Lessons in Love

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Lizzie, putting her arms around Jane. ‘I was in a meeting. We didn’t know, we had no idea. Are you OK?’

Jane nodded. ‘Bit shell-shocked but I’ll survive. And don’t look so worried. There’s nothing you could do, was there?’

Lizzie stared glumly at the boxes. ‘I thought it was going really well. I like working with you. I didn’t realise that we had to leave straight away.’

Jane looked at her; the ‘we’ sounded too prophetic for her liking. ‘We? Do you think you’ll be going too?’

Lizzie shrugged. ‘Who knows? It’s a bit like Russian roulette, isn’t it? I mean, how are they choosing who goes and who stays? One minute you’re busy planning what sandwich you’re going to have for lunch and then Bang. Out. Karen Marshall’s ended up on the mobile out at Fleetley on the sink estates. She’d been working in the library twenty-eight years. It’s too expensive to make her redundant so they’re hoping if they give her something horrible to do she’ll fall on her own sword. I feel like one of those baby penguins on an ice floe with the killer whales circling. I mean, if they can get rid of you just like that and move Karen…Christ, Karen was an institution.’ She let the implication hang between them. ‘And I didn’t think there was any chance they’d get rid of you—you were doing really well. I thought Findlay was considering promoting you, or giving you a big project, or at least congratulating you.’

Jane handed the taxi driver the pot plant. ‘Oh, she did congratulate me, about thirty seconds before she gave me the push.’

Lizzie shook her head. ‘It’s crazy. People were talking about you.’

Jane sighed. ‘That may have been the problem. Keep your head down, don’t call attention to yourself-isn’t that the first rule of working in a big organisation? Don’t draw their fire. But then again, probably none of that counts as long as you’re not screwing Steve Burney Presumably you’re not on Lucy’s hit list of women who coveted her neighbour’s oxen?’

Lizzie stared at her. ‘Lucy? Not Lucy Stroud? Steve Burney? You are joking.’ But even as she said it Jane could see her colour rising. Surely not Lizzie as well? Had the man got no shame?

Jane sighed. ‘Not you?’

Lizzie’s colour deepened. ‘It was before you started going out with him. He always used to flirt—I mean, I just thought he flirted with everyone.’

Jane nodded. ‘He probably does. Fishing expedition.’

The cab driver sighed. ‘Meter’s running,’ he said bleakly.

‘Not a problem,’ said Jane. ‘It’s on the account. And don’t forget to add a decent tip. All this loading and unloading. I’d stick a tenner on if I were you.’

‘Did they say you had to get out straight away?’ asked Lizzie nervously.

‘No, that was my choice,’ Jane said, hugging her and then Cal, and then the others. ‘Watch your back,’ whispered Jane as she gave Lizzie one last hug. ‘Especially if you have to work with Lucy.’

‘I’ll phone you,’ called Lizzie as the cab pulled away.

Jane was home at Creswell Road by eleven o’clock.

In her absence Gladstone had found himself a deck chair from somewhere and was sitting—in his overcoat, boa, mittens and woolly hat—in the shade of the skip, eating a fruit pie. He waved graciously as she pulled up in front of the house. She got the cabby to help carry the boxes inside.

The cats were in the sitting room on the sofa, both a little miffed at being disturbed mid-morning. Some people had no consideration.

While the driver struggled in with the plant, Jane picked up the post, went into the kitchen and plugged in the kettle. The minute the front door was closed and there was no one there to see, Jane burst into tears.

Bastards, now what the hell was she going to do? Her emotions swung backwards and forwards like a pendulum, ranging from gutted, hurt, horrified and scared, through fury to despair and back again, she sobbed and swore until the kettle boiled.

How could they do this to her? Lucy bloody Stroud. Christ, if Jane had known the trouble it would cause she would have gift-wrapped Steve Burney and sent him Special Delivery. He wasn’t that special, was he? Was he? She sobbed again. Yes, he was. A bastard maybe, but charming, and tall and presentable and—and bloody man—she loved him. Bastard. Jane grabbed a handful of tissues out of the box on the counter top and blew her nose.

She had worked so hard to get this far. Steve had seemed like the icing on the cake. This was supposed to be her fresh new start. And how come bloody Lucy had ended up with her man and her job? It wasn’t fair.

