The Not So Secret Emails Of Coco Pinchard (16 page)

“Right,” said Agatha. “That’s us done,” she gathered up the milk and biscuits, and handed me the key. “Happy gardening.”

I only stayed for ten minutes after she had gone. I don’t have a clue about gardening and I was so Jet lagged that my mind began to play tricks. Amy Winehouse was being buffeted by the wind and she looked like she was eyeballing me, and the thought of Mr. Bevan lying dead outside gave me the shivers. What will I do with an Allotment?

When I got home, I had a text from Angie at BMX. It just said;

Pls. cum 2 my office 4 meet tmrw @ 9am.

I am looking back over my proposal. What was I thinking?

Wednesday 6th May  23:48

TO: [email protected]

I can’t sleep, it’s dark and a little cold, but my body is still on LA time and ready to eat a nice lunch. Marika came over tonight, she is very unhappy. She has just been turned down for a Key Worker Mortgage because she has never taken UK Citizenship, even though she has paid fifteen years of Income Tax and National Insurance here. She wants to buy her flat in Dulwich from her Landlord who is selling.

“I’m going to have to bite the bullet and move further out,” she said with a shudder. I offered her a room here, but to get to Dulwch by 7.45am she would have to deal with The Tube/Overland and a bus five days a week. It’s a shame, as I used to love it when she was our lodger.

In other news… Rosencrantz went back to The Dramatic Movement Conservatoire today, and found that no one had really noticed his absence. Artemis Wise was picked up in Calais trying to board a ferry and is now in custody. There is a witch-hunt on as to who knew about his embezzlement. Rosencrantz quite innocently asked his singing teacher if she could give him an update on what he has missed, (in class) but she got very flustered and dropped a Metronome on her foot.

Anyway, you are probably fast asleep. I should have taken some of those Melatonin pills you offered to get my body clock back on track.

Thursday 7th May 11.04

TO: [email protected]

After only an hour of sleep I had to get up for my meeting with Angie. When I arrived at her office, she was on the phone and motioned me to sit.

“Listen,” she said. “You shouldn’t have signed the bloody contract if you knew he had commitments with the Cub Scouts!” she slammed the phone down.

“Bad day?” I said.

“What’s that phrase?” She said leaning forward to light my cigarette. “Never work with children or animals? It should be never work with parents. One of my new authors, who’s seven, is writing a book on Higher Mathematics … Autistic as hell, but a nice kid, however the Mother. Ugh… Anyway,” she said. “We’re here to talk about your book proposal;
‘
Greg-O-Byte: Some Androids Are Different
,
’” she looked at me and raised her eyebrows. I explained that it might be a little radical, especially as a children’s book.

“I know you wanted Literary Fiction,’’ I said. “However, I thought if kids could read about being gay, under the euphemism of being a robot, not fitting in. My son is gay and I think, well, I am proud of my reaction to him telling me,” I gabbled. “I’m sorry if it’s not marketable.”

“Not marketable? You’re kidding?” she said, her face lighting up. “It’s fucking brilliant. We love it. Funny, fresh, fucking great.”

 “Really?” I said. Angie pressed a button on her desk,

“Celia, tell Coco what you thought of her idea.”

“Fucking brilliant,” came the voice through back the intercom.

“See,” said Angie.

“But it’s a kids book?”

“Kids is a great market to tap, all those little fuckers with pocket money and pester power. Do you know how much the Tooth Fairy pays these days?”

I said I didn’t.

“A fucking fiver for a tooth! That’s a paperback… David Walliams wrote The Boy In A Dress book which was a huge hit, and Geri Halliwell’s got her Eugenia Labia.”

“It’s Lavender, Eugenia Lavender,” I said.

“Yeah, they’ve made kids books
cool
again. I think Greg-O-Byte could be huge.”

“Great,” I said feeling relieved. Angie explained that they have had a meeting and they want to pitch it as a series of ten books!

“Wow.” I said. “I didn’t really intend to write a series.”

“I know, fate innit,’’ she said. “ I didn’t think I’d end up divorced with three kids and a bucket fanny, but there you go.”

I laughed despite my reservations. Angie then opened Champagne and bombarded me with ideas for her pitch for Greg-O-Byte: Some Androids are Different
.
She wants to approach the major publishing houses over the next few days.

