A Hopeless Romantic Part 7

"Really?" said Laura.

"Really," said Mary firmly. "Besides which, I think you may have had a lucky escape. No, listen"-because Laura's expression was mutinous-"honestly. This way, you'll come to realize you were better off without him. I promise, you will."

"Don't, Gran," said Laura. "I know. I know. It's just-really hard."

"It's true," Mary said. She drummed her fingernails on the chair arm. "You never got to the next stage, thank G.o.d. The stage when you're together with him, and both of you are walking down the street, and a girl walks past who looks exactly like-whatever the girlfriend's name is, what is it?"

"Amy," said Laura.

"Yes, exactly," said Mary, as if this was further evidence. "And instantly, the guilt starts up in your mind. The recriminations. Is he looking at her, is it awkward, does he still find her attractive? Does he think he made an awful mistake?"

"Well..." said Laura.

"It's a life half lived. That's what you would have had, believe me." Mary leaned forward to pick up her drink. "And that, my darling girl, is not your destiny."

"Well-"

"Trust me."

Laura didn't know what to say, but something about her grandmother's expression told her further questioning would be dangerous. After a few seconds, Mary sighed and smiled, and the twinkle reappeared in her eyes.

"You are a very great girl, Laura darling, you do know that?"

Laura didn't know what to say, it seemed such a completely untrue remark, apart from anything else. So she was silent.

Mary watched her, and she said, "I know you don't think so, but you are. I am so proud of you, of the way you are. Xan would be so proud to see how you've turned out, you and Simon."

"Hardly," said Laura. "He'd disown us. Well, me. If you can disown your stepgrandchildren, which I don't think you can."

"You're not listening," said Mary slightly sharply. "I am proud of you, Laura, and do you know why?"

"I am listening. Why?" said Laura, hastily swallowing some more of her drink.

"The quality you castigate yourself most about-your tendency to fall in love with the most inconvenient people-is what I love about you, darling."

"Oh, Gran," said Laura, trying not to sound impatient. "That's just not true. It's awful-I should get a grip, not-"

Mary banged her ringed hand on the arm of her chair, as if she were Elizabeth I inspecting the English fleet. "No, darling. You have a great capacity to love. Be careful. Use it wisely. But be proud of it. So much love in your heart. That's why I worry about you."

She coughed. Laura listened, relieved to be talking about it at last, but not really knowing what to say.

"I worry you will walk away from that. That this will close you up, make you forget how wonderful falling in love can be. Don't."

"Are you saying I should go out there and pick up the first man I see?" said Laura, trying to make light of it.

"No, no." Mary shook her head crossly. "Just-promise me, darling. Don't run away from it, not now." She closed her eyes briefly. "I worry that you will. That's all. Now, tell me," she said, lifting the gla.s.s to her mouth and holding it there. "If you have nowhere to go on holiday next week, might this mean that you might want to keep me company with your parents in Norfolk? And that you'll be there for my birthday lunch? Which, darling, I note you would have missed otherwise."

Laura's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, s.h.i.+t," she said. "Sorry."

"What's that?" Mary said, alarmed.

"Holiday," Laura croaked, then stood up. "Holiday. With Dan. All booked. Have to cancel. No insurance." She sank back onto the sofa.

"Well," said Mary. "Ain't that a pretty pickle."

"No one in a western ever said that, Gran."

"The h.e.l.l they didn't."

"What am I going to do?"

"I'll lend you the money," Mary said instantly.

"No," said Laura, shaking her head slowly. "No. I got myself into this mess. G.o.d. I'm going to get myself out of it. And then I'm never, ever looking at another man ever again."

"Really?" said Mary, smiling.

"Really," said Laura fervently.

chapter eleven.

S lowly but surely, Laura's rehabilitation had begun. When she got back from Mary's in the early evening, slightly light-headed from the gin and wine her grandmother had pressed upon her, and full of good intentions, wanting to be like Mary, she cleaned the rest of her room from top to bottom, and then the rest of the flat, even vacuuming in Yorky's room. She went out and bought fresh flowers, bunches of sweet peas and cheap anemones, for she had long known that a broken heart takes a while to mend, but as Mary always said, flowers in vases to look at go some way to help. And she bought food. She made supper, spaghetti with clams, scrubbing them clean for ages, cooking them in white wine, garlic, and lemon juice.

She didn't feel suddenly light as a feather, or much better. She felt-numb. But a little hopeful. She was just glad she was out of bed, frankly. She told herself she would take everything as it came, not try to sort it out immediately, in the old impetuous Laura way.

When Yorky came back from work, they sat together and ate, chatting lightly over a bottle of wine, and Yorky asked, "What the h.e.l.l happened to you?" and Laura repeated the story. Everything-Dan, the baby, the job, no money. Somehow, saying it all to someone her own age, who wasn't necessarily on her side, made it worse, because then it was out there, finally true, not just in her head. Yorky whistled through his teeth as Laura finished. She held her gla.s.s of wine by the stem, looked into her lap.

