Monday to Friday Man (12 page)

Mum was told by one of her friends in Megan’s special needs group that there is a professor in Germany who thinks he can help us. This sheep cells treatment is expensive, thousands of pounds. Some of the older children at school are doing sponsored runs and canoeing races. Mum is so proud, saying we’re all going to be in the papers and on television, telling Megan’s story. Dad is quiet. He’s always at work.

Later that night Nick and I hide in our bedroom, just to get away from the shouting.

‘You don’t understand,’ Mum shouts. ‘We have to do something!’

‘Beth, we can’t afford it,’ Dad says. ‘We’d have to remortgage the house, the . . .’

‘You can’t put a price on Megan!’

‘I’m not – how can you think that? I love her too.’

‘Show it then. Oh, that’s right, you can’t.’

‘Please,’ he urges, ‘be realistic. What do we know about this treatment? You’re so vulnerable . . .’

‘What does vulnerable mean?’ I whisper to Nick, scared of the noise.

He doesn’t hear me. His hands are over his ears.

‘I’m not . . .’

‘Let me finish . . .’

‘We have to take a risk . . .’

‘You are vulnerable,’ he repeats slowly, ‘and ready to believe anyone who says they can help. Is it really a viable option?’

Nick and I hide under the covers when she screams, ‘You’re not at work now!’

‘Keep it down, Beth!’ Dad begs. ‘The children.’

‘Act like a father, not a lawyer! What choice do we have? There are no other bloody options! I can’t sit here and watch her die! Maybe you can, but I can’t!’ We hear the clatter of glass; something has been smashed. ‘Nick and Gilly support me . . .’

‘They’re children! It’s difficult for them to understand,’ he shouts. ‘Beth, please,’ he says more calmly, ‘think about it. You’re giving them false hope, it’s not fair.’

‘No. We have to find the money and if you won’t help me, I’ll do it on my own.’

The door slams.

Nick says that when he grows up he’s going to make lots of money so he can move away, as far away as possible, and forget all about Mum and Dad. ‘They’re always shouting! I hate them,’ he says darkly.

He promises to take me with him. Under the duvet, we lock hands and promise to be best friends forever.

20

‘You’re doing what?’ Mari says, as we both do a quick scan of the shop to make sure it’s looking ready for Blaize’s arrival. She told me that Blaize had once knocked into one of her lanterns in the basement, and then cursed loudly because he’d scratched one of his new crocodileskin boots.

‘Taking Guy shopping,’ I repeat.

‘Just the two of you?’

‘Uh-huh.’

Mari is unable to keep it in. ‘Gilly, do you fancy Guy?’

‘No! God, no,’ I add.

‘I don’t blame you,’ she confides, as if I’ve said yes. ‘He’s funny and good-looking, in an unconventional way.’

‘I don’t. Anyway, he’s engaged,’ I remind her.

‘I know, but you can still fancy the man. I’ve just noticed there’s this nice chemistry between you. You two connect. I do wonder about his girlfriend too.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, why would she disappear off the face of the earth the moment he proposes?’

‘Everyone’s different, Mari. You didn’t even live with your husband.’

‘That’s why it worked so well, my darling. The moment Percy moved into my apartment . . . curtains,’ she says.

‘I don’t go for men in hats, Mari.’

‘Fine, I believe you,’ she smiles.

No. He’s not my type at all.

I really don’t fancy him.

I find myself smiling.

When Blaize Hunter King enters the shop, dressed in a pristine white shirt, tailored trousers, leather boots and his dark hair slicked back with gel, I nearly drop the French rococo lamp base on the floor. Mari and Blaize’s dramatic air kiss is promptly interrupted by about four of his mobile telephones ringing at the same time.

He takes out the first, flicks the lid open dramatically. ‘Oh, Madonna, darling, can I put you on hold . . .’ He searches for the next phone.

‘Madonna?’ I repeat. ‘He’s putting
Madonna
on hold?’

