New Beginnings Falter

'Kat,' I said aloud, the word feeling and tasting like an oversized mothball in my mouth. 'I don't believe it.'

'Sorry,' said Dave. 'But she's landing in Manchester tomorrow. Someone's been in her bank account, Mikki. She's had all her money stolen. She's nowhere else to go.'

'How is she flying to Manchester if she hasn't any money?' I growled.

'She has one of those open-ended tickets. She's been camped out in Sydney Airport this last week, waiting for a seat.'

I nearly exploded at that. 'You've known about this for a week!'

Dave couldn't look me in the eye. 'She rang me Thursday evening,' she said. 'That's when she was sure she'd got a flight.'

A likely tale, I thought. That spare bedroom had been recently decorated, but not as recently as between Thursday evening and my arrival on Friday.

Blinking away tears, I accepted that the card wasn't for me. The decorating hadn't been done for me . . .

Dave didn't love me.

'You said "home".' My voice sounded bitter, even to me. 'Home obviously being your place.'

'She's nowhere else to go, Mikki. Her mother hasn't spoken to her since she came out at uni. I can't let her sleep on a park bench, can I?'

'I thought backpackers slept rough, as often as not. A park bench should be luxurious for her.'

Dave's eyes narrowed behind her supersized specs at that. 'I have a spare room and she's my friend,' she said firmly. 'She needs a roof over her head while she finds herself a job. That won't take long. Then she'll move out.'

'Unless you get a taste for each other again.'

'Do you know how insecure you're being, Mikki? She's coming back as a friend, not a lover. You are my lover. I don't want anyone else.'

I should have bit my tongue at that point, but I didn't. Instead I harped on about Kat sponging on Dave. And about Kat using Dave. And, when I found out that Dave was going to pick the girl up at Ringway Airport, I accused her of secretly wanting to be sponged on and used.

We left the pub in prickly silence. As soon as we were inside Dave's house I gathered my things together and left. She tried to persuade me to stay . . . or to at least accept a lift. I stubbornly declined and went without saying goodbye.

Sitting in the bus shelter, more or less safe from prying eyes, I cried. No, I wept and I sobbed. I'm not normally prone to violent fits of emotion, but that afternoon it was easy to let it all out.

It's cleansing, I told myself woefully. Cathartic.

Then, when I'd pulled myself together and convinced myself things couldn't get any worse, I looked at the conveniently-placed timetable.

Fucking hell and damnation! No bus service at all on a Sunday!

*****

I was a tad delicate when Joyce arrived at my flat on Monday. I had, faced with no alternative, hiked about a mile downhill from East Morton to the main Keighley/Bradford road. A different timetable at the first bus stop informed me there was a service on that route . . . but I'd missed the latest ride by three minutes. Not wanting to kick my heels for half an hour, I hiked on into Crossflatts and, next thing I knew, I was in The Royal, downing three pints of Tetley's.

Then, having narrowly missed another bus, I hiked on into Bingley, where I let my little red devil have his way with me. Now Bingley Main Street isn't long, but it does have a lot of pubs. I stopped off in several of them, drinking like a fish and peeing like a racehorse. And then, getting there just before they closed (ridiculously early on the Sabbath), I bought more wine from the Co-op.

Too much alcohol, I do admit. Much too much alcohol. On the positive side, it helped me forget my woes and I was asleep in my bed by eight in the evening.

Joyce is one of those people who are full of life and always look good. Even then, seven thirty on a dreaded Monday morning, she was ready to chat. I was content to listen as she chirped on about her weekend, our trip to Brighton and goodness knows what else. Finally, as we neared the M606, she asked me about my weekend.

'It sort of fizzled out,' I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Joyce wasn't so easily fooled. 'Oho,' said she, 'trouble at t' mill, was there?'

I hadn't meant to confide in anyone but, before I knew it, I was spilling my heart out. Keeping her eyes on the road, Joyce listened, making occasional sympathetic noises but letting me have my say.

'So,' she said when I was done. 'Kat strikes again.'

Something in her tone gave me pause for thought. 'Do you know her?' I asked, eventually.

'She's worked in our IT department twice. I can't remember just when. 2013 and 2015, I think. There or thereabouts, anyway.'

'We employed her twice?' I was surprised to hear that.

'She's supposed to be very good. And she didn't leave under a cloud or anything. As I recall, she worked every day of both contracts and left with a smile. Of course we took her back. We may well do it again.'

Lead balloon or what? Frigging Kat was going to get my card, sleep in my room (hah! How likely was that?), steal my girlfriend and work in my workplace.

