Sweet Temptation Page 16

  I nodded. ‘Think so,’ I said.

  Collette stood up and put her hands on her hips. ‘Maddie, that was a bit unprofessional,’ she said. ‘You were meant to talk about losing weight, not all that stuff about your mum. You’ve got to try and keep on-message. People will think they’re tuning in to The Misery Show, not—’

  But before she could go on, Andy’s face appeared through the window, gesturing for me to come out.

  ‘Now you’re for it,’ Collette said, unable to hide the glee in her voice. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  Becky followed me out, and Collette, after slapping on another track, bustled along too, eager to eavesdrop on my bollocking.

  Far from tearing a strip off me, though, Andy was smiling and putting a hand on my shoulder. ‘Maddie – I just want to say that that was fantastic radio,’ he said. ‘The way you spoke so eloquently, so movingly – you’re a natural. Really wonderful stuff, well done.’

  Collette was bristling with annoyance. ‘I was just telling Maddie that I found it rather unprofessional, unfortunately,’ she put in before I could respond. ‘She spoke for way too long, she repeated herself, she—’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Andy interrupted. ‘I thought you were great, Maddie. Really honest and inspiring. Perfect.’ He gave my hand a squeeze. ‘And I’m so sorry to hear about your mum, by the way,’ he added. ‘She’s done a lot for us over the years – do give her our best next time you see her. I’ll get Emily to send her some flowers.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, feeling dazed as Collette stalked back to the studio, glaring daggers at me. ‘That’s … that’s very kind of you.’

  Becky and I walked to our desks. ‘That must have been hard,’ she said quietly. ‘Having to talk about the last few weeks on air when things have been so difficult. I’m really sorry you had to do that, Maddie. If I’d known for a second that your mum was ill, I’d never have let Collette run the segment.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said, feeling every minute of my sleepless night now that the adrenaline of being in the studio was leaving my body. I remembered the way Collette had glared at me with such hatred in her eyes and shuddered. ‘That’s probably the last time she’ll let me speak on the show anyway,’ I said with relief. ‘I’ll be quietly dropped from the whole stupid campaign, you’ll see.’ I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  ‘Darling, you’re very, very naughty, you had me crying over your show today, you know,’ Mum said without preamble when I dropped round to see her after my shift. ‘Crying with pride for you, I mean, and guilt that you’ve been so stressed over silly old me. Oh, and I’ve had the most enormous bunch of flowers from that lovely boss of yours. Goodness! Anyone would think I was about to drop dead or something.’

  I laughed at the defiant way she said it, but I felt my heart twist with anguish too. How could she speak so flippantly about dying when it had rushed up so close to her lately?

  ‘These got here fast,’ I said, spotting the flowers, still in their cellophane, plonked in the kitchen sink. ‘Andy only ordered them at lunchtime. Let me put them in a vase for you.’

  ‘Oh, would you? Gerald answered the door to the delivery chap, but you know what he’s like, not a clue about such things, and I didn’t feel up to it either. Thanks, darling. Gosh,’ she said, as I walked past her, ‘you have lost a few pounds, you know. Mike been cracking the whip, has he?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I said. ‘He’s nice, isn’t he, Mike? I really like him. And I’m so glad you gave me that kick up the bum, signing me up for the gym in the first place.’ I took the dripping flowers from the sink and carefully snipped through the cellophane. As well as the sweet-smelling white freesias, there were also Barbie-pink gerberas, pale pink roses, and creamy white and pink peonies, so fat and round they resembled scoops of raspberry ripple ice cream. ‘Further proof, if I needed it, that you are always right about everything, Mum.’

  She chuckled. ‘Ah, I’m glad you’ve finally realized that. It’s taken a while, but I knew you’d get there in the end.’

  I filled a vase with water and arranged the flowers while we talked about how she was feeling, which involved quite a lot of bitching about how Jeremy Kyle should be thrown to the wolves. Then I couldn’t help myself and came out with my bit of good news.

  ‘Mum, you know after my piece on the radio today,’ I began. ‘Well, we had the most amazing response. Over two hundred people called in or emailed about it – all of them saying lovely things about how they hoped I’d keep up my gym attendance, and how I was an inspiration to them. Lots of well-wishers saying they hoped you’d get better soon as well.’

  I saw her chin jut slightly in that proud, pleased way of hers. ‘How nice of them. And well deserved for you, too. Honestly, darling, you make that Collette woman sound a complete amateur.’

  ‘That’s not all,’ I said, smiling as I thought about the post-show team meeting. ‘Andy, my boss, was so thrilled about the public response that he’s asked me to contribute to the website with a weekly blog about how I’m getting on. How cool is that!’

  ‘Fantastic!’ she said, reaching over to hug me, but wincing at the movement almost immediately. ‘This stupid head of mine,’ she said, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment and putting a hand to her temple. ‘Honestly, the slightest thing …’

  ‘Are you okay? Shall I get you some painkillers?’ I asked. Even though Gerald had told me privately that she’d been suffering with unbearable headaches and sickness every evening, she was usually adept at covering up in front of me.

  She opened her eyes warily. ‘I can’t have any more until six o’clock now,’ she said and forced a smile. ‘Not that I’m clock-watching or anything.’ She pulled a face. ‘I’m okay. Just can’t wait for this wretched chemo to start. Even if I’m as bald as a coot by the end of it, I won’t care as long as it gets rid of the tumour. I just want everything to go back to normal, that’s all.’

  I held her hand, stroking the soft, verging-on-translucent skin and trying not to think about the chemo needle entering her veins.

  ‘Me too,’ I said. ‘Me too.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Grilled

  Jess

  There was a knock on the door at seven o’clock on Saturday night. Charlie had just gone out to meet a mate, and I assumed at first it must be him coming back to pick up something he’d forgotten.

  It wasn’t. Instead, Shelley, Gemma and Nat were standing on the doorstep, beaming.

  ‘Surprise! We’re kidnapping you for the evening!’ said Shelley, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me over the threshold.

  ‘What do you mean? What’s happening?’ My fingers were all sudsy from washing up the dinner things. ‘You’re kidnapping me?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said Nat. ‘Dry those hands, Mrs Mop, and get your shoes on. You’ve got two minutes.’

  She had had her hair cut, I registered dimly, into a choppy, elfin style. It suited her delicate features.

  I swallowed. ‘But I …’ I began.

  But I haven’t finished the washing up yet!

  But I can’t go out without letting Charlie know!

  But I was all set for a quiet night in reading wedding magazines and watching Casualty!

  ‘No buts,’ said Gem sternly. She looked as if she’d been poured into her cut-off jeans, they were so tight. ‘Keep walking while you’re talking.’

  That made me laugh. It had been the catchphrase of Colin, the old bloke who worked in the White Lion. He’d yell it out every ten seconds or so while he was collecting the glasses at the end of the night in an attempt to shoo everybody out. I hadn’t heard him say it for a long, long time.

  ‘Hurry up!’ Shelley ordered, putting her strappy-sandalled foot in the door. ‘Come as you are – you don’t need to get changed or anything. We’ll have a laugh. Just like old times, yeah?’

  I bit my lip, weighing up the offer. It was Saturday night and it had been ages since I’d caught up with the girls properly
. Also, if I was back in good time, Charlie didn’t need to know I’d been out at all.

  ‘Yeah, okay,’ I said, smiling, suddenly giddy at their unexpected arrival. I shoved my shoes on, then grabbed some money and my door keys. I still had my make-up on from work, and my hair had been washed that morning. I’d do.

  ‘Brilliant. So what’s the plan? Are we having a beauty session? Do you want me to grab some lotions and potions? Where are you taking me?’

  ‘No lotions and potions necessary,’ Nat said, ‘although personally I’d be well up for a Jess Beauty Night soon. I could do with a facial now that I think about it …’

  ‘We’ve booked Susan,’ said Gemma quickly. Nat had a tendency to blether. ‘Round at our place. And we know how much you wanted to see her last time, so …’

  ‘Susan? Ooh, fab,’ I said, feeling a shiver run through me as I pulled the front door shut and we began walking down the road. Now I was properly excited. Susan Ridley was a clairvoyant Nat’s mum had told us about a couple of years ago. Nat’s mum had gone to see her at a spiritualist church and Susan had been uncannily accurate, apparently, passing on a message from Nat’s deceased gran (‘Don’t forget to cut back the clematis’) as well as predicting an imminent sporting triumph for the family (Nat’s brother had run the Birmingham half-marathon in under two hours that very weekend) and news of a pregnancy close to home. Nat had had to deny it vigorously at least four times before Mrs Bingham, the newly-wed next door, had announced her happy tidings.

  At the time we were all living together and immediately booked Susan for a home consultation. Unfortunately, the night she was due to come round my car had broken down on the way back from work, and by the time I’d got home, Susan had already packed up her tarot cards and gone, leaving the others to breathlessly tell me tales of the tall, dark strangers and exciting journeys that lay ahead of them.

  Since then, I’d often wondered what she would have said to me, but didn’t quite have the courage to go and see her on my own. Now I’d get my chance … and oh, I couldn’t wait. I hoped she’d tell me how wonderful the wedding was going to be.

  ‘That reminds me,’ I said as we got to the end of the street, images of white dresses floating around in my mind. I was just about to tell them about the date Charlie and I had set for the wedding, but then I closed my mouth again. Ah. Problem. I hadn’t actually asked my mum and dad if they were free on that Saturday yet – which was a pretty basic detail to check before announcing the date to the rest of the world. And besides … I suddenly remembered the dismissive way Shelley had spoken about Charlie last time I’d been out with her and didn’t feel like discussing it after all.

  ‘What?’ Nat asked. ‘Blimey, that’s a dramatic pause. Don’t leave us hanging, girl!’

  I laughed, trying to think of something to say. ‘Um … I haven’t seen your new place yet, have I?’

  Shelley elbowed me. ‘No – and it’s hardly new any more either, Mrs. We moved in in January. Some friend you are, not turning up with a pot plant and bottle of plonk before now.’

  I felt bad then. She was right. I hadn’t been a very good friend at all. ‘Well, I hope you’ve tidied up for me,’ I said, trying to make a joke. Back when I’d lived with them, I was always the messiest house member. In fact, the closest Gemma and I ever came to blows was when she once exploded over my constant inability to make the toast without leaving a trail of crumbs from the worktop to the table. ‘It’s like living with bloody Hansel and Gretel!’ she’d fumed.

  Now, of course, I was a regular Snow White, playing house for Charlie and me. But that was just being grownup, wasn’t it? That was simply a case of me realizing that if I didn’t sweep up crumbs or sort laundry or wash dishes, they didn’t get swept or sorted or washed. Besides, I liked making everything nice for him. Us.

  Once we arrived at their house, Shelley showed me round. She worked at a lettings agency so had nabbed them a great property. It was a three-bedroomed semi and they’d made it really pretty. The bedrooms were all girl heaven, with huge, overspilling wardrobes, massive mirrors and fairy lights, and the long, knocked-through living room had a vast squashy sofa with loads of colourful cushions, a pink feather boa draped along the mantelpiece, a big TV and piles of DVDs and videos (I’d be amazed if Sleepless in Seattle still worked, the number of repeated plays it had been through). There were a table and chairs at the far end near some French windows that opened onto a scruffy garden, and on the wall above the table hung a fab photo montage someone had made, featuring all of them in various party outfits. I went for a closer look.

  ‘Oh my God, that was the School Disco night, wasn’t it?’ I cried, spotting a photo of the legendary party we’d thrown at our old house. There were the four of us dressed up in white school shirts, short skirts and ripped fishnets, our hair in bunches, with brown-eyeliner freckles dotted across our noses. ‘Look how thin I was then,’ I added, crossing my hands over my big belly to hide it.

  ‘Jess, don’t say it like that,’ Shelley scolded. ‘I think you’ve lost some weight anyway since I saw you last – not that you need to or anything,’ she added quickly. ‘But your face looks a bit slimmer to me.’

  I flushed. ‘Do you think so?’ I asked.

  ‘Deffo,’ she said. ‘Hey, that was a riot, that party, wasn’t it?’ she went on fondly, coming to stand next to me and looking at the photo I’d been studying. ‘Oh, and here’s your birthday night, remember? – three years ago, was it? – when we all went to The Ram, and you snogged that policeman for a bet.’

  I giggled. ‘And you and Gems got told off for dancing on the table to Abba,’ I said, a rush of memories tumbling into my mind. ‘What were we like?’

  ‘Happy days,’ said Gemma, coming to join us. ‘We must get you out and about more often, Jess. Even if it means we have to hide behind cars watching for Charlie to leave the house so that we can steal you away.’

