A Spring Affair

by Milly Johnson

  A loose pink shirt with white spots started a separate charity-shop pile. It had been one of her favourites until Phil pointed out that she looked like Mr Blobby in it and totally put her off wearing it. Next, it was goodbye to that size eight pair of grey check trousers, a lovely red dress and some sundresses, all size tens, which had been hanging up and taunting her that she was too fat to fit in them. Well, they wouldn’t be there to taunt her any more! Next…

  Within twenty minutes 75 per cent of Lou’s wardrobe was crammed into four bin-bags, along with a fifth one full of old knickers, ancient bras, bobbly tights and unwanted shoes, including the ridiculous high heels that she had worn that night out with Michelle and couldn’t think of without associations of pain, inner and outer, and a Highway to Hell soundtrack. The old black faithful skirt that Lou was originally going to wear for lunch was now in a charity bag, teamed up with the gathered red top, which she knew didn’t make the best of her chest, but it hadn’t bothered her that much, until now.

  The remaining clothes in her wardrobe suddenly had room to breathe and the sight of the fresh space gave her that curiously light and uplifting feeling again. Plus, it would be quite fun to replenish her wardrobe, she thought. But from now on she was only going to buy clothes that looked and felt and fitted as well as the black suit. There were to be no big fat comfortable clothes that made her feel like an old frump or impossibly small clothes that made her feel bovine by comparison. She put her lovely black suit back on and looked forward, for once, to her mother’s verdict.

  Renee opened up the car door and climbed gracefully out. She had a smart little taupe suit on that made the best of her trim figure and slim legs, and she carried the matching light brown handbag that Lou had bought her for her birthday. Mother and daughter strolled into the Italian restaurant and were greeted by a round-faced but attractive waiter with a pronounced accent.

  ‘Have you lost weight?’ asked Renee, who had been studying Lou from the back as they walked to their table.

  ‘Yes, I think I have,’ Lou confirmed. ‘It must be all that exertion filling my skips.’

  ‘Haven’t you gone on the scales to find out?’ said Renee, who weighed herself every morning naked, after her ablutions and before her Bran Flakes.

  ‘I don’t have any scales,’ said Lou.

  ‘Well, you want to keep it up and before you know where you are you’ll look nice again.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Lou tightly.

  Once seated, they studied the oversized menus over slimline tonics, ice and lime.

  ‘Thank you for the flowers, they were beautiful, by the way,’ said Renee.

  ‘Good, glad you liked them,’ said Lou, aware that her mother had shifted her scrutiny from the menu to her face.

  ‘Your skin’s looking nice,’ she said at last. ‘Have you been doing anything to it?’

  ‘Just drinking a lot of water,’ said Lou. Her skin had always been nice, though. She hadn’t suffered any of the volcanic facial activity that had plagued, and continued to plague Victorianna despite her diet of healthy-this and healthy-that. Tee Hee.

  ‘Nothing better than water for the skin,’ said Renee.

  ‘Filling the skips is a thirsty business,’ Lou added, whilst thinking, Wow, two compliments on the trot. There’s a first! Betcha there wouldn’t be a third. She curled her fingers away before her mother noticed them. The life-improving qualities of intensive physical clutter-clearing didn’t extend to cuticle-care and nail preservation.

  ‘What are you going to have?’ said Renee.

  ‘I think I’ll start off with garlic mushrooms.’

  ‘Oh you’re not, are you?’ Renee screwed up her face, disapproving. ‘You’ll undo all that good work if you eat a big plateful of butter.’

  Lou snarled inwardly. ‘What would you like me to have, Mum?’ she said with a fixed grin.

  ‘Have what you like,’ sniffed Renee. ‘I’m only trying to encourage you.’

  ‘I’ll have the tiger-prawn salad,’ said Lou. She just prayed the prawns’ last meal had been garlic mushrooms.

  ‘What about for main?’ asked Renee eventually, after she had decided on the salmon.

  ‘Lard pie and chips,’ Lou answered with flat petulance.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Elouise,’ said her mother, as if she were nine and had just asked for a gerbil.

