Feb 26

Feb 26 Cocktails, Wedding Bells and Summer Madness

Cocktails, Wedding Bells and Summer Madness - book excerpt

Chapter 1

“Hello, Fulham Banking, how may I help you?” Rose Archer stifled a yawn and listened to a man complaining loudly about the cost of his house insurance.

“It’s gone up three times in five years,” he grumbled. “If you don’t give me some discount, I’m switching to Redrock Bank, and I mean it this time.”

“Just let me transfer you to our insurance department.” Rose’s finger hovered over the switchboard.

“Eh? Why can’t you deal with it?”

“I’m the receptionist, sir. Just a moment…”

“I beg your pardon?” The customer’s tone had changed from mild annoyance to affronted outrage in under ten seconds.

Rose’s spine stiffened as she wondered what she had said wrong. She had been cheerful, she had been polite. Yes, Rose admitted she was bored and tired, but that was nothing new and especially at the end of a hectic Monday when she had felt like crawling back into bed the whole day.

Rose reached for a tissue to wipe her red, streaming nose. There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Sir, are you still there?”

“I’m a she,” came the hissed reply.

Oops! Roses’ eyes widened. “Sorry, madam,” she gabbled, “would you like a staff member to call you back?”

From the corner of her eye she could see her manager Liliana loitering with a group of the sales girls. Rose affixed a beaming smile to her face and picked up her pen in preparation.

“What was your name, sir … I mean madam?”

“Never mind what my name is. Have you heard of gender fluidity? You can keep your effing insurance. I’m paying my money to a company where the receptionists aren’t gender bigoted.” Buzz, the line went dead.

Rose blinked, Liliana was watching her, pursing her mouth into a tight line of disapproval.

“Yes, of course you can call back. Thank you, madam. Goodbye.” She pressed a button and the red light disappeared. Just in time for Liliana to come stalking over in her patent high heels.

“A touch of hay fever, Rose?” She fluffed out her long, raven black hair.

“A nasty cold,” Rose smiled sweetly, “my ears and nose are blocked, and my throat feels as if I’ve swallowed a packet of razor blades.”

“So you won’t be coming to the after-work drinks then?” Liliana tapped her fingers on Rose’s computer screen. “Marjorie from accounts is leaving. Did you not get the email?”

“No.” Rose sipped from her bottle of water.

“It was sent to everyone,” Liliana’s eyes slanted suspiciously, “although you and Marjorie have never been friendly, have you?”

No thought Rose, mainly because she’s loud and vulgar and has always been mean to me.

“We’re very different,” Rose said diplomatically.

Liliana sighed. “Oh Rose, you really should make more effort to be sociable with your work colleagues. Why don’t you come? Let your hair down and live a little.”

Rose busied herself stapling sheets of paper together. “I can’t tonight. Sorry. I have folk choir on a Monday. I play the organ and we sing and chat and have tea and cake afterwards. It’s very enjoyable…” She trailed off as she noticed her manager’s eyes had glazed over.

“Sounds thrilling.” Liliana yawned. “Meanwhile, in the real world we’ll all be getting sloshed. Here,” she scribbled down a mobile number on a scrap of paper, “if you change your mind, text me ,yeah? I’ll let you know what pub we’re in.”

Rose took the slip of paper and watched Liliana totter back to her friends. Surreptitiously, she stuffed it down the side of a bulging wastepaper bin and then reached under the table for her bag. It was five o’clock and time to leave.

“Finished for the day have you, love?” Ron, the twilight security guard, ambled towards her, twirling a set of keys in his hand.

“I have.” Rose smiled his way. “Another day over.”

“And mine’s just starting.” He leant on the counter, and winked at her with watery blue eyes. “Like my new truncheon?”

“Pardon?” Rose pushed her spectacles up her nose.

“This!” He wielded what looked like a metal stick at her.

“Are you sure you need that, Ron?” She watched him warily as he jabbed it in the air.

“Of course I do. You never know who’s lurking around these parts.” He made a thumbing gesture towards the back of the building. “Those fields attract all sorts of low life. Druggies and crazies being some of them, and now the teenagers have taken to hanging around there, too.”

“Oh, it’s probably kids just being kids.” Rose packed her lunchbox inside her rucksack and smiled. “You do a great job, though.”

“I do.” Ron puffed out his chest with pride. “Maybe I should get a guard dog? A big nasty Rottweiler or Alsatian.”

Rose smirked at the thought of Ron strutting around the offices with a growling companion in tow. “How about a Bichon Frise?”

“A what?” His lips flapped with laughter. “One of them silly cuddly things. Hardly a guard dog, Rose.”

“Cute though.” Rose closed down her computer. “How is your wife?”

“Not too good. Her nerves are playing up again. Knitting’s about the only thing she enjoys nowadays – that and Murder She Wrote.’

Rose clacked her tongue in sympathy.

“I don’t suppose…” He paused. “No, I couldn’t ask you.”

“Ask away.”

“Well, the thing is, Rose, there’s a knitting club started up at the community centre, but my Betsy hasn’t the confidence to go alone.” He looked at her with pleading eyes. “I wondered if you fancied keeping her company? It’s only one night a week, Tuesdays I think.”

“I have absolutely no idea how to knit,” Rose replied.

“It’s for absolute beginners. Here,” Ron pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket, “these are the details and I’ve written Betsy’s number on the back for you.”

She took the paper from him, a warm smile on her face. “Can I have a think and let her know?”

Ron’s grin was wide. “You’re a kind girl, Rose. Betsy would be made up if you went with her.”

Rose sighed. “Okay, you’ve convinced me – I’ll go.”

