Take a Chance on Me (14 page)

‘Absolutely!’ Leaning forward, Georgia said eagerly, ‘How funny, I was just about to ask you about that. Now, my plan is to start up a business. Minimum outlay, maximum profit, flexible working hours, how does that sound?’

‘Like I’ve fathered Richard Branson.’ Baffled, Tom said, ‘Blimey.’

‘What kind of business?’ said Cleo.

‘Ironing.’

So, not
exactly
like Richard Branson. ‘Seriously?’

‘Why not? I love ironing. I’ve always done all our stuff since I was eleven.’ Dreamily Georgia said, ‘It’s brilliant, taking something crumpled and messy and making it all smooth and perfect. Like creating order out of chaos. And you can charge one pound twenty a shirt! How long does it take to iron a shirt? Five minutes. Easy peasy. And you can watch telly while you’re doing it.’ She looked pleased with herself. ‘All I need is an iron!’

‘And an ironing board,’ said Cleo.

‘That too.’

‘And hangers. Lots and lots of hangers.’ Oh dear, was she raining on the girl’s parade?

‘Fine. They’re cheap.’

‘And leaflets to advertise the business.’

‘Okaaay.

‘And transport.’

‘Not if I tell people to just drop the stuff off at the house and pick it up again once it’s done.’

Tom shook his head. ‘That won’t work. Ironing services collect and deliver. You’d definitely need a van.’

‘Fine then, forget the ironing.’ Georgia puffed out her cheeks, exhaled noisily, and shook back her hair. ‘I thought it was a good idea, but it wasn’t.
And
I was going to subcontract work out to pensioners. But never mind, I’ll just go on benefits instead.’

‘Hang on—’ began Tom.

‘I’ll be unemployed and sponge off the state. Far more restful.’ Her interested gaze wandered over to the pool table.

‘Look, I’m sure we can—’

‘Or I could become a pole dancer. That pays well, doesn’t it? Then I can save up for a van. Look, they’ve finished playing now. Shall we challenge them to a game of doubles?’

‘No.’ Cleo glanced briefly across at Johnny, who was laughing, and at Ash, who was juggling pool balls and being generally boisterous. ‘Anyway, he’s too old for you.’

‘Why? How old is he?’

‘Thirty.’

Georgia’s eyes widened. ‘
Is
he?’

Sensing that they were being watched, Ash turned round to look at Cleo and demanded, ‘What’s going on over there? Are you ogling my irresistible backside?’

Cleo opened her mouth to retort that she could think of prettier sights but was beaten to it by Georgia who said, ‘Cleo was just telling me about you. I can’t believe how old you are.’

What? Cleo did a double take.

‘Bloody cheek. So how old do you think I am?’ Ash demanded. ‘Sixty-five?’

Beaming, Georgia said, ‘I’d have said mid-twenties.’

‘But I
am
in my mid-twenties.’ Ash raised his eyebrows. ‘What has that witch been telling you?’

‘She said you were thirty!’

Cleo was stunned; so much for jumping to conclusions. ‘I didn’t. I meant
Johnny
was thirty.’

‘Who’s Johnny? Oh, I suppose that must be you.’ She briefly acknowledged Johnny before turning back to Ash. ‘So what’s your name?’

And within moments, she was over at the pool table, chatting away to Ash, the two of them getting along together famously. Cleo heard him tell Georgia that she, Cleo, was in fact fifty-seven years old.

‘She’s too young for Johnny, surely.’ At her side Tom was panicking, having made the same assumption. ‘Oh God, how am I supposed to deal with all this? I’m missing out on eighteen years of practice.’

‘I’ll have a word with her.’ Not that it had done much good with Fia Newman, but she had to try her best for Tom’s sake. Cleo took a gulp of her drink; if things had been different, she would have been Georgia’s aunt. Fabulous, trendy, brilliant Auntie Cleo who was always fun, never nagged about boring stuff, and had taught her how to carry off a trilby with style.

OK, who was she kidding? Any attempt to wear a hat made her look like a care-in-the-community patient out on a day trip. Her head was the wrong shape or something. But she could still be an aunt-by-proxy, couldn’t she, who might be rubbish at hats but was still great company and gave really excellent advice when it came to men and relationships.

Particularly the ones you shouldn’t even consider—

‘I’ll buy her a van,’ said Tom.

‘What?’

‘Just a cheap one, so she can set up the business.’ He’d obviously been mulling it over in his mind. ‘Can’t have her going into pole dancing.’

