Three Amazing Things About You (2 page)

‘Sure you don’t mean Tommy Cooper?’

‘Shut
up
.’

‘Are there pigeons there?’

‘Yes, loads.’

‘My mum went to St Mark’s Square once. A pigeon did a poo on her head.’

‘Lovely.’

‘She was so mad,’ said Bea. ‘She’d had her hair done specially for the trip. I wouldn’t stick around there if I were you. Get out while you can. Those Italian pigeons are evil.’

‘Fine, you’ve convinced me. I’m going to jump into my helicopter now and fly home.’

‘I think you should. Shall I come over after work this evening?’

‘That’d be good.’

‘Around seven then. See you later. Bye-eee!’

Hallie put down the phone and straightened her duvet, which had gone crooked again. She pulled herself into a more comfortable sitting position and did her best to adjust the pillows too. There was a definite art to staying in bed and not having to endlessly rearrange yourself, and she’d yet to master it. Back-arching, shoulder-stretching, bottom-wiggling and neck-tilting all played their part.

Having stretched and wriggled and got herself half sorted, Hallie looked out at the indigo sky as darkness fell. It was the week before Christmas, and multicoloured fairy lights were being switched on. From here, she had arguably the best view of the village: to the left, the high street; to the right, the River Windrush with its low stone bridge and the row of honey-coloured shops, hotels and houses on the other side of the water. She could watch everyone coming and going, keep track of people she knew, and also view the progress of tourists making their way around Carranford, the self-styled jewel in the north Cotswolds’ crown.

Not so many visitors during the winter months, of course, but still enough to keep the people-watching interesting and the tourist-friendly shops open. A coachload were currently milling around, taking endless photographs, diving in and out of shops and buying souvenirs they didn’t need, as well as Christmas presents for friends and relatives back home. By the looks of things, plenty of them would be opening a festively wrapped umbrella this year, printed with scenes of Carranford. Bea must have sold over a dozen today alone.

Eight days to Christmas. Hallie tried not to wonder if this one might be her last, basically because such thoughts were unanswerable and never helpful. Apart from anything else, the answer was always
possibly
.

Then again, that applied to everyone on the planet.

Banishing the question from her mind, Hallie switched on the iPad and checked her emails instead. Several more had arrived this afternoon from visitors to the website. Brilliant, something to keep her occupied until Bea turned up. Never mind wondering if this Christmas would be her last; there were far more important problems to be sorted out, like how a girl should handle the discovery that she’s inadvertently been dating twin boys, and the best way for a middle-aged man to divide his time over the festive season between his dull wife and his enthralling mistress.

Hallie had set up the website during a prolonged and particularly tedious hospital stay. Didn’t everyone enjoy reading advice columns? She always had. She loved them, and loved coming up with solutions to problems too. When the columnist neglected to mention a useful suggestion, it always killed her not to be able to jump in and add a reply of her own.

The answer to this particular dilemma had, therefore, been to create the web page and begin dispensing advice herself.

She hadn’t done it as poor-tragic-Hallie-with-the-manky-lungs-and-limited-lifespan either. This would only have inhibited questions; she’d known that from the word go. No, when people had problems in their lives, those problems were overwhelmingly important to them and everyone simply had to respect that. They certainly mustn’t feel as if they couldn’t compete with the person doling out the advice.

So she’d been anonymous from the start, and had remained so. All her readers knew was that she was female. The website was called www.threethingsaboutyou.com, and everyone writing in for advice with a dilemma was asked to include three things about themselves. Whether they chose to reveal big or small details was entirely up to them, but it was always an interesting indicator of character, and Hallie used them to more fully understand the people who were asking her to advise them.

Of course, for the first few weeks there hadn’t been any readers, nor any problems being sent in, simply because no one knew the website existed. She’d had to make up dilemmas, borrow and adapt some from old magazines and reply in her own words to people who’d never confided in her in the first place.

