Lisa
‘This feels like old times,’ I laugh, trying desperately to hang onto the edge of the double bed while the other two sprawl across it.
The three of us squished on a bed, doing our make-up while drinking large glasses of wine and deciding on which clothes to wear or share. Flora has pinched my heated rollers to tame her auburn locks, while me and Steph had fought over the straighteners – which we’d duly shared.
‘We haven’t done this for ages,’ I say, watching the others peer into tiny compact mirrors.
‘Since we were about twenty-two…’ adds Steph, grabbing her glass and glugging her drink.
‘And that was probably the time you half-stripped on a table in Manhattan’s demanding that Nigel Calder ravish you senseless in the back of his Golf cabriolet,’ laughs Flora, rolling onto her back.
‘Nigel Calder, now there’s a blast from the past – he’s married now with five kids,’ I add.
‘Never!’ they chorus, before grimacing.
‘That could have been me!’ cries Steph, sitting bolt upright.
‘No way – you couldn’t get past first base with him,’ squeals Flora.
‘He left you half naked parading on that table after you scared him to death… you’d have never have got to five babies!’
‘I was passionate, that’s all,’ corrects Steph, primping her blonde locks.
‘Powerless, more like. Didn’t we have to carry her home that night?’ I ask Flora, whose memory is much better than mine.
‘If you’ve got it, flaunt it!’ cries Steph, returning her glass to the floor and pouting in her compact mirror.
I can almost imagine that we’re in Flora’s teenage bedroom, but we’re not – we’re camped in room five of Flora’s hide out, The Peacock pub. As youngsters, I’d loved going around to her house, it was less cramped than ours, her being an only child. Her mum was never shouting, whereas my mum did nothing but bawl and scream. In our house, if my friends ever came round to play records in my room we’d be constantly hijacked or jumped on by three younger kids, all with dodgy home haircuts and faded hand-me-downs. Flora always had brand new clothes selected from the rail in British Home Stores and Adams’ – nothing in her life was hand-me-down, except her birth. At Flora’s house everything was neat and tidy with bottles of Ribena in the cupboard; our house was flat cola with a dodgy corner shop label. I never had to be asked twice to dinner at Flora’s house, I never offered in return.
Always ‘my special friend’ as my mum called her, the girl that’s ‘you-know’ mouthed above her head as we spilt from primary school like a broken dam. Everyone knew, though I never mentioned it. It rattled about some kids mouths like an unpleasant skipping song kept from the adults, ‘My mum says that your mum’s not your real mum!’ I was desperate to be friends with the special girl, the chosen one. She had stuck by me ever since.
‘When are you coming home?’ Steph asks for the umpteenth time since our arrival. ‘We’re missing you and your mum is beside herself.’
‘I keep telling you. I’m not, not yet anyway.’
‘Flora, look at this place, the wallpaper dates from the Ark, the tufted bedspread is bald in places and matted in others… and don’t get me started on that corner sink unit!’ continues Steph, our eyes following her pointing finger to each offending item in room five. ‘Need I say more?’
Flora shrugs, closing the lid on her lippy.
‘I get that you don’t get it but I need to do this.’
‘Now that you’ve done it for a few weeks… come home!’ laughs Steph.
I linger, watching from the side lines, unsure if this is going well. We’d followed Flora’s instruction and brought with us a suitcase of her own clothes from home. A careful selection of outfits that were definitely post-winter and pre-spring wear. It seemed an unnecessary request if she was coming home with us on Sunday night.
Flora’s chin wobbles.
‘Steph… leave it,’ I mouth, trying to be invisible but clearly not as Flora answers.
‘Lisa’s right, please leave it… can’t we go out and enjoy your weekend visit?’
‘I’d enjoy it better if I knew you were coming home with us on Sunday night.’
Flora launches herself from the bed, breaking the trio pose.
‘I’m staying put, Steph. I’ll wait for the DNA results and see what’s what and then decide,’ she says, repositioning her make-up products along the edge of the offending sink unit. ‘I shouldn’t have to apologise for wanting what I want.’
‘Decide?’ Steph looks horrified. ‘Lisa talk some sense into her.’
‘No.’
‘Lisa!’
‘I can’t, I’m with Flora.’
They both stare at me. I can’t please them both. How many years has Flora fought this crap? Twenty-three years of not knowing, ever since Jan and Dave told her, aged seven, how special she was. Special enough to be chosen on a weekend visit to view a helpless new-born crying in a Mothercare carrycot in a foster carer’s lounge. Flora is special, and I need to repay all my friend’s specialness in the best way I can, by standing by her.
‘We’ve watched Flora take the crap dealt by others right on the chin. I’ve held my breath every time she’s found some happiness, only to pick her up when the bubble bursts and now… she’s here and she’s decided to be here, and you want me to talk her round?’
