Between Friends Page 3
With much love.
Aggie
P.S. Sounds like a bloody nightmare out there. Chin up, Buttercup!
Bluey
From: Polly
To: Aggie
Date: 10 January
Hi, Aggie
Oh dear. It sounds like Venice was a bit of a mistake. Shame you didn’t get a shag out of the jocky, but it’s perhaps best. Maybe you need to take a leaf out of your own book? Didn’t you say your next title is My Foolish Heart? Is your title telling you something? Maybe you need to take a more traditional approach to finding your soulmate?
Life here is much the same. I can’t imagine any kind of peaceful resolution coming into play. I bumped into a helicopter pilot I knew in the Navy the other day and he said he feels sick when he looks down from his helicopter and sees the might of the American military (which is only a fraction of their Marine Corps and a bit of their army) sitting in the desert, waiting to pounce. I wonder how the Iraqi civilians feel, waiting to be attacked? What the fuck are we going to do with all these bombs and bullets anyway? Blow the whole of the Middle East to smithereens?
Write soon
Love, Polly
‘E’ Bluey
From: Josh
To: Polly
Date: 11 January
Hi, Polly
Thanks for your letter. I’ve accepted the offer on the house. Not sure on the completion date yet but it’ll be a while as the chain has collapsed. I said we would wait for our buyer to sell again as I can’t face the rigmarole of putting our place on the market, but it could be months before completion. I’ll let you know how it goes. By the way, is it OK if I give Mum the Tiffany lamp I bought you? You never really liked it and she always had her eye on it. Where is it? Did you give it away?
Take care of yourself.
Josh
Bluey
From: Polly
To: Mr Day
Date: 11 January
Dear, Mum and Dad
All remains well on the Eastern Front and don’t worry because I’m being well fed. It’s the easiest job I’ve ever had - I get a print-out of the weather forecast from the Americans and read it out, job done. The weather never changes in the desert and so I’ve got lots of time to read books and write letters. I miss you both but it’s honestly not too bad over here. I’m on the General’s staff and so I should imagine that, even as the troops move forward, I’ll be in absolutely no danger so try not to worry.
Ta ta for now. Give the dog a big hug from me. I’ve got no idea what happened to the snow shovel. Didn’t the handle snap?
Love you loads,
Polly x
P.S. Did you give my address to Simon? I haven’t heard from him at all.
Bluey
From: Polly
To: Josh
Date: 12 January
Josh
I’ve mulled over your last letter and I’m a bit pissed off and need to get things off my chest. We’ve spent what, ten years together, and all you can say to me when I’m at the brink of being gassed to death is to ask if your mother can have my bloody lamp! Ref the house, I agree. Let’s wait for the buyers we have at the moment. I only want the house to go to people I like.
Pol
‘E’ Bluey
From: Mr Day
To: Polly
Date: 13 January
Dear Babe
It’s all kicking off at home. Even though the embers are still smouldering, the council have admitted they may not rebuild the school. Meanwhile, the kids continue to be bused to Oakworth on a thirty mile round trip, which is a shame. We’re going to get a petition going, though. We’re not taking it lying down.
To add fuel to the fire, Cecil Robinson wants to buy the school grounds and put houses on it – he’s got a bloody nerve that man (who says farmers are poor?) but where there’s muck there’s money! It’s causing quite a rift. I bumped into Bill in the shop. He said, ‘I’m not building a bloody orangery to have a load of boxes go up in the field behind my house’. Janet heard him moaning (you know what a booming voice he’s got) and she bit back (you may remember she used to have a thing going with Cecil). She said he should keep his trap shut because the area needs more affordable housing and anyway, ‘Clamping an orangery onto the arse end of a simple terrace house in the middle of the Pennines is bloody ridiculous’. He stormed out, but he’ll have to storm back in again if he doesn’t want a twenty mile round trip to buy a pint of milk. We’re still waiting to discover the cause of the fire but arson hasn’t been ruled out. Terrible.
Nothing else much going on. There’s a bit of a barny going on over the road because the man at number 42 keeps parking his campervan on the road outside number 48, but I think that’s a storm in a teacup. Mammy and the dog are well. I’ll keep looking for the elusive snow shovel. It must be Alzeimers setting in but I can’t find the bloody thing anywhere. I’ve emailed your address to Simon. Mammy said to not feel too bad if he takes his time to write, he’s constantly on the go and it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.
Love, MumnDad x
P.S. What’s your opinion on the school issue? Rebuild or move on?
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Polly
Date: 13 January
Dear, Polly
But I did get a shag out of the dwarf! Come on, he’s a bloody jockey. How could I refuse an arse that can move that fast?
