Hand On Heart: Sequel to Head Over Heels (27 page)

She carried his furry bulk back into the kitchen and scooped the fishy gloop which passes as cat food into his bowl, smiling as he bolted it down with a contented hum of his engine.  If only life were so simple for humans, she thought.  If your only worries in life were when food would appear in front of you, and how to choose between the sofa or the bed for a nap, then life had to be pretty damn good, didn't it?

Phoebe switched on the TV in passing; Arnie liked the nature programmes, so one of those would keep him occupied whilst she had her bath.  But the ten o'clock news was on, more doom and gloom, so-called double-dip recession now, they were saying.  Well, she'd had her double-dip already, losing two jobs within months of each other.  It was about time some luck came her way.

Until just a few months ago, Phoebe had been a graphic designer with a big company in the West End.  Hers had been the life of a comfortably off, middle-class office worker, sufficiently challenged and suitably rewarded, but not with
so
much money that she didn't know what to do with it.  Just enough to ensure there was a little bit left at the end of the month for some new clothes, or maybe an extravagant pair of shoes, or to top up the slowly-growing holiday fund that supported her annual fortnight in a location with guaranteed sunshine.

But then the bottom seemed to drop out of the graphic design market, just like it had done in most areas of business lately, and Phoebe had swiftly joined the growing pile of the unemployed, looking for the next big venture – or even just a job to pay the rent and the bills.  What followed was no big venture, and in fact so hard was her struggle to get back into graphic design that she'd ended up waitressing in a café just around the corner from where she lived, in Acton.  It was a nice job, but that was all it was.  It gave her some money, but she’d had to dip into her savings as well, in order to make ends meet.  More importantly, the longer she was out of the graphic design world, the harder it would be to get her career back on track.  It would be like starting from scratch again, she thought. 

And now the waitressing job had come to an abrupt end too.  Just last week the owner, a very nice, kindly woman for whom casting Phoebe out onto the streets would have been a decision not taken lightly, had very nicely and kindly explained to her that they could no longer afford to keep her on either.  Times were just too hard, customers weren't exactly flocking to their door and they already had quite a few full-time staff who had been there a while.  So, as the last one in, Phoebe was the first one out of the door.  Time to start job hunting in earnest, she thought.

Her friends had suggested she set herself up as a freelance designer, but Phoebe wasn't really sure she had it in her to go self-employed.  She didn't think she was disciplined enough to work from home every day, with only Arnie and the TV for company, managing her own time to complete projects – and the scariest part, actually touting for those projects and winning work in the first place.  She was certainly no saleswoman, and the idea of having to approach companies for work filled her with horror.  Still, she had to do more than just waitressing, she knew that.  Not only from a career and financial perspective, but because she knew she'd end up stuck in a rut and tearing her hair out if she didn't pick up something more stimulating soon.

The freelance idea was always a fall-back though, she supposed, if she was still struggling a few months down the line.  But Phoebe had an inkling how her days would pan out if left to her own devices.  She'd get as far as switching on her laptop and the joys of domestic life – hitherto undiscovered – would start calling to her. 
Sorry dishwasher, did I hear you yell to be emptied?  What was that, coffee machine, would I like a frothy little cappuccino?  Well, yes, I would. I'll just pop into the kitchen and switch you on, shall I? 
And then when she did finally sit down at her desk, it would all be
Emails to check?  I wonder who's on Facebook today, shall I just have a teensy weensy peek.  OK, all done, now down to work. 
She could see that by eleven in the morning, it would be project progress zero per cent, social media and household chores one hundred per cent. 

Oh dear, whatever was she to do with her life?

Phoebe relaxed back into the bubbles, keeping an eye on the roving Arnie, who still seemed intent on getting his paws wet.  She thought cats were supposed to hate water; this one seemed to have a water fetish, although she didn't like to think about what he'd do if he were actually to fall in. 