Mari tells me to stop looking so shocked. ‘This is Blaize Hunter King, one of the best-known interior designers to the stars,’ she reinforces proudly again, ‘and he does what the hell he likes.’

When she introduces me as her new assistant I almost curtsy as I say, ‘How do you do?’

‘Very cute,’ he says, eyeing me up and down in my black dress, my hair swept up with a gold clip.

Soon Blaize has both Mari and I taking off our shoes and clambering over piles of stock to reach the perfect verdigris lantern for Madonna’s home in New York. Mari is clever the way she knows exactly what light would look good in a certain setting. ‘No, Gilly, not that one, the other one!’ she orders me. I laugh, saying it’s like a game of Twister in here.

‘Oh, Mari, it’s divine,’ Blaize sighs, before pointing to one of the chandeliers in the window. ‘Madge would love that. How much?’

‘Five and a half thousand,’ I say, adrenalin flowing.

‘A steal! Take a picture, will you,’ he demands, clicking his fingers at me. Mari warned me he’d do this, so I am ready with the camera.

Two hours and fifty pictures later, I am exhausted. I’ve been on my hands and knees in the basement searching for the right rustic lantern to go in Madonna’s French chateau, up ladders to unhook mirrors for Pierce Brosnan’s place in Aspen, and rushing into our local deli to buy Mari espressos and Blaize organic detox juices. I completely forget Guy is meeting me here until the doorbell tinkles and he enters the shop. ‘Mari, darling, how much do I owe?’ Blaize asks, brandishing his American Express card in one hand.

‘Guy! Come and meet Blaize,’ I say breathlessly, brushing the dust off my dress. I catch Guy looking around the shop in awe, with precious objects teetering on tables and shelves, an accident waiting to happen. Blaize has bought four lanterns, two lamp bases, one mirror and the chandelier in the window.

‘Surely Mari can give me a small bonus?’ I whisper to Guy as we head off to the shops.

Our search to find a suit for his sister Rachel’s wedding begins along the Fulham Road. Rachel is getting married in a fortnight and she has instructed him that he
has
to look traditional, so I decide to take him to Ed’s favourite shop, run by a stylish balding man called Adrian. Ed used to compare Adrian’s head to a shiny white snooker ball. It’s a small, intimate shop that sells beautifully tailored suits, shirts and silk ties, right down to designer boxer shorts and cufflinks. I buy my father the same maroon cashmere socks every year for Christmas. Maybe I’ll buy him a different colour next time.

‘Gilly, come in.’ Adrian welcomes me as if I were a long-lost friend, before assessing this new man beside me, so different from Ed.

He then asks if we need his help, so I tell him to make Guy look fit for his sister’s wedding.

‘You, my friend, shall go to the ball,’ Adrian says to Guy with a dazzling smile, his gold tooth shining.

Adrian presses different-coloured shirts against Guy’s chest and I enjoy telling Guy what does and doesn’t suit him, though he remains deathly quiet, as if he’s in a torture cell.

As I hunt through the rails of clothes, Adrian taps me on the shoulder. ‘I was very sorry to hear about Edward,’ he says.

‘Thanks.’ I touch his shoulder affectionately. ‘How did you know?’

‘News travels fast. Really, Gilly, the swine. She’s not a patch on you,’ he adds before whispering, ‘I like your new man. Good on you, girl.’

‘Oh, Adrian, he’s just a friend,’ I whisper.

‘That’s what they always say!’

‘Do you ever see him?’ I can’t help asking.

‘Um.’ He purses his lips. ‘He was in the other day, but let’s just say, after what he did to you, sweetheart, I’m very cross with him!’

I select an electric-blue coloured shirt and for the finishing touches I approach Guy with a silk spotted tie, though he looks at me as if I were about to feed him a cockroach. ‘Come on, this won’t hurt,’ I assure him as I lift up his shirt collar. ‘Why do you hate dressing up so much? What are you going to wear at your own wedding?’

‘Don’t know. We want to keep it low key.’

