It All Started With You, page 12
I only wish I could feel the same.
In all the recent excitement though, I’ve been neglecting Honey and, on impulse, I email her too.
Come for dinner. I promise it will be edible. Are you okay? F x
But when I don’t hear back, which is most out of character, I call her mobile, which again, unusually goes straight to voicemail.
‘Honey? It’s me. Call me. Today. I’m worried about you.’
Then, just as I finish the call, Lulubelle walks in.
‘Hey, Frankie! I’m so glad you’re here… I just wanted to say thank you again! About running the half-marathon for Briarwood… I’ve already mentioned it to them and they’re thrilled. In fact, a few of the staff there are doing it too and they thought you should all meet. So how about it?’
‘Love to,’ I tell her. ‘Not tonight though – I’m trying to catch up with a friend. After that, my diary’s empty. You can pick your day.’
‘What – no dates, Frankie? I thought you’d be fighting them off…’
‘You’ve got the wrong girl, I’m afraid. Greg’s now despatched to the realms of history – Greg’s my ex,’ I add. ‘And Josh – well, let’s just say it was over before it started but I haven’t quite finished with him. He isn’t a nice guy. As for Alex, really, really lovely guy but to cut a long story short, I’ve blown it. So there you have it. My big fat lovely empty diary.’
Lulubelle looks slightly baffled. ‘Okay… well, can I get back to you?’
‘Of course – but how’s Cosmo? Is he home?’
‘He came home yesterday and he’s doing really well.’ She looks less worried than she has in ages.
‘I’m so pleased. Could we have a day out together?’ I suggest. ‘We could go rowing. He seemed to love the boats at Briarwood. Actually, that’s given me the most brilliant idea….’
She raises her eyebrows questioningly.
‘You’ll have to trust me,’ I say, starting to feel excited. ‘But I might just have thought of something perfect for him.’
I’m not sure whether she trusts me or not, but after she’s gone, I make a phone call, because my brilliant idea is actually two-fold.
‘Johnny? It’s me, Frankie.’
‘Frankie. How are you? Have you heard from Honey?’
I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Why’s Johnny asking me if I’ve heard from his wife? ‘No, actually. Should I have?’
He sounds flustered. ‘Erm, well, I thought she’d have called you…’
‘Johnny. What are you both not telling me?’ But then his mobile goes all crackly and we get cut off.
‘Oh God,’ I say to Skye, suddenly frantic. ‘Something bad’s happened. I know it has. Look, I have to go out for a bit. It’s an emergency. You can cope, can’t you? Milo should be here with the order soon, but I can’t wait that long. Will you be okay without me?’
Skye shakes her head at me. ‘I think I’ll manage.’
‘Okay. Thank you,’ I shout as I rush out to leap into the van and go hurtling off.
As I pull up outside Honey and Johnny’s house, it looks as though my hunch is right. There’s a dim light on in the kitchen which means Honey’s definitely in and on her own, because she’s anal about turning lights off and Johnny leaves everything switched on. Gently, I knock on the front door. There’s no reply, so I press my face against the window next to it, trying to peer in, but still I can’t see her. Then I hear a noise inside and I dash back to the front door.
‘Honey, it’s Frankie. I know you’re there, I heard you,’ I call through the letterbox. ‘Come on, Honey… please let me in…’
As I wait, I hear footsteps, then the latch clicks and she opens it. And oh my God. She looks terrible.
I step towards her, holding out my arms. ‘Honey, sweetie, what is it?’
But my fearsome friend can’t speak, just collapses onto my shoulder, sobbing her heart out.
‘Come on.’ I stroke her hair soothingly. ‘Let’s sit down.’
By the time we make it to the sofa, my shoulder is sopping wet. I leave her while I go and find a box of tissues, then come and sit down next to her. After sobbing pitifully for about half an hour, she wipes her face and starts to talk.
‘It’s awful, Frankie. We had another row. Johnny hates me, he really does. He says even at home it’s like I’m the lawyer and he’s the minion, because I’m always barking orders and being efficient, and bullying him when he leaves his socks on the floor or the loo seat up. I don’t mean to but I can’t help it….’ she wails. ‘And even worse he says I don’t have time for him. It’s not true, you know it’s not – it’s just that work takes so much of me, when I come home, I’m empty. You understand what I mean, don’t you?’