‘Err, yes please!’
‘No!’
‘Lisa!’
I shake my head.
‘Right now, I want to get glammed up and paint this town… village… red!’ I spring from the tufted bedspread to stand beside my special mate in the middle of the floor. ‘And Steph… I’m not dragging her home come Sunday night.’
Flora’s arms wrap around my shoulders and squeeze.
‘I get it, I really do,’ I tell her, my voice muffled by her bear hug.
*
We start in the bar downstairs. Apparently, our pub crawl is going to be the world’s shortest given there’s only a few pubs and a wine bar in the local vicinity. Even so, it felt like a novelty, as it was the closest any one of us had lived to the free flow of alcohol.
The sight of us three cavorting down the staircase in killer heels, slinky dresses and a tsunami of lip gloss appears slightly out of place amongst the corduroy and cardigans but we don’t care – you don’t tend to when you’ve shared a bottle of vanilla vodka while drying your hair.
‘Raises your glasses, ladies,’ instructs Flora. ‘I propose a toast!’
‘To us!’ we chant, before gulping back our shots and instantly ordering another round from the jolly landlady. The jukebox is firing out hits but in the split-second silence of a changing disc a bitch comment fills the air. I hate it when that happens. Steph loves it.
‘Ark at them, three little girls playing at Barbie!’
We turn in unison towards the surprised announcer, a mature woman with scarlet lipstick and a mauve suit, clutching a double G&T.
‘Sorry, you were saying?’ asks Steph. Flora’s hand lifts to touch Steph’s forearm, a gesture of caution and care. The woman turns her head and continues to chat to her friends. ‘Oy lady, would you care to explain?’
Here we go!
‘Moi?’ She spins round to answer. ‘I never explain!’
‘Steph meet Veronica Sable, Pooley’s local estate agent,’ Flora says, changing to a whisper and adding ‘careful… she’s a bitch and a half.’
In a blink, Steph is across the bar, her glass leisurely swinging from her raised hand as she looms over the offending one.
‘I shouldn’t have said that, should I?’ mumbles Flora, blushing. ‘Annie will kill me if Steph kicks off in here.’
‘Too late now,’ I add, as Flora blushes at the scene about to unfold.
‘Steph!’ Flora hastily follows Steph, trying to hold her back.
‘Stephanie Johnson, nice to meet you… sorry to interrupt but I heard your vile remark as you were unfortunate enough to be loud and vulgar whilst in public. My breeding doesn’t allow me to ignore such remarks… so would you care to explain or shall I presume that this is your usual style,’
I wince.
I’ve seen Stephanie do her pull-you-up-in-public stunt many times before – the ending is never pretty. I’m pretty certain that landlady Annie will not be amused, and Flora knows it.
Veronica gives Steph the head-to-toe-and-back-up-again stare which doesn’t quite cut it when you’re seated on a tiny bar stool and the opponent is looming tall in Kurt Keiger killer heels.
The bar falls silent, even the jukebox remains mute.
‘Congratulations, you’ve even perfected the bitch overlook, more’s the pity,’ continues Steph, casually sipping her drink mid-sentence. ‘A word of advice… you need to tone down your foundation by two shades for the mature skin type, scrap the red lipstick – it screams desperation, a feathered-cut fringe would flatter your face shape and get your roots touched up!’
A chuckle ripples through the bar.
‘Steph?’ whines Flora, trying to turn Steph away from Veronica.
‘Sorry, how rude of me what I actually meant to say was… if you’re intention is the killer cougar look you do need to keep on top of your maintenance regime otherwise you look like mutton dressed as lamb! Ciao!’
Veronica’s jaw drops wide.
The other customers snort and splutter into their beer, Veronica and her two gal pals stare after Steph’s shapely wiggle as she strides towards us – we neck our drinks in a unanimous decision to move bars.
‘Flora!’ shouts Mick, across the beer pumps, his brow puckered and his hand pointing to the door.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here before she starts a catfight with a yokel,’ I whisper, linking arms and half dragging a triumphant Steph through the bar’s exit.
*
‘You’re so morbid!’ sings Steph, swinging round the lamppost with her arms outstretched.
‘I’m not, I’m interested.’ I quickly correct her, knowing full well that Flora was dying for one of us to be interested. She’s repeated her story at every milestone occasion and birthday celebration and now, tonight that mini-drama that was once far away has become a reality and we stand in the actual place. ‘And I want to see the doorstep, so hush up.’
Steph joins us and we totter, arms linked in a Dorothy and Co., Yellow Brick road style, beneath a clear night sky, heading over the cobblestones towards the neat row of houses. A sense of solemnity descends as Flora leads us along the railings towards the middle house.
‘Ka-Ching!’ snorts Steph, viewing the house. ‘You’re a posh bird!’
‘Ignore her,’ I say. ‘Who lives here now?’
