Heaven Sent, page 12
Clemmie was relieved her tangled hair hid her blushing face.
‘YaYa – pack it in,’ Guy said cheerfully. ‘Christ! What’s all this?’
YaYa smiled. ‘Slight change of plan, love. And I’m so glad you’re back now. I didn’t want to go without saying goodbye.’
The kitchen floor was piled high with cases, holdalls, bags, suitcarriers and wig boxes.
‘I didn’t realise you were off tonight,’ Guy said, removing Suggs from his harness and pouring boring ferret pellets into his dinner dish. ‘I thought it was tomorrow morning?’
‘It was, love. Like I said, change of plan. We were going to kick off tomorrow night, me, Foxy and Honey Bunch – it being Halloween – with our Wicked Witch revue at the Rinky-Dink before I went off to join the Dancing Queens for the week. However, Martinique – she’s that big management noise in the troupe, who had the bad transsexual realignment done cut-price from that bloke off the internet, remember? – has just called me, and the Dancing Queens’ PR company has set up a mass-media interview session in London tonight – all the major telly and radio news shows and some of the glossies and the listings mags are lined up – and I don’t want to miss it.’ She paused for breath, pouted and fluttered her eyelashes. ‘I’m sure you’ll manage for an extra night without me, love, won’t you?’
‘The silence will be heaven and it’ll be blissful not to fall over the wigs and the frocks,’ Guy said. ‘And I’ve got Clemmie to keep me company, haven’t I?’
He grinned across the kitchen and Clemmie felt her knees wobble. He really shouldn’t be allowed to smile at anyone like that.
‘I’ll try and help out as much as possible,’ she muttered.
But both YaYa and Guy laughed. Suggs paused in munching his pellets, lifted his head, and gave her a derisive stare.
‘With the business, of course,’ Clemmie added quickly. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘Keep digging that hole, love,’ YaYa gurgled. ‘Anyway, you know the score and Guy knows he’s safe from you turning into yet another sad deluded stalker. I told him you keep going off into daydreams about some cute boy or other.’
Clemmie joined in the laughter.
‘I’d better be off, anyway,’ Clemmie said, grabbing the lifeline. ‘I’m meeting someone at eight.’
It was only Phoebe, Sukie and Chelsea, minus Ben, Derry and Nicky, for a quick girlie drink with Fern and Amber, minus Timmy and Lewis, in the Weasel and Bucket in Fiddlesticks, but she was never going to let on. Not now. Not ever.
‘Lucky sod,’ YaYa gushed. ‘Think of me when you’re all snuggled up, won’t you? I’ll be battling with the panstick and the eyelash glue and the magic knickers and trying not to hate the size zeros. See you when I get back, love.’
Clemmie nodded. ‘I hope it goes really well – and I’d love to see your show sometime.’
‘Oh, God, you’ll probably live to regret that,’ Guy murmured as he added minced chicken to Suggs’ dinner.
‘We’ve already agreed that Clemmie’s going to come to a gig one night,’ YaYa sniffed. ‘In fact, the Rinky-Dink would be ideal. It’s a super little club and not too far away. We must arrange it.’
‘That’ll be great,’ Clemmie said, meaning it. Well, it would be a new experience, wouldn’t it? And life was supposed to be a mesh of new experiences, wasn’t it? Like loving a gay – possibly bisexual – pyrotechnician? Like sharing your working life with a drag queen and a ferret? ‘Now, I must dash.’
‘Have a nice date and I’ll see you in the morning.’ Guy looked across the kitchen. ‘And we’ll get off to Milton St John by about eleven. And thanks for your help this evening.’
‘Any time,’ Clemmie said glibly, trying not to grin like an idiot as she grabbed her coat and bag and hurried towards her Peugeot.
The next morning, Clemmie was at her desk by nine. She’d been up since six, trying on and discarding clothes for this first business trip with Guy. With Molly’s help she’d settled on a long black velvet skirt, a black T-shirt and a multi-coloured velvet jacket with her rainbow-glitter waterfall earrings. Her hair stubbornly refused to behave itself in a barrette, so she’d left it loose and compensated by adding several extra layers of eye-make-up.
