Not Quite Perfect (7 page)

The Pickled Pig represents the waning soul of twenty-first-century public houses the country over. It once served this corner of southeast London as a cinema until the big cinema companies invented places called multiplexes and it went out of business. It then became a pub and got swallowed up by one of the big pub companies. This caused the locals to moan until they realised that the beer was actually a lot cheaper than before.

Emma is the first to arrive and selects a pint of local beer before finding a booth, far away enough from the bar to be quiet, but close enough to the action to get a good view of the locals, many of whom have been here since opening time. She studies the black and white photographs on the wall depicting old Penge and a man named Angry Tony who made his living selling potatoes and bizarrely, coffins. The evening is grey and wet and she sees Rachel push her way through the swing doors and shake off her umbrella.

‘Man, it’s chucking it down,’ she declares as she locates Emma. ‘Right, what are we drinking?’

‘Hello, Rachel. Nice to see you too. It’s called Stinky Pete and it’s quite good. Try it.’

Rachel takes a gulp and licks her lips,

‘Hmm, not bad. Want another?’

‘No, I’m fine for now thanks.’

Rachel returns minutes later with her drink and a packet of dry roasted peanuts.

‘Kids all tucked up?’

‘Yeah, but Steve still isn’t home, so –’

‘You left Will in charge?’

Rachel snorts. ‘Don’t be daft, Lily’s much more responsible! No, Tom is babysitting until Steve gets home.’

‘Tom?’

‘Our next-door neighbour.’

‘Oh, the dishy one.’

Rachel is surprised that she and her sister obviously have similar taste. ‘D’you think?’

‘Oh yeah, bit pudgy, but very cute. Like Russell Crowe.’

‘Steady on, he’s hardly a gladiator!’

‘Oh, so you have checked him out then?’ Emma teases.

‘So what if I have. I am a respectable married lady so it’s fine to look as long as you don’t touch,’ says Rachel in a superior tone.

‘I agree with the married bit,’ laughs Emma. Rachel flicks her sister the V-sign. ‘Anyway, sister dearest, when exactly were you going to tell me that you’re moving to Scotland?’

‘Aha, you’ve spoken to mother then?’

‘Yes but still, Rach, I’m your sister. You could have told me.’

‘Why do you think we’re having this drink? I wanted to tell you face to face. Don’t be so sensitive.’

Emma is irritated by the brush-off, but is interrupted by Rachel’s phone. Rachel glances at the caller ID and rolls her eyes, mouthing ‘Steve’ as she answers with a curt ‘Hi?’ Steve obviously has a lot to say and Emma watches Rachel’s face as her look transforms from one of mild irritation to impatient anger. Emma waits for the backlash and isn’t disappointed.

‘No, Steve, you bloody listen. You said you’d be home in time and you weren’t. Tom offered and I actually do think it’s OK to leave our children with him. He’s been more supportive than you have lately. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to hang up and moan to my sister about you.’ She punches the end call button with a defiant ‘Tosser!’

Emma looks at her sister. ‘You’re really very cross, aren’t you?’

‘D’you think?’ says Rachel. ‘First he wants to move us up north, then I find out he’d known for ages and now he’s playing the alpha-male working all bloody hours while my brain is dissolving due to lack of proper use. I dunno, Em, sometimes I just want to walk out the door and never come back.’

Emma is a little shocked by the outburst. She knows Rachel can fly off the handle and she knows she’s found it hard to adjust to life as a stay-at-home mum, but she’s never heard her talk like this before. Giving up is not something the Darcy sisters do and she’s never seen her as angry as this with Steve either. She’d always had them down as rock-solid and immune to the kind of vitriol she’s seen other couples develop after so many years and so many children. She knows better than to wind up her sister any further and decides that softly, softly might be the way to go.

‘Come on, Rach, you don’t mean that.’

‘Don’t I? Oh God, Em, I don’t know what I mean these days.’

‘Have you tried talking to Steve?’

Rachel looks at Emma as if she’s just arrived from Planet Stupid. ‘Of course I’ve tried talking to him. All I ever bloody do these days is try to talk to my husband, but he’s never bloody there!’

