An Autumn Crush (8 page)

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Guy went on. ‘That I fancy her because my first thought was that she looked like Lacey Robinson. Well, I don’t because she
doesn’t.’

‘I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort, actually,’ Steve defended himself. ‘I was, however, thinking that Lacey Robinson shouldn’t even be in your brain any more.
She’s fucked it up quite enough already.’

‘She’s as short as Lacey, but that’s as far as the resemblance goes.’

‘Good. Because one Lacey Robinson is enough for one lifetime.’

‘Don’t,’ said Guy quietly. ‘She was a damaged soul.’

‘I know what she was.’ Steve knew that Guy would never talk ill of Lacey Robinson, because he had never managed to quite rid himself of the guilt of not being able to save her from
herself. To Guy, Lacey Robinson would always be a vulnerable woman whose heart had been broken one too many times and couldn’t live with the pain. To Steve, Lacey Robinson was the equivalent
of a suicide bomber. She didn’t care how many people she would take down with her when she pressed the final self-destruct button.

‘I made such a massive arse of myself in front of Floz.’ Guy dropped his head into his hands.

‘You need to go back to the flat and act normal, not fall over furniture and run off,’ Steve suggested. ‘You cocked up the first impression so you need to make a very good
second one.’

‘Yes, I realise that,’ said Guy. ‘I don’t know what happened to me. She’s
so
not my usual type. But it was like . . .’ He shook his head because it
sounded daft.

‘A thunderbolt?’ Steve suggested. He knew all about thunderbolts. He’d been hit by a very big one in primary school. He felt its reverberations still.

‘Yes,’ nodded Guy. ‘I’ve never known anything like it before. I thought when people said they’d fallen in love at first sight, they were just talking bollocks. But
that’s exactly what it felt like – love at first sight. At least for me. Not quite sure it was the same for Floz.’

Steve’s brain started to whirr.

‘Your Juliet was on about that damp patch on the kitchen wall. I’ll go with you to the flat. We’ll check it out with a view to replastering it. That’s a genuine reason
for calling on them.’

Guy thought it sounded a bit contrived, but Steve was on a roll now. ‘Yep, we’ll do that. If we say we’ll call around tea-time tomorrow, they might ask us to stay for something
to eat, then you can have a good natter and show off your charm and wit. And muscles. How can Floz resist?’

‘You must keep it secret from Juliet why we’re really going,’ warned Guy.

‘Course I will.’ Steve grinned, pleased with his plan. And he was very good at keeping secrets. The one thing Steve had never told Guy was that since they were at primary school,
he’d had the biggest crush on Juliet Miller.

The next morning, Floz spent a few quiet minutes staring out of the window which overlooked the communal gardens whilst she was drinking her second coffee. It was a beautiful
mid-August day, bright blue skies and a high sun, yellow as a lemon drop. But there were a few leaves on the turn on the trees, brown splatters amongst the green. The summer was evidently enjoying
its last weeks on the year’s throne.

Her first job was to send off the saucy Valentine’s card copy to Lee Status by email. He rang her within minutes of receiving it.

‘Thanks for the Vals, babe. Now, have I got a brilliant emergency brief for you!’

‘Do tell,’ said Floz, who hoped it was a nice cheery one because she badly needed some light relief after the awful night’s sleep she’d had. She’d dreamed of Nick
coming back into her life and must have felt real euphoria in her sleep, because when she awoke and realized that it was all a dream, she felt bereft.

‘Cards for the terminally ill,’ said Lee. ‘ “Sorry you’re dying” et cetera.’

Floz floundered on an answer before finding her voice. ‘You are joking! Who’d want to get a card saying “sorry you’re dying”?’

Lee ignored her and ploughed on. ‘You can really let your poetic side loose. Don’t mention specific illnesses, obviously, just beautiful warm lines like “wishing you strength
and guardian angel” bollocks.’

‘Lee – are you serious?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Lee, with glee in his voice. ‘The sales figures on our “We’ll Meet Again” range are through the roof. People sending cards to dead
relatives is the new black. Death is the future. I think it’s down to the popularity of these undead teen fiction films.’

Floz had written a lot of the ‘We’ll Meet Again’ verses for the weatherproof laminated cards which were specifically designed to be left on graves.

‘There’s a bit of difference between a fond verse for a deceased loved one and this new range. I mean, what are you going to call it for a start?’

