Nadia Knows Best (6 page)

“Nothing.”

“Come on then, let's get home and find out what they've cooked for us tonight.”

“Bye,” said Annie.

Turning, Tilly gave a little wave and said shyly, “See you soon.”

“So who is he?” Clare demanded, appearing in Nadia's bedroom doorway. “Apart from a complete wuss so incapable of making up his own mind that he has to get a girl to do it for him?”

But from her tone of voice, Nadia knew the fracas was behind them. This was Clare's way of indicating that she was prepared to forgive her. Probably because she was going out with Piers tonight and wanted to borrow something to wear.

“His name's Jay Tiernan. He's my new boss.” Nadia certainly hoped he was, anyway. Keen not to hang around, she'd already visited the garden center this afternoon and handed in her notice. “And he's not a wuss,” she added, since it was important to demonstrate loyalty toward one's employer. “He's a property developer.”

“Oh well, you were fed up with the garden place. All those gnomes.” Making her way over to the wardrobe, Clare began idly flicking through the clothes hanging there. “Is he married?”

“Don't know. Didn't ask.”
Hope
not
, thought Nadia.

“Fancy him?”

“No!”

Clare smirked. That was the irritating thing about having a sister, they could always tell.

“I don't,” Nadia insisted, going a bit red.

“He's probably married,” announced Clare, the expert. “And gets up to all sorts.”

A bit like you would if you had a husband, Nadia thought but didn't point out. With her cavalier, treat 'em mean attitude toward the opposite sex, if men were dogs, Clare would have been reported to animal welfare years ago.

“This isn't bad.” Clare was pulling out a lime-green top with velvet edging. “New?”

“Yes, that's why it still has the price tag pinned to the label.” Nadia watched her hold the Monsoon top up against herself and pretended she didn't know what was coming next.

“Can I wear it tonight?”

Trade-off time. Clare had made the first move, done the reconciliation bit; now in return she had to let her borrow the top.

Nadia sighed. “OK.”

“Great. And next time you bump into some bloke in the street who drags you into an art gallery, spare a thought for your family, OK? I'm only a poor struggling artist.”

This definitely wasn't true. Clare was a bone-idle artist who'd never struggled in her life. But Nadia let it go.

“He isn't some bloke I just bumped into in the street. Remember when I got caught in that snowstorm last year? He was the one I had to share a room with in the pub.”

A slow smile spread over Clare's face. “Get out of here! Ha, so that's how you got this new job. You slept with the boss.”

***

Harpo was shuffling along the window seat in the sitting room when the telephone began to ring.

“Get the bloody phone,” he squawked, mimicking Miriam's harassed voice perfectly. “Get the bloody phone!”

“You could try getting it yourself, that'd be a help,” Miriam muttered, but there was an air of tension about her as she snatched up the receiver.

Watching from her position on the floor, Tilly saw her hesitate before saying brusquely, “Yes?”

The next moment her grandmother visibly relaxed. Swinging round still clutching the receiver, she said, “Yes, yes, of course she is, I'll put you on. Tilly darling, it's your mother.”

Blimey. This had to be the first time Miriam had been relieved to hear Leonie's voice on the phone. Normally she reacted as though a tramp had spat in her face. Mildly intrigued, Tilly wondered if it was Mrs. Trent-Britton her grandmother was so anxious to avoid. The woman was desperate to get Miriam to join the Women's Institute.

***

Tilly knew exactly how long the call lasted because
EastEnders
had been just starting when the phone began to ring, and the theme tune was playing to signal the end of the program when she hung up.

Leonie was an erratic communicator, sometimes leaving it as long as three months between calls. At other times, chiefly when she had a new man to rave about, she might ring her youngest daughter twice in a week. To her shame, Tilly regarded these calls with about as much enthusiasm as people who picked up the phone and heard that they'd been specially chosen to participate in a new in-depth survey on household detergents.

