Crappily Ever After (17 page)

So, Is Nick is the one? I am almost convinced.  It’s all so coincidental. My visit to the Spiritual Church, the surname of
Bailey!
OK, so it’s not George Bailey. But the fact that I met him the night I cast my wish to the Universe, albeit not the way I was meant to. And the Universe understood that I was being harassed by a deranged flatmate and had to meet another friend in the pub that very moment. Thoughtful Universe. Things are most definitely working out for Becky and Mike. They have turned into one of those barf-inducing loved-up couples that make you want to scream, ‘Get a room!’ at the top of your voice. They seem to be perpetually snogging whenever I enter the room. We no longer have girly lunches alone, as even the suggestion of one invariably results in a hair ruffling for Mike, and Becky baby-voicing:

 ‘But what about poor schnookums?’

We mainly have foursome lunches out, which is nice. I am happy with Nick, but we don’t have the kind of suffocating relationship as the other two. I quite appreciate a bit of space, and so does Nick. I’m no longer one of those girls who have to be joined at the hip with her boyfriend. I’m moving much more slowly from now on. Proceeding with caution. Nick seems relieved when I’m fine about him going out with the boys.

‘Of course I don’t mind,’ I say. ‘Why are you even asking me?’

‘Just out of respect,’ he replies. ‘I love being with you. I just also like a catch up with the guys too.’

It’s a healthy relationship. I have learned a lot since ‘Alfie-gate’, as it’s now referred to in my circle of friends. It’s all going so well. Two months into his and Becky’s relationship, Mike moves into ours. It’s easier to get to work is the excuse. Becky is over the moon. Nick can’t help

using the fact that we met on the same night as a guide for our relationship. He starts to ponder that maybe we should be moving on at the same rate.

‘Really, Nick, we’re fine as we are,’ I say. ‘They have moved at an abnormally fast rate.’ To be honest, I really want to put the brakes on us, so that we don’t crash and burn after a few months. I’m done with wanting things to move quickly and prefer to keep an air of mystery around us. I would like Nick to move in – one day – but, by making him think I’m not that bothered about him, maybe I will have more success this time.  

I have a stressful Friday at work. Georgie is being potty trained and has had seven so-called accidents that day. I head home full of intent to look for a new job that very weekend. It’s the same plan I have every Friday, but by Saturday morning I’ve always forgotten how bad my job really is. Until Monday again. I walk over to the fridge to see what I can scrape the mould off for tonight’s tea. Hmm, Lasagne? Either it’s now hairy mouldy all the way through or I made it with Verdi pasta. Not sure, best not risk it. I quickly dispose of it in the bin before turning to an oblivious Mike and Becky snuggled on the sofa.

‘Takeaway, anyone?’

‘Sure. Nick round tonight, Luce?’ asks Mike.

‘Yeh, in about an hour,’ I answer from inside the fridge. I have decided to venture into its depths and have a clear-out. ‘Gads! Is that last month’s Chinese I was going to take to work?’ I ask. No reply. Looks like it is. My mobile rings. I wipe my hands on my jeans, which are covered in wee and poo anyway thanks to Georgie. I don’t recognise the number. Normally, I wouldn’t answer an unknown number but something about this one looks vaguely familiar. Hope it‘s not a mad ex, I think. Too late, I’ve hit answer.

‘Lucy Ramsey,’ I say, warily. Pause. Scottish accent.

‘Lucy? Hi, it’s Ellie.’ Oh my God, my old senior from the Care Home. If she asks me to go back, I’m going.

‘Ellie. Hi! How are you? So good to hear from you.’

‘I’m good, Lucy. How’s the job?’

‘Oh Christ, crap. I hate it. Are you calling to beg me back, because I can be on the next train,’ I laugh.

‘No, Lucy, though of course you’re welcome anytime,’ laughs Ellie. ‘Anyway, do you remember Maisie?’

‘Yes, how is she? Have Social Services found out she doesn’t have Dementia yet?

