Kitabı oku: «The Perfect Escape: Romantic short stories to relax with», sayfa 6
Elsie grinned and picked up a menu covered in vivid pink Post-it notes. ‘No doubting that fact. You thinking of redesigning the menus again?’
Cher handed Elsie a cup of tea. ‘Not the menus. The menu.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’ve been thinking about being a bit more adventurous with what Sundae & Cher offers. Try to extend our reach a bit. Now we’re heading towards Easter I thought it was as good a time as any to have a bit of a spring clean.’
Elsie looked at the written suggestions on the menu stickies. ‘I like the idea of porridge and pancakes for the Breakfast list. After all, not everyone can face ice cream first thing in the morning like Dennis.’
‘I’ve asked our friends at Cupcake Genie to do us some seasonal specials, too, and I can tie in the ice cream flavours with some of their ideas,’ Cher continued, her eyes ablaze with inspiration. ‘And there’s more …’ She hurried into the kitchen behind the counter and returned a few moments later with a frosted Tupperware box. She cracked open the lid and scooped a spoonful of palest lilac-coloured gelato from inside, handing it to Elsie. ‘Try that.’
The taste was unbelievable – like crushed Parma Violets and rose petals. ‘Wow, that’s amazing.’
‘It’s organic and dairy-free,’ Cher beamed. ‘I made it using almond milk. It works with any of our flavours and it’s something we can offer that nobody else in Brighton does. Then I’ve ordered a crêpe hotplate, so we can offer handmade crêpes on site with scoops of ice cream, fresh fruit and pretty much any of our toppings. It’ll look fantastic and the smell of freshly cooked crêpes will fill the place! If that works, who knows? Waffles made in-house, takeaway ice cream, more of your awesome cookies … anything’s possible.’
‘Sounds like you’ve thought of everything. So when are all these menu changes taking place?’ Elsie asked.
‘Not for a while. I’m still working on bringing everything together. I want your ideas, too. This needs to be a joint effort, OK?’ She looked over to the corner of the café where Dennis was blissfully engrossed in his guilt-free breakfast. ‘If only all our customers were as easy to please as Dennis, eh?’
Elsie grinned. ‘Maybe we should appoint him Chief Menu Consultant.’
‘You’re kidding, aren’t you? He’d never leave!’
‘Fair point.’ Elsie placed the menu on the counter. ‘So, being more adventurous it is then.’
The wink Cher blessed Elsie with was pure filth. ‘In as many ways as we can, girl.’
On Saturday morning, Elsie met Daisy for breakfast in the Driftwood Café on the beach near the Palace Pier. As usual, Daisy looked as if she had been expertly dressed and prepared by a team of beauticians and fashion stylists: her simple white shirt was completely crease-free and elegantly teamed with dark, slim-fitting jeans and brogues, with a large silk pashmina scarf completing her outfit. Elsie had always been in awe of her eldest sister and had spent much of her early teens trying to emulate Daisy’s style, until she reached the age of sixteen and discovered the kooky fashion boutiques in North Laine, which helped her to develop her own style. Today she was wearing a sweet, cherry-print dress over loose-fitting jeans, her beloved red Converse trainers and a bright green cardigan to fend off the cool sea breeze, her hair tied into a ponytail with a length of scarlet ribbon. A good four inches shorter than her sister, Elsie nevertheless bore a striking resemblance to her, both of them taking after their absent mother with their high cheekbones and large, denim-blue eyes, while their sibling Guin was the spit of Jim – tall and athletically built with a mass of thick, wavy blonde hair, the envy of her sisters whose tresses wouldn’t know a curl if they saw one.
The late morning sun was warming the deck of the café as Daisy poured tea from a quirky spotted teapot into two oversized cups.
‘I hope you realise this is the first Saturday I’ve taken off in five months,’ Daisy said, sliding a cup across the mosaic table-top towards her sister. ‘You should feel highly honoured.’
‘I do.’
‘Good.’ Daisy stirred her tea, observing Elsie carefully. ‘So, how are you with everything? And I mean really, Els, not the Wonderwoman impression you put on for Dad and Guin.’
‘I’m good. Don’t give me that look, I’m honestly fine with all of this.’
Daisy was far from pacified with this answer. ‘Then tell me – because I’m not sure I understand – what brought about your decision to date again?’
‘I’ve started to read the box messages.’
Daisy’s spoon dropped onto the saucer with a clank. ‘Oh. Wow.’