I’ve sent you another mercy parcel. It includes a photo of the two of us posing outside the youth club disco when we were about fourteen. You’re wearing wicked Madonna lace gloves but I’ve got an afro and a snake belt (why the f..k did you let me rebel against fashion all the time?). I’ve also sent you a recent photo of me. It was done for my agent. I do articles and short stories for magazines etc. in my own name (I also sent some chocolates). Let me know what you think of the photo. Do I look to tall? I was going for the ‘intelligent but fun’ look, but I think you can tell I’m pulling my tummy in. Diet starts tomorrow. I’ll confess that I didn’t buy the chocolates. Isabella sent them as a thank you for writing her a funny speech for her spot on This Morning, but I get a headache if I eat dark chocolate so I thought I’d send them your way. I wish Isabella would send Milk Tray. Why do people believe the more they spend on a gift, the more significant the gesture?
What else? Oh, Paddy phoned. He wants to get going with the phone sex again (I was a foolish, desperate buffoon to shag him). I said (in my no nonsense voice), ‘No, thank you’, but soon discovered that my no nonsense voice just turns him on even more. I explained that I had been swept away in Venice and that the ambience had led me to reveal a wild and exotic side of my personality which, on reflection, would have been best kept under a bushel. Undeterred, he asked if he could join me under the bushel – naked. So I told him I was taking holy orders (the audition for Maria being the inspiration for that little gem) and hung up. I may have to change my telephone number. Thank God I told him I’m a podiatrist from Hull and didn’t let on I write for Isabella.
In other news, my publisher wants me to give Isabella a side-line in erotica. They think her present run of romance has had its day. Do you think the cosmos is rubbing it in that I’m not having regular sex? I’m not sure I’m up to erotica as my enthusiasm for spicing up my (already spicy) sex scenes is waning. I may have to resort to more internet dating for the sake of my career, but if I do I must remember to only date men who show their teeth on their profile picture. I once met up with a chap who was absolutely stunning, but then he opened his mouth and revealed only one tooth – one bloody tooth! A top front incisor. I felt so sorry for him I actually kissed him goodnight ... no tongues, though.
Sod it. You’re right. I need a plan for my manhunt. I’ll give the internet a second chance with a new fake name and I should also re-think my fake job. Maybe I’ll post a doctored picture of a more streamlined, younger me, and ditch the Nigella brunette look too and go blonde, but I’ll keep my tits and arse, obviously.
>
Ciao, Bella
Bluey
From: The Staff at The Shop, Midhope
To: Polly
Date: 13 January
Hello, Polly, love.
Your dad has been giving people in the village your address so we thought we’d write you a quick letter to say, WELL DONE YOU! We don’t see your mum much, but then it’s always been your dad who’s done their big shop.
Nothing much changes. Tracy Babcock is expecting again (that family allowance must be stacking up) and old Mr Jenkins passed away, bless him. It was a good turn-out at the funeral, but the sandwiches at the club afterwards were a bit disappointing (soggy egg) and Jack Blackmoor got pissed as a newt, daft sod. Mind you, he was like a son to Mr Jenkins, so we’ll let him off.
That big lass you used to knock around with was in here the other day. You should see the place she lives now - must have cost a bob or two. It seems like only yesterday the two of you were running in here (it was Mrs Barker’s shop then) to buy jubilee lollies for ten pence-apiece. What a little bugger Agatha was. Why did she always insist speaking in French? Far too big for her boots, but that’s what happens when your mother disappears off to Paris to work for a Russian Cossack and comes home pregnant with money in the bank. God only knows who the father was, not that it’s our business, but with those thighs I don’t suppose the apple fell far from the tree. Did you know that the school burnt down? The kids are being bused to Oakdale, but it’s a blooming long way for the little mites every day, and you know how treacherous that road over the tops gets in the winter. Old Mrs Butterworth was in here the other day and she was crying. Her kitchen window overlooks the playground. She loves listening to the kids. But the council say they haven’t the money to re-build it and Jed Jenkins wants to build houses (never one to miss out on an opportunity, our Jed).
Anyway, the bread man’s just walked in so I’ll sign off. Andrea Jones says, ‘Hello’. She works two afternoons a week for us (there’s not much money at home). She doesn’t think you’ll remember her but she says to say she’s the one who used to sit next to you in Geography and fainted a lot. Keep smiling.
Pat (and the girls at the shop)
Bluey
From: Polly
To: Aggie
Date: 13 January
Hi, Aggie
I’ve found a friend, thank God. Actually, he’s very quickly turning into a brother, which is handy, as I haven’t heard a peep from my own. He’s called Gethyn and is a thirty-seven year old RAF doctor. He’s originally from the Welsh valleys. There’s a lovely calmness about him, but he also has a glint in his eye and a dry sense of humour. You’d like him, he’s tall - and built like a brick shit house, too. He sings all the time (which is a little annoying) but he is Welsh, so I suppose he can’t help it. But don’t get any ideas about me hooking up with him because there is not one iota of attraction between us. I’ll find out if he’s got a girlfriend because if not, he would be perfect for you.
Thanks for the book. I loved it. I’ve passed it on to Gethyn and asked him to give you an honest review. He’s been reading it ALL evening (with a wry smile on his face). I think he’s impressed with the sex scenes so he’ll probably be falling over himself to meet you when we get back. Aren’t I clever?
