Nevertheless, she did feel a little guilty at not having contacted Sue, with whom she had so often discussed the minutiae of daily family life. Sue, who’d been threatening to take herself off and ‘leave them all to it’ for years, but was still there with her womanising husband. And now here was Connie actually doing it!
Connie felt a surge of excitement when she arrived at the T-junction. Now, left to the Channel port and le continent? Or right to middle England and all points north? She stopped and looked both ways, and then decided there was definitely less traffic heading north. A Royal Mail van had appeared behind her, a youngster at the wheel tooting impatiently. Even from this distance she could see ‘typical-bloody-woman-doesn’t-know-where-she’s-going’ written all over his spotty face. She turned right, after first giving him a two-finger salute. She hadn’t done anything quite so rude since she was in school and she was relieved to see that he’d turned in the opposite direction. What had she been thinking?
The road ahead stretched long and straight, and dappled with sunshine. Connie was on her way.
Chapter Two
DREAMING SPIRES AND ALL THAT
As she meandered along minor roads, the countryside had never looked lovelier; there it was in full-blown summer perfection to be enjoyed and not bypassed at silly speeds sandwiched between huge trucks on one side and reps in company cars, for the most part, on the other. Roger spent most of his life in the middle lane (well, of course; he had been an accountant) whereas Connie preferred the fast lane, but allowing for the fact that both she and Kermit were getting on a bit and she was in no particular hurry, there seemed little point in motorway driving. Anyway, she’d already got three points on her licence (that day shopping with Sue in Brighton) so she needed to take care.
As she drove, her feelings ranged from exhilaration that she’d actually done it, that she’d finally had the courage to up and leave, to fear of the unknown. Where was she going, for God’s sake? It struck her that she hadn’t had to make such a big decision in a very long time. Roger invariably planned their holidays, every route, every night-stop; it was easier to go along with it. He was, after all, very efficient.
Perhaps she and Sue should just have gone off somewhere for a week? Moaned about their marriages, eaten too much, drunk too much, then headed home again. Isn’t that what bored women did? (To be greeted with a disinterested ‘Nice time, dear?’)
No, this had to be a solitary journey. Because there was only one person – Connie McColl – who could decide on exactly what she was feeling and exactly what she was going to do about it. She wasn’t sixteen, though, she was sixty-six and, judging by the way her stomach was churning, she’d probably felt more confident at sixteen.
Then she saw the sign: Oxford! Oxford, where she’d first lost her heart and her virginity many, many years previously. The city occupied a special place in her heart, although she’d mostly viewed its dreaming spires from Dominic’s musty attic bedroom, where she’d viewed them, and him, from some interesting angles. Really, sex had never been quite so good since and she’d done a fair bit of research – before she’d married Roger, of course.
Smiling to herself, she took the Oxford exit seconds before Ken Bruce informed his Radio 2 listeners of the road works, heavy traffic and long delays likely for all vehicles heading into the city from the south and the west. Too late she was aware of the panorama of red brake lights in the sea of traffic ahead. Half an hour later, having inched forward for less than a quarter of a mile, she began to wonder at the wisdom of her decision to visit this city. There she was, hemmed in on all sides, with no means of escape. She’d even become matey, in a shoulder-shrugging, eye-rolling sort of way, with a young woman in a silver Renault crawling alongside, and felt quite bereft when the Renault’s lane moved forward and hers didn’t. Silly things got to you when you were bored rigid. In need of soothing, she switched to Classic FM where they were in the middle of the ‘Radetzky March’, complete with hand-clapping. Not today, thanks, she thought, and switched back to Ken, who was about to go home. Only hope you don’t live in Oxford, Ken, she thought.
By the time she got to the city centre it was mid-afternoon, and she was hot and exhausted and beginning to panic about finding accommodation. And then she saw it – the Randolph! She’d gone there, once only, with Dominic for afternoon tea. ‘Do you suppose we’ll ever be able to stay in places like this one day?’ she’d murmured through her scone. ‘I fully intend to,’ he’d replied, and doubtless he had. She recollected he’d been studying law – or was it medicine? Well, it might have taken her nearly fifty years but she too was going to stay here tonight. And why not? she thought.
Having finally parked and given her payment details at the reception desk, she realised precisely why not. She’d be lucky if her money lasted a few days at this rate. This had to be a one-off.
Strolling in the afternoon sunshine, Connie found Oxford had changed a little; the atmosphere seemed more relaxed and less formal. She remembered locally owned, individual and interesting shops, but now here they all were – the usual selection of chain stores found in every city centre in the land. Pity. Having spent half the day cooped up in her car, Connie was glad to be able to stretch her legs and she walked until they began to ache. She remembered a tiny boutique where she’d bought a mini-skirt she couldn’t afford, while Dominic had preened himself in the shop’s mirror. He had been rather vain, with his carefully coiffed shoulder-length hair and ruffled shirts. She wondered what he looked like now. Elderly, like herself, and probably with a paunch.
She wandered off the main street and down some little lanes where there were still some boutiques and specialist shops. And independent bookshops. Yes, the old Oxford was still there, just hidden away.