‘Well, no.’ Georgia had pretty obviously only said that to terrify him into buying her a van, but he couldn’t take the risk that she might do it.

‘So, you’ve met her now.’ Tom tried and failed to keep the pride out of his voice as he watched his newfound daughter from a distance. ‘What’s the verdict?’

Cleo had always loved Tom. She touched his arm and said gently, ‘I think she’s a character, and she’s going to change your life. But this isn’t as easy for Abbie as it is for you. Don’t let her feel left out of all this, will you?’

He looked surprised. ‘She isn’t left out. We’re all in it together.’

Cleo nodded slowly. She’d always loved Tom, but he wasn’t necessarily brilliant at understanding how women might feel. ‘OK. I’m just saying it might not feel that way to her.’

He shook his head; this was clearly beyond him. ‘Look, I know, but give it a few days and everything’ll be fine.’

***

Three games of pool later, Georgia said, ‘Where’s whatsisname gone? That friend of yours?’

‘Johnny. I wouldn’t call him a friend,’ said Ash. ‘He’s just the bastard who beats me at pool. Anyway, he left twenty minutes ago. Which means it’s my turn to beat you.’

‘That’s what you think, is it?’ Dimpling, Georgia waggled her finger at him. ‘Excellent, bring it on. You’re going to be so humiliated when I win
again
.’

Cleo, watching them, marveled at Georgia’s apparent lack of concern about Johnny’s departure.

At ten-thirty Ash left too.

‘Wow,’ said Georgia when he’d gone. ‘I
love
him.’

Cleo smiled; the two of them had definitely hit it off. ‘Good, I’m glad.’

‘And is it true that he’s single? I mean, he said he doesn’t have a girlfriend, but you know what men can be like. I’d hate to make a play for him, then discover he’s got some on-off female stashed away.’

A
play
? Cleo did a double take. ‘When you say you love him…’

‘I mean I fancy the pants off him! That is my idea of the perfect man. OK, I know,’ Georgia’s chin tilted with teenage defiance, ‘but that’s the way I am. As far as I’m concerned, personality is
way
more important than looks. Give me someone who can entertain me every time. Trust me, I’ve been out with my share of pretty boys. You soon get bored with looking at them, gazing into their beautiful eyes, and admiring their perfect… God, I don’t know,
teeth
and stuff. If they don’t have what it takes to make me laugh, I’m not interested. It’d be like going out with a poster on your wall.’

Her lip curled with derision as she said it. God, she really was serious. Cleo finished her drink in silence; and to think she and Tom had both spent the evening assuming it was Johnny her nearly-niece was interested in.

‘Do you think he likes me?’ said Georgia eagerly.

‘Um, well I’m sure he does.’ Cleo looked at Tom, who was clearly bemused by his daughter’s up-front attitude.

‘Good. Because I
really
fancy him. A
lot
. Even if he is a milkman. So, do you think I should just ask him out, or should I wait for him to ask me?’

The milkman line was one Ash habitually used as his reason for leaving early.

‘I’d wait,’ said Cleo. ‘It’s a pride thing. Men generally like to be the ones to make the first move.’

‘As long as he hurries up and
does
make it.’ Georgia’s slim fingers were already tapping impatiently against the side of her pool cue. ‘I hate it when people play hard to get. It’s such a waste of time.’

Blimey. If Georgia had her way, she and Ash would be married by Easter.

***

Tom had already headed off for work. Abbie, busy buttering toast and drinking tea, was due to leave in ten minutes. Having crept around upstairs in order not to disturb their new house guest, she got a shock when the door was pushed open and Georgia came padding into the kitchen in a green and purple striped nightie and with her hair askew.

‘Hi!’ Abbie knew she sounded over-bright but she couldn’t help herself; it just kept happening. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Yeah thanks. I was having the most amazing dream before I woke up.’ She paused. ‘Was someone else down here just now?’

‘No. Unless you mean Tom. He left at eight.’

The look of hope in Georgia’s eyes faded. She raked her fingers sleepily through her tangled hair. ‘Oh, right. Is it OK for me to have a cup of tea?’

What did she expect the answer to be?
No you can’t
?

‘Of course you can! Help yourself to anything you like!’ Abbie cringed inwardly; here she was, off again and drowning in a forest of exclamation marks. ‘Cereal, toast… we’ve got Marmite, honey, apricot jam, blackcurrant jam, eggs…’

‘Thanks, I’ll just have tea for now. Is your head better?’

‘Oh!’ She’d forgotten about last night’s fictitious headache. ‘Yes thanks, all gone! So, what are your plans then for today?’

