Could she recommend an author? Ha, it was only the favourite bit of her job!
‘You’d like this one.’ Lola picked up a book with a gunmetal grey cover. ‘Or this.’ Eagerly she reached across the table for another. ‘Now he’s a gripping writer.’
The man looked more closely at Lola. ‘Are you OK?’ Bugger, she’d redone her make-up on the tube on the way into work. Clearly not thoroughly enough.
‘I’m fine. It’s just ... nothing.’ Lola checked herself; he was a complete stranger. ‘Look, see how you get on with this one. When you’ve tried a few different authors we can work out which others you might like, then—’
‘Beano!’
‘Excuse me?’ She turned to face the hatchet-faced woman who had just barked in her ear.
‘I need a Beano Annual for my grandson!’
‘Sorry,’ the man in the suit shook his head apologetically and took the book with the grey cover from her. ‘You’re busy. Thanks for this. I’ll let you know how I get on with it.’
‘Come on, come on,’ bellowed the woman, spraying saliva. ‘I haven’t got all day!’
By the time Lola fought her way back through the crowds with the Beano Annual, the man in the suit was gone. The hatchet-faced woman didn’t even say thank you. But then people like that never did.
Twenty minutes later Lola felt an index finger irritably poking at her left shoulder blade. ‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ came an irritated female voice. ‘I want the new book by that Dan Black.’
Lola turned. ‘You mean Dan Brown.’
‘Don’t tell me what I mean, missy. I don’t care what the man’s name is, just get me the book.’
‘I tell you what,’ said Lola, ‘why don’t you stop expecting me to wait on you hand and foot, and get it yourself?’
Outraged, the woman sucked in her breath. ‘You impertinent creature! How dare you? I shall report you to the manager and have you sacked!’
‘And I’ll have you arrested for crimes against colour coordination. Because pink,’ Lola curled her lip at the woman’s fluffy scarf and padded jacket, ‘does not go with orange.’
Then they realised they were being watched by a bemused elderly man clutching a biography of Churchill.
‘It’s all right.’ Lola winked at him. ‘She’s my mother.’
‘Hello, darling.’ Blythe gave her a quick hug and kiss on the cheek and tucked a stray strand of hair behind Lola’s ear. ‘Can’t stop, I’m racing to finish all my Christmas shopping then I’ve made an appointment to have my hair done this afternoon. Just popped in to show you what I’ve bought for tonight. Tell me which outfit I should keep and I’ll take the other one back.’
Lola didn’t get her hopes up; being allowed to choose was Blythe’s attempt at compromise.
Sadly it was like telling someone they were about to be thrown into deep water and generously giving them the choice between a concrete straitjacket and lead diving boots. Blythe had as much fashion sense as a chicken, coupled with a hopeless predilection for mixing and matching things that Really Didn’t Go. Somehow it hadn’t seemed to matter when Alex had been alive – between them, they had regarded Blythe’s manner of dressing as no more than an endearing quirk. But it was five years now since Alex had died and during the last eighteen months Blythe had tentatively begun dating again. All of a sudden clothes had become more important. Keen for her mother to make a good impression on the outside world, Lola had begun attempting to steer her into more stylish waters.
But it had to be said, this was on a par with trying to knit feathers. Lola braced herself as her mother rummaged in a pink carrier bag and pulled out a silky beige top.
With purply-blue satin butterflies adorning each shoulder strap.
And a purply-blue frill around each armhole.
And scattered multicoloured sequins across the cleavage area. Lola bit her lip. If it had been just a silky beige top, it would have been perfect.
‘Okaaay. Now the other one.’
‘Ta-daaa!’ Having stuffed beige’n’silky back into its bag, Blythe produced the second top and held it up against herself with a flourish, indicating that this, this one, was her favourite.
As if Lola couldn’t have guessed.Top number two was brighter – a retina-searing geranium red –
and much frillier, with jaunty layered sleeves, sparkly silver buttons down each side and a huge red and white fabric flower – bigger than a Crufts rosette – at the base of the V-neck.
Timm,’ said Lola. ‘Is this for when you run away to join the circus?’
‘Don’t be so cruel! It’s beautiful!’
‘Right, so what would you wear it with?’
Her mother looked hopeful, like a five-year-old attempting to spell her name. ‘My blue paisley skirt?’
‘No’
‘Green striped trousers?’
‘No!’
‘Oh. Well, how about the pink and gold—’
‘Noooo!’
Blythe flung up her hands in defeat. ‘You’re so picky.’
‘I’m not, I just don’t want people pointing and saying,"There goes Coco the Clown". Mum, if you really want to keep the red top, wear it with your white skirt.’
‘Except I can’t, because it’s got a big curry stain on the front. Ooh,’ Blythe exclaimed, her eyes lighting up as inspiration struck, ‘but I could snip the red flower off this top and superglue it to the skirt instead, that’d cover the mark! That’s it, problem solved!’
People would point and laugh. Lola opened her mouth to protest but her mother was busily stuffing the tops back into their carriers, checking her watch and saying, ‘Gosh, is that the time?
I must fly!’
‘Where are you going tonight?’
‘Oh, it’s just our quiz team having a Christmas get-together, something to eat followed by a bit of a bop. Malcolm’s driving, so I can have a drink.’
Hardly the Oscars. Lola let it go. Trinny and Susannah would have a field day with Malcolm, who was bearded and bear-like, with a penchant for baggy corduroys and zigzaggy patterned sweaters. Since Malcolm was to sartorial elegance what John Prescott was to ice dance, he was unlikely to object to an oversized flower attached to the front of a skirt. If you told him it was the latest thing from Karl Lagerfeld, he wouldn’t doubt it for a minute.
But Malcolm wasn’t what Lola had in mind for her mother. Sweet though he was in his bumbling teddy-bear way, she had her sights set several notches higher than that. Because Blythe deserved the best.
Chapter 13
The eye-watering, throat-tightening boiled-cabbage smell had gone, thank goodness. Loaded up like a donkey, Sally struggled through to the living room then dumped her belongings on the floor.
Excitement squiggled through her stomach. This was it, her new home for the next twelve months at least. New flat, new resolutions, whole new life.
Chief resolution being: no more having her heart broken by boyfriends who were nothing more than rotten no-good hounds.
And where better to start than here? Sally gazed around, taking in the unadorned cream walls, ivory rugs and pale minimalist ultra-modern furniture. There was no denying it looked like a show home. Even the light switches were minimalist. What with the total lack of clutter, it also exuded an air of bachelor-about-town.
Oh well, soon sort that out.
‘In here, love?’ Huffing and puffing a bit, the taxi driver appeared in the doorway with several more cases.
‘Just chuck them down. Thanks.’ He was in his fifties, grey-haired and ruddy-cheeked, wearing a wedding ring. Was he a lovely man, completely devoted to his wife, the kind of husband who put up shelves and mowed the lawn without having to be nagged into doing it? Or was he a shy conniving cheat who promised to do those things then sloped off to the pub instead and came home hours later reeking of other women’s perfume?
Actually, he probably didn’t. Sally softened and gave him the benefit of the doubt. And she’d never know anyway, because you weren’t allowed to ask complete strangers personal questions like that. Which was, as far as she was concerned, a big shame. Why couldn’t there be a law passed, making it compulsory? Imagine meeting a man for the first time, finding him attractive and being allowed to inject him with a truth drug: