Dear Anybody Read online

  I don’t mean to do it. I just feel a bit hardened by what happened to me at the end of the summer. I’d told myself to stop all the crying and blubbering. I’d more or less succeeded on that score but my only support mechanism had been to drink more. I told myself I needed to be hardy to take on the new role of editor but somehow, I feel as if I’ve gone to extremes to appear tough and ready for a challenge. It isn’t me. I’d never been the work hard, play hard type of girl. That was always Helena’s thing. I wish I could be like her. I wish I had her to talk to. She’d tell me to toughen up and show me I could handle the changes in my life. But talking to Helena about how I’m feeling is out of the question. This is something I need to do for myself. I just have to do it right.

  The waitress appears at the side of my table with a notepad and no pen.

  ‘Take your order?’ She looks at her watch again.

  ‘Just get me the quickest thing the chef can cook and then I can get going.’

  She pulls a pencil from the course, blonde hair piled on the top of her head and scribbles something down.

  ‘One special!’ she shouts towards the ceiling and walks away from me with swaying hips, weaving between the tables to the till. Is she getting my bill already? I wonder.

  Twenty minutes later she places a steaming plate in front of me. I’m in a daydream about selling my flat and facing Rob again when the smell of beef and gravy and the clatter of crockery hits the wooden table, stirring me back to the present.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘What am I having?’

  ‘Chef’s country pie.’

  ‘Smells wonderful.’ I was expecting a crust of bread and a cheese platter considering they seemed in such a hurry to see the back of me.

  ‘Local beef,’ she says before leaving me to it.

  ‘Could I get a jug of water?’ I call before she disappears back into the kitchen. She doesn’t answer, just re-appears after a few minutes with a blue, glass jug and tumbler which she places on my table with none of the grace of a silver service waitress.

  ‘Cheers,’ I say.

  ‘To your liking?’ she asks in a little while, hovering beside me, possibly remembering a little waitress etiquette she must have picked up from a television programme or something.

  ‘Lovely,’ I say while chewing. The yellow, crusty pastry is divine. The chunks of succulent meat inside, having previously belonged to a whole herd of cattle, bask in a thick onion gravy. I know it will take more than a minute to finish this meal and I might be shown the door with a doggy bag so I tuck in. It’s a shame to rush my food being as it’s so gorgeous. It reminds me of home, of when I was a little girl and Mum cooked wholesome food like this during winter months. I feel heartbroken and hopeless, like a complete failure who doesn’t even have a place to call home. I cut through the pastry and chew, summoning up visions of coming in from school and seeing Mum in the kitchen wearing the apron with apples on. Dad would come home when I was doing my homework in front of the television and ask how his big girl was and had I had a good day at school. Mum would say, ‘Tell her, George. Tell her she won’t get the answers right if she does her homework in front of the television.’ Dad would reply, ‘Syd’s smart. She knows what she’s doing.’

  I wasn’t smart, though, was I? I didn’t know what I was doing or what had been going on with Rob. Before I can stop them tears are spilling down my cheeks and salting the beef in my pie. With all my sniffing and chewing I don’t notice, at first, the kitchen staff coming out into the restaurant with their lunch plates. They push two tables together and sit down to eat.

  I dry my tears with a napkin and turn to see the fat chef, now without his chef’s hat, pouring gravy onto the plates of his kitchen staff. He stops to look at me.

  ‘I’ll go now if I can have the bill,’ I sniff at my waitress who is angling a chunky chip into her mouth.

  ‘No, no,’ the chef says. ‘You finish your lunch. Kitchen is closed but the restaurant isn’t. You eat up. You look like you need some good home cooking down you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say cutting into a new potato and trying not to let the tears spill over again.

  ‘Did you fancy some company?’ the chef calls over.

  Without thinking about it, I stand, grab my bag, pick up my plate and walk over to their table.

  ‘I’d love some company,’ I say planting myself onto the only empty seat which happens to be next to my waitress. ‘Those look good.’ Staring at her plate of chunky chips I can feel myself coming across as a lost pup. She puts down her fork and the chunky chip she just stabbed with it and walks out of the restaurant into the kitchen. She returns very quickly with a bowl of chips which she puts in front of me.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean …’

  ‘On the house,’ she says and sits back down, playfully nudging my arm with her elbow.