  Lou ordered chicken in a mushroom and white wine sauce. She forewent the gastronomic pleasures that Café Ronaldo’s garlic bread would have given her, knowing she wouldn’t enjoy it all that much with her mother watching her every mouthful.

  ‘Have you heard from Victorianna?’ asked Lou, after the waiter had taken their order.

  ‘Yes, she rang very early this morning and her card is on its way, apparently. Their post takes ages,’ said Renee, waving away the whole American postal system with one sweep of her small, thin hand. ‘I don’t know–they can send men up to the moon, but they can’t get a birthday card here on time. Typical!’

  ‘Has she sent you a present?’ Lou enquired sweetly.

  ‘She’s put some money in the card for me to get what I want,’ replied Renee, adjusting the serviette on her lap so she wouldn’t have to look Lou in the eye. ‘Vera’s going to visit her son in Germany for her birthday, did I say? Her son’s paying for her to go out there.’ Renee couldn’t help the almost indiscernible sigh that came out with it and despite all her criticisms and pettiness, Lou felt a sudden all-engulfing wave of sympathy and love for her mother. Victorianna really was one-way traffic. She must have known how much their mother wanted to go out there and how it hurt her that she had not once been asked.

  ‘You should tell Victorianna to invite you over,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t tell her to invite me, Elouise,’ Renee snapped.

  No, thought Lou, with a plan already sparking into life in her head. But I can.

  Later that evening, Lou was snuggled up in a bed with fresh, cosy sheets on it, which felt extra comforting as the wind howled outside and rain lashed against the window. Phil had tried to initiate sex, but she had said she was too tired. He hinted at doing ‘other things’ instead, but she hinted back that she was too tired for those as well. He punished her with his back and no kiss goodnight, which didn’t bother her half as much as it was intended to.

  She had just drifted off to the shallows of sleep when she was woken up by a rude shake.

  ‘Lou, Lou, what’s that noise?’ Phil was hissing.

  ‘Wha…’

  ‘Shhhhh!…Listen.’

  Lou did as instructed. She was just about to say she couldn’t hear a thing when her ears caught a scratching noise.

  ‘There’s someone trying to get in the back door,’ whispered Phil. ‘Did you put the alarm on?’

  ‘Yes, of course I did. Go and see who it is,’ Lou whispered back.

  ‘There’s no way I’m going downstairs,’ said Phil gallantly.

  ‘Look out of the window then!’

  ‘No, they might see me. Where’s your mobile? Mine’s downstairs on charge.’

  ‘So is mine.’

  ‘Oh, bloody marvellous!’

  ‘Shhh,’ said Lou, straining to hear. Threaded amongst the whistles of the wind was a definite whimpering. Whatever it was, it was animal not human, and sounded in pain too. She hopped out of bed.

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Phil.

  ‘To look out of the window,’ replied Lou. She nudged the curtain open and peered down, but the rain was hitting the glass at full pelt and her view was distorted.

  There it was again, a clear yelp.

  ‘That’s not a burglar, it’s a dog,’ said Lou, slipping on her dressing-gown and heading for the stairs. Phil jumped out of bed and followed her tentatively downstairs to the kitchen. As Lou typed in the code to turn off the alarm, Phil made a clattering grab in the drawer for a bread-knife.

  Despite his expectations, there was no spooky silhouette of a mass murderer framed in the glass of the back door. Phi
l stood behind Lou, serrated-edged weapon at the ready, as she unlocked the door as far as the chain would allow. There on the doorstep was a very soggy and bedraggled German Shepherd.

  ‘Chuck this at the bloody thing,’ said Phil, handing her a pan. ‘SHOO!’

  Lou huffed loudly and slipped the chain off.

  ‘Fucking hell, don’t let it in!’ Phil yelled as she then flung open the door and Clooney shivered into the kitchen.

  ‘It’s the skip man’s dog,’ said Lou, grabbing a towel from the top of the ironing basket and bending to his side. He was shaking, trembling, his ears flat against his head.

  ‘Well, what’s he doing here? Market bloody research?’ demanded Phil, watching incredulously as she made soothing noises and attempted to rub the dog dry.