The cats, Boris and Milo, ambled in, obviously hoping to pick up a little something for their trouble. They knew there was tuna in the cupboard, they’d seen her unpacking the tins, but as soon as they saw crying they backed out. No good in a crisis, cats.

Jane, meanwhile, picked up the paper knife. God, what the hell had happened to her life? She needed to get a grip and now she needed to get a job. Still sniffing, Jane opened the letters one by one. The kettle reboiled, she made tea and sat down to read them.

‘Dear Ms J. Mills, we are delighted to inform you…’ Bugger. Jane Mills read the letter and groaned. Oh, no, not again. Apparently she had won an all-expenses-paid trip-of-a-lifetime for two to a destination of her choice from one of the following…

Or at least she would have done if the letter had been delivered to the right Ms J. Mills at the right address. If there was one Ms Mills who needed a free holiday it was her; the other Ms Mills looked as if she could afford to go exactly where she liked when she liked.

Double bugger. Jane was very tempted to throw the letters and the paper knife across the room but she couldn’t really throw someone else’s mail away. They were all for Ms J. Mills, 9 Creswell Close. Again. All six of them. There was nothing for it, she would ring the Post Office to complain and then drive over to Creswell Close and take Ms J. Mills her post. Again. But then maybe it was just the thing she needed to distract her from the chaos raging in her head.

Jane blew her nose, washed her face and headed back out towards the car.

Gladstone waved. He was eating something bright purple and lumpy out of a jam jar with a spoon.

When Jane got to Creswell Close, there was a large van parked outside number 7, delivering what looked like life-size statues of Greek gods. They were being lowered on a tail lift by men in brown cotton shop coats and then manoeuvred around on a large trolley. Some were being set on plinths in the front garden, some taken round to the back. There were stacks of boxes and cartons and crates in the driveway and large indefinable things wrapped up under acres of tarpaulin.

Tony and Lil were out in the front garden, having cigarettes and watching progress. They waved as Jane slowed and drew up to the front gates of number 9. Today they were firmly closed. Jane wound her window down and pressed the call button on the security system.

‘Hello?’

Something somewhere in the house crackled into life. ‘Hello,’ said a distant voice. ‘Who is this?’

‘It’s Jane Mills—we met on Saturday. I’ve got some more post for you.’

There was a short pause and then a whirr and a click, the gates jerked, and then very slowly swung open. Jane pulled up outside the front door, which this time was fully open and framing a small foreign man, dressed in a black Nehru-collared shirt and black jeans, who looked as if he was from the East, possibly the Philippines or Thailand.

‘Jane Mills?’ he asked suspiciously as Jane climbed out of the car. ‘You said you were Jane Mills?’

Jane nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right. I’ve brought the other Jayne Mills her post. The postman delivered it to my house by accident again today.’ She held out the letters. ‘They did the same thing at the weekend.’

The man didn’t move. ‘She isn’t feeling so well today.’

That makes two of us, thought Jane ruefully. All the way over in the car Jane had been thinking about revenge, something spectacular and biblical. It wasn’t her normal style at all but surely, surely, if there was any justice in the world Steve Burney and Lucy Stroud had to pay for working her over so very thoroughly. What the hell had she done to either of them other than fall in love with Steve and be nice to Lucy? It just wasn’t right.

The man was still waiting in the doorway.

‘In that case maybe you’d like to take these in for her,’ said Jane, proffering the post.

‘She spends too much time on her own. She could do with some company. It’s not right.’ The man’s voice was disapproving. ‘I said that she should go out. Have some fun, for goodness’ sake. It’s not as if money is the problem. Buy something lovely—meet nice people, fly off somewhere—dump that freeloader Carlo. I keep telling her, she needs to find herself a good man. I mean, it works for me—’

‘All right, all right, that’s enough, Gary,’ said a voice from somewhere deep inside the house. ‘If you’re telling my life story to the fish man again I’ll—’

Jayne Mills appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She was wearing ginger-coloured linen trousers, a fitted cream shirt, brown leather belt and matching high-heeled sandals, and looked wonderful—or at least she would have done if she hadn’t had that look in her eyes. It was the same look Jane had seen in the mirror earlier that morning. It was a look that said Jayne Mills was tired and sad and hurt, a little bit lost and lonely, and very much in need of a hug.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Jayne, her expression unchanging. ‘The letter opener.’

‘Yes, sorry, I’m here again.’ Jane indicated the bundle of post currently being carried by Gary.

‘And?’

‘And they’re all open.’

‘Again?’ Jayne looked her up and down and then sighed. ‘Well, I suppose it saves me the trouble. What’s your excuse this time?’

‘Emotional trauma.’

‘Really.’ Her tone was as dry as the Sahara.

‘I got the sack today.’

‘For opening other people’s mail?’

Jane shook her head ruefully. ‘No, unfortunately not. I’d be guilty as charged of that. No, for working hard, coming up with lots of good ideas and generally being liked, as far as I can make out.’

‘Ah,’ said Jayne, ‘that’ll do it every time. In my experience it’s the quickest way to get yourself sacked. Refusing to change and being a complete bastard, on the other hand, means you’re never out of work.’

‘And thirteen days, twenty-one hours and—’ Jane glanced down at her watch—‘nineteen minutes ago, I found out the guy who I thought was my happy-ever-after was sleeping with someone else. Well, actually, it was possibly more than one someone else, but you get the picture.’

Gary rolled his eyes and looked heavenwards.

‘Rough couple of weeks,’ said Jayne.

‘And the woman who got my boyfriend? She’s got my job now, too.’

‘Really? Do you fancy a coffee?’ said Jayne, taking the post from Gary and heading down towards the kitchen. For a moment Jane didn’t know whether she was talking to Gary, but when she looked at her diminutive companion, the man was making an exaggerated head gesture that indicated Jane should follow.

Jane considered for an instant and then sighed. Why not? After all, what was there to go home to? She followed Jayne into the house.

They sat out on the terrace under a white canvas sail stretched over the wooden deck. Gary brought them coffee and a tray of biscuits and then made himself scarce, except at lunchtime, when he reappeared with a tray with fresh-baked bread, creamy Brie and homemade hoummos, tomatoes and sharp green grapes, and a bottle of wine, and when Jane protested, Jayne said she could always take a taxi home or that Gary would drive her.

‘Seems an odd name for him…’ Jane began thoughtfully, watching Gary make his way back into the kitchen.

‘Gary?’ said Jayne.

Jane nodded.

‘Not if you come from Chingford. Apparently his mum was obsessed with Gary Cooper. It could have been worse,’ said Jayne, filling their glasses.

‘Yes,’ said Gary, reappearing with a bowl of olives. ‘She was a big Elvis fan too.’

So they sat in the soft shade, out of the warm summer sunshine, and talked and talked and talked, and Augustus curled around their legs and allowed himself to be fussed and adored, then curled up under the table and went to sleep.

Afterwards Jane couldn’t remember all the details of how the conversation had gone, nor quite how they got round to the idea of Jane working for Jayne, but they did.

Some things she did remember.

‘This is such a beautiful house. I’d love to live somewhere like this,’ she had said.

And Jayne had looked out over the lawn towards the lake and said, ‘I used to think that too. I’d see things and think if I had them then life would be just perfect, but it’s cost me more than you can possibly imagine. Somewhere along the way I’ve lost sight of the reason why I was doing it in the first place. I used to feel that I was building for my future and now I realise that that future was in the past and I’ve got this horrible feeling I’ve missed it.’

‘I’m sorry, but surely it’s not that bad,’ Jane had said, picking up a biscuit and snapping it in two.

‘Maybe I need a fresh start.’

‘Maybe you don’t,’ Jane laughed, and had told her all about her fresh new start and about Steve and the library.

‘I’m sorry. How old did you say you were again?’ asked Jayne.

‘I’m coming up for thirty—well, twenty-eight actually—but I want to be settled, sorted, be in love, plan. I’ve got to the point where I really don’t want to invest in something, anything, that isn’t going somewhere either in my love life or my career really.’ Jane picked up the wine glass and turned it in her fingertips; the bowl and stem looked as fine as cobweb. ‘What I really want is nice things and no worries about money.’ She sighed. ‘It sounds naïve, but I suppose I want everything and at the moment it feels like I’ve got nothing. I’ve just lost my bright shiny new future. Sorry, you don’t want to hear this. It’s self-pity and the wine talking.’

Jayne had looked wistful. ‘No, no, not at all. I remember thinking almost exactly the same thing at the same age. And I promised myself I’d never say, “When I was your age,” but when I was around your age I’d just broken up with someone I really loved and I thought, damn it, it’s now or never—I need to do something with my life. There’s no reason why I can’t have it all. I’ll have a fantastic job, a great house, all that stuff and I’ll find someone along the way who feels the same and we’ll live happily ever after.’