‘Sshh.’ I take her hand, feeling words of wisdom come bubbling to the fore. ‘Of course I do. But you have to remember he’s a man, Honey. I know times have changed, but maybe there’s a tiny part of him who fantasises about being married, you know – about coming home to an adoring wife who’s a domestic goddess and even when she’s tired, wants to have sex with him.’ I screw up my face. When they both work full time, the whole idea is preposterous. ‘Ludicrous, I know. But the point is, that’s how they’re programmed. Even Johnny,’ I say firmly, as she opens her mouth to argue with me.
‘But that’s ridiculous,’ she says aghast. ‘I get home later than he does most nights – and we’re both too tired for sex.’
That age-old problem of married couples, or so I’m told. It is ridiculous – and she’s not keen on blowjobs either – I got that out of her one night after too many mojitos. ‘His friends tease him all the time, for being married to his mother, that sort of thing. You know what a cross old witch she is… I tell you, Frankie, I’m not like that. I swear I’m not.’
‘You’re nothing like her,’ I say gently. ‘You’re incredible, Honey. And you have this enviable career, but just sometimes…’ I hesitate, not quite sure how to say what needs to be said. ‘Well, it’s like the rest of us are a bit inadequate in comparison – like we fall short of your expectations. Maybe Johnny feels like that too.’
‘You think so?’ She turns a blotchy face towards me and starts to sob again. ‘You really think that? You know, I’m so sick of that word… Expectations…I spend every hour at work living up to other people’s and I’ve had enough – of always having to prove myself, of being better than the men are, smarter than them, letting their two-bit sexist asides wash over my head when really I’d like to slap them. It’s hard, hard work Frankie. I’m not sure I can do it any more.’ She dissolves into tears again.
Oh God. She can’t give up. Being a solicitor is the perfect outlet for all that bottled up efficiency. She needs it.
‘Of course you can…’ I say soothingly. ‘You just need a break, Honey, that’s all – and it would be better if you didn’t let it get to you – at least, not quite so much.’
‘Oh, it’s easy for you to say,’ she says tearfully. ‘You don’t have some jumped-up little schoolboy looking over your shoulder, whose daddy’s a friend of the senior partner, and is just waiting for you to stuff up so he can hop into your shoes. I’m not exaggerating. It’s really like that, you know.’
‘Perhaps you should go away,’ I suggest, trying to shake the disturbing image of a jumped-up schoolboy in Honey’s five-inch stilettos. ‘A dirty weekend, somewhere exclusive and luxurious, where you and Johnny can enjoy uninterrupted hours of sex in a huge four-poster bed.’ Which sounds perfect to me but it brings on another bout of sobbing.
‘I know you won’t believe me, but I actually suggested it, Frankie. He doesn’t want to go… He said he doesn’t want to be with me. Not at the moment.’
I try not to let on how shocked I am. It seems that far from being a heat of the moment decision, Johnny’s actually thought this through. ‘Oh, Honey, he’ll come round. Of course he will.’ I hand her more tissues. ‘He loves you, he really does…’
‘It doesn’t feel like it,’ she says miserably. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ve told work I’m ill – I can’t possibly go in at the moment, not like this. Oh, Frankie, what am I going to do?’
I’m stumped. Honey’s the most together person I’ve ever known – until now. Rashly, I say the first thing that comes into my head. ‘Well, to start with, you’re coming to stay with me.’
16
If I’m honest, I’m regretting it even before she’s finished packing. Can I really share my tiny flat with such a formidable person, even if she is my best friend? Of course I can, I tell myself firmly. She needs me. And hopefully it won’t be for long.
‘Honey? You are sure about this?’ I ask her. ‘You do remember how tiny it is? No power shower – and I don’t have granite worktops.’
