Lessons in Love

Jane didn’t hang around to hear what Miranda thought. Instead she turned the key in the ignition and pulled away, heading through the open front gates up the drive to number 9, her spirits lifted by the encounter.

Number 9 had a dark green wooden door under the lee of an elegant little portico, with brass door furniture and a bell push like a big white chocolate button, set on one side of the wall in a silver and ceramic bowl. Jane rang and waited. She couldn’t hear the bell ring but then maybe the bell was quiet, or the walls were thick, or—she thought about Barry’s natural versatility—maybe it didn’t work at all. She waited a minute more and then pressed the button again. She couldn’t just post the letters and leave them—after all, they were all open. She needed the chance to explain. Across the road Miranda was heading back towards the show house, flanked by Tony and Lil.

Lil was telling Miranda about her plastic surgeon, and asking Miranda if she’d ever thought about having a little lift.

Jane looked away. Maybe she should just write Ms Mills a note and pop the post through the letter box.

Jane glanced at the door again and wondered if she might have more luck round the back, or maybe knocking. She lifted the brass knocker and, as she did, the door swung open silently on well-oiled hinges.

Jane took a step back in surprise. This wasn’t meant to happen. This was the sort of thing that happened in horror films. People who lived in houses like number 9 Creswell Close most certainly did not leave their doors open. Actually, looking back over her shoulder it struck her as odd that the gates were open too.

The front door opened directly into a large hallway with a wooden floor, a long cream runner emphasising the elegant proportions. A curved staircase rose from the centre of the room to a galleried landing above. There were half-glazed double doors each side of the hall and a corridor heading towards the back of the house. The huge hall was panelled to waist height and, above, the off-white walls were hung with modern abstracts, which looked as if they might be originals. Jane felt her pulse flutter. No, this wasn’t right at all. This kind of house should have alarms and locks and CCTV, not open front doors.

Jane glanced back over her shoulder again, this time to see if she was being watched. Miranda had vanished into the show house.

‘Hello?’ she called self-consciously. ‘Hello?’ Nothing. Jane leaned inside. ‘Hello. Is there anybody in? Hellooooo?’

Zilch. Zip. Nada.

The long hellooooo echoed down past the handsome hall table and the perfectly arranged white lilies, flowing unheard over the floor-length cream drapes and the beautifully designed lighting.

Jane bit her lip. How bad did it look to be standing by the open door of a house that didn’t belong to you, with a handful of opened post that didn’t belong to you either? What the hell was she supposed to do now? Jane looked round and considered her options.

Across the road Tone and Lily were respectively ambling and teetering out of the show house brandishing their keys. Any minute now they would drive up to number 7 and see her standing there on the threshold, maybe Miranda too. Should she get in her car and go? Come back another time? Shut the door behind her and head home?

Jane hesitated. Then again, what if Ms J. Mills was in trouble? What if she had fallen over, slipped while checking the showerhead in the guest room and knocked herself out cold? What if…Before she had really thought about the repercussions Jane stepped inside, pushed the door shut behind her and called hello again as she walked deeper into the house.

The place was fabulous, a handsome modern reinterpretation of Georgian proportions, a mix of English oak, cream walls and huge floor-to-ceiling windows with a stunning view from every one of them. The hallway opened up on the right into an airy sitting room with wooden floors and exquisite rugs, a long navy-blue sofa pulled up in front of a marble fireplace, flanked by matching chairs. French windows overlooked the park. To the left was a dining room with antique furniture and a handsome gilt-framed mirror above an open fireplace. There was a TV and music room, another sitting room and a garden room, again with floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond that was a state-of-the-art kitchen that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Homes and Gardens,-but there was one thing that was missing. There was no sense at all that this was anyone’s home. Everywhere looked and smelled brand new. Jane had no idea when Ms I. Mills had moved in but surely even after a week there ought to be a cushion or two out of place, or a jacket slung casually over the back of a kitchen chair, a mug on a table or a dirty plate in the sink. Surely there had to be something, anything, to suggest that real people lived real lives there.

Beyond the kitchen was a utility room that adjoined the garage. Inside was a black Mercedes convertible, a silver BMW and a nippy little black 4x4. Nervously, Jane peered inside the cars, half afraid she might come face to face with the other Ms J. Mills, cold and stiff and far from well. But, no—still nothing. The house was like the Marie Celeste with down-lighters and expensive furniture.

