Anyone for Seconds?

by Laurie Graham

Genres: Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Life has been going downhill for ex-TV chef Lizzie Partridge ever since she spectacularly ended her television career by throwing a chocolate mousse at the host of Midlands This Morning. Her partner Tom has left her, and now her restaurant reviewing column has been axed. In a desperate bid for sympathy and attention she runs away, and in wet and wintry Aberystwyth she experiences a brush with her past and a glimmer of new prospects. And when her nephew – now a TV producer – has the bright idea to reunite her with her former nemesis and target of the mousse attack in a new show, it seems like things could be going Lizzie's way again after all!

Release date: August 23, 2018

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

The postman came early. I was already up, kettle on, but next door’s Maltese likes to make sure. It’s my mail, dropping through my letterbox, but that little yapper won’t let up till the whole damned street is awake.

I nearly didn’t bother going to see what had landed on the mat. It’s cold enough in this house without making any unnecessary detours into the permafrost zone. It’s a strange thing, my front door. In the spring and autumn, when the weather’s damp, it swells like one of those self-inflating dinghies. You can’t budge it. If a fire should break out, Heaven forbid, it’s the back door or perish. The rest of the year it rattles every time a car goes past. Daylight, wind, the smell of the mobile chipper. That door lets it all in. You’d think there’d be a couple of days a year when it’d be a perfect fit, but no. It’s either a fire hazard or a rattling panel of very cheap wood. Also, it needs painting.

I only risked frostbite to pick up the post because I was sort of expecting, well, hoping for a letter from Tom. Missing you. Let’s give it another try. Something like that. He could have phoned but a letter would be more his style. Besides, I don’t think he gets a whole lot of privacy since Simon and Tessa have been staying with him. He said it was just till their loft conversion is finished. I reckon they built York Minster quicker than their new bedroom with en-suite bathroom, but of course they didn’t have Tessa managing the project.

Tessa is a perfect storm of everything you wouldn’t want in a daughter-in-law: entitled, interfering, quick to take offence. There is no corner of Tom’s life that she hasn’t made her business. She could have had the place bugged. It wouldn’t surprise me. You could get the locks changed and she’d crawl up a drainpipe. And thwart her at your peril. She does this Threatening Loom. Any act of subordination, such as not using the barbecue apron she got you for Christmas or shacking up with a lover and thereby threatening your son’s inheritance expectations with a wrecking ball, you can bank on a full-throttle loom from Tessa.

It doesn’t seem to bother Tom. He says she’s not as bad as I make out and, anyway, she and Simon seem very happy and that’s all that matters. But (a) how does he know Simon’s happy? The man never opens his mouth. And (b) it isn’t all that matters. If you move in with somebody while the builders take the roof off your house, you need to keep in mind that you’re a guest, and guests do not throw out a perfectly good jar of juniper berries because of their own personal prejudices.

How Tom can prefer living with that pair to living with me I shall never understand. Okay, we had a few problems, a few housekeeping issues, shall we say? He kept hankering for the orthopaedic mattress that had cost him a packet, but mattresses can be moved. True, I’ve been a bit down too. I get narky when I’m not working, when there’s not much money coming in. Who wouldn’t? I’m sixty-four years old. I should have my own TV show. I should have a car service picking me up, whisking me off to the studio. Not be sitting here with a flaking front door and two light bulbs out. I should be doing some of those celebrity gastronomy tours. Experience the Food of Puglia with Lizzie Partridge.

A passing Jack Russell was descanting with the Maltese. The letterbox was jammed open. Why can’t the damned postman push the post right through so the flap closes? Hasn’t he ever heard about domestic heat loss? Three envelopes. A final demand from ENERGAS. A Reward point statement from Budgens. Nothing from Tom. Just something from Global. Uh-oh.

Let me tell you, when magazine publishers go to the trouble of writing an actual letter, it’s always bad news. If they move the furniture, ask you for an extra two hundred words, pay pro rata, or they decide it’s time you got a new by-line photo, they pick up the phone. But when it’s a case of Dear Lizzie they put it in a letter, knock on your door and run away.

These days, they’d probably prefer to send an email but I don’t do email. It’s a choice. It’s not that I don’t know how. I have an address and everything, but Tom took his computer when he moved out. Anyway, they say it’s not good for you. They say staring at a screen can damage your eyes.

