by Lucy Diamond
Her phone buzzed. Might as well pick up a load more stuff now I’m in the car, read the text from Pete. Back in an hour or so x
More stuff? How much stuff did he actually have? It had never looked that much when scattered messily around his place, but overnight he seemed to have turned into the male equivalent of Imelda Marcos with a vast array of possessions. There would be no room left for her to move at this rate.
Scowling at the dust-covered ginger cakes, she cut herself a slice of Christmas cake instead (two weeks into January and it still tasted fabulous) and took it and her mug of tea into the living room, planning to catch up on some emails while Pete was out.
A single step into the living room though, and she saw that he’d managed to completely fence in her PC on the tiny corner table with a blockade of boxes and a suitcase. Anna let out a groan of exasperation. Brilliant. How was she meant to get any work done now?
Cursing ferociously, she squeezed herself into the small space left on the sofa and flicked on the TV instead while she munched her cake. Nothing on. Then her gaze fell on Pete’s laptop bag, balanced on one of the boxes. Sod it, she’d use that instead. She reckoned he owed her a few favours.
Opening it up and guessing at the password (Blades: bingo. Football and sex tended to be uppermost in Pete’s mind; it was always going to be one or the other), she went online and began replying to the most recent comments and emails from her readers. Her latest recipe had been a hearty vegetarian stew to warm even the coldest of evenings. It featured squash, chickpeas, home-made roasted tomato passata, and various other vegetables and herbs, and had been utterly gorgeous, even if she said so herself. From the numerous emails she’d received, her readers seemed to like it just as much, apart from a few diehard carnivores who’d emailed in to say it would have been nicer with some pancetta or diced chicken. There was always someone who thought they could do it better, but Anna didn’t let it bother her. She had never claimed to be anything other than an amateur.
Thanks so much, everyone, she typed. Your comments are always welcome, and there are some great suggestions here. Meanwhile, I’ve got a couple of different ginger cakes cooling in my kitchen … I’ll give you the recipe of the yummiest one later this week. Keep on cooking!
Time passed so pleasantly that she completely lost track of the evening. When she next glanced up at the mantelpiece clock she realized that a) she had a horrific crick in her neck from peering down at the laptop and b) it was ten o’clock and Pete still hadn’t returned.
As if he was reading her mind, her phone buzzed just then with another text. Decided to stay at Mum’s after all. See you tomorrow? P x
Okay, see you then. Night x, she replied. Was it wrong that her first reaction was one of relief that she’d have her bed to herself tonight? Yes, she decided guiltily. Nice girlfriends were not supposed to rejoice at their boyfriend’s absence.
She was about to close Pete’s laptop when she remembered with a shudder of distaste the spreadsheet of doom she’d once stumbled upon – ‘Sex With Anna’ – and all the marks out of ten he’d ever given her. Did he still keep it up to date? she wondered. It would be easy enough to find out …
Spreadsheets. Most Recent. ‘Sex With Anna’. Yep, there she was, between his monthly outgoings document and his catalogued science-fiction and fantasy book collection. The sweet spot indeed. Cringing at what she was doing, she clicked it open to see his latest remarks.
She claimed to have a headache. Again – 5
A wearing granny knickers, nearly lost my stiffy. Definitely put on weight over Xmas – 6
Boring. Had to shut eyes and think about the fit one off Downton – 5
What the hell … ? Anna’s eyes widened as she scrolled through the list of complaints: a litany of bad sex and fast-dwindling romance. The best score she’d had in the last three months was a solitary seven back in December. A seven! Meanwhile, he criticized her boobs, the size of her thighs, her kissing … It was so out of order. Everyone put on weight over Christmas, that was the law! And so what? A few pounds here or there didn’t matter. He was hardly Mr Muscle himself, anyway, with that soft, spongy belly of his. The only six-pack he could claim was the six-pack of Boddingtons he’d left in her kitchen. Who was he to judge?
She closed the laptop, heart thudding, not wanting to read any more. Why hadn’t he dumped her if he thought she was that unattractive? Why bother going through the motions?