  My mouth fell open. ‘You didn’t!’

  Before she could reply, there was a knock at the door and we all stiffened. ‘That must be Susan!’ Nat squealed, racing to answer it.

  Shelley grabbed my arm excitedly. ‘Oooh, here we go,’ she said, pulling me over to the sofa. ‘Sit down, Jess,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and get the wine. I’m in need of some Dutch courage all of a sudden.’

  Susan Ridley wasn’t at all what I expected. I’d imagined every last fortune-teller cliché rolled into one: that she’d be a wizened, hunched old crone in a headscarf, with golden hooped earrings, and penetrative, slightly crazed eyes that looked right into your soul. Not a bit of it.

  In walked this tall, thirty-something woman with a cloud of dark curly hair, wearing tight black jeans and a retro David Bowie T-shirt. ‘Hiya,’ she said, looking around and smiling. ‘Where do you want me?’

  ‘Hi, Susan,’ Gemma said. ‘I’m Gemma, and this is Jess. Do you want to do the readings at the table here?’

  ‘Perfect,’ she said, walking across the room. ‘I’m getting a great feeling about this space, you know. Lots of music and dancing, my spirits are telling me.’

  Gemma grinned. ‘They’re spot on, then,’ she replied. ‘We often push the table back and have a bit of a dance in here before we go on a big night out.’

  Shelley came in with a tray full of wine glasses. ‘As long as your spirits don’t let on about me puffing and panting in front of my Davina workout DVDs in here, I don’t mind,’ she added, smiling. ‘Can I get you a drink, Susan?’

  After Susan had been given some peppermint tea, and we’d all poured ourselves large glasses of Sauvignon Blanc, it was time to begin. Suddenly I felt antsy at the prospect. What if Susan said something awful was going to happen to me or someone I knew? What if she looked at my palm and pronounced that I would be hit by a bus on the way home? What if her spirits told her I was a big fat loser who shouldn’t be drinking wine because it had too many calories for a so-called dieter? I put my glass down quickly. I’d just have this one, I vowed, then go on the water. I didn’t wan
t Charlie to smell booze on my breath anyway. If he knew I’d sneaked out behind his back, he wouldn’t be very happy.

  ‘Who’s going first, then?’ Susan asked, unwrapping a pack of tarot cards from a purple velvet cloth, which she spread out before her on the table.

  I felt myself shrinking back nervously, but luckily the others were jostling to have the first reading. Gemma won and sat down opposite Susan at the table, while Shelley heaved the sofa round at an angle so that we could all sit a respectful distance away and listen.

  Susan asked Gemma to shuffle the cards and cut the pack, twice. Then she dealt them in a pattern on the purple cloth. I watched, tingly with trepidation. Suddenly this all seemed rather serious – and kind of stupid. What were we doing, messing around with tarot cards and spirits? The atmosphere felt charged, electric, as if anything might happen. I couldn’t help thinking about those horror films where evil spirits rampaged through houses, pushing over furniture, throwing pictures from the walls, smashing mirrors …

  I was just wishing I was back home checking my lottery ticket in front of the draw when I heard Susan give the dirtiest laugh I’d ever heard. ‘My goodness,’ she said, studying the cards in front of her. ‘My word. You’re a bit of a fireball when you get your garters down, aren’t you?’

  Gemma gave a scream of laughter and clapped a hand to her mouth. Nat, Shelley and I all burst out laughing too. Gemma was a saucepot, it had to be said. She’d always be the one you’d hear shagging through the wall, or making you splutter with tales of her late-night shenanigans the next morning.

  ‘Let’s see … so we’ve got the Lovers card, the Knight of Wands, we’ve got the Empress …’ Susan raised her eyes to Gemma. ‘Girl, you’re getting some action at the moment, aren’t you?’

  Gemma spluttered again, and Shelley elbowed me. ‘When isn’t Gemma getting some, more like,’ she whispered. ‘Her bedroom’s been like Shag Central lately.’

  ‘And the spirits are saying … Ooh.’ Susan raised her eyebrows and paused as if listening. ‘They’re saying that this bloke you’re seeing at the moment – I can’t get his name. Maybe Gareth? Graham? They’re saying he’s built like a can of Pledge, if you get my drift.’