"I'm sorry, love," Yorky said. "I'm so sorry. I wish-"

"You wish you'd been wrong, and you wish I wasn't so stupid," Laura said lightly. "There's no need to say anything. I just wanted to say sorry, Yorks. I've been a c.r.a.p flatmate. And an even c.r.a.pper friend. Not anymore. Things have changed now, okay?"

"Oh, right," said Yorky uneasily. "How?"

Laura heard the tone in his voice, but carried on regardless. "How? How? Ha, well. New leaf, that's all. I've seen the light. No more romance. It's cold hard facts for me from now on, and that's that. I'm not going to go on about it," she said as Yorky coughed politely and settled back into his chair. "Seriously! I'm not. That's all I'm saying."

"Yeah, right," said Yorky. He smiled. "You don't have to change, Laura. We all love you just the way you are, you know."

"Thanks, Yorks," Laura said, "I mean it, seriously."

"Right," said Yorky, but she saw him hide a smile in his winegla.s.s. Never mind, she thought. I'll just have to show them all.

"So," she said. "What about Becky? Any news?"

"Hah!" said Yorky. "She's got a b.l.o.o.d.y boyfriend!"

"No! Oh, d.a.m.n. How do you know?"

"Because I effing saw him, didn't I?" Yorky said bitterly. "I was walking down the stairs today, really slowly, just in case she came out of the flat. Ha. She came out of the flat, all right."

"Yes? And?"

"With some bloke. Who she snogged for about five minutes outside. I walked past and they didn't even say h.e.l.lo," he finished sadly, as if it was the breach of manners that really upset him about the whole thing.

"Oh," said Laura. "Sorry, man."

"No sweat." Yorky raised his gla.s.s. "Onward and upward, yes?"

"Yes," said Laura, clinking his gla.s.s. "Onward and upward."

The next day, Laura got up at eight-thirty. She knew what she was going to do. She showered and got dressed, putting on jeans and a strappy tank top, and smoothed her thick, s.h.i.+ny hair back into a plait.

She opened her chest of drawers, and from it pulled a bundle of letters from Adam, her Romantic poets university boyfriend, a series of cards from Josh, and the tiny, pathetic sc.r.a.ps of memories she had from Dan. A photo of him. His expired work security pa.s.s. The bill from their weekend away in the Cotswolds (which she had had to pay for). A condom packet-G.o.d, how pathetic. Yet symbolic, she thought wryly as she chucked it in the bin. All the letters and papers went into the cardboard box she'd brought from the cupboard. Then, with a heavy heart, she turned to her video collection, stacked up on the bookcase.

Into the box went her beloved Doris Day collection. In went My Fair Lady, The Way We Were, Pride and Prejudice (TV boxed set), Breakfast at Tiffany's, Gone with the Wind, and Brief Encounter. She lingered over When Harry Met Sally-surely that was a comedy primarily, a fine piece of filmmaking, nominated for (she squinted at the case) an Academy Award for Best Original Screen-play-but she was firm, and it went into the box, to be followed by Moonstruck, The Truth About Cats & Dogs, What Women Want, and Four Weddings and a Funeral. Finally, with the heaviest of hearts, she picked up The Sound of Music, her personal favorite. Yes, the songs were great, but as far as Laura was concerned, it was all about the captain and Julie Andrews. The misunderstandings! The harsh words, the cross-purposes! The dance in the moonlight on the terrace! The-She stopped herself, and with her left hand pried the tape out of the frenzied grip of her right hand, and threw it almost viciously into the box. Gone.

She moved over to the bookshelf. Laura gulped. This was harder than she'd expected. She thought of Mrs. Danvers again, and hardened herself. Firm. Strong. Away with childish things. She put Rebecca on the bed, in case she needed to consult it. But into the box went all her Nancy Mitford books. In went all her Mills & Boon romances. She hesitated over her Jane Austen collection. Surely that was proper English literature, she shouldn't be throwing it away! But, no, the Mrs. Danvers in her spoke again. You have never read them for academic enjoyment, Laura Foster, she said. You read them because they make you swoon and sigh and have striding men wearing breeches in them. In they go.

Finally, she reached the top shelf of her bookcase. With shaking hands, she picked up her Georgette Heyer collection. She knew it had to be done, but, by G.o.d, it hurt. Tears came into her eyes. One by one, she dropped each book in the box, watched as they slammed onto each other, the pale colors of the old paperback covers gleaming up out of the box at her. It was torture.