But she just nods her head and keeps packing, as if she’s moving out for good. Oh my God – where are we going to put all this stuff? In the end I have to intervene. ‘Right. That will have to do, I’m afraid. Remember my wardrobe, Honey? How tiny it is? We’re sharing it, my friend, so be frugal.’
‘I am,’ she says huffily, closing suitcase number three. ‘Oh, hell… I haven’t got half of what I need but I suppose it’ll have to do.’ After we’ve heaved them into her car, she stands defeatedly, looking smaller than I’ve ever seen her look. ‘Thank you so much for doing this, Frankie. I promise I won’t be a nuisance.’
‘Oh, of course you won’t,’ I tell her. ‘And anyway, once Johnny’s worked out how much he misses you, he’ll be round in a flash, begging you to come home. You’ll just have to be patient.’
I may have misgivings, but as far as Honey’s concerned, it’s the perfect solution to her problem. The practicalities, however, are somewhat different. After dragging her cases up to my flat, we squash some of her clothes into my own wardrobe because there’s only a tiny cupboard in the box room that she’ll be sleeping in, but there’s absolutely nowhere to store the empty suitcases.
‘If we clear out under your bed, they could go there,’ she says, reaching under and pulling out one of my boxes. ‘Honestly, Frankie – what do you want all these for anyway?’
It’s only a box of old Vogue magazines but that’s not the point. They’re mine and it’s my flat – and she’s a guest. I push it back under again.
‘Honey, there are going to have to be ground rules,’ I tell her firmly. ‘I know you mean well, but you can’t tell me off for leaving my own underwear on my own floor or washing up in the evening rather than the morning or even for keeping old magazines. Understood?’
‘Okay,’ she says in a subdued voice.
Then I have a brilliant idea. ‘I know my flat is really tiny, Honey – how about having a room at the pub? It’s only over the road and would be much comfier…’
But no. She’d rather cram herself into my tiny box room, only the trouble is, by suitcase number two, already we’ve run out of room.
‘You’ve got enough stuff for now,’ I say in the end. ‘And we’ll put the rest in the boot of your car. It makes perfect sense, because I’m sure it won’t be for long. Who knows – Johnny might be on his way over right now.’
Between us, we drag the cases back outside again. But when I open the boot of her car, she’s piled more stuff in there than I’d realised. Aside from all her clothes, there are photos, DVDs, her beloved espresso machine and super whizzy juicer. I feel myself frown. This looks more than transient. I go back in to find her.
‘Honey? Is there more than you’re telling me? About the fight with Johnny?’
She blushes flame red, then sits down and sighs, heavily. ‘I didn’t tell you the whole story.’
I raise my eyebrows questioningly at her.
‘We agreed to a trial separation. So I told him I’d leave.’
‘Oh, Honey…’ I gaze at her in disbelief.
‘I was angry, Frankie. I didn’t want to go. But we can’t carry on like this.’
It turns out that after Johnny had given Honey a verbal lashing, she gave as good as she got. Better, if I know Honey. I don’t like to imagine what she said to him, but in the heat of the moment, we all say things in anger.
‘You’re still going to have to leave most of it in the car,’ I tell her, my heart breaking for her. ‘My flat is now officially full – and anyway, you’ve never liked it here. You can stay, of course you can, until you sort out what you’re going to do long term.’
The next morning, she’s still lying in bed when I go to work and sitting pathetically in pyjamas, drinking medicinal brandy when I get home again that evening. I know she’s miserable, but I can’t help thinking of Johnny too. I remove the bottle and hide it, then make her a chicken salad. Then I listen while she cries some more and put her back to bed.
When we do the same the next night, I’m starting to realise she needs some help with this, so when I get up on Friday morning, I take her a cup of tea.
‘You’re getting up,’ I tell her, pulling back the curtains and throwing the windows wide open, while she cowers under the covers. ‘It stinks of booze in here, Honey. You need to drag your sorry carcass into the shower and then you’re coming to work. With me. I need your help. And don’t give me that look. You’ve said the same – actually, you’ve said much worse to me in the past. Here.’