Emma sees the error she’s made but presses on like a woman on a suicide mission. ‘Well, I can babysit one night if you want to go out, you know, to talk.’

Rachel realises she’s been ranting and looks at her baby sister. Emma’s face is twisted with concern and Rachel sees a shadow of the four-year-old agreeing to let Rachel cut her hair, just to please her. Their mother had not been amused when she’d come upstairs to find her youngest daughter resembling a child with alopecia, especially when Rachel had tried to clarify the situation with the words ‘It just fell out, honest.’

Rachel smiles at the memory and at her sister. ‘Thanks, Em,’ she says with as much softness as she can muster. ‘I think Mum and Dad are having the kids at the weekend so we can try and sort it all out. Don’t worry, little sis, I’m just knackered, OK?’ Emma looks relieved. ‘So what have you been up to? Tell me about this gorgeous new author of yours. I presume he is gorgeous? Congrats on getting the book by the way. Sorry, should have said that before’. She knocks her pint glass against Emma’s in a feeble toast.

‘He’s just a nice bloke who’s written a really good book.’

‘Wow, Em, sounds amazing,’ says Rachel, feigning a yawn. ‘Let’s hope they don’t get you to write the marketing copy.’

‘Ha, ha,’ says Emma. ‘Oh by the way, I think Mum’s planning a dress-shopping trip. Are you up for it?’

‘I’m always up for it! Now drink up, little sis, it’s your round!’ By closing time, they have both drunk at least one pint more than is good for them, but Rachel doesn’t want to go home.

‘Let’s go for a curry!’

Emma hasn’t eaten since lunchtime and the thought fills her with an overpowering hunger bordering on nausea, but she agrees. They stagger out into the drizzly night and across the road to the pink neon-lit Bombay Fantasy. The waiters’ smiles are patient and accommodating and they are quickly led to an enormous table adjacent to the only other diners: three sweaty city boys, their faces red from alcohol with shirtsleeves rolled up and ties abandoned. Their ringleader, a mid-thirties chancer with a receding hairline and an air of being funnier than he is, leers towards them: ‘All right ladies?’

‘All right?’ Rachel replies with bravado.

‘So what are two gorgeous ladies like yourselves doing out alone?’

Rachel is in her element. ‘Trying to avoid cretinous men, but failing miserably,’ she retorts fixing him with a disappointed look.

Chancer likes this response. ‘Ha ha, get you. Are you lesbians then?’ he asks, as if this could be the only explanation for Rachel’s sarcasm.

Emma matches her sister’s look. ‘We’re sisters, half-wit.’

‘Even better! How about we finish up here and you can shake your booties back at my gaff?’ says Chancer nudging his friends.

Emma is about to open her mouth but Rachel holds up her hand to stop her. ‘We-ell,’ she purrs, ‘that sounds like a very tempting offer. Are you going to buy us dinner then?’

Chancer grins. ‘Of course.’

‘Why don’t we get it to take away?’ adds Rachel provocatively.

‘Wahey!’ Chancer and his monkeys whoop in agreement.

Emma pretends to drop her napkin and hisses, ‘Rachel!’

Rachel bobs her head under the table. ‘What?’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Getting us a free takeaway. Trust me.’

‘I don’t like the sound of this.’

‘Just meet me by the door in five minutes.’

They place their order. Rachel makes her excuses and goes to the toilet, flashing her cleavage as she passes the city boys, who wolf-whistle in appreciation. Emma attempts a smile and Chancer’s weasly, greasy-haired friend takes this as a come-on. ‘I think you’re in there, Jez,’ says Chancer with a nudge

Emma feels as if she might vomit and lurches to her feet. ‘I just need to go and check on my sister.’

‘You do that, darling.’

Rachel is talking to the waiter as Emma staggers up. ‘So those lovely men over there have kindly agreed to pay for our dinner. Thanks so much. Let’s go, Em.’

They make for the door.

‘Oi! What do you think you’re playing at?’ Chancer is on his feet now.

‘Run for it!’

Rachel grabs Emma’s hand and they sprint onto a bus that has just pulled into its stop.

‘You slags!’ shouts Chancer after them.

Rachel and Emma collapse onto the back seats and Rachel waves and blows kisses at their hapless pursuer, who is being ushered back into the restaurant by two burly Indian waiters, keen to obtain payment. The bus speeds off down the road leaving the city boys far behind them.

‘Ha!’ declares Rachel. ‘Another classic Darcy girl adventure! Em, are you OK? You look a bit green.’

‘Actually, I feel a bit –’ and she promptly vomits into the takeaway bag.

‘Oh, very nice,’ says Rachel, ‘you really can’t handle your drink, can you?’

They have only travelled two stops. The bus driver comes out of his cab.

‘Right, you two. Off!’

‘Sorry?’

‘You’ll have to get off the bus.’

‘But she’s ill and we’re two lone females.’

‘Not my problem, love. She’s obviously had too much to drink. You’ll have to get off. You’ll stink out my bus.’

‘Oh charming, very gallant, chucking us out into the cold. Come on Vomiting Veronica. You can stay at mine and you owe me a takeaway.’

She leads a shivering Emma off the bus and they stagger all the way back to Rachel’s house. Rachel drapes her sister over the wall while she fumbles for her keys. She sees a light come on in Tom’s hallway and is half-pleased and half-mortified when he opens the door.

‘Ah, Mrs Summers, how was the pub? Are you drunk?’

‘As a skunk, Mr Davies, and this,’ she picks up her almost comatose sister and waves a floppy hand, ‘is my sister, Emma.’

‘A pleasure,’ Tom declares. ‘Need any help getting in?’

‘If you could help me get old Chunder-Cheeks into the lounge that would be great.’ Rachel opens the door and between them, they manhandle Emma onto the sofa. ‘Thank you. You’re a gent.’

‘No problemo. By the way, Rachel, I got the feeling Steve wasn’t too pleased to find me here tonight. I just hope I didn’t cause you any grief.’

‘Oh Tom, it’s not you. Steve just needs to get his priorities sorted and I need to talk to him like a grown-up, but we will, I promise. Now shoo, Doris at number thirty-two would love to see you skulking out of my house in the wee small hours, but I don’t want to get a reputation.’

‘Of course.’

Tom moves to pass her in the hall, turning to look at her as he does so. Rachel, slightly drunk and not wanting to appear unfriendly goes to peck him on the cheek but mistimes her attack and ends up planting the kiss on the right-side of his lip. To Rachel’s mind, your next action in this kind of situation is the borderline between fidelity and adultery. She is drunk, but decides to brush it off with an embarrassed giggle. Tom smiles and the moment passes without incident, but as she shuts the door behind him, she leans against it and lets out a sigh.
What are you playing at Rachel, you fool?
she thinks.

She tucks up Emma, leaving her a glass of water. She tiptoes upstairs to the half-lit darkness of the marital bedroom. She undresses quickly and wriggles into bed beside Steve’s steady breathing form.

‘Steve? Are you awake?’

There is no response, which Rachel takes as either no interest or genuine sleep. She lies awake for the next hour or so, her mind heavy with worry until alcohol and fatigue transport her to a restless sleep.

Emma blinks at her screen unable to believe that she has caused herself this world of pain again. Her left eye is twitching with the effort of being open and her temple is throbbing with a dull echo, pounding the words ‘Too much beer! Too much beer!’ She squints at the over-bright screen and wonders if people would notice if she slipped on her sunglasses.

‘Having troubles there, missus?’

‘Ella, didn’t your mother ever tell you not to creep up on people like that?’

‘Sorry, my mother had a Stephen King obsession so, to be honest, scaring people was a family pastime. What was it last night?’

‘Beer. Too much. Don’t want to talk about it. All Rachel’s fault,’ stammers Emma, feeling bilious at the memory. ‘I think I puked on a bus.’

‘Euurgh, sounds like you might need one of David and Simon’s cure-all fry-ups.’

‘Please, Ella. Do you want to see the contents of my stomach?’

‘Hmm, not especially. Shall I leave you?’

‘If you don’t mind. Talking makes me nauseous. In fact, being upright makes me nauseous.’

