for sore eyes, Erica Pells.’ I think he’s pleased to see me, but he’s guarded. I notice the hand that was holding the drill is now clenched. No wonder, I suppose; last time we had a conversation, I stormed off.
‘So are you, Gabe Dix.’ I try to sound breezy but here comes the fizzing feeling in my chest, which I know now isn’t my arteries.
‘And what’s this, a cheese shop?’ I say.
‘It is. My very own. When FILLINGZ closed, I saw that as a sign from… I don’t know. Whoever dispenses signs.’
I look past him into the shop and can see a counter and some chalkboards with the names of local cheeses written on them. The walls are a broad bean green, like Gabe’s eyes.
‘You miss out on all the news when you swan off to London.’ He pulls a bit of wood shaving out of his hair. He’s definitely hotter than Gary Barlow.
‘I swanned back. It was very much not what it was cracked up to be.’ I’m trying to read his face. ‘Look, Gabe. I’m really sorry.’
He looks more serious. ‘You should be, Erica.’ I can tell he means it kindly. Well, for the most part.
I smile. Thankfully I’m not wearing that stupid contour that made me look like a Cubist painting, so it doesn’t matter what angle I put my head at.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m keeping up my skincare, obvs.
I haven’t had a complete personality change.
But I’ve reached an understanding with my beauty products now.
They’re just to make me feel better – not change my life.
I’m also doing my YouTube workout with that Bethany woman again, with similarly low expectations, and yes, using the doorstops as weights.
There’s a pause, during which Gabe puts his hand on my arm and smiles too. ‘You look so much better than when I last saw you,’ he says. ‘This is the face that makes me laugh… I mean, in a good way.’
‘Even with the wear and tear?’ I say, suddenly conscious of looking old enough for that vomiting man to call me ‘grandma’.
‘Especially with the wear and tear. You think I don’t have any of that myself?’ He points to his face, which is admittedly ‘craggy’, and his hair, which could never be described as ‘luxuriant’, but as I recall, Gabe is aware of that.
Someone shouts out from inside the shop, and Gabe calls back that he’ll just be a minute. He turns to me again. ‘Erica, are you working at the moment? I’ve still got a few students I’m teaching, so I need someone to help out here. You would be perfect.’
‘Well, I’m doing some comedy stuff with Maxine, so I could do with the cash as I can’t see that paying anything, for a while at least. Thank you for putting me in touch with her, by the way – she’s great.’
I realise it sounds like I only want to help for money, so I add, ‘And I’d love to. I really like…’ I go to say ‘you’ but feel this is a bit much, so change it to ‘Brie’ halfway through, resulting in ‘ye’, and suggesting I am a frequenter of medieval battle re-enactments.
‘GABE!’ calls the person from inside the shop again.
‘I have to go,’ he says. ‘See you at The Perch at the weekend?’
‘Yes please.’ I mean it this time.
Gabe goes back into the shop, and I head along the high street, grinning like an idiot.
There’s no kiss. Sorry, but this isn’t a rom-com.
There might be one at some point (I bloody hope so), but that’s another story.
As for this story, instead of a happy ending, how about happy-ish?
I’ve come to realise that’s a good thing to aim for: happy-ish.
Just happy isn’t really what it’s all about – it would be a pretty boring existence if there was only one emotion available, wouldn’t it?
I think that’s what I was after though, some kind of utopia where I got up every morning, surveyed my youthful face and just smiled all day because of it.
But life is messier than that, and so it should be.
It has puns and cheese and belly laughs, but it also has bingo wings and hangovers and grief.
And what will get me through it isn’t how sharp my jawline is, but having the right people around me.
Because when they’re the right people, they don’t care what you look like anyway.