‘Gorgeous,’ Molly had said while Bill made the breakfast which Clemmie knew she’d never be able to eat. ‘Mind you, them earrings aren’t sparkling half as much as your eyes, Clemmie. It’s wonderful to see you so happy.’
Happy? she thought now, sifting through the early morning emails. Of course she was happy, but this feeling that bubbled away inside her was far more than just happiness, surely? It was like Christmas morning and her birthday and seeing the sea for the first time all rolled into one.
She rested her elbows on the desk and stared at the river. The previous night’s storm had blown itself out and Halloween had dawned sunny, cold, and cloudless. The flaming leaves whirled into the tumbling froth of the river, sweeping under the office window in a multicoloured torrent.
She beamed to herself. Even her working conditions were heavenly. And as for Guy …
‘Hi.’ Right on cue he appeared in the doorway. Again, dressed in skinny black, his hair still damp from the shower, he looked sensational. ‘You’re early – have you had breakfast?’
‘Yes – no – well, just coffee.’
‘Come and join us, then. You’re just in time. Me and Suggs are doing the full English while YaYa’s out of the way. She thinks that eating a healthy breakfast makes up for the amount of junk and nicotine she absorbs during the rest of the day, so she insists on yoghurts, crispbreads, juice, fruit and muesli – and I do love saturated fat, sugar, and a mountain of carbs first thing, don’t you?’
‘Well, now you come to mention it …’
Clemmie followed him out of the office. Oh God, please don’t let her slurp or spill things or appear greedy.
‘We’re in here.’ Guy turned away from the kitchen from where wonderful cooked breakfast scents were wafting. ‘Another treat. To fit the healthy-eating image, YaYa insists on sitting at the kitchen table for breakfast and it’s easier just to go along with it. But the news is on the telly and I thought if we had breakfast on our knees we might catch the Dancing Queens thing.’
‘Here’ was a big square sitting room, one of the rooms Clemmie had only previously glimpsed. With nubbly white plastered walls and black beams and one massive picture window framing the river and the weir, the room was like something out of a style supplement.
The style supplement came to an abrupt halt with the décor and furnishings, though. They, Clemmie thought cheerfully, were pure Guy. Several large elderly sofas and big mismatched armchairs were grouped round a marble fireplace, standing solidly on the original dark floorboards. Haphazard rugs and cushions in a mass of colours and patterns gave the room an air of cosy comfort. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled the inglenooks, the walls were vibrantly splashed with blown-up pictures of firework displays, and in one corner stood a wide-screen television and all the accoutrements of home entertainment, while in the other a gloriously retro red and chrome Wurlitzer jukebox took pride of place.
It was a room simply asking for snuggles and cuddles and carefree relaxation.
‘It’s fantastic,’ Clemmie said. ‘Did you do this yourself?’
‘The bastardisation? Desecration of what the design police reckon should be a waterside room in neutral shades with minimal furniture? Yep, all my own work, I’m proud to say. It was the antidote to a brief and unhappy period of living with cream and beige and white and sodding magnolia and no colour and no softness and no books or ornaments or pictures and no bloody personality.’
Clemmie stared at him. She’d become used to his equanimity. She’d never heard him sound so bitter.
‘Sorry.’ He shrugged. ‘A bit of a bugbear of mine. I shouldn’t sound off at you. Now, please make yourself comfortable and I’ll go and retrieve what I can from the kitchen. I warned you my culinary skills aren’t up to much, although I’m usually OK with a fry-up, so if you’re feeling brave …’
‘Brave and starving,’ Clemmie said honestly.
‘Great – oh, shove Suggs up a bit.’
Suggs was ensconced on one of the long, squashy sofas, surrounded by several huge tapestry cushions and a large bowl of what looked like eggs and bacon.
‘Sit down then,’ Guy indicated the sofa, ‘and I’ll be mother. What would you like?’
‘Whatever’s going,’ Clemmie said, praying that her stomach wouldn’t rumble. ‘I’m easy. That is—’
Fortunately Guy had already disappeared into the kitchen, so it was only Suggs who had noticed her faux pas. He made full use of it, lifting his head from his breakfast, a piece of bacon hanging from the corner of his mouth as he gave her his best ‘sad cow’ stare.