  ‘How do I know, Phil? He’s obviously remembered the house.’

  ‘How can a dog remember a house?’

  ‘In case you haven’t noticed, my name’s Lou Winter not Barbara Woodhouse.’

  Clooney sneezed and then Phil sneezed.

  Lou couldn’t resist. ‘You’re allergic to each other,’ she smiled wryly.

  ‘It’s not funny. Get it out of here,’ said Phil crossly, making a move to grab the dog’s collar but thinking better of it when his hand got within three foot of the dog’s jaws.

  ‘You are joking!’ said Lou, fighting the mischievous urge to say, I wouldn’t send a dog out on a night like this! ‘You can’t let him back out in this weather, poor thing.’

  ‘Well, you can’t keep him here, can you?’ said Phil, who could feel his nose beginning to fill up with mucus.

  ‘Pass me the phone,’ said Lou. ‘I’ll ring the skip man. He’ll be frantic.’

  ‘He’s not going to be at work now, is he? It’s…’ Phil looked at the clock on the oven…‘half-past pissing one!’

  ‘Well, I don’t know where he lives, Phil, so leaving a message is the only thing I can do!’

  Lou could remember Tom Broom’s number, but thought it wiser to go through the pretence of looking it up in the telephone directory. As expected, an answering machine clicked on.

  ‘Hello, Mr Broom,’ began Lou efficiently after the announcement and the long beep. ‘It’s Mrs Winter, number one, The Faringdales, Hoodley. It’s one-thirty on Wednesday morning and I’ve got your dog here. He’s OK but very wet. I’m going to bed him down here for the night—’

  ‘Oh no, you’re fucking not, Lou! You fucking aren’t bedding that scruffy, smelly, hairy bastard thing!’ screamed Phil in the background.

  Lou ignored him and carried on, ‘…So there’s no need to worry. He seems fine. Anyway, that’s it, end of message, bye for now. Oh, and here’s my number…’

  She put down the phone and turned to defuse Phil, who sneezed again dramatically enough to be right up there with any passing Oscar nominees.

  ‘He can sleep in here,’ she said calmly, trying not to inflame the situation by pointing out what a big girl’s blouse Phil was being. ‘I’ll disinfect the place tomorrow. You won’t know he’s ever been here.’

  Phil’s brain recalled him sneezing like this before in the kitchen. Have you had a dog in here? And she had answered, ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘He’s been here before, hasn’t he?’

  ‘I brought him in for a biscuit once, that’s all,’ said Lou.

  ‘Where are you going now?’ asked Phil as Lou marched out of the kitchen, leaving him alone with the Hound of the Baskervilles. The vicious-looking thing was enormous, and his head was on a level with Phil’s balls. Phil did a quick exit and trailed behind Lou as she went to the top of the stairs and pulled down the loft ladder.

  ‘There’s a sleeping bag up here,’ said Lou.

  ‘My sleeping bag? The one I use for camping?’ Phil yelled.

  ‘Use? Phil, the last time you went camping was before you met me,’ reminded Lou. ‘These days, your idea of roughing it on holiday would be only one Michelin star and no malt in the mini-bar.’

  Phil opened his mouth but no counter-argument came bounding out so he hung redundantly around the bottom of the steps whilst she climbed up.

  Lou switched on the loft light and saw that the sleeping bag was right by her feet. It smelled a bit, having been stored in the forgotten air up there, but it was dry and would adequately fulfil the purpose of a temporary dog bed.

  She hadn’t been up to the loft for over two years now, into this final resting-place for things she didn’t want to think about. As soon as she saw the shadowy shapes up there again she knew that there were ghosts here she must exorcise. She needed to finally move on–and to be able to do that, she needed a hell of a lot of bin-bags and yet another empty skip. For now, though, there was a distressed dog to sort out.

  ‘You’re cooking chicken at this time of night?’ shrieked Phil, watching open-mouthed in disbelief as Lou cut up fillets and poured some rice to boil in a saucepan. ‘Want me to toss it up a chuffing side salad as well?’

  ‘Phil, just go to bed,’ said Lou wearily, resisting the urge to point out that he was already being a big enough tosser as it was. His sniffling and swearing were starting to annoy her. He could be such a wimp sometimes. Quite often actually, when she thought about it.