Her enthusiasm was contagious, but not quite enough. On the train journey, home I just couldn’t feel excited.

I don’t know if it is the exhaustion or too much Champagne. I spent two years researching and writing Chasing Diana Spencer and it died on its arse. I knocked this idea out in a jet-lagged few hours and she is talking a series of books? I think I am just being very ungrateful, am going to try to sleep. I have to write a treatment for the first three books for next week.

Sunday 10th May  12:43

TO: [email protected]

I finally slept a full night. Angie called yesterday morning. A Publisher came back about the proposal, and as well as the outlines for the first three, has asked for a treatment of all ten books! I decided to come up to my Allotment; there are fewer distractions… I thought.

I had not noticed before that a large part of my patch is covered in an old moulding royal blue Axminster carpet. I stuck my fag in my mouth and lifted the corner. Underneath was compacted dry soil and scores of wood lice teaming over the woven backing, I recoiled with a yelp and my lit cigarette fell on the carpet.

A handsome guy came out of the shed next door and watched me chasing my lit cigarette being blown across the carpet. He said hello, I retrieved my fag, and on closer inspection saw, he was
very
handsome, I guessed late thirties.

“Got it!” I said going red, and he laughed. I hope
with
me.

“It’s for the weeds,” he said.

“What is?”

“The carpet,” he said. “Keeps the weeds down.”

“Ah,” I said. “Where’s your Scarecrow gone?” Noticing Amy Winehouse had disappeared.

He said he had had a letter from the Allotment Association saying it is a bad role model, for the kids who come up here.

“Oh,” I said. “Did you tell them she’s the first Scarecrow to win five Grammy awards?”

He laughed. I expected him to introduce himself, but he just started to dig. Maybe he knows I talked to Agatha Balfour about his Scarecrow. I smiled and went into my shed, sat down and got the stove going. As it spluttered to life, I looked at him through the window. He had on baggy blue jeans and a tight black jumper. His tall athletic frame wore them very well.

A mad thought popped into my head. I realised that if he turned round and asked me to sleep with him, I could do, (not that he would). It was the first time I had thought about being legally single.

I have forgotten about sex, new exciting sex I mean. The sex with Daniel was always good, but I began to think about peeling this guys clothes off, and what he would look like. He looked like a guy who worked out and ate right, tight behind, muscular thighs, lovely pecs, and a square jaw…

I didn’t know I had been staring at him for so long until the kettle started to scream loudly. He turned and saw me. I looked away and grabbed for the milk bottle, but I couldn’t get hold of it properly and I did one of those juggling acts before dropping it with a crash. I grinned stupidly at him and bent down to clear it up. By the time I’d finished, he had gone.

It feels rather comfortable sat here in a shed. I wonder how often Mr. Bevan sat here, he probably never thought he would keel over by the Water Butt.

Sunday 17th May  10:47

TO: [email protected], [email protected]

Sorry for my lack of contact but I had banned my iPhone from the writing proceedings. It was just too tempting to tap away. Especially as you two got so excited about the Handsome Man. (I still don’t know his name) He has been here a few times, but all we’ve done is wave.

My shed has been a great place to work, I brought up some cushions and throws and an oil lamp but it hasn’t endeared me to the Allotment Association. This morning an old man called Len banged on the door with his walking stick and shouted,

“You gonna grow anything?” I said that I was planning a row of carrots but hadn’t had the time and resources yet to implement it. This didn’t go down well.

“Talk English,” he barked. “You’ve bloody well sat up here for a week using it as an office. Read yer contract. We’ll take it off yer if you don’t turn over some soil in the next week!”

The last part of his sentence was particularly loud which disturbed a dozen or so blackbirds and made the heads of a few old gits pop up above their fruit bushes.

When he had gone, I took my contract out of the drawer. It states that I have to keep at least 75% of it for growing fruit and vegetables and weed the other 25%. Right now, I have 100% weeds.

I gathered up my things and walked out in my heels and long coat, looking every inch the Allotment abuser.

Wednesday 20th May  14:56

TO: [email protected]

I went to Homebase with Chris, to celebrate completion of the book treatments. I am planning to make my Allotment shed a permanent writing space and if I have to do a bit of gardening, so be it.

