Some Like it Hot

by Amanda Brobyn

  “Do you really feel sick, Roni?”

  Roni’s face was a shade of ashen and her eyes had puffy bags beneath them.

  “I really do. I’m sorry, Darren, but I don’t think I can do this today.”

  Darren smiled at her. He felt sorry for how bad she felt, self-inflicted as it was.

  “No worries.” He offered his hands out to her, leaning down to reach the short limbs which she held up to him. He grabbed her petite hands and hoisted her clean from the pool in a single lift.

  Roni stood, shivering as she continued to clutch his hands. She dared herself to look up at his flawless, boyish face, noticing how his skin had rid itself of the acne he wore when they first met.

  “Sorry for calling you an idiot. That was mean of me.”

  “It’s okay . . . hey, did you get your hair done?” Darren let go of Roni’s hands as he felt her grip linger.

  “Erm, yes.”

  “It really suits you,” he spoke honestly. “I love the colour, it makes you look loads younger.”

  Roni was flattered and embarrased in equal doses.

  “Thanks,” was all she could manage.

  As Darren bowed down for closer inspection, Roni tilted her face up until they were just inches apart, thinking he was set to kiss her. She moved in closer, aiming for his lips but as he pulled back unaware she kissed his chin.

  Roni turned and fled. She was mortified. What was she thinking? Obviously something different to what he was thinking. He was checking out her hair not her. Stupid, stupid woman!

  Roni knew she was too embarassed to look at Darren, but she also knew if she opted out of the swimming Peter would want to know why and she could hardly blame Darren for checking out her hi-lights. She knew she had to face the music. This was her first step as the New Roni, to tackle things like an adult.

  She wrapped her robe around her hungover body and trudged back to the pool where Darren remained in exactly the same spot, unsure of what to do.

  “I’m really sorry. I, erm, don’t know what came over me,” she whispered. “Please let’s not allow it to get in the way of any further swimming lessons because Pe –”

  Darren cupped Roni’s face as though it were a fragile carving. He kissed her hard on the lips. He looked suprised by his own action as he paused to consider hers. “This is what came over you,” he told her before stooping down to kiss her again, regardless.

  ‘If you don’t hand over the money I’ll spill the beans on Sophie, you stingy bitch.’

  Helena read the message again. And again. She had received a number of negative texts from Nathan but nothing like this.

  ‘Get a job, you lazy bastard!’ she replied with rage.

  He wouldn’t tell. Nathan was always spineless, he lacked gusto, conviction and his jelly legs wouldn’t have the bottle to do it.

  Let him get evicted. It wasn’t her fault she had carried him for so long that he had forgotten what responsibilities were. He would learn the hard way like any other person. Failing that, he could always ask his mother, it was about time he got off his lard-arse to see her.

  ‘You didnt spend al ur bonus I no it! Hand ovr o’wise I’m homeless & ul b friendless.’

  Helena smirked at the prospect of Nathan aimlessly wandering the streets. He wouldn’t last two minutes. Friendless? Was that even a word? What was wrong with her that she had stayed with him for so long?

  ‘Enjoy al’ fresco living, Nathan!’ she giggled as she replied to him.

  ‘Pls Helena? My Helena.x’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  Helena chose not to tell Sophie about the text messages. It would only worry her, and while Sophie was candid in her day-to-day affairs, she was a closed book as far as her past was concerned. She drip-fed information as and when it suited her and she was a good liar with an even better memory for it. She was brilliant in fact.

  Sophie threw her keys on the timber worktop. She yawned and her eyes watered with tiredness. Today had been a busy day and she herself had undergone back-to-back appointments with cuts, colours and a six-hundred-pound hair-extension for one client – lucky with their new image but unlucky with the exorbitant bill – still, human hair didn’t come cheap.

  She headed into the open-plan living room like she did every night taking a few minutes to check out the views, see if any new yachts had moored and get a feel for the general comings and goings of the small but exclusive marina. It was not a working harbour but moreso a recreational mooring platform, and boats of various small-to-medium sizes moved in and out of there continually, but that was generally the height of it.

