Page 19 of Lost Luggage
Flo hopscotched her way back to the kitchen, took another pancake and went to slather on more chocolate but Dolly screwed the lid tightly on to the jar. She pushed over the lemon and sugar. Occasionally, she channelled Greta. They took their plates back into the lounge. Flo talked about the theme the pack were working on this term, that Gill had mentioned in the first meeting she went to. Everyone had to earn two types of badges – an interest one and a skills builders one – then do five hours of special activities in the meetings.
The theme was Know Myself. Lemon juice dripped down Flo’s chin as she explained how the theme was stupid, that out of everything there was to find out about the world, it made them focus on themselves. They’d work on the interest badge first – it was called Personal Brand and everyone had to say what theirs was. Flo stopped chewing for a moment. According to Gill, a brand was about the stuff you like to own and do, what you believe in, what makes youyou. Flo banged her legs against the sofa’s bottom. She reckoned working out other people’s brand was much easier, like her mum and dad’s. They worked all the time, ate healthy, did chores; they got cross over ace things like a squadron of flying ants circling the outside drain. They recorded programmes about boring stuff like the price of energy bills or people arguing over that Brexit thing. So they had a brand that was full of rules and didn’t seem like much fun.
‘But me?’ Flo stopped banging her legs. ‘I don’t know. I go to school. Read my insect books. Come around here. That’s all.’ She pulled a face. ‘It’s going to be embarrassing, talking about that private stuff with strangers. I know you won’t laugh at me; I can say anything in your bungalow.’ She ran a thumb over a puddle of juice on her plate and sucked it. ‘Your turn now. Tell me about this dating night.’
Dolly wiped her hands on a paper napkin. She’d bought a packet from the mini supermarket. If she was going to keep herself tidier, not wiping sticky fingers on her jogging bottoms was a good start. Since Leroy had gone to Jamaica she’d got more used to doing her own shopping and had even chatted to Rosie on the till, if, ‘Yes, it’s cold,’ counted as conversation.
Dolly described the speed-dating night’s set-up, the rows of tables arranged according to age. Briefly she described a couple of the men she’d spoken to, screwing the napkin into a tight ball.
‘Did you meet anyone you liked? Did any couples get together? At our last school disco two pupils kissed on the mouth, like I catch Mum and Dad doing.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘You’d think they’d be the last people to do that, seeing as their working day is spent killing germs.’
‘There was none of that, I can assure you,’ said Dolly hastily. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact.’
Flo frowned. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Let’s just say the men… weren’t really my cup of tea. The important bit is, sadly I didn’t see anyone called Phoebe.’
Flo’s eyes had lit up. ‘The girls at school talk about stuff with boys that I don’t understand. Izzy reads her older sister’s magazines… but I’ve never heard ofthe opposite of kissing. What’s that exactly? It would be brilliant if I could tell them a fact.’
Dolly hesitated before giving an edited version of how she’d overheard the men talking, how she was the last woman any of them would want to kiss. She mentioned the caring man who came out to check she was all right afterwards, that he ran a pub.
‘How dare they! I bet you were the best match there. Who else talks to their goldfish and understands that five-a-day should come from stuff like chocolate and tomato ketchup?’
* * *
Dolly stood at the sink and stared at their dirty plates, knowing she should wash them up instead of leaving them to crust over and eventually form mould. She might do them later. The mess in the kitchen and Dolly’s bedroom wrapped her up like a security blanket. She wasn’t ready to let go of it. Not yet. Not in the places where she stored food, where she had a bed. They’d been her two escape rooms this last year.
Flo was in the lounge talking loudly to Maurice, warning him that he might catch something if he kissed the mermaid with his mouth open. The chit-chat stopped and footsteps stomped as she ran back into the kitchen.
‘Dolly! Dolly! The nice guy, outside the bar, the one who asked if you were okay. Did you say he was called Steve?’
‘Yes. Why?’ She hadn’t given his name much thought, but then that was hardly surprising, she’d been desperate to leave Dancing Daze and had hardly listened to a word he’d said.
‘That’s one of the clues.’ Flo made binoculars around her eyes. ‘Phoebe wrote she was cross with her granddad for mentioning the speed-dating to a neighbour: Steve. It must be him! You need to go to his pub. He’ll know where she lives!’
15
Dolly drove up the ramp, into IKEA’s car park, grateful for the calm voice of the satnav, and that her car, unused for over one year, had made it there safely. She’d checked it over briefly this morning, as well as the upcycled gingham case in the boot, from the 1999 auction, that now contained a first-aid kit, jump leads and ice scraper. Dolly still had the silk Japanese kimono from when she’d opened it. At the last minute, Leroy had announced she’d need to drive her hatchback – it was only forty-five minutes from Knutsmere to Warrington in good traffic and his car wasn’t starting. Since Greta died he’d been turning her Skoda’s engine over once a week. Dolly parked up and Leroy explained how he’d studied an online map of the huge building.
‘Wasn’t the new you going to be spontaneous?’
‘I’m doing up my lounge first,’ he continued. ‘I’ll focus on that today. We could be done by one and then I’ll treat you to lunch if you like. I’ve looked at their menu and we can have Swedish meatballs, shrimp popcorn and chips or salmon curry, and for dessert…’
They headed through the spring sunshine to the trolley rank. Every now and then he adjusted his jeans. They were skinny style; she hadn’t seen him in them before. He wore a new, sleek denim jacket to match, and gleaming white trainers instead of his favourite brogues. Dolly hadn’t been out clothes shopping for years, unable to disagree with Greta’s view that buying from a catalogue was far more efficient and cheaper.
Dolly ground to a halt. There, searching in her handbag by the entrance, was Edith, the church volunteer. Leroy crooked his arm and they made their way over, him pushing the trolley.
‘Dorothy. How nice to see you out and about. How are you doing?’
Dolly gave a little nod.
‘I was sorry to hear about Greta,’ Edith said briskly. ‘We didn’t get on but looking back we were so alike, that’s probably why. I secretly admired her play-it-straight attitude. The world would be a far simpler place if more people said what they thought.’ She gave a wry smile, telling Dolly the only thing they had ever agreed on, years ago when they were both on the church committee, was a hoo-ha over what relatives should be allowed to leave at gravesides. They both thought artificial flowers and trinkets lowered the tone, and deemed the other committee members far too sentimental for voting to allow them.
‘Although Greta was quite emotional herself, that day, actually.’ Edith’s gaze drifted into the past before a screaming toddler pulled it back to the present.
Dolly remembered that meeting because it was the day after Fred had proposed. Dolly had offered to go into work for overtime, to help file timesheets. She’d called in on Greta first, to break the happy news. Her sister was eating cereal and moaning about the decorative pebbles and stand-up wind chimes in the graveyard. Her mood dipped further when she heard of the engagement, despite managing to squeeze out a, ‘Congratulations’. Dolly had hoped that her sister would come around to her news, over time.
She and Leroy entered the building and Dolly shrank back for a second, lost in the huge space, gaping up at the tall ceiling. Along with other Saturday shoppers, they passed mock living rooms, each furnished to a different theme. Dolly was all for updating, had wanted to freshen up her and Greta’s bungalow for years, but the reason had to be right and that didn’t include trying to win back an ex-boyfriend. Dolly’s mother would reinvent herself after every boyfriend’s departure, trying to create each ex’s idea of perfection. When each new facade failed and crumbled away, it also eroded bits of the woman left beneath it. Dolly loved Leroy’s lounge as it was, the burgundy leather sofa, the warm orange carpet, the cherry drinks’ cabinet.But this isn’t about me, it’s about supporting my friend, Dolly told herself.