  Phil had another aggressive sneezing fit which made up his mind for him. This was his house, after all.

  ‘No, no, I’m sorry, it’s not staying here. It can go in the garage.’

  ‘No, he can’t,’ said Lou quietly but firmly.

  ‘Yes, it can, Lou!’

  ‘No, he can’t!’

  She matched him for intensity if not volume, but she was aware that she had now strayed into the sort of argument that she always lost, the type where strength of will was involved. Then she would end up bloody and hurt as Phil fought his corner with low blows about her weight, thinner women, letting herself go.

  His voice spiralled to a scream.

  ‘I’m not letting you keep that animal in my house and that’s that!’

  Let?

  It was that word again.

  Lou’s mind wagged her own words back at her.

  ‘How on earth did a woman get into a state where a man was “letting” her do things?’

  LET?

  Like a long-dormant volcano stirring into life, Lou’s inner magma suddenly started to rise and spit. She couldn’t have stopped its course to the surface if she’d tried.

  ‘Oh, by the way, I meant to tell you, I bumped into Deb,’ she said with calm defiance. ‘And we had a coffee together. A few coffees together, actually. And it’s very possible I may be going into business with her, same plan as before. Our coffee-house, do you remember?’

  ‘What?’ said Phil, wondering for a moment if he was asleep and having a bad dream. Either that or he was experiencing a psychotic flashback as a result of taking some speed back in the eighties.

  ‘I said I bumped into Deb…’

  ‘I heard you the first time. Well, I’d give up any plans of seeing her again or—’

  Lou spun on him. ‘Or what?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Or what, Phil?’ Lou snapped. She was looking at him in a way that reminded him of when they were courting; in those days, she had a fire that he had loved to poke into even more flames. It was only when he realized that the blaze was getting away from his control that he’d put it out. Phil suddenly remembered who British Racing Green Eyes reminded him of.

  He chain-sneezed.

  ‘Oh, I’m going back to bed,’ he said grumpily. He’d give her a fight any night of the week and win it because he knew exactly what to say to make his wife start sobbing into a hankie and saying her sorrys, but presently he was debilitated by itching eyes and a nose full of snot. He thudded heavily back upstairs, his head bursting.

  Lou wrapped up her loudly ticking travel alarm clock in a tea towel and put it under the sleeping bag for Clooney. Her dad had done that for Murphy on his first few puppy nights at home, to give him the comfort of a simulated fellow heartbeat.
How had she ever once thought that Phil was like her dad, Lou wondered, sitting by Clooney’s side and stroking his damp quiet head as she waited for his supper to finish cooking.

  Upstairs, Phil was lying awake and thinking, So that’s what she’s been up to–meeting that bitch Deb again. Not only that, but she had been lying about having dogs in their house–his house, actually–when she knew he was allergic to the fucking horrible flea-ridden things. And she had started refusing him sex. And she’d burned his curry. Who does my wife think she is?

  There was only room for one dominant person in their marriage. It was in danger of losing the equilibrium it needed to survive, so Lou Winter, he decided, needed bringing back into line. And Phil Winter knew the very best way to make that happen.

  Chapter 25

  Phil washed, dressed and went down to the kitchen for a quick pre-work coffee, totally forgetting about the presence of Scooby Doo. On seeing it, he spasmed backwards, sending himself careering into the table and chairs. Scruffy smelly bastard hound asleep on his best sleeping bag!

  He shouted up to Lou, who was just putting on some make-up. She hadn’t got to bed until nearly three o’clock and it was only seven o’clock now. There were black circles under her eyes that needed attention. Thank goodness it was Wednesday and she wasn’t at work today.

  ‘Get rid of this dog quick, Lou!’ Phil said.

  Clooney opened up one eye, viewed him briefly and closed it again. This small action totally infuriated Phil. How dare the bloody thing look at him like that! In his own kitchen as well. Who did it think it was? The Duke of Sodding Edinburgh?

  He grabbed his jacket and shouted upstairs again. ‘I’ll get my breakfast at work.’