We Are All Made Of Glue Part 8

She brushed a stray hair off her face and looked over her shoulder towards the nurses' station. I could see there were a dozen things she needed to be doing more urgently than talking to me.

"What if she refuses to go?"

"We can't discharge her into an unsafe situation."

"So she just stays here?"

"She can't stay here. She's blocking an emergency bed that someone else could use."

"So what are the options?"

"Look, I think you'd better talk to Mrs Goodney. The social work office is over by physio."

I went back to sit with Mrs Shapiro. "It's okay," I said. "I'll get them to do another a.s.sessment."

"Thenk you, darlink," she said, gripping my hands. "Thenk you very much. And my dear cats, how are they?"

"They're fine. But Wonder Boy seems to be killing a lot of birds."

"Ach, poor darlink, he is upset. You must bring him here. Next time. You promise, Georgine?"

I mumbled something evasive, but just then the tea lady appeared with the trolley.

"You heff no krautertee?" said Mrs Shapiro grumpily. "Okay, I tek this horse's p.i.s.s. No milk. Three sugar."

Cradling her cup in her hands, she settled back on the pillows.

"Now, Georgine, your running-away husband. You heffn't finished telling me."

"I did tell you. It was so boring you fell asleep."

She caught my eye and gave a little laugh.

"You told me about your parents. That was quite boring, isn't it? But what about the husband. He was a good man? You were happy in loff?"

"We were happy at first. But then...I don't know...He got absorbed in his work. I had babies. Two-a girl and a boy. And a miscarriage in between. Then I started writing a book."

After the miscarriage I'd given up my job and started freelancing. Rip had taken his articles but found the solicitor's work tedious and applied for a job in the northern office of a national charity. He was keen and committed, out and about all over the place, so one of us had to be home-based. The freelancing didn't fit easily around children so, inspired by my earlier introduction to Mum's preferred reading matter, I decided to try my hand at romantic fiction. I got a couple of short stories published in a women's magazine and after that encouraging start I plugged away at a romantic novel-it was about a plucky young heroine who is inexorably drawn to a grand but gloomy house inhabited by a handsome, moody, extremely rich poet (I know, but it is is fiction) who falls in love with her but alas dies of a mysterious ailment on the eve of their wedding, which is terribly tragic, but then she falls in love with the local schoolteacher who lives in a cute rose-covered cottage and is penniless but has a good sense of humour and is great in bed. fiction) who falls in love with her but alas dies of a mysterious ailment on the eve of their wedding, which is terribly tragic, but then she falls in love with the local schoolteacher who lives in a cute rose-covered cottage and is penniless but has a good sense of humour and is great in bed.

I thought I'd got the genre spot-on, and it grieved me that no one wanted to publish it. I tried changing the font, changing the ink colour, I changed my nom de plume, but the rejection slips just kept coming.

"Splettered Heart. This is a good t.i.tle for a book, Georgine. Powerful."

"Thank you. Rip thought it was too melodramatic."

"Ach! He is a man. What does he know?"

"He thought I should call it The Shattered Heart The Shattered Heart or or The Broken Heart The Broken Heart, but I thought that was a bit cliched."

"Exactly so. And it has been published?"

"No. Not yet."

"But you must not give it up."

"I'm completely rewriting it. A new version. But it's hard to find the time. I've got another job now, writing for online trade magazines."

"Lane tred? What is this?"

"It's a group-Adhesives in the Modern World, Ceramics in the Modern World, Prefabrication in the Modern World, things like that. I work on all of them, but mainly Adhesives Adhesives. I've been doing it for about nine years."

"But this is fascinating!"

"Well, it's just for the building trade. It's not exactly world shattering."

"Too much shattering is going on nowadays, Georgine. Building is much better."

Nathan had conducted a cursory interview over the telephone, during the course of which he'd asked me, among other things, what my favourite pudding was (Bakewell), whether I'd ever been to Prague (no), and which team I supported (Kippax Killers, of course), and told me after five minutes that I was just the person he was looking for.

"Glue," he'd said. "Don't worry, it'll grow on you."

Romantic it wasn't, but it paid the bills, and it meant I could be at home for the kids. Strangely enough, it did grow on me.

"So that's my story so far. Not very exciting, really."

"Well, we will heff to see if we can make you a happy ending." She raised her teacup. "To happy endings!"

On my way home from the hospital, I dropped in at Canaan House to feed the cats and do a quick tidy-up in case the Bad Eel should deign to visit. The wind was still bl.u.s.tering, swirling up dead leaves and litter on the pavement. Wrapping my coat tight around me, I turned into Totley Place. At once I saw there was something unusual there-something brightly coloured at the entrance to the cobbled lane that led up to Canaan House. As I drew closer my heart began to beat with rage and trepidation. Yes, it really was what I'd suspected, half hidden there among the creepers-a large green-and-orange For Sale sign, with the name written in bold black letters: Wolfe & Diabello.

It was stuck into the ground beside the wall. I grabbed the post and heaved. It held firm, so I pushed and pulled it backwards and forwards, to loosen it up. Then I got round behind it, scrambling through a climbing dog rose that clung to the wall. Surely Mr Diabello hadn't done this, the thorns picking at his Italian-styled suit? It must have been some strong-arm minion in a white van, hammering the post into the ground with a mallet. I'd worked myself up into a frenzy, but still it wouldn't budge. If anyone had seen me, they'd have thought I'd gone mad. I grabbed the post in both hands, arched my back and bent my knees for one last heave. It slid out of the ground as smoothly as a knife out of b.u.t.ter. I slid with it, staggered, lost my balance, and fell backwards into the rose bush. A thorn jagged my cheek. Wonder Boy appeared howling out of the undergrowth. It started to rain.

I'd been all fired up to storm into the Wolfe & Diabello office and demand an explanation, but I called in at home to pick up my raincoat, and the phone was ringing as I opened the door. It was Rip.

"Hi, Georgie, I just wanted to have a quick word about Christmas."

I steeled myself. "Fire ahead."

"I wondered if you'd made any plans?"

"Not really. Why? Have you?" I felt a quiver of dread-Christmas: the time when families are supposed to be together. Would I be able to survive a Christmas on my own?

"I was wondering about going up to Holtham with Ben and Stella..."

"Fine." Actually I felt like drowning myself in a tub of lukewarm p.i.s.s, but I managed to put on a brave show of nonchalance. "Do that. Fine by me."

"What about you?"

"I haven't really thought about it."

After he'd put the phone down, I went up to my bedroom, flung myself down on the bed, and let the tears flood into my eyes. I sobbed and sobbed until my chest ached and my shoulders heaved and my nose ran with snot-I sobbed for my broken marriage and my broken family, all the hurts and humiliations I'd ever endured in life, my ailing parents, my absent brother, my too-far-away daughter, the general sorrows of humankind, starving babies in Africa, kids who self-mutilate, suicide bombers and their victims, they all came washing saltily in on the same vast relentless indivisible tide of human misery. I thought about the bivalves, the curved pearly walls inside their sh.e.l.ls, the greenish light filtered through seawater; whatever the extraordinary glue was that enabled them to hold so tight while the storms swirled around them, that's what I needed now.

13.

No job too small By next day, the fight had gone out of me a bit, but I decided to walk across to Wolfe & Diabello anyway. I needed to clear my head, and I still had a couple of bones to pick with them. It was another raw, bl.u.s.tery December day, the sky teeming with grey scurrying clouds. I pulled my hood up, and put my head down into the wind, and maybe that's why I didn't see it until I almost stumbled across it-a post lying across the pavement. Attached to the post was a For Sale sign. Not Wolfe & Diabello, but Hendricks & Wilson. That was odd-it had been windy in the night, but not that that windy. Even odder-as I turned the comer, there was another one, stuck into a hedge, a few hundred metres up the road. Then further along, I spotted another lying in a skip. windy. Even odder-as I turned the comer, there was another one, stuck into a hedge, a few hundred metres up the road. Then further along, I spotted another lying in a skip.

There was no one in the Wolfe & Diabello office when I went in. I opened and closed the door again, making it 'ping', but still nothing happened. The third time I did it, Suzi Brentwood emerged from a door at the back; I thought I spotted a shifty look flit across her face before her professional smile composed itself.

"h.e.l.lo, Mrs...How may I help you?"

"My aunty is thinking of selling her house before Christmas," I said very loudly.

As if by magic, the door at the back of the office opened, and Mr Diabello appeared.

He was wearing the same dark stylish suit, a clean freshly folded handkerchief peeping out of the breast pocket.

"h.e.l.lo, Mrs Sinclair. What can we do for you?"

"The For Sale sign in the garden at Canaan House-you put it there?"

He smiled, that irresistible cheek-creasing smile.

"We have to keep one step ahead of the compet.i.tion."

"What do you mean?"

"We heard on the grapevine that Hendricks had sent a valuer in."

It must have been Damian, I thought. But how did he get in?

"No harm in that, Mrs Sinclair. It's a free market. Shop around. See who can offer you the best deal. But, you know, I felt after our chat the other day that you deserve a-how can I put it?-a more focused view of the service we offer here at Wolfe & Diabello." His eyes smouldered with dark fire. His quizzical eyebrows quizzed.

