A Hopeless Romantic (6 page)

“I won’t say I’m not disappointed,” said Rachel, leaning over her desk toward Laura. “I thought that was one of your strengths, people management. You’ve always been so good at it, Laura. They love you at St. Catherine’s, too. What happened?”

Laura looked at her and felt tears start in her eyes. She was being stupid, she knew it, behaving so irresponsibly, but she didn’t know how to start to explain. So she just said, “Oh, you know. I just—she really was so vile. I just couldn’t take it anymore. I’m really sorry, Rachel. You know it won’t happen again. Can I ring Mrs. McGregor and apologize?”

Rachel smiled at her, slightly more warmly than before. “Of course. Thanks a lot.”

“So, darling,” said Angela Foster that evening, smoothing the sofa cushion with her hand. “How’s work?”

She glanced around the sitting room as if she expected a troupe of tiny tap-dancing mice to cancan out from a hole in the skirting board and pirouette off with her handbag.

“Fine, fine,” Laura said hastily. “Today was…er, fine. Thanks for these, so much. They’ll look great.” She gestured to the pastel-spotted blinds her mother had bought her from John Lewis as a belated birthday present. “It’s so nice of you to bring them round, Mum, you shouldn’t have.”

“Not at all, darling,” said Angela. “And I wanted to see my girl. We haven’t seen you for such a long time, you know. You’re so busy these days.”

Laura changed the subject quickly. “So, Mum. Have you got time for a cup of tea, or do you have to go, then?”

Angela looked at her. “I can see you’re longing for me to stay,” she said drily.

“No, of course I am,” Laura said. “Of course. Do stay. I’ve got some biscuits, too. Sit down, Mum. I’ll put the kettle on. Sit down, make yourself at home.”

“I’ll try,” said Angela, lowering herself gingerly onto the blue sofa with its tea-stained arms and cigarette holes in the cushions.

Laura sighed and hurried into the kitchen, glancing anxiously at her watch. Dan had said he’d come round later, and she didn’t want the two to collide. Not that it was likely they would—he only ever turned up after the pubs shut, whereas her mum was usually in bed and fast asleep by the time the pubs shut.

When Laura returned with the tea, Angela said, “The flat’s looking nice.” Laura gritted her teeth. Her mother was a grand master at the art of faking it. Laura knew she didn’t do it on purpose, but her superbly repressed nature meant that whenever an unkind or negative thought crossed her mind, she felt she had to atone for it by saying the opposite of what she thought. It was quite a good barometer, actually. “What a lovely short skirt, darling!” meant “I am embarrassed to go with you dressed like that to the Hunts’ anniversary party, you look like a common prostitute.” Or “Your friend Hilary is very lively, isn’t she? Dad loved talking to her” meant “Your friend Hilary drinks more than is socially acceptable at a barbecue buffet lunch in Harrow and is nothing more than a jailbait husband stealer.”

“Thanks, Mum. It’s a bit of a tip at the moment. Yorky’s been on half-term break from school and he just lazes round reading newspapers all day in his dressing gown.”

“Ahh,” said Angela fondly. She had more than a soft spot for Yorky. “How is James?” She always called him by his given name. It was strange, Laura mused, that Yorky could read mothers—and his female friends—like open books, yet be so disastrously out of sync with the opposite sex the rest of the time. Half-term break had been notable for Yorky’s attempts to catch the attention of the girl in the flat downstairs, which involved hanging around the stairwell for half the day and smiling mysteriously, raising the eyebrow he’d now learned to raise, and generally looking like an unemployed spy. The girl in the flat downstairs—whom Laura had met; she was called Becky and seemed really nice—simply cast him looks of something amounting to concern for his mental state every time she saw him. He was despondent about it, because he actually did really like her. And before he’d decided he fancied her and had started acting like a lunatic, they’d actually got on quite well, the few times they’d chatted. Added to which, Mr. Kenzo from the flat opposite now thought Yorky was a delinquent or else some kind of dodgy sex practitioner, and spent a lot of time watching him watching Becky, which all contributed to the atmosphere of light comedy pervading the stairwell of the building.

“Yorky’s fine. Bit gloomy at the moment.”

“Any girls on the horizon?” asked Angela hopefully.

Laura didn’t want to get into Yorky’s love life with her mother. She cast around for something else to say about him. “He’s giving me a hard time—” Laura stopped and cursed herself. “—for not tidying up more,” she finished, inwardly hugging herself for her own ingenuity.

