by Alice Ross
The mere thought of the party caused excitement to swirl in Faye’s stomach. Thank heavens she’d managed to persuade Josie it was a good idea. To Faye’s complete and utter amazement Josie had initially been reluctant to do anything for her birthday.
‘But it’s your eighteenth,’ Faye insisted.
‘I know,’ shrugged Josie. ‘But I’m honestly not bothered.’
‘I bet your mum is,’ sighed Faye wistfully. ‘I bet she’s planned all sorts of exciting things. She might even take you over to Marbella with her.’
Josie shuddered. ‘Ugh. I hope not. That would be my worst nightmare.’
Faye had shaken her head in despair. If she and Josie were to remain friends, then she really had to do something about the girl’s outlook on life.
‘Look,’ she’d suggested levelly. ‘Your house is the perfect party pad. Why don’t you ask your mum if you can have a party there?’
Josie had looked dubious. ‘I don’t really think Mum would …’
‘I’m sure she would,’ Faye pressed, attempting to curb her own eagerness at the thought of spending an evening in Miranda’s company. ‘She wouldn’t have to do anything. You and I could arrange everything.’
To Faye’s great relief, Josie seemed to warm to the idea. ‘I suppose so. But it’s a bit short notice …’
‘Just ask her.’
‘Okay.’
Of course Miranda, just as Faye had predicted, had been amazing, even offering to organise the whole thing. Faye had been slightly miffed at that announcement, given that the party had been her idea, but she had no doubt that, if anyone could put together a night to remember, it would be the uber-cool Miranda Cutler. So, with her heroine sorting out all the arrangements, the only thing Faye had to worry about was her outfit.
Abandoning the detritus of her meal, Faye flew upstairs to her bedroom, desperate to get her hands on the pile of carrier bags there. In a flash, she’d whipped off her denim skirt and sweater, and stood before the mirror in faux black leather shorts, a gold sequinned vest and thigh-high boots. Although she said so herself, she looked stunning. Even Miranda couldn’t fail to be impressed. In fact, in this outfit, the woman might even begin to view Faye as less of an adolescent schoolgirl, and more as an equal; a kindred spirit, who would slip effortlessly into her glamorous world. The world Faye belonged to. Or at least hoped to belong to. One day.
In the meantime, she was dying to show someone her garb. And as the only other person in the house was her brother, choices were limited.
‘What do you think?’ she demanded, bursting into Leo’s bedroom and executing a twirl. ‘It’s my new outfit for Josie’s party.’
Hunched over the desk in front of the window, Leo lifted up his head from his pile of books and ran an appraising eye over his sister.
‘Are you serious?’ he snorted incredulously. ‘Mum’ll never let you go out like that.’
Faye shook her head in despair. ‘I know that,’ she huffed. ‘Which is why I’ll change into it at Josie’s house. What do you think, though?’
Leo pursed his lips disapprovingly. ‘There’s not a lot of it. You’ll probably catch your death of cold.’
Faye rolled her eyes? How old was her brother? Seventeen or seventy?
‘God, Leo,’ she batted back. ‘You’d better watch out. You’re turning into Mum. And don’t tell me you’re doing homework when she’s not even here to nag you about it.’
‘I am actually. Don’t you have any?’
Faye tutted. ‘I can’t understand why you didn’t join the local college with me, rather than opting for that grammar school sixth form. We hardly get any homework and, even if we do, nobody’s bothered if we don’t do it.’
‘Which is precisely why I joined the sixth form,’ Leo informed her. ‘It has an excellent reputation and without at least three A-stars for my A-levels, I won’t have a hope in hell of being accepted into a veterinary college.’
Faye shuddered. ‘Ugh. I think you’re mad. Even if you do get into college you’ll have like a bazillion years of studying ahead of you. I can’t think of anything worse.’
‘You won’t say that when I’m earning a fortune and you’re working in the supermarket down the road.’
Faye tossed back her long dark hair. ‘I won’t be working in the supermarket. I’ll be enjoying a glamorous, exciting career. One that doesn’t involve sticking my hand up dogs’ backsides.’