Georgia shrugged and dropped a teabag into a mug. ‘Don’t know. Just have a rest and watch a bit of TV I suppose.’ She wrinkled her nose at the radio on the windowsill, currently playing a Neil Diamond track. ‘Is that Radio 2?’

She made it sound like Radio Born-in-the-Ice-Age. Was this Georgia’s way of telling her that from now on they would be listening to a station that was hip and happening? Feeling about a hundred years old, Abbie said defensively, ‘No, it’s—’

‘Actually, d’you know what time milkmen finish work?’

‘Sorry?’ Was this a trick question?

‘You know, people who do a milk round. They start work dead early so they must finish early. I just wondered if you knew when.’

‘No idea. Midday, possibly.’ Surely Georgia wasn’t considering that as a job? In a hurry now, Abbie took a big mouthful of toast and checked her hair in the mirror. She liked Neil Diamond. If she’d been alone in the house she’d have sung along, maybe even had a bit of a dance around the kitchen. Having a hyper-critical teenager in situ was going to change her life in more ways than she’d imagined. She chewed, swallowed, took a swig of too-hot tea then another bite of toast. The chances were that Georgia wouldn’t share her taste in TV programs either, would flinch at the prospect of having to watch a wildlife documentary, or chatter distractingly all the way through a vital episode of some series she wasn’t interested in but which she, Abbie, was addicted to.

Oh God, listen to me, I’m just a horrible human being who—

‘Hang on!’ Georgia held up a hand. ‘Sorry, can you shush a minute?’

OK, this was too much. Now she wasn’t even allowed to eat toast in her own kitchen? But ridiculously, despite her indignation, Abbie found that she’d stopped chewing. Georgia was listening intently to something; had she heard an intruder trying to break in through the back door? A mouse skittering across the floorboards? A bird singing in the garden? Maybe she was interested in wildlife after all.

‘What is it?’ Having listened for several seconds, Abbie said, ‘I can’t hear anything.’

‘Him.’ Georgia pointed in disbelief to the radio on the windowsill. ‘I know it can’t be him, but… God, that voice! It sounds just like the person I was talking to yesterday in the pub… wow, that is so
spooky
…’

Realization dawned. She’d been asleep by the time Georgia and Tom had come in last night. ‘Oh, did you meet Ash?’

‘Ash! Yes, yes!’ Georgia gestured wildly at the radio. ‘Can you believe it? This guy sounds
exactly
like him!’

Everything belatedly became clear. Abbie said, ‘That could be because it’s the Ash Parry-Jones show.’

Georgia’s teaspoon clattered onto the worktop. ‘Get out of here.’ Her head swiveled between Abbie and the radio, where Ash was now exchanging banter with his newsreader. Her eyes widened ‘But… but he told me he was a milkman!’

‘It’s kind of a running joke. He uses it on the show too, pretends he does a milk round before coming into the studio. He lives next door to Cleo. Look, I’m going to have to go—’

‘He’s an actual DJ! That’s amazing! God, is he good?’ Completely recovered from the earlier musical assault on her ears, Georgia was now turning up the volume, gazing in wonder at the radio. ‘OK, stupid question, of course he is. I just can’t believe this. I thought he was brilliant before, but now he’s even
better
.’

Abbie moved towards the door. ‘Will you be OK? I’ll see you later.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Georgia said absently. Her eyes were shining, her attention elsewhere. ‘This is so cool! It’s like I’m going to have my very own Chris Moyles!’

Fia marveled at the difference a month could make. Just a few weeks ago, her morning routine had involved getting up at eight, starting work in her mother-in-law’s shop at nine, and, in between being polite to customers, listening patiently to her mother-in-law’s nonstop stream of gossip, criticism, and social commentary. Regularly interspersed, needless to say, with paeons of praise for Will.

Which had been pretty boring, not to mention repetitive. Vivien liked to replay her waspish opinions on a more or less permanent loop and especially loved waiting until customers had left the shop, then criticizing their hair, their voices, their peculiar taste in clothes. It had been like being trapped for eight hours a day with the ladies from What Not to Wear. Fia would have found another job months ago, but each time she’d mentioned it, Will had been upset, she’d be letting both him and his mother down.

And like a complete pushover she’d believed him. Whereas in reality, he’d been controlling her, keeping her mentally tethered to him and Vivien while he conducted his own life as he pleased.

Looking back on it, she couldn’t believe she’d been so gullible. That was the payback for having a trusting nature. Well, she’d put all that behind her. Will and his bossy nightmare of a mother could take a running jump; this was the next phase of her life and from now on she wasn’t going to take any rubbish from anyone.