“Fantastic! Thanks, love.” He leaned towards her and pulled her into a rough embrace. “Now, you get off home and relax.”

“Goodnight, Ron.”

He walked with her to the door, watching her from behind the pane of glass as she unlocked her car and started up the engine. As she was preparing to reverse, a large group of women clattered behind her, shouting and whooping with laughter. Rose watched them leave, thankful that she wasn’t attending Marjorie’s leaving do and she could go home to her family and her safe, warm abode.

Rose lived on the Upper Belmont Estate. Her street was long and wound upwards to the crest of a hill. On a clear day you could see the whole of Twineham Village laid out: houses and shops surrounded by fields of luscious green. Rose took a moment to enjoy the view, drawing the fresh spring air into her lungs. The houses behind her were linked in terraces, each one painted a different colour. It looked like a seaside scene, but they were nowhere near water. Twineham didn’t even possess a lake. It was farming countryside: patchwork fields, old gnarled trees and wild flowers slap bang in the middle of England. Rose had lived here all her life and she loved it.

“Evening, our Rose.” Mrs Bowler was on her front step, watering her hanging baskets. “Looks like it’s going to be a nice day tomorrow.” She nodded at the blazing red sky.

Rose shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun and smiled at her neighbour. “Red sky at night – shepherd’s delight?”

“That’s right. How are you, Rose?” The friendly octogenarian limped up her broken path, stopping to admire the colourful butterflies along the way.

“Tired.” Rose swung her bag onto her shoulder. “Another Monday over.”

“It will soon be the weekend.” Mrs Bowler tipped the last dregs from her watering can over a tub of petunias. “You haven’t forgotten the fete is Saturday?”

“No,” squeaked Rose. She had.

“And will you still be organising and manning the cake stall?”

Rose nodded and mentally added it to her to-do list.

“I’m overseeing the tombola myself. Your mother’s given me a whole box of knick-knacks for the raffle. If you have anything you want to donate, Rose, it would be very much appreciated.”

“I’ll have a look.” Rose pushed open the gate. “’Bye, Mrs Bowler.”

“’Bye, dear. Enjoy your evening.”

Number 35 had a lilac, weatherbeaten door, surrounded by climbing ivy and two rose trellises. It attracted the wasps and other flying midges and often Rose had snagged her clothes on the inconspicuous thorns, but it was pretty and was her grandmother’s pride and joy. Rose slotted her key in the lock and pressed on the door until it opened. Warmth rushed towards her and Rose jumped as her hand brushed against the hot hall radiator.

“For heaven’s sake,” she mumbled, slipping off her shoes, “it’s almost May and isn’t even cold.”

“What was that?” Her mother, Fran, stood in the kitchen doorway, a bowl balancing on her hip.

“Hello, Mum,” Rose shrugged off her jacket, “what are you baking now?”

“Just a banana loaf and you know your Granny feels the cold.”

“I know.” Rose smiled apologetically as she walked past her into the kitchen.

Granny Faith was sitting at the kitchen table staring down at the crossword section of her weekly puzzle magazine.

“What’s a tooth for chewing?” she enquired without looking up.

“Incisor?” Fran gave the mixture a last beat before tipping it slowly into a prepared baking tin.

“Too many letters,” sniffed Faith.

“Molar?” Rose suggested.

Faith counted the squares. “Perfect.”

“What’s the prize then, Gran?”

Faith glanced up. “A spa weekend for two. Fancy coming with me if I win, Rose?”

“Would it involve books?” Rose reached down to rub her aching feet.

Faith snorted. “You and your books! It would involve being pampered. Having your nails and make-up done, having a massage and maybe a full body wrap and then spending the evening quaffing champagne and dining on grotesquely expensive food like caviar.”

Rose looked at her with disdain. “I can’t think of anything worse.”

“Are you sure she wasn’t switched at birth?” Faith said to Fran. “My only granddaughter is a tomboy.”

Faith laughed, a lovely tinkling sound.

“I’m not a tomboy!” Rose insisted. “I’m just not into all that girly stuff. Hair and beauty does not interest me in the slightest.”

“We can tell,” Faith smirked. “When was the last time you visited a hairdresser?”

“Leave her alone,” Fran chuckled. “Rose, be a dear and lay the table. Your father and brother will be home soon.”

Rose went to fetch the cutlery out of the drawer. “Anyway, what’s wrong with my hair?”

“Technically nothing,” Faith lisped in her thick Scottish brogue, “it’s just been like that forever. Couldn’t you have it coloured pink, for example? That seems to be all the rage nowadays.”

“Will you listen to yourself, Mother!” Fran jumped to her daughter’s defence. “Rose has beautiful hair; thick and curly and the redness must be her Scottish roots, eh?”

“At least she’s inherited something from me,” Faith sniffed. “You on the other hand are fair, like your poor, deceased Daddy.”

“It must have skipped a generation.” Fran bumped Rose playfully with her hip. “Lucky me, eh?”

“So anyway, Granny, let me know if you win any book vouchers or any day trips to museums.” Rose ducked her head into the pantry after the salt and pepper pots. “I’ll be happy to come with you then.”

“Me in a museum?” Faith chortled. “They’re likely to keep me! Have me embalmed in a Victorian kitchen.”

The three of them were still laughing when Rose’s father, Rod and her elder brother, Marty, burst into the kitchen.

“What’s all this frivolity?” Rod dumped down his tool bag, kissed his wife and went to wash his hands.

“Female matters,” Faith said waspishly.

“Oh, erm …” Rod ducked his head, “what’s for tea then?”