It All Started With You, page 23
For a moment, I think he’s going to tell me off, but the corners of his lips start to quiver and then he grins. ‘Sorry – he was a nasty piece of work but I can’t believe you’d do that! Quite ingenious.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, reaching for a bottle of wine. ‘Look. I don’t usually drink in the week, but I’m sorry, I’m all shaky. Would you like one too?’
‘I’ve got a far better idea,’ he says, his eyes holding mine. ‘We can get one at the pub – and some hot food.’ He glances at my congealed supper. ‘Unless, of course, you have plans.’
‘That sounds lovely,’ I say gratefully, not wanting to be here on my own.
He drives us out into the countryside, away from Josh, away from everything, to a small pub where we find a table near the open fire. I don’t know whether it’s the encounter with Josh, but I’m cold and light-headed and even the heat from the fire doesn’t stop me shivering.
Alex comes back with our drinks. ‘Here, I thought this might do you good. Brandy,’ he adds as I eye it suspiciously. ‘Helps – when you’ve had a bit of a shock.’
I take a sip, then order soup, because suddenly that’s all I feel like. Alex orders fish and chips and we eat in silence, until he says, ‘Frankie? Are you okay? Only you’re very quiet.’
‘Actually, I don’t feel very well. I think I’ll go and get some water.’
I push back my chair, but as I get up, something funny happens. My vision goes all blurry and my legs are suddenly weak, then as the room starts spinning like a Catherine wheel, everything goes black.
I come round to the sound of a familiar, comforting voice.
‘Frankie? Are you all right?’
Opening my eyes, I find myself sprawled on the floor, with Alex’s face above me, looking worried.
‘Hello.’ I smile weakly, wondering what I’m doing on the floor, then try to push myself up.
‘Just stay put,’ he tells me, holding me still. ‘You’ve been out cold for a few minutes and you banged your head.’
‘Did I?’ I say wondrously, feeling my head and finding the egg-shaped lump that’s just appearing. ‘Ouch.’
‘Take my arm,’ Alex says, ‘and we’ll get you onto a chair.’
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ I say, trying to struggle to my feet, only it’s clear I’m not. My legs won’t hold me for some reason so I end up putting all my weight on him.
‘Thanks.’
I sit, drinking the mug of sweet tea that’s materialised out of nowhere, feeling the light-headedness subside as I start to feel more normal again.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say to Alex. ‘I can’t think what came over me.’
‘You’ve been working hard, haven’t you? And training? Are you sleeping?’
I grimace, shaking my head and realising that I’ve done the last couple of weeks – possibly longer – running on pure adrenaline and though I thought I was over it, only now is it catching up with me.
‘I guess the wanker journalist was the last straw,’ he says wryly. ‘Perhaps I better take you home.’
‘Okay,’ I say, thinking of my pyjamas and my bed and more than anything, uninterrupted sleep.
I even doze off in his car, waking only when he pulls up at the side of the road and switches the engine off. But only when he comes round to help me out do I realise I’ve no idea where I am.
‘I’ve brought you back to mine,’ he says apologetically. ‘Someone should keep an eye on you,’ he says firmly when I open my mouth to protest. ‘And I’ve got a day off tomorrow. I’ll drive you home in the morning.’
Too wobbly to argue, I just take his arm.
34
It’s not until the next morning I realise how woozy I was last night, because otherwise I’d no way have ended up here in Alex’s spare room, being kept an eye on, as he put it. Then Josh flashes into my mind and I’m really rather glad I’m not at home. After all, in this state, I’m not exactly up to dealing with an irate journo.
Get this: Alex brings me tea. Piping hot, with sugar in, because he says it will be good for me.
‘But I’m sweet enough,’ I tell him, lying back pathetically against giant soft pillows. I try my hardest to look as though I still need looking after. ‘Don’t you think?’
He ignores me. ‘I’ve brought you my bathrobe and there are clean towels in the bathroom, if you fancy a shower.’
I go all tingly when he says that, wondering if his bathrobe smells as nice as he does.
‘And I’ll put some breakfast on. Scrambled eggs?’
‘Lovely,’ I say. ‘But really, you don’t have to go to all this trouble for me.’
‘Frankie. I’m not eating just because you’re here,’ he says.
After a shower, I wander down to find him in the kitchen. ‘I like your house,’ I tell him, because I do. It’s very masculine but still manages to be comfortable. And it’s tidy, which I find most puzzling. ‘Do you live here on your own?’
‘I have a lodger. She’s also in the police, which means with our shifts, we rarely see each other.’
Lodger, eh? Does he think I was born yesterday?
‘So, er, is she working this morning?’
‘Yes,’ he says briefly. ‘Only, it’s not exactly this morning, Frankie… it’s just gone midday.’
At which point, I gasp in horror.
‘Hey, it doesn’t matter, does it? Unless… you haven’t got a wedding have you?’
‘No!’ I cry. Feeling my head throb, my hands find the bump. ‘But the shop… I should have opened up ages ago…’
‘Don’t worry – I, er, called Lulubelle and she was going to call your friend Honey. I’m sure, between them, they’ll have everything under control.’
‘But I must phone them!’ I say frantically. ‘I can’t just not turn up like this!’
‘Strewth. It’s no wonder you’re burned out, Frankie. The world won’t stop just because you’re not at work.’
‘It won’t?’ My voice is small and pathetic as I realise he’s right. Honey and Skye are more than capable of managing without me.
‘Why don’t you take a few days off?’ he suggests. ‘Get some rest, go on some walks – wind down a bit. You’d really feel better for it.’
‘Look, I’m only a florist. It’s not like I have this high-powered, high-pressure job like a surgeon,’ I tell him. ‘Or a policeman.’
‘I know, but from what I’ve seen, you’ve had a lot on lately. When did you last have a holiday?’
I shake my head because I truly can’t remember. There was Ibiza when I was eighteen, Tenerife a couple of years later and I went away with Alice and Dave just after Martha was born, when I was really there as a babysitter, or so it seemed at the time. So not a proper holiday. ‘Don’t know,’ I mumble.
He shakes his head. ‘Hopeless.’
Of course, after he drives me home, as soon as his car is out of sight, I go straight round to the shop.
‘I’m so sorry.’ I go bursting in there, expecting all hell to have broken loose, but there’s just Honey, quietly doing the books. As I look around, everything is neat and tidy, buckets scrubbed, floor swept, not a stem out of place.
‘What are you doing here?’ she says crossly. ‘You’re a workaholic, Frankie. Don’t you trust me or something?’
‘Of course I do. I was just worried.’
‘You thought Skye and I wouldn’t manage? I sent her home early because everything’s done and the last thing we need is for her to collapse like you have. Now, I’ve been going through the diary and the rest of this week is quiet except for a couple of small weddings on Saturday which we can manage – so go home. And please, do not come back this week, or I’ll phone Alex to come and arrest you.’
‘Oh,’ I say, feeling very small and unwanted. ‘Okay. I’m going.’
It’s surreal, all the more so when, almost home, a familiar figure shuffles along the pavement towards me.
‘Hello, my lovely. Now, I heard, you see. I brought you something to help. Left it on the doorstep as I can’t be hanging about.’
‘Oh. Thank you, Mrs Orange. That’s so kind.’
She steps closer and peers into my face. ‘You don’t look so good, duck. Told you them brides were trouble. Let that bossy friend of yours get on with it and have a rest.’
And with that, she carries on up the road to the village.
On my doorstep I find it. One of her posies – just a small, simple one, of dusty lilac and white shades tied with her trademark string. There’s lavender and jasmine to relax and calm someone as jittery as I am, and feathery soft clary sage to lift my mood. And pine, its grey-green needles perfectly complementing the flowers but bringing its own contribution to the mix. Tentatively, I hold it to my nose and breathe it in – and it’s as though the little atoms of magic come whirling in through my nostrils.
Alex calls that evening, just to check up on me and after I hang up, there’s a knock at the door. I check through the window just in case it’s a psycho journalist from hell, but thankfully it’s not – it’s Lulubelle.
‘I’m worried about you,’ she says as she comes in.
‘So is everyone.’ I shake my head. ‘I can’t see what all the fuss is about.’
‘People don’t keel over for no reason, Frankie. You couldn’t be – well, pregnant, could you?’
‘God no!’ I’m horrified. ‘I can’t be – I mean, you have to have sex for one thing and I haven’t. I don’t mean not ever, just not in ages.’
‘Well, should you see your doctor?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Actually yes! I really should.’
I call Nina while Lulubelle’s still here and she insists on coming over straight away. Not only that, when she gets here, Charlie’s with her. And just after she finishes giving me a very thorough check-up, in the privacy of my bedroom and including dipping my wee with one of those sticks, Honey turns up too.
‘Yay!’ I say, beaming at them. ‘Let’s have a party!’
At which point they turn and stare at me.
‘Sit down,’ says Nina firmly. ‘Frankie, you need to slow down – not forever, just for a week or two. How many miles a week are you running?’
‘Forty,’ Honey answers for me.
‘How often do you get to bed early?’
‘Never,’ say Lulubelle and Honey together. I glare at them both.
‘Well, you don’t – I lived here for a bit – remember?’ Exactly, so Honey should at least be on my side.
‘When did you last take a week off?’ says Nina, frowning.
‘Never,’ says the voice walking in. Et tu, Brute? ‘Flaming heck, Frankie – I’ve been on at you about stress for bleeding months… You should see her,’ Skye tells my friends. ‘Goes mental if anything goes wrong… and mostly it doesn’t, so she like dreams it up…’
‘I don’t! Not at all!’ But my voice peters out as I see them all just looking at me.
‘Okay,’ says Nina calmly. So calmly. How does she do that? ‘So what with your shop, your weddings, marathon training—’
‘Half-marathon,’ I interrupt but she ignores me.
‘Burning the candles at both ends and being an agony aunt to your friends, even what you’ve been doing for the hospice… Oh, your mother too. Frankie? Do you ever have a day doing nothing?’
‘Of course not. But no one does – not really. And I need to do all these things…’
But as I look around at my friends, I think actually, every single one of them is ahead of me. They all know where to draw the line to keep them from pitching into the insanity that now surrounds me. And here I am, thinking that because everything I’m doing has a purpose, it’s fine to overdo it when actually, it’s no more fine than drinking far too much at one of Honey’s dinner parties. I start to panic.
‘I have a personality disorder, don’t I? What do you think it is – OCD? Bipolar?’ My imagination runs away with me, yet again.
‘Frankie, you’re doing it now. Getting all worked up over nothing. I think you just need to learn when to stop,’ says Nina gently.
‘Oh. You think?’ I want to believe her, but maybe, on this occasion, she’s wrong, because after all, even doctors are only human.
‘Yes, I do.’
Charlie comes over, taking my hand and leading me over to my sofa.
‘Sit here,’ she orders – kindly though, not bossily like some people. She drags a footstool over. ‘Now put your feet up.’
I do as I’m told, then Lulubelle appears from my kitchen carrying several glasses. She opens a bottle of champagne with a flourish and hands me the first glass.
‘Am I allowed?’ I say anxiously.
‘You’re practically teetotal,’ says Honey exasperatedly. ‘It’ll do you good to loosen up.’
I look at Nina anxiously.
‘She’s right.’
Okay. So it’s official. Flowers screw with your head – well, brides, their mothers, not to mention bridezillas and celebrity secret weddings. The pressure too, of having to absolutely always get it right. If I could only rewind to that moment, years ago, when in her greater wisdom Mrs Orange told me that weddings were too much trouble. Moreover, if I’d only believed her… But then, if I hadn’t done it I wouldn’t have met so many brilliant people and had a blast. But I’ve reached a point it has to stop.
‘Okay,’ I say, slightly dazed. ‘I give in. I’ll do it. For now…’
35
The only trouble is when you’ve been rushing about like a blue-arsed fly for as long as you can remember, taking things slowly isn’t easy. My friends seem to have a rota for checking up on me and bringing me supper and DVDs.
‘I’m not ill,’ I protest, when Nina comes over and cooks pasta and salad. ‘This is ridiculous, when you’ve been working all day…’
‘Yes, but I do get weekends off,’ she says pointedly. ‘And I do actually eat proper meals, Frankie – I’m not sure you do…’
I shut up then because yet again, she’s right, which is really annoying. I’ve taken to grazing, as I dash between here and there, and anyway, her pasta is delicious.
The next day Charlie comes over for lunch.
‘Frankie – your fridge is full of crap. I’m taking you to the pub.’
Sounds like a plan… We only go to the one opposite and have sandwiches, but proper ones, not the plastic ones Mr Crowley sells.
We even have wine – only one glass – while Charlie fills me in on her love life.
‘Mark’s flight gets in tonight.’ She drops it in casually, even though she hasn’t mentioned him for ages.
I shake my head. ‘I thought that was over. Haven’t you been seeing other people?’
‘I have, but…’
Interrupting, I frown at her. ‘Does he know?’
‘Oh yes – I mean, be practical, Frankie. You can’t really start a relationship from opposite sides of the world. But now that he’s going to be here, well, it’s going to be very different. I’m really excited!’
You could have knocked me down with a feather. Any of my other friends, maybe, but Charlie. ‘Good luck with that,’ I say. ‘No, really – I mean it. He looks nice.’ But then I used to think that about Greg and look what a loser he turned out to be.
‘So. About you and Alex,’ says Charlie slowly.
‘There’s no me and Alex,’ I say, feeling a tell-tale heat rising in my cheeks. ‘Nice guy, Charlie – but I’m really not his type.’
But all she does is shake her head.
Even my mother makes an appearance, looking better than the last time I saw her. Kind of less Botoxed and desperate, and far more at home in her own skin. She looks around my flat, slightly shocked, I think, but she takes me out for lunch before she drives back to Brighton. It might not be much, but for Julia, it’s remarkable.
‘Alice mentioned you’d been overdoing it,’ she said, handing me a cheque. ‘I want you to take a holiday – and please accept it, Frankie. Giles left me well provided for. And it’s one thing I can do for you.’
‘Wow.’ Slowly I take it from her, amazed at her generosity but also that she and Alice have clearly been speaking. ‘That’s really thoughtful. Thanks, Julia.’
Then that evening, after everything I said to Charlie, lo and behold, Alex arrives on my doorstep. He’s clutching flowers.
‘I only realised what I’d done after I bought them,’ he says apologetically, handing them to me.
‘No one ever buys me flowers, thank you so much,’ I say. It’s true – everyone thinks it’s like taking coals to Newcastle and actually, it really isn’t. ‘Are you coming in?’
‘Thanks.’
He follows me into the kitchen where I unwrap the cellophane to find little white dendrobium orchids mixed with freesia, which are unlike anything I would choose and smell gorgeous.
‘These are lovely.’ I smile at him. ’You shouldn’t have.’
‘Phew. Glad you like them. Bit tricky, choosing flowers for a florist…’
‘So, are you checking up on me?’ I ask him, wondering if he too is on my unofficial list of minders.
‘Absolutely,’ he says. ‘But I have an ulterior motive.’
‘You do?’ I bat my eyelashes demurely at him. ‘Which is?’
‘To take you out for dinner,’ he says. ‘Only last time didn’t go quite as I’d hoped, what with you passing out and banging your head. There’s this Italian place in All Hallows – what do you think?’
I think it’s great, though I can’t for the life of me understand why he’s doing this. He’s being really nice, but given the past, I’m still not sure what he really thinks of me.
‘I’d love to. Only do you mind if I go and get changed? I’d prefer not to go out in these.’ I glance down at my checked pyjama bottoms and he grins.
More appropriately attired in jeans and a brightly coloured tunic top, I think nothing of the small shock I get when my arm brushes against his in the car, nor the fact that he takes me to this amazing little bistro. And when we’re sitting at this corner table drinking a rather nice Chianti, he leans back and frowns at me.
