Prime Time

by Jane Wenham-Jones

  ‘He implied it was me with the weight problem.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing. I just looked really hard at his beer gut and then said that Stanley needed a new pair of trainers.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ said Charlotte. ‘If Roger upsets me I don’t say anything any more. I just take it out on his credit card.’

  She stood up and leant in the doorway, blowing another lungful of smoke out onto her patio. ‘Don’t listen to Daniel – there’s nothing wrong with your weight.’

  I smiled gratefully at her, but I knew that it wasn’t about whether I needed to lose a few pounds, which we both knew I did. It was the “old” that had got me. “A dried-up old shrew” he’d called me. And that was what had stung. Because I was beginning to feel my age.

  I was all right before Daniel met Emily. I’d had the usual traumas over my 40th – spending the day lying in a darkened room, refusing to speak to anyone – but that is only to be expected.

  Once I’d got over the shock of the F-word – and had learnt to lie though my teeth and keep smiling – I didn’t really feel, or look, that different. I felt I could still scrub up well, that all the hype about 60 being the new 40 or 40 being the new 29, or whatever it was, was not so far wrong. I still on balance felt young.

  Or at least young-ish. Perhaps it was going to happen anyway, but ever since Daniel had removed himself for a woman 14 years younger than me I felt as if I had aged enormously.

  Suddenly, no amount of concealer quite did it for the shadows beneath my eyes, hand cream had to be applied hourly or the backs of my hands shrivelled and there was a definite sag about my knees that I had never noticed before. I had, for the first time, found myself picking up clothes in trendy high street chains and hastily putting them down again, because I just couldn’t wear that sort of thing any more.

  I couldn’t decide what was worse: the days when I felt a weariness inside me that said you’re past it , or the days when I still had a spring in my step and felt the same as I always had done and then would catch sight of myself in the mirror and be startled to see a middle-aged woman scowling back. A slightly unkempt, mad-looking woman, having a bad hair day.

  Grooming, said the magazines. Grooming, instructed the bossy article on how to make the most of each decade. Grooming was apparently paramount once you were in your forties.

  Forget grunge, the glossies exhorted. And short skirts and messy curls. Eschew cheap jewellery, “fun” handbags, T-shirts with slogans and coloured tights. Basically I had to empty out my entire wardrobe or I would end up resembling a bag lady. I looked in the mirror again and realised just what I’d been reminding myself of.

  I was a past master at witticisms about getting old but I’d never really meant them before. Now, after a warm-up decade of self-deprecating jokes about crow’s feet and sagging flesh, it suddenly wasn’t funny any more.

  ‘I look old,’ I said to Charlotte now.

  She didn’t turn round.

  ‘Shut up and get the wine open.’

  ‘Seriously,’ I said, after our second glass, ‘I am finding the ageing process difficult. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Charlotte waved a cigarette. ‘Anyway, you should worry. I’ve got a lot more lines than you.’

  ‘That’s because you smoke,’ said Becky, coming into the kitchen. ‘It’s very ageing. So is drinking,’ she added, looking pointedly at the glass in Charlotte’s other hand.

  ‘Go and tell someone who cares,’ said Charlotte cheerfully. ‘I’ve had my days as a gorgeous dolly bird,’ she went on. ‘Now I’m a middle-aged wife, mother and drudge –’ She raised her voice to yell after Becky’s retreating back. ‘Do you know how long it took me to pick up all the clothes off your bedroom floor this morning?’

  Charlotte looked back at me and smiled. ‘And actually you know, I quite like it. I’ve spent years trying to hold my bloody stomach in. Now I’m looking forward to buying elasticated trousers and letting it all hang out.’

  ‘Ugh’ Becky stopped in the doorway and looked back at her in disgust. ‘You’re revolting.’

  ‘I’m not ready for it,’ I said. ‘I’m not a wife any more and I don’t want to feel it’s all over.’ For a horrible moment I felt my chin quiver.

  Charlotte grabbed the wine bottle and leant across the table. ‘Come on, don’t get maudlin. You’ve got a few years left in you yet.’