‘From where I’m sitting it looks like you’ve got most of it.’

Jayne sighed. ‘I know. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had a great life so far. It’s just I suppose that this is one of those moments when I’m looking back at all the things I’ve done and thinking about the choices I’ve made and what might have been and what wasn’t to be.’

‘Maybe we should swap?’ said Jane jokily They were almost at the end of the bottle, all the bread had gone, the grapes reduced to a street map of stalks, and it sounded so easy. ‘You could start all over again and I could have all this.’

Jayne looked at her. ‘Are you serious?’

Jane laughed ‘Hardly Look, I have to get going. Thank you for the food and the wine, and a lovely afternoon. I’ve got to go and find another job.’

‘You’re going to start today?’

‘Why not?’

‘OK, I’ll get Gary to drive you home.’ Jayne looked at her. ‘You know, maybe you were right, maybe you should come and work for me. In some ways we’re a lot alike. I remember so clearly being you.’ She smiled. ‘And I like you, and it feels right—like fate, you showing up. Over the years I’ve always done best when I’ve followed my hunches. So how about it?’

Jane looked at her. ‘How about what?’

Jayne drained her glass. ‘Borrow my life for a while, see how it feels. All you would have to do is be Jayne Mills—simple. I run a dot com business from here—just me and my money and my bright ideas, and we already know you have a lot of those. You could just move in—be Jayne Mills.’

‘And what about you?’

‘Well, I could go and try being someone else for a change, find the old me and see how she’s getting on—explore some of my might-have-beens.’

Jane had smiled, guessing it was the wine that was talking. ‘Thanks, but I think I’d better be getting home.’

‘I’m serious. The offer’s open. Let me give you my number in case you change your mind. Have you got a pen?’

Jane nodded and pulled a biro and notepad out of her handbag.

‘And while you’re at it, give me yours,’ said Jayne. ‘Who knows when I might need someone to open my post.’

Jane smiled. ‘Thanks for lunch.’

‘At least think about it,’ said Jayne, writing down her phone number.

Around fifteen minutes later Jane opened her front door and eased off her shoes.

She closed her eyes, wriggling her toes on the cool wooden floor, very aware of how drunk she felt. She groaned. Drinking during the day really wasn’t a good idea. Although this wasn’t just any day. This was the day she had lost her job, and it was—er…Jane tried very hard to count it up on her fingers but couldn’t quite work how many hours it was since Lucy had come into her office looking all anxious and conspiratorial.

‘Jane, I wonder if we could have a quiet word? I really don’t know where to start but…’

It occurred to Jane now that amongst other things Lucy was probably casing the joint, sussing out her office, working out where her stuff could go, her collection of bears, her plants, her framed picture of Mummy and Daddy. Lucy had probably got one of Steve on her desk by now.

‘It’s about Steve. God, this is so hard. The thing is, Jane, everyone in the office knows what sort of guy Steve Burney is—he’s notorious—and I thought someone ought to say something to you before you get in any deeper, tell you exactly what’s going on. I heard you mention to Lizzie about going on holiday with him, making plans for the future. There really are some things you need to know. He’s not the kind of guy who is playing for keeps, Jane. What I’m saying is that you’re making a fool of yourself. Steve Burney is a serial philander—he’s a dog—and I should know. We’ve been seeing each other for months.’

Jane shuddered as the words thumped home into her heart like arrows into a target. There had to be some way to pull the plug on the replay button in her head.

She opened her eyes. In her absence one of the cats had been sick on the kitchen floor, and on the sitting-room rugs, and on the stairs—on every other tread, to be more precise. Surely all that couldn’t have come out of one cat? Or even two. God, what on earth had they been eating? The smell threaded its way across the hallway.

Unsteadily, with strange volcanic things going on in her stomach, Jane went off to find a bucket, sponge, disinfectant, bags and kitchen roll. Halfway through her dealing with patch one the phone rang.

Jane, still drunk, giddy, nauseous and on her hands and knees dealing with a puddle of cat vomit, stared miserably at the hall table. The machine would get the call, and besides, realistically, what could she possibly say if anyone asked how she was? The machine began to record.