But before long, interest had started to grow. Thanks to the power of social networking, people slowly discovered the website and, deciding they liked it, spread the word to their friends. The number of hits steadily increased, and readers began submitting their own problems, which was good of them and freed Hallie up to spend more time researching the relevant issues and compiling the best possible answers.

Since then, the popularity of the website had continued to grow. Hallie was known to her readers as Rose, which was her middle name. Visitors to the site were welcome to contribute their own advice, but she was the one who decided whether or not it was posted. It was generally agreed that Rose’s replies were great and her rapport with the contributors second to none. She had warmth, wit and compassion, and the readers appreciated this.

Almost as much as Hallie appreciated them in return.

She clicked on the first email:

Dear Rose,

I’m forty-six, married for almost twenty years, and my wife doesn’t know I like to wear women’s underwear. Well, no one does. My problem is that last week my mother-in-law took it upon herself to wash and clean my car while I was out at a works event. Being the thorough type, she took out the spare tyre in the boot and found the bra and knickers underneath.

She has now accused me of having an affair and is demanding I confess all to my wife. I know what my mother-in-law is like – she won’t rest until I do. So which do you think I should admit to being, Rose? An unfaithful husband or a transvestite? I honestly don’t know which option she’d find easier to accept.

Okaaaaay.

The second email said:

Dear Rose,

There’s this boy in my class and I really like him but he never looks at me. I thought it was because I wasn’t skinny enough because he seems to like only thin girls, so in October I stopped eating and now I’ve lost three stone but he still isn’t interested.

What’s wrong with me and how can I make him fall in love with me? I just want to be happy. Do you think it’ll happen if I lose more weight? Help me, Rose, I’m so miserable I just want to die. Please please tell me what to do.

Hallie’s heart went out to the desperately unhappy teenager. She would answer this one first. Poor girl, a bit of love-bombing probably wouldn’t go amiss.

It was Christmas Eve, and Tasha Sykes was discovering that coming out shopping three hours before she was due at the airport possibly wasn’t the brightest idea she’d ever had.

But there were last-minute things she’d needed to buy, and she hadn’t expected
quite
so many people to be as disorganised as herself. The shops were hot and heaving, the biting cold outside was making her nose sting and her phone kept buzzing with texts from friends demanding to know why she’d left the party early last night.

Tasha was ignoring the texts; it wasn’t as if her friends weren’t used to her by now. They seemed far more bothered by her single status than she was and were endlessly attempting to set her up with men she wasn’t remotely interested in being set up with. Last night had been more of the same, a smart drinks party in Hampstead full of couples, apart from one unsuspecting person who’d been lured there on her behalf.

Poor chap.

God, it had been a nightmare. And he’d seemed so
nice
, that was the thing. His name had been Tom, he was decent looking and he worked as an accountant, which would come in incredibly handy. He’d been polite, interested in her, good company and well dressed.

She could almost –
almost
– have contemplated going out on a date with him, if not for one thing.

‘His what?’ hissed Jeannie in the kitchen. ‘His
ears
? What’s
wrong
with his ears?’

‘They’re hairy.’ Tasha hated saying the words; she knew just how she sounded.

Jeannie gave a so-what gesture. ‘He’s a man. These things happen.’

‘Yes, but it’s a bit yuck. I don’t like looking at them.’

‘So don’t look at them!’

‘But I’d still know they were there.’

‘And that’s the only thing wrong with him?’

Tasha shrugged helplessly; it probably wasn’t, but it was all she could concentrate on right now. ‘I can’t help the way I feel.’

‘Once you get to know him, though, you could make him shave them,’ Jeannie suggested. ‘You could treat him to a lovely pampering session and do it yourself with Veet!’

‘Do you have any idea how revolting that sounds?’ Just the thought of it made Tasha squirm.

‘I used to feel the same way about Barry’s toenails, and they don’t even bother me now!’

Worse and worse. Tasha said, ‘I need an early night anyway. I’m just going to sneak off.’

‘You’re way too fussy, that’s your problem. We find you all these lovely men and you don’t even give them a chance. There’s always something wrong with them.’

‘I’m not too fussy. They just have to be . . . right.’

‘You mean perfect.’ Jeannie was blunt. ‘And that’s your problem right there. You’re not perfect. No one is. If you’re holding out for a man with nothing at all wrong with him . . . well, you may as well give up now, because he doesn’t exist.’

Which was undoubtedly true, but Tasha still couldn’t help the way she felt.

Also, hairy ears.
Yeurgh
.

By midday, she was almost done; all but a couple of items had been crossed off her list. Leaving Marks & Spencer loaded up like a donkey, Tasha almost got her armfuls of bags squashed in the revolving door. She was overheated and feeling pretty claustrophobic in her big pink coat. As for her arms, well, two simply weren’t enough. Holding this much stuff was making them ache, and now she was such a cumbersome wide load, the bags and packages were inadvertently bashing into other people . . .

Right, this needed to be sorted out. Three of the items, ordered online and picked up in store, were far smaller than the boxes they’d been delivered in. Making an executive decision, Tasha put down the mountain of shopping, removed all the excess packaging and rearranged everything into a smaller number of bags. There, that was
much
better. Delighted with her organisational skills, she crammed the discarded cardboard into a nearby litter bin and shovelled the empty carriers in after them. Then, after flexing her aching shoulders, she gathered up the remaining full bags. OK, still heavy, but far easier to carry and less likely to knock small children to the ground.

And . . . back in control. All that remained to be picked up now was a box of Christmas crackers and the silver scarf for her mum and she was all done.

Pleased with herself, Tasha turned left and headed for the last shop. As she pushed open the door, her favourite Christmas song was playing and a blast of cool, deliciously scented air filled her lungs. She overheard a small girl say, ‘Mummy, look at that lady in the pink coat, she’s pretty,’ and quite suddenly all was right with the world. A wave of joy enveloped her. This afternoon she was flying off to see her mum in the South of France and they would spend Christmas together . . . what could be more perfect than that?

Twenty minutes later, all was no longer right with the world and icy fingers appeared to be closing around her heart, whilst her own fingers scrabbled desperately for the third time through her handbag and pockets.

‘It’s here somewhere. It has to be here, I had it in the last shop . . .’

The queue behind her had already begun to tut with irritation at the delay.

‘Better see if you left it there, then,’ said the singularly unsympathetic girl manning the payment desk.

‘But I know I didn’t leave it behind, I had it in my hand . . .’ It was impossible to mentally retrace your steps when Slade were bellowing MERRY CHRIIIIIIIISSSTMAAAAAS out of the tannoy and you were gripped with panic.

The man behind her in the queue said loudly, ‘Excuse me, my parking meter’s about to run out, can I pay for my stuff?’

‘Yes.’ The girl behind the till pushed Tasha’s items to one side and reached for the next customer’s basket.

Oh God, where was her credit card? What had she done with it? Feeling sick, Tasha searched through her pockets again. Three days ago, her debit card had snapped in half when she’d stupidly used it to clear ice from the car windscreen, and the replacement hadn’t arrived yet.

And now her credit card had vanished. Nightmare,
nightmare
.

‘If it’s been stolen, you need to cancel it,’ a woman in the queue reminded her.

Stolen . . .

Images of the card falling to the ground and being stealthily pocketed filled Tasha’s brain. They could rack up so much money on it, even in just twenty minutes. She nodded and said, ‘I don’t know the number to ring to report it stolen.’

‘Nor me,’ said the woman, adding helpfully, ‘But I know it’s printed on the back of your card.’

Gathering up her bags, Tasha turned and hurried out of the shop. When she’d been struggling to carry everything in M&S, she’d given up trying to fit the card back into her overstuffed purse. It was all coming back to her now; she’d slid it into one of the plastic carriers instead. Her heart galloped into optimistic overdrive at the realisation that the carrier bag was one of those she’d discarded during her Tetris-style reorganisation.

Which meant, fingers crossed . . . it
should
still be in the litter bin.