  Sophie caught sight of a case of champagne in a corner of the small balcony. She opened the balcony door, pulling it inwards and stepped outside.

  “Helena!” she yelled. “Why have we got a case of Bolly on the balcony?”

  Helena strutted into the living room in a red woollen shift dress, one that Sophie hadn’t seen before. Her lips were painted scarlet and she looked as pretty as a picture. Her naturally brown hair fell down her back sleek and shining and the recent auburn tones added colour to her cheeks, lighting up her dainty face.

  “It’s for the cruise. I didn’t think it was fair Jude buying the champers every year and since I’ve never been able to make a contribution, I thought I might make up for it. Last year Nathan and I must have drunk three bottles between us and now I feel so guilty for being such a sponge.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Hel, but I’m sure Jude wouldn’t see it like that, she’s never one to count the favours she does for people . . . far from it. But Bollinger, Helena? There must be the guts of two hundred pounds’ worth there,” Sophie exclaimed, hoisting the heavy box into her slight arms. “You could have bought a decent case of Cava, saved yourself a small fortune.” She carried it into the kitchen. “I’m not risking its disappearance,” she puffed.

  “But we’re four floors up.” Helena looked bewildered.

  “I’d scale four floors to nick a case of this stuff, wouldn’t you?”

  Helena laughed, nodding. “I guess I would . . . but it would be a bit heavy to carry. Did you not think of that?”

  “We should do that for a laugh one night, Hel, get a pair of suction cups and see what’s on people’s balconies . . . nick a few things. It would be a blast.”

  Helena also wondered what else Sophie would do to get what she wanted. Although in fairness, she probably knew.

  “Knowing my luck, Sophie, I’d end up with a haul of greying bras and odd socks!” Helena pealed with laughter. “Sophie Kane – the Wall-climbing Super Heroine.” Helena imagined her friend in a skintight costume looking very much the sexy heroine. If anyone could pull it off, Sophie could.

  “Thanks Hel, you say the sweetest things. I’m glad you see me as some sort of heroine. You’re right, of course,” she replied, tongue in cheek but straight-faced.

  Helena rolled her eyes at Sophie’s lack of humility, joking as she was. Humility? Sophie Kane didn’t even know how to spell the word.

  Clive drove home from work in cutting silence. The music he so often played on full blast had been rejected in place of his own thoughts which were more a dead march than a heavy-metal rant. He was beside himself and what was worse was that Jude hadn’t seemed to notice.

  Jude swept back her hair into a loose ponytail, twisting the bobble expertly as she waited for the kettle to boil. She watched its steam puff out furiously, its wetness coating the underside of the wall-mounted cupboard which held her best crystal glasses. She pulled the kettle away to allow its steam to evaporate into thin air, saving the cupboard from possible damp. As it clicked itself off, the steam dispersed back into the kettle and she lifted it from its cradle, pouring the boiling water over a pan of potatoes she had peeled earlier.

  She was making Cottage Pie – not Shepherd’s Pie, as Clive so often corrected her. ‘Shepherd’s Pie is made with lamb and Cottage Pie is made with beef.’ Clive liked to be accurate about what he was eating. There was no point cal
ling something by the wrong name. To him it was as silly as cooking a turkey and calling it chicken.

  Jude smiled as she tipped the steak mince into the pan of browning onions. She knew that Clive would be waiting for her to trip up as she dished up dinner. He did it everytime, although only in jest.

  But tonight she would be accurate with her recipe, she would be error-free all evening and by the end of it she hoped the negative feelings from her covert operations would be vanquished, never to return. Her burden would be lifted.

  She hadn’t planned what she was going to say to Clive, but she had planned for her mother to collect the children from school and to keep them for the evening, returning them at bedtime which should give them sufficient time to celebrate – in whatever form it took – but that was as far as she had gone in terms of forward planning.

