‘Did you get your airer fixed up?’ he then enquired.
‘Not yet, that’s this afternoon’s job. I got some pulleys from your shop. I didn’t realize it was your place until your brother served me,’ said Lou, her lips tightening as she thought of Tom’s darker half. ‘I made a bit of a twerp of myself actually. I thought he was you.’
Tom stopped dead, trying to loop the last hook onto the skip. ‘He was me,’ he said with a disbelieving little laugh. ‘I haven’t got a brother.’
‘It was you?’
‘Yes, of course! That’s why I held your money up to check it–to see if it wasn’t one of your counterfeits.’ He grinned.
Lou sifted through her recollection of buying the pulleys and mentally slapped her forehead with the heel of her hand. It seemed so obvious in retrospect that he had been having her on. How would he know about the airer if he hadn’t served her? She felt her brain blushing and the heat radiate out to the surface of her skin.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Tom. ‘I thought you guessed. I wondered why you ran off when I went to get you a receipt.’ He laughed heartily. ‘Didn’t you hear me say “you must be thinking of my big, handsome brother” or something like that?’
Is that Clooney? she had asked as well. No, it’s his brother. God, she was so thick, she deserved to be laughed at. A stupid, silly woman, two prawns short of a cocktail, who was having stupid, silly daydreams about a man who took her rubbish away. The enlightenment hit Lou like a lump hammer, and then her imagination took it and ran with it and embroidered a Bayeux tapestry around it.
He had probably had a good laugh about her to all the skip lads. Maybe that’s why different blokes kept delivering them, because he was sending them all up to have a look at her. Clooney knocked her over and I nearly broke my back lifting her up. And–you won’t believe this bit–she actually took in all that crap about me having a twin, the silly fat bag. I think she has the hots for me as well. Guess what, lads, she’s even got biscuits in for the dog!
Lou felt momentarily sick, as if the six-million-watt light bulb that had just switched on had drained her system of stomach stabilizers. When will you ever learn, Lou? said a weary inner voice. When are you ever going to realize that you are just one of life’s stooges? Jaws, Phil, Renee, Victorianna, Michelle, Bloody Keith Featherstone–they all thought she was a bit of a joke. And now him–(drum roll)–Mr Funny Skipman and his amazing performing brother. Why didn’t she just get out the red nose, stick it on her face and change her name to Charlie Cairoli? Tom Broom laughing at her felt worse than the rest of them put together.
Some little part of her that used to be Elouise Angeline Casserly flared up inside her and defied Lou Winter to spill those tears that were gathering behind her big green eyes. Instead, it pushed up her chin and, with reclaimed dignity, forced herself to make a semblance of joining in with the hilarity and say, ‘Silly me, yes, I see my mistake now.’ Which indeed she did.
It made her give Clooney a final pat on his great soft head and say a courteous goodbye to Tom Broom. Then it gave her the strength to walk calmly back to the sanctity of her kitchen without giving into an all-escaping run. There, it decided for her that there would be no more skips or contact with Mr Tom ‘Mick-Taker-Extraordinaire-Egomaniac-I’m-So-Clever’ Broom again. She didn’t need anyone else around who made her feel inadequate; there were too many of those already. She had thought he was different, but he wasn’t. And she didn’t need rubbish like him in her life.
Phil walked in at four o’clock to find Lou putting the finishing touches to the airer which she had just screwed into the kitchen ceiling beams. Lou knew her way around a toolbox, thanks to years of trailing after her DIY-mad dad and learning from him. He bought her a set of power tools at fifteen and set her projects to do. Her dad had made some beautiful things for the house in his cellar workshop and she would watch him, sitting on the little chair with the heart-shaped hole in the back that he had made for her. Her mother was grudgingly grateful–it was obvious she would rather have impressed the neighbours with some posh furniture van delivering what she wanted.