Loads of love, Polly
P.S. Random question. Do you ever worry you won’t get around to having a baby?
Bluey
From: Gethyn Evans
To: Aggie
Date: 13 January
Dear, Agatha
My name is Gethyn Evans. Polly Fletcher gave me your book But That’s Not What I Meant and asked if I would write an honest review. I usually keep my own counsel in such matters (I often find that when people ask for an honest opinion on something they don’t really mean it) but Polly said you were made of sturdy stuff, so I decided to oblige. I am aware you ghost write for Isabella Gambini and please be assured your secret is safe with me. Here is the review:
I enjoyed the book as a pleasant read that passed a couple of hours during, what would have otherwise been, an uneventful afternoon. I don’t usually read romantic fiction, not because I allow myself to fall foul of gender predictable norms, but because romantic fiction follows the same formulaic lines of a romantic film and I prefer a read that delves deeper into the human condition - anger, regret, jealousy, fear, betrayal and, of course, love and familial relationships. Yes, your book ticks all the necessary boxes) but I’m afraid I found it all a little superficial. There were moments when you were almost there, but just when I thought you were getting into your groove, you resorted to humour rather than fleshing out the bones of the matter. Your one-liners were funny, but I thought you were perhaps frightened to completely lose yourself in the power of your prose.
I can see that the novel would provide a very good read for its target audience, but I do feel you should, perhaps, try breaking away from formula – is life formulaic? Does a love story always have to have a happy ending to be satisfying and does the happy ending have to show that the couple had, or are definitely about to have, sex? Would Romeo and Juliet have stood the test of time if they had wandered off into the sunset hand in hand? I fear not.
Perhaps the most powerful love story is one which ends unrequited. Take love songs. They rarely end well. You may have noticed that most romantic novels are written by women, while the romantic lyrics in songs, which provide, I believe, a deeper connection to the soul (found, not in the heart but in the gut by the way) are written mostly by men. Take it from a doctor who has treated a great many people suffering from emotional issues, the part of the body that carries the burden of our emotional state is not the heart but the gut, hence the phrases, ‘gut-reaction’, ‘I just knew in my gut’, ‘butterflies in the stomach’, ‘I was shitting my pants’.
To surmise, But That’s Not What I Meant is an enjoyable read that ticked all the boxes that the majority of women in their middle years would expect to be ticked. But I will leave you with this … goodbyes hurt the most when the story was not yet finished. Isn’t this where a story of true love should end? Polly tells me you’re having difficulty with your present manuscript. She also tells me you love to sing. Perhaps you could pour some of that deeper emotion you find in your voice into your next novel and you may find it will start to come together in quite an unexpected way.
Thoughts?
Kind regards,
Gethyn
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Polly
Date: 14 January
Hi, Polly
I see from the news that we’re edging closer towards war. I would absolutely hate to be in your shoes right now and to think, you volunteered too, you nutter. I spent the afternoon at Mum’s flat today. It was not a pleasant experience, but I had to put some facetime in just in case I go to Scotland, which, I realise, I haven’t told you about yet.
Basically, an old friend from uni (Casey) left Manchester a couple of years ago to run a café and smallholding in Appledart, which is a remote peninsula on the Scottish west coast. Out of the blue, Casey’s partner, Shep, was asked to be on standby to step into a reserve place on the British Expeditionary Force in Antarctica – he’s a geologist. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime if he gets it. The man who was scheduled to go has failed his medical and is waiting for the results of more tests. If Shep steps into the breach, Casey will go with him – next week! Casey wondered if I might like to go to Appledart and watch over the house for her for six months or even a year. I’m to feed the chickens, make shortbread, recite Burns to customers, etc. etc. Another lady who lives there is going to keep the café open for them and I would generally help out. I wasn’t sure at first, but now I think I should jump at the chance, which is why I’m sucking up to Mum (you know she can’t stand it when I go away, but wants bugger all to do with me when I’m at home). She phoned last week to announce she was having a clear out and to see if there was anything I wanted. This is how the conversation went:
Mum: Bergerac has finished on Sky.
Me: What sort of thing are you getting rid of?
Mum: Everything.
Me: Everything?
Mum: Everything.
Me: Even the ornaments I bought you when I was little?
Mum: Yes.
Me (incredulous): What? All of them? Even the clog?
Mum: Yes, why not? I’m sick of having a mantelpiece covered in crap.
Me: But Mum, I bought you that clog on that school trip to Holland in 1982. I spent all my pocket money on it. And please don’t tell me you’re getting rid of that blue and white statuette of the flower maid holding the water bowl …
Mum: Which statue? The one with an arm missing or the one with no head?
Me: The one with an arm missing.
Mum: They’re both going. Oh, I know you bought them for me darling, but the time has come for me to have ornaments on display that have all their limbs – is that too much to ask?
Me: But they do have all their limbs.