Leo leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. ‘And what glamorous, exciting career will that be exactly?’
Hmm. He had her there. Despite all her deliberating, worrying and stressing, Faye still had no idea. The reassessment of the rest of her life was ongoing. Not that she was going to admit that to her brother. Leo’s unwavering sense of career direction unnerved her.
‘I haven’t decided yet,’ she breezed, desperately hoping he didn’t see through her bravado. ‘But you just wait and see. Faye Blakelaw will be a name to be reckoned with in a few years.’ Then, in a bid to change the subject, ‘Do you want to come to Josie’s party? I could wangle you an invitation.’
Leo pushed back his chair from the desk and thrust himself to his feet. ‘No, thanks. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to change and go out for a run.’
Faye wrinkled her nose. ‘A run? Since when did you ever go for a run?’
‘Since last week. I’ve decided to get fit.’
Faye blew out a weary exhalation. ‘God, this family is getting crazier by the minute,’ she announced, before whipping around and strutting out of Leo’s room. A move which – given the height of the heels on her new boots – she silently congratulated herself upon.
*****
‘But we always go to the hairdresser’s together,’ moaned Lydia.
On the other end of the phone, Miranda rolled her eyes. ‘I know we do, but I really haven’t got time at the moment.’
One of Lydia’s melodramatic sighs gusted into her ear. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were avoiding me. I’ve hardly seen you since we got back from Marbella.’
‘Don’t be silly. Of course I’m not avoiding you,’ lied Miranda. In truth though, she hadn’t been able to face Lydia since their return from Spain. And not only because of the woman’s connection to Eduardo. Miranda couldn’t pinpoint exactly when or how it had happened, but for the last few weeks she’d found Lydia’s presence completely overpowering, and the woman’s lifestyle, for someone fast approaching forty, verging on the ludicrous.
‘Why don’t you come round tonight?’ suggested Lydia brightly. ‘We can have a nice girly chat over a couple of glasses of champagne, and Eduardo can knock us up a paella.’
Miranda almost dropped the phone. The mention of Eduardo alone would have been enough to make her nauseous. Adding the words ‘knock up’ to the same sentence caused bile to rise in her throat. She swallowed it down and sucked in a deep breath before blurting out, ‘I’d love to. But I really am very busy at the moment.’
A brief hiatus followed this declaration, during which Miranda imagined Lydia racking her brains for the meaning of the word ‘busy’. Not that she could criticise. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d done anything meaningful with her time. Yet, despite having other pressing matters on her mind, she found she rather liked having a sense of purpose. And the fact that she appeared to be good at organising things added to her enjoyment. Her prioritising, given the pressing matter, remained questionable but …
‘Busy?’ Lydia’s disparaging tone sliced through her reverie. ‘Busy doing what?’
In order to prevent her thoughts galloping off down the pressing-matter route, Miranda shook her head and focused on Lydia’s question. ‘Organising Josie’s eighteenth birthday party.’
Another short pause followed. This time Miranda imagined Lydia attempting to recall who Josie actually was. Not that she could blame her. Whereas other parents constantly boasted about their offspring’s achievements, Miranda rarely mentioned Josie. Ironic, wh
en the girl was undoubtedly one of the best kids around.
‘Ooo,’ gushed Lydia, the penny having evidently dropped. ‘An eighteenth birthday party. Does that mean there’ll be lots of nubile young men there?’
With more gravity than the aforementioned penny, Miranda’s heart plummeted. With Josie in charge of invitations, there was no way on earth Miranda could imagine her inviting Lydia. But, as she knew all too well, a minor detail such as being omitted from the guest list would not dissuade Lydia from attending.
‘I, er, don’t know,’ she stammered. ‘I have no idea who Josie’s …’
‘What’s the date?’ demanded Lydia. ‘I’ll put it in my diary.’