Even so, empty or not, with every passing moment Jane was getting more nervous about being discovered exploring, and anxious to find out what the hell was going on—but also aware that the longer she stayed in the house the more suspicious she looked.

In her head an imaginary police officer, with the face of the imaginary Post Office clerk, was saying, ‘So, Ms Mills, you spent ten minutes in the property. Did it never occur to you at any time that you had unlawfully entered the premises and that you were in fact trespassing?

Grimly Jane went on, ignoring her inner policeman. Through the windows she could see the garden rolling gently down towards the lake, the way marked by a gravel path edged with flowerbeds, shrubs and a trail of lights. As Jane looked again she saw that there was a little pagoda, a white wooden summerhouse affair tucked into the lee of the hedge—and the doors were open. Maybe she had finally found Ms J. Mills.

Jane pushed open the door and headed out across the lawn towards the summerhouse, and as she did she could hear someone talking.

‘This is ridiculous,’ a woman snapped. ‘Totally bloody ridiculous. I’ve had enough, Augustus—or maybe that’s it, maybe I haven’t had enough at all. I’m not sure that I can go…’

But before Jane could find out where it was the woman couldn’t go, she rounded the corner and found a handsome woman in her late forties, long hair caught up in a clip, sitting on the edge of the deck, barefoot. She was wearing white silk pyjamas and was talking to an elegant oriental cat, who watched Jane’s arrival with all the distain of an archetypal English butler. The woman looked pale and was cradling a glass of water in which something was fizzing unpleasantly.

She stared at Jane in surprise. ‘Who on earth are you? And how the hell did you get into my garden?’

‘Your front door is open,’ said Jane lamely, glancing back towards the house

‘Oh, and that’s an invitation to just stroll right in, is it?’ growled the woman, and then winced.

‘Well, no, obviously but—’

‘So did you close it?’ the woman snapped, and as she did the wince hardened up into a grimace, as she made every effort to sound angry. ‘God, my head hurts. I really didn’t ought to drink,’ she said, rubbing her temples. ‘What do you want?’

‘Well, nothing actually, I just brought your post over,’ Jane said, holding the letters out in front of her like an offering.

Gingerly the woman glanced up and then took them. ‘Thanks.’ And then: ‘But they’re all open,’ she said, turning the envelopes over.

‘Well, yes,’ Jane began. This wasn’t going very well. ‘I know. That’s what I came over to talk to you about, to explain really. You see, they were delivered to my house by accident. My name is Jane Mills, I live in Creswell Road, at number nine, and these are addressed to J. Mills, nine Creswell Close—and I hadn’t got my glasses on—and, and, well, I opened them…’

There was an odd little silence as the woman looked first at the post and then up at Jane.

‘By accident, obviously,’ Jane added in case there was any doubt.

The woman turned the letters over again.

‘But that was all,’ Jane continued hastily. ‘I mean, once I realised they were yours, I didn’t read them, or anything.’

‘Really?’ said her inner policeman. ‘Then how do you explain the fingerprints on the credit card bills and the grudging admiration you have for your victim’s choice in shoes?’

On the deck Ms J. Mills was still turning the letters over. ‘You opened all of them?’ she said.

Jane nodded. ‘Yes, by accident. We’ve got the same name,’ she pulled the badge off her shirt and showed it to her.

The older woman stared blankly at the little square of laminated plastic.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jane continued brightly. ‘It was just a mistake. I thought I’d just pop over and explain…’

‘And my front door was open so you thought you’d just pop in, did you?’

Jane shifted her weight. ‘Well, yes. When I saw that the door was open I worried. It didn’t seem right, the door being open, and I…and I thought something might have happened to you.’ It sounded lame but it was also true.

The woman looked her up and down and then nodded. ‘Oh, something happened all right. Carlo threw a hissy fit and stormed off. Again. He is so tiring, to be perfectly honest I really can’t be bothered any more.’

‘Right,’ said Jane, not quite sure what else to say. She was still trying very hard to keep the lid on her feelings about Steve Burney. ‘Well, I know how much that kind of thing hurts. I’m really sorry.’

‘Don’t be, he was thirty-four, sunbed tan, beautifully capped teeth, body to die for—vainer than any woman I’ve ever met. He used to watch himself performing in the mirrors on the wardrobe doors. I caught him once tilting the dressing-table mirror so he could see his arse in a better light.’ She paused and took a sip from the glass. ‘Nice arse, though.’

Jane looked at her. ‘OK.’ After all what else was there to say?

The other woman nodded awkwardly. ‘Thank you,’ she held out the letters, ‘for bringing these. By the way, my name is Jayne, Jayne Mills,’ she said, and extended her hand.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Jane smiled. ‘And it’s fine. About the letters, I mean. I just wanted to bring them over, you know. I couldn’t just pop them back into the post really.’

Jane looked at Jayne Mills, who sighed. Then, as if Jane hadn’t spoken, got up and wandered barefoot over the lush grass down towards the lake. Jane wasn’t sure what to do, maybe this was her cue to leave. Although it struck her that maybe Jayne might just keep on walking.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ asked Jane, hurrying after her.

The other J. Mills didn’t even look back. ‘Do you ever wonder what you do things for? I’m forty-seven, I’ve worked all my life to get to where I am now, I’ve got a great business, great cars, good holidays, a farmhouse in France, a pied-à-terre in London, and you know what?’

Jane shook her head even though Jayne couldn’t see her.

‘I don’t know why I’m doing it any more. It doesn’t feel right. It feels like I’ve woken up in someone else’s middle age. I’ve worked hard to get something and somehow I think I’ve missed it. Missed the point. I used to feel like every day was a clean sheet—a challenge—you know? Whatever happened to that feeling? I haven’t had a relationship that’s worked in twenty years. I’ve got no children, no family except for my little brother, and I haven’t seen him in God knows how long. There’s only Augustus.’ She looked back at the cat, who was now sunning himself on the deck and licking his crotch. ‘And let’s be honest, he really only wants me because he can’t undo the cans himself.’

This wasn’t quite the conversation Jane had been expecting at all. She had no idea what to say. ‘You’ve got a beautiful house,’ was the best she could come up with.

The woman looked at Jane as if she had only just realised she was still there.

‘Yes, but it doesn’t mean anything. Don’t you ever think that sometimes it would be nice to just step away from everything? Just walk away from what you’ve got and have another life? A different life—start over. Mind you, you’re young, you probably haven’t got that far.’

Jane, trying hard not to think about Steve and how much that hurt, said thickly, ‘Well, yes, sometimes. Doesn’t everybody? I don’t think it’s got anything to do with age. But then again we have to play the hand we’re dealt, don’t we?’

Jayne smiled. ‘If I believed that I would just keep walking straight into the lake. There has to be a way. There is always a way. What did you say your name was again?’

‘Jane Mills.’

Jayne Mills laughed. ‘Oh, yes, of course—sorry. It was good of you to bring the letters over. Thank you.’ She turned away, and Jane thought now really was the moment to leave.

‘Close the door on the way out, would you, please? It’s my housekeeper’s weekend off,’ said Jayne, her back turned.

Jane drove home thinking about her namesake. How could her life be that bad?

As she got to Creswell Road Jane slowed down, looking for somewhere to park. It seemed a terrible shame that all those wonderful things—lots of money, cars, a housekeeper and a fantastic home—didn’t really seem to help, although surely it had to be better to be unhappy and rich than unhappy and—

At which point Gladstone stepped out from behind a skip. He was wearing a grimy pink feather boa over his usual raincoat and multiple jumper ensemble and was clutching a Harrods carrier bag that looked as if it was crammed full of wire coat hangers. His face was a picture of contentment. Jane sighed. Maybe happiness was a simpler thing than everyone thought.

Chapter Two

‘Ah, Jane, there you are. Do come in. Thanks for coming down. Nice to see you. If you’d just like to take a seat.’ The first floor of the new library was dedicated to Human Resources. It said so on a shiny brass plaque as you stepped out of the lift.

Mrs Findlay waved Jane into her office. Just inside the door a large tank of tropical fish basked and bubbled under the glow of a daylight strip lamp.

Mrs Findlay was a plump woman in late middle age, who wore various pairs of spectacles on a tangle of chains around her lard-white neck, had an office full of begonias, and was something big in internal human resources, which always sounded a bit medical and slightly unsavoury to Jane.

‘Well, here we are then,’ said Mrs Findlay brightly, easing herself in behind the desk and settling herself down. ‘Now, as I’m sure you’re aware recently we’ve been looking at ways to restructure and improve our current levels of service. And I think we are developing some exciting strategies to meet that challenge.’ She had a file with Jane’s name on it spread out across the desk. ‘I’ve been looking at the projects you’ve been involved in since you began working with us here at Buckbourne and some of the things you’ve initiated—and I have to say it’s all terribly impressive.’ Mrs Findlay smiled warmly. ‘A lot of very intriguing and innovative ideas, Jane, lots of outreach to take library services into the wider community, identifying and targeting groups with special needs, good use of resources, coming in under budget, as I said, this is very impressive, just the kind of thing we want to encourage, which is why…’

It was the following Monday morning and it felt to Jane as if she had just survived the longest weekend of her life. It was the second weekend since Steven Burney Day—13 days 19 hours and 11 minutes since Lucy had just popped in to her office to tell her all about Steve. The first weekend Jane had been so stunned she could barely remember it. Barely breathe. It felt like one great red raw emotional blur. But this one, the first one out of the fire and into reality, had been interminable, even given the trip over to Creswell Close to deliver the post. In quiet moments Jane reran the last conversation she had had with Steve, phrase by phrase, syllable by syllable.

He had turned up at her house after she rang him. He’d brought flowers and a balloon and some ridiculous card shop bear that had, ‘Pwease don’t be cross wiv lickle me,’ embroidered across its T-shirt.

Now, as Steve filled her mind Mrs Findlay’s voice faded to a distant drone.

‘Jane, I’m so sorry, the thing is, it really wasn’t my fault,’ Steve had said. ‘Please don’t look at me like that. We were both a little bit tipsy. I didn’t mean it to happen. Really. Lucy and I had been talking about the new strategic county policy document and I suggested a glass of wine. Neither of us had eaten. It could have happened to anyone. I know that is no excuse but I’d been on tablets as well—you remember, I’d had that nasty cold. And she was, well, you know Lucy—she’s a lovely girl but…We started talking about life and all that stuff and…and, well, it just happened. Let’s be adult about this. It was nothing. You have to believe me, Jane. We all make mistakes. It was a moment of madness. And I’m really sorry.’ Steve looked down at his nice shiny shoes, the very epitome of contrition. ‘Trust me, sweetie, it was an accident.’

‘So you’re telling me that your clothes accidentally fell off and by some miracle not seen since the days of the Old Testament, Lucy Stroud was instantly covered in Greek yogurt, chocolate sauce and strawberries?’

‘Ah…’

‘You know I’ve wondered for weeks what those stains were on your sofa.’

There was a very interesting pause and then Steve gathered himself together and said, ‘Well, the thing is—’

But Jane was ahead of him. ‘The thing is I could probably understand it happening once, Steve. It’s the regular Wednesday evenings ever since that are proving a little more problematic.’

‘Ah…’

And then Jane had trashed the flowers, popped the balloon and offered if he said pwease to insert the bear into the orifice of Steve’s choice. He said she was being unreasonable.

Being in a state of shock, Jane hadn’t thought to ask him about Carol and Anna. Maybe she should. Maybe she could send an email memo to her whole ‘at work’ mailing list asking for more details. Lucy said that she had pictures if Jane needed any further proof. The cow.

Meanwhile it was still Monday morning and despite thoughts of Steve, on the far side of the desk Mrs Findlay, big in internal human resources, was still talking.

‘…So I do hope you understand our position in this, Jane. I have to say we’ll all be awfully sad to see you go.’

Jane looked up at her in amazement. ‘What?’

‘I realise that it may come as a bit of shock but we’re all aware that you’re an extremely talented individual, Jane. I’m certain that it won’t take you long to find another position. Let’s look at this current situation positively—and rest reassured that we will be doing our very best to help you in your search to find another position while you’re working out your notice. There may very well be something coming up within your present department. Who knows? I’ve had Maureen in the front office run off a list of current County Council situations vacant for you and we have prepared a very useful pack for members of staff who find themselves in this situation.’ Mrs Findlay pulled a cheery yellow and navy-blue folder out from a box on the floor.