‘He didn’t hear me,’ she said, settling herself into a corner of the sofa, ‘so you carry on having your ferrety breakfast and leave me alone.’
Suggs snuffled a bit, spat the dangling bacon back into his bowl, winked at her, then continued eating.
Guy returned carrying a large tray piled with plates of fried breakfast, two mugs, and a coffee pot. ‘I just dished you up with everything,’ he said, setting the tray on the sofa, handing her a plate and pushing Suggs out of the way. ‘Leave what you don’t want.’
‘It all looks great, thank you.’ Clemmie picked up her knife and fork. ‘Oh, and brown sauce – I love brown sauce.’
‘Me too.’ Guy grinned, sitting beside her, balancing his own plate and flicking on the television set. ‘Another of my vices.’
They ate in companionable silence, with Clemmie miraculously managing not to spill anything, while the male presenter on the breakfast news programme warned them sternly about the latest on global warming, terrorism, feral children on sink estates and avian flu.
The cameras then moved on to the very pretty female newsreader, who dimpled and giggled and announced that they were now going to have something completely different.
A blast of Abba’s “Dancing Queen” roared into the room, and the screen was filled with a dozen oh-so-glamorous women dressed in feathers and spangles and tight costumes executing a sort of 1950s Tiller Girl routine.
Still chewing, Guy, Clemmie and Suggs stared.
The Tiller Girls changed into the Spice Girls, then into something altogether more raunchy.
‘… and that’s enough for this time of the morning,’ the newsreader dimpled some more. ‘It’s my pleasure to welcome the hottest drag act in the UK – the Dancing Queens – into the studio.’
‘There she is!’ Clemmie almost choked on a piece of fried bread. ‘Oh, doesn’t she look fab!’
YaYa, in her black wig and dressed in short, tight electric blue, was batting her eyelashes at the camera. She was surrounded by a crowd of equally slender, fabulously turned-out drag queens, all pouting and posing and blowing kisses.
‘Is that Martinique?’ Clemmie asked, as a severe looking woman in a Dolly Parton wig, black minidress and tarty boots appeared to be the spokesperson. ‘The one whose op went awry? Yes, I guess it must be. She seems to be in charge. Crikey, she looks scary.’
After Martinique had explained about dates and venues and stressed the adult content of the shows, the newsreader went on to ask further questions about the troupe and the upcoming tour, and was almost drowned out by a dozen raucous and robust replies. There seemed to be an awful lot of preening and hair-tossing. The Dancing Queens didn’t miss a promotional trick. It was sensational.
The item faded out on a clip of the Dancing Queens’ opening number – an amazing Busby Berkeley tribute – and Clemmie realised that she’d eaten every bit of food on her plate without making a mess.
‘You must be so proud of her.’ Clemmie pushed her plate back on the tray. ‘And that was the best breakfast I’ve ever eaten – but don’t tell my Uncle Bill that I said so.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ Guy added his plate to hers and poured coffee. ‘And yes, I am proud of YaYa. Always have been. That’s why I’d never stand in the way of her performing. She’s an amazing asset to The Gunpowder Plot – at school, she – er, he was Steve then, of course – was an absolute magician at maths, and although she’d probably hate me for telling you this, she is a qualified accountant.’
‘No way!’ Clemmie spluttered through her coffee. Damn! And the eating bit had gone so well. She mopped at her lap with a tissue. ‘YaYa an accountant? She can’t be – aren’t accountants all grey and suited and deadly dull?’
‘A common misconception,’ Guy concurred, ‘but clearly you’ve mingled with the wrong sort of accountants. No, YaYa’s brilliant and I’d never allow anyone else to do my books. As for selling, she’s a natural. And the most loyal person I’ve ever met. I’d trust her with my life. All in all we make a good team.’
‘And you were always friends?’
‘Right from day one. Oh, we weren’t the two oddballs thrown together or anything like that. Me the nerdy chemistry swot and Steve the effeminate one. No, we were both normal kids with tons of mates, but we just clicked on so many levels. Believe me, no one would have dared to take the piss out of Steve then for liking make-up and nice clothes. He was, and she still is, as tough as old boots. Mind you, back then there were still a lot of Goths, which suited me – being long-haired and dark and skinny, and one or two left-over dedicated New Romantics – so there was an awful lot of eyeliner and pretty costumes doing the rounds.’
‘And when did the YaYa thing take off?’
‘In the sixth form.’ Guy drained his coffee. ‘He became she just before he sat his second maths paper. Oh, not the full transition, but the name change and the wigs and stuff. The staff didn’t know what to make of it, but as he was the only boy in the class who was guaranteed straight A stars – and remember this was in the days when you got the grades you studied hard for and deserved, not those awarded simply to bump up government targets – they didn’t dare say anything.’
‘And you’ve been together ever since?’
‘Yes.’ Guy gathered all the crockery together on the tray. ‘And always will be. Now, can you take Suggs out for a quick pee before we go, please – and make sure he’s got food and water, and I’ll chuck this lot in the dishwasher? Then it’ll be Milton St John here we come.’
Chapter Eleven
‘Are you doing anything tonight? For Halloween?’ Guy asked twenty minutes later as they drove away from Winterbrook and out towards Newbury. ‘Any wild scary parties lined up?’
Was he going to ask her out? Nah, course not. No chance of that, was there? Shame. Clemmie wriggled comfortably in the passenger seat of Guy’s large elderly BMW and wondered fleetingly if she should flesh out YaYa’s imagined ‘cute boy’ as some sort of insurance policy, just in case Guy might twig how she felt, and instantly brand her one of the dreaded predatory women who seemed to gravitate towards him with monotonous regularity. No, it wasn’t a good idea; she already had enough complications in her life.
‘No, nothing.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m probably far too old to don a black bin liner and smother myself in white face paint.’
‘Bin liners and white face paint would be a big no-no these days, surely?’ Guy laughed. ‘From what I’ve seen recently, today’s Halloween costumes are on a par with anything you’d find on the set of a Freddie Krueger movie. Home-made simply doesn’t cut it any more for twenty-first-century kids.’
‘Sad, that.’ Clemmie nodded. ‘But you’re right, it does seem a pity that even dressing up is commercially competitive for children. I was in Woolworths the other day and there were racks of mini off-the-peg costumes for every occasion. So no, I won’t be prancing around Bagley-cum-Russet tonight with flashing fangs and a pointy hat and fighting the local couture-clad kiddies for a lucky bag. Hopefully they’ll all be in Hazy Hassocks anyway.’
Guy chuckled. ‘Hazy Hassocks being a hotbed of witchery, haunting and home of choice for the pre-pubescent living dead?’
‘Well – it has been rumoured – but no, actually Mitzi Blessing organises a fancy dress pumpkin contest in Hassocks village hall for the kids from all the surrounding villages. She reckons it keeps the little sods from terrifying the life out of the residents with trick or treat menaces.’
‘Good idea,’ Guy said, negotiating the single track roads with ease. ‘I’ve met Mitzi at several local events. She’s certainly a force to be reckoned with. So, if you’re not otherwise engaged tonight, shall we have another go at discovering Seventh Heaven?’
Oh, if only …
‘Love to,’ Clemmie said happily. ‘And we’ll try to work out what Allbard says, shall we?’
‘Definitely. Although I did have a quick sneaky look last night after you’d gone and before the Snepps run-through, and he still doesn’t make much sense to me. And I wasn’t prying about your party plans just now, by the way; I only asked because I really don’t know very much about your life away from work other than what you’ve told me.’
‘Not a lot more to know,’ Clemmie said airily. ‘You know I live with my aunt and uncle, that I’ve got lots of friends who I meet up with all the time, and that I play with explosives – which, I suppose, looking at it, is a pretty sad tally for someone of nearly thirty.’
‘Not if you’re happy.’ Guy steered the BMW on to the main Lambourn road. ‘Happiness is, I’ve discovered, the only thing that counts. Settling for the what’s here rather than the what’s-over-the-horizon works for me. Why beat yourself up chasing something you can never have? So, no Mr Right in the offing?’
Hah! One question she could answer – and one that was asked simply out of curiosity, not as in a checking out the opposition way. In some senses, she thought, sneaking a lustful look at Guy across the car, being in love with a beautiful gay man was, if frustrating, rather restful. At least a girl knew exactly where she was.