'Please tell me you're joking,' I said.

'I'm afraid I can't.' Joyce briefly took her eyes off the motorway to give me a small smile. 'I'm not an IT expert, but I happen to know they're down a programmer. She knows the company, knows the team and can do the job better than anyone they already have. So it sounds like a shoo-in to me.'

'Thank you, Ms Jackson,' I said despondently. 'You know how to cheer a girl up.' Then: 'I don't suppose you know how she and Dave got together, do you?'

'Not all the nitty-gritty details. But I think it started at the Christmas party. The 2012 one, that is. Just after Kat began her first contract.'

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Buses aside, had I thought things couldn't get worse?

'Are you saying Dave's taken Kat on twice as well?' I asked, anticipating the answer.

'Sorry, but yes. I live quite close to Dave. I used to see them regularly in the pub. Then Kat finished at work and vanished. And then, maybe a year later, she reappeared in all the same old places.'

'What a bitch!' I exclaimed. 'She travels, you know? She's no roots, no mortgage. If you ask me I'd say she's a user. She gets a job and moves in with anyone ready to share a bed. And then, when she's saved every penny she can, she rides off into the sunset.'

'That's a bit harsh,' said Joyce. 'She's been coming back to Dave for a while now. So far as I know, there hasn't been anyone else.'

'Is that supposed to make me feel good?' I laughed in spite of myself. Sometimes the weight of bad news leaves laughter as the only option. It does for me, anyhow. But the relief was short-lived. Getting the bit between my teeth again, I said, 'I bet there are plenty of "anyone elses" when she's abroad. I bet her bank account hasn't been raided at all. She's probably spent her money on whores in Bangkok.'

'You obviously haven't met the girl. She's stunningly beautiful. The whores in Bangkok would probably pay her.'

'This gets better and better.' I closed my eyes again. Counting to ten still didn't work. 'You're right, I haven't met her. But I hate her with every fibre of my being.'

'Don't waste your life with hatred.' Joyce gave me another little smile. 'Peace and love, sister. That's what we used to say in the commune.'

By then I was desperately in need of a change of subject. 'Commune,' I echoed. 'I didn't know we still had them. When and where?'

'Oh we still have them,' Joyce assured me. 'Not so many, but there are still a few out there.'

'Where was yours?'

'In Cornwall. Where else?'

This time my laughter was less forced. 'I thought I could detect a trace of Kernowek. Where were you, exactly?'

'About a mile outside Perranporth. Do you know it?'

'Of course I do. It's got the best beaches in the world.'

'Coming from a Penwith girl, I'll take that as a compliment.' Joyce chuckled. 'I was born in 1970,' she went. 'Two or three decades too late for the original experience.'

'I thought it was all happening in 1970,' I said. 'Woodstock, the Isle of Wight Festival . . .'

Joyce was kind enough not to correct me on my dates. 'It was all happening,' she said, 'but not for a babe in arms. I only discovered hippiedom when I was at university. That was thanks to Janie. She was my housemate and fellow sexual explorer. She was also from Newquay. She told me about the commune and I didn't take much persuading to go there with her.'

I'd been wondering about the 1970 birth date while she spoke. I had previously put Joyce at being in her late thirties, maybe forty. In reality she was forty-five or forty-six. Eff me, but she's wearing well!

'You didn't both drop out?' I asked as we left the M62 for the M1.

'No. We both graduated first class, English Lit . . .'

'I did too,' I said excitedly.

'I know,' said Joyce. 'You may think Alan from HR recruited you . . . and he did, mostly . . . but I was involved from the CV stage. And I had the final say.' She chuckled again. 'Well, I saw your degree, your Cornish experience and your claim to be a people person. All you had to do after that was perform at the interview.'

I flushed a little at the news. Believing myself to be straight, I'd focused all my womanly wiles on Alan in that interview. I'd hardly paid any notice to the pretty, arty lady who was sitting at his side. And I'd certainly missed whatever signal she'd given him; the one that made him offer me the position there and then, rather than the "wait-a-week-and-hope" the agency had told me to expect.

Not knowing why I was doing it, I glanced at Joyce's hands on the steering wheel. Joyce liked her rings, all right . . . even more than she liked her bangles and wrist-bands . . . but I'd been mistaken; one of her fingers was ring-free.

Third finger, left hand, I thought, trying not to burst into song.

'So,' I said out loud, 'you favoured me as a fellow adoptive Cornish lass.'