‘I know. And it feels good. The right time, you know? In fact, I read the second one this morning and it’s brilliant. Look …’ She took the folded paper from her purse and passed it across the table.
I love you because you’re fearless
and never afraid to start something new.
xx
For someone whose emotional control was legendary, Daisy looked dangerously close to tears. The paper shook gently in her fingers as she read the message and she was silent for some time. ‘What a beautiful thing to say …’
‘Not that we should be surprised.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Daisy handed the paper back to Elsie. ‘I know this will sound strange, considering, but you really are incredibly lucky. André’s never said anything like that to me in all the time I’ve known him.’
‘Do you wish he would?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes I think it would be nice to hear how he feels about me, but other times I just think we’re one of those couples who don’t work that way. Not that it’s important, really.’ She flicked the topic away with a wave of her long fingers as if it were a troublesome fly. ‘So, what are you going to do with this message?’
‘I need to start something new.’
‘Like what?’
Elsie inhaled the salty air rising from the waves crashing on the pebble beach in the distance as a pair of squawking seagulls circled above. ‘I’ve no idea. But I think starting something new would help me to begin to think of myself as a person in my own right, you know?’
‘You are a person in your own right …’ Daisy began to protest.
‘No, I know that. But I have this whole unexpected life stretching out in front of me now and I should work out what to do with it. I just need to discover what happens next.’
Daisy shook her head. ‘You’re amazing. The way you’ve coped with all this … well, I think it’s wonderful.’ Embarrassed by her own emotion, she quickly moved on. ‘Have you thought about what you’d like to do?’
‘A little. The only thing I’ve come up with so far isn’t really a new thing, though.’
‘Tell me.’
Elsie felt a rush of excitement as she spoke. ‘OK, do you remember when we were growing up and we used to put on those dreadful musical shows for Dad?’
‘On Sunday afternoons! I’d forgotten those!’ Daisy clapped her hands and laughed so loudly that a passing waiter almost dropped his tray.
Around the time of Elsie’s eighth birthday, Sunday afternoons in the Maynard household became musical spectaculars. Daisy, then twelve, had just joined a kids’ drama club at the local Methodist church hall and was convinced she was destined for the bright lights of the West End. As with most things during their childhood, the Maynard sisters’ productions were instigated by Daisy, largely as a vehicle for showcasing her own performing skills, dragging middle sister Guin and little sister Elsie in as supporting cast. Not that either of them minded, as both were in constant awe of their confident, headstrong sibling. Each week, the Sunday Spectacular would become more enthusiastic and elaborate, with Elsie and Guin introducing costumes, wonky-eyed sock puppets and, eventually, music to the proceedings. By the time Elsie was twelve, she had attained the position of Musical Director, playing the family’s forever-out-of-tune piano in the dining room as her sisters danced and hammily acted their way through lengthy self-penned productions.
‘Poor Dad,’ Daisy laughed, ‘I can’t believe he actually sat through those week after week.’
‘He was a very good audience, though. Standing ovations every Sunday, remember?’ Elsie grinned.
‘How could I forget? You’re not thinking of resurrecting the Sunday Spectaculars, are you?’
‘Hmm, I’m not sure even Brighton is ready for that much theatrical experimentation. But I was thinking I might join a drama group or an operatic society. I’d quite like to do musicals – even though the old vocal cords haven’t had an outing for years. And it would be good to meet new people, get “out there” again. I need to start somewhere, and doing something I enjoy seems like a good enough place to start. Even if my voice isn’t up to scratch after all this time.’
Daisy stared at her sister as though she had just proclaimed the sea to be pink. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Your voice is brilliant. Far better than anyone else in the family – including Uncle Frank, and he’s been making a living in local pubs for years trashing the Great American Songbook. I reckon you could sing anywhere and people would listen.’
‘That’s kind of you to say but I think I might need to work on it a little before I let it out in public.’
‘Nonsense. Hang on a minute …’ Daisy’s eyes widened as a thought occurred to her. ‘You could sing right here.’
She pointed to the corner of the café’s boardwalk, where a rainbow-painted upright piano sat. It wouldn’t have looked out of place at a Coldplay gig and had been a feature of the café since the previous summer when a six-week arts project had left it behind. Its lid bore the invitation: Play me – I’m yours! and occasionally someone would accept the challenge, meaning that at any time your organic, Fairtrade coffee could be accompanied by a rock’n’roll medley, a Chopin piano concerto or a terrible rendition of ‘Chopsticks’.