Phil could wire up a plug but was terrified of drilling holes in case he hit a water pipe or cut through a cable and gave himself a free perm. He watched her screwing some metal thing into the wall and wondered how she could be bothered. She still hadn’t told him what all that buttering-up meal business was about yesterday, but he knew he wouldn’t have to wait long to find out. Lou couldn’t keep secrets. She would have been hopeless having an affair, not that Lou ever would have an affair, that was an impossibility. Lou would never do that to him. Lou was a lovely person, even if she did have a bit of an arse on her these days, unlike the trim Miss British Racing Green Eyes. He really would have to watch that. Phil was going places these days and it wasn’t enough for him that Lou was nice inside; he needed her to look good on his arm. He didn’t want people laughing at him, like they laughed at Fat Jack when he brought Maureen out of her coffin to socialize.
As Fat Jack said, whilst eyeing up a little scrubber who was trading in a Fiesta, ‘When women start neglecting themselves, they deserve everything they get.’ When a bloke’s eye wanders, his missus should get the wake-up call to go and sort herself out. Jack himself had been unlucky on that front because Maureen had only got worse. Phil thought of that hairy mole on Maureen’s neck and shuddered. It was so big he felt sure it had its own brain. It was obvious that Jack only stayed with her because she serviced him with cleaning and cooking, and he didn’t want to fork out for a divorce. At least his Lou had cared about their marriage enough to fight for her man, and he’d had some very attentive sex and fantastic meals as a welcome-home-from-your-affair present. Fat Jack had got bugger all. Maureen hadn’t even shaved off her beard.
The telephone rang as Phil was in the shower. Something stopped Lou from picking it up and she let the answering machine take it whilst she listened on the screener.
‘Mrs Winter, it’s me, Tom Broom. I wasn’t sure if you said you wanted me to bring another skip or not earlier on when we were talking. If you do, can you call me? Thanks. Hope you had a nice weekend. Bye now.’
Hope you had a nice weekend, Lou mocked. He was obviously crawling now because he was scared he wouldn’t get her business any more. And with good reason. Lou went to the cupboard and got out the dog biscuits which she thrust down to the bottom of the kitchen bin, in a simple but definitive act. No, Lou wouldn’t call him back. She wasn’t going to pay him for the privilege of being an object of ridicule. Especially when he didn’t even know her first name!
Chapter 22
When Harrison’s Waste Disposals turned up the following Saturday to drop off a new mini-skip, Lou realized she had no cash in the house and hurriedly wrote out a cheque to ‘Tom Broom’, which the skipman sourly gave her back. She contemplated the fact that she might have developed some Pavlovian response to skips, whereby as soon as she saw one she was obliged to make an absolute prat of herself.
She had found an alternative skip-hire company after searching through the Yellow Pages. Seeing Tom’s name there in black and yellow had given her a nip of sadness. His absence had cheated her of a secret fantasy that had brought a harmless thrill to a life that she was increasingly recognizing as joyless, empty and boring. She hated that Tom Broom’s brief cameo appearance had caused so much disruption. She had been content with her lot before he came on the scene with his bloody dog and his bloody skips. Hadn’t she?
In the week that had passed, Lou’s subconscious still hadn’t presented her with the solution to the letting-Phil-know-about-Deb problem, after all; the whole thing was too mammoth for it to cope with. The only thing it had come up with was the thought that maybe she should talk to someone about it and get a fresh view on the subject. But who was there. Karen? Too young. Her mother? Do me a favour! That left Michelle.
Michelle hadn’t been in touch since the text message saying that everything was hunky dory and she was loved up. Lou supposed she had
been forgiven now and rang to leave a message on Michelle’s answerphone. There was no way she would pick up because it was Saturday and she was probably halfway to her fortieth orgasm of the weekend with Craig. But Michelle surprised her by answering after three rings and sounding really glad to hear from her, apologizing as usual for not being in touch: busy, busy, gym, gym, sex with Craig, sex with Craig…
‘So it’s going well then?’ said Lou carefully.
‘Fandabidozy. He is gorgeous! He can’t keep his hands off me!’
‘That’s great. Michelle, look, the reason I rang you—’
‘Hang on, I must tell you this–we were going to pick up fish and chips last night and he said he thought he was falling for me. Can you believe it? I just melted.’
