People would point and laugh. Lola opened her mouth to protest but her mother was busily stuffing the tops back into their carriers, checking her watch and saying, ‘Gosh, is that the time?
I must fly!’
‘Where are you going tonight?’
‘Oh, it’s just our quiz team having a Christmas get- together, something to eat followed by a bit of a bop. Malcolm’s driving, so I can have a drink.’
Hardly the Oscars. Lola let it go. Trinny and Susannah would have a field day with Malcolm, who was bearded and bear-like, with a penchant for baggy corduroys and zigzaggy patterned sweaters. Since Malcolm was to sartorial elegance what John Prescott was to ice dance, he was unlikely to object to an oversized flower attached to the front of a skirt. If you told him it was the latest thing from Karl Lagerfeld, he wouldn’t doubt it for a minute.
But Malcolm wasn’t what Lola had in mind for her mother. Sweet though he was in his bumbling teddy-bear way, she had her sights set several notches higher than that. Because Blythe deserved the best.
Chapter 13
The eye-watering, throat-tightening boiled-cabbage smell had gone, thank goodness. Loaded up like a donkey, Sally struggled through to the living room then dumped her belongings on the floor.
Excitement squiggled through her stomach. This was it, her new home for the next twelve months at least. New flat, new resolutions, whole new life.
Chief resolution being: no more having her heart broken by boyfriends who were nothing more than rotten no- good hounds.
And where better to start than here? Sally gazed around, taking in the unadorned cream walls, ivory rugs and pale minimalist ultra-modern furniture. There was no denying it looked like a show home. Even the light switches were minimalist. What with the total lack of clutter, it also exuded an air of bachelor-about-town.
Oh well, soon sort that out.
‘In here, love?’ Huffing and puffing a bit, the taxi driver appeared in the doorway with several more cases.
‘Just chuck them down. Thanks.’ He was in his fifties, grey-haired and ruddy-cheeked, wearing a wedding ring. Was he a lovely man, completely devoted to his wife, the kind of husband who put up shelves and mowed the lawn without having to be nagged into doing it? Or was he a shy conniving cheat who promised to do those things then sloped off to the pub instead and came home hours later reeking of other women’s perfume?
Actually, he probably didn’t. Sally softened and gave him the benefit of the doubt. And she’d never know anyway, because you weren’t allowed to ask complete strangers personal questions like that. Which was, as far as she was concerned, a big shame. Why couldn’t there be a law passed, making it compulsory? Imagine meeting a man for the first time, finding him attractive and being allowed to inject him with a truth drug:
‘You seem very charming, Mr X. But if we were to have a relationship, how long would it be before you started treating me like a piece of poo on a shoe?’
‘Well, usually about a month.’
‘Thanks. Next!’
The taxi driver gave her an odd look. ‘You all right, love?’
‘Me? Oh yes, fine.’ Sally hastily collected herself ... ooh, though, how about if you could also wire them up to a machine capable of delivering painful electric shocks when the response warranted it? ‘Sorry, miles away. How much do I owe you?’
When he’d left, Sally shrugged off her coat, pushed up her sleeves and set to work opening the first couple of cases. She was going to be happy here in Radley Road. Happier still, once she’d made the flat her own.
Left standing at the altar was a lonely place to be. It sounded like a line from a country and western song. Worse still, when it had actually happened, it had felt like being trapped in a country and western song. Some memories faded but humiliation on that scale was never going to go away.
And that bad just been Barry the Bastard. There’d been loads more over the years, more than any girl should have to endure, ranging from Tim the Tosser whom she’d lived with in Ireland for over a year, to Pisshead Pete seven Christmases ago. Culminating, needless to say, in her latest calamitous choice, William the Wanker. And in truth he was no great loss; the dental nurse he’d run off with was welcome to him. His gleaming, too-white teeth had looked weird anyway, like something out of a Disney cartoon.
‘Hellooo?’
Sally was looping multicoloured fairy lights around the fireplace when the bell buzzed and she heard Lola’s voice. Eagerly she rushed to open the door.
‘Wow,’ said Lola, gazing around the living room. Wow was an understatement. ‘This is ...
different.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Sally beamed with pride. ‘I can’t believe how much I’ve got done in three hours!
Nothing like a splash of colour to cheer a place up! You know, I really think I have a flair for interior design — I should do it for a living. The world would be a happier place if we all did our homes like this.’
The world would definitely be full of people wearing sunglasses. The floor was littered with empty bags and cases, not to mention several packets of biscuits. There were bright paintings adorning Gabe’s cool cream walls, with five ... no, six ... no, seven sets of fairy lights draped around the frames. The brushed-steel lampshade from the Conran shop had been taken down; in its place was a hot-pink chandelier. The ivory cushions on the sofa sported new fluffy orange covers. A sequinned pink-and-orange throw covered the seat below the window. And a fountain of fake sparkly flowers exploded out of a silver bowl on top of the TV.
‘Good for you,’ said Lola. ‘If Gabe could see this, he’d have a fit.’
‘Good job he’s in Australia then.’ Unperturbed, Sally reached into one of the cases and pulled out a swathe of peacock feathers awash with iridescent blue and green glitter. ‘Pass me that gold vase, over there, would you? At the weekend I’m going to paint my bedroom to match these!’
‘Paint the bedroom?’ Lola felt she owed it to Gabe to look dubious; he’d spent a fortune having his flat redone just three months ago.