‘It’s the tenth,’ muttered Miranda. ‘But I really don’t know if Josie …’
‘Oh,’ cut in Lydia. ‘Eduardo’s Spanish friends are staying that week. But that shouldn’t be a problem, should it? We can all come.’
And, without waiting for a reply, she hung up.
Miranda heaved an almighty sigh before pushing all thoughts of Lydia from her mind. She would talk to her later. Explain that it was entirely up to Josie who attended. In the meantime, she refused to be distracted from her mission of making it the best party the village had ever seen. Not for the sake of show, but because she wanted Josie to have the night of her life and to create some wonderful memories for her. Excitement fizzed in her veins. Unbeknown to Josie, Miranda had come up with what she considered an inspired idea for the party. Rather than having a ghostly theme, or fireworks – both of which would have been much more appropriate – and much more predictable – for the time of year, Miranda wanted something personal. Exploiting the great love of Josie’s life, she’d decided to transform the house into a mini Wimbledon. Rolls of green baize would cover the floors; racquets and balls would form the decorations; a huge scoreboard would take pride of place in the lounge where people could programme in their own birthday messages; masses of strawberries and cream would abound. And the birthday cake – well, that would be something else.
Of course, Miranda was aware that her enthusiasm, to a depressingly large extent, was fuelled by guilt: guilt at having almost forgotten her wonderful daughter’s special birthday. Guilt at having let the bond between them weaken to a perilous state. And guilt at her own ridiculous condition. A condition she’d still failed to do anything about. Tomorrow, she resolved. Tomorrow she would research clinics in London and book an appointment.
Definitely.
*****
In hindsight, she shouldn’t have done it. In fact, even while she was doing it, she’d known she really shouldn’t be. But so riled with anger had Julia been after Paul’s work do, that she couldn’t stop herself. In a fit of pique, she’d stormed out of the hotel and immediately called Max. He’d sounded surprised.
‘Are you all right? Only you don’t seem yourself.’
‘Good. I’m sick of being myself.’
‘I always thought yourself was great.’
There it was again. That low, intimate tone that made Julia’s toes curl. Max had always understood her. Paul hadn’t even tried to.
‘I’d like to see you again,’ she’d announced, amazed at her own audacity.
‘Okay.’ Now he sounded even more taken aback. He quickly rallied. ‘Where and when?’
The reply rolled effortlessly off Julia’s tongue. Wednesday evening. At a village pub twelve miles outside Buttersley. The chances of bumping into anyone there were slim. Not that she planned on doing anything worth gossiping about. An adult conversation was all she craved – with someone who understood her; someone who’d known her when she was something other than a wife and mother. The venue and time agreed, she hung up and called a taxi home.
Back at Primrose Cottage, Julia’s stonking mood hadn’t been helped by the disgusting state of the kitchen, littered with the remains of Chinese takeaway. The chicken casserole she’d prepared hadn’t been touched. Her temper soaring to scary heights, she hadn’t trusted herself to confront the twins. Instead, she’d swiped the detritus into a bin bag and dumped it outside, before marching upstairs to her bedroom and slamming shut the door. Tearing off her evening attire, she’d pulled on a pair of pyjamas and burrowed under the duvet. Not that she’d any intention of sleeping. For one thing, it was ridiculously early. And for another, she was so mad, at least a couple of hours would be required before she calmed down. All she wanted at that precise moment was to block out the rest of the world. Or, more precisely, her own suffocating little world, and consider her options – or, more precisely still – what to do about Max.
The telephone rang on the bedside table. Julia ignored it. A few seconds later, Leo tentatively knocked on her bedroom door.
‘Mum? Are you all right? It’s Dad on the phone.’
‘Tell him I’m asleep.’
‘She says she’s asleep. Ah ha. Um hum. Okay then.’
Another tentative knock, followed by, ‘Dad says he has to make a speech at the end of the evening and can’t leave before that.’
Julia swiped up her pillow and placed it over her head, wondering how much input Natalia had had into the speech. Concluding it would be far more than Julia wished to contemplate, she redirected her thoughts once more to Max – and their impending meeting.
*****
Paul would never have professed to being an expert on the female mind. He’d only had a couple of girlfriends before he’d met his wife. And none of those had been particularly serious. But he’d challenge any accomplished Casanova to figure out what was going on in Julia’s head lately. First she’d changed her shopping day – odd, to say the least. And this business about the car … he just couldn’t fathom it. Who in their right mind would prefer to drive a ten-year-old Punto, when they could have a brand-new Merc? Something was definitely amiss.
Of course, he knew she hadn’t had it easy when the twins were small. He could recall coming home from work one evening when they were less than a year old, to find the kitchen splattered with yellow goo, the twins in their high-chairs splattered in yellow goo, and Julia sprawled on the floor splattered in yellow goo. The babies were bawling their eyes out. So, too, was an exhausted Julia.
‘They don’t like pureed parsnip,’ she’d wailed.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Paul had soothed. ‘Come on. Let’s get you all cleaned up.’
Then there was the time she’d called him at the office in hysterics. She’d been in town with the double-buggy and both kids had vomited all over the plush carpet in her favourite clothes shop. Paul had dropped everything to rush out and help her.
A long list of similar incidents all demonstrated perfectly just what a struggle it had been. But together, by whatever means, they’d bumbled through. And as time trundled on, it gradually became easier. So much so that Paul actually thought she had it pretty easy now.
Quite where all that stuff about work had sprouted from, he had no idea. She hadn’t mentioned work for years. Of course he knew she’d harboured ambitions when younger, but that had been before the twins. He’d merely assumed, as the years merged into one, that she’d settled into her role as a wife and mother. Plenty of women did. And why not? Absolutely nothing wrong with that. So why was she tearing a strip off him all of a sudden for not being aware of something they hadn’t discussed in eons?
Conversely, Julia’s feelings on his work functions had been made crystal clear. She hated them. But honestly, there weren’t that many of them and all she had to do was smile and exchange platitudes for a couple of hours. Of course, Paul wasn’t dense enough not to realise that, this time, Natalia’s swanning around would not have helped Julia’s mood at all. And Julia certainly wasn’t dense enough not to have noticed how awkward he’d acted around Natalia. He’d done his best not to, of course, but with his wife standing next to the woman he found himself increasingly fantasising about, anything resembling normal behaviour had been beyond his capabilities. Despite all the above, however, he couldn’t help feeling peeved at Julia deserting
him like that.
‘Was that June I just saw leaving?’ Hugh Bell asked, minutes after Paul had caught a glimpse of her storming out.
‘Julia,’ corrected Paul. ‘And yes. She’s, um, not feeling too well.’
He considered running after her, but decided against it. With her foul mood, and the way she was acting completely out of character, she might well have made a scene and, with every member of the Board in attendance, that was the last thing he needed. So, he’d deftly batted away any enquiries about her by implementing the ‘not feeling too well’ line.
‘Oh, I didn’t think she looked too well,’ Natalia crowed, before attaching herself to his side like a piece of Velcro.
Paul had been flattered. What man wouldn’t have been? And then, after making his speech and receiving a rapturous round of applause, she’d surprised him further.
‘You were amazing,’ she cooed, before kissing him on the corner of his mouth.
Paul thought he might keel over. Thankfully he hadn’t. Subsequently engulfed by colleagues inspired by his speech, wanting more details of statistics and predictions, he had no idea what mumbo-jumbo he’d fobbed them off with. The last thing on his mind, as he watched Natalia gliding around the room, casting him long surreptitious glances, had been bloody statistics and predictions. Then, in a flash, she’d disappeared. Leaving him panting for more.
By the time he arrived back at Primrose Cottage, his head had been all over the place. Julia was in bed, as far over on her side as was humanly possible. Paul knew she wasn’t asleep but couldn’t be bothered confronting her. Instead, he clung on to his side of the bed and yanked over the duvet. Julia yanked it back. And so the game continued for several minutes, before Julia leaped up and stormed off into the spare room to sleep with the ironing.