She put her head in her hands, knowing how hypocritical she was, that she should ask the same questions of herself. The two of them had been on borrowed time for the last six months; they were a habit, a convenience to each other. Well, not any more. The soonest chance she got, she’d break it off. A mercy killing.
Her phone buzzed again, making her jump. She opened the text to see another message from Pete. This one was more unusual though.
BigBoy is throbbing 4 u. Feeling horny? ;-0
Underneath was a photo of his erect pink penis.
Anna stared at it for a full five seconds, her eyes out on stalks. Oh my God. What the … ? Was this his idea of reigniting the spark? Sexting her from his mum’s spare room?
She licked her lips, wondering how to reply. Should she even reply at all? Maybe she should pretend she’d been asleep when the text arrived, make some apology in the morning. But what would he write on the spreadsheet then? Frigid cow, wouldn’t even indulge me in a bit of phone-wanking.
She stuck her tongue out at the laptop. Oh, so what if he did? Let him write what he wanted, she was going to dump him by the end of the week anyway and he could slag her off to his heart’s content afterwards.
All the same, she couldn’t help feeling a strange frisson of curiosity. She and Pete had never actually had phone sex. Come to think of it, she’d never had phone sex with anyone. What exactly were you supposed to do? Should she spell out some sordid fantasies in a text? Or shove the phone in her knickers and take a photo for him in return? (Better not, actually, it was looking a bit unkempt down there. He might think he was looking at a snap of some jungly undergrowth in Borneo.)
Maybe she should just go along with it as a sort of social experiment. She might even get an anonymous feature out of it for a glossy magazine – they were always printing that kind of muck.
Three minutes had gone by and she still hadn’t replied. He’d either have ‘lost his stiffy’ or he’d be wanking over ‘that fit one from Downton’ by now. Had she missed her moment?
Dripping wet for you, she typed back, half-thrilled, half-aghast at her own daring. Give it to me hard, BigBoy.
Her finger hovered on the ‘Send’ key and she hesitated. Oh God, she thought, looking at the words and wrinkling her nose. It was such a cliché, wasn’t it? Straight out of a low-budget porn movie. Give it to me hard, BigBoy, indeed. So unoriginal.
Even worse than her unoriginality, she realized in the next moment, was the knowledge that Pete was sure to store any smutty texts on his SIM card and show all his mates. She’d once overheard Pete’s mate Andy Gordon (Flash, as he was known) boasting in the pub about his girlfriend Kirsty ‘taking one up the back alley’, complete with lurid details. There was no way Anna wanted to end up the subject of a similar conversation. She imagined walking in with Pete one evening and seeing the knowing looks and smirks. Ugh, no thanks.
Delete, delete, delete. She typed ‘SAUCY!’ instead, with a winking emoticon. Was it better to be a cliché or sound like Kenneth Williams? She was too confused to decide. She sent it off and sat there breathlessly for a few minutes, waiting for him to respond.
When no reply came, she guessed she’d missed the moment. Knowing Pete, he’d be passed out snoring under the brushed nylon covers of his mum’s spare bed, soggy tissues in the bin, a satisfied smile on his face. Feeling an odd mix of disappointment and relief, she got into her pyjamas and went to bed herself.
‘So what have we baked this week?’ asked Marla on Thursday. ‘Please not more of that vegetarian stuff,’ she added brightly, her
smile so toothy and dazzling it almost fooled Anna into thinking she was being nice. ‘I can’t be doing with rabbit food, do you know what I mean? How do people survive?’
‘Cake,’ Anna replied briefly, looking up from her computer. She was typing up the nicest ginger cake recipe, feeling confident that her readers were going to enjoy this one. Once she’d cut the dusty bits off, it had been spicy and moist and magically seemed to get better with every passing day.
‘Ahh,’ said Marla, sounding doubtful. ‘Hmmm.’
‘What do you mean, Ahh, hmmm?’
Marla cocked her head on one side, eyes wide. ‘Well, I don’t want to criticize, obvs, but are you sure that’s wise? Because it’s, like, January? And everyone’s totally watching their weight, with New Year’s resolutions and that?’ If you didn’t know better, you’d think Marla was deeply worried on Anna’s behalf.