“Well, I’m sure he’s right,” said Angela. “You are a bit messy. Still, it’s nice to live with someone who is, too, isn’t it? You’re only young once, it does no one any harm to leave the Sunday papers strewn about once in a while.”

“True, very true, Mum,” Laura agreed with a grin.

After they chatted about her aunt Annabel, Angela’s stepsister, her mother said, “I should be on my way soon, you know. Dad’s coming back from Norway tonight and I ought to have something ready for him, poor thing.” She drained the last of her tea and stood up. “Right, darling, I’ll be off.”

“Oh, okay,” said Laura. “Thanks so much for the blinds, Mum. They’re great. I love them.”

“I’m glad, darling,” said Angela, kissing her on the cheek. “Your granny picked them out with me. She said they were very
you.
And—oh, my goodness, that reminds me. I nearly forgot. Honestly, where am I these days?”

“What?” said Laura, handing her mother her coat.

“Granny. You know it’s her eighty-fifth birthday in July? Well, we want to have a little party for her at Seavale. With Aunt Annabel and Uncle Robert, and Lulu and Fran.” Laura groaned, but Angela ignored her and carried on. “I think Simon will still be away traveling, so it’s even more important you’re there. I just wanted to check—you’re around in July, aren’t you, darling? No holiday plans or anything?”

“Well…” Laura said.

Angela looked at her.

“I’m not sure,” said Laura.

“The whole of July? You’re
not sure
?” said Angela.

“Of course not,” said Laura, collecting herself. Good God, she was being stupid. “Any time’s good. I was thinking…thinking I might be on holiday in July sometime, but I’ll wait till you tell me a date and then plan round it. Of course I’ll be there. And do tell Granny thanks for the blinds, too. I love them.”

“You could ring her up and tell her, she’d be over the moon. She’d love to hear from you. Maybe you could meet for lunch—she was saying she hadn’t seen you for a while.” Angela wrapped her scarf carefully around her neck.

It was true. Mary was not usually offstage. Laura usually saw her about every other week, even if it was just to pop in for a drink after work or to meet for a coffee. But Laura hadn’t seen her for a while. She pushed the thought from her head, and the associated guilt, and said, “Yes, I must call her. I must. Just been quite busy. Now, safe journey. Yorky will be disappointed he missed you, you know how much he loves you.”

Angela blushed. “Go on,” she said. “Thanks for the tea, darling. And call Granny. I’ll let you know when we decide on a date for the party.”

“Yep,” said Laura, standing at the doorway. She waved as her mother disappeared down the curving staircase, and wandered back into the flat, kicking a stray football out of the way. As she stood in the hallway, she realized it had been ages since she’d seen her grandmother. In fact, since Christmas. That was ridiculous. It wasn’t as if she could say she lived in the middle of nowhere, either. Mary lived behind Baker Street—“within walking distance of Selfridges, good for the soul, my dear”—in Crecy Court, a 1930s apartment building that Laura absolutely loved.

She went to pick up her mobile, to call her grandmother. There was a text from Dan.

Can I come over? Have told Amy I’ll be late tonight. I really need to see you and I want you. I miss you so much, beautiful girl. Please say yes. D

As Laura stood holding the phone, the doorbell rang, and she started. She dropped the phone and went over to the intercom. “Hello?”

“Did you get my text?” said the voice. “Is Yorky there? Can I come up?”

“Dan?” Laura said shakily.

“Yes, it’s Dan,” the voice said, amused. “Who else sends you text messages saying they want to come over and give you a good seeing-to? Am I one in a long line, should I join a queue?”

“Aaagh,” said Laura. “I was just confused, I was about to call someone and I was just—oh, come up, sorry, I’m just being thick.”

“Are you sure?” Dan lowered his voice. “I can’t stay long. I just wanted to see you.”

Laura’s legs wobbled a bit and she smiled into the intercom. And then, out of nowhere, she found herself saying, “I’d love you to come up. But not if you can’t stay. Oh, Dan, I’m sorry.”

“What?” said Dan.

“I mean, you’re not just coming up for a quick fuck and then scooting off again. Not that that wouldn’t be nice. It would…” Laura wavered, then checked herself. “Hm. I want you, too, but no, that’s not going to happen. I’m really sorry. Night, darling.”

“Okay,” said Dan. He paused. “I’m sorry,” he went on. “You’re right. Shit, oh well. I deserve it. Soon, soon, you know? Can you do me a favor?”

“Depends,” Laura said cautiously, dreading him asking her to come outside and do it on the porch.

“Can you look out the window and wave, just so I can see you tonight? Right, I’m off then. Bye, my darling. I wish…”

“Bye, Dan,” Laura said softly. “I love you.”

The intercom went dead as she stuffed her fist into her mouth. I love you? Why? Why had she said that? Damn. She ran over to the window and gazed out over the quiet surburban North London street. The rain had stopped and the night was clear, and on the street below she could see a tall figure staring up at her. She opened the window and looked down, and there he was, his gorgeous face turned up toward her.

“I love you, too,” he shouted, and his voice echoed in the silence of the street. “I love you.”

Laura stood there, her eyes filled with tears. And then she blew him a kiss and shut the window.

chapter five

I
n May, Amy, who had been very much in the background, suddenly came out fighting. She started making plans for her thirtieth birthday in September. She let it be known that she wanted to hire a villa in Spain for two weeks, she and Dan, and have various friends fly out at different times, all gathering together on the middle Saturday for a huge party in the garden of the villa, which Dan was going to organize. She was back in the game. She even made an appearance at the pub.

Laura hadn’t seen Amy for about six months. She had become, in Laura’s mind, this vast, beauteous Amazonian woman, with tiny stick-thin wrists and a huge expensive handbag and matching shoes. She was dazzlingly beautiful, terrifyingly confident, and she knew something was up with Laura and Dan. In Laura’s nightmares, Amy walked up to Laura and dragged her by the hair out of the pub, pulled all her hair out, then kicked her into the road.

The trouble was, in these nightmares, Laura kind of sided with Amy, not with herself. If she’d heard just the facts without knowing the details of it, she’d side with Amy, too. But, she kept telling herself, just a little longer, and then it’d be over. And when she and Dan had been together for twenty-five years and were as happy as ever, no one would remember the slightly murky beginnings of their relationship. It would be lost in the mists of time, and Amy would be off married to a billionaire banker—it wasn’t even as if she and Dan were happy, after all. Laura was doing her a favor, in the long run.

So when Laura walked into the Cavendish and saw Amy, as tall and beautiful and stick-thin as ever, sitting on the sofa laughing girlishly with Jo, and realized that she
was
the terrifying Amazonian beauty of her nightmares, and that she, Laura, was still—well, normal, normal height, normal hair, normal
everything
—it was all she could do not to walk out. Amy gave her a lizardlike, thin-lipped smile, which meant nothing, as Amy pretty much hated all girls except her own, incredibly similar friends, who were kind of like the Pussycat Dolls mixed with the clique in
Mean Girls.

“Hey, Dan,” said Chris as Laura came over to the bar. “There’s your Tube buddy!”

“Hey, Tube buddy,” said Dan, bending over to kiss Laura. How could he be so nonchalant, Laura wondered, as his hand squeezed her shoulder fleetingly and he kissed her on the cheek. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Oh, a beer, thanks, Tube buddy!” said Laura. “Hi, Jon. Hey, Chris. How was Morocco?”

“Haven’t seen you since then, have we? Can’t believe it. It was great,” said Chris, hugging her. “Got some great photos to show you! The girls are over there, go and say hi.”

The girls. Laura went over to where Amy and Jo were sitting. Jo jumped up immediately. “Laura, hi!” she said, her eyes sparkling. “God, it’s so good to see you, babe! How long’s it been? How long? This is crap, we mustn’t leave it that long next time.”

“Hi, Laura!” said Amy. She looked down at Laura—both actually and metaphorically, thought Laura—and all three sat down again. Whoa, what an evening of direness lies ahead of me, she thought. Dan put her beer on the table and smiled at her. Amy leaned back and caught his hand. He smiled mechanically at her and released himself, walking back over to the bar to rejoin Chris. Laura didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“I know we’ve had our problems over the past year,” Amy confided to Jo and Laura, an hour and a couple of drinks later. “But lately, he’s been…so different. I think he’s realized.”

“Realized what?” asked Jo.

“Oh, I really hope he’s realized…Gosh, it’s awful saying it out loud, isn’t it?”

“Oh, honey,” said Jo. She patted her hand. “I know….”

Jo was no fan of Amy’s either, but was a far more tolerant person than Laura.