Then it was time to head back to her beautiful expensive room and luxuriate in a soothing, scented bath. And then what?
As she cocooned herself in the enormous, fluffy bath sheet, Connie wondered how to spend her first evening as a woman alone. She decided she would have one drink, and one drink only, in the lounge downstairs and then head out to find somewhere cheap and cheerful to eat. And, after that, an early night. Jeans wouldn’t do at all but, thankfully, she’d remembered to pack the white trousers. And, when covered by her long black silk shirt, her bum and tum didn’t look big at all.
Soft music, comfy settees and attentive waiters! She ordered a gin and tonic and, feeling a little wobbly and self-conscious about being by herself, found a secluded corner from which she could observe the dark-suited businessmen, the laughing young couples and the barman wielding his cocktail shaker with not a little theatricality. She saw a short, plump lady in a similar black top and white trousers heading out of the bar with a face like thunder. Probably just had a row with her other half or something, Connie thought.
She’d almost finished her drink when she noted the arrival of a rather dapper and attractive man, probably in his late fifties or early sixties. He was looking wildly around, as if late for something. And then he spotted her and, much to Connie’s astonishment, headed straight in her direction and said, ‘Dorothy? So sorry I’m late! You can’t imagine the traffic…’
‘I’m not—’ she began, but he’d already dumped his briefcase on the chair opposite and was heading off in the direction of the bar, calling over his shoulder, ‘I’ll be right with you after I’ve ordered some champagne.’
Dumbfounded, Connie watched him talk to the barman, produce a wad of notes and point to her table. She had to stop him because this was crazy. Too late, though. As she stood up he was already heading back towards her.
‘Dorothy, I can’t apologise enough!’
‘I’M NOT DOROTHY!’
‘What?’
‘I’m not Dorothy.’
‘You’re not? Who are you then?’
‘I’m Connie.’
‘Connie?’
This whole conversation was becoming ridiculous.
‘Yes.’ She was aware of the waiter approaching with
a bottle of Bollinger, two glasses and a dish of olives. They sat in awkward silence while he deposited everything on the table and opened the champagne. ‘Will that be all, sir?’
Her new companion looked bewildered. ‘Yes, yes, thank you,’ he stuttered. Then, after the waiter was out of earshot, he said, ‘You’re not from MMM?’
‘What or who is MMM?’
‘Oh God.’ He clapped his hand to his forehead and Connie wondered briefly which of them was the more confused.
Recovering his composure, he said, ‘You must think I’m mad. I’m so sorry. You see, I’m supposed to meet a lady called Dorothy here, from MMM, and I’m forty minutes late. She said she’d be wearing a black top and white trousers. You’re definitely not from MMM? Perhaps I got the name wrong?’
‘I’m not from MMM, whatever it is,’ Connie replied, wondering if you could get a refund on an opened bottle of Bolly. ‘I’m Connie.’ She drained the remainder of her gin and tonic, anxious to be gone. ‘But I did see a lady wearing white trousers walking out of the bar about ten minutes ago.’
‘Oh God! Poor Dorothy! I don’t suppose she’ll risk MMM again.’ He smiled apologetically and Connie found herself smiling back.
‘What is this MMM anyway?’
‘MMM’s just an agency,’ he said. ‘Well, never mind, we mustn’t waste this bottle, must we? I’m Martin, by the way.’ He stood up, hand outstretched. ‘I should have introduced myself before this. I’m so sorry!’
‘Do stop apologising!’ Connie laughed as she shook his hand. ‘But I can’t possibly drink your champagne!’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because I’m not Dorothy.’
‘No, you’re Connie! But I’m being thoughtless and you are probably waiting for someone?’
‘No, I’m on my own, but—’
‘Well, in that case, let’s drink the champagne.’
With that he filled their glasses and raised his, grinning at her. ‘Cheers!’
Connie raised her glass to him, studying his profile, which reminded her a little of Robert De Niro; lived-in, craggy, interesting. She took a sip of the Bollinger. Delicious.
‘Are you here for business or pleasure, Connie?’
‘Now that’s a difficult question,’ she said. ‘Not business, though. And this, I think, is definitely pleasure, unexpected pleasure.’
‘Well,’ said Martin, ‘here’s to a great evening!’ He refilled their glasses and popped an olive in his mouth. ‘And I’ve booked a table for two at the Italian round the corner. I hope you like Italian?’
‘This,’ Connie said, champagne bubbles tickling her nose, ‘is all quite ridiculous.’
He leaned towards her. ‘You know what? I’m glad you’re not Dorothy. She’d probably have been a dull old bird.’
Connie felt momentarily uplifted at not being considered a dull old bird. Not yet, anyway. And Martin was rather nice. This was the first time she’d been treated as an attractive woman (well, passable anyway) in decades and she was enjoying the sensation. Or was he just being dutiful, and feeling sorry for her? Well, she’d pay her way in the Italian restaurant.
‘You must tell me about Dorothy and MMM,’ she said.
He was a little reluctant at first to explain these mysterious initials, then finally admitted to them standing for ‘Meetings for the More Mature’. Heavens, Connie thought, it’s a dating agency for oldies!