‘What?’ Jane said again, staring at her. ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean, I’ve got the sack? You were just telling me that I was the best thing since sliced bread. And then you follow that up by telling me I’m sacked? It’s ridiculous—I’m really good at my job so you’re going to get rid of me? How the hell do you expect me to look at that positively?’

Mrs Findlay’s contorted expression took professional concern to new and dizzying heights. ‘I have to say, Jane, that “sacked” is really not a term I’m very happy with. But, yes, I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go.’ She held up her hands, in a ‘what can I do?’ gesture.

‘I’m not a seal being released back into the wild.’

Mrs Findlay looked pained. ‘There’s really no need to take that attitude, Jane. You must understand that I find this part of my job terribly stressful and very difficult.’

If she was going for the sympathy vote Mrs Findlay had picked the wrong moment. Jane stared at her; some sort of weird benign touchy-feely PC sacking on top of Steve Burney’s very public infidelity was just about the final straw.

‘My heart bleeds for you,’ snapped Jane. ‘So what happened to how impressed you were with what I’ve done for the department?’

Determinedly Mrs Findlay held her ground. ‘Sometimes, Jane, we need to prune a tree to ensure its continued healthy growth and when we prune a tree, some of the wood, sometimes even some of the new vigorous wood, has to be cut away. But I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear that we’ve decided to adopt some of your wonderfully innovative ideas, structure them into our working practice in a more permanent way.’ She paused while Jane took a moment to catch up. ‘We’ve asked Lucy to head the project up. You know Lucy.’

Jane stared at her. ‘Lucy? Lucy Stroud?’

‘Yes, I thought you’d be pleased. She holds you in very high esteem. Recently she’s expressed a real interest in developing community links. We all thought she was a natural choice. And she comes highly recommended.’

Somewhere in Jane’s head a pile of pennies dropped noisily. ‘By Steve Burney?’ she whispered, through clenched teeth.

‘I couldn’t possibly comment on that,’ said Mrs Findlay, gathering Jane’s file together. No, of course she couldn’t; she didn’t need to, it was written all over her face. ‘Now with regards to passing the baton, we’ll need to discuss her shadowing you—’

‘Really?’ said Jane, standing up.

‘I didn’t think you’d mind,’ said Mrs Findlay, obviously pleased with how well it had all gone.

‘Well, you thought wrong,’ said Jane.

The self-help pack was entitled ‘So You’ve Lost Your Job? What Next?’. Inside the front cover in a flowery font that was probably meant to look like it was handwritten from a favourite aunt, it read, ‘You know, it really helps to look at this as a positive step. We have to see this as a fresh start, a chance to explore our potential, rather than taking a negative attitude.’

‘Bollocks we do,’ said Jane darkly, stuffing the shiny plastic folder into the fish tank as she marched out.

By the lift Jane stopped to pick up three empty cardboard cartons from the janitor’s cupboard and then headed back up to the fourth floor. She didn’t cry, she couldn’t find the way into any more tears, adrenalin and shock holding everything tight inside her. In fact, Jane felt so numb that she wondered if she might be dreaming.

It took around fifteen minutes to clear her desk and sort the last year of her life into neat piles and a couple of rubbish bags. Jane looked at her pot plant and the boxes. There was no way she was going to get home on the bus with all this lot, so when she’d done, Jane stacked everything onto a book trolley, picked up the phone, pressed 9 for an outside line and called a cab on the library account, booking it down to Lucy Stroud.

Bad news travels fast. No one looked her in the eye as she walked back out through the office, no one spoke in the lift on the way down to the foyer, or offered to help her on the long walk through to the main front doors. It was almost as if she had the plague and they might catch it if they stood too close.

She was barely at the kerb when the cab rolled up. ‘Creswell Close?’ said the driver, leaning over towards the open passenger-side window.

‘Road,’ she said firmly.

‘Right you are.’ He nodded and got out to help load her possessions into the boot.

‘Jane?’

She swung round. Heading across the pedestrianised area in front of the library was Lizzie, who had worked with her, and Cal from the office next door, and two or three others, all looking slightly uncomfortable and—it had to be said—shifty, every few seconds gazing back over their shoulders in case there was some chance they were being watched.