I throw her a towel and march out victoriously, fingers crossed. I know she’s suffering, I’m just hoping she’ll respond to a dose of her own medicine. From the kitchen, I listen on tenterhooks and after several minutes the floorboards creak and I hear the bathroom door close, then the sound of the shower. I breathe a sigh of relief – at least it’s a start. It’s only later when we get there, as I unlock the door, I realise this is the moment I’ve done everything in my power to avoid. Honey, here, in my shop, which she paid the deposit on. I’m not at all sure how this is going to work, unless once again, I assert myself right from the start.
‘First of all, those buckets need scrubbing,’ I tell her, pointing to a pile of them by the sink. ‘Then you need to fill them about one-third full with cold water, ready for the flower delivery.’
She goes and gets started without a murmur and is still scrubbing when Skye walks in.
‘Sshh.’ I put my finger to my lips as I nod towards Honey. ‘Therapy,’ I whisper. ‘Say nothing.’
Then Mrs Orange pitches up, her radar on full alert.
‘It’s serious,’ I mutter at her. ‘Marital problems, possibly terminal. Any thoughts?’
‘Hazel twigs.’ She nods knowingly at Honey. ‘Works a treat, it does.’
‘I already tried them,’ I tell her, thinking of the effect they had on Mrs Culleton. ‘This seems beyond the power of even the mighty hazel twig. It’s desperate. Does anything else come to mind?’
She tilts her head on one side and frowns. ‘Could always try them white tulips, pet…’
‘But it’s August …’
She stomps about a bit with a frown. ‘I’ll be back later, duck,’ is all she says, which isn’t helpful in the slightest.
Give Honey her due, she knuckles down and, when Milo delivers the flowers, helps me and Skye snip the stems until they’re all unwrapped and in water.
The day passes relatively smoothly. Honey gets on with everything I ask, and by the end of the day, looks tired but marginally happier.
There’s no sign of Mrs Orange, until she pokes her head back in just as we’re about to close. She hands me a strange little posy and winks comically, jerking her head towards Honey.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper.
Back home, I put Mrs Orange’s posy into water, deciding I’ll sneak it into Honey’s room later on, and leave it to work its magic.
‘You work quite hard, don’t you?’ Honey sounds surprised. ‘I hadn’t realised.’
‘Ha!’ I say triumphantly. ‘No one does, not until they try it themselves. To quote one of your eligible dinner party guests, flowers are a sweet little job for a girl.’
‘Whoever said that?’ she asks sharply.
‘Handsome, lovely Joe, who was completely up himself,’ I tell her.
‘You can’t say that, Frankie! He’s the MD’s nephew.’ Then she allows herself a giggle. ‘I suppose he is.’
‘Anyway, your reward is a night out,’ I tell her and her face falls.
‘I don’t think so, but thanks all the same.’
‘Actually, you don’t have any say in the matter. Call it therapy or whatever,’ I tell her. ‘You’ve drunk all my booze, remember? And Demelza’s is out of wine, if you don’t count that disgusting Spanish stuff which I refuse to drink because it doubles as drain cleaner. Get changed.’
I daren’t tell her we’re meeting Charlie and Nina, because that would really make her dig her heels in. She doesn’t know either that after a hurried confab while she was in the shower, the three of us are about to give her a makeover. Which starts, as everything does, with a bottle or two of wine.
‘So how was LA?’
Charlie’s tan is even more golden than last time I saw her and there’s a sparkle in her eyes – with good reason, so it turns out.
‘Hot! In more ways than one, girls! Guess what! I met a guy!’
‘You’re always meeting guys,’ I remind her. ‘She picks them up everywhere she goes,’ I explain to Honey, who suddenly looks as though there’s a particularly nasty smell under her nose.
Charlie misses nothing and gives me a look. ‘This is different,’ she insists. ‘We talked and talked. He’s even English, just working out there for a few months. His name is Mark, he’s single – here.’ She whips out her iPhone. ‘This is him.’
She shows us a picture of a very nice, very ordinary-looking guy with honest eyes and a warm smile. ‘Cute, isn’t he?’
‘Very.’ I nod approvingly.
At the same time, Honey gets up. ‘Look, I’m going home. Sorry – I’m just not feeling too great,’ she says miserably.