I was happily queuing up at the till with four bags of manure, waiting for Chris to fetch some Solar Lights for his garden, when the people behind started to get fidgety. The woman at the checkout said,

“Will your husband will be much longer?” What should have been a silly mistaken comment hit me like a truck;
I have no husband, I am a lonely middle-aged, single woman buying horse shit.

A cold trickling sensation began inside my chest and I started to see stars. They multiplied and I heard myself say,

“I’m going to faint…” My legs buckled under me and everything went black.

When I woke up I was lying over my bags of manure and the Checkout Lady was spritzing me with a plant spray. Chris was kneeling beside me, clutching his cheek. She had slapped him round the face for being hysterical. I’d been unconscious for five minutes. They wanted to call an Ambulance but I said I was fine, and left clutching my manure with Chris clutching his face.

“I’m single,” I said.

“And fabulous,” said Chris, but it came out as “thabulous.”

Friday 22nd May  13:37

TO: [email protected]

Has your bruising gone down? I wouldn’t sue the woman at Homebase. She looked very old school; in her day, you did slap someone round the face if they were hysterical. It’s just a pity she had to do it three times…

I started on my Allotment today. I borrowed a Strimmer from Mr. Cohen next door. He was very glad to oblige when I rang his bell but I heard Mrs. Cohen moaning in the background,

“Can’t she can afford to buy one? She’s been in the papers lately.” Mr. Cohen quickly shut the door, and came out to his shed.

“We haven’t seen Daniel around much,” he said.

“Yeah, um we’re divorcing. I am on my own now, “I said awkwardly.

“I’ve forgotten what that feels like,” he said wistfully, Mrs. Cohen was watching us suspiciously from the living room window. Maybe being single won’t be all that bad. The Cohen’s used to be such a colourful, glamorous couple, but years of grating on each other seems to have worn them down to beige. Maybe Daniel and I were just on the cusp of beige, and fate intervened to save us from it? Maybe this is the next colourful chapter of my life?

I thanked Mr. Cohen for the Strimmer, and walked up to the Allotment. Len appeared, leaning on his stick.

“That won’t get the weeds,” he said tapping the Strimmer. “It’ll just chop the ‘eads off. You need to dig ‘em out.”

“This is just to make a start,” I said. “Do you know where the nearest power socket is?”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “My lounge.” He pointed out that the Strimmer was petrol powered. I blushed and pulled the starter. After twenty minutes, it roared into life.

It took ages to raze the whole plot of weeds. Strimming is not as easy as it looks. When I switched off the motor, the silence twanged around. I hadn’t seen the handsome guy arrive. He waved and came over.

“Hi, I’m Adam,” he said holding out a dark, wedding ring free hand. “I realise I’ve never introduced myself.”

“Oh didn’t you?” I said, feigning nonchalance, “I’m Coco.” I said, pulling off a glove and shaking his hand. “Sorry about the noise, it’s just I’ve been threatened with eviction for not digging.”

“I’ve put in an application for a Marilyn Manson scarecrow,” he said. “But I don’t think it’ll be approved.” I laughed a bit too hard, then scrambled for something to say.

“I’m a writer,” I said. “That’s why I’ve been in the shed a lot staring at you, well not staring at you but facing your direction … you know. Thinking, stuff.”

He asked what I wrote. As I started to tell him his phone rang.

“Sorry, I have to take this,” he said. I stood there whilst he walked off to his shed. Several minutes went by and I began to feel stupid. He had seen me finish what I was doing, so we both knew I was waiting for him. I felt like a love-struck teenager. After a couple more minutes he was still chatting, so I waved at him, and shouted,

“Um, got to go,” he nodded and turned back to his call.

I slung the Strimmer (a little butchly) over my shoulder and trudged back home.

He is younger than me, and completely out of my league, yet I want to go back and talk to him again. What if he is gay? You fancy coming to help me dig tomorrow, and use your gaydar on Adam?

Friday 22nd May  18:09

TO: [email protected]

I spent all day up at the Allotment, but no Adam. Good job, as Chris and me got filthy digging up weeds and spreading manure. I stink of it.

At lunchtime, Len came past and eyeballed Chris, who had brought some very fancy cloth deckchairs and a hamper of Waitrose goodies. He leaned in and took a deep inhale.