  An hour later, Charlotte, who has a useful talent for still being able to produce food while three sheets to the wind (unlike me, who only manages to burst into tears and then go to bed), surveyed the remains of the lasagne and salad she’d managed to knock up at the same time as climbing down the Pinot Grigio.

  She balanced the tray with the last of the garlic bread on top of the Aga and looked ruefully at the empty bottle. ‘Sorry, love, think that’s it. The Forbes cellar is empty.’

  I picked up my handbag. ‘I’ll go and get some more.’ Charlotte very handily has an off-licence cum general store on the corner of her street – it was one of the main reasons she bought the house (“I can’t be doing with running out of fags, love”) and is on first-name terms with the Turkish family who run it.

  ‘Get me some more ciggies while you’re there.’ She waved a ten-pound note at me. ‘I’d text Roger but he deliberately forgets.’

  ‘He just worries about your health, that’s all. As I do. You know I read an article about degeneration of the retina due to smoking and how if you’re over 40 and smoking more than 20 a day then your sight –’

  Charlotte yawned loudly. ‘Do shut up. Nothing wrong with my eyes except that they haven’t caught sight of a new bottle of wine recently. So stop being boring and get your arse down the road.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mustafa, when I put two bottles of Soave on the counter and asked for 20 Rothmans. ‘How is Mrs Fobbs?’

  After a pleasant little discussion about what a fine woman and good customer Charlotte was, and how very kind she’d been when Mustafa’s son, Emin, had broken his arm, I walked back along the pavement, warm and fuggy from all the wine we’d had already, thinking how much I loved Charlotte and how it must be quite nice to be her, unworried by the prospect of double chins and wrinkles, secure in one’s role as wife and mother and occasional estate agent, when a familiar car went past.

  It was pretty dark but I recognised the car instantly from the distinctive number plate, ROG 58. Charlotte had bought it for Roger for his 46th birthday, telling him that since it had cost her a small fortune, it had to last for the next 12 birthdays too.

  I increased my pace, thinking that I might catch him while he was still on the driveway and have a quick word before we went into his house. But as I watched his rear lights go on down the road, he slowed up and pulled in outside a house a few doors along from his own. Oh my God. Surely he wasn’t knocking up a neighbour? As I stopped in surprise, the car lights went off.

  I stood still for a moment, waiting to see if he would get out. When he didn’t, I hurried toward the car. As I walked up beside it, I could see Roger in the light of the street lamp – obviously on the phone, nodding away. It must be her! Why else stop along the road? He had a Bluetooth ear phone so why not pull into his drive as usual and, if necessary, walk straight on into the house still talking as I’d seen him do plenty of times before?

  I hesitated, then, emboldened by alcohol and a burning sense of injustice, I stepped forward and tapped smartly on the passenger window.

  Roger looked up, saw me, said something into the receiver and snapped the phone shut. Then he re-started the engine. The electric window nearest to me whirred down and he grinned at me, a trifle manically, I thought.

  ‘Hi – how are you?’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t realise you were on the phone,’ I lied. ‘Hope it wasn’t important.’ I looked hard at him but he kept smiling.

  ‘Only someone from work.’ He leant across and pushed open the door. ‘Get in.’

  ‘It’s only three doors down.’
I said pointedly, getting in anyway. ‘I wondered what you were doing skulking up the road.’

  ‘I stopped to get a bit of paper I needed out of my briefcase,’ he said. ‘Office problem.’ Was his tone a touch defensive now? He was already turning into his drive.

  ‘Oh yes, Charlotte said you’d had a late meeting.’ I gave him my most searching stare again but he didn’t appear to notice.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, getting out of the car and opening the back door, ‘it went on a bit.’ He leant in and pulled out his briefcase and jacket. ‘Have you just arrived?’

  ‘No, I’ve been here all evening. Stanley’s off with Daniel. I just got sent out for more supplies.’ I held up the carrier bag with the wine and cigarettes.

  Roger laughed. ‘Jolly good. I could only have one – it’s a pain having to drive.’

  He was striding toward the front door. It was now or never. I hurried after him.

  ‘Roger –’

  ‘Yes?’