I called Louie. He sounded groggy. He said it was his normal middle-of-the-night voice. I hadn’t realized Cornwall had moved to a different time zone.

I said, ‘It’s 8 o’clock.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘Did someone die?’

‘I got a letter from Global.’

‘They giving you the chop?’

‘Probably.’

‘Probably?’

‘I haven’t opened it yet.’

I heard Chas’s voice, muffled.

Louie said, ‘It’s Lizzie. She needs emotional support while she opens an envelope.’

I told him not to be so patronizing. I just needed to hear a friendly voice.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘the friendly voice department doesn’t usually open till 10.30 but I can listen in sympathetic silence. Open the damned envelope. We both know what it says. Come along now. Rip off that Elastoplast.’

The first time I ever got one of those letters it was like Mike Tyson hit me in the midriff. It gets easier the next time it happens. No, it doesn’t.

So my What’s Cookin’ column’s got the heave-ho. New layout . . . with immediate effect . . . much-valued contributor . . . Now bugger off into obscurity, you pathetic, unwanted creature.

Louie said, ‘How much were they paying?’

‘Three hundred.’

‘A week?’

‘A week! A month.’

‘Okay. Not a bank-breaker, then.’

All very well for him to say. I said, ‘We haven’t all been left property. We haven’t all married money.’

‘Cousin Ralph did not leave me “property”. He left me a dismal little bungalow with rising damp. The Cheltenham place went
to his sister. Like she needed it! And Chas and I aren’t married. We have a civil partnership. Although if this Equal Love campaign gets anywhere, I think we might. Any excuse to wear a white suit.’

‘The point is, you don’t have to work.’

‘But I do, sweet. I absolutely do. I don’t want to be a kept man. How’s Tom?’

‘Still gone.’

‘He’ll be back. And the infant prodigy?’

He meant my grandson, Noah.

‘Aced the Mensa test. Only wears a nappy at night. I’m surprised you didn’t read about it in the papers.’

TWO-YEAR-OLD GENIUS POOS IN POTTY.

‘Gosh. At this rate he’ll overtake Chas.’

‘So, are you working?’

‘Nothing much until Whitley Bay. Rehearsals start in three weeks. Cinderella.’

‘Ugly Sister?’

‘Certainly not. I’m playing Buttons.’

‘Buttons! Who did the casting? Buttons is supposed to be young.’

‘Not necessarily. Buttons is a kindly, selfless character. He can be any age.’

‘He has the hots for Cinderella. You’re gay and fifty-five.’

‘I am not fifty-five.’

‘You can’t be far off. Is Chas going with you?’

‘He’ll come up for Christmas. I only get Christmas Eve and Christmas Day off. Boxing Day, there’s two performances. And he can’t really leave the dogs for any longer than that. Lucy’s supposed to be dog-sitting and you know what she’s like.’

Lucy is Chas’s sister. She lives on pinot grigio and M&Ms and she seems to think dogs can do likewise.

Louie gets pantomimes since he became a National Treasure. He gets a lot of things. He turned on the Christmas lights in Barnstaple last year. Everybody loves him, yet if you were to ask them why he’s famous they probably wouldn’t remember that he used to be on Midlands This Morning. When he does panto the poster says something like ‘Featuring TV Astrologer’. It doesn’t say ‘Disgraced TV Astrologer from a Long Time Ago’.

He said, ‘Lizzie, don’t be offended, but do you need some money?’

I told him I didn’t. I mean, I’m not exactly destitute. You accept money from friends, it changes everything.

He said, ‘What I want to know is, why aren’t you and Tom Sullivan back together yet? Take your time. I can only accept your first answer.’

He always says that, ever since he hosted a season of Spin to Win.

‘Because I’m a bad-tempered cow who’s impossible to live with?’

‘Correct answer! Lizzie Partridge, you have won the plasma TV and the state-of-the-art sound system. Will you come back next week and try for the car?’

‘I will, Louie.’

‘Great. Now bugger off, apply some lippy and get that dear man to the negotiating table.’