‘The same doctor that I’ve mentioned – him and his wife divorced so he lives alone… seems my arrival highlighted their marital differences and they split soon afterwards.’
‘Ughhh!’ moans Steph, leaning against the railings and allowing the spikes to dig into her bare forearms. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
We should have called it a night several rounds ago but Steph’s gregarious nature had demanded more shots in the other pubs. She staggers a short distance towards the phone box and doubles over in the gutter.
‘Seems I’m bad luck for everyone,’ mutters Flora, her gaze fixed on the stone step.
‘You’re not!’
‘I am.’
In Flora’s world, her birth must feel like an omen. How does anyone get through life if your mother gives you away on day one? Given away before you’ve dirtied your first nappy, crashed the family car during a crazy girl weekend, dated the most unsuitable men in the local area and returned home aged thirty with no job to kip on their couch. I had to admit, Flora hadn’t the luckiest track record in life.
‘If I was going to have a baby left on my doorstep, I’d have wanted it to be you!’ I announce, squeezing her tight.
‘You say the sweetest things, Lisa,’ coos Flora, petting my cheek.
‘Oh shucks,’ I blush, happy to please.
‘And over there, is the spot where I accidently nutted the copper on Christmas Eve,’ says Flora pointing to a spot a few feet away by the corner, where Steph was hacking up her last three rounds.
‘Are we going to meet lover boy?’ asks Steph, looking up from gagging to inspect the policeman’s pavement stain.
‘He’s not lover boy!’ snaps Flora, jumping back from the railings. ‘He’s just a friend.’
‘Your mum seems to think he is,’ I add, knowing Flora hates others gossiping behind her back. ‘Given that you introduced him during their visit.’
‘Well, she’s wrong. Joel’s helping me sort the fact from the village fiction, that’s all.’
‘Jackanory… Jackanory,’ sings Steph, staggering from side to side as she re-joins us at the railings.
‘I’m not. This is about me finding my birth mum. Nothing more.’
‘But if he made a move?’
Flora gives a brief smile.
‘Perhaps… but he’s still tangled up with his previous woman… the cougar, Veronica.’
‘Phew! She’s history,’ calls Steph.
‘But if he asks for a date, you’ll say yes, won’t you?’ I push, knowing she’s playing it coy.
‘Maybe.’
‘We believe you but thousands wouldn’t,’ mocks Steph, walking back towards the corner. ‘Your mother for one.’
‘Ignore her honey, she’s only jealous.’
‘Of me?’ asks Flora, shaking her curled locks.
‘Oh yeah, because I’ve always wanted the love of a cheating ex… begging for my hand in marriage…’
I gasp.
‘What?’ asks Flora.
‘Nothing,’ I snap, sending a dagger stare towards Steph, who sobers up in seconds yet pretends to vomit some more over the pavement.
‘Has Julian been in touch?’
‘No,’ I say, a tad too quickly.
I can’t lie, seriously I’m crap at it.
‘He has, hasn’t he?’
‘No,’ adds Steph, even less convincing than my poor attempt.
‘Julian wants me back?’
‘No!’ we say in unison.
‘Lisa… tell me.’
I stall. I breathe. I’m going to have to tell her.
Like the time that Steph accidently snogged Flora’s first boyfriend at the school disco while I believe I can fly by R Kelly played in the background – I had the job of telling her the truth, while Steph hid in the toilets crying. Like then, Flora deserves to know the truth, even if Julian remains the pig-headed git that broke her heart by knobbing another woman.
‘He came round after Christmas asking if I’d seen you… I said yes, I lied of course, but hey, he didn’t need to know. Anyway, he said that he’d jacked the blonde and…’
‘The bastard!’ spits Flora, shaking her head in disgust.
‘And wanted to have a chat about you guys getting back together and starting afresh… he hinted that he might even consider…’ I couldn’t bring myself to say it.
‘Wedding bells,’ interrupts Steph, adding a giggle to her impression of church bells.
Flora was stoney-faced and staring at Steph.
‘Flora?’ I touch her arm and break her trance.
‘You didn’t tell him I was here, did you?’ gasps Flora.
‘Dooh!’ adds Steph, wiping her mouth and leaning against the telephone box.
‘Give it a rest, Steph – it’s wearing thin… no Flora, I didn’t.’
‘Please don’t… he’s the last person I want to see milling about the village. Veronica’s bad enough in the wrong light let alone Julian.’
‘I did the right thing?’ I ask, relieved by her response.
‘Sure you did, say the same if he comes knocking again, Lisa.’
‘Deal!’
‘Can we go back to The Peacock so I can knock ten bells out of old Veronica the Harmonica?’ laughs Steph, opening and closing the telephone box door.
I give Flora a hug, she looks crestfallen.
‘Ignore Steph – you know what she’s like.’