‘Dunno,’ mused Lee. ‘ “Death’s Door”? Possibly a bit too harsh. I know, I know – what about “Waiting for God”? Mind you, that could alienate
the atheists. Hmmm . . . Anyway, the range title can wait. If you think of one, I’ll pay you for it.’

‘Okay,’ sighed Floz. A job was a job whether it was writing cards for living, dead or dying people.

It took her nearly two hours to write the first poem and be satisfied with it. Then she thought of it sitting in a card shop and the sadness of someone who might buy it, the heartache of the
person who might receive it. It wasn’t a job that sat well with her at all, however much she needed the money.

Just before she broke for lunch, Floz updated her website. It didn’t get a load of hits, but it was a useful tool to advertise herself and her expertise. Gibby, the guy who had set it up
for her, had included a page for posting comments. It happened from time to time that she received junk mail that didn’t make any sense, and the occasional circulated advert asking her if she
wanted to link to a blog about finding sexy housewives in her area, or to grow a bigger penis. But the mail she discovered on her website that day wasn’t her regular spam. It was sent
anonymously and just said
Glad to see you’re doing good, Cherrylips.

It could have been a coincidence, but she didn’t think so. There was only one person who ever called her ‘Cherrylips’. Floz carried on writing her poetry, but all through the
rest of the day, she wondered if that mail was from
him
. Surely not after a year and a half. But who else could it be? She wondered if by thinking about him she had released some call into
the cosmos and he had answered. There were a lot of people out there who wouldn’t have called that theory a rubbish one.

Juliet rang her as she was musing over her sandwich.

‘Wotcher,’ she boomed. ‘Is it okay with you if Guy pops by later? With
Steve
.’ As she said the latter name, once again the derision crept into her voice.

As Juliet was sneering at the second name, Floz was bristling at the first. She tried to sound casual at the prospect of seeing Guy Miller again.

‘Sure,’ she said, cool as a cucumber that had been stored in a freezer all night. ‘What time will they be coming?’

‘I said six, if that’s okay with you,’ said Juliet.

Floz looked at the clock – that gave her five hours to look as if she hadn’t made any effort at all.

‘Sure,’ she said again, thinking she needed to find a new ‘self-assured’ word.

‘We’ll order a curry in,’ said Juliet.

‘I could throw some pasta together,’ suggested Floz quickly. ‘Nothing fancy.’

‘Ooh, that would be nice,’ said Juliet, who preferred home-cooked food to takeaways any day. ‘Don’t go mad with effort though; it’s only Guy and
Steve
.’

‘You don’t like Steve much, do you?’ said Floz.

‘Nope,’ replied Juliet. ‘And you watch yourself, Floz, because he’s an absolute dog. However, he’s also a damned good plasterer and I need him to sort out my
kitchen wall.’

So why was Guy coming as well? Floz asked herself. It wouldn’t have taken two people to plaster a crack in the wall. After their rude introduction, she would have thought the flat was the
last place he’d want to come with no valid reason. She voiced the question.

‘Why is . . . your brother coming up with him?’

‘Because the pair of them are joined at the sodding hip,’ replied Juliet. ‘I’ll pick up some wine on the way home. Cheers, babe,’ and with that she was off.

Floz tore around the supermarket and bought breadmaker flour, fresh pasta, a cooked chicken and all sorts of veg to throw into a white wine sauce. For dessert she played it
simple: exorbitantly priced raspberries, cream and meringue nests for an Eton Mess – with a kick: she’d add a soupçon of Pernod from Juliet’s fancy spirit and liqueur
supply. Most of it was unwanted corporate presents, some of it was because Juliet liked to see weird and wacky-looking bottles with coloured contents and couldn’t resist snapping up a new
novelty one in supermarkets or on holiday.

After all the shopping had been put away in the cupboards, Floz then raced around the flat with a vacuum and afterwards slipped in the bath to soak in something perfumed and to wash her hair.
Picking what to wear was a bit of a minefield. A floaty dress signalled that she’d tried too hard, her old jeans and T-shirt: not tried hard enough. After trying on and rejecting half her
wardrobe, she settled on a blue hippy top and light-blue jeans, and a coordinating blue-heart necklace. Then she put on an apron and started to prepare the meal.

Floz thought she had got the right dress balance until Juliet arrived home from work and immediately said, ‘Ooh, you look nice. But there was no need to dress up for those two, you
know.’