From now on she was going to decide what she wanted and go for it.

Who dares wins, and all that. What’s more, it was all working out really well. She had been daring and she was definitely winning so far.

Best of all, she was loving her unexpected new job. Even if it did mean getting up at six in order to go and buy the food she’d be cooking that day, then bringing it back and spending the next three hours doing all the prep.

‘La la la, laaa laaaaa.’ Humming along to her CD, Fia finished peeling and quartering the King Edwards for the shepherd’s pie and slid them into the pan of water on the hob. From the kitchen window she was able to look out over the pub garden, where wild rabbits hopped about and birds swung like acrobats from the trees, feeding on berries and seeds. She loved the utter peacefulness of the mornings, then the contrast of the buzzy conviviality of the pub when it was open. Of course it was hard work, but everyone was so appreciative of her cooking, it more than compensated. Never before had she been on the receiving end of so many compliments. Maybe the novelty would wear off one day, but it hadn’t yet.

Frank, the landlord, came into the kitchen as she was frying the sliced onions in butter and oil.

‘Morning, pet. Smells good. Coffee?’

‘Hi Frank. Yes, please.’ She sprinkled sugar onto the onions. ‘I’m doing shepherd’s pie, mushroom stroganoff, beef curry, and chicken and leek casserole.’

‘Great. We’ve already got twelve booked for lunch. Bunch of women who usually eat at the Bear are coming over because they’ve heard good things. Word’s spreading, pet.’ Frank clapped her on the back. ‘You’re turning out to be a bit of a star, aren’t you? Our very own Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall.’

Fia didn’t burst into tears. He meant it as a compliment.

‘Hey up.’ Frank glanced out of the window. ‘Rabbits at two o’clock. Where’s my shotgun?’

And sometimes he thought
he
was Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall.

‘Don’t kill them. I love watching them jump around out there.’

‘Spoilsport. Little buggers aren’t so sweet when they’re jumping all over your vegetable patch.’ Frank sloshed boiling water into two mugs and nodded at the CD player on the shelf above the fridge. ‘What’s that you’re listening to?’

‘
Carmina Burana
. By Carl Orff. Like it?’

He grinned. ‘Never really bothered with all that classical stuff. It’s Elvis for me, every time.’

Could she win him round? ‘It’s relaxing. I just like to have it playing in the background.’

Frank listened for a few seconds, clearly underwhelmed. Finally he said, ‘You should listen to the radio. Wouldn’t that be more cheerful?’

Cheerful? Now it was Fia’s turn to pull a face. Will’s mother had been a huge Radio 4 fan and had always had it on in the shop. When she wasn’t critiquing her customers, Vivien was disagreeing with practically everything on the radio and conducting pointless one-sided arguments with the presenters. Having to stand by while her opinionated mother-in-law screeched, ‘Oh will you just
listen
to yourself, you silly little man,’ day in and day out, had succeeded in putting her off talk radio for life.

‘You want to give BWR a go,’ Frank persisted. ‘Have a listen to Ash’s show. He’s a right laugh, that lad.’

Fia’s hackles rose instantly. A right laugh. Except, hard though it was to believe, it actually appeared to be true. Last night, while she’d been working away here in the kitchen, she’d heard Ash laughing in the bar. When she’d carried food through, she’d even seen him laughing with her own eyes; Ash had been playing pool with Johnny, joking around, and generally being the life and soul of the party. Yet when she’d squeezed past and smiled at him he’d practically cut her dead, turning away as if she didn’t exist. And this wasn’t the first time it had happened either. Everyone else in Channings Hill had been welcoming and friendly, but Ash Parry-Jones invariably treated her like some unwanted intruder. At first she’d assumed he was simply the quiet, stand-offish, keep-himself-to-himself type. Discovering over the course of the last fortnight that he was actually completely confident and outgoing with everyone else had come as a shock, not to mention a slap in the face. Because that meant he was being cold for a reason. He just didn’t like her.

And if he was going to be such an unfriendly miserable sod, she was buggered if she was going to listen to his precious radio show, no matter how hilarious it might be.

Frank left the kitchen. Fia powdered the frying onions with flour, then added a glug of red wine. Ten minutes later, curiosity got the better of her and she switched off the CD. If BWR hadn’t been one of the pre-set radio stations she wouldn’t have found it. As it was, she jumped at the sound of Ash’s voice. God, it was weird to hear him being himself, playful and good-humored and utterly relaxed.