This time, running true to form, Leonie was in love again. She had apparently met a wonderful guy (
guy
—ugh, Tilly so wished her mother wouldn't use that word) and she'd never
ever
been happier. His name was Brian, Tilly learned, he was something in the music industry (hmm, probably worked on the checkout at the music store) and he was just a truly amazing person. Best of all, he had a thirteen-year-old daughter, wasn't that just wild? And Brian couldn't wait for the four of them to meet up and all get to know each other.

There was lots more, chiefly the same stuff but recycled. When Leonie got enthusiastic she tended to repeat herself.

It was with muddled emotions that Tilly eventually hung up the phone. Pleasure that her mum actually wanted her to meet Brian and his daughter. Fear that they wouldn't like her. And unease, because her mother's relationships were always so fragile that the slightest knock could cause everything to end up going horribly wrong. Again.

“OK, darling?” Miriam patted the sofa next to her.

“Mm.” Tilly nodded and sat down, biting her thumbnail. “Mum's coming down soon with her new boyfriend.”

“Lovely,” lied Miriam.

“He's bringing his daughter with him. She's the same age as me.” Tilly paused. “Her name's Tamsin.”

Miriam kept a straight face. “Tilly and Tam. Sounds like one of those American sitcoms.”

Tilly smiled, because her grandmother could always make her feel better. Miriam wasn't afraid of anyone or anything.

“Come on, cheer up. I'm sorry I can't pretend to like your mother.” Miriam kissed the top of her head. “I'm sure you'd prefer it if I did. But there we go,” she added with a shrug, “that's just me.”

“I know.” Miriam wasn't only fearless, she was honest and Tilly admired her for it. As straight as a die, that was Miriam. Tilly didn't have a clue what a die was, but she'd read the expression in a book.

“And she does have her good points,” Miriam went on.

Startled, Tilly said, “Does she?”

“Darling, my son James was always a sensible boy. Then he lost his mind, went completely bonkers for a while, and married your mum. But thanks to her, we have three beautiful girls.” Breaking into a smile, she ruffled Tilly's fine, dark-blonde hair.

Yes, thought Tilly, but only two of them are his.

Harpo, losing his balance as he shuffled along the narrow curtain pole, righted himself in a flurry of blue feathers and shrieked, “Oh blimey.”

“You daft bird.” Miriam gazed up at him with affection.

“Give us a kiss,” squawked Harpo. Tilting his head to one side he added bossily, “No tongues.”

Miriam heaved a sigh. “I'm going to strangle Clare.”

***

In the taxi on her way home, Clare was forced to admit that things weren't exactly going according to plan. When she'd first met Piers a couple of months ago at a party, he'd definitely been attracted to her. And she'd liked him a lot too.

But all her relationships followed a pattern, one that Clare was happy with. The men liked her more than she liked them. She enjoyed being the one in control. And the fact that her boredom threshold was low meant that she always tired of them first, usually while they were deciding that she was The One for them. Then, when she ended the affair, they were devastated.

Clare was comfortable being in charge. It made her feel strong and desirable. While her exes crumbled, she moved on to the next challenge. Like Madonna.

So why wasn't it bloody well working this time? Why was Piers treating her like this?

And more crucially, why was it having the effect of making her more keen on him, instead of less?

In the darkness of the back of the cab Clare fretfully pulled at the hem of her lime-green top—would those vindaloo stains ever come out?—and ran through the events of the evening. They'd arranged to meet at Po Na Na on Whiteladies Road at eight o'clock and, humiliatingly, Piers hadn't arrived until almost nine. Yet while she'd known exactly what she
should
be doing, which was walk out at eight fifteen, she hadn't been able to bring herself to do it. Similarly, when he did finally turn up, she should have chucked a drink in his face before stalking off. But somehow that hadn't happened either. Instead she'd found herself thinking, “It's OK, he's here now, that's all that matters,” and had experienced relief that he hadn't stood her up completely.

Clare bit her lip. It was as if Piers had cast a spell on her or something, with his light, lazy, upper-class drawl, his caustic sense of humor, and that floppy boarding-school hair. Oh, and maybe the electric-blue Ferrari.

