Monday to Friday Man (16 page)

‘She’s a big girl, Mari,’ I hear Guy reply.

‘Shh!’ Ariel urges them, before turning to me and ordering me not to pay any attention.

Sam notices that I’ve heard what they said too. ‘Where’s he taking you after the show?’ she asks, attempting to distract me. She rubs her hands together to keep them warm. I tell her he’s taking me out for dinner, but won’t tell me where: it’s going to be a surprise.

‘So romantic,’ sighs Sam. ‘Sometimes I wish I wasn’t married.’

‘You have fun, Gillyflower,’ Ariel says to me. ‘You deserve it.’

‘I stepped out once with my lodger,’ says Walter. ‘We used to walk along the docks. She was beautiful. French, mind you, so we didn’t understand a word each other said.’

‘I need to talk to you,’ Guy says when I approach him with two cups of coffee. The others have left the park, put off by the rain, but it’s still only 8.30 in the morning, so Guy and I decide to walk one more circuit.

‘Sounds serious.’

‘I’ve just found out that I’ve got this job in Kent.’

‘Oh, right. When are you going?’

‘Monday, after the weekend.’

‘That’s good isn’t it?’ I suggest, wondering why he’s looking worried. ‘How long are you going for?’

‘Two, maybe three weeks.’

‘Three weeks!’ I exclaim, followed by a calmer, ‘three weeks?’ The disappointment takes me by surprise. I’m used to seeing Guy every day. I don’t want him to go away for three weeks.

We walk our circuit and as we approach the exit gates of the park, we move impossibly slowly, like learner walkers. ‘Walter’s going to look after Trouble,’ he says.

‘I could have done that.’

‘I know, but I think you’ve got enough going on, like your date next week.’ He nudges me.

‘It’s not a date,’ I’m quick to tell him, not feeling quite so zingy as I’d felt earlier this morning.

When we reach the zebra crossing we stall. Three weeks is still screaming in my head. Twenty-one days of not seeing Guy.

‘Are you around over the weekend?’ I ask, not wanting to say goodbye just yet.

He shakes his head. ‘I’ve got to work, prepare for Monday.’

I can’t hold it in any longer. ‘I’m going to miss you,’ I say.

‘No you won’t,’ he replies with that dry smile. ‘While I’m away, you’ve got Jack to play with. Listen, I’d better go.’ Briefly Guy kisses my cheek and turns left at the zebra crossing. ‘Gilly?’ he calls over his shoulder.

I stop. Turn.

‘I’ll miss you too,’ he says.

As Guy leaves, someone taps me from behind and I swing round. ‘I thought you’d gone,’ I say to Ariel.

‘I’m taking Pugsy to the vet. He’s got a bit of hay fever. Now listen, you’re not to worry about Mari, OK? You know what she’s like.’

I’m still watching Guy leave. Ariel follows my gaze. ‘I think he’s a little jealous,’ he states, as if he’s just worked it out. ‘I was watching him earlier, when you were talking about Jack.’

‘He’s not jealous!’ I find myself laughing.

‘The thing about Mari,’ he continues, ‘is that she doesn’t want to see you get hurt again. None of us do,’ he says.

‘I know. And thank you, but I have to live my life, I have to move on.’

He nods. ‘Pugsy says have some fun with Jack, don’t you Pugs?’ He snorts.

I smile as I watch Ariel cycle away with Pugsy perched in the front basket.

He’s right.

Let’s see where it goes.

Nick calls me that evening, warning me that Nancy is insisting once more that I mark my thirty-fifth birthday now only next month.

‘What are
you
going to do?’ I ask him.

‘She’s taking me away, to some smart hotel in the country with a jacuzzi. She wants to throw a party for you. Just let her do it,’ he pleads, knowing it will make his life easier.

‘Fine. A dinner party would be lovely,’ I concede. ‘I’ll call her.’

Shall I invite Jack?

Maybe see how our evening goes first.