‘Mmm, well I don’t think you’re going to like what’s coming down the corridor.’

‘Miranda?’

‘Worse. Joel.’

‘Oh crap. Have I got time to esc –’

‘Ah, Emma, have you got a minute?’ says Joel, striding into their midst.

‘Erm, I’m actually in the middle of something quite important.’

‘But you haven’t logged on yet?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Your screen? You haven’t logged onto your computer yet.’

Emma turns to her desk. ‘I know that. I’m an editor. I have manuscripts to work on,’ she says fumbling for the nearest pile of papers.

Joel is unimpressed. ‘Look, Emma, maybe you have time to waste but I don’t. I need an urgent discussion with you about this Richard Bennett book. Can we go somewhere private?’ He glances over at Ella, who is in the middle of a ‘loser’ gesture behind his back and has to wave her arms around as if batting a fly.

‘Got it!’ she grins and darts back to her desk.

Wearily Emma launches herself to her feet and follows Joel to a meeting room like a pupil about to be blasted by their headmaster. Joel is already sitting at the head of the table looking like a headmaster about to blast his pupil.

‘What’s this about then?’ asks Emma, wishing she could just curl up in the corner of the room and go to sleep.

‘It’s about this
Red Albatross
.’

‘Orchid’

‘I know but I’m calling it an Albatross, because that’s what it will be for this company’

Emma tells herself to stay calm. She tries to fix her eyes on a point and finds herself staring at Joel’s ear hair. She shudders.

‘The point is, this book isn’t going to work. We’ve paid far too much money, which we will never earn back. We have no guarantee that anyone will even like it, let alone shortlist it for a prize. And even if it does win, who says the punters will actually buy it? I mean the Booker’s all very well, but what does it actually deliver in terms of revenue and profit? You editors make it very difficult for us at the coalface, you know. So, as a precaution, Jacqui’s put in a call to Richard and Judy. I’m going to need your author on best behaviour at the Ivy next month, OK?’

Joel sits back waiting for Emma to show her appreciation. Emma Darcy has never been a girl to disappoint. Before she knows what is happening, she lurches forwards, grabs a handily place wastepaper bin and vomits, accidentally splashing Joel’s shoes. They look at one another astonished before Emma wipes her mouth with a tissue and makes for the door, bin in hand without a backward glance or word. She almost collides with her godmother Rosie, who is striding down the corridor arm in arm with Miranda, two extravagantly colourful powerhouses of energy.

‘Darling! I’m just having coffee with Mimms. Take you for lunch afterwards?’

‘Wonderful,’ says Emma with a smile. ‘I’m suddenly starving!’

Rachel feels one of her eyes open and realises that her eyelid is being lifted for her by a three-year-old’s finger.

‘Wake up, Mummy,’ sings a sweet angelic voice. When she attempts to close her eye again, its pitch and tone intensify. ‘Wake up, Mummy. Now!’

Rachel tries to open both eyes simultaneously and glare at her torturer.

‘Alfred, Mummy has got a headache!’

‘Yeah, Dad said you had too much beer,’ says Will, who has just wandered into the bedroom.

‘Oh he did, did he?’ mumbles Rachel, feeling an attack of ‘bad mother with a hangover’ syndrome coming on. ‘Where’s Lily?’

‘Downstairs, watching
Milkshake
. I turned it on for her,’ adds Will proudly.

‘Clever boy,’ says Rachel weakly ruffling his hair and checking her watch. ‘Oh bloody hell! We’ve got to get Will to school in twenty minutes.’

‘Oh bloody hell!’ shouts Alfie with glee.

Eighteen minutes later, Rachel has bundled herself and the children into the car and armed each of them with a banana. ‘A good, nutritious breakfast,’ she declares.

‘I wanted porridge,’ says Lily, doing her best grumpy princess face.

‘And I want two weeks in Barbados with George Clooney. Sometimes life is so unfair,’ says Rachel.

Predictably, as they near the school, there isn’t a parking space to be had, but Rachel spies a car about to leave and angles the steering wheel, indicating her intentions. As if from nowhere, a shiny black 4X4 screeches behind the departing car and bulldozes its way into the vacant space.