Not that he ever seemed to get behind the wheel of the sodding thing, Clare thought darkly. Twice, that was how many times she'd actually traveled in it. Paranoid about being caught drunk-driving and losing his license, Piers insisted they went everywhere in cabs.

From Po Na Na they had moved on to the Clifton Tandoori, even though she wasn't wild about Indian food. When she'd objected, Piers had called her a party pooper and announced that he was in desperate need of a curry.

Then later when he'd playfully flicked a fork at her, spattering beef vindaloo sauce over the front of her top, he'd mocked her attempts to clean it off with a napkin and said, “All this fuss, it's like watching a nineteen forties housewife. Next thing we know, you'll be darning socks.”

But it was always said with humor, rather than downright nastiness. And mysteriously Clare found herself making allowances for his behavior, telling herself that he didn't mean it, it was his upper-class upbringing. They were out having fun together, weren't they? That was all that mattered.

Piers was an Old Etonian. He was twenty-five and a financial adviser. He had a chiseled face, wicked navy blue eyes, and extremely wealthy parents in Surrey. He also had an early start at work tomorrow, which was why instead of spending the night at his Clifton flat, Clare had found herself being deposited in a taxi at eleven thirty and sent home.

“Charge it to my account,” Piers had casually informed the taxi driver, making Clare feel like a prostitute.

Except they hadn't even had sex.

Well, they had of course. Lots and lots of truly fantastic sex. Just not tonight.

It was one of the reasons he so intrigued her, Clare realized. The fact that he could so effortlessly take or leave her. She'd offered to stay and Piers had turned her down. Which meant that the next time he allowed her to spend the night with him, she'd feel as if she'd won a fantastic prize or something and make an extra special effort to show him he'd made the right decision.

Clare wasn't stupid. She knew Piers was playing a game with her, turning the usual scheme of things on its head to keep her interested, probably because he'd heard all about her reputation with the opposite sex.

Well, it was working. She was interested. And sooner or later she'd redress the balance, show Piers who was really in charge, make him—

“Here we are, Latimer Road. What number, love?”

“The one at the end. Three streetlamps down, on the left.”

He slowed to a halt beneath the third streetlamp. “There you go.”

“Thanks.” The cab's interior light came on as Clare pushed open the rear door.

“A good long soak in Ariel,” said the overweight driver.

“What?”

He nodded at her chest. “Curry stains. That's your best bet. Not promising, mind. Probably have to buy yourself a new top.”

Clare thought back to Piers's mocking remarks earlier. Taking a leaf out of his book she shrugged and said carelessly, “No problem, it's not my top.”

Bloody know-it-all cab drivers. And he needn't think he was getting a tip.

When Nadia drew up outside the house in Clarence Gardens on Monday morning, Jay Tiernan was already standing on the pavement waiting for her.

Which was deeply unfair, seeing as it was only ten to nine and he'd said he'd meet her there at nine o'clock. She'd wanted to arrive first, create a good impression, and he'd beaten her to it.

Now all she had to rely on was her clipboard.

Stepping out of the car, Nadia tucked the brand-new clipboard efficiently under her arm and made her way over to him. He was wearing a white T-shirt, the usual pair of jeans, and Timberland boots the color of sand… oh, maybe that was why they were called desert boots!

“You're looking pleased with yourself,” Jay observed.

Nadia wondered if he knew why his boots were the color of sand and debated briefly whether to tell him. Then again, if he
did
already know, she might sound stupid.

Instead she said brightly, “I'm in a good mood. Can't wait to start my new job.”

“Come on, I'll show you round. Just try not to slap anyone, OK?”

The house was a Victorian detached five-bedroomed property that had been owned by a frail old man incapable of looking after either it or himself. Shortly after being moved into a nursing home, Jay briefly explained, the old man had died. The place had gone up for auction two months later. Now it was in the process of being stripped and completely renovated by Jay's team of builders—Bart, Kevin, and Robbie. Nadia was relieved to note that they didn't appear to be the leering, catcalling, whwoarr darlin' types. Bart and Kevin were a father and son act and Robbie, who was in his twenties, seemed painfully shy. As Jay showed her over the house, they continued working away, knocking down walls and clearing small mountains of dusty rubble.