Gilly Brown. Soon-to-be-thirty-five.

Oh, how I hate birthdays.

25

December 1987

Megan is three today. The paediatrician said she wouldn’t live beyond the age of two, but he doesn’t know everything. Something is wrong now, though Megan shouldn’t be crying on her birthday.

‘Is she dying?’ I ask Mum.

She can’t be because Anna and I and all our neighbours have raised the money to take her to Germany. Next week Mum is taking Megan on an aeroplane to see a specialist who is going to make her better. She can’t die now.

‘No!’ Megan cries, when Mum tries to make her swallow a pill with water. Mum asks me to help get my sister dressed. ‘Don’t want to put clothes on,’ she shouts. I’m not used to her being cross. She’s never like this.

Mum doesn’t look me in the eye when she tells me Megan is going to be fine.

‘Is she in pain?’

I ask, scared.

She pretends she doesn’t hear me.

We’re in Megan’s bedroom and Father Matthew, a tall, stooped wise man, is with us, saying a prayer. Megan hasn’t cried as much since he arrived. Mum called him after breakfast, saying she was worried. Megan wouldn’t let Mum dress her, so instead Mum gave her a bath and wrapped her in a blanket before asking Dad to ring the doctor.

On the television there are weather warnings telling us not to drive unless our journey is essential. Snow is falling, great big silvery white flakes settling on the ground. School is cancelled for the day; Nick and I are pleased we can stay at home. Dad can’t get into work. He’s downstairs, ringing the surgery, arguing with someone. ‘It’s an emergency,’ he’s saying. ‘No, we can’t bring her in.’

Father Matthew leaves Megan’s side and says something quietly to Mum. I hate grown-ups sometimes. They never tell you what’s really going on. Mum is nodding. ‘What does Megan love doing most?’ Father Matthew asks Nick and me.

‘Being outside,’ I reply.

‘Going up Primrose Hill,’ Nicholas adds.

Father Matthew looks out of the window. ‘Then you must wrap her up warmly and take her,’ he says.

Megan, Mum, Nick, Dad and I are outside in our moon boots and thick coats, the snow glistening in the trees and on the rooftops, snowflakes melting into our clothes. There is something magical about snow. It’s soft and fluffy and I love the sound of it crunching beneath my boots. Mum hands Megan over to Dad and he cradles her in his arms. We look like an ordinary family on a day out, but it’s only when I see Dad crying that I know something is badly wrong. I rush to kiss Megan; Nick kisses her after me, clutching her small hand into his own. She’s quiet, but when I look into her eyes, I see into her soul. Megan has a beautiful soul that holds no anger, only love. When her fingers grip mine I sense she is trying to say goodbye and thanking me for my stories. She seems to be at peace, or maybe I am just hoping she is. If only I could ask her.

We go for a short walk up Primrose Hill and then return home. Children are tobogganing and building snowmen, but we are in our own world, just being with Megan.

She died later that morning with all of us by her bedside.

A part of each one of us went with her that day.

Later that night, I sit with Mum, her eyes red, and ask her if everything will be all right. ‘Megan will be in heaven now and she’ll be able to walk,’ I tell her, but she looks through me, as if I’m not here. Finally she says we’ll all pull through, but I know from the look in her eye that she doesn’t believe that.

Mum has lost the person she loved the most.

Nothing will be the same again.

26

Susie and I are whisked through the crowds and into the
Stargazer
studios. We don’t have to queue with our special VIP tickets. We drink champagne at the exclusive bar before being shown to our seats. ‘I could get used to this,’ I whisper to her.

When the judges walk onto the stage it’s like a pantomime, everyone booing and cheering Hunter Jones, loved and loathed in equal measure. As I’m clapping, my mind turns to Guy. ‘I don’t like reality TV,’ he’d said during one of our circuits. ‘These shows buff up the mediocrity.’

‘Oh don’t be such a snob,’ I’d replied.