‘Hi, Janey, it’s Mum here. So, how are you?’ said an instantly recognisable voice.

Jane groaned.

‘I know you are at work, darling, but I can’t find your mobile number so I thought I’d just give you a ring and leave a quick message. I was wondering if I could come over and stay for a few days. It seems like ages since I’ve seen you for any length of time so I thought I’d come and stay, see what you’ve done to the house, see how you’re getting on, hear all your news, hear about work, meet Steve—he sounds just perfect. You see, I knew a fresh start was a good idea. And I can tell you all about Simon—my new man. Have I mentioned Simon? I’m sure I must have. God, he is wonderful. Anyway, do you know what Tantric sex is?’

Jane groaned again, this time with more feeling.

No sooner had the machine finished recording than the phone rang again. Maybe her mother had forgotten something. She had to be told and it struck Jane that maybe drunk was probably the only way to do it. Jane scrambled to her feet and snatched up the receiver.

‘Hello? Look, this is really not a good time.’

‘No, I know,’ said a familiar voice.

‘Jayne?’

‘Yes. I just rang to see if you were OK.’

‘The job offer, were you serious?’

‘Absolutely Why? Have you changed your mind?’

Jane looked at the light flashing like a single red eye on the answer machine. ‘Yes, I think I have.’

Chapter Three

The following morning Jane was woken by the sound of the phone ringing. And ringing, and ringing and then ringing some more. Had she switched her answer machine off? And if so why? For some reason Jane couldn’t quite remember.

Being woken by the phone is a horrible way to be dragged out of sleep. And her head ached. The phone rang again, more insistently this time. Jane groaned and then, rolling over, fumbled the receiver off the hook, struggling to remember the dream that she had had. It was very vivid. Something to do with Steve Burney, and then she had lost her job, and got horribly drunk and her mother said she was coming to stay—and so Jane had opened another bottle of red, and then she froze, while the voice at the far end of the line whispered, ‘Hello? Hello? Are you there?’

Not that Jane was listening. Oh, bugger. Realisation and total recall hit her like a bucket of cold water. It wasn’t a dream at all. All those things were for real. Bugger, bugger, bugger.

‘Hello?’ hissed the voice again. ‘Is that you?’

Jane glared at the phone and then tried to focus on the bedside clock. Had people got no consideration? Jesus, it was only—only—eleven. Eleven? Sweet Jesus, how the hell had that happened? Jane sat bolt upright and instantly regretted it as her brain ricocheted off the inside of her skull like a wrecking ball.

Four hours past getting-up time on a weekday, and well past Gladstone’s breakfast time. She was supposed to be in work by eight today, working up a project for local schools with a horribly tight deadline. She’d be in really big trouble if she hadn’t already been sacked. The phone and the sounds of her stirring summoned the cats from downstairs, who thundered across the landing and sprung onto the duvet with the vigour of trained ninja assassins.

‘Hello?’ said the voice again, still low, still barely audible over the mewling and purring and general feline complaining. ‘Are you there?’

‘Who is this?’ snapped Jane. The voice was husky and low, and for one moment Jane wondered if she’d been woken up by an obscene phone call.

‘It’s me. Are you all right? You sound awful.’

‘Who is this? You’ll have to speak up.’

‘I can’t, I’m phoning from work. I’m not supposed to have my mobile on.’

Comprehension dawned. ‘Lizzie? Are you all right? What on earth is the matter? You sound awful.’

‘We’ve all just come out of a staff meeting. It’s like the week before Christmas on a turkey farm here this morning. I’m out on the fire escape.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Lizzie, don’t jump. A job in the library isn’t worth killing yourself for.’

Lizzie laughed. ‘I’m not sure I want the bloody job anyway. They’ve asked me to work with Lucy on the schools thing. She was already in when I got here this morning, moving her stuff into your office. She’s been going through everything.’

‘What do you mean, everything? There isn’t anything to go through unless she’s fished the bin bags out of the skip.’

‘The way she was going, I wouldn’t put it past her. She wanted to know where all your stuff was.’

‘My stuff? There’s nothing left there that belongs to me. I brought it all home yesterday. Everything else I’ve left is library stuff.’

‘Everything?’

Jane grimaced. ‘Yes, I think so. Well, everything except for a dead fern, a lot of old envelopes and advertising circulars for the recycling bin, some milk and a toffee yoghurt in the fridge.’