An Autumn Crush (2 page)

‘Black. And only if it’s Fair Trade,’ said Andrea, swishing her way back to the sofa. ‘Has this flat ever been smudged?’

Juliet looked blankly back at her, not having a clue what she was on about.

‘It’s been blurred a few times,’ offered Coco. ‘After a few bottles of Shiraz.’

‘The energy residues badly need purifying,’ sniffed Andrea, ignoring his joke. Then she twisted her head sharply to her side and spoke to an invisible presence. ‘Yes, I totally
agree.’

Coco ran into the kitchen and stuffed a tea-towel in his mouth. He found a sachet of Fair Trade coffee in Juliet’s cupboard after a forage. It had come free with a magazine.

‘So . . .’ began Juliet with a forced smile, though knowing inside she was on a highway to nowhere with this one. She just wanted someone normal, for God’s sake. Was that too
much to ask? ‘Where are you living now?’

‘Myrtle Grove, off Huddersfield Road,’ replied Andrea, her eyes roving the room as if following something flying around it. ‘Have you ever cleansed your chakras?’

Cleansed me what? thought Juliet. Sounded too much like that colonic hosepipe up the bum thing for comfort.

‘Raven is asking me to ask you,’ Andrea smiled, turning her attention full on Juliet now.

‘Raven?’ asked Juliet, trying to ignore the sight of Coco’s head poking out of the kitchen doorway behind Andrea, with a towel jammed in his jaws.

‘My spirit guide,’ replied Andrea. ‘He’s a Red Indian Blackfoot chief. I consult him in all things.’

This really was too much.

‘Er, does
he
want a coffee?’ asked Juliet with wide innocent grey eyes. She heard a shriek from the kitchen as some of Coco’s hysteria escaped through the towel.

Andrea sighed and lifted up her bag which looked as if it had been home-made out of a couple of carpet tiles. Her nose was wrinkled up as if someone had just stuck a rotting fish under it.

‘I’m sorry. We couldn’t settle here. I can see that from the colour of your aura which is very blue-grey. I don’t think we would get on; you’re obviously not
receptive to new ideas.’

Juliet bounced to her feet. ‘Oh, what a shame. You’re right though – traditional to the last, that’s me. You’re obviously a very perceptive lady.’

‘I am indeed. I am totally at one with myself.’ Then Andrea strolled out of the flat very regally, without a backward glance or a goodbye.

‘Silly cow,’ said Juliet, as the door hit the catch. ‘And she had appalling manners.’

‘What was all that about?’ A very puce-faced Coco strode into the same corner of the lounge which Andrea had recently vacated and started clapping his hands together like a flamenco
dancer with severe anger management issues. ‘Feng Shui?’

‘Feng Shite, you mean. I haven’t a frigging clue what she was on about,’ tutted Juliet.

‘And that smell, ugh! It’s worse than the devil’s arse.’ Coco wafted the air trying to rid it of the strong scent.

‘Anyway, I for one was glad that “Dances with Ravens”, or whatever he was called, put her off the place. He’d have only set fire to the curtains with his smoke signals. I
ask you, Coco, is there anyone normal left in this world?’

‘Me!’ Coco grinned.

‘I rest my case.’

There had been hardly anything to do to the flat when Juliet bought it from the middle-aged Armstrongs, just after her divorce in February, with the rather nice proceeds from selling her share
of the marital home to Roger. ‘Two substantial bedrooms, airy, spacious lounge with applaudable dining area, newly refurbished kitchen, Hollywood-style bathroom and generous storage
cupboards,’ the estate agent had bragged.

You could tell a dominant female had lived here before Juliet got her paws on the place. Mrs Armstrong must have wielded a whip over Mr Armstrong every evening and weekend with insatiable
demands for shelves and stripped wood and wrought-iron curtain rails. And at the end of a hardworking day, it appeared they retired to their separate bedrooms with not even the prospect of a
‘thank you’ bonk for him. And just when Mrs A. had got it to her ideal, she spots a bigger place and poor old Mr A. has to start realizing her laminate-floor dreams all over again. But
this flat was perfect enough for Juliet. It had lots of space and nice high ceilings, which was handy when you had a freaky-tall family like she had. And though the mortgage was a stretch –
as was to be expected for a quality pad in such a nice area – a flat-mate would alleviate that problem.

The Armstrongs had put it on the market for a not-too-greedy price in the hope of a quick sale, which Juliet was in a perfect position to take advantage of. It was just a bit empty. Not
furniture-wise but company-wise: nice girly Black Forest gateau in the middle of the night, face packs at nine o’clock, borrow your nail varnish, sloppy video with smouldering-gorgeous
Darcy-like hero to fantasize about, bottle of Cab Sav and a curry sort of company. The sort of camaraderie she and Caroline and Tina had relished at college before they all grew up too much and
found they didn’t have anything in common any more – not even enough to want to swap a Christmas card. Juliet tried not to think about Hattie, who had been her friend forever. She
hadn’t even admitted to Coco how much Hattie’s deception had hurt her. She had her reputation as a hard, brazen bitch to consider.

So, a classified ad went into both the
South Yorkshire Herald
and the
Barnsley Chronicle
. She drafted:
Flat-mate wanted for good-hearted, big-bummed, smiley, smart, bossy,
dirty-joke-loving, chocolate-eating thirty-four-year-old. Candidates must not mind nosy Irish parents popping around far too often for comfort and a massive, genial but bloody clumsy twerp of a
twin brother who is wont to annoying one with his repertoire of wrestling holds and kitchen creations being more or less permanently present in abode.

Then, on second thoughts, she went for a heavily abridged version so as not to alarm.
Thirtysomething female flat-mate wanted to share a very smart second-floor flat with easygoing
professional lady (straight). Own large, sunny room, quiet but central location. 3, Blackberry Court.

‘What if Miss Three O’Clock is as bad as the rest?’ asked Coco, taking a peek at his watch.

‘I don’t know, struggle on with the mortgage by myself. What else can I do?’

‘You overstretched yourself with this place, lovely as it is. Another coffee?’

‘Go on then,’ said Juliet. ‘And don’t lecture me.’

‘I could move in tomorrow,’ Coco threw over his shoulder.

‘I’d rather cut my own foot off and eat it in a French stick.’

‘Well, we haven’t had a rabid religious nutter yet. Maybe, in five minutes’ time, we will be thrilled with a medley of tambourine songs and some tin-rattling.’

‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised,’ sighed Juliet.

By quarter past three, no one had turned up. Coco was just about to say, ‘Well, that’s that then,’ when the entryphone buzzed.

‘Hello,’ said a breathless voice when Juliet picked it up. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late. I’ve just had to take a hedgehog to the vet’s.’

‘Do come up,’ said Juliet, through a rictus smile. She turned to Coco and shook her head. ‘I give up. It’s not religion, it’s hedgehogs. And she sounds a posh
one.’

‘Oh dear Christ.’ Coco raised his eyes heavenward. ‘Bring back Big Chief Clapping Corners.’

Juliet opened the door. ‘Please come in,’ she said, and she stood aside to let Florence, who preferred to be called Floz, Cherrydale in and gave her a good look up and down from
behind. She was tiny, height-wise – about five-foot two – with long wavy dark-red hair and a fifties-style curvy silhouette. From the front she was awfully pink-faced from rushing up
the stairs. She also looked too meek and mild for Juliet’s tastes, and as if she’d not exactly been at the front of the queue when they were giving out a sense of humour. And she had
the accent of a wing-commander. Great, Juliet thought. This one was probably a right snob who would look down on everything. What a waste of a chuffing day off work for both herself and Coco this
was turning out to be.

‘I’m so sorry again that I’m late,’ Floz repeated. ‘I had to stop the traffic to pick up this little limping hedgehog and it didn’t go down particularly well
with one shouty man. I couldn’t have left him hobbling like that. The hedgehog, not the shouty man, I mean.’

‘You’re here now,’ super-smiled Juliet, thinking, Here we go again.

Whilst she put the kettle on for the hundredth time that day, Coco gave a still shaky Floz the guided tour. The vacant room was the smaller of the two bedrooms, but it was still gigantic
compared to Floz’s present arrangements, apparently. It was L-shaped too, and the ‘L’ part would be perfect for her as Floz worked from home and needed a mini-office.

They moved to the lounge to have coffee then. As she drifted past Coco, he caught the gentlest scent of late-summer strawberries from her. His smile curved upwards in response to it. Floz set
her handbag down on the sofa and it toppled off and out fell, amongst the other handbag detritus, a tiny book –
The Art of Being Happily Single.

Floz looked mortified. ‘I’m so sorry again. I’m such a klutz.’

Her cheeks re-flared up like red traffic-lights and Juliet felt a sudden and surprising wave of pity. But it was Coco who rescued her.

‘I’ve read loads of those sorts of books,’ he said warmly as Floz got all flustery trying to stuff all her things back in. ‘
The Rules
,
Women Who Love Too
Much
,
Get Rid of Him
. . .’

‘. . .
Women Are From Venus
,
Men Are Up Their Own Anuses
. . .’ put in Juliet.

‘. . .
He’s Not That Into You
,’ said Coco, with a sad sigh. ‘
Why Men Lie and Women Cry
. . .’

‘
How to Find a Man Who Isn’t a Complete Berk
,’ Floz added. And she smiled and suddenly looked like a different person. One with a 1,000-watt lightbulb inside that had
suddenly been switched on. Even her eyes were smiling. Mischievous bright green and shining, they were the eyes of a small child beaming out: ‘I’ve got a frog in my pocket.’

Juliet’s intuition tore up the list with all other possible candidates on it and threw it behind her because of that smile.
Yep
, it said.
She’ll do
. The crazy
hedgehog-rescuer with the very nice speaking voice and self-help book in her bag was The One.

She proffered the chocolate digestives and Floz took one with a very smiley ‘Oooh’ of delight. The deal was sealed.

And that was how, by seven o’clock that night, Floz Cherrydale had introduced her suitcases and her boxes to the floor of her new bedroom and was sitting on her new flat-mate’s sofa
picking from the Great Wall takeaway menu, watching
Emmerdale
and drinking celebratory measures of Baileys.

Juliet’s phone rang just as she had taken her coat off in the office. It was Coco, being his deliciously nosy self ringing her, as he liked to, five minutes before he
opened up his Perfume Palace in the town-centre shopping mall.

‘So how was your first night with your new flatty then? Anything happen after I left?’

‘Like what?’ teased Juliet.

‘Any goss?’

‘Like what?’

‘Ooh, you are awkward this morning. Is this what you’re going to be like now you’ve got a
new friend
?’

Juliet laughed. ‘That is
so
rich coming from someone who drops me like a hot brick when he’s got the tiniest glimmer of a love interest.’

‘I can’t help it if I’m an obsessive,’ sniffed Coco. ‘Doesn’t she speak nicely? Not like you, you common tart. Ooh, and what perfume does she wear?’

‘How the bloody hell do I know?’

‘Whatever it was, it had a hint of strawberries in it. Delightful.’ He made a mental note to ask Floz the next time he saw her.

‘I think Floz must like strawberries. She’s got little pictures of them on her wall, and when she opens her door, the smell of them wafts out of her room.’

‘Aw bless,’ smiled Coco. He knew that anyone who smelled like Floz Cherrydale could be nothing other than a darling soul.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from Darren?’ Juliet asked softly.

‘Nope, still nothing,’ said Coco, his smile falling to the ground on hearing his last lover’s name. ‘That’s three weeks, six days and fourteen hours now. Not that
I’m counting. I still think he will ring. My intuition is strongly telling me that I’m on his mind.’

‘No, sweetheart, I don’t think you are,’ replied Juliet. She wasn’t the sort of person to lie to Coco and give him false hope. What would be the point of that? When a man
was full on with his attentions then suddenly disappeared and didn’t answer phone calls or texts, he was not going to suddenly reappear with a viable excuse. Unless he had died – then
he was still unlikely to turn up.

‘Okay,’ said Coco, trying not to give way to an inner surge of rising emotion. ‘Change of subject. What do you know about Floz so far then?’

‘Not that much,’ said Juliet. ‘She’s single, as you might have gathered from that book she dropped, works from home making up jokes and poems for the greetings-card
industry, drives a Renault – all boring stuff

‘That it?’

‘’Fraid so for now, kiddo. No doubt we’ll get to know more in time,’ said Juliet. ‘I like her. We had coffee together this morning. She gets up quite early to start
work.’

‘Such a shame she isn’t Guy’s type,’ said Coco, who never missed a good match-making opportunity.

‘I thought exactly the same,’ sighed Juliet.

Yes, it was a shame that Floz was so small and red-haired and eggshell crushable. Had she been tall and statuesque and blonde, Juliet would have grabbed her brother and frog-marched him over to
the flat to meet Floz five minutes after she moved in.

‘You could have gone double-dating,’ said Coco, with glee. ‘Floz and Guy and you and Piers.’

‘Oh, don’t get me going. He’ll be here any minute, breathing the same air as me.’ Juliet melted at the thought of having a little bit of her boss inside her – even
if it was just his exhaled breath in her lungs.