Everyone says I should get back with Tom. Like he’s so damned perfect. Did you ever share a kitchen with somebody who insists on washing up while you’re cooking? Put a spoon down for five seconds and it’s in the sink getting rinsed before it goes in the dishwasher. Did you ever go on holiday with a person who has to get to the airport, like, a week before your flight? But everybody approves of Tom. Even Mum, and generally she doesn’t approve of anybody. She said, ‘He seems very steady.’ Also, ‘You’re not getting any younger, Elizabeth.’

I waited till nine, till Tessa would have left for work. She’s an estate agent. You’d think she’d just buy a bigger house instead of getting the slowest goddamned loft conversion on record. She must get first dibs, as soon as something comes on the market. I called Tom. No reply. He could have been out getting a paper, left his mobile at home. I tried him again a couple of times. Nine thirty I got his voicemail. So what’s that all about? He sees my number, doesn’t pick up, then he turns his phone off? Is he avoiding me?

I didn’t leave a message straight off. I like to rehearse a bit first. I know I don’t do good phone. Louie says I sound like a pit-bull bitch with PMT. I practised my ‘warm and approachable’ voice, made more tea, investigated the fridge. I keep buying too much food. I keep buying stuff I don’t really fancy. For breakfast I had the stale end of a ginger cake soaked in evaporated milk. I have a thing about evaporated milk. It came on suddenly. I just had to have some. The same thing happened with pickled onions and pork pie. Tastes from my childhood. Tinned tomato soup. Am I going senile?

Tom called me. He sounded breathless. ‘Running to get to the car before the traffic warden does. They only had three tills open in the supermarket.’

‘I thought Tessa did the shopping.’

‘She does. I was just picking a few things up for Sally. You okay? You sound tense.’

I did not sound tense. I’d been practising. And who the fuck was Sally? I told him about Global.

He said he was sorry. ‘Not the first time it’s happened, Lizzie, and it probably won’t be the last. You’ll bounce back. You always do.’

‘Tessa and Simon still with you?’

‘Yes. Actually, they’ve had a bit of a setback too. Their builder’s gone into receivership, left them in the lurch. They’ll be here a while yet.’

‘Well, you know where I live. If you need a break.’

‘Yes.’

‘I have pigeon breasts.’

‘Not the last time I looked.’

‘Very funny. Okay. Well, I just thought I’d let you know. About Global.’

‘Yep. Bad luck, that. Oh, buggeration. I got a ticket.’

I said, ‘You’ll have to put it on Sally’s bill.’

But he’d gone.

*

I could have pan-fried the pigeon with sour cherries. Except I didn’t have any sour cherries. I should have asked Tom. It would have given him a no-strings excuse to drop round. Chanterelles would work okay too. Even dried ones. I didn’t have any of those either. Global owed me for last month, though. That’d cover ENERGAS.

I called Ellie.

‘Can’t talk. I’m running really late.’

‘Are you working today?’

‘Text me.’

My daughter, the multi-tasking career dragon in a black suit and trainers.

I called my mother. No reply, which was very odd. Tuesday mornings she does her ironing and she always answers the phone because, well, you never know. When you’re eighty-nine your acquaintances are dropping like flies and she’s a key link in the news alert chain. Pearl Minchin, peacefully, in her sleep. Pass it on.

It would take some extraordinary event to change my mum’s routine, such as being summoned to Buckingham Palace to get a gong, or being slumped over the ironing board in the throes of one final mystery blackout, oblivious to the smell of scorching polyester.

Lunchtime, and I was still in my pyjamas, which was some kind of record. Two gherkins and a bit of blue cheese. Actually, more than a bit. Like, all of it. The phone rang. It could have been Tom, tempted by my pigeon breasts. It could have been Global, apologizing for an egregious clerical error and begging me to accept double pay as recompense, or it could have been Clint Eastwood, suggesting dinner. It was my mother.

‘I called you earlier.’

‘I know. I have Caller ID now. Philip did it for me. He said you can’t be too careful these days.’

Ah, yes. My intrepid brother. Mr Belt-and-Braces.

I said, ‘I think you probably can be too careful. Take Magellan.’

‘Who?’

‘Ferdinand Magellan. If he’d been too careful he wouldn’t have discovered wherever it was he discovered. So if you saw it was me why didn’t you answer?’

‘I was just on my way out. I was going to Nora Schofield’s funeral. I didn’t have time to chat.’