'No, I favoured you as the best candidate. The fact you're drop-dead gorgeous never came into it.'

I shut up for a while after that. Joyce fancied me, I was sure of it. And I was also sure that, as a recently spurned conquest, I was ripe for the plucking.

Or fucking.

(Once again, please excuse my atrocious use of the English language. As a Lit graduate I'm amazed our native tongue gives so many opportunities to offend. Not that that's any excuse, of course.)

Talkativeness has always been my curse. Or maybe it's my blessing. Whatever, I lasted as far as Leicester before prompting my arty (sexy!) line-manager.

'Janie didn't tell me any lies,' she said in response. 'The commune held up to twelve and sex wasn't an issue. I mean the sex of the people living there, naturally.' She laughed. 'I do hope you're taking this as confidential, between you and me.'

'Confidential is my middle name,' I assured her.

'Strange, I thought it was Carly.'

'It is. My mum named me after Carlyon Bay. That was in our Mevagissey days, though. It's been a while since I've been there.'

'I'm sure it is, my lovely,' said Joyce, doing the accent, stressing "my lovely".'

'Proper job,' I said in reply.

'Okay then, "Carly", I graduated with Janie and we headed south west. Were accepted into the commune without question. Lived there three years.' She shook her head. 'My mother thought I was bonkers. Qualified up to my eyebrows but living in a commune. With a girl!'

'Was she . . . awkward about it?' I ventured.

'Only briefly. It was more the commune than Janie. Thank God she didn't know what really went on! She'd have marmalised me!'

I didn't quite understand that so let it go.

'What about you?' Joyce asked. 'Are you out with your mum?'

'No.' I blushed redder than ever. 'I've only been out with myself for a few weeks. Mum will be the next to know. But I'm not sure when.'

'How do you think she'll take it?'

'She'll be shocked,' I said truthfully. 'Then she'll be annoyed I didn't tell her sooner. And then she'll try to encourage me to settle down with "some nice girl". Two minutes later she'll be on about artificial insemination and grandchildren.'

'You reckon?'

'Yes,' I said with certainty. 'She's a bit of a hippie herself. Doesn't have much time for formal conventions and what have you.'

'You're lucky, then.' Joyce sighed. 'My mum's not like Kat's, but she is set in her ways. Even now, twenty-odd years on, she thinks I'll "grow out of it".'

I sniggered at that. The idea of someone, forty-five years old, being in thrall to her mother . . .

Then I thought of my own mum's relationship with my gran. Gran keeps her age confidential but she's nearer eighty than seventy. And, modern minded or not, Mum always does as she's told, without question.

'This commune,' I ventured. 'What were the sleeping arrangements? With peace and love in mind, I mean?'

'I'll tell you tonight,' said Joyce, grinning. 'Over cocktails and a vat of wine.'

*****

We made good time. Nothing could stop us, not even the Heathrow junctions on the M25. By half past twelve we were nearing the outskirts of Brighton. Without conferring with me in any way, Joyce came off the end of the M23 and found us a village inn.

'Lunchtime,' she declared. 'Keep it modest, because I'm picking up this tab. We can let our hair down after the meeting.'

I didn't know what to make of that, so I settled for an orange juice and a "breakfast burger" (that turned out to be a burger in a bap, together with a sloppy-side-up egg and two slices of crispy bacon).

While we ate Joyce was businesslike. Our visit was, she reminded me, very important. Okay, so our client's existing account saw little traffic . . . perhaps a grand a month, and all in small sales. The firm (I'm going to call them "Company A") were, however, major players. I didn't actually need reminding. I'd been the one who'd got the excited call about their credit rating. Expecting the usual five or ten thousand recommendation, I'd referred the query to Experian, who'd suggested three million quid.

Three million is not a bad rating. Not by any standards. And that was only an initial indication of their creditworthiness. When my excitable salesperson asked if I could apply for half a mil, insured, I told her it shouldn't be a problem. And it wasn't. Our insurers agreed it straightaway.

'Problem is,' Joyce told me, in the pub, 'we make the world's best gizmos. Most of them go off the shelf, though. As you know, we can fit them as well, but don't often have to. Usually it's all supply only. And, when we do install, our valued customer is typically a housewife. Our fitters are brilliant with typical housewives. They'll drink coffee with them . . . shag them . . . fulfil all their needs and expectations, but they can't perform on a large site. That needs a different skillset altogether.'

'And?' I prompted, only too aware what was coming.