‘Yes, they did, Lucy. She moved into sheltered housing six months ago. Hated it. But it’s turned out be to your benefit.’

‘How so?’ I enquire.

 ‘Well, otherwise, as a Dementia sufferer, any changes to her will would be null and void if they were made within five years of diagnosis. And because she was of sound mind, well… they are not.’

‘I’m not with you, Ellie.’

‘Lucy… Maisie has made you sole benefactor in her will. She died two weeks ago. We attended the hearing, as she has no family. She has left you just over £63,000.’ I sit down heavily on the floor.

‘How did she die?’ I ask, stupefied.

‘In her sleep, lovey. Trust you to care about that and not think about the money. You’ll need to come to Edinburgh and see her solicitor in the next week if you can.’

‘OK, yes, I can do that. Why though, Ellie? Why me?’

‘I think you perhaps underestimated how we all touch their lives, Luce. She always did have a soft spot for you. You never treated them like they were a waste of space, like I’ve seen a lot of people do with the elderly. They already feel that way a lot of them, they don’t need a reminder.’ Ellie sighs: ‘But I obviously don’t know for sure. Maybe she knew she was on the way out and that you would get bugger all unless she ‘fessed up to being of sound mind. Anyway, give me a call back to let me now when you’ll be up. You probably need time for it all to sink in.’

My Maisie. Gone. I stare at my phone as if I have just dreamt the last five minutes. I feel sick. Too many people I have cared about, gone. I do, of course, appreciate the money she has left me. But to me, money is a means to an end.

‘Can’t take it with you,’ Gran’s voice pops into my head.

I’d give it all back to have just five minutes with all those that I’ve loved, who aren’t here anymore. What a blast we’d have in those five minutes.

‘What is it?’ Becky asks cautiously. I explain. Nick arrives, and I start over.

‘Bloody hell,’ he states, incredulously. ‘What are you going to do with all that money?’

‘Tell Sylvia to shove her job up her arse, for a start,’ I say.

‘Well, here’s where my plan comes in,’ Mike says cautiously. ‘I was going to ask you anyway, it’s not about money.’

‘Yes, we were going to ask you tonight. Both of you,’ Becky agrees emphatically.

‘I have around fifteen grand saved,’ Mike explains ‘Remember on the train at Christmas, Lucy. What we discussed? The plan?’

‘Tenerife?’

‘Yes, well, Becky and I,’ Mike takes her hand, ‘were going to ask if you and Nick want to make

a go of things with us? Have our bar stroke restaurant thing?’

‘Yes,’ I nod slowly, mulling the idea over. ‘But with Maisie’s money too, we have an even better chance. Mike, you’re a genius.’ I fling myself onto his knee and give him a squeeze. Nick and Becky look at each other in surprise, shrug and then share an awkward hug.

‘Wait, get off,’ shouts Mike, from somewhere underneath me. I remove myself from him. ‘Luce, don’t invest all that money, just match me – and only if you want to,’ he adds quickly.

‘Don’t be silly! It’ll be a great success with us four. I’ll be investing in our future. I look around at my three smiling new colleagues and feel elated. I can finally get out of the job I hate and live the dream I thought would never become a reality.
       
 

                                      
     
  Chapter Thirteen   

Morning arrives. I feel my head pound from last night’s celebratory three bottles of wine – of which, I reckon, I sunk at least half due to shock. Nick is sitting on the edge of my bed, looking thoughtfully out of the window.

‘What’s up?’ I ask sleepily. The effort of attempting to sit up is just too much. I slump back onto the pillow feeling like my skull will shatter at any second.

‘I don’t know,’ he sighs. ‘This plan of yours and Mike’s. Long hours, no time to actually enjoy where we are.’

‘That’s the whole point, though,’ I attempt to sound enthusiastic. ‘We work all summer and then take the whole winter off. Go wherever we want and not work for a few months. My mate Janey’s out there working in a bar; the pubs in Tenerife are making a killing.’ ‘What would my role be?’ asks Nick.