Ms Firestorm popped up briefly to take a look, and she was well impressed. "Deserve. Focused. Service." She repeated the words slowly in her head. They sounded deeply s.e.xy. But they still didn't make sense.

"You mean you just marched up and stuck a For Sale sign in someone's front garden without their permission?"

"It's a bit cut-throat round here," he murmured apologetically. "Hendricks & Wilson-I don't like to say this about another estate agent, but they aren't the most reputable in the business. Underhand tactics. Stealing our customers. You'll never believe this, but sometimes they even go round and pull our sale boards out. What valuation did he give you, by the way?"

I looked him in the eye.

"He said she should be able to get a million for her house. At least a million. Maybe more."

He didn't bat an eyelid.

"I'm sure we could match that for you, Mrs Sinclair. And we could agree a special rate on the commission." His handsome nostrils flared tantalisingly. A hint of a smile played at the corners of his sensual mouth. "If your aunty decides to sell before Christmas."

I could have swooned into his rugged manly arms at that point, but then I remembered my second issue.

"The key. You stole the key."

"Pardon me?"

"The back-door key. To the kitchen. It was in the door."

His eyes seemed to widen a fraction.

"I think you've made a mistake."

"No, I haven't. You took it. It must have been you."

His brooding brow furrowed.

"Mrs Sinclair, it wasn't me, I a.s.sure you. Have you considered the other possibility?"

"What other possibility?"

His mouth tightened. His head twitched.

"Them." His head twitched again, a sort of reflex jerk to the left. "Hendricks."

"It couldn't have been them."

Then I thought back. I was in the kitchen feeding the cats. Mr Diabello was wandering around scribbling on the back of his receipt. I was feeding the cats in the kitchen because it was raining. I didn't open the back door. Was it locked? Was the key in the lock? I couldn't remember. When was the last time I was sure I'd seen the key? Was it when I was showing Mrs Goodney around? I realised I was totally confused.

"I'll look into it." Maybe I'd misjudged him after all. "If I've made a mistake I apologise," I said stiffly.

Anyway, all I need to do, I thought to myself, is change the lock. Where do you get a new lock? My mind went blank.

Then I remembered a commercial I'd seen on TV. B&Q. For some reason, the thought was pleasantly appealing. The nearest branch to me was in Tottenham.

It wasn't till next day, as I made my way in through the sliding gla.s.s doors past the displays of Christmas baubles and end-of-line kitchen units, that I realised what it was that drew me to B&Q: it was the men. Yes, although Rip was both handsome and brainy, he was definitely deficient in the DIY department. There's something deeply attractive about a man with a screwdriver in his hand, I was thinking. If you wanted to be Freudian about it, you could say it was a father-fixation, for Dad was always fixing things about the house, while Mum brought him cups of tea and Keir and I got under his feet. These B&Q types reminded me of the men in Kippax-not destiny-shaping men; not even craggily handsome splatter-your-heart-type men; but nice ordinary blokes wearing jeans and pullovers with comfortable shoes, their pockets bulging with tape measures and hand-drawn diagrams on bits of paper; sometimes a bit paunchy; even a tattoo here and there. Who cares? So long as they weren't always dashing off somewhere to change the world. Maybe if I hung around, one of them would come along to measure me up, would compliment my tasteful decor, be stunned by my period features.

I should come here more often, I resolved, as I made my way through the mysterious aisles. There, on my left, was a whole section of rawplugs. I glanced at them quickly-they seemed alien, frightening things, with their poky plastic sh.e.l.ls, their complicated colours and numbers-the sheer rawness rawness of them. But the worst thing is, that you have to make the hole in the wall with an electric drill, then you have to hammer the right-sized rawplug into the right-sized hole, and you can't just use any old screw-you have to know the right size and type. I held my breath and hurried past. of them. But the worst thing is, that you have to make the hole in the wall with an electric drill, then you have to hammer the right-sized rawplug into the right-sized hole, and you can't just use any old screw-you have to know the right size and type. I held my breath and hurried past.

At last I found my way to the section that displayed locks-there were dozens of them. I picked up one or two at random, trying to remember what the one on Mrs Shapiro's door had looked like. It was definitely not a Yale type of lock; it was the other type-the type with a big key. Yes, a mortise. The trouble was, there were so many different models and sizes.

A man was browsing among the hinges and doork.n.o.bs at the end of the aisle-a small tubby Asian man. I caught his eye and smiled a sweet damsel-in-distress smile. He came over at once.

"You need help?"