  I hesitated as he stopped and turned toward me. We were almost at the door and I could hardly blurt out, ‘Are you having an affair?’

  ‘Last week,’ I began instead. He looked at me questioningly. ‘I was in your kitchen –’

  The front door opened. ‘Ah, there you are!’ Charlotte filled the doorway against an oblong of light. ‘I thought I heard the car. Glad you’re back, Rog – Laura and I want to go out.’

  Roger walked toward her and kissed her. ‘Sure.’

  ‘We don’t have to,’ I said quickly. ‘I mean, Roger’s only just got in – I expect he wants to talk to you.’

  ‘He’s got all weekend to talk to me,’ said Charlotte. ‘Anyway, I expect he wants to veg in front of the football if I know him. ‘There’s lasagne in the oven if you want it, love. The kids are upstairs somewhere. Joe wants you to help him with his model – apparently, the wings keep falling off.’

  Roger nodded. ‘OK. I’ll just have a beer and get changed and I’ll have a look.’ He opened the fridge, pulled out a can, and wandered out into the hallway.

  My stomach had gone into a knot. It all seemed completely normal, yet why had Roger been sitting outside in the dark talking on his phone? Why not just drive on a few metres and come in?

  And nothing could take away the fact that the woman had called last week.

  Was that why Roger was so happy for Charlotte to go out? So he could call her back in peace? Although in fairness, he’d always been pretty easy-going about whatever Charlotte wanted to do. Did this mean he’d been at it for years?

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Charlotte was looking at me quizzically. ‘You’ve got a very odd expression on your face.’

  I shook my head. ‘Sorry. l was just thinking –’

  ‘Yes?’ Charlotte was still watching me.

  ‘Just what a nice marriage you two have,’ I said feebly. ‘Daniel would have moaned if I’d gone out the moment he came in.’

  Charlotte laughed. ‘He wants to watch TV without me interrupting,’ she said. ‘Right, I’ll just go and put a top on that hasn’t got pasta sauce down the front and kiss my lovely children and we’ll get going. You call a cab.’

  She and Roger crossed in the doorway. She put a hand on his waist and gave him a little squeeze as she went past. He smiled at her. I sat down at her table and took a deep breath. Roger had come back in and was opening cupboards and drawers, getting out a plate and cutlery. Charlotte would only be a couple of minutes. Should I say anything or leave it till another time?

  I took a swallow of wine.

  When I looked up, Roger was gazing at me with an expression I couldn’t place. ‘Are you OK, Laura? What were you saying out there?’

  I could hear Charlotte’s footsteps coming back down the stairs already and I suddenly felt a lump in my throat. I shook my head. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said.

  By the time Charlotte was back in the room, Roger had got me the tissues and was hovering kindly. ‘What’s up? Has something happened to upset you?’

  ‘She’s all hormonal – you know what she gets like.’ Charlotte was moving round the kitchen lifting up bits of paper. ‘Where are my bloody keys?’

  Roger patted me on the shoulder. ‘Anything we can do?’

  Charlotte was brisk. ‘I’m going to take her out, get a few more drinks down her, and if she’s still a misery after that I’ll bring her back here for the night.’

  Roger grinned. ‘Jolly good – there’s always a much better breakfast when we’ve got guests.’

  ‘You should count yourself lucky you get breakfast at all,’ said Charlotte, digging in her handbag. ‘Can’t find my damn lighter now either.’

  ‘It’s on the microwave – with your keys.’ Roger crossed the kitchen and picked up both. ‘Are you sure you’re not hormonal too?’

  ‘You’d be wearing the frying pan if I was.’ Charlotte took the items from him and kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you, love.’

  She turned and looked at me. ‘Come on, you get some slap on and let’s get out of here. She’s feeling old and ugly,’ she added to Roger.

  ‘You look fine to me,’ said Roger gallantly.

  ‘Not that he’d know,’ said Charlotte. ‘He fancies the most peculiar women. Have you called that cab yet?’

  ‘What did you mean?’ I asked, when we were settled at a table in Greens, a bottle of Frascati in the cooler in front of us. ‘That Roger fancies peculiar women?’ I made my voice light and cheery. ‘He doesn’t fancy anyone but you, does he?’