‘Not there now, is he? I’m not interrupting, am I?’
‘Lou, do you think I’d have answered the phone if he was?’ she laughed, whilst making a clear point. ‘No, he’s going to a football match with his mates.’ She sighed indulgently. ‘It’ll do him good, getting some fresh air. This house stinks of sex. I’ve had to buy in a bulk load of Shake ’n’ Vac.’
‘I want to ask you—’
‘Mind you, he hardly got any when he was married, so he’s just making up for lost time with a decent woman.’
‘Michelle, can you help me on something—’
‘You should hear some of the tricks his wife’s done on him, the bloody bitch. I’ve told him he can move in here for a while but it’s too far away from Leeds for him. Do you know what she did once? You won’t believe this…’
Thus steamrollered, Lou gave up trying to interrupt and there followed a half-hour character assassination of Craig’s wife. Lou heard it but didn’t listen because five minutes into the monologue Michelle’s voice became white noise.
The Deb and Phil thing was something she would have to sort out on her own, Lou thought, with a guilt-free yawn and a mind that was a million light years away from Craig and his incredibly talented penis.
Chapter 23
For three consecutive Saturdays now, Lou had been slipping out to meet Deb. It felt as if they had never been apart, except for one big difference. In the old days, there was nothing they couldn’t talk about; now there were a couple of taboo subjects. Phil being the biggest. And as much as Lou would have liked to have exorcised the ghost of Tom Broom through a good gossip, it seemed a bit of a cheek to talk about a bloke she fancied–had fancied–with a friend she had once given up to save her marriage. There, she had finally admitted it to herself: she had fancied him. Not that it mattered now that he was totally gone from her life.
She and Deb had talked on the phone a few times during the week, on her mobile because she didn’t want the number showing up on the house phone bill. She couldn’t afford to rock the boat in any way, especially because she had the distinct feeling that Phil knew she was up to something. Some sixth sense within her was waving a bright red warning flag. Phil was as wily as a fox and nothing got past him.
In saying that, she was deceiving him. She had fibbed twice, saying she was shopping in Meadowhall when all the time she was drinking coffee and eating cake with Deb. That couldn’t be right, could it? Lying to her husband went against everything Lou believed in. The pressure was starting to weigh heavily on her. God knows, she would never have been able to put up with the strain of having an affair. Not that there was anyone she fancied enough to have an affair with. Not since the only person recently to have made her heart beat faster had turned out to be a bit of a shit.
In Maltstone village garden centre café, Lou and Deb were just devouring two very nice slices of chocolate fudge cake. They hadn’t gone back to Café Joseph. They didn’t want to send the waiter into hormonal overdrive.
Talk flowed easily enough between them. Lou told Deb that she had ordeal-by-lunch-with-mother to look forward to on Tuesday, which would probably be light relief after another soul-destroying day in Accounts on Monday, but Deb seemed a little distracted.
‘You OK?’ Lou asked.
‘Yes, of course. No, I’m not actually,’ came the contradictory answer. Deb put down her fork and stared hard at Lou without saying anything.
‘What’s up?’ said Lou, through her last mouthful.
‘Lou, I’ve got something to ask you.’ Deb was biting her bottom lip. She used to do that when she was nervous, Lou recalled.
‘God, it sounds like you’re going to propose. If you are, I have to tell you I’m married already.’
‘Yes, to a total prick though,’ said Deb without thinking. She took a sharp intake of breath; it was as if she was trying to suck the words back. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean for that to come out.’
Lou let loose a bark of laughter. ‘It’s actually a big relief,’ she said. ‘I know you can’t stand him and you really don’t have to pretend that you do. You don’t owe him anything.’
Except a boot in the knackers, thought Deb.
‘Anyway, this isn’t about him,’ she carried on. Not dignifying him with a name. ‘This is about you and me.’
‘Go on.’ Lou was all ears.
Deb opened her mouth to start, and then shut it again. She’d forgotten her well-rehearsed opening gambit. There was nothing for it but to plunge in headfirst.
‘What?’ urged Lou with amused curiosity.