Mike’s voice shouts from outside the bedroom: ‘With me, on the bar! And the girls in the kitchen, where they should be…’

Mike dodges what sounds like a blow from Becky, and laughs.

‘Lucy, obviously, will need to do a food hygiene course, judging by last month’s Chinese takeaway on the worktop. But her actual cooking is up to scratch.’

‘What the hell are you doing eavesdropping outside my bedroom? Pervert!’ I shout, then groan, immediately regretting it as my brain pounds.

‘Nothing, was just passing and overheard. Come have a coffee so we can talk properly.’

An enthusiastic discussion is taking place downstairs. I’m feeling a bit better, two coffees and three slices of toast later. We discuss menu planning, cocktail evenings, themed party nights and quizzes. Becky types furiously on the laptop and then prints the results.

‘Now,’ says Becky, officially. ‘Location.’

‘Well, obviously, we will have to visit Tenerife to look around for a place to rent. Are we agreed on Tenerife then?’ Mike asks, looking around hopefully at us all. ‘Big business on tourists from the UK. Immediately after landing, they head straight for the nearest pub selling fry-ups and other Brit food. Different crowd in Greece, they seem to actually want to try Greek food and, sorry Luce, your Moussaka is shit.’

‘Oh, I can’t wait to tell Sylvia to ram her job!’

‘A month’s notice, Lucy,’ says Nick. He had to burst my bubble.

‘Shit, I need to get up to Edinburgh next week too, to claim my inheritance.’ ‘Bless you, Maisie,’ I smile at the ceiling.

I’ll come with you,’ says Nick. ‘I’ve never been to Edinburgh.’

‘Great! I’ll need to call in sick for a couple of days.’

Monday morning arrives, all too soon as it always does. I don’t have my usual feeling of hoping to be hit by a bus rather than go in to work. Not hurt badly, you understand. I’m not suicidal! Just enough to perhaps break a leg or something. No head injuries though, and something that will heal without a limp. But, oh how I’ve dreamt of six weeks off that job, even if it was in plaster.

I arrive early to work. How I hate that. Ten minutes of my life spent hanging around outside their house that I will never get back. I hover and read my
Metro
‘til thirty seconds to start time. It takes me twenty-six seconds to open the gate, walk up the path, put my key in the lock and hang up my coat. That leaves four seconds for Sylvia to look at the clock and realise that no, actually, I am not late. I have synchronised my watch with their kitchen clock to the milli-second. Like something out of
Mission Impossible
– or was it
The Matrix
?     

‘Morning, Lucy,’ Sylvia gives me a look of contempt, ‘how are you?’

Of course, she doesn’t care. She also never listens. I suspected this all along until one Monday morning when she enquired how my weekend had been; I joked that I’d spent all day Saturday and Sunday on a bad comedown from some dodgy crack.

‘Lovely,’ she replied, while Henry exploded and laughed like a donkey for ten minutes.

‘Oh, just a quick word, Lucy. When you do my laundry, can you make sure it is separate from the children’s, please? Katie’s ballet leotard has colour run into my favourite Donna Karan blouse. I know it’s last season, but it was a particular favourite of mine. Oh, and also, you forgot to put the bin out last Friday when you left. Do be a dear and ensure it doesn’t happen again.’

My brain and mouth fight each other. Mouth wants to scream:

‘Go fuck yourself, you arrogant cow!’

Brain reasons:

‘You have two weeks of holiday pay to claim, don’t blow it.’ Brain wins.

‘Sure.’ I smile.            

I make up two packed lunches. Henry leaves with Sylvia to be driven the 200 metres to school – in the jeep, naturally. I dress Georgie and we leave to drop Katie off at her school. On the way out of the door, I grab some notepaper from the bureau. What better insult than to hand in my resignation on one of her favourite scented, poncey notelets I know they cost the equivalent of what I’d spend on a spree in Topshop. I head with Georgie to the Soft Play centre and settle down to write. He throws himself into the ball pit, ready to growl at and terrorise anything smaller than him. Occasionally, a mother or a posh nanny from a ‘proper’ nanny school will say: