31 Dream Street (16 page)

Upstairs were four bedrooms and five bathrooms. Leah didn’t like to ask what the fifth one was for. Leah complimented Jack on his impeccable taste. He brushed away the compliment by informing her that he’d bought the house fully furnished.

‘So, what do you do?’ she asked him, perching herself on a Perspex barstool in the kitchen.

‘Textiles,’ he said. ‘I make fabric.’

‘What sort of fabric?’

‘Very, very pretty fabric,’ he smiled. ‘Luxury. Silk, organza, tulle, chiffon.’

‘Lovely.’

‘Yes. It is. But now I am retired. I still own the mills, but I don’t have to look at them any more.’

‘Are they in Italy, your mills?’

‘Yes. Near the lakes. I still have a home there, but I use it now only for holidays.’ He sighed. ‘I love England. I really do. But I wouldn’t choose to live here. I live here for my girls. For Lottie and Lucie. And I live here because I cannot resist English women!’

Leah laughed.

‘I came to London when I was twenty-one, I met a girl called Jenny, I fell in love. And that was it. My first wife was English – Elaine. Beautiful girl. Peaches and cream. The marriage lasted only a year, but by then I was addicted. And then there was Paula, my ex-wife, the girls’ mother. Blonde hair, blue eyes, big bum. I love English bums. I love all those dimples. And the accent – ah! So, I am destined to be here for ever. For the love of my children and for my love of English bottoms!’

Leah laughed again, suddenly feeling conscious of her blonde hair, blue eyes and size-fourteen jeans. ‘How long have you been divorced?’

‘A year. I’ve been living in a rented flat, in Hampstead, searching and searching every day for my perfect
castle! I wanted something quintessentially English and this…’ he gestured at his home – ‘is it. Now,’ he sighed, ‘I just need to find my queen.’

The boys finished unloading the van and Leah went upstairs where she spent two hours arranging cushions, throws and picture frames, plugging in fairy lights, hanging mirrors and filling drawers with scented letter paper and pots of neon-coloured gel-filled pens. She dressed the sleigh beds with pastel polka-dot bedding and hung the windows with swathes of lilac dupion. It was starting to get dark when Jack came upstairs to see how she was getting on and the rooms looked beautiful, fairy lights twinkling in the dusk.

‘Perfect,’ he beamed, ‘absolutely perfect.’ And then he started crying.

Leah looked at him with alarm.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m still very emotional. Very raw.’ He tapped his fist against his heart. ‘I didn’t want it to be like this. I didn’t want to live apart from my wife, my children. I didn’t want to be a weekend father.’ He sniffed, loudly. ‘I wasn’t meant to be alone. I’m not designed for it. But this’ – he gestured at Lottie’s room – ‘so beautiful. So perfect. She will love it. Both of them will. Thank you!’ And then he threw his arms round her and squeezed her to him. His tears left a wet patch on her cheek which she brushed away as subtly as she could. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘why don’t you stay? Stay. I’ll cook you dinner. What do you like to eat? Fish? I have some beautiful fresh tuna in the fridge. Tuna and capers? Or a salad niçoise?’

‘Oh, God, thank you, but I can’t.’

‘Something else, perhaps. Some pasta? Something simple. Aglio e olio? Please.’He put both his hands to his chest. ‘Let me cook for you. It would make me happy.’

‘Oh, God, I’d love to, I really would,’she lied, ‘but I have to go back to the shop, cash up, lock up.’

‘Ah, well. Maybe another time, then. But for now’ – he pulled an envelope out of his back pocket and handed it to her – ‘for you.’

She smiled and took the envelope. It was satisfyingly plump. ‘Thank you,’she said.

‘And any time’ –he led her to the front door – ‘any time you’re passing, you have my card, phone me. If I’m in, come over. I’ll cook for you.’

‘I will,’she said. ‘Thank you so much. And any time you’re passing the shop…’

‘Oh, yes,’ he smiled, ‘I’ll be sure to come and say hello.’He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it. Leah felt herself flush slightly. No one had ever kissed the back of her hand before. She gave him one last look, just to check that she didn’t find him attractive. The look confirmed it. She didn’t.

She sighed and headed out into the cool night air. The moon was big and yellow, and there seemed to be more stars than usual in the sky. She turned to look at Jack’s house one more time before crunching across his gravel driveway and heading back to the shop.