‘Shh, don’t be daft!’ Elsie gave a nervous laugh and looked around, praying that none of the café’s customers had heard Daisy’s suggestion. Thankfully, the other people on the boardwalk appeared to be blissfully unaware of it, enjoying their leisurely breakfasts in the spring sunshine.
But Daisy Maynard was an impossibly gorgeous woman on a mission. ‘I mean it, Els! Do it now – go on, sing something!’
‘I can’t …’
‘Yes, you can. You’re fearless, remember?’ A glint of pure mischief flashed in her dark-blue eyes as she sat back in her chair, a victorious smile on her face. ‘I double-dare you.’
Elsie stared at her sister. If there was one irrefutable truth that the three Maynard sisters knew, it was that a double-dare was the ultimate challenge. To ignore it was to practically betray the Maynard family honour – and incur the unending jibes of the entire clan: Dad, Daisy, Guin, and even their late Grandma Flo, who had been a stickler for it when she was alive. No matter the potential consequences of the double-dare subject, nothing was worth facing the repercussions of turning it down …
Elsie pulled a face at her sister, but the die was cast. As she rose slowly, the sudden jolt of adrenaline caused by the sheer audacity of what she was about to do almost made her squeal out loud. Daisy nodded eagerly as Elsie walked across to the piano. Flexing her hands over the multi-coloured keys, she took a deep breath and dived in.
The first couple of bars of ‘I Will Survive’ were a little shaky – understandably so, given the instantly bemused faces of the customers. But as Daisy began to provide percussion by slapping the stainless steel table, Elsie’s confidence grew. By the time she neared the chorus, her heart was pumping like a steam train and she was singing at full throttle.
And then, something amazing happened.
A bespectacled man in a slim-fitting check shirt at the far end of the boardwalk suddenly got to his feet and joined in the chorus, followed by a lady at the next table. As people began to join in, the shared thrill of their spontaneous performance reverberated around the space. Diners inside the café crowded by the windows and open door to watch this spectacle and a group of dog walkers gathered to observe the extraordinary sight. Joggers along the promenade stopped and peered over the sea-green railings; a gaggle of teenage girls abandoned their texting and turned their camera phones towards the boardwalk café; older couples enjoying ice cream pointed and laughed. Smiles were everywhere, and as Elsie led her improvised band of singers in the final chorus, she felt more alive than she had in a long time.
When the song ended, an enormous cheer went up from performers and onlookers alike, the shared emotion bringing tears to Elsie’s eyes as the café staff wolf-whistled and applauded like maniacs. Then, this being Brighton, the unwitting flashmob performers self-consciously returned to their tables as if nothing had happened.
Elated, Elsie high-fived her grinning sister. ‘How was that?’
Daisy gave a low bow. ‘You are my official hero, Elsie Maynard! Heck of a way to start something new.’
‘I thank you.’
‘This calls for cake – no, I’m sorry, you can’t protest, sis. You’ve just attained legendary status. Cake is the only fitting tribute to your genius.’ Daisy hurried into the café.
Elsie smiled to herself, a strong feeling of fulfilment rushing through her. The stunt had been daft in the extreme, but it had awakened something deep within her. She had been looking for something new: and, while she wasn’t altogether sure that this discovery actually meant anything, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something significant had just been achieved. And she wasn’t wrong. For unbeknownst to Elsie Maynard, someone had been watching her spontaneous appearance carefully from the promenade railings. Someone who was about to change her life completely …
MIRANDA DICKINSON WHEN I FALL IN LOVE
What happens when your happy ever after is suddenly and painfully taken away from you?
Enjoy this extract? Buy the rest of the book here:
WHEN I FALL IN LOVE: 9780007478477
My Midsummer Miracle
Claudia Carroll
‘Now if you’ll all just follow me through the Red Drawing room, as you’ll see, that takes us on into the Long Gallery, probably the largest room in the whole of Beauford Hall. In fact, it dates all the way back to 1779, and is a classic example of Palladian architecture at its most ornate. And if you’ll just look to your left …’
‘’Scuse me, Miss?’ a kid with spiky, gelled hair interrupts, yelling at me from down the back. ‘I’ve a question for you, Miss!’ I immediately identify him as the class messer, (because there’s always one), and brace myself.
‘Great, go ahead!’ I smile brightly. ‘And please, call me Lizzie.’
‘Well … it’s a really big house and all, but there’s no telly! I mean, you actually live her don’t you, Miss? On account of, you know, you being one of the Beaufords and everything.’
‘I certainly do!’ I tell him, proudly.