'And we have a five million contract if we can convince Company A that we know what we're doing.' Joyce stared me in the eye. 'We have tried this sort of thing before and badly screwed up. Previously it's always been . . .' she made inverted comma signs in the air . . . 'the sales team's fault. That's not fair because we put responsibilities on sales personnel that shouldn't be there. This time Ellen has covered that off. This time nothing should go wrong. And believe you me, nothing is going to go wrong at the credit control end.'

Joyce hadn't told me anything new but had reinforced the need to perform. Credit controllers are generally perceived to be negative . . . "anti-sales officers", according to some witty souls. Today we had to be positive and can-do.

'I'm with you,' I told Joyce. 'I might need a little guidance, but I'm with you all the way.'

Joyce just grinned at me. 'I hoped you might say that,' she said, enigmatically.

*****

We arrived at our hotel a little after four o'clock. As Joyce introduced us at reception I felt a wry smile coming on. Would some "natural" disaster make us have to share a room? Failing that, had my boss arranged for adjoining rooms with a communicating door? Was there the prospect of a midnight visitor?

No was the answer. Our rooms weren't even on the same floor.

Checked in, keycard in hand, Joyce grinned at me. 'Never mind unpacking,' she said. 'Drinks are called for. That meeting couldn't have gone better.'

By then my fragility had worn off and we were both flushed with success. It would have been rude to decline.

'I've been talking too much,' Joyce told the barman. 'So I'll have a pint of Strongbow.' She turned to me. 'No Cornish Rattler, I'm afraid. It hasn't made it this far along the coast yet.'

'I'll have the same as you,' I said, not wanting to let the side down.

Joyce winked at me after telling the barman to put the drinks on 327 . . . my room number. Then, when we were sitting at a table in the virtually empty bar, she explained.

'They are invoicing us separately,' she began. 'I'm going to put our meals on my tab while you put all our drinks on yours. That's because I have to get my bill signed off by the FD. You may think of him as "Paul", but his first name's really "Ebenezer". He knows you're down here with me, so he'll see two meals and no drinks and just sign it. Yours needs signing off by your line-manager . . . me . . . so I'll sign it without question.'

'Is that ethical?' I wondered, returning her grin.

'I don't know about ethical, but it'll work. Once Bought Ledger have paid the bills they'll be one-line entries on a spreadsheet. "Mikki's invoice" and "Joyce's invoice". And we can make sure they're for roughly the same amounts. It will take a lot of investigation to find out what exactly we've been buying. And nobody's got the time for that.'

'You've obviously done this sort of thing before,' I said dryly.

'I see it as a kindness to Paul,' Joyce retorted. 'He suffers from angina. What he doesn't know can't bring on an attack, can it? And besides, we have just secured a sizeable foothold in the house building market.'

I had a swig of cider. 'It was you and Ellen,' I said. 'I just happened to be there. All that talk of valuations and quantity surveyors . . .'

'You played your part perfectly.' Joyce patted my hand. 'Another pint?'

Crikey, she'd finished hers already. I launched an assault on my drink while she went to get more.

'Not another word about work.' She set fresh glasses down on our table. 'Come to that, what do you want to do tonight?'

'I thought we were dining here and running up the bar bill.'

'That's one option. But we are in the gay capital of the UK. And the holiday season is well into swing.'

'I've never been in a gay bar,' I admitted, 'I wouldn't know what to do.'

'Chew on it a while.' Joyce's swigs were bigger than mine. I was falling behind again in the drinking race. 'We could nip out for an hour,' she went on. 'If we hold hands we'll be accepted as a couple and left to our own devices. You can get a feel for places like that without getting hit on. It'll be fun. And it'll stand you in good stead when you are ready to be hit on.'

I must confess Joyce's suggestion intrigued me. No, it thrilled me. 'I'll chew on it,' I said. 'But it does sound like a plan. Now, are you going to tell me about those sleeping arrangements?'

'At the commune?' Joyce's pale green eyes glittered. 'Janie and I brought the numbers up to the full complement of twelve; nine female, three male. There were six beds in four bedrooms, so . . .'

'So you had orgies every night,' I cut in.

'No, we hardly ever had orgies. Believe it or not, we basically existed as six couples. Those six relationships were, however, "open". Jealousy was not allowed and other relationships were encouraged.'

She laughed before continuing: 'We got one of the "single rooms" that first night. Meaning one of the two rooms with only one bed. Then, the second night, I got to sleep with Nan. Nan was the oldest person there. She was thirty or thirty-one. I suppose you could call her our "earth mother". It was meant to be a big privilege to sleep with her, and it was. I always enjoyed it when I slept with her.'