by Penny Smith
‘Do you want a ginger beer?’ she shouted through.
‘Is it one of those mixer things?’ called Keera.
‘I don’t know. It comes in a big bottle.’
‘No, thanks. Just some water.’
Her mother brought through a glass of sparkling water and a ginger beer, and put them carefully on the crocheted place mats on the side tables. She dragged over one of the pouffes and kicked off her slippers as she relaxed for an evening of television-watching with her famous daughter.
In Paris, Adam was having dinner at the Hôtel Costes with Cécile. They had spent the previous day in a number of shops where he had agreed on the items to be purchased for the flat. He was opposite her now, unconsciously echoing his girlfriend’s deliberations that morning on the nature of love and lust.
Cécile was elegant, with a touch of the Catherine Deneuves round the jaw line, and the graceful carriage of a fifties model. Candles threw an alluring light into her brown eyes, flecking them with amber.
‘Cheers,’ he said, raising the glass of Sancerre.
‘Santé,’ she responded, taking a minute sip of the pale honey-coloured wine.
‘So…’ he lingered.
‘So…what, Monsieur Williams?’ she asked, her French accent rendering the brief sentence sexy.
‘To return to the question I posed before our second bottle arrived.’
‘Ah, yes. Extra-marital afairs. But you know that we in France have a different view of that from you English.’
‘And that hasn’t changed over the years, with the advent of the Internet, the influence of American culture?’
‘We guard our culture more closely than others, as you know. Perhaps it has changed a little, though.’ She gave a small nod. ‘Do you ask because you would prefer it to be de rigueur to have une maîtresse?’
‘Not that, so much as the acceptance that while you can pledge your love to one woman, you’re never going to stop looking at others.’
‘Ah. But is it just the window-shopping? Is that not the problem? Very few people like to window-shop without the possibility of buying.’
‘And for some people, even looking in the shop window can create jealous outbursts.’
‘Yes. It is not easy for partners of window-shoppers.’
‘I don’t see why it shouldn’t be. As long as it doesn’t involve the purchase.’
‘This metaphor has perhaps run its course?’ she queried.
‘Yes, let’s drop it,’ he said.
‘Or do I take it there was some ulterior motive for it, which you cannot speak candidly about?’ she asked, lifting her chin a little.
‘No.’ He laughed. ‘Obviously, you’re a very attractive woman. And there would be those who would misconstrue this intimate dinner. I’m enjoying myself, and enjoying window-shopping–sorry to go back to the metaphor–but I have a girlfriend back in England.’
‘And you love her?’
He hesitated. ‘Love is a very big word.’
‘Oh dear. You sound like Prince Charles and his Lady Di. “Whatever love is.” We all remember those words.’
‘Maybe it’s the English condition.’ He laughed ruefully. ‘We have a very happy relationship. And, yes, I think I love her. But if