‘So how do you manage without a telly, then? I mean, that’s like … primitive!’
‘I bet she probably, like, goes out fox hunting or something like that,’ says another swotty looking boy with Harry Potter glasses from up the front. ‘Don’t you Miss? People who live in posh houses like this are always mad into anything horsey that involves killing things.’
‘Not me, I’m afraid,’ I laugh. ‘And actually, there are no horses here at all, but …’
‘Well then in that case, you probably sit around, giving orders to butlers and scullery maids all day,’ this kid insists, to yet more sniggers from the messers down the back, ‘or else do flower arranging. You know, like they do in Downton Abbey and all those old lady programmes my mum watches.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, but there are no full-time staff here either, I’m afraid,’ I smile back at him. ‘In fact, I’d say the last time this place paid anyone to live and work here was long before your granny was born. But just to let you know I do actually have a telly, though it’s downstairs in the back kitchen …’
‘And have you got Sky Plus on it?’ the kid with the spiky hair shouts up cheekily, like it’s a basic tenet of civilised life.
‘Ehh, well no …’ (Mainly because I can’t afford the subscription.)
‘What?’
‘Yeah, well … emm … just leaving the whole telly and Sky Plus issue aside for a minute, if you all would like to move down this way, I’d really like to show you some of the Beauford family portraits.’
I skip past the eighteenth-century paintings of all my dim, distant ancestors; oh, you know the type, you see them in a dozen country houses. Plump, bosomy women with scarily pale skin and absolutely no eyelashes and their husbands and sons, almost glaring accusingly down on me. This is what our home has been reduced to? You carry the distinguised name Beauford and just take a look at what you’ve done with it! Guided tours to bored schoolkids who couldn’t care less?
‘No offence Miss,’ says Ugg Boot Girl, ‘but some of the women look absolutely nothing like you. I mean, look at this one, she’s scary looking.’
I follow her eye and see she’s talking about my great-great-Grandmother Mary Molesworth, a daughter of the Earl of Belvedere who married into the Beaufords –bringing a sizeable dowry with her – over a century ago and probably the last time the family were actually flush with cash.
‘I mean, look at her Miss! Not exactly debutante of the year, is she?’
Have to admit, the kid’s right. Poor old Mary looks haggard, pinched and like she hasn’t had a decent night’s rest in approximately twenty years.
‘Yeah well …’ I answer, ‘you have to remember this portrait was taken when she was well into her forties. You have to remember that in those days there was no such thing as hair straighteners or even Mac Bronzer … because you know, that would have made all the difference …’
‘Excuse me, Lizzie!’ says a blonde girl with braces and two glittery pink scrunchies in her hair. ‘There’s a load of saucepans down the back of that funny-looking sofa!’
‘Oh ehh, yeah, that’s actually called a chaise longue …’
‘And they’re full of filthy dirty water! Looks a bit like cat wee. Look!’
More sniggers as they all dive to have a look for themselves and next thing, I’m suddenly aware of thirty pairs of inquisitive eyes now all turning back to me, just waiting on an explanation.
‘Ehh … yee-ess,’ I tell them, ‘well you know, the roof here at Beauford Hall is well over two hundred years old, so obviously there’s the odd little patch of it that may be just a teeny bit leaky …’ Like approximately eighty per cent of it, I think, cursing myself for not having the foresight to at least empty the rainwater out of them earlier.
‘The wallpaper is peeling off in places too. Look!’ says Pink Scrunchy Girl and all I can think is, Jeez, what a scourge this one will be to estate agents later on in life.
‘Yeah, and what’s that funny smell in here?’ asks a tall, twiglet-thin girl beside her, who looks like this whole tour is some kind of medieval torture to her and an unnecessary distraction from valuable time she could be spending trawling through the racks at Topshop.
‘Oh that!’ I smile over-brightly, trying my best to laugh it off. ‘Oh that’s absolutely nothing. Just, you know, old houses each have their own characteristic smells and this one is no different. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it in no time!’
‘It’s damp, that’s what it is,’ says Pink Scrunchy Girl, arms folded and giving an authoritative swish of her ponytail. ‘My dad is a quantity surveyor and he says damp is a total health hazard. Aren’t you at all worried, Lizzie?’
Not if you saw the size of my bank overdraft love, I think, hardwiring my jaw into a grin and trying not to grit my teeth back at her.
‘Anyway, leaving the smell of damp aside for the moment,’ I manage to say, ‘and if we can just get back to the family portraits …’
‘Bloody freezing in here too,’ yawns a porky looking kid, who’s slumped himself down into an armchair, like he’s a lodger who’s just moved in.