‘Oi!’ Rachel bellows causing the gathering parents to turn and stare. ‘I was just about to park there!’

A sharp-faced skinny woman in a velour tracksuit, her ash blonde hair scraped back in a severe ponytail, climbs out of the tank and approaches Rachel’s car. ‘Are you talking to me?’ she snarls with the charm of a rabid dog.

‘Yes. I was going to park there. I was indicating and you pushed in.’

‘Ahhh,’ says the woman, ‘poor you. What do you want me to do about it?’

Rachel realises that the children have gone quiet and that most of the parents are now watching the show. She spies Verity looking over, nudging a fellow alpha-mother. Oh well, in for a penny, she decides.

‘I want you to move.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I want you to move, so that I can park there. Please’

‘Oh, and why should I do that?’

‘Because, it is the right thing to do and I am asking you nicely.’ The woman wrinkles her face with a look that says ‘whatever’, so Rachel continues. ‘Plus, your car is new and shiny and my car is old and battered, so you wouldn’t want me to accidentally scrape it when I reverse past on this incredibly narrow road, would you?’

The woman gives Rachel a look of pure venom and Rachel wonders if she is about to be punched.

‘Fucking nutter!’ she mutters and flounces back into her car, roaring off in an ozone-layer-destroying fug.

‘What did that lady say?’ asks Will.

‘Chucking butter, darling. I think she was a bit crazy,’ says Rachel, pulling into the space and flashing Verity a saintly smile. Her phone chirps and she sees that it’s Sue.

‘Hello, love. Can I call you back in a sec?’

‘Sure, but I just called to say that Joe is still poorly, so I’m not going to make Soft Play today.’

‘Soft Play?’

‘Don’t tell me you’d forgotten?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Well, Christa’s going, so will you go along anyway?’

‘Sue, I have a hangover and was hoping to go home, bung on Cbeebies for Lily and Alfie and go back to bed for an hour.’

‘Ahhh, poor you. It’s up to you my love, but I think Christa is hoping you’ll go.’

‘That’s right. Make me feel even more guilty than usual.’

‘That’s my job! Don’t forget to text me with any more of Christa’s revelations. There has to be a cross-dressing brother in that family at least!’

Rachel snorts. ‘Will do. Big kisses to Joe-Joe.’

She ends the call and notices that a text has arrived. It’s from Emma: ‘I hate you. x’

Rachel laughs and flings open the door for Will.

‘See you later gorgeous.’

‘Mum!’ protests Will as she attempts to kiss him. She manages to aim one on his head before he wrestles from her grasp. He bolts into the playground, following the rest of his class into school.

‘Right. Good, Soft Play then.’

‘Ooh Mummy I love Soft Play. Can I have a chocolate croissant? Pleeeease?’ squeaks Lily.

‘Oh yeah baby,’ says Rachel suddenly feeling a little better at the thought of an indoor venue with coffee and baked goods to hand. Her optimism is short-lived as they pull in to the car park of Jambalaya with its ambitious strapline ‘Where dreams come true’. The queue of rabid two- and three-year-olds is snaking out of the door and round the wall with its cheery Eric the Elephant sign. In fact, Eric is working the queue as they arrive. He is having a tough time as one determined three-year-old hangs on to his trunk and, given the menacing look in his eyes, is pretty set on ripping it from his face. Rachel unloads the kids and scans the line for Christa. She spots her waving from the front of the queue and gesturing for Rachel to join them. Rachel is still a little shaken by her earlier run-in with the 4X4 driver and approaches Christa with caution, perfectly ready to join the back of the queue.

‘Rachel, come on and join us! You don’t mind, do you?’ she says to the man behind her.

‘Well actually –’ he begins, before a man the size of a bison and a bear bolted together, wearing dark glasses and an enormous black suit appears and growls in a thick Eastern European voice, ‘Thees laydee eez weeth us, OK?’

The objector decides against further objection. ‘Erm, OK.’

The gorilla slips back into the shadows and Rachel looks at Christa for an explanation.

‘Oh
ja
, sorry Rachel, how rude of me. This is Rory. He is Roger’s bodyguard.’

