Lessons in Love

‘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.