‘I thought you didn’t like Nora Schofield?’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘I don’t know. Seems a bit hypocritical, that’s all. Unless you went just to make sure she really was dead.’

‘There’s no call to be facetious, Elizabeth.’

‘Was it a nice funeral?’

‘Not really. They had “Kumbaya”.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Yes.’

‘You know, you should tell me what hymns you’d like. For when the time comes.’

‘Don’t you worry about that. Philip has a list.’

‘How come you always tell Philip these things and not me? I’m the oldest.’

‘Because I know that if I give him an important document he’ll keep it somewhere safe. I’ve seen the way you live. Philip has never lost his passport.’

The low right hook. I should have seen that coming. My passport wasn’t lost. It had slipped down the back of a drawer. And Philip doesn’t need a passport because he never goes anywhere.

‘They had a retiring collection. It was for Save the Rainforests. I didn’t give.’

‘What, not even a few brown coins? You old meanie.’

‘It’s not my business to save rainforests. I’ve never done them any harm.’

‘I dunno, Mum. You used to write a lot of letters. All that Basildon Bond. You’re probably personally responsible for the demise of at least one tree.’

‘And, anyway, they never get the money. These charities. It all goes in somebody’s pocket. Some higher-up.’

‘Maybe. Although I don’t think the people who live in endangered rainforests have pockets. I think they just wear loin-cloths. So how are you? Did you see Dr Gulati?’

‘Yes. She doesn’t know what to make of me.’

PENSIONER CONTINUES TO FLUMMOX MEDICAL EXPERTS.

‘Nearly an hour, I waited. And there were people in the waiting room looked like they didn’t have a thing wrong with them.’

‘You don’t know that. They could be seriously ill but holding up bravely.’

‘If you’re gravely ill you don’t sit eating Hula Hoops and monopolizing the only copy of Good Housekeeping.’

‘Was your blood pressure okay?’

‘Yes. A bit low.’

‘There you are, then. That can make you faint.’

‘I don’t faint. I have dizzy spells. And I’m sure Dr Gulati knows a lot more about it than you do. Anyway, I mustn’t natter on. I expect you’re busy.’

Not really, Mum. I just got fired so there’s no point in pretending to work, and I live alone so there’s no one else to notice the ring round the bathtub. No, not busy at all. I said, ‘I’ll call you in a day or two.’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said. ‘Philip often pops in of an afternoon.’

‘Tell me one of the hymns you like.’

‘What kind of a question is that?’

‘A very reasonable one. You’re eighty-nine years old. Are you going to live for ever? Tell me one that’s on your list. If you don’t tell me I might go behind Philip’s back and order “Kumbaya”.’

‘ “I Heard the Voice of Jesus Say”.’

‘There you go. That’s a nice one. Very suitable for a funeral too. I Heard the Voice of Jesus Say, “Muriel Clarke, your time is up.” ’

‘I suppose you think you’re funny.’

Cheers, Mum. I’m pretty depressed, thank you for asking. I have no purpose in life. My two-year-old grandson has more in his diary than I do.

So, I was sitting on the kitchen table eating baked beans from the can when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move, along the floor, by the sink. I decided not to have seen it. It just seemed to me that no one gets fired, plus rejection by a lover, former lover, and an infestation of vermin all on the same day. It just doesn’t happen.

But this damned voice in my head kept saying, ‘You did see it. Yes, you did. Definitely. Get dressed. Go and buy mouse traps. Go and buy bait-boxes.’

*

I was in the shower, trying to think where I’d be able to buy a mouse trap, going through the town centre in my mind’s eye. Cards. Coffee shop. Mobile phones. Scented candles. Pound shop. More cards. Sportswear. Newsagent. Another coffee place. Unisex hair.

And then I thought, Enough. I’ve had it. Let the mice take over. Dry rot, wet rot, subsidence. Bring it on. I don’t care. I don’t particularly like this house.

When we bought it, Alec and I, it was what we could afford. It was okay. Only six miles from Brum, handy for the A38, but we planned to move on, move up in the world to somewhere a bit leafier. Harborne, maybe, or Edgbaston. Except, when it came to it and we could have afforded somewhere nicer, Alec moved on without me. I don’t know why I’m still here. Reduced circumstances? Handy but not too handy for aged parent? Yes. Also lethargy. I should be living in a nifty apartment. Gas Street Basin or somewhere central. I should have enviable panoramic views and a Polish cleaner, but I kind of let things go.