But no. They were wrong, and they had to go. And the box was full. Slowly Laura taped it up, then carried it out into the hall, down the stairs. Outside in the suns.h.i.+ne, she squinted up at the sky as she staggered like a drunk person down the path to where the rubbish bins were kept. She balanced the box on top of one, and was debating whether to open the bin and throw everything in or to just give the box to Yorky for safekeeping when a voice said, "h.e.l.lo, Laura! How you doing today?"

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. Kenzo," Laura said. "I'm fine. Much better than the other day, you know."

"I'm glad, I'm glad," said Mr. Kenzo, who was carrying a balsawood box of fruit. He reached in, handed her something. "Have a peach, my dear."

"Thank you," said Laura, and bit into it. The rasp of the skin caught on the roof of her mouth, and she pressed her tongue up to the flesh and felt the sweet, musky juice flood down her throat. "Mmm," she said. "My goodness! That's delicious!"

"You look well today," said Mr. Kenzo, considering her. "Hair nice. New skirt? Much better than on Sat.u.r.day. My dear, you looked-my Gahd. Like a dead, drowned cat. Old."

"Er," said Laura, taking another bite, not sure how to respond. "Thanks?"

"Let me help," said Mr. Kenzo, and before Laura could protest he had gripped the box firmly under his arm, lifted up the lid of the bin, and tipped the contents into its black mouth.

Laura gazed helplessly as videos, books, letters all tumbled out of the box one after the other, disappearing into the dark. "Oh," she said.

"Mistake?" said Mr. Kenzo. "Oh dear. That was rubbish, wasn't it? You did want to throw it away? Yes?"

"Yes," said Laura, finis.h.i.+ng the peach and slinging the peach pit into the bin as well. She shut the bin lid. "Yes, I did. Thanks, Mr. Kenzo. See you later."

And she turned and walked up the path and up the stairs back to the flat. Another thing to check off the list. She was doing well. It was like having a New Year's resolution, she thought. I will get over Dan and I will sort out my life; also, I will go to the gym and have freshly squeezed fruit juice every morning. Well, little by little.

The phone was ringing as she came back into the flat, and though she'd been avoiding the phone, she instinctively picked it up.

"Hi, babe," Jo said.

"Er, hi," Laura said uncertainly.

"Look, I know it's none of my business. But Yorky just rang me. He told me what's happened." Her voice reverberated down the line.

"Oh," said Laura. "Right." She twisted the phone cord around her finger and sat down on the chair by the hall table. "Go on, then," she said, not really knowing what to say, not wanting to sound rude, but not wanting to get into it. She really couldn't cope with Jo if she was going to be sanctimonious and say "I told you so."

"Well..." Jo coughed. "I just wanted to say hi."

"Thanks," Laura said, fidgeting, feeling like a five-year-old.

There was a pause; then Jo said in a rush, "Look. It's none of my business. I'm not going to judge. You know what I think about it all. But I've been a really bad friend to you lately, and I'm sorry."

"You haven't been a bad friend!" Laura cried. "My G.o.d! I'm the one who's been bad! How can you say that?"

Jo's voice was a bit m.u.f.fled, but she chuckled and said, "Well, it's over now, isn't it? Hey." She sniffed. "I really, really miss you, Laura. Can we-er, can we be friends again?"

"Of course!" said Laura. She hugged herself. "Oh, I'm so glad."

"Me too," said Jo, her voice quiet. "Look, I am really sorry. You poor thing. Are you okay?"

"Well..." Laura didn't want to sound pathetic. Then she said honestly, "Actually, no, not really. But I will be."

"Can I-can I pop round?"

Laura looked at her watch. It was only three o'clock. Jo should be at work. "Course," she said. "Where are you?"

There was a knock on the door, three feet away, and Laura jumped. "Argh!" she cried.

"It's me," came Jo's voice, down the phone and from outside. "h.e.l.lo."

Laura opened the door. There was her best friend standing in the doorway, her tiny frame dwarfed by her enormous backpack. She was holding some chocolates and a bottle of wine. She raised a hand in greeting and her eyes met Laura's, and she smiled.

"Bunked off work," she said, rolling her eyes in the direction of her backpack crammed with papers. "I-I wanted to see you." And she came forward with her arms outstretched and gave Laura a hug. "Poor, poor baby," she said soothingly into Laura's hair, and both of them were crying, not just for Laura's predicament but because girls are a bit pathetic like that. "Poor baby."

"Yes," sniffed Laura, wholly in agreement. "Thanks," she added. "You must think I'm a complete idiot."

"No, I don't," said Jo firmly. "Just-no, I don't. He's the idiot, isn't he?"

"Yeah! But-well, I have been really stupid. And the worst of it is, you were right," she said in a rush. "All along. You're always saying it."

"Saying what?"

"You know," said Laura, looking at the floor.

Jo swung her backpack onto the ground and said nothing.

"Well," Laura said after a while, "just-it's not the first time. I should have learned my lesson by now. I have. Just so you know."