  Charlotte laughed. ‘Oh, it’s an old joke. I’ve told you before about the girl he was going out with before he met me. Very odd-looking woman. And you know that weather girl on the local news – the one with the weird eyebrows? He thinks she’s pretty – always going on about her. He’s got no taste whatsoever.’ She grinned. ‘Except in marrying me, of course.’

  ‘He’s a lovely bloke,’ I said, taking another mouthful of wine. ‘Oh God, am I slurring? How undignified. Don’t you think we are getting a bit old to drink this much?’

  ‘What’s age got to do with it? You’re getting obsessed. Roger’s all right, yes. I’m pretty lucky. Bloody infuriating at times, but aren’t they all? Though, you know,’ she said, suddenly thoughtful, ‘he’s been a bit funny lately.’

  ‘Has he?’ I could feel my heart beating harder. ‘In what way?’ What was I going to say if she said he’d started buying lots of new clothes and slapping on the aftershave. If he’d got a gold medallion or was waxing his chest …

  Charlotte swirled her wine about and considered. ‘I don’t know, really. Sort of very nice.’

  ‘He always seems nice to me,’ I said carefully, wishing I hadn’t had so much to drink and praying I wouldn’t seem over-interested. ‘What’s so different?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He’s a bit distracted, yet unusually helpful and accommodating. I mean, Roger’s usually so useless around the house. Yet he’s suddenly started putting things in the dishwasher and he brought me tea in bed the other morning. Quite unnerving, really!’

  I looked at her in alarm. Was this Roger’s guilty conscience manifesting itself? Was she going to come to that very conclusion any second? Would she want to know what I thought?

  But she was laughing. ‘I should capitalise on it while I can and get a new handbag out of him. And Becky could do with some jeans. We’ll probably have a massive row tomorrow and it will all be back to normal.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s just appreciating you more. Perhaps a colleague at work is going through a divorce or something,’ I said wildly, ‘and he has suddenly realised how lucky he is to be happily married.’

  Charlotte looked sceptical. ‘No, I think it’s more likely he’s trying to butter me up for something. He’s in line for a really big bonus at work if nothing changes between now and Christmas. He’s probably wondering how he can go about buying himself a new Jag instead of taking me on the holiday to St Kitts I’ve set my heart on.’ She frowned. ‘What is odd, though, is –’

  She stopped as
a familiar figure floated across the floor toward us.

  ‘Darlings!’

  Charlotte smoothed back her hair. ‘Clive!’

  Clive posed for a second in front of us, to allow us to take in his pink silk shirt, skinny black Armani jeans and Italian leather shoes. As usual, a cloud of expensive scent wafted around him. Then he bent down and kissed Charlotte on both cheeks before twirling toward me and taking my face in his hands. He rolled his eyes heavenward and sighed happily.

  ‘I hear that you, my sweet, were a triumph …’

  Chapter Eight

  In all the worry about Roger I’d forgotten about the programme. But if I’d thought about it at all, the idea had been for me to watch it on my own – possibly with a cushion over my face – and then, if it was fit for public consumption and I was able to bear it, to have a second viewing of the video later with Stanley and Charlotte and her kids, so we could get all the jokes over in one go and then put it behind us.

  But thanks to Clive, Charlotte was having none of it. She was waiting on the doorstep when I got back from the school run armed with a bag of croissants and a blank tape. ‘I’ve set the kids’ machine at home of course and Roger has programmed the hard drive, so we should have it twice but, just in case, we’ll record it here too. I said I’d take it to the next PTA meeting – Carole was in hysterics when I told her what had happened.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said crossly. ‘I didn’t want anyone to know, really.’

  ‘Come off it – in a town like this?’ Charlotte laughed. ‘All those yummy mummies like to pretend they spend their lives whisking up fairy cakes and arranging Baby Princess manicures and extra maths lessons but really it’s wall to wall daytime TV. They start with Randolph and go straight through to Bargain Hunt. Everyone was bound to find out.’

  I scowled at her. ‘That’s not what you said when you were persuading me to do it – you said only about thirty people watched it in the whole country and they included nobody we knew.’