People think I’m tough. Good old Lizzie Partridge. She always sees the funny side of life. Nothing ever gets Lizzie down. Well that’s all they knew. I decided to disappear. Global and Tom and Ellie and Mum, they all needed a wakeup call.

I packed my little black wheelie bag. You don’t want loads of luggage when you’re running away. It draws attention to you. You get jammed in the stupid automatic gates and then people remember. Bad-tempered old bat in a pompom hat? Yeah, I seen her.

You can fit a surprising amount of stuff into a carry-on. But what do you actually need? How can you say when you don’t know where you’re going? Or for how long.

I thought I’d just get to the station and take the first train to wherever, but then on the bus into town I reconsidered. If I went somewhere small, I’d get recognized. I know you. You’re on the telly. Used to be. But if I went somewhere big, to a proper city, somewhere where it’s easier to remain anonymous, hotels cost more. Cities have snoop cameras everywhere too. HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN? B-and-Bs are cheaper but they find out all your business. They want to make small-talk over breakfast. Here on business? Staying long, are you? If Louie hadn’t sold his inheritance I could have gone there, broken into Cousin Ralph’s des res and hunkered down in Rustington-on-Sea. But he had, so I couldn’t.

On the departure board my options were: London Euston, Manchester Piccadilly, Walsall, Liverpool Lime Street, Glasgow. A fine selection of hell-holes in which to hide and have a quiet meltdown while my loved ones appeal for my safe return.

There was also Reading. I’d never been to Reading. Shrewsbury. Been there, couldn’t remember anything about it. Stansted Airport. Damnation. I could have bought a cheap ticket and flown off somewhere with CrapAir, only I hadn’t thought to bring my passport. Aberystwyth? I knew that was in Wales. I just wasn’t sure exactly where. I went into WHS to look for an atlas. The girl said, ‘What’s an atlas?’

I can now tell you that if Wales is a pig’s head, Aberystwyth is kind of between the top of its snout and where its ears flop forward. It’s seaside. I liked the idea of that. I could be a mysterious lone figure taking long walks, gazing sadly out to sea. Like Meryl Streep in The French Lieutenant’s Woman. I bought an off-peak single and an egg mayo sandwich that tasted of nothing. They don’t put any salt in them because Nanny says salt’s bad for you and Nanny knows best. They could give you a little paper twist of salt, like you used to get in crisps packets, so you can be a grown-up and weigh up the risks for yourself. Shit, you have to die of something. It would be nice to eat a decent sandwich before you go.

I thought I’d buy a magazine but Nigella and Jamie were all over everything like a rash. Time was, I’d have had some of those magazine gigs. I can write. I know about food. But it’s all changed. Nowadays, you’re either big, like mega, with your own range of kitchenware, or you’re history, invisible, a nonentity without so much as a lemon squeezer to your credit.

I didn’t see that coming. I left it to my agent, Hegarty, to notice approaching career flop but I now know he wouldn’t have noticed a bull elephant bearing down on him. Meetings were Hegarty’s thing. It was agent-speak for lunch.

‘Leave it with me, doll,’ he’d say. ‘As it happens I have a meeting on Thursday, could be useful.’

He’d had an interesting client list. Eclectic might be the word. Perhaps that was a sign that he was spreading himself desperately thin. There was a guy who got an Olympic silver for swimming or diving or something wet, years ago. He’d open galas and sportswear shops, stuff like that. There can’t have been much in it for Hegarty. He also represented Kathy Mansour. Local girl with no notable talent marries Kuwaiti billionaire, divorces him and uses her bags of alimony moolah to make a series of futile bids for fame. Actress, singer, washed-up old glamour model. I imagine Hegarty did all right out of Kathy. She’s Lady Something now, bringing a touch of real class to some noble pile. Then there was Sandie Mulholland. The one-dish wonder who stole my gig on Midlands This Morning.

Sandie was known mainly for her earrings and her African turbans. She was like a white woman who’d won an All-You-Can-Grab contest in the Kinshasa branch of Claire’s Accessories. Diverse appeal. That’s what they said. ‘We need more diverse appeal.’

They didn’t under. . .