Divas Don't Knit (16 page)

Connie smiles. ‘Sure.’

Linda puts her knitting down. ‘There, that’s another square finished. You never know, we might actually get this finished before the baby’s born. What else are you planning for the window, Jo? You’ll have to do something special for Christmas, you know. You’ve got to keep up your standards now we’ve won the silver medal; I hear her ladyship came in to tell you.’

‘Yes, she did, and Elsie nearly fainted.’

She laughs. ‘I know. We heard all about it from Betty. It’s good, though, us winning. It’s about time the local council did something useful instead of just buggering up the roads. There was another crash along on the front, on Monday. A lorry was trying to overtake a bus, silly sod. He wasn’t badly hurt or anything, but someone’s going to get killed along there one of these days. Oh God, sorry. Me and my big mouth. I’m sorry, Jo.’

For a minute I’m not sure what she means.

‘I was so sorry – about your husband, I mean. It was so awful.’

There’s a silence. Damn. I sort of assumed they all knew, but we’ve never actually talked about it.

‘Yes, it was.’

‘And the poor boys.’

‘Yes, that was the worst part really, having to tell them.’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m still not sure I got it right.’

Waking them up in the morning, and trying to find the right way to explain, with Jack asking me why if Nick was at the hospital the doctors couldn’t fix him.

Maggie coughs, as if she’s about to say something, but Connie beats her to it.

‘Yes, but no sad things here. We all just relax, yes? And leave the sad things for other times.’

Cath smiles at her. ‘Exactly.’

Everyone’s still looking at me.

‘Right, well I’m definitely having the last piece of cake now.’

Linda looks relieved. ‘Go on, love, you have it.’

Everyone relaxes, but they’re all much more affectionate when they’re leaving, and Olivia hugs me, which she’s never done before. Connie drops me off on the corner of our road, and I kiss her goodnight, in a non-bus-shelter kind of way. She’s been teaching me some Italian phrases, and I want to try them out.

‘Porqui miseria, it’s cold tonight.’

‘No, porca, not porky. Porca miseria.’

I try again.

‘Perfect.’

‘Oh, look, here come Mr Pallfrey and Trevor. Porca miseria, I hope the boys are asleep.’

She laughs.

I walk up the road, thinking about kissing boys in bus shelters. It might be a bit late to start now but you never know. Maybe I should make a list like Maggie’s, of things I want to do in the next few years. Not in the house, or for the shop, just for me; I’ve always wanted to learn Italian, so maybe I could find a local class. It would really annoy Mum, which would be a hidden bonus, but I’m not sure there’s enough room in my brain for too much new information; something else would get wiped out to make room for it. I’d come out of my class chock full of fabulous new vocabulary and discover that I couldn’t remember where I’d parked the car. God knows what useful things I’ve jettisoned already, just learning a few phrases, but I can’t find my front-door key, so I have to knock on the door, which gives Gran a bit of a turn. We’re in the kitchen when Reg arrives to drive her home, which wakes Archie up, so I wave them off and then go up to settle him back into bed. But he’s having none of it, and wants a story. And a drink. Porca miseria.

I’m in the shop the next morning, standing behind the counter rummaging through a drawer full of buttons, when a woman comes in, wearing sunglasses and talking on a tiny black mobile phone.

‘Where the fuck are you, Bruno? I’m in a wool shop – you can’t miss it, the window’s full of fish. No, I’m not joking. Why
would I be fucking joking? So if you could just stop driving round in bloody circles and get over here, I’d be seriously grateful.’

She turns to me and smiles, and suddenly I know who she is. Jesus Christ, Grace Harrison is standing in my shop giving me a megawatt smile; the same smile she gives George Clooney just before she jumps off the bridge holding his hand in
Falling in Love Again.
The smile that greets Ralph Fiennes when he gets back from a vital mission as a Second World War pilot in
Wings and A Prayer.
Bloody hell.

