Not Quite Nice by Celia Imrie

continued.
    ‘I’m late for a meeting.’ She bent forward and made a feeble attempt at kissing the air on either side of Sally’s face. ‘And I have a flight to catch. Must rush. Thanks for the snack.’
    And she was gone.
    Snack indeed, thought Sally who felt she had spent the better part of the morning putting together a fancy three-course lunch for Sian. They’d not got to dessert, so now she had two portions left. Sally put them on a pair of side plates and laid a tray. She knew she mustn’t get into the habit of behaving as though she was running a hotel, but she felt sorry for Faith. Also, Sally had already laid down the rent money Faith had given her on her new course, so she didn’t want Faith moving out and asking for it back.
    She took the tray upstairs and knocked on Faith’s door.
    When Faith opened up Sally could see that she had been crying.
    ‘My friend had to leave before pudding,’ she said. ‘So I thought it would be nice for us to eat them.’
    Faith smiled. ‘You’re very kind.’
    ‘It’s only two tarts, from up the road,’ Sally said, then laughed. ‘I could have phrased that better,’ she added.
    Faith tidied away a sheaf of paperwork about her new home.
    ‘It’s a lovely house you’re buying.’
    ‘A little large for me.’ Faith shrugged. ‘But I suppose if I’d spent the same amount of money in London I’d be lucky to have got a bedsit.’
    ‘True,’ said Sally. ‘Will your son be living out here with you?’
    ‘Oh no,’ said Faith. ‘He works in London, in the City, you know, finance and all that stuff.’
    ‘Another one.’ Sally laughed. ‘So he’s to blame for the world’s troubles!’
    Faith looked so upset by this remark that Sally hasti­ly covered for herself.
    ‘Poor bankers, no one likes them any more, do they?’
    ‘He’s not exactly a banker,’ said Faith. ‘He is a financial advisor.’
    ‘That’s lucky for you. I wish I’d had one of those when I was earning.’
    ‘I feel a bit like a fish out of water, here in France,’ said Faith. ‘It’s very daunting leaving everything you know in England and coming out to a place you don’t know at all.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t even speak French.’
    ‘Oh, don’t worry, Faith. You’ll fit in in no time.’ Sally smiled and laid the plates of fruit tart on the bedside table. ‘It really is beautiful here, and it’s very kind on old bones, you know. And as for the language, well, you can get by with only a few words. Most French people speak English, to some degree.’
    Sally felt quite drained from the day so far. The most cheering thing was the scenery outside the window. She smoothed down the bedspread and added: ‘Remember, Faith, you have us. We’re quite a gang, you know, the Brits of B-S-M!’

11
    Suddenly, as evening fell, Theresa’s flat was like Piccadilly Circus. While the locksmith fiddled with the front door, a plumber and his mate were busily dismantling her boiler.
    Theresa herself, calm now, sat at the glass-topped table, writing out a stack of index cards and putting them into two separate piles, one with details of her Cookery Club meetings and the other with ads for the spare room, which she had decided to let out for the moment, until things settled down. She had looked around for the turquoise pen Mr Jacobs had given her and realised, with a groan, that it must have been in her snatched handbag.
    Carol was whirling around making cups of tea, while her husband David was measuring up all the walls and radiators for the plumber.
    Ted was in the kitchen helping the plumber.
    Theresa had been startled when she saw Ted standing on her doorstep, but then Carol stepped up behind him with a bright grin. ‘I’m gathering the troops,’ she cried, while Theresa stood open-mouthed.
    ‘What?’ Ted had joked as he crossed the threshold. ‘Don’t recognise me with my clothes on?’
    Naturally Theresa went into a flat panic.
    ‘But your wife . . . She