Page 8 of Be Less Panda

Bernie was the Works Manager’s secretary. They had met when Bernie had been tasked with looking after Nancy in her first week. She was a couple of years older than Nancy, but they’d hit it off immediately. A lunchtime walk with Bernie would be far more entertaining than eating her cheese andpickle sandwiches alone in the office. ‘You’re on. I’ll be finished in half an hour.’

Bernie reappeared at Nancy’s office door five minutes early. ‘Are you ready yet?’ she asked. Judging by her big smile, she was bursting to tell Nancy something good.

Nancy grabbed her coat and handbag. ‘Go on them. What’s the news?’ she asked as they walked down the stairs to the office’s back door.

Bernie looked as excited as a puppy with a new tennis ball being dangled in front of its nose. ‘Trevor asked me to marry him last night.’

Nancy wasn’t surprised. Bernie had been going out with Trevor for well over a year and seemed to be besotted with him.

‘And what did you say?’

‘Yes, of course!’ Bernie looked as if Nancy was insane to think she would’ve said anything else.

Nancy had never met Trevor, but Bernie had described him in great detail during the time Nancy had known her. Based on Bernie’s updates, “reliable” and “conventional” were the two adjectives that sprang to mind - not Nancy’s type at all. Though, as Nancy hadn’t had a man in her life since she left Devon last summer, could she even claim to have a type?

‘Did he go down on one knee?’

‘Oh yes. We were outside the Odeon. We’d just watchedThe Pink Panther, and the rest of the cinemagoers gave us a round of applause. Aren’t you going to say congratulations?’

Nancy had been thinking about the horror of getting married at twenty-three. She pictured Bernie in a couple of years’ time, stuck at home with a bawling toddler and a baby on the way. But then Bernie was still living at home in a small three-bedroomed terrace with her parents and four youngersiblings, so in those circumstances, Nancy might have been keen to escape. Nancy wanted to see some of the world before she settled down.

‘Sorry. Of course, I’m happy for you.’

‘Trevor’s suggesting we get married at Christmas.’

Nancy didn’t like the way Trevor dictated everything he and Bernie did. ‘And what do you think?’

‘I think it’s a marvellous idea. It will be nice to start 1965 as Mrs Foster. I do love the sound of that.’ Bernie looked dreamy at the prospect.

‘I hope you’ll be very happy together.’ Nancy said, trying to make up for her initial lack of enthusiasm.

‘So when are we going to get you fixed up?’ Bernie asked. ‘I’m sure Alan in Accounts fancies you. I’ve seen how he looks at you when you walk along the corridor.’

Alan in Accounts was made from the same mould as Trevor - conventional looking in his neat suit, highly polished shoes, and Brylcreemed hair. He always wore the same thin sky-blue tie - a nod to Coventry City Football Club’s latest football strip, no doubt. Nancy preferred someone more rugged. Her thoughts drifted to Billy and his extracurricular lessons around the back of the Dashford Sailing Club building. She suspected Bernie wouldn’t approve. Nor would Alan.

‘Nancy? Are you ok? You’re looking quite flushed.’

‘Sorry, I think I’ve got a cold coming on.’

‘We better pop into Boots to get you some Beecham’s powders.’

6

Nancy lay on her bed at home, flicking through the French phrase book she’d bought in town at lunchtime while Bernie was browsing the wedding planning manuals. She remembered more words and phrases than she thought. It shouldn’t be too hard to get up to speed again. And, as Olivia had said, she was bound to learn more quickly in Paris. Nancy smiled to herself.Let’s face it, you’re not going to learn anything new and exciting staying here. And Olivia’s right - once you’ve got away from Coventry, escaping on that sailing trip will be much easier.

The dinner bell rang downstairs. No time like the present. She’d raise it with her parents while they were tucking into overcooked lamb chops with peas and plain boiled potatoes, the meal they always ate on Tuesday evenings.

Nancy’s father looked furious. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous. No daughter of mine is going to Paris on her own. It would ruin your reputation. What would the neighbours say?’

As far as Nancy was aware, he hadn’t spoken to the neighbours for years. In their large five-bedroomed detached house set in its own grounds on the outskirts of Coventry, they didn’t even see Mr and Mrs Clarke next door, let alonespeak to them. She doubted he would lower himself to acknowledge their existence even if they danced naked across the front lawn.

‘And you. You’re strangely silent?’ He shouted at Nancy’s mother at the other end of the dining table. ‘You should be backing me up on this.’

‘I think it’s a good idea,’ his wife said calmly as she struggled to cut another tough piece of meat from her lamb chop.

‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’ her husband shouted.

She put down her knife and fork. ‘I said I think it’s a good idea. You want to expand the export department. Having someone you can trust who’s fluent in French would be a boon. Nancy’s only going for six months. Olivia’s father has an agreement in principle with the bookshop owner. Plus, Olivia is there already. Nancy wouldn’t be on her own.’

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