Luckily Anna did know better. ‘Not everyone’s on a diet,’ she replied, typing quickly even though she was making spelling mistakes.
‘Oh, I know! I mean – I’m never on a diet, thank God! I’d die if I was fat, I would totally, like, shoot myself. But I know not everyone is blessed with an athletic metabolism, like moi.’ She gave a tinkling laugh. ‘Not that I’m saying you should be on a diet, Anna.’
She so was saying Anna should be on a diet. ‘God forbid anyone should think that, Marla,’ Anna said with admirable restraint, and went on typing crossly at an unsustainable speed. Combinge the floor with the bakisng wperowe, read the second line of her recipe.
‘People always say when they meet me, no way are you a restaurant reviewer! You’re so slim! Do you actually, like, eat the food, or do you just look at it and smell it? It’s so funny! Hashtag hilarious!’
Hashtag liar, more like, Anna thought, typing even faster. Beat the eeggs and stirs intoa the mizgture. She was just wondering how she was going to unclench her jaw and squeeze out a reply when the telltale clip-clop of power heels came from behind her.
‘Ladies, good morning,’ said Imogen, arriving on a waft of Dior. Today’s suit was funereal black because the newspaper’s proprietor, Dick Briggs (or Big Dicks as everyone called him), was expected in for a meeting. ‘Marla, Anna, do you have a minute? I’ve had one of my brilliant ideas, if I say so myself.’
‘Super!’ simpered Marla, batting her long eyelashes like an ass-kissing faun.
‘You’re on holiday next week, am I right?’ Imogen asked her.
‘Yes – sorry to rub it in, guys, but I’m off to Malaysia for a bit of winter sun,’ Marla announced to the office at large, like anyone was remotely interested. ‘I promise I won’t go on about it too much, but can I just say, five-star hotel, thank you very much, and one of those infinity pools and—’
Imogen spoke over the boasting. ‘So while you’re away, I thought Anna could step in and write your column,’ she said. ‘Is that all right with you, Anna? Only I thought it would be the perfect next step for you, already being our foodie expert.’
The silence that followed was so absolute you could have heard a raindrop splash into an infinity pool.
‘Oh,’ Anna said in surprise. ‘Really? That would be great.’
‘No!’ Marla protested, barely disguising her fury. She made a valiant attempt to recover herself, but her smile looked as strained as Big Daddy’s wrestling pants. ‘I mean … Sadly, I’m not sure Anna would be quite right,’ she said. ‘The thing is, you need experience to be a restaurant critic. No offence, Anna, but this is an exacting skill, and …’
Imogen narrowed her eyes. ‘I think she’ll do a very good job,’ she said in her most severe take-no-prisoners sort of a voice. ‘Marla, if you could brief Anna and give her some handover notes before you go …’
‘But—’
‘Thank you, Marla. Thank you, Anna. Look forward to seeing how you get on. Splendid!’
Marla stared after her with undisguised contempt. ‘The readers aren’t going to be happy about this,’ she said bitterly, before turning back to Anna, thin-lipped. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Anna, you’re a great little journalist …’
Great little journalist! Patronizing cow. Anna had been working at the paper years longer than Marla.
‘And you’ve done a very nice job on the old baking …’
She said it as if Anna had been writing about dogshit.
‘But, you know, my readers are very fond of my particular style of writing. It’s quite witty and clever …’
First I’ve heard of it, Anna thought darkly.
‘So, no offence, but …’
Anna had heard enough. ‘It’s a sodding five-hundred-word restaurant review, Marla, it’s not exactly the Opinion page in the Guardian. I’m sure I’ll manage.’
Marla gasped in outrage. ‘Well, if that’s the way you feel about it, maybe somebody else should fill in for me,’ she snapped. ‘I’m sorry to hear you’re so dismissive of the central part of the entertainment round-up.’
‘For crying out loud!’ roared Colin, like a bear woken from hibernation. He banged a fist on his desk. ‘Will you just put a sock in it? Some of us are actually trying to work around here.’
Marla swung round to her desk and began a furious assault on her keyboard, her mouth as tight and puckered as a cat’s bum. Anna couldn’t help a secret smile to herself. Standin restaurant critic, eh? ‘Our foodie expert,’ Imogen had called her. That was definitely what you called a result.