The back garden looked like a bombsite. An overgrown bombsite from the last war. Clearly any form of upkeep had been beyond the capabilities of the previous occupier. If there had once been a lawn, it was no longer remotely visible. The weeds were at waist height and the area closest to the house was littered with rubbish; instead of putting his empty cat food tins, ready-meal containers, and milk cartons into the dustbin, the old man had evidently flung them out of the kitchen window.

As you do.

“Well?” Jay was watching her survey the carnage.

“Well what?”

“Are you scared?”

“You're joking. I love it. This is like being asked to give Hagrid the makeover of his life.” And turning him into George Clooney.

Jay smiled. “Not too much for you to handle on your own?”

“Not unless you want it finished by next weekend,” said Nadia.

“The aim is to put it on the market in six weeks.”

“I can do that.” Hoping she could, she wiped her damp palms on her jeans. “Right, I'll make a start. I'll need a truck by Wednesday morning to take away the first load of waste.”

“I'll arrange that. If you stack everything by the side gate, they'll load it.”

“Once I see what the ground's like, I'll be able to draw up a plan,” said Nadia. “Then we'll discuss how much you want to spend.”

It was a shame she couldn't use her super-efficient clipboard to knock up a quick garden plan on the spot, but there was no point while it was still in this much of a state.

Which was lucky really, seeing as she'd forgotten to bring a pen.

***

Three hours later, Robbie came out to the garden and mouthed something to her. Switching off the petrol-driven chainsaw, Nadia pushed her goggles to the top of her head, dragged off her protective gloves, and wiped the perspiration from her chin. Who said gardening wasn't glamorous?

“Sorry, couldn't hear you,” said Nadia.

“Erm…” Robbie hesitated like a boy in a school play who's forgotten his lines. “Um, we've just boiled the kettle. Bart wondered if you'd like a cup of tea.”

“Oh, fantastic.” She beamed over at him, willing him to relax.

Inside the house, the kitchen was pretty much gutted but there was a kettle plugged into a socket at floor level. Next to it on the dusty concrete sat a box of tea bags, an opened carton of milk, a bag of sugar, and a grubby teaspoon. Having pointed them out to her, Robbie vanished without another word.

Right.

“OK, love?” Moments later, Bart appeared in the doorway clutching a tobacco pouch and a vast mug of tea. “You've bin workin' your socks off, haven't you? We've bin watching out the window. Blimey, like
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre
out there. Must have worked up a thirst by now.”

He was in his mid-fifties at a guess, with very little hair and a friendly face. Having taken a noisy, appreciative slurp of tea, he wiped his mouth with the back of a sausagey hand.

“I have,” said Nadia. “Are there any more mugs?”

“Sorry, love, didn't you bring your own? Oh well, no problem.” Glugging back the rest of his tea, Bart gave his own mug a brisk upside-down shake then wiped it briefly on the brick-dust-stained T-shirt stretched over his stomach. Holding it out, he said generously, “You can use mine.”

It was like sitting down to eat with an Arab sheik and being presented with a dish of sheep's eyeballs. Or was this some kind of test? Bravely Nadia took the chipped mug, dropped a tea bag into it, and filled it from the just-boiled kettle.

She was truly one of the boys now.

Bart nodded approvingly when she fished the tea bag out with the spoon, flicked it into the sink, and put the spoon back on the floor next to the kettle.

“Good little worker, you are. Jay was watchin' you earlier too, before he left. Impressed him, I reckon. He'll be glad of you, after the last lot. Couple of nancy boys, they were, real Julian Clary types.” He snorted with disgust. “Happy enough planting out primroses but when it came to anything more strenuous you wouldn't see 'em for dust.”