‘Yeah!’ says a voice from the back of the room. ‘And I wouldn’t mind, but it’s the middle of June! You’d swear it was January in here!’
‘Is there even a Starbucks or something where we can all go and get lunch?’ Porky Kid insists. ‘And, like, maybe thaw out a bit?’
‘Nearest coffee shop is in the town, I’m afraid, but just to tell you a bit about this particular painting here, there’s a really intriguing story behind it, you see …’
‘You know something? I think it’s actually warmer outside than it is in here,’ Pink Scrunchy Girl says defiantly, to more sniggers from the rest of her classmates. Which of course, they know right well they can get away with, given that their teacher was last seen outside, having a sneaky fag.
‘In fact, if you ask me, this house is unfit for human habitation,’ Pink Scrunchy Girl goes on. ‘I told my dad we were coming here on a school trip today and he says Beauford Hall should have been condemned years ago.’
Swear to God, the child can’t be more than about thirteen years of age and already I want to strangle her with the glittery bit off her own ponytail. And to make it worse, the little madam’s only telling the truth. For all that Beauford Hall looks stunningly impressive on the outside, the sad fact is that the minute you step inside, it doesn’t take two seconds to see the decay it’s fallen into. But the killer is that here’s me moving heaven and earth to do everything I can to keep the old place going, but the pathetic few quid I make from school tours like this one are a small drop in the ocean compared to what’s actually needed to keep the house from quite literally, being held up by the wallpaper.
Pink Scrunchy Girl has a point. You’d seriously want to be insane to live here.
‘And Miss Lizzie? Do you really live here all on your own?’ asks a deathly pale red-haired girl, looking worriedly up at me.
‘That’s right,’ I smile back at her.
‘You mean you’ve no husband or brothers and sisters to help you out?’
‘No, and I’m an only child,’ I smile, shrugging. ‘So it’s up to me to keep things going here, you see.’
‘And where are your parents then?’
Funny, but ever since I moved here three months ago, I’ve become almost inured to answering that.
‘My dad passed away when I was just a child and I lost my mum … only last year actually.’
The kids look from one to the other, simultaneously sorry for me and mortified.
‘That’s awful Miss.’
‘Sorry to hear it, Miss.’
‘And does that mean that you’re totally alone here?’ Deathly Pale Girl insists. ‘Do you not have a boyfriend either?’
‘Ehh … afraid not.’
‘That’s so sad, Miss,’ she says, shaking her head and looking back at me with big mournful eyes.
‘Well, it’s not that sad really, is it? Come on, there’s nothing wrong with being single and living by yourself!’
‘Course there is Miss! It’s OK when you’re young, but you’re like, really old now,’ she insists. ‘If you were ever going to get married, you’d have done it by now.’
‘Well I’m hardly really old, am I? I’m only twenty eight,’ I tell her, trying my best not to come off all defensive.
‘Oh Miss, that’s even worse! Miles older than I would have given you! Twenty eight and living alone in a place like this is just so … sad. You poor thing. I feel really sorry for you.’
‘But I’m perfectly happy living alone, I promise you!’
‘You know what? You should totally try internet dating,’ says a really cool, model-y looking girl, in fluffy cream Ugg boots, that I immediately and irrationally dislike her for, purely because I could never afford them.
‘My sister is older too, though she’s not nearly as old as you Miss, but anyway, that’s where she met her last three boyfriends. There’s this site called It’s Just Lunch and you just meet in a restaurant and you take it from there. My sister says, once you learn how to filter out the saddos, whackos and weirdos, there’s some lovely guys online. And even if you don’t fancy the one you do meet, then it’s just an hour out of your day, that’s all. The key thing to remember Miss,’ she adds, tossing unnaturally glossy, silky hair over her shoulders like some kind of teenage dating consultant, that’s seen it all and done it all. ‘It’s just lunch.’
‘Ehh yes,’ I say, flushing scarlet to my roots by now, ‘well … I’m not certain how we managed to get from eighteenth-century Palladian architecture, to talking about my love life and online dating, but I really do want you all to take a look at this painting, right here …’
‘Or you know, if dating websites don’t do it for you Miss,’ Ugg Boot Girl barrels over me, with all the confidence of the born beautiful. ‘Then you could always just stick to good old-fashioned Facebook, you know. My auntie is, like, this really elderly spinster like you too, you know, and she says Facebook is a total pickup joint these days. Better than any nightclub or bar, she reckons, because you can meet fellas from the comfort of home with manky three-day old hair and no make-up. It might just suit you, Miss.’