Tonight Kylie Minogue is the celebrity guest. Susie and I, at one point, are only metres away from her. Jack had told me proudly earlier in the week that he’d clinched tickets for one of the best nights.

After the show, Susie has to head home to her children and husband, but as for me . . . well, Jack, and I are enjoying drinks in one of London’s most famous skyscrapers. I can’t believe I’ve never been here before.

‘Oh my God, this is incredible!’ I say, standing with Jack on the top floor of the Centre Point tower, gazing at views looking out right across London.

In the nightlight the views are even better.

‘Gilly, someone once told me I should leave London only when I hated it, when I’d squeezed all the juice out of it,’ Richard had said to me. ‘Stupidly I didn’t take their advice and I miss it like crazy. I’m not sure you’ve reached that stage yet.’

As I glance across at Jack, looking so handsome, suddenly I feel lucky to be alive and living in London. Jack brushes my hand and we smile at one another, almost in recognition that this is just the beginning of our evening. My time’s not done here, Richard. Not by a mile.

Back at No. 21, the karaoke machine is up and running. ‘OK, so what are you going to sing for us tonight, Gilly Brown?’ Jack asks, imitating Hunter Jones.

‘Well, Hunter, I’m going to sing, especially for you . . .’ I blow him a kiss, ‘a song by my heroine, Whitney Houston.’

Jack grins. ‘If you could stand on the star, please.’

I step forward onto the imaginary star.

‘When you’re ready, darling,’ Jack says, crossing his arms.

When I belt out ‘Saving all my love for you’, Jack attempts not to laugh.

‘Thank you, Gilly,’ he says at the end. ‘That was hideous, but strangely memorable.’ He sits back, observes me. ‘How much does winning mean to you?’

‘Everything. I’ll be
devastated
if you don’t put me through.’

‘How much does it mean to you?’ he asks again.

‘The whole wide world.’ I pretend to cry.

‘I’m putting you through, kid.’ He winks at me.

Soon Jack and I are dressing up and picking themes. It’s Abba, and I perform, ‘The Winner Takes it All’, and then it’s homage to Frank Sinatra and Jack sings ‘I’ve Got you under my Skin’. Watching him sing, I picture Jack Baker riding a motorbike in a hot country, me on the back, clutching onto him, resting my head against those broad shoulders. My dream is to be a girlfriend in a hot climate. And of course he has the voice of an angel. I’m beginning to wonder if there’s anything Jack Baker can’t do.

‘You’re not what we’re looking for,’ I tell him when he reaches the end, before I then go on to perform (badly) Madonna’s ‘Get into the Groove’ in legwarmers, red lipstick and bangles.

Next we raid the fridge, hungry after our dressing-up games.

‘I’m tired,’ I say, though make no attempt to move off the sofa.

‘No you’re not.’ Jack smiles suggestively. ‘You’re going to dance with me.’

‘Am I? You’re so sure of yourself, aren’t you.’

‘All the time.’ He pulls me to my feet.

Jack holds me, swings me back, reels me in, twists and turns me so much that soon I am giddy with laughter and happiness.

We dance well into the early hours of the morning.

I collapse into bed, make-up still on.

I can’t sleep. I thought he was going to kiss me. When we danced he held me so close, I felt the heat of his hands against my back. Maybe I should have kissed him, except I’d have preferred it if he had made the first move. I’m sure he wanted to kiss me.

‘Night,’ he’d said outside my bedroom.

‘Night,’ I replied.

‘Sleep well.’

‘You too.’ Pause. ‘Thanks for tonight, Jack, for the show, for everything.’

He was looking at me again with that charming smile. ‘My pleasure,’ he said, before going to his room.

It’s no use. I can’t sleep. Perhaps it’s for the best. Jack is my Monday to Friday man after all, so why go and spoil it all with a one-night stand. Think of the awkwardness tomorrow morning. I don’t want to interview any more Roys either. We were absolutely right to keep our hands to ourselves.