From the tone of his voice, Nadia guessed that he hadn't shared his mug with them. She felt ridiculously flattered.

“Have you worked for Jay long?”

“Four months, me and Kevin. Ever since he moved to Bristol. Robbie joined us two months ago.”

“He seems quite… quiet.” Nadia privately suspected Robbie of being a bit simple.

“Ah, he's a nice enough lad. Don't have a lot to say for himself, but that's OK. Got a degree in physics,” Bart added, almost as an afterthought.

Blimey.

“Couldn't get a job,” Bart went on, between puffs of his spindly hand-rolled cigarette. “Between you an' me, I don't reckon his interview technique's all it could be. Still, he's a good worker. Can't ask for more'n that, can you?”

“And Jay? What's he like? I mean, is he a good boss?” Nadia prayed she wasn't blushing.

“Oh, he's all right.” From the way Bart nodded, she sensed that this was a term of approval. “You don't mess Jay about, he won't mess you about. Works hard.” He coughed and chuckled. “Plays hard too. You know the kind, single bloke with an eye for the girls. That mobile phone of his sees some action, I can tell you. Sometimes they even turn up where we're working, trying to track him down. Oh yes, he's popular with the ladies is Jay. Makes me wonder how my life might've turned out if there'd been mobile phones back in my day. But there you go,” he heaved a mournful smoky sigh, “there weren't. I met my wife at the local youth club, we courted for a couple of years—the old-fashioned way, if you know what I mean—and by nineteen we was married with a kiddie on the way.”

Not too old-fashioned then.

“He's a good businessman, mind.” Bart brightened. “Knows how to make money. That's why he'll be pleased he took you on. Bet you're a lot cheaper than a poncy landscape gardening company with glossy color brochures and a website.”

Was she supposed to take this as a compliment? Hauling herself up off the concrete floor, Nadia finished her tea and smiled.

“Thanks.”

***

The top shelf of the magazine rack wasn't Annie's favorite section of the shop. How she hated it when men came in and bought copies of their favorite porn magazines. Then again, she hated it even more when they came in, spent ten or fifteen minutes silently leafing through them, then left without buying anything at all.

But the latest issue of
Playboy
had been delivered and it was her job to put them out on display. Waiting until the shop was empty, Annie hauled the stool out from behind the counter and placed it in front of the magazine rack. Tucking a pile of
Playboy
s under one arm, she climbed onto the stool and began stacking them on the top shelf.

The shop door swung open just as the wasp swooped into Annie's field of vision. Letting out a squeak of alarm she batted it away with her free hand. Incensed, the wasp veered round in a circle and promptly dive-bombed her like a mini Spitfire. Annie ducked and took a panicky step back as it headed straight for her cheek.

“Steady on,” said a male voice, but Annie was way beyond steadying herself. Her foot groped for support that was no longer there. The pile of glossy magazines slithered from her grasp as she clawed the air like a novice swimmer attempting the backstroke. With an undignified shriek she tumbled to the ground, hitting the sweet display behind her on the way. Mars bars, tubes of Fruit Pastilles, and packets of Tic Tacs came showering down like painful confetti.

Annie flinched as the stool, to add insult to injury, belatedly toppled over and landed on her shin.

“Stay where you are, don't move,” ordered the male voice behind her. The same voice which had, seconds earlier, helpfully suggested that she might like to steady on.

Swiveling her head round, Annie saw that it belonged to the father of the girl who sometimes waited in the shop for him to finish work. If it had been Superman, of course, he would have swooshed down in time to save her from an undignified landing.

“I'm OK.” Momentarily she closed her eyes. “I think.”

“You're bleeding.” Stepping carefully through the debris, he crouched down beside her. “Look at your leg.”

Opening her eyes, Annie looked and flinched again. Not so much at the sight of the blood seeping from her knee through a hole in her navy tights but at the copies of
Playboy
strewn around her, each one fallen open to display naked women with pumpkin-sized breasts and improbably skimpy knickers.

Apart from the ones who'd forgotten to put any on.