Harriet Evans - A Hopeless Romantic

Angela swallowed her tea daintily and said brightly, ‘Oh, she’s fine, I hear. Granny saw her a couple of weeks ago. Lulu’s got a wonderful new job reviewing restaurants and cafés for some magazine in Notting Hill. Isn’t that great?’

Angela said this rather mechanically. Laura said incredulously, ‘How can Lulu have a job reviewing restaurants? She hasn’t eaten anything since 1991.’

‘Darling,’ said Angela. ‘Don’t be mean.’

‘Oh come on, Mum,’ Laura said. ‘She’s anorexic. It’s not right to be that thin.’

‘I know.’

‘Why doesn’t Aunt Annabel do something about it? She could run the UN if she wanted to.’

‘They look at things in a different way from us, dear,’ Angela said vaguely. ‘They’re different. Thank god.’

Laura was taken aback. Any criticism of their relatives coming from the mouth of her usually perfectly correct mother spoke volumes. But she said nothing, and instead pushed the IKEA catalogue on the coffee table towards her mother. ‘So, Mum,’ she said. ‘Show me the new sofa you like? And look – here’s the lamp I thought looked nice.’

Angela grabbed the catalogue almost gratefully, and opened it. ‘The lamp with the blue shade, that’s the one you want?’

Laura nodded. Angela looked genuinely excited, as she always did when a conversation about reasonably priced furnishings was in the offing. ‘And once you’ve put these blinds up – ooh, it’ll look really lovely, especially with spring coming,’ she said, drinking her cup of tea. ‘I should be on my way soon, you know. Dad’s back from Norway tonight and I ought to have something ready for him, poor thing.’

Since Laura’s father George was an engineer, something slightly strange in IT development systems, neither Laura nor her brother ever fully understood what it was that he did. It seemed to involve lots of flying about on business, anyway. He was a manically overenthusiastic cook when at home, though, who loved everything from barbecuing to casseroling, and was more than happy to do the lion’s share of the catering in the Foster household. It had become borne in upon Laura over the years, however, that it was her mother who had always got stuck with the really mundane tasks, like the packed-lunch preparation or the spag bol on a Wednesday evening after work.

‘Ooh, what are you making?’ Laura asked.

‘Lasagne,’ said Angela firmly. ‘You know your father. He’ll be full of the joys of rollmops and herrings and smorgasbords. Well, I’m not having it, I’m really not. He can wait till summer’s here for that kind of thing.’ She drained the last of her tea and stood up. ‘Right, darling, I’ll be off.’

‘Oh, OK,’ 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 then.’ Seavale was Mary’s house by the sea in Norfolk. ‘With Aunt Annabel and Robert, and Lulu and Fran.’ Laura groaned, but Angela ignored her and carried on. ‘I think Simon will still be away travelling, 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. ‘Er.’

Angela looked at her. ‘Er?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Laura.

‘The whole of July? You’re not sure ?’ said Angela disbelievingly.

‘Well,’ 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 it round that. 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. She was normally someone Laura saw once 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,’ she added. ‘Paddy 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 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 realised it had been Christmas when she’d last seen her grandmother. 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 Thirties apartment block that Laura absolutely loved. It was like a step back in time, a veritable Who’s Who. She shared the block with Cedric Forsythe, an old Rank actor from the Fifties, who’d starred opposite Margaret Leighton and Celia Johnson; Jasper Davidson, a painter who’d lived in St Ives until he’d broken his hip three years ago; and Dilys Darcy, a long-forgotten Fifties crooner who’d been best mates with Alma Cogan and whose memory was sharper than a tack.

She went to pick up her mobile, to get her grandmother’s number off it. 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. She started, dropped the phone, and went over to the intercom.

‘Hello?’ she said.

‘Did you get my text?’ said the voice. ‘Is Paddy 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 conf—oh, come up, sorry, I’m just being thick.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Dan. He 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,’ said Laura, ‘you’re not just coming up for a quick fuck and then scooting off again. Not that that wouldn’t be nice. It would –’ and she almost wavered, then checked herself. ‘Hm. I want you too, but no, that’s not going to happen. I’m really sorry. Night, darling.’

‘OK,’ 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 favour?’

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

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