‘… and that was Katy Melua, for those of you who like that kind of thing. Although if I had to be buried in my coffin with an iPod and only one artist playing on it, I’d want to kill myself if it was her. Or George Formby.’

‘Who?’ He had a young-sounding female in the studio with him. ‘The boxer guy who sells lean mean grilling machines?’

‘Do you know what? You’re thinking of George Foreman, who I’d love to have on my iPod in my coffin because he’s a legend, even if he doesn’t sing. But
I’m
talking about George Formby who played the ukulele and sang in a
really
annoying way. And I wouldn’t want Lonnie Donegan either. The King of Skiffle. Because I don’t like skiffle music,’ said Ash. ‘Although I have to say, the actual word
skiffle
is one of my all-time favorite words. It’s right up there with knickerbocker and lollygagging.’

‘You just made that last one up!’

‘I didn’t. It’s a real word,’ Ash protested. ‘It means hanging around. Which is a lot nicer than you might think, because you’d
think
it meant gagging on a lolly.’

The girl said, ‘I like pernickety.’

‘That’s our producer’s favorite word,’ said Ash. ‘Can’t imagine why. Probably because he wears knitted pullovers and lets his mum spit on her hankie before she cleans his face—’

Footsteps sounded outside the kitchen, signaling Frank’s return. Before she knew it, Fia’s arm had shot out and switched from radio back to CD. OK, maybe it was childish, but she wasn’t going to give Ash the satisfaction of even hearing that she’d listened to his show.

If he could be cold and unfriendly for no apparent reason… well, that was fine. So could she.

***

‘I bet you couldn’t believe your luck, could you?’

Cleo glanced in the rear-view mirror at her passenger and nearly got dazzled by his teeth. ‘Sorry?’

‘When you found out who you were picking up. Not just your lucky day either. Your lucky three weeks.’

‘Right. Absolutely.’ She nodded and flashed a professional smile of assent. Oh joy. Five minutes into the first of many journeys and already the client was proving himself to be a dickhead.

And to think Grumpy Graham had thought, in his own grumpy way, that he was doing her some kind of favor when he’d allocated her the job.

‘Here you go; you can take this one.’ Graham had actually winked—winked!—as he’d handed her the booking sheet last week. ‘Nice and regular, and a bit of a looker by all accounts. Don’t say I never do anything for you.’

‘Ooh, Casey Kruger!’ Coming into the tiny cluttered office to drop off some keys, Shelley had peered over Cleo’s shoulder. ‘I used to have a poster of him on my bedroom wall when he was in
On the Beach.
’

Cleo hadn’t watched
On the Beach,
one of Australia’s most successfully exported soaps, but she knew who Casey Kruger was. Like Kylie and Jason and so many other soap stars, he had gone on to have a career in music.

And now here he was, lounging in the back of the car in an unbuttoned black shirt and super-tight black jeans, drinking Diet Coke and autographing a pile of publicity photos of himself. For the next three weeks, he was starring at the Bristol Hippodrome in a new musical called
Beach Party!
It was her job to pick him up every afternoon from his hotel on the outskirts of Bath and deliver him to the theatre, then collect him again after each performance and return him safely to the hotel.

‘Here.’ Casey leaned forward and tapped her on the shoulder as they waited at a junction.

Turning, Cleo saw that he was presenting her with one of the photos he’d just signed.

‘Oh thanks. That’s really kind.’

Well, what else could she say—No thanks, that’s really nauseating?

‘See what I’ve put on it?’ Casey looked pleased with himself. Glancing at the words, Cleo read: To Cleo, You’re a Babe and you’re driving me crazy! All love, Casey Kruger xxx.

Which was less flattering than it sounded, because You’re a Babe! was Casey’s catchphrase and he said it to everyone he met. Several years back, whilst appearing at a charity event, he’d even said it to Princess Anne, and if that didn’t confirm his dickheadedness beyond all shadow of a doubt, Cleo didn’t know what did.

‘Pretty good, eh? And I put “Driving me crazy” because you’re my driver and that’s what you’re going to be doing for the next few weeks!’

She smiled and nodded. At this rate it was going to feel like the next few years.

‘You know what? We’re going to have fun, you and me.’ Chuckling and taking a sip of Diet Coke, Casey lowered his darkened window so the people waiting at the bus stop could recognize him. He nodded and waved graciously before buzzing the window up again. ‘So Cleo, tell me all about yourself. Were you a big fan of
On the Beach
, back when I was in it?’

Oh dear, it was already feeling like the next few years. Maybe she could persuade Shelley to swap jobs.