29

Daisy and Con had lunch on a bench in Green Park. It was eight degrees, but the sun was strong. Daisy took another bite of her sandwich and smiled. ‘This,’ she said, pointing at the sandwich, ‘is absolutely delicious. Did you really make it yourself?’

‘Uh-huh.’ He swallowed a mouthful and nodded. ‘Toby helped, but basically I made it.’

‘I am seriously impressed. Where did you get the bread from?’

‘Toby made it.’

‘Is this Toby the poet?’

‘Yeah. He bakes a loaf of bread every day.’

‘Really? That’s so sweet! So, what’s he like, this Toby? Is he broodingly handsome and mysterious?’

Con laughed. ‘Er, no. Not really. He’s kind of… he’s very big. Tall. Big hands. Big feet. Big nose. And sort of scruffy. Mad hair, big sideburns. He’s really shy, and really clever. I kind of like him.’

‘And is he a successful poet?’

Con laughed again. ‘Not that I know of. I don’t think he’s ever had anything published and he’s never got any money.’

‘What sort of poems does he write? Have you ever read any of them?’

‘Yeah,’ he nodded, ‘yeah, actually. He showed me one last night.’

‘What was it like? Was it any good?’

‘Yeah, it was. It made me…’ He paused, looked at Daisy, exhaled. ‘It made me cry.’

She gasped. ‘Wow!’

‘It was about his mum. He wrote it the day of her funeral. It was all about…’ He stopped. He couldn’t tell her what it was really about. ‘It was all about how much he loved her, what a great mum she’d been. Reminded me of my gran.’ He shrugged and smiled.

She squeezed his forearm, gently. ‘You really loved her, didn’t you?’

He shrugged again. ‘She brought me up. That’s the person you really love, isn’t it? The person who raised you?’

‘As opposed to your mother, you mean?’

‘Yeah. I suppose.’

A pair of joggers ran past them, a man and a woman in matching Lycra suits. Con finished his sandwich and tucked his screwed-up paper napkin into the plastic bag. He glanced at Daisy’s hands. Long fingers, a single ring in the shape of a daisy, blue veins, a smudge of butter. He reached over to hold it, before he found a reason not to. It was surprisingly warm. She squeezed his hand back and smiled at him.

‘I’m really touched,’ she said, breaking the silence, ‘that you went to all this trouble with the sandwiches.’

‘It was nothing,’ he said, rubbing the tip of his thumb
back and forth across her fingernails. ‘In fact,’ he smiled, ‘I’d go so far as to say that it was a pleasure.’

‘You mean you enjoyed cooking something that didn’t involve a kettle or a microwave.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t call it cooking, but it was, you know, fun. I liked it.’

‘Well, then,’ said Daisy, ‘in that case, I present you with a challenge, Connor McNulty.’

‘Oh, yeah?’

‘Yeah. How about you invite me over for dinner at yours?’

‘Dinner?!’

‘Yes. Dinner. With a starter, a main course and a pudding. And wine.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Deadly.’

‘But my house. It’s full of people.’

‘That’s all right. I like people.’

‘Yes, but they’re…
weird
people.’

‘I like weird people even more.’ She smiled.

‘And it’s one thing knocking together a sandwich, but a whole meal. I might poison you.’

She shook her head. ‘You’ll be fine. I’ve got faith in you.’

‘You have?’

‘Yeah. Definitely. You’re one of those people, I reckon, one of those people who’d be good at anything they put their mind to.’

He shook his head and laughed. ‘What gave you that idea?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I just think you are. You’ve got this aura. Really cool. Really capable.’

‘So how come I only got two GCSEs, then? And what am I doing working in a post room?’

‘You’re only nineteen. You were homeless, for God’s sake. And your grandma died. Just you wait. One day you’ll be flying a private jet across the Caribbean sea. But, oooh, wait, no, you won’t just be the pilot. You’ll be the
owner
. There’ll be a beautiful woman by your side drinking champagne and you’ll fly over your sprawling beachside estate, or, no, actually, you’ll fly over your
own private island
and you’ll think to yourself, just think, I used to live in a house full of weirdos in Finchley and spent my days wheeling bitchy women’s letters round a big building and you’ll smile and the beautiful girl will smile and you’ll remember me saying this to you. You really will.’ She gripped his hand tightly in both of hers. ‘Give yourself a chance. You’re special, Con, really special. And your life’s only just beginning.’

Con gulped. Only nineteen.