‘That’s a surprise.’ I smile as I confide to Guy that everyone has hang-ups. I have an aversion to marquees and tights. Marquees make me feel giddy; tights make me feel itchy. ‘I hated the thick woolly ones I had to wear at school.’

Finally Guy relaxes, telling me I’m a professional when it comes to putting on ties.

‘I used to help my brother, Nick. He’s so badly coordinated, always got it in a knot or did it the wrong way. There.’ I stand back and look at Guy, now my work of art. Then I cast an eye to his woolly hat.

He backs away.

‘It’s like me wearing a wedding dress with trainers!’ I protest, marching towards him.

‘No, Gilly.’

‘Take it off! Flora will thank me.’

He laughs, keeping one firm hand on his hat. ‘No.’ ‘Can I help?’ Adrian asks, bemused.

I cross my arms and stare at Guy. ‘He won’t take off his hat.’

Adrian surveys Guy, one hand on his hip. ‘I think it would look better without,’ he agrees.

‘I come with my hat. Take me or leave me.’

‘Right, I’m going then.’ I walk away and exchange a secret smile with Adrian.

‘Gilly!’ Guy calls.

I turn.

There is something achingly vulnerable about seeing Guy without his hat on.

‘I haven’t had the chance to dye it yet,’ he says gesturing to the grey at the side. His dark hair is wild, unkempt; he looks as if he’s been on a long coastal walk in blustering wind. Self-consciously he runs a hand through it.

I brush a loose strand of cotton off his shoulder and turn his face to mine, noticing for the first time the colour of his eyes. They’re blue, not vivid like Jack’s but a soft gentle colour.

‘Better,’ comments Adrian. ‘Much better.’

‘You look handsome,’ I tell him.

‘You’re very privileged you know, I don’t take my hat off for any old person,’ Guy says.

As we clutch our shopping bags (I bought a pair of black ankle boots that I’ve always hankered for – thank you, Monday to Friday Jack), Guy turns to me, saying that it’s my turn next; he’ll do whatever I want.

‘OK.’ I think. I look at my watch, it’s close to four o’clock. ‘Let’s pick up the dogs and then I’d like to visit someone.’

‘Who?’

‘You’ll see.’

I lead Guy into St Mark’s Church, large and impressive, on the edge of Regent’s Park.

‘On Sundays we used to come here,’ I tell him. ‘Megan called it her church because she could see it from her bedroom.’ I point to a small window in the south transept. It’s modern and in the centre is an engraved monkey. ‘This is Megan’s,’ I say.

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘I wrote these stories for her, called
Mickey, the Magic Monkey
, and Mickey took Megan everywhere in her dreams. He’d dress her up like a princess and take her to palaces and parties and fly her on magic carpets to places far and wide, like Egypt and India . . .’ I stop. ‘That’s why Mickey is here, in this window, right where he should be.’

‘May I?’ Guy picks up a candle and lights it. ‘Hey, Megan,’ he says in a hushed tone, ‘it’s Guy here. I hope Mickey’s looking after you and you’re having fun. In the meantime, I want to tell you what’s going on down here. Well, I’ve met your big sister, Gilly, and she’s lovely.’ He turns to me and grins. ‘She’s just been helping me buy a suit. She’s very bossy, you know, telling me to take my hat off.’

I nudge him. ‘Honestly, Megan, if you’d seen him with his hat on, you’d have done the same,’ I say quietly.

‘Anyway,’ Guy resumes, ‘we met in the park, dog walking. She’s got this cute little dog called Ruskin and my dog’s called Trouble. I know! Isn’t it a ridiculous name, that’s what I said to my girlfriend too. Well, Gilly and I are about to take the dogs for a walk up Primrose Hill, and when we get to the top we’ll wave to you, OK, so you’d better be looking out for us! Anyway, in case you’re worried about Gilly, she’s doing fine. I’m looking out for her, just as Mickey is looking out for you.’

Guy and I make our way up the hill. It’s early evening; the sun beginning to set. When we reach the top, a few stray tourists are examining the information site.