  As the afternoon wears on, I realise that Ruthie, the waitress, never says more than three to five words at any one time. And while she is a woman of few words, Andy is a chef of several. In fact, he’s still talking long after the other staff have finished their meals and gone back to the kitchen to wash up their plates. In the meantime, Ruthie starts laying the tables for the evening sitting.

  ‘So, London, eh?’ Andy says to me for about the fifth time. ‘Big old London. You think you’ll like it in Bridley? It’s very different.’

  This is also the fifth time he’s asked how I thought I’d like it in the village. Each time I’d said I had to give it time but this time I admit to him that if everyone turns out to be as friendly as the staff at Frankie’s, I’ll like it just fine.

  ‘I’m so glad to hear you say that,’ Andy beams. ‘We’re not a bad lot once you get to know us. Generally, Bridley is a peaceful place. And what did you say brought you up here?’

  I hadn’t said.

  ‘Work,’ I say. I’m wondering if it’s too much to ask to look at the dessert menu. Andy seems to have settled in for the afternoon anyway. His short arms are crossed over his podgy chest and this is the longest conversation I’ve had in ages that isn’t with my mother. Don’t get me wrong, Mum has been an absolute rock star when it came to pulling me out of my funk.

  ‘What’s your line of business?’ Andy asks. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, of course.’

  ‘Of course not, no. I’m the new editor of Bridley Green.’

  ‘Oh, so you know Alexandra.’ There’s a strange tone to Andy’s voice. I wonder what he knows about my editor in chief that I don’t.

  ‘Yes, we met in London. She offered me the job. I accepted. The rest, as they say, is history.’

  ‘Got a contract and everything?’ Andy screws his brow and leans in. ‘Signed something?’

  Now I’m worried because I haven’t signed a thing. I haven’t sniffed the contract Alexandra was supposed to have emailed at the weekend.

  ‘Should I be worried?’ I say in a small voice.

  ‘I don’t think so. Let’s just say Alexandra doesn’t always have her business head on. But you’ll see what I mean.’

  If he’s referring to her alcohol consumption, I already know she drinks like a fish. And I’m not that far off myself.

  ‘I’m sure everything will work itself out,’ I tell him. ‘I just need to secure a place to stay for the next few months and –’

  ‘So you don’t have anything sorted?’

  ‘Not officially, no.’

  ‘Get yourself over to Darley. She’ll sort you out a place to stay.’

  ‘Darley?’

  ‘Runs the estate agents down the hill.’ Andy points in a vague direction towards the window. ‘If you pop in there now she’ll sort you out.’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  I watch as Andy collects his ample body off the chair and trots it towards the kitchen.

  ‘Thank you so much for everything.’ I wave Andy off and find myself the only person left at the table. The rest of the staff have called farewells from the kitchen to their chef. I realise I haven’t paid my bill and it’s alm
ost four o’clock.

  Andy calls a goodbye and Ruthie turns up the music, singing loudly to a song by Keane. The tables are laid with shiny silverware, there are cloth napkins instead of the lunchtime paper ones and tea lights in glass holders are waiting to be lit later. All that has to be done are the tables I still occupy so I gather my thoughts and grab my bag as quickly as I can and go over to the till.

  ‘Could I have the bill, Ruthie?’ It’s a shame to disturb her singing, Ruthie has a good voice.

  The bill has already been rung up for me.

  ‘See you again,’ Ruthie says.

  ‘Definitely.’

  I leave a £10 tip on my credit card. Not that I can particularly afford it. When I left the Kilburn Times I didn’t have very much in the way of savings and the Bridley Green gig pays an awful lot less than the last job.

  I step out onto a quiet high street and wonder where on earth the estate agent is that Andy mentioned. It’s a small village, shouldn’t be too hard to find.

  Chapter 9

  I’ve been walking for ages and I’m no closer to finding the estate agency Andy told me about nor have I spotted any others. Bridley seems to be a village of second-hand bookshops, charity shops and shops selling handmade crafts like vases and bowls. The charity shops are filled with second-hand books and discarded vases and bowls.

  Luckily my stomach is comfortably full, but my eyelids are heavy with sleep or the promise of sleep once I make my way back to the Travelodge. Which reminds me, I don’t think I’ve seen a mini cab office anywhere around either.

  All in all, it is a pretty little village. I suspect I’m in the hub of everything. Where it all happens. Or doesn’t. Especially if old bowls and old books are not your jam. Now that I’ve passed the Morrison’s supermarket three times, I think I should just give up or call Alexandra to ask if she has any ideas about accommodation. First, I stop in Morrison’s. I contemplate buying something healthy but instead I head straight for the chocolates and crisps and top up on dark chocolate Kit-Kats and tubes of Pringles. I’m debating whether I should also get a bottle of red in case I decide that today is not the day to wean myself off the booze completely. It’s decided, one last alcoholic fling and then I’ll stop.

  There is only one person on any of the five check-outs. I join a queue of three people, all of whom have loaded trolleys. I look around, spot the express self-serve and dump by basket down in front of it only to find it’s out of order. Lifting my basket, wine bottles clanging (it’s two for one on the Cabernet Sauvignon), I hoof it back to the queue just as a lady with white hair eases in ahead of me and now I’m fifth in the queue. Balls.

  I check my watch, hoping the estate agent’s office will still be open and that I’ll find it.

  After half an hour in the queue, I realise I haven’t moved an inch. The woman on the checkout is having a conversation with the woman at the front of the queue who seems to be taking an exceedingly long time to place ten tins of cat food onto the conveyor belt, which stutters and stops dead every few seconds. In between chats, the salesperson and the shopper heave items of food and household essentials along the broken conveyor belt and comment each time about how the conveyor belt appears not to be working. Jesus. When it’s time to pay, the shopper stops for one last chat with the cashier and then stops to exchange a few bon mots with the man who is next in line.

  And then the dance starts again. This time the male shopper engages in chit chat and his shopping is slowly, millimetre by millimetre edged along the broken conveyor. I look around desperately for a manager or supervisor, huffing and puffing and wondering if any of the vacant cash tills have conveyors that work. I mutter under my breath, “Sydney, you’re not in Kilburn anymore,” and try to calm myself down.

  I mean, I could just ditch the shopping and go back to the main high street, find the estate agent and look for a place to live. But as I stare into my basket the tubes of Pringles and the Kit-Kats look so much as if they’d like to accompany me back to the Travelodge and the bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon appear to have my name on them.

  I’m stepping from one foot to another, trying not to huff and puff, then turn to find the queue has grown behind me. No one looks perturbed or in any kind of rush, so I grit my teeth and wait it out.

  By the time I leave Morrison’s I’m carrying a heavy plastic bag (that cost five pence) full of snacks and booze. Dusk suddenly crept in on the village and I feel cold. That’s when I notice I’ve left my jacket at Frankie’s. How stupid of me. Not only am I homeless, I’ll probably freeze to death under a canal bridge. I walk fast in a direction I’m sure I’ve been in. The infrastructure of the village is complicated. The main high street is on a hill with lots of side roads running off it, each of them leading onto more shops and business and they all seem to circle back to a bench on a hill which was donated by someone called Peregrine Potter of Bridley Estate. Now that the novelty of this scenic village has worn off, now that I’m cold and I’ve convinced myself that this is all an elaborate plot to keep me out of Bridley, I turn around and find I’m standing right in front of Darley Cooke Estates.

  I push open the glass front door. It makes a swish sound against the fluffy shag pile. Pink, bedroom carpet. The sort your grandma would have. It doesn’t bode well but what choice do I have?

  A middle-aged woman in a brick red skirt suit appears from a narrow corridor and plonks herself at one of three empty desks, all bearing a golden plaque with the words Darley Cooke, How Can I House You? embossed on it.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she says brightly. ‘I’m Darley, how can I help you today? Just moved into the area? Looking to move in? Or just asking directions to the new Morrisons?’ Her smile doesn’t drop for a second.

  I sit on the chair opposite her and smile back.

  ‘Yes, you guessed right. I am new here. Very new in fact and I’m looking for a flat or room or anything as near to the Bridley Green magazine building as possible.’

  ‘Let’s see what I can do.’ She continues smiling as she taps keys on her computer and looks up, down and around the screen with sparkly blue eyes that are heavily made up with green eye shadow. Her eyelashes are laden with mascara. ‘Moving to be next to friends? Loved ones?’

  ‘I’m the new editor at the magazine. So I want to be near to work.’

  ‘Of course.’ She continues tapping the keys and scanning the pages for an eternity then stops and looks at me with blue eyes that have lost their sparkle.

  ‘Anything?’ I ask. ‘I mean, it doesn’t need to be on the doorstep. I could hire a car so …’

  ‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘Absolutely nothing close by the magazine or in driving distance.’ She looks down.

  ‘So, nothing?’ I repeat, just to be sure. ‘Nothing at all? I’m at the Travelodge in the next county. Is there at least a bed and breakfast here? Anything?’

  ‘I’m really sorry.’ She looks at her watch.

  ‘Are you closing?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Could I at least register in case something comes up?’ I say as I head towards the door. ‘I’m sort of desperate.’

  ‘Best thing to do is keep looking at the website and call me if you see something you like.’

  Behind me, Darley bolts the door of the estate agency. I heave a sigh and look around trying to place where Frankie’s is so I can at least fetch my jacket. I spot a familiar looking clock in the middle of a cobbled road. And I’m sure that if I follow it up another hilly road it will lead back to Frankie’s. I sigh with relief when I see Frankie’s. Although I still have the feeling of not belonging to Bridley I feel as if I might get a welcome there.

  I push open the door expecting to have to find someone out back in the kitchen to ask about my jacket only to find the narrow, front bar is full of people. They’re chatting and laughing and no one seems to notice me at the door with my bottom lip dropped open. The dim bar of earlier is now subtly lit with a not so dim atmosphere. There is life in Bridley yet, I think. Music
is playing fairly loudly and it sounds good. A very handsome barman leans across the bar and is chatting to a group of women who look as if they’ve just finished work at the office. Formal jackets are draped over the backs of chairs and bar stools and a group in the corner is having what looks like a drinking contest.

  So this is where it all happens. How could a place so deserted suddenly be so full of life? I feel on the outside of something once again and decide to insert myself on the locals whether they like it or not. Plus, I’m lonely and this will beat drinking alone in my room at the Travelodge.

  The handsome barman turns towards the door and seems to be looking right at me. Powered by his ultra-white smile and high cheek bones, I find myself on a stool at the bar. I’m sat in close proximity to a group of lively young males. They’re talking, no, shouting, about football training in locally accented voices.

  ‘What would you like? And remember, it’s Happy Hour.’ I have no idea what that means but the barman is friendly. I should ask about my jacket but I decide very quickly that the best way to shake off the feeling of loneliness is to engage in a bit of male companionship. I’m not after anything serious, I’m not looking to fall in love so soon after Rob.

  The barman has to spread his attention quite thinly as more and more people join the throng. Before I can ask for a drink, the office girls from the other end of the bar are calling, ‘Eddie, Eddie? Where’s that round of shots?’

  Eddie holds up an “I’ll be right back finger” to me and I melt. If I’d been at a London bar the handsome Eddie would have gotten an earful from me about first come first served. But who am I to shout at a handsome stranger? Especially one who might be willing to offer me a bed for the night. Jesus, what am I saying? That’s hardly my style.

  The office girls have honed the art of flirtation and are keeping Eddie busy. He’s only managed to talk to me twice since I sat down. Once to ask what I was having and then to ask if it was the same again, before being called away on an urgent mission for the drunken office girls. When Eddie asks for a third time what I’m drinking I’m tipsy enough to cut to the chase and ask him if he has a spare room in his house. Of course I don’t, instead I ask for another large house red.