‘Working Title Casa Nostra,’ blurted out Deb. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy giving it another go?’
‘Yes,’ said Lou immediately.
‘Take your time, I know it’s a big decision. I so want to do this but I understand that it would probably cause trouble between you and you know who…and there’s a lot more at—’ Her brain suddenly caught up with her ears. ‘You’re joking!’
‘I’ve never been more serious in my whole life.’
‘Bloody Norah!’
They stared at each other, hardly daring to breathe. Then they valved out to a childish bout of giggles.
‘Deb, I am so glad you asked. I would never have dared, seeing it was my fault in the first place that we never went ahead,’ said Lou.
‘It wasn’t your fault, it was…’ that cretinous balding twat’s ‘…well, it doesn’t matter about faults. Maybe it wasn’t the time for us back then. The older I get, the more I believe in fate and timings. Are you sure you want to?’
‘I am totally, positively sure I’m sure. Ever since I found that file again I haven’t been able to get it out of my head.’
‘I could scream I’m so excited,’ Deb said with a full-capacity smile.
‘So where do we start?’ asked Lou.
‘Well, you’re going to have to start by telling Phil about me,’ said Deb. ‘Otherwise it will be a bit hard to explain where all those millions sat in your bank account have come from, when the business takes off. I’ll start by borrowing the Casa Nostra file from you and refreshing my memory on what the sodding hell I was planning to make a Brando out of.’
‘I won’t let you down this time, Deb. Whatever happens,’ said Lou earnestly.
‘I know,’ said Deb, and she did know–although it was probably a good job that at that precise moment, neither of them knew just how much would happen.
Chapter 24
Lou opened her wardrobe doors and looked through the banks of clothes for her black skirt and red top. She was taking her mother out for her birthday lunch to a lovely Italian restaurant just outside Wakefield, but what should have been a simple clothes-choosing exercise turned out to have complications. The realization struck her like a slap: she really did have some awful clothes. Her eyes were tugged towards the burgundy suit she wore so often for work. Looking at it, head on, bulkily sitting on the hanger, she could see why Karen took the mick out of it so much. It looked short and thick and squat–was she really that shape? There was no way that it was going back in the wardrobe now that she had seen it through her recently acquired objective eye. Sliding it from the hanger, she dropped it quickly onto the floor before she could change her mind.
She
checked the clock; she had a spare half-hour to make a start if she wanted to do what had suddenly landed in her mind and Lou did want to, very much. She could no longer tolerate any potential rubbish that she spotted, and she had spotted a lot in her wardrobe. Do you wear 20 per cent of your wardrobe, 80 per cent of the time? the article had asked and she concluded that she probably did, looking at this junk hanging up.
Pushing up her sleeves, she started at the left, pulling out a loose black dress in which the whole Billy Smart family and some Bengal tigers could adequately have performed. But it’s comfortable and OK for lounging about the house in, said a weak little inner voice. Tough, returned Lou, and replaced the empty hanger on the rail. It might have been a comfy purchase, but she looked like a gothic Mama Cass in it. ‘And there’s another for the rubbish pile,’ she said to herself, seizing a faded pair of red track-suit bottoms that were big enough for Santa to change into after his Christmas dinner.
The blue suit was a bland necessity for work. The black one was her favourite but it had been a ‘to slim into’ purchase, and she never had. It wasn’t made from a stretchy fabric nor did it feature the elastic waistband she so favoured these days. It really would have to go, along with all the other ‘too smalls’ that waited patiently but in vain for Lou to regain the figure she had twenty years ago. It was a very classy two-piece though, she thought. She tried it on again for old times’ sake and found with some surprise that it slipped over the hips it usually snagged on. The jacket, which she had never been able to close across the bust, buttoned up beautifully now. Not only that, there was actually room when she rotated her shoulders and jutted out her chest in the exaggerated fashion of Barbara Windsor in Carry on Camping. Looking at herself in the mirror, she was pleasantly taken aback at the reflection. I’ve lost weight! Flaming heck, when did that happen? Either that or a benign fairy was coming in and stretching her clothes at night.
A Spring Affair Page 14
