Lucy Holliday 2-Book Collection: A Night In with Audrey Hepburn and A Night In with Marilyn Monroe. Lucy Holliday

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СКАЧАТЬ the positive. Because in all seriousness, what’s the point of sitting around weeping and wailing and gnashing my teeth? Where will it get me? Nowhere, that’s where. And anyway, I’ve got loads to be cheerful about. I have my health. I have my friends. I will have – when I pick up the keys a couple of hours from now – a brand-new flat.

      The trick, for the time being, is just to try and ignore the fact that I haven’t told my mother I’ve lost my job and that I might not be able to pay next month’s rent to my slightly scary new landlord.

      ‘Wow. I really admire your attitude!’ the Big Cheese Woman tells me, handing over the machine for me to type my PIN into. ‘Positive thinking will get you a long way in life.’

      ‘Exactly!’ I say, (also ignoring the fact that, actually, positive thinking hasn’t got me all that far in life up to this point). ‘It’s just like trying to track down this mystery cheese! Where would we be if we all just gave up at the first hurdle?’

      ‘That’s the spirit!’ But the Big Cheese Woman can’t cheer me on any more, because she’s just being asked by another customer if she stocks organic Roquefort. She hands me my Visa and my carrier bag, and I head out into the warm sunshine.

      It’s only when I peer into the carrier to check that she’s put the receipt inside that I realize she’s only charged me half what she should have, and thrown in a packet of posh shortbread biscuits into the bargain.

      Which is lovely of her, and proves that a positive attitude reaps its own rewards.

      Oh, and talking of lovely, and positive attitudes, my phone has just pinged with a text from my best friend, Nora.

       U in the new flat yet??? Hope my bro is helping you get settled? Nxxxx

      Nora’s ‘bro’ is Olly, and they’ve pretty much ended up as surrogate brother and sister to me since that day I met them in the big old Edwardian theatre in Wimbledon. It’s weird, actually, now that I think of Olly as my surrogate brother, to remember that first meeting. Specifically – thanks, teenage hormones – the part where I thought he might be about to kiss me. Anyway, despite them coming from a proper showbiz family (there’s not just their mum with her am-dram group in Woking, but also one other sister who’s now a dancer with the Royal Ballet, and of course Kitty, the youngest, who’s a presenter on a Saturday morning kids’ TV show), Nora has the most serious, grown-up job of anybody I know: she’s an A&E doctor at a huge teaching hospital in Glasgow.

      I miss her like mad.

      Though, of course, now that I’m about to get settled in my own flat, it’ll be easy as pie for me to invite her and her lovely fiancé Mark down for the weekend. We’ll be able to do all the kinds of things you can only do when you’ve got your own place: brunch on Saturday morning – perhaps with Olly, too, if he can make it – and a casual party on Saturday night, with random friends dropping round with bottles of wine while I whip up a delicious stew in the kitchen … or maybe Olly could come over again and do the stew bit, come to think of it, because I can’t actually cook for toffee. And, seeing as it’ll be a rare weekend off work for Nora and Mark, I don’t think she’d be too happy if she ended up having to administer emergency medical treatment to the other guests if I’ve accidentally poisoned them with my Lancashire hotpot.

      On way to flat right now!! I text Nora. BTW it’s possible have tracked down mystery cheese from Le Marathon.

      She must be in a lull between ward rounds, because amazingly she texts straight back: You and Olly and that bloody cheese. V exciting re flat. What is big plan for first night on your own?

      Hmm, that’s a good question. Because, in all honesty, my plan – once Olly has come and gone, that is – is to put on my pyjamas and curl up in front of one of my favourite old movies on my iPad. Perhaps, for maximum granny-era bliss, with my vintage bead-box and my ribbon bag for a bit of cosy crafting at the same time.

      I mean, come on, it’s not like it’s knitting, or anything.

      But I can’t tell Nora this. Nora thinks it might as well be knitting. (Though unlike Cass, she at least fully appreciates the results, and I’m hoping she’ll love the beautiful, Breakfast at Tiffany’s-inspired necklace I’m currently working on to give her to wear on her wedding day.) More to the point, Nora worries that I spend far too long not dealing with my problems in the real world by escaping into Hollywood fantasy.

      She’d worry even more if I ever admitted that I still, sometimes, allow myself these silly daydreams I used to have when I was about twelve, where Audrey Hepburn is my best friend, and we spend our time hanging out together.

      I mean, I don’t do it often these days, I’d like to point out, if that makes me sound any less weird and sad at all? Only when I feel in need of a bit of comfort.

      And we all do weird things for comfort, don’t we? Some people eat entire tubs of Phish Food ice cream. Some people have kinky sex with complete strangers. So it’s pretty harmless, surely, that I occasionally like to zone out with an imaginary shopping trip, or afternoon tea, or night out dancing, in the company of the delightful Miss Hepburn?

      My phone pings with another text from Nora: Please Libby for love of all that is holy don’t tell me you’re just going to string beads and watch back-to-back Audrey Hepburn films in your PJs all night. If u wanted to do that u could have stayed living in old bedroom with your mother.

      Damn and blast her.

      No intention of anything of sort, I text Nora back. Am planning productive evening of unpacking, sorting out, and then might spend five mins on Amazon looking up best cookbook to buy for delicious stew-making.

      Which is met with total silence, either because she’s been called away to a life-threatening medical emergency or because she just doesn’t believe me.

      Anyway, I need to hop back on the tube now and make my way to Colliers Wood, because it’s time for me to pick up the keys to my brand-new, grown-up, very own home.

      *

      The shops in the little parade beneath my new flat are an eclectic mix, with one unifying theme.

       BOGDAN’S TV REPAIRZ

       BOGDAN’S DIY SUPPLIEZ

       BOGDAN’S CHICKEN ’N’ RIBZ

      And finally, just in case you started to worry that Bogdan didn’t get quite enough of a good deal on the letter Z from his sign-making people:

       BOGDAN’S PIZZA PIZZAZZ!

      My particular flat, somewhat unfortunately, is right above this final one. But still, this might have its advantages, because I won’t even have to change out of those pyjamas Nora is being so negative about if I get a sudden craving for pizza, with pizzazz or otherwise, at ten o’clock at night.

      And it’s at Pizza Pizzazz that I’m due to collect the keys, where Bogdan the landlord has left them for me.

      The keys are handed over to me by a very large, rather frighteningly silent woman (who does not possess, if truth be told, the smallest hint of pizzazz), and I let myself in at the little door outside the pizza parlour before climbing the stairs all the way to the third … no, hang on, I forgot, fourth floor, where there are three doors arranged СКАЧАТЬ