Rachel almost doesn’t want to ask. ‘His bodyguard?’

‘
Ja
. It is because of Rudi and his connections.’ She looks around and then whispers, ‘He thinks we can’t be too careful.’

‘Blimey,’ says Rachel wondering how long she can leave it before excusing herself to go and text Sue. ‘So what do you think they would do?’

‘Oh kidnapping perhaps. I think Rudi worries too much, but what can you do? Rory is a very nice man. Roger loves him.’

Rachel glances over to see Roger, Lily and Alfie practising their combat skills on Rory. He does not react until Roger karate-kicks his groin. Rory flinches and groans, but then high-fives Roger.

‘He is teaching Roger self-defence. Pretty good,
nicht wahr
?’

The next two hours are wholly enjoyable for Rachel. She and Christa drink coffee after coffee, while the children run around like loons. At one point the elephant-torturer attempts to pick a fight with Alfie, until he is told by Rory to ‘Play nicely’ and doesn’t trouble anyone again.

‘Wow,’ says Rachel. ‘It’s great having a bodyguard.’

‘
Ja
, it is
sehr gut
, but you have to make sure they are very discreet. The last one we had tried to sell stories to the press about us.’

‘Goodness,’ says Rachel. ‘What about?’

‘Ah, they said we were swingers. Completely
nicht
true of course. Just because I have a rubber sex-suit in the wardrobe, doesn’t mean I will share my pickle with anyone.’

Rachel almost spits her latte down her front. ‘That’s –’

‘
Ja
, I know. Terrible. You just cannot trust these bastards,’ says Christa, ‘but Rory is family, so it is much better.’

‘Oh it must be,’ says Rachel reflecting, not for the first time, how dull her life is.

Emma sits back in her chair feeling momentarily nauseous and then, after a round burp, much better. The waiter looks disgusted but changes his sneer to a sycophantic smile as Rosie sweeps past him, returning from what she likes to refer to as the ‘powder room’.

‘Honestly, this place really has gone downhill. There used to be an attendant handing you warm towels and now they’ve got hand-driers. I mean! Hand-driers! No wonder this country is going to the dogs. So darling, feeling better for a feed?’

‘Yes thank you. That was lovely.’

‘What was it last night? A book launch? Dinner with an author?’

‘Oh no, just an evening in the pub with Rachel.’

‘Oh.’ Rosie wrinkles her nose with distaste as if Emma has just presented her with a large dog turd. ‘Why?’

Emma laughs at her godmother’s snobbishness, reflecting how like her own mother she can be.

‘It’s a really nice pub and you know how Dad always taught us to appreciate the good things, like real beer.’

‘Ah yes, your father always did have strange taste,’ says Rosie. ‘And how is dear Teddy?’

‘He’s fine. He seems to be enjoying his grandchildren and making the most of retirement.’

‘Yes, of course. The quiet life. Never really appealed to me. And how about your mother?’ She utters this last word with poorly hidden disdain.

‘She’s OK. She’s trying to hijack my wedding, but I guess she means well.’

‘Oh darling, that’s awful. Well you simply mustn’t let her!’

‘Easier said than done, I feel.’

‘Would you like me to have a little word, you know, woman to woman?’

Emma knows this will send her mother into orbit. ‘It’s fine Rosie. Thank you, but I can handle it.’

‘I’m sure you can, my dear, but you must let me help in some way. Shall I ask Stella to make your dress, or see if Elton can play at the church?’

‘That’s really kind, but we’re trying to keep it low key. To be honest, we haven’t set a date yet.’

‘Oh well, when you do, let me know. I’m happy to offer any assistance. Just ask.’

‘Thank you. I do appreciate it. Rosie?’

‘Darling girl?’

‘Why did you never marry?’

‘Ah, the million dollar question. Actually, I was married.’

‘Really? When?’

‘Many years ago when I was too young to care and thought life was so romantic.’

‘What happened?’

‘It was in the sixties when everything was so easy and you could fool yourself that you were in love. Alas, it was just a joke to him and he did not love me. So we got a divorce and never spoke of it again.’

‘Wow! Was he your true love then?’