  Deliberately too, for she didn’t want the evening to appear contrived, nor word-perfect. She wanted simply to tell it as it was, nothing too rehearsed – and the timing would be right now that Clive had eased himself into his new role.

  Jude heard the key force itself into the front door. The lock was a bit stiff and fixing it was on Clive’s list of jobs among a dozen or so other jobs – not big jobs – just picky, annoying tasks which when fixed would make life easier for all of them. Jude had given up waiting for many of them to be done. She had her deadlines, six months, and then she would get someone in. She was glad she was so laid back.

  “I’m in the kichen, Clive.”

  Jude poured two glasses of a Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon and walked to the doorway ready to hand one of them to her overworked husband who had been looking a little tired during the past few days. It had become a routine over the years. Her propped against the kitchen door watching him remove the same garments he removed every night and in the same order, waiting patiently to extend him an alcoholic offering combined with a tender welcoming kiss. Sometimes when the children were there, they too would rush to the door to greet their father and Jude had the pleasure of watching the three of them, her perfect family, and she was sure her heart would literally burst one day.

  Clive had already removed his tie and was undoing the top button of his starched white shirt when he noticed Jude leaning against the oak door frame. Once again he was struck by her effortless beauty. He would never get tired of looking at her.

  “You look wrecked, darling,” Jude told him as she leaned in to kiss him on the lips. Clive’s return peck barely touched hers – instead he took the wineglass, kissing it full on with an open mouth, allowing its contents to roll down his throat at hurried speed.

  They moved into the kitchen.

  “What are you making for dinner?”

  “Cottage Pie,” she laughed. “Not Shepherd’s Pie.”

  If Clive got the joke, he certainly didn’t appear amused by it.

  “Are you okay, Clive? You look a little off-colour, darling?”

  Clive was not a man to mince his words. He was a lawyer through and through, direct and ruthless.

  “Who was that man you were with at the coffee shop the other day?”

  “What?”

  “The dark-haired guy who was so obviously smitten by you.” He polished off the remnants of wine and refilled his own glass thoughtlessly. “And you didn’t look particularly uncomfortable with him either,” he added nastily.

  Jude’s open mouth could find no words to say.

  “I’ve seen changes in you, Jude, too many to go unnoticed – is it because of him?”

  Jude began to shiver as her husband’s words hit her.

  “What? What on earth are you saying, Clive?”

  “I’m saying that you’re different. You’ve always been so predictable, Jude, but now you’re behaving erratically. I can cope with the truth . . . just be honest with me . . . if it’s because of him, please tell me and put me out of my misery.”

  Clive could feel his emotions fighting to reach the surface but he knew he had to curb them. It was more upsetting than he had imagined.

  “Are you having an affair with him?”

  Jude gasped. Was this what she had achieved by lying to her husband? Her protective feelings towards him were proving to be her own antagonist.

  “God no!” Her eyes welled with tears for what she had unwittingly put him through. Or at least, what he thought he was going through. “Oh Clive, my darling! I love you so much.” She took his glass from him, casting it aside so she could embrace him. “You are all the man I could ever . . . have ever wanted. You and you alone. I would never do that to you . . . to us, our family, and you of all people should know that.”

  Jude knew the moment had arrived to admit to Clive what she had been doing – her explanation for the changes in behaviour he had been witnessing.

  “I’ve been working, Clive,” she announced, matter of fact and with some relief. It seemed so trivial now. “Sophie offered me the job of Interior Designer for her new salon on Alderley Avenue and John is the architect we’re using to redesign the structural interiors. It was purely business, Clive, I swear. I know I should have told you earlier. I’m so sorry.”

  Clive’s shoulders dropped as he too relaxed. The poison he had been prepared to dish out evaporated from his train of thought. It dispersed into a strange calmness which was quickly replaced by confusion.

  “But you don’t work . . . what are you talking about?”