Daisy was only eighteen, but she was already two-thirds of the way through her life; halfway if she was lucky.

‘You’ll be that girl, though? The girl on the plane. That’ll be you, right?’

She smiled. But she didn’t reply.

30

Leah’s phone rang at 7.05 p.m. It was Amitabh.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Looking out the window. What are you doing?’

‘Having a bath.’

Leah found it very strange when people made phone calls from the bath. It was almost as if they were inviting the recipient of the call to imagine them naked. ‘What do you want?’ she said, more abruptly than she’d intended.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I was just thinking about you. Wanted to make sure you were all right.’

‘Oh.’

‘Found anywhere to live yet?’

‘No,’ she said, winding the cord of the phone round her wrist. ‘I made a bit of extra cash last week so I’ve decided to stay here for another month.’

‘What! But that’s such a waste of money! Paying out all that rent for just you.’

‘Well, what do you suggest I do?’

‘I dunno. I just think if you’ve got some spare cash you should put it in the bank. Start saving for a deposit.’

Leah rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, God, Am, can you just drop the subject, please. I’m bored with it. And besides, it’s nothing to do with you any more.’

‘Oh, don’t say that, Leelee.’

‘And don’t call me ‘Leelee’.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s my girlfriend name,
not
my ex-girlfriend name.’

‘Yeah, but you’ll always be Leelee to me.’

‘What, even when you’re married to some girl from Mumbai and you’ve got loads of hairy children?’

Amitabh laughed, then he sighed. ‘Oh, Christ, Leah. God, I don’t know. Maybe this is all wrong, you know.’

Leah squinted and pursed her lips simultaneously, her body instinctively drawing itself inwards. ‘What?’

‘Maybe we shouldn’t have given up so easily.’

‘
We?!
’

‘Well, yeah,
me
. Maybe I should have… God, I don’t know.’

‘Amitabh, what exactly are you saying here?’

‘I don’t know what I’m saying. But I miss you, that’s all. I didn’t think I would, but I do.’

Leah noticed a shadow on the other side of the road, long and thin, cast by the street light overhead. She cupped her hand to the window and peered through. She could hear the tap-tap of hurried footsteps. It was Joanne.

‘Sorry, Am,’ she said, oblivious to what he was saying. ‘I have to go now. I’ll call you back. Bye.’

She dropped the phone and dashed to the front door. Joanne was just about to open the garden gate.

‘Joanne!’ she cried. ‘Hi!’

Joanne turned and glared at her. She was wearing a black leather coat, black lacy knit tights and black ankle boots with furry bobbles hanging off them. Her hair was black and held back with diamanté cherries. She was wearing red lipstick and black eyeliner, and looked like Juliette Binoche on a very bad day.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump.’

‘You didn’t,’ she replied stonily.

‘Right. OK. I was just, er… I hope you don’t mind me accosting you on the street like this, but I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.’

Joanne narrowed her eyes at Leah, regarding her as if she were trying to ascertain what species she was. ‘Sorry,’ she said, pulling her keys out of her handbag, ‘but who are you and how do you know my name?’

Leah looked at her in surprise. Surely she must have noticed her at least once during the past two years? ‘Er, I’m Leah? Toby’s friend? I live there.’ She pointed at her front door. ‘Just over the road from you.’

‘Oh,’ said Joanne, ‘I see.’

‘And the reason I wanted to talk to you was, and I know this might sound a bit strange, but I’ve noticed that you take great care over your appearance…’

Joanne glanced down at her leather coat. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘Oh, but you do. I always notice how well turned out you are, always wearing different clothes, different hair. I mean, I’m just lazy when it comes to clothes and make-up and stuff. Jeans, boots, bit of mascara – that’s as far as I go. I haven’t changed my image for years. And that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I run a gift shop in Muswell Hill, the Pink Hummingbird?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she nodded. ‘I know it.’

‘Well, we’re having a special open evening, on Friday night, to celebrate the launch of a new cosmetics range.’ She pulled a piece of pink card out of her pocket and handed it over. ‘It’s all 100 per cent organic, imported from California. We’re going to be one of the first London stockists. They’re sending us over one of their make-up artists and they’ll be doing free make-overs, free wine, snacks and stuff. It’s quite exclusive. I’m only allowed to invite a handful of guests and I just thought it seemed like the sort of thing you might enjoy?’

Joanne turned the card over and squinted at it. ‘When did you say this was?’