‘I’m sorry about this. I’m trying to avoid a photographer.’

When she says ‘photographer’ she gets the kind of expression on her face that you’d get if someone had just walked up to you and been sick all over your shoes. At least I think she does, but it’s quite hard to tell with the dark glasses.

I can’t think of a thing to say. I’m standing here like a total lemon, completely mute with awe. Christ.

‘My car will be here soon.’

‘It’s probably stuck in the new one-way system, it’s really awful, the traffic gets stuck by the bus stop, along the sea front, and nobody can get past.’

Great. Now I’m babbling like a loon.

Her phone beeps.

‘Yes, I’ve just been hearing about the bus stop. I thought you’d had special training in counter hostage manoeuvres. Didn’t they do bus stops? Just get here as soon as you can.’

She clicks her phone shut and gives me another dazzling smile. ‘I’m sorry about this. Would it be all right if I wait in here?’

‘Of course.’

Like I’m going to say no, please wait outside on the pavement. I’m guessing she’s trying to decide if I’m going to ask her for an autograph or go into another blurt about the traffic; God, it must be awful, launching people into idiotic babbling everywhere
you go, just like Ellen, but much worse. So it’s probably quite important that I act like a normal person, preferably before she leaves.

‘Would you like a cup of tea while you’re waiting?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Or coffee? Or juice? I’ve got some apple upstairs, I think.’

So not quite so normal after all then.

‘No, thanks.’

‘I’m even starting to scare myself now.’

She smiles again. Actually I wish she’d stop doing that, because it’s really not helping in the Pull Yourself Together department.

‘I’m not your greatest fan or anything – I mean, I haven’t got a room full of your posters or anything weird like that. It’s just, well, I think you’re great. Sorry, I’m doing it again, I’ll shut up now, but let me know if you need anything. Anything at all.’

Oh, God.

‘Great.’

She walks towards the back of the shop, and stops by the shawl I’ve draped over the dummy.

‘This is gorgeous.’

‘It’s in that mohair on the shelves behind you.’

She turns to look. ‘Great colours.’

‘I know, they’re lovely, aren’t they? There are lots more, only I haven’t got them all in stock. But it only takes a day or two if I put an order in. The shawl takes three balls, so it comes to just over twenty pounds. And you’ll have some left over, for a flower, like these ones, so it’s worth it.’

Oh, my God, I can’t stop. I clench my toes in an effort to stop talking as I pass her one of the knitted flower brooches I’ve made, with the sparkly silver beads in the middle. It took me ages to do the first one, but now I’ve got the hang of them they’re easy, and they’re selling really well.

‘Gorgeous.’

‘I’ve got the shade card here somewhere.’

I scrabble through a drawer and pass her the cream card with all the swatches on it.

She takes her glasses off. ‘I love the names. I think I’ll have the Marmalade, and Candy Girl, Dewberry and Jelly – oh, and the dark brown, and three of the flower brooches, in whatever colours you’ve got.’

Bloody hell.

‘I’ve run out of Candy Girl, but I’ve got all the rest, I think, and you’ll need the pattern. It’s just a sheet of paper because it’s one of our own patterns, but it’s very easy to follow. Have you got needles?’

‘Sorry? Oh, I see. No, I meant ready to wear.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘Can you do that?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Actually nobody’s asked for anything knitted up yet, but other shops do it, so I’m sure we can.

‘So how much is that? Around a hundred quid?’

She’s probably used to getting massive discounts, but five shawls are going to take a lot of knitting. Still, it will be brilliant publicity, if I can tell people. I wonder if she’d mind?

‘That’ll be fine, but can I—’

‘So that’s five hundred quid in total, yes?’

Christ.

‘No, that’s far too much.’

Somehow I don’t think anyone’s going to be nominating me for a Businesswoman of the Year award just yet.

She smiles.

‘Trust me, it’s a bargain. Add on the flowers too, and actually I’ll want four, including this one.’

