I’d do without her. After Luke left (he used to take Basil to work in his electrician’s van) I very nearly had to rehome Basil, because I couldn’t face leaving him on his own all day. Then Poppy moved in upstairs and she loves dogs but can’t have one as she works nights as an administrator at one of the big law firms in the City, so she jumped at the chance to look after Basil when I’m at work.
I press the button on the landline phone’s answer machine – I actually ventured out last night with a few friends, a bit of a rarity since the 4 May showdown, and then didn’t have time to listen to my messages this morning. We’d gone to a Zumba class – so not my thing. My backside feels as if it’s been pummelled by a trillion pygmy goat hoofs, and I really must get a new mobile, although it’s been rather liberating being without one: no sneaking a peek at Luke’s Facebook whenever the fancy takes me, or sending drunken texts only to agonise over them the following morning. I had hurled my old phone from the window of the Star Wars’ bus somewhere on the M4 on the way back to my parents’ bungalow in Staines when Sasha had called to ‘apologise’ with promises of ‘making it up to me’ and explanations of it ‘just happened’, all of the clichés rolled into one big ball of crushing heartbreak.
In keeping with tradition, I had stayed with Mum and Dad the night before the wedding and, after gathering up Basil and my special ‘going away’ clothes, I’d beaten a rapid retreat back here to my flat, called a locksmith, and had the Yale lock changed. At least Luke had had the good grace to have already cleared his gear out before I got home, saving me the job of dumping it all in next door’s skip. Although he did forget to cancel his Star Wars magazine subscription, so I store them under the kitchen sink to use when Basil sicks up grass, which I have to say is really rather satisfying. Especially the time the magazine came with a free Luke Skywalker plastic figurine: Basil and I played fetch with it until he’d had enough, bit Luke’s head off, chewed up his body and spat it out in disgust. High five, Basil!
After deleting all of Sasha’s latest apology messages without listening to them – I can always tell them apart; there’s a delay, then a bit of background noise, muffled voices (her and Luke, I presume), lots of shushing followed by the sound of her clearing her throat in preparation for yet another one of her convoluted ‘explanations’ – there’s a message from Mum.
‘Sybil. How are you, darling? Just checking to see if you’re still alive, only we haven’t heard from you for a couple of days …’ cue a short, nervous laugh, ‘and Dad was wondering if you’d like to join us for a pre-Christmas lunch soon. Help us all to really get into the festive spirit before we board the Majestic for the Christmas break. Are you sure you can’t come too? I think they still have a few cabins left, inside lower deck ones only, mind you.’ Her voice drops, just in case the neighbours are listening, I guess. Mum is very Hyacinth Bucket when it comes to keeping up appearances. ‘But still, leftovers are better than nothing, dear, and beggars can’t be choosers, now can they?’ I breathe in before exhaling a looooong calming breath, wondering when exactly it was that I became a ‘beggar’. ‘Won’t you be very lonely on your own?’ ‘What about your turkey dinner with all the trimmings?’ Cue a short silence before she changes tack. ‘We could invite Gloria from next door to lunch, the one with the handsome son who is a barrister with his own chamber! Fancy that.’ She pauses momentarily to draw breath. ‘And such a lovely fellow! Wouldn’t it be marvellous if he—’
I press the button to skip to the next message. I know she means well, but I really don’t want to spend Christmas on a cruise ship packed full of people twice my age and beyond, while Mum tries to fix me up with a ‘leftover’ man or, worse still, Ian, the barrister, named after Ian Botham, the cricketer, but with a face like a moon landing, all craters and scars. We went to the same school and, a fellow horse lover, he dated Sasha for a while during sixth form and they rode together and showed off together in all the gymkhanas. After the end-of-year disco, he got hammered and then lunged at me for a snog, thinking I was Sasha. If that wasn’t bad enough, he says things like ‘giddy up’ in a ridiculously plummy voice instead of ‘hello’ like everyone else, which is fine if you’re astride a stallion and starring in a period drama or whatever, but he isn’t, and therefore doesn’t sound cool, just plain daft.
I unwind my most recently completed project from my neck, an extra-long, super-chunky knitted scarf with a tassel trim in Kermit green, and loop it over the banister before moving on to the next message.
‘Sybs, babe, it’s me, Cher. Listen, you have to see this new pub I’ve landed.’ Ah, she’s there already. Last time we spoke Cher was still waiting to hear from the brewery about where they wanted to send her next. ‘It’s called the Duck & Puddle and gorgeous is a massive understatement. The village is just like something out of The Darling Buds of May and the locals – well, where have you ever heard of someone welcoming you with a whole hog to roast as a housewarming present? Tindledale, that’s where! No joke. Cooper, he’s the village butcher, came in yesterday with the pig flung over his shoulder, slapped it on the bar and said, “There you go, love! I’ll send the lad over later to set it up on the spit roaster for you.” So you’d better visit soon as I now have hog roast baps coming out of my ears. Bring Basil too, I know he’s partial to pork.’ She laughs warmly while I remember the time Basil stole a whole stuffed pork belly joint, and I had only turned my back for a few minutes to lay the table for our Sunday lunch. ‘Ooh, better go, babe, nearly last orders.’ And the message fades to the sound of very jolly pub banter with Cher bellowing, ‘Time to drink up, ladies and gents’ over the ding-a-ling of a ringing hand bell.
I smile. Cher, short for Cheryl, is my oldest and dearest friend. She and I first met at Brownies after her publican parents took over the local pub, ‘a step up’ they had said, having come from a proper boozer in London’s East End. By the end of Girl Guides, we were inseparable. Sasha was never keen on going, much preferring the Pony Club, but I loved it – all those craft badges to collect, just my kind of thing. Cher and I grew up together in the Home Counties town of Staines, until she moved away and her parents ran a number of pubs up North before retiring to the Lake District. Cher and I have always kept in touch and I’ve stayed with her and her husband, Clive, in many of the pubs she’s managed over the years. The last one was in the pretty seaside town of Mulberry-On-Sea. The Hook, Line and Sinker it was called, and she did such a good job with it that the brewery asked her to go and rejuvenate this new one. Clive is a chef, so he spends most of his time in the kitchen or standing out the back by the industrial wheelie bins with a fag on the go, putting the world to rights with whichever of the locals are his new best drinking buddies.
I take off my coat and saunter through to the kitchen. After dumping my bag on the counter, I flick on the kettle before reaching up to the top shelf of the cupboard to retrieve the biscuit tin, stashed up high in a vague attempt to curtail my sugar addiction, but it never seems to work. Well, it did for a bit, when I had a wedding to get ready for, but not now. I choose a Jammie Dodger and bite into its gooey sweet loveliness before firing up my laptop and typing Jennifer Ford absconded in to Google.
The kettle boils so I swiftly make a mug of Wispa hot chocolate and it’s just reaching the crackly, popping stage of the stirring process when an article posted just a few hours ago appears on the screen.
A young mum who went on a spending spree after a bungling council official accidentally deposited £42,000 in her bank account has disappeared. Police are trying to trace Jennifer Ford, who was last seen boarding a plane to Las Vegas dressed in designer gear including £350 Gucci shades and seven-inch Louboutin stacked heels.
With sweaty palms, I swig the hot chocolate, scalding the roof of my mouth in the process. Ouch! I scroll down further. And there she is. Jennifer Ford. My mouth drains of saliva. It’s her. Definitely her. The woman whose claim I processed. Even with her new, superimposed, here’s-what-she-might-look-like-now picture, complete with long, butter-blonde hair extensions, which the article then details were acquired from a ‘top salon in London’s swanky