‘Oh, I didn’t dress up,’ protested Floz. ‘I . . . er . . . spilled some coffee down myself earlier, so I changed my top.’ It sounded like the lie it was and Floz
cringed, but Juliet didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy taking in pasta-sauce-flavoured breaths.

‘Smells lovely,’ she said. ‘You’re a good cook, aren’t you? I bet you’ll even impress Guy.’

‘Is Guy a bit of a foodie then?’ asked Floz.

‘He’s a head chef, didn’t I tell you?’ called Juliet, going into her bedroom to change out of her work suit.

Shit, shit, shit, thought Floz. She knew he worked in a restaurant, but had somehow got it into her head he was a waiter who liked to bake a bit, not a professional cook. And not just a pro but
a
head chef
! What a disaster! If he stayed longer than thirty seconds in her presence this time without running off, he was bound to slag off her amateur pasta dish – or worse, throw
up. Should she put some herbs in and make the flavour complex? Oh GOD, she wasn’t that confident a cook. Why did she have to open her mouth and volunteer to make dinner? They could have had
that bought-in curry, as Juliet suggested.

The breadmaker beeped the end of its cycle. Floz peeped in with one eye expecting a sod’s law disaster, but no – the loaf was crusty and smelled divine. It just needed a brush over
with salted water, some poppy and sesame seeds sprinkled on and fifteen minutes in a hot oven. She busied herself with that whilst Juliet trilled, ‘Better get this party started,’
behind her bedroom door.

A cuckoo sprang out of the clock on the wall and announced that it was six o’clock. Floz felt stupidly nervous. She almost dropped the bread as the entryphone buzzed to herald that the
visitors were here.

‘Let them in, Floz, will you?’ said Juliet, now in the loo. Floz pretended she hadn’t heard. She didn’t want to be left alone with Steve, whom she hadn’t met, and
Guy whom she had met and scared to death. The buzzer sounded again and Juliet emerged from the bathroom just as Floz was heading across the room to it.

‘I’ve got it, no worries,’ said Juliet and picked up the door-phone. ‘Yep, come on up,’ she said into it with easy familiarity.

Outside, Steve wagged his finger at Guy. ‘Now remember, be nice and smiley and don’t make her feel as if you’re terrified of her.’

Guy was trembling with anticipation. Not even the fearsome Alberto Masserati scared him in the ring, but the prospect of seeing Floz again made his knees distinctly wobbly. The door clicked open
and Steve pushed it. He didn’t let Guy know that he was feeling all hot under the collar too at the prospect of seeing the voluptuous Juliet. Even after all these years, he was still like a
jelly in her presence, though he covered it up with a brash show of bravado that she had come to misinterpret.

Steve breezed into the flat first with his usual cocky strut. He went straight over to Juliet, one side of his top lip raising like Elvis’s.

‘Wotcher, Jules,’ he said. ‘How’s your bits?’

‘Hello, Steve,’ said Juliet with a flat tone, unimpressed by his cheeky entrance. ‘Come and meet Floz. Floz, this is Steve, Steve this is Floz.’

‘Oh hi, Floz,’ said Steve, holding out an enormous paw. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’

‘Have you?’ asked Juliet quickly.

First mistake. Guy could have murdered him. Luckily Steve was thinking well on his feet today.

‘Well, I haven’t . . . er . . . obviously, but that’s what you say, isn’t it?’

‘
You
might,’ huffed Juliet. God, he really was a jerk. Handsome, but a total jerk. He always had been. Even at primary school. He was so far up his own arse, he could have
played with his tonsils from the inside.

Guy stepped into the room a good few paces behind Steve.

‘You two have already met, haven’t you?’ said Juliet. Guy nodded at Floz, all words suspended in his throat, glued to a ball of nerves that couldn’t get past his
voice-box. As a result, he was unable to let out the cheery, ‘Hi again, Floz. I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on – ha!’ witty retort that he had practised in his
flat. Instead all he managed was a glowering nod. And his Heathcliff face.

And Floz, expecting him to have at least made a bit of an effort with a ‘Hi’ and a smile, found herself annoyed enough to merely nod in return. She had no intention of putting
herself forward for him to knock her back.

‘Mmm. I smell cooking,’ grinned Steve. ‘Great, because I’m starving. Show me where this damp patch of yours is then, Ju.’ He made it sound naughty, as if the damp
patch was in Juliet’s knickers and not on the wall. She expected nothing less of him, though she wouldn’t have guessed in a million years that his jokiness was fuelled by the stress of
being in her mighty presence.