‘Good grief,’ she croaks, reaching out for the arm of her chair to steady herself. ‘Good grief.’
‘Holy shit, I’m sorry,’ I mutter, trying to peel Mr Belding off my shoulder. ‘I forgot he was in there!’
‘Why … why on earth do you have a cat about your person?’ She points a long finger at Mr Belding balancing on my shoulder. ‘I can’t bear it! Is it some sort of street thing? A trick?’
‘Street thing? Whaaa?’
‘Oh goodness, do you use its body for warmth? To elicit sympathy when, dear God … when you’re begging for coins? Is that why it’s wearing a hat?’
Begging for coins? Wait − does she think I’m properly homeless?
I did not expect thatIwould be the confused party in this scenario, yet right at this moment I’m even more puzzled than I am any time a character inEastEnderssleeps with Phil Mitchell.
I successfully unhook Mr Belding from my shoulder and set him down on the floor. He saunters towards Grandma but she shoos him away with a neatly folded copy of TheLady.
‘I’m not actually homeless!’ I say. ‘Well, I suppose I am, technically,sort ofhomeless. But not in the, er, the tramp way. At least not yet . . . Why the heck would you—’
‘You don’t need to hide it, Jessica. I may be elderly but I amnotsenile. I certainly know a down-and-out when I see one. Only a vagrant would carry their worldly possessions in an old, shabby plastic bag. Only a vagabond would be forced to wear a pair of child-sized trousers. The coarse language, the scent of rough liquor … ’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘The unwashed clothing… ’ I peek down and spot the grey thong once again peeping out of the top of the bin bag. Shit. I thought I’d stuffed that back in.
‘You’ve got the wrong idea about—’
‘As if it wasn’t already clear enough, you have written the word “house” on your hand.’
I look down at where I started writing ‘house party playlist epic’ on my hand. I rub at the biro before plonking down onto a navy velvet chair by the window.
‘Look, I think we’ve totally got our wires crossed. I’m one hundred per cent not a street dweller. I promise. These are not a child’s denim trousers. They are awesome skinny jeans. They’resupposedto be super tight. It’s sexy! And I’ve had a really shitty day, ergo the smell of tequila − you know how life gets. I’m using a bin bag because I was in a mad rush and couldn’t find a suitcase. See? A complete misunderstanding. Can we please start over again?’
Grandma doesn’t answer. Just bites her lip, fiddles with the cotton thread on her blouse and stares at me through narrowed, watery eyes.
Fuck. This isnotgoing to plan. I need to recover the situation. Warm things up a bit before I ask to borrow money. I shall use my sunny disposition.
‘Your house is really lovely,’ I say with my sunniest, most granddaughterly smile. ‘Properly fancy.’ Peering around, I notice, on the wall, a portrait of a grand-looking woman sitting regally beside a Dalmatian. ‘I like your picture.’ I point up at it. ‘What a stunning girl! That bone structure. Gorgeous. She’s the absolute image of Kiera Knightley!’
‘That is myfather. Your great-grandfather.’
‘Oh God, I’m sorry. The cheekbones … I just thought . . . ’ I swallow the words down, my face buzzing with heat. ‘What’s your book?’ I swiftly change the subject, noticing the hardback resting on her side table. Good old books: always a safe topic.
I wander over and pick it up.Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I immediately picture Sean Bean’s bum. ‘Ooh, saucy,’ I say in an odd drawl that sounds a bit pervy. Argh.
I cough. ‘I do love to read, you know. Must run in the family! I read everything. Not just books. Also newspapers, magazines, leaflets, posters … er, greetings cards, road signs, books again.Minds. Ha-ha. Only kidding … or am I … ?’ Grandma’s mouth drops open. I clear my throat again. ‘Yeah, yeah … Read, read, read, that’s me! Might as well call me Jessica Beam Reading Machine. Or Jessica Beam Madam Readalot. Um. Something like that, anyway… er … ’
‘Oh, dear me.’ Grandma’s eyes brim with fat tears once more. ‘I do believe you’re experiencing some kind of emotional crisis. This is not a surprise, considering . . . ’ She clasps her bony hands together. ‘Where is your husband, Jessica? Where is he to help you?’ She looks frantically around the room as if this husband might suddenly magic up from behind the walnut dresser.
I snort. ‘I promise you I’m not having an “emotional crisis” −sonot my thing. And as for a husband? I’m only twenty-eight. Iobviouslydon’t have a husband.’
Grandma purses her lips extra tightly so that the edges of them turn as white as her face. ‘You are one of those … career women?’
‘Er, actually, nope. I lost my job as a blogger today.’ I give a sad shrug. ‘Which was extra rubbish because I lived with my boss. Whowasmy best friend. So I lost my house too.’
‘A blogger?Dear God.’ She sways slightly.
I wonder what she thinks a blogger is? Now is probably not the time to explain.
‘I can fix all of this,’ she whispers, almost to herself. ‘You did the best thing to come to me. Let me redeem myself. Let me help you.’
She wants to help me! This is it. This is my cue.
‘Well, Mrs Beam,Grandma, thereissomething I wanted to ask you, actually. It’s a bit random, I know, but, well … is there any chance I could borrow some cash? Obviously I will pay back every single penny as soon as I get myself sorted out. I promise. But as you can probably tell, I’m in a bit of a tight spot and a little money would help to get me back on my feet again. And I know that we’re practically strangers, so maybe I could leave something of mine with you as insurance. Like a deposit-type thing. How about Mr Belding? Or this high-quality genuine leather bomber jacket? Whatever you want. What do you think? I’d be ever so grateful.’