Chapter Eighteen
L’agenzia di lavoro – The employment agency
Catherine barely slept a wink on Sunday night. The few dreams she had were threaded through with anxiety: someone else living in the house, her looking in from the outside, unable to open her own front door … Then she’d wake up in a cold sweat and feel sick that it might actually come true.
When she wasn’t stressing out about being homeless, her brain was trying to unravel the strange mystery of all that money in Mike’s account. Something was definitely fishy there. Sure, he was on a good salary as a senior GP with various responsibilities at the surgery, but it wasn’t that good. Not good enough to have squirrelled away thousands and thousands of pounds in a secret bank account anyway. So where had the extra money come from?
All the crime novels she’d ever read started jostling to the forefront of her mind. Was he blackmailing somebody? Was he involved in some kind of fraud case? Had he … Her eyes boggled. Had he been killing off pensioner patients and somehow doctoring their wills?
By the time dawn broke, she knew she wasn’t going to get any more sleep, so she got up and made a strong coffee. Then she retrieved the document files and spread the papers out on the kitchen table. No, she definitely hadn’t imagined it. According to the bank statements, Mike had been receiving regular large sums of money (five or ten thousand pounds a time) for the last year and a half, always from the same company – Centaur. He probably wasn’t bumping off little old ladies, then, unless Centaur was an evil mastermind intrinsically linked with the plot.
She dusted off the old laptop (Mike had taken the newer, whizzier model with him) and turned on the wifi. If he was up to something dodgy, then she was going to discover exactly what, she thought with a sudden burst of energy. Hell, she was still his wife, wasn’t she? His soon-to-be-destitute wife. She had a right to know.
‘What are you hiding from me, Mike?’ she muttered under her breath as she opened up the browser.
Despite her best attempts, she didn’t get very far with her internet sleuthing. According to Google, there were hundreds of companies all around the world called Centaur, none of which she could imagine having any connection to Mike, however hard she tried. She frowned hopelessly at the bank statements while her second cup of coffee cooled, knowing that she was missing something crucial but unable to work out what it might be.
She was just about to go and have a shower when a thought struck her. Whether she could solve the mystery or not, with Mike threatening to sell the house from under her, she was really going to have to get a
job soon. Like, maybe today.
Later that morning, Catherine walked into Jenny Hayes Recruitment in town, dressed immaculately in her one and only black suit. She was ready to do battle. How hard could it be?
‘I need a job,’ she said bluntly to the woman behind the reception desk. ‘Anything. I’m not choosy.’
The receptionist didn’t react for a moment. She was about Catherine’s age, with black-rimmed, oversized glasses that made her head look slightly pinched. (Had she been a forceps birth? Catherine found herself wondering.) There was a mug on the desk which read ‘Don’t Worry Be Happy’, which was kind of ironic as the receptionist looked less like cracking a smile than anyone Catherine had ever seen.
Catherine was about to attempt communication a second time when the receptionist spoke. ‘You need to send in a CV,’ she said in a bored monotone, her eyes still on the screen in front of her. She typed something quickly, her polished nails flashing over the keyboard. ‘Then we’ll put you on our database and contact you if something suitable comes up.’
‘Yes, I’ve done that,’ Catherine said politely. She’d sent out about twenty in the first week of January in a flush of New Year optimism. ‘But I haven’t heard anything back from you. So I was just wondering—’
‘Name?’
‘Catherine Evans.’
The receptionist sighed as if this was all completely pointless, then typed in Catherine’s name. ‘Mill Cottage, Forge Lane?’
‘Yes, that’s me.’
‘No. We’ve got nothing. Sorry.’
Catherine gritted her teeth. ‘There must be something I can do. Honestly, I don’t mind, whatever it is.’ Out of the agency window her eye was suddenly caught by the sight of a young man embracing a much older woman. The woman was very glamorous, in a classic fawn trench-coat and just-blow-dried blonde hair. As they pulled apart, smiling, Catherine realized with a shock that the young man was Freddie from her Italian class. Whoa! She hadn’t expected him to be dating a woman like that.