‘Yes well, thanks so much for that,’ I say, aware that the entire class seem to be far more interested in this than they ever were in the tour. First time all morning that you could hear a pin drop.
And half of me wants to tell them that actually, I sort of do have a crush on someone who’s lovely, so they needn’t all look at me so pityingly, but then remind myself, sure what’s the point? A) he lives in Dublin and B) he has a GIRLFRIEND.
Nah, best all round just to forget all about him. Never gonna happen, is it? No matter how well we get on. And no matter how bloody attractive he is.
Story. Of. My. Life.
‘You know, we really do need to get back to …’
‘Miss, I’ve a question for you,’ says the same worried-looking girl who bloody well started all this.
‘About Beauford Hall, I hope!’
‘Well, sort of. Are you not a bit scared here, all by yourself Miss? I’d be petrified. A single woman, all on her own in a place this size? It must be terrifying! And the nearest town is miles away, so say if an axe-murderer did break in, you wouldn’t stand a chance. It would take ages for the cops to even get here and by then, he’d probably have chopped you up and buried you under a patio.’
‘Though God knows why anyone would bother breaking into a freezing kip like this,’ I can clearly overhear Pink Scrunchy Girl muttering to her pal beside her. ‘Sure there isn’t even anything worth nicking.’
‘And I’ll bet you’ve got ghosts here too,’ Worried Girl goes on, looking at me sympathetically. ‘Old ruins like this always have unhappy spirits floating around. My heart goes out to you, Miss. It’s a miracle you manage to get any sleep here at all.’
I smile, try to rise above the old ruin comment and resist the temptation to say that the only evil spirit haunting me these days is my bank manager. I’m dimly aware by now that the entire class are looking at me and I can practically see the thought balloons coming out of their heads. They’ve all gone and formed this impression that I lead this lonely single existence in a house I can’t afford to heat, spending half my time feeling like I’m living on the set of Poltergeist and the rest of it stressed out of my mind that an axe-murderer will come and get me.
Most of which is rubbish, but still.
There’s a bit of shuffling and I can see them all taking in the manky state of the place, not to mention the fact that I’m trying to keep what’s left of the roof over my head pretty much alone, before they decide that posh Georgian house or no posh house, they’d far rather go home to warmth and comfort.
Prefer it anyday.
*
Beauford Hall is in Co. Wicklow, pretty isolated and set in about twenty acres of what was at one time considered some of the most beautiful rolling parkland in the county, but which is now one big, largely overgrown jungle. (Long story, involving probably the single most knackered lawnmower known to man and you can guess the rest. But put it this way; Alan Titchmarsh can take one look at the gardens here and sleep easy.) Nearest town is Avoca in Wicklow, picture-postcard perfect and where I’m literally just halfway out the hall door to meet my friend Hilary to head off to the annual Midsummer Garden Fete in the local park, when suddenly I hear the unexpected scrunch of gravel as a plush, Celtic-Tiger-y looking jeep swooshes up the driveway.
Black jeep, 08 Dublin registration. Shit. Only means one thing.
And with an unerring instinct, I instantly know why my unwanted visitors have landed in on top of me and more importantly, exactly what it is that they want.
I risk twitching the curtain on the window beside me and take a quick, sneaky peek outside.
Yup it’s them alright.
Paddy and Jayne, just dropping in for one of their regular spot checks on me, cunningly disguised as a ‘friendly chat.’ It’s happening about bi-monthly at this stage, in fact I could almost set my watch by the pair of them.
I shove the door open and with my jaw practically hard wired into a fake grin, step back out to face the firing squad.
‘Lizzie!’ says Paddy, wrapping me in a bear hug and completely overlooking the fact that I was effectively hiding from him. ‘Delighted that we caught you! We were just passing and we thought we’d drop in …’
Just passing, my arse, I think, plastering a fake grin on as Jayne elegantly strides across the gravel and lightly mwah-mwahs me, ladies-who-lunch style.
‘Lizzie,’ she coos, ‘it’s so lovely to see you! Any chance of a little coffee, maybe? It’s been ages and we’d love to have a good old catch-up with you.’
‘Emm … great to see you too and I’m so sorry about this, but I’m actually off to meet a pal …’ I tell them, delighted to have a cast-iron excuse to get out of there. ‘It’s the Midsummer garden fete tonight and we’re going along to it.’