Why would he need to use such an agency? Here was an attractive man, nice hazel eyes, well-cut short grey hair, well suited (sartorially at least) and clearly successful.
‘I work very long hours,’ he explained, as if reading her thoughts. ‘It’s difficult to meet anyone in the first place, and then it’s even more difficult to get to an appointment on time. Tonight is a typical example.’ His gaze was direct. ‘I really don’t think MMM is going to work for me.’
One of the things Connie liked about him was that he looked at her, not through her, or, worse, over her shoulder. In fact, he was quite the opposite of Roger. Connie McColl, she chided herself, what the hell are you thinking of! Are you so starved emotionally that you go soft on the first man who pays you any attention? And you haven’t even been away from home twenty-four hours yet!
A couple of hours later, tucking into her tiramisu, Connie had told Martin all about her escape from a disinterested husband, demanding offspring and the bungalow. She made special mention of the plastic windows in particular. ‘They’re all plastic, the whole bloody place is plastic!’ She wondered if she was enunciating her words clearly, knowing she shouldn’t have let him top up her glass again.
‘That’s a pity, Connie, because there’s nothing wrong with plastic, you know. It’s made me a lot of money.’
He was the director of a company that made plastic containers of every shape and size. And the business was doing well. She didn’t feel nearly so bad about the champagne and three slap-up Italian courses now. His wife had left him, he informed her. ‘Took off with some Spanish waiter,’ he said, ‘and went to live in the Canaries.’
‘Tweet, tweet!’ Connie said, and they both dissolved into giggles.
‘At last I can laugh about it,’ he said, ‘but I was devastated at the time. Fortunately the children were grown up.’
Perhaps they couldn’t agree on the plastic, but they discovered they shared a love of Italian opera, Shiraz wines, Bruce Springsteen and cauliflower cheese. ‘I could eat it all day long,’ said Connie.
‘Me too,’ he said. He was rapidly becoming a soulmate. ‘And, just because a person’s getting on a bit,’ he continued, ‘it doesn’t mean that you can’t have some fun – companionship, sex, marriage even.’
‘Oh, quite,’ agreed Connie, hoping he wasn’t planning to rip her knickers off. This was not a problem she’d encountered in many a year. She had to make it clear that she was not looking for another man.
‘I’m not looking for another man,’ she informed him, downing her espresso. ‘I’m just trying to get away from the one I’ve got for a while.’
‘Well,’ Martin said, ‘if you are ever looking for a replacement, MMM’s as good a place as any to start looking.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ said Connie.
Martin was a nice man, as well as being attractive – really quite fanciable – but she wasn’t sure she was ever going to be ready to fancy anyone. But she loved the fact that he appeared to be interested in her! How many men ever listened to what you had to say? I could count them on my fingers, she thought, and still have half a dozen to spare.
Their conversation never faltered; they talked for hours. She told him things she’d never talked to Roger about as he’d never seemed interested. She told him, amongst other things, how much she would have liked to study art, but her parents had been killed when she was just five and their financial legacy had all been used up by the time she was fifteen. Her uncle and aunt, having provided further education for their own brood, couldn’t afford university or art school fees for her too. So she’d trained as a florist. She told him how much she loved flowers, and drawing.
‘So, you’re artistic,’ he said.
‘No,’ Connie replied. ‘But I like sketching. My mother apparently designed and put together costumes for theatrical productions just before the war, prior to meeting my dad, so perhaps I’ve inherited a little of her creativity.’ For a moment she thought of Stratford, remembering that her mother had worked on a production there. And Stratford wasn’t so very far away.
‘Your mother sounds like a very talented lady.’
‘Yes, I think she must have been,’ Connie replied.
‘And are you also a talented lady?’
‘Oh, no, not really. But I am good with flowers. I love growing them and arranging them and, at one time when I was doing floristry, I had two greenhouses of exotic plants. We had a big garden then.’
‘And you don’t now?’
‘No, I don’t now.’ Connie sighed. ‘We downsized because the house and garden were too
big – so said my husband anyway.’
‘And you don’t like this new place with its plastic windows much?’
‘I’ve tried hard but the bungalow isn’t exactly lovable. And it’s got a tiny square garden; everyone in the cul-de-sac has a tiny square garden, packed with twee pots and twee borders full of dahlias and begonias. They last all summer, begonias do, which is why so many councils pack them into their public flowerbeds. God, how I hate begonias!’
Connie was surprised at her own outburst. Well, she did hate begonias and she wasn’t that wild about dahlias either.
‘I think I might head for Stratford next because my mother once designed the costumes for a production of King Lear – before the war, that is. Her brother, my Uncle Bill, said that everyone thought she’d marry someone creative – a thespian perhaps. But Dad was just an ordinary bloke and they fell in love.’
‘And what did your ordinary dad do?’
‘Dad was a policeman; he worked for the Met, in London. But he was a Geordie. I headed up north once, many years ago, to see where he was born. I’ve always meant to go back but, what with marriage and kids and everything, it’s just never happened.’
The Runaway Wife Page 2
