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‘I don’t think it’s fair to say that Helen always chases guys.’ Sophie was sitting more upright now. You could imagine that behind her five foot two inch stature and hazel eyes that Sophie Wu was a force to be reckoned with in the city.
‘I think it probably is fair,’ shrugged Helen, brushing a strand of recently dyed hair off her shoulder that no one had noticed.
‘What about that Italian guy? The one who disappeared after the great date. I was the one who had to do ‘surveillance’ on his Instagram stories.’ Elle’s eyes flicked from left to right. ‘Or what was his name? Freddie, no Teddy! Very English, tall, and in my opinion, quite boring. We all went to that lame member’s bar in West London, and I had to flirt with his friend. Am I the only one that remembers this?’
‘Maybe it’s just something in your energy, that you’re not attracting the men you deserve,’ Sophie said and laid her hand on Helen’s arm with trembling sincerity.
‘You’re both right, honestly I struggle, I know I do.’ Helen wanted to say that she was proud to actually care about what people thought of her, that she didn’t want to take people for granted like Elle did. She wanted to tell Sophie, ‘Thanks but maybe it’s not my energy, maybe I’m just not as lucky as you,’ but instead she started to shred the napkin she was holding into tiny strips.
‘Helen, listen to me, you are a beautiful woman, you are kind, you are fun, you are a great friend, I just don’t want to hear you sat here heartbroken over someone you went on, what? One date with! He’s not the man of your life. You need a man who will make a real effort for you!’
‘That’s nice to hear Elle but if there are guys like this out there, I’m certainly not meeting them!’
‘Open your eyes love! A man asked you out on the street a few days ago …’
‘… technically he just stopped me being harassed by another man, then followed me on Instagram …’
‘And look …’ Elle flipped open Helen’s phone, ‘… just look at all these guys messaging you on Connex; some of them are actually quite hot.’
‘Really?’
‘How about someone like this?’ Elle thrust a picture of a handsome olive-skinned guy in Helen’s face. She couldn’t help but think he looked a bit like a male version of Elle. ‘He sent you a sweet message, I’m replying!’
‘What?! Elle I’m not ready, I don’t want to meet some random guy …’
‘Well babe, if you want to fall in love, you’re going to have to meet some ‘random guy’ at some stage.’ Elle shook her head and reticently handed the phone back to Helen.
Helen glanced at her screen, another message from her mum, this one clearly read:
Darling, I’ve been trying to reach you all day! Is everything all right? Sadly, all is not well here, Nanny G has taken a turn, I don’t want to worry you, but can you please call me back?! x
Nanny G’s ‘turn’ was in fact pneumonia.
Not the phantom symptom of chronic shingles that Helen had wasted a whole night googling, but the real deal.
The kind that left you struggling against breaths that grew shallower and shallower, that had confined her beanbag-loving, Chablis-sipping nan to bed. The kind that had a mortality rate of thirty per cent for severe pneumonia, or at least that’s what the NHS website had said.
There was no question of what Helen had to do; for once it was obvious. Not like when it’s obvious with a guy you like and it turns out the summer you’d been fantasising about spending with them was all a joke because they were just, well, not that into you. It was actually clear what Helen should do.
She needed to get on the first train to Cornwall tomorrow, and be with Nanny G. Like Nanny G had been with her all those times when her mum had seemed too preoccupied to notice she was there. She needed to pack up her expensive, ridiculous and upsetting life in London and go to be with the people she already loved, and who undoubtedly loved her.
Chapter 16
Helen’s parents’ old garage had been converted into Nanny G’s annexe six years ago. Despite some significant protests that she was ‘perfectly all right thank you’ living alone, Nanny G eventually moved in after Grandpa M had died. They hadn’t exactly been madly in love, more like just mad at each other.
Nanny G would pull the plug whilst Grandpa M was washing dishes in the sink. Grandpa M would leave confrontational post-it notes around their cottage: ‘Immersion heater works between 7–8am and 6–7pm. DO NOT RESET!’ It had all come to a head one day when Grandpa M had particularly annoyed Nanny G (by taking in his washing off the line, and leaving hers out to get soaked in the rain) and she’d tipped half a pint of milk over his head.
When he died, she’d cried almost constantly for a day, and then went about packing all his clothes away into boxes. She said she didn’t like the clutter, but it seemed like she was erasing all the memories of him. Helen’s mum had sentimentally gone back through all the boxes, pulling out his walking stick and flat cap as keepsakes, much to Nanny G’s chagrin. When Nanny G had attempted to restack all the boxes in their appropriate order, she had badly hurt her lower back and, being unable to march off, was moved into the family home.
Nanny G never quite regained her full mobility, so after several heated debates (at least on Nanny G’s part with Helen’s parents being as diplomatic as possible) they’d converted their garage as a compromise option, to give Nanny G some independence.
The annexe now looked like Nanny G’s old house in miniature, with a lifetime’s worth of knick-knacks, decorated plates and old volumes of books stuffed and stacked into every corner. Nanny G lay on her sofa, feet propped up on a pile of cushions at the end. Helen could see how thin her ankles were, with thick blue veins trailing up into her pyjama legs.
An old Christmas cake tin over spilled with ginger nut biscuits, and there was the constant fuzz of Netflix in the background, which Henry had recently converted her to. Someone called Shaena was on the screen in a tiny lime green bikini, talking about how Col had, ‘turned her head.’
‘Helen, you look … what have you done to your …’ Nanny G stopped short as a deep cough made her curl forwards. Helen noticed the pile of crumpled tissues at Nanny G’s bedside and how her spine was so much more curved than it used to be: gradually coiling into a C-shaped ammonite.
‘Oh this …’ Helen picked loosely at the ends of her balayage, a recent splurge to make her feel, well, more attractive.