  “I do now. I was going to tell you, darling, but it was the same day you got your promotion and I didn’t want to steal your thunder, so I was waiting for the right time to tell y –”

  “Oh and that time is now?” Clive snapped. “Don’t you think I’ve got a right to know if my own wife is working? What else are you up to that I don’t know about, Jude?”

  “Now you’re just being silly!”

  Jude was cross and he could see it.

  So what? He was more than cross. He had been ready for the fight of his life when he stepped across the threshold, ready to put her straight that if she didn’t want him, then he didn’t want to be there. But he was too hurt and too angry to admit that he was ready for the fight of his life to fight for her, his beautiful wife, not against her. She was his rock.

  “Oh, my wife takes on a whole new life and doesn’t even think to tell me? Don’t tell me I’m the silly one, Jude. Speak for yourself. Stupid in fact!” he barked, pacing the kitchen floor like a barrister delivering his summation.

  “I told you, Clive, I didn’t want to steal your thunder or put you under any more pressure, not at such an important time in your career. I was trying to be considerate in holding back the news until it seemed appropriate. Why can’t you see this for what it is?”

  “And you don’t think me wondering why you had been acting differently wasn’t putting me under pressure? Me seeing you with another man after you had turned me down for the gym. You’re the one who has the easy life, Jude . . . why the hell you would want to change it is beyond me. You’re spoiled rotten. You have everything you want handed on a plate . . . you always have . . . and yet you still want more. Look around you, Jude. Do I not give you enough?”

  By now Jude was crying. She was hurting beyond belief.

  “I only wanted to achieve a little something for myself,” she sobbed. “You have your work, your partnership, your own identity . . .”

  “Identity? You call being a staff number an identity? I’m a blank cheque book, that’s what I am. A dogsbody who works to pay the bills and to provide you all with this affluent lifestyle. I made partner because I work so damn hard that I bring in most of the fee income in that place and this is how I’m repaid by my wife!”

  “I can give something back now, Clive. I can pay for some . . .”

  Clive snatched the bottle from the centre island and stormed towards the kitchen door.

  “It’s not about the money, Jude, it’s about the lying and the secret life you seemed so comfortable living.” Clive’s tone of fury had lessened, much to her relief.

 
; “What can I do to put it right?” Jude sniffed. Her red eyes filled with tears still to fall.

  “You can tell Sophie where she can stick her job, Jude. That’s what you can do.”

  The phone shrilled at full volume, vibrating the cheap chest of drawers upon which it sat.

  Kath rolled over, nudging James. He was out for the count so she leaned across over him, grabbing the phone before it rang off. Who the hell would be calling in the middle of the night?

  “Hello?” Her voice was hoarse and a thirst for water came over her.

  “Is this Mrs Hamilton?” a stern voice spoke out.

  “Yes. Who is this? It’s two in the morning.” Kath was angry at being woken. She was more angry that James was still comatose. She kicked at him roughly and he stirred.

  “This is PC Tisdale calling from Cottley Police station. I’m sorry to call you at this hour.”

  Kath sat upright. She threw back the duvet and bolted from the comfort of her bed to stand.

  “What’s happened? Is it Jason? Is he hurt?”

  James rubbed his eyes and gawped up at his wife. He mouthed to her: “Put it on speaker.”

  “Your son Jason Hamilton has been arrested for breaking and entering. He has asked if you would consider guaranteeing surety in order to release him. Are you able to come up to the station so that we can let him go tonight?”

  They stared at each other, stunned by the blow.

  James nodded at his wife and began to dress, grabbing garments from here and there. He was panicking and Kath could see his mortification as clear as day. It carried a huge sign saying ‘It must be our fault . . . we’ve let you down . . .’

  But it wasn’t their fault and Kath knew this. She came from a long line of bad blood – so she knew that volatility and deviousness was in his blood too. He had been brought up with the love and tender care of his elder brother and yet one of them was a devoted son, kind and considerate, and the other was a walking time-bomb who it appeared was prepared to wipe himself out along with everybody else.