She’s wearing jeans and a pretty chiffon top, a bit like one Ellen’s got, only in blues and greens, under a long black coat. She picks up one of the larger flowers in different shades of
green, with tiny purple beads in the centre, and pins it on to her shirt.

‘You take credit cards, right?’

‘Yes. I only got the machine last week actually.’

She opens her handbag, which I think I’ve seen in one of those what-the-A-listers-are-queuing-up-for-now features, except I don’t think A-listers do queuing, and she hands me a very smart black wallet with dozens of different credit cards in it, which all look slightly different from the usual ones, and are either black or gold.

‘Is one of these Mastercard?’

She hands me a black card which looks nothing like mine; I wonder if it’s still got a PIN number? Christ, I don’t know how to work the machine if she hasn’t got a PIN number. Please let me not balls this up. Please let it work and not start beeping or eat the paper like it did last week, when I pressed the wrong button and the paper disappeared inside the bloody machine.

‘Do you know your number?’

‘No. But I know someone who does. Hang on a minute.’

She makes a call and enters the number, and the receipt prints out. Hallelujah.

As I’m handing the receipt to her the shop door opens and a man walks in, with a camera.

‘Fuck.’ She turns instantly and walks through to the back of the shop as he raises the camera. I can feel her panicking; it’s just like when I was out with Ellen and there was a rumour that she was having an affair with her co-anchor, who was married with kids, and the snappers were all camped outside her flat. And she wasn’t having any affair with anyone. But he was, with the new girl doing Weather.

Actually I’m not bloody having this.

I step in front of him, and block his way, and there are definite advantages to not being waif like when you’re trying to
block someone’s shot; there’s a blur of clicking and flashing, which Ellen says they do to intimidate you, even when they’re not getting any kind of picture. And it’s bloody working.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Out of the way, love. I just want Gracie.’

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, not right now, and since my shop is private property I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

I take a step towards him, and my knees are shaking so much I feel like I’m walking on stilts, but he starts to back through the doorway, while I try to remember what Ellen said about keeping calm and being friendly but most importantly Keep Moving.

I close the door, slide the top bolt across, and go through to the back.

Grace is standing behind the door to the stairs. ‘Where did you learn to handle snappers like that?’

‘My friend Ellen sometimes has them after her. Not like you, of course, but still, sometimes.’

‘Oh, right. Well that was great.’

‘Not really. He’s still waiting outside on the pavement, and we haven’t got a back door.’

‘Of course he is. Don’t worry about it. He’ll be joined by his mates any minute – they never go away until they get something. But at least this way I get to do my face. Have you got a hairbrush?’ Her phone beeps and she answers. ‘Yes, I know. Wait there.’

She turns to me. ‘The car’s outside. Hairbrush, and a mirror?’

‘Upstairs.’

‘What’s upstairs?’

‘Our workroom, and the kitchen.’

Thank God it’s not still full of crap.

‘Is the light better up there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then lead the way.’

It’s completely fascinating. We go upstairs and she sits at the table and I hand her the mirror from the hook over the sink in the kitchen, and she gets a black nylon make-up bag out of her bag and there’s a flash of little brushes and tubes and she’s transformed: her eyes seem huge, and a much darker brown, and her face is more defined, somehow. And her lips look fabulous. I’m tempted to ask her what kind of lip gloss she’s wearing, but thankfully I manage to restrain myself.

‘If you don’t give them something, they just make you look like shit. Christ, my hair’s gone really weird since I’ve been pregnant.’

I can’t believe she’s just told me she’s pregnant. All the papers have been full of is-she-or-isn’t-she? pieces for weeks.

‘That’s why they’re after me, we’ve just released it. It’s been all rumour up to now – fed by my agent, no doubt; he’s such a bastard – but I wanted to wait until I’d had all the scans, just in case.’

She suddenly looks vulnerable as she puts her hand across her tummy, which looks pretty flat to me, with only the slightest hint of a bump.