Swim of course!  Watch me go, baby.  I love you, Phoebe-human, but you can be so dim sometimes.

Being glared at by his huge, amber eyes was slightly unnerving; she'd have to start shutting the bathroom door on him for a little privacy if he carried on with this staring lark – and it might stop him trying to join her in the tub.

Phoebe reckoned the rehearsals for 'Self-Respect and Discrimination' were going pretty well.  Well for her, anyway; her part was fairly uncomplicated and she believed she delivered her few lines with suitable aplomb.  She pitied poor Justin, though, forever bearing the brunt of Marty's wrath.  She couldn't fathom why on earth Marty had cast him in that role; surely Marty had enough experience to know that Justin was a hopeless case when it came to acting and no amount of great directing could turn him into a star?  Phoebe was glad, though, that she had the Drama Society in her life.  She had precious little else to do at the moment; it was slightly more intellectually stimulating than working in the café, and the politics of it all kept her amused.

The phone rang and Phoebe did what she always did, she ran to answer it, even though that meant leaping from the soothing warmth of her bath.  The modern wonders of an answering service were lost on her; whatever she was doing, however inconvenient it might be to answer the phone, answer it she would.  So she wrapped a towel around herself and sprinted to the living room, all the benefits of a relaxing bath lost in a jiffy.  Arnie squawked in shock as she bolted past faster than Usain Bolt himself, and shook himself down from her splashes.

Have to pretend I don't like water, don't I?
he mewed.
Gotta keep the act up.
 

'Hi, it's me,' came the voice at the other end. 

'Me, who?' asked Phoebe teasingly, 'I know lots of me's'.  She knew damn well it would be Marigold, her best friend from the good old days of regular employment.  Mari was still there though, she'd survived the cull, but Phoebe wouldn't hold that against her.

'Mari, of course, you dimwit.'  Mari couldn't look less like a Marigold if she tried.  She bore a greater share of resentment towards her parents for naming her after a make of rubber gloves than the flower which was her actual namesake, but Violet and Archie were ardent gardeners, and always had been, even in their younger years when flower-power meant something else entirely.  Poor Mari's full name was Marigold Violet Green, and Phoebe had to wonder at the sense in that.  Whilst it had been amusing for the two friends to be tagged 'Green and Grey', when they worked together – it made them sound like a comedy double-act, or a pair of female detectives – she pitied her friend whose florally obsessed parents had managed to inflict the grand total of two flowers and three colours onto their poor daughter. 

No one ever forgot Marigold though, and not just because of her unusual name.  She was the weirdest, wackiest dresser Phoebe had ever met, in rebellion against her conventional upbringing, she imagined.  And all those crazy clothes against the backdrop of her long, auburn hair, made her a remarkable sight, even on what Mari would tag a 'low-key' day.  Mari's idea of low-key was vertical striped leggings, an assortment of 'layers' in varying degrees of the colour spectrum, along with her ever-present black Doc Martens.  With her tall, lithe figure she seemed to carry it off remarkably well, though.  Phoebe couldn't help thinking that personally she would look like a bag lady if she adopted a similar style to her friend.

'Have you opened your post yet?' Mari asked cryptically, before adding 'Ooh, gotta dash, someone at the door.'  And then she was gone.

Well, that had been a phone call about nothing in particular – certainly not enough to sacrifice a nice warm bath for anyway.  It was hardly worth getting back in now, Phoebe thought, the bubbles had all dissolved and the water was cooling.  She wrapped a robe around herself quickly. 

So what was Mari on about?  Phoebe thought she should at least do as she was told and so picked up the pile of mail that had been sitting waiting on the kitchen ledge.  She hadn't bothered earlier, thinking it would all be bills and junk, plus the occasional rejection letter, as it usually was.  No one ever sent anything nice through the post these days.

Amongst the flyers and bills there was a crisp, typed envelope, on beautiful lemon stationery, with a small crest embossed on the back.  It was mystifyingly exciting, Phoebe thought, relieved more than anything that today’s post held no more rejection letters.  But then she hadn’t checked her emails yet… 

Phoebe hoped the excitement she felt now would be justified by the contents of the envelope.  Maybe she should just put it on her bookcase, unopened, and forever wonder what might have been, what she could have been invited to.

Stop dithering and open the damn thing,
she told herself, finally tearing it open with the antique silver letter opener her grandmother had given her, a piece of household frivolity the old lady considered everyone should own, but which Phoebe thought far too grand for your average day to day mail.  Excitedly she pulled out the card inside:

'Miss Phoebe Grey

You are cordially invited to a ball in celebration of the life and works of Jane Austen.  This prestigious event will take place at the Bath Manor House Hotel.'

Phoebe quickly scanned the date and time and knew instantly that she was available – of course she was – and that she had to go.

This had to be the piece of post that Mari was referring to, but what in heaven's name did
she
have to do with a Jane Austen ball?  As far as Phoebe knew, the last time Mari had read a Classic of any sort had been for her GCSE's, and even then, she knew her friend hadn't actually
read
the whole text but had bottled out and gone for the crib sheets and on-line revision aids instead.  She'd be amazed if Mari could even remember who Jane Austen was.

She contemplated getting back on the phone and grilling Mari for more details, but decided instead just to chill out and enjoy the excitement of receiving an invitation to such an amazing event.  In any case, it was getting late, and for Mari that would mean starting her night out, rather than thinking about heading off to bed like most sensible people with jobs they have to get up for the next morning.  But then curiosity got the better of Phoebe, and so phone she did, catching Mari just as she was about to leave her flat.  Phoebe could tell she didn't have Mari’s undivided attention; she was probably putting her mascara on in the hall mirror, or doing up the laces on her DM's, or filling up the hip flask she always took out with her full of vodka, which she would then smuggle into whichever club she was off to. 

Mari had long given up trying to get Phoebe to go along with her on these night time excursions; the kind of places she went to weren't really Phoebe's thing.  Mari spent three or four nights a week in deep, dark, underground clubs, where the music was as eclectic as the outfits, and Phoebe felt far too square to even attempt to be a part of it.  She'd been along once or twice, tagging behind Mari like a frightened little wallflower, but she found the whole scene mind-blowing and after the initial terror had worn off, would just sit there twiddling her thumbs and looking at her watch until it was time to go home. 

'Well, I worked on the logo for their events company after you left,' Mari hooted down the phone, sounding very pleased with herself at the effect the invitation had had on her friend.  'So they offered me some freebies.  Have to say I didn't really fancy it myself, but I know how much you love Austen, and what with you starring in your play at the moment, I thought the timing couldn't be better.  And you never know, there might just be some blokes there who aren't complete boffiny literature types...'

'Aww thanks, Mari, it sounds fab, I can't wait!' Phoebe replied, genuinely delighted to have such an event – or even any event – to put into her diary, which was as glaringly empty in the evenings, other than for rehearsals, as it was during the daytime.  And although she might deny to Mari that she was on a quest for a man – she wasn't, of course – who knew what interesting people there might be at such a 'do'.  It had to be more hopeful than the crowd at the Ealing Drama Society, where, let's face it, her chances of meeting someone were below zero.

Since breaking up with Marcus, the last thing on Phoebe's mind had been men.  She'd put all her trust in him, wholeheartedly, and he had treated her badly, although it had taken him finishing with her to make her realise just
how
badly.  She could now acknowledge that he was a complete waste of space and always had been – probably – but the heartless way he had ended things with her had completely put her off the opposite sex.  For the time being, at least.

However she couldn't help the odd tiny twinge of hope that this ball in Bath might be an opportunity to meet someone normal who:

(a) wasn't another graphic designer, or even worse, a banker (like Marcus),

(b) wasn't another am-dram mad actor who thought he was the next star of stage and screen (like some of her fellow cast members)

(c) was nice and normal (not like Marcus). 

But did 'nice' and 'normal' men go to Jane Austen balls?  Wasn't this kind of thing the reserve of period costume fanatics?  Or seriously arty, intellectual sorts? Phoebe didn’t consider any of those exactly her type.  Either that or they might all be really old and wrinkly, more Mr Bennets than Mr Darcys.  Oh well, she would just have to wait and see, wouldn't she?  Whatever the outcome, it sounded like a fabulous event, and not the sort of 'do' she normally got invited to.  Let’s face it, she didn’t get invited to
anything
much at the moment.  It was a great excuse to dress up and she and Mari would have a lot of fun with that, even if nothing else came of it.  If they made complete fools of themselves, had too much to drink and fell face down in their posh frocks, then Bath was a very long way from London, and they'd never see any of those people ever again.

Marcus had dumped Phoebe after two years of not exactly blinding romance and hot sex – which she had every right at the age of twenty-nine to feel she was entitled to – but more of a downgraded version of a love affair, verging on the middle-aged and hum-drum.  He was 'something big in investment banking' with a reputable City institution, although she had never quite managed to get to the bottom of
how
big, or what that
something
was.  He earned a huge salary – obviously – which would have been great, had he been the generous type.  Unfortunately he had some serious holes in the personality stakes which failed to be compensated in any way by the fat pay cheques, but which Phoebe chose to overlook on many an occasion.  Retrospectively she failed to understand why she'd put up with him and his multitude of glaringly obvious faults for so long. 

Their relationship had ticked along comfortably for the first six months, despite Phoebe never really feeling she'd been swept off her feet.  She'd heard friends talking about that gorgeous honeymoon period when you first meet someone and you can't keep your hands off each other.  They'd never had that.  They'd migrated into Saturday night only sex within the first few months – always with the lights out and over very quickly – and it soon became more expectation than passion; she felt Marcus came to see it as his conjugal right more than something he indulged in for fun.  She doubted he'd ever considered whether she was enjoying it too.  She wasn't.  She would lie there, going through the motions, thinking about the week ahead and wondering if this was 'it'.

Marcus' idea of a romantic gesture, despite what he earned, would be to call at the petrol station on the way home from work and grab a bunch of wilting carnations, which he would present to her as though he had had them hand-picked and specially delivered from Holland.  And that was only ever on the obvious occasions – birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, or if she was ill.  He'd never once surprised her with anything, be it an impulse purchase, a weekend away, a night out at a special restaurant, even though she was forever planning treats for the two of them.  She saw those treats now as her way of relieving the state of terminal boredom that their relationship had drifted into.

And talking of being boring, that was Marcus' dinner party speciality.  He was the sort of person you just never got started on politics, or banking – which of course he knew
everything
about – or the world recession, or any other serious topic.   He would leap onto his soap box as though his life depended on it, spouting his biased opinions, and wouldn't shut up for hours.  When they were at friends' houses for dinner, she would live in fear of one of his 'hot topics' coming up, and on a couple of occasions had simply gone home without him, leaving him to put the world to rights with some of the other men, whose stamina was greater than hers at whichever unearthly hour of the morning it happened to be. 

Phoebe had taken a long, hard look at herself once the relationship had ended, realising what she had put up with for so long, wondering why she had, and resolving never to do so again.  But back then she had seen herself as someone who would rather have somebody than nobody.  She'd heard tell of these women who stay with men who beat them, for want of having
someone
, and couldn't imagine how low their self-esteem could be to bring them to do that. But how different from them was she, really and truthfully?  So she wasn’t being beaten, but she was dragged down emotionally by Marcus' constant need to be the number one in the relationship, his continual requirement to be reminded just how great he was, when actually, he wasn't.  She'd been a complete doormat and he was a bully, simple as that.