Three Amazing Things About You (8 page)

For the next twenty minutes, Flo tidied the apartment, washed dishes and made up the bed with new sheets Margot had ordered online from Liberty. She listened as Margot finished the crossword, concluded her conversation with Paolo and signed out of Twitter.

‘He sounds lovely.’

‘Paolo? I know. Great fun to chat to. Not so great in the looks department, sadly. Bit of an old bullfrog. That’s why I stick to audio.’ Margot pulled a not-very-apologetic face. ‘Still, nobody’s perfect. I’m no oil painting myself these days.’

Margot wore her silver hair pulled back in a sleek bun; her eyes were hooded but bright, she had an elegant aquiline nose and a narrow, clever mouth. Her outfits were flowing, her taste in jewellery baroque. Flo said honestly, ‘When I’m ninety, I’d love to look like you.’

‘Oh darling, aren’t you kind? Sometimes I completely forget how old I am, then get the most terrible shock when I catch sight of myself in the mirror.’

‘Oh well, I get that too. Did you really drink martinis with David Niven?’

‘I did! Back when life was full of adventure. Here, I’ve been uploading some photos from around that time . . .’

The photos showed Margot in her thirties, as leggy and glamorous as a movie star herself. When she’d finished skimming through them on her iPad, a
ting
announced the arrival of a new email in her inbox.

‘Ooh, lovely, our favourite. Now, have a listen to this.’ With great relish, Margot began to read aloud:

Dear Rose,

OK, three things about me. I’m twenty-six, my wedding is in six weeks and my mum is trying to ruin
everything
.

You should see the dress she’s bought to wear . . . Rose, she’s the mother of the bride and she’s going to make a mockery of the whole show. I have spent
months
planning every last detail and our colour palette is ivory, palest heather and duck-egg blue. I told my mum to make sure she chose something to tone in with these colours. I also stressed that it had to be elegant and appropriate for the occasion. Well, she came home with an above-the-knee orange dress and the cheapest-looking pair of shoes you ever saw. It’s a complete nightmare. She’s always had hideous taste in clothes and I’ve told her a million times how much she shows me up. When I said she wasn’t wearing that dress, she actually burst into tears. Rose, is it OK to ban my embarrassing mother from my wedding? If she comes along, she’s just going to wreck the whole day
and
all the photographs. And please don’t tell me to ask my dad to have a word with her – he walked out before I was born and she hasn’t had another boyfriend since.

Stressed of Southampton

‘Go on then,’ said Flo. ‘What’s the answer?’ Since Margot had begun subscribing to www.threethingsaboutyou.com, reading the problems aloud and debating the replies had become a regular ritual between the two of them.

‘I hope she gives her a piece of her mind,’ Margot snorted. ‘Right, here we go:

Dear Stressed,

I see you didn’t bother putting much thought into your three things about you. Luckily, the rest of your letter told me pretty much all I needed to know about your character.

Oh dear, poor you, how
dare
your mum turn up at your wedding in cheap shoes? It’s almost as if she’s been trying to scrimp and save all these years so that someone else can afford to have everything they want!

How lucky your mum is to have a daughter as loving and thoughtful as you. What does your fiancé think of this situation? If he agrees with you that your mother should be banned from the wedding because her dress is the wrong colour, then you two truly deserve each other.

If your mother was the one writing to me, I would urge her to sew neon-yellow fringing around the hem of that orange dress and kick off her cheap shoes when she dances on the table at your wedding. After all, she’s going to be in the mood to celebrate, having succeeded in offloading her selfish, ungrateful daughter on to someone else.

Seriously, you need to apologise to your mum, tell her you love her and let her wear whatever she likes to the wedding. Then maybe you should thank her for spending the last twenty-odd years single-handedly bringing you up.

‘Good answer,’ said Flo.

‘Great answer.’ Margot nodded with satisfaction. She was quite the connoisseur when it came to advice columns; she subscribed to half a dozen, but this was the one she liked best. ‘Rose always gets it right.’

‘I wish we knew what she looked like. In my head she’s all soft and cuddly, in her sixties, with rosy cheeks and a kind face.’

‘But not afraid to say what’s on her mind. Tells the grandchildren off when they’re naughty. She could be Irish.’ Margot paused to consider this possibility. ‘Or Cornish.’

‘Or a big burly truck driver calling himself Rose.’ Flo checked her watch; she was due off duty in five minutes. ‘I have to leave soon, Margot. Anything else you need me to do before I head off?’

‘No thank you, my darling, I’m fine. Oh, but I’m almost out of Tabasco . . . next time you’re in the supermarket, could you be an angel and pick me up a couple more bottles?’

‘No problem. I’m not in again until Sunday, though. Can you last until then?’ Margot’s addiction to splashing Tabasco over almost everything she ate meant she carried the little bottles in her handbag wherever she went and lived in terror of running out.

‘I can. Ah, you’re a good girl.’ Margot smiled at her over the top of her elegant silver-framed reading glasses. ‘Make it three bottles. That’ll be perfect.’

‘Ta-daaaa!’ Bea burst into the living room, where Hallie was engaged in painting her toenails bright coral. ‘Guess what I’m doing for my thirtieth birthday?’

Hallie straightened up. ‘You’ve already told me. You’re having a party at the White Hart.’

‘That
was
the plan. But now I have a new plan. I’m going to Paris.’

‘Really? Wow, fantastic. And so perfect for you,’ said Hallie. ‘I hear the men in France prefer older women.’

‘Cheek.’ Bea aimed a playful swipe at the plastic tubing snaking between Hallie’s nasal cannulae and her oxygen tank. ‘I could always unplug you, you know. Anyway, guess who’s coming along with me?’

‘Bradley Cooper again? Poor boy, hasn’t he suffered enough?’

‘This time it’s girls only. Sarah’s coming.’ Bea began counting off on her fingers. ‘And Jen. And Poppy and Carla. And me, obviously.’

‘You’ll have an amazing time.’

Bea carried on counting on her fingers. ‘And you.’

Hallie’s heart sank. ‘Oh Bea, no. I can’t.’

‘You can.’

How to explain? ‘Look, thanks for thinking of me, but it just wouldn’t . . . work.’

‘It would. I’ve checked with Luke. And I asked your mum too. There’s no reason why you can’t come along with us.’

‘It’s just so . . . complicated.’

‘But not impossible. People with cystic fibrosis can travel abroad; they do it all the time. You
know
that.’

Hallie sat back, bare legs stretched out before her, toes splayed in order not to smudge the glossy polish. ‘I know, and it’s really kind of you to invite me, but I don’t want to be the one who spoils things for everyone else. I’d just hold you back and then I’d feel guilty—’

‘Whoa. Stop it. Look at it from my point of view.’ Bea shook her head at her. ‘You’re my best friend, and if you refuse to come to Paris you
will
spoil things. I mean it,’ she went on when Hallie opened her mouth to protest. ‘My birthday will be ruined and it’ll be all
your
fault.’

She actually meant it. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. You have to be there. I don’t want to turn thirty without you.’

Hallie was an infrequent crier, but her eyes were brimming now. Moved, she said, ‘OK. If you really mean it, I’ll come to Paris.’

‘I really
really
mean it. Come here, you.’ Careful not to dislodge the transparent oxygen tubing, or trigger a bout of coughing, Bea gave her a hug.

‘And the others don’t mind? You’re sure they’re OK with it too?’

‘Completely sure. You’re the must-have accessory of the season.’

‘I’ll have to get travel insurance.’ Which would probably cost a fortune.

‘There are specialist companies. It’s not a problem.’

Well, not quite true. It was easy for Bea to be airily dismissive, but Hallie knew it was going to involve travelling with a wheelchair, oxygen tank, nebuliser and assorted other vital bits and pieces. But if Bea was determined to have her there . . . well, she could make the effort.

‘OK, let’s do this thing.’ Paris! How glamorous! ‘Have you decided where you want to stay?’

‘I have brochures. I have chocolate.’ Bea withdrew both from her huge glittery shoulder bag. ‘And now I have you to help me choose a hotel. So,’ her eyes gleamed, ‘shall we make a start on it now?’

It was midday and there still hadn’t been any word from Rory. Tasha checked her phone for the fiftieth time to make sure a message hadn’t arrived and somehow been missed.

No, still nothing, even though he’d promised faithfully to keep her updated. Unable to help herself, she sent a text:
Please call and let me know you’re still alive. Xxx

‘You’re looking worried.’ Moira, a TV chef who was being made up for today’s photo shoot, was watching her in the mirror. ‘Everything OK?’

‘It’s just my boyfriend. He should have been in touch by now and he hasn’t been.’ Did she sound hopelessly neurotic? ‘He’s on his way up to Edinburgh.’

‘Ah well, maybe there isn’t any signal.’ Moira, in her forties, was sympathetic, chatty and good company. ‘Is he flying?’

Tasha shook her head. ‘No. Riding up there on a Harley-Davidson motorbike.’

‘What? Oh God!’ Pulling a horrified face, Moira said, ‘No wonder you’re all of a faff. All that way? And bikes are so
dangerous
. My neighbour’s son had the most dreadful accident last year, came off his motorbike and nearly died. Ended up having to have both legs amputated.’

‘Oh dear.’ Sometimes Moira could be a bit
too
chatty. Tasha felt her insides curdle at the thought.

‘Then there was my friend’s auntie, she crashed her moped into a wall and she’s had a withered arm ever since!’

‘Right.’

‘And Alan from the golf club went under a bus on his motorbike. Killed outright. Oh, sorry.’ Moira clapped a hand over her mouth, evidently realising that her comments might have been less than tactful. Belatedly she said, ‘I’m sure your boyfriend’s
fine
.’

The shoot, for a women’s magazine, dragged on interminably. First one o’clock, then two o’clock went by, with still no word from Rory. Tasha’s stomach continued to tighten with fear. On the outside she carried on applying make-up to models, while on the inside her brain conjured up terrifying images of an accident on the motorway . . . bits of broken motorbike strewn across three lanes . . . blue flashing lights . . . sombre-faced paramedics shaking their heads at each other . . .

‘Tash! Has my forehead gone shiny? Could you sort me out with some powder?’

Moira again. Tasha went over to deal with the shine.

‘Any news from your boyfriend?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Oh well, I’m sure he’s OK!’ Eager to make up for her earlier faux pas, Moira patted her arm. ‘Don’t you worry about a thing.’

‘Why?’ The photographer was busy setting up a different backdrop. ‘Is he in hospital?’

‘We hope not!’ Moira shook her head vigorously at the photographer. ‘No, definitely not! He was riding his motorbike up to Edinburgh this morning and poor Tasha hasn’t heard from him since he set off. Not a word! She’s worried sick that he’s had a terrible accident!

Only because you practically told me he had.
Tasha resisted the urge to bop Moira on the head with the powder brush.

‘Ah, don’t panic, love, he’ll be all right.’ The photographer picked up his camera and winked at Tasha. ‘If he’s too busy to call you, it’s probably because he’s in bed with another woman.’

‘Great, thanks, that makes me feel so much better.’ Tasha marvelled at his lack of subtlety; luckily, she wasn’t the jealous type.

He grinned. ‘Or another man.’

Which had been, to give him his due, quite funny.

By five o’clock, Tasha had long stopped laughing. This was ridiculous. In the last few hours, she’d used up a week’s worth of heartbeats. Convinced that Rory must be dead, she tracked down the number of Joe’s dental practice and insisted on being put through to him.

‘Look, have you heard from Rory? He said he’d call me, but he hasn’t. And I know it’s ridiculous, but I can’t stop wondering if he’s had an accident.’

‘Let me try his phone.’ Evidently taking out his mobile, Joe pressed buttons. ‘No,’ he said a few seconds later, ‘it’s gone straight to answerphone. Maybe his battery’s flat.’

‘Do you think I’m being neurotic?’

‘Honestly? A bit,’ said Joe. But in a kind way.

‘I’m worried.’ Tasha took a deep breath; was it just her? ‘Really worried. What if he’s in hospital on life support?’

‘OK, just a thought,’ said Joe, ‘but don’t hospitals go through phones and contact the next of kin?’

‘But I’m not next of kin! They wouldn’t call me!’

‘Whoa, calm down. They’d call his next of kin and then
they’d
call me. But nobody has. So I think you should stop panicking and relax.’

‘Unless he’s unconscious in hospital and his phone flew out of his pocket and got run over on the motorway by a ten-ton truck.’

There was silence for a moment as Joe considered this possibility. At last he said, ‘Hey. I’m sure he’ll be in touch when he can.’

‘Are you laughing at me?’

‘Just a little bit.’

And really, who could blame him?

‘I’m not usually like this, I promise.’

‘If you say so.’ He definitely sounded as if he were smiling. ‘OK, can I go now? Only I’ve left a patient with a drill hanging out of his mouth.’

Whoops
. ‘Sorry,’ said Tasha. ‘Bye.’

An hour later, her doorbell rang. As she went to answer it, Tasha pictured Joe on the doorstep, grave-faced and accompanied by two here-to-break-the-bad-news policemen, one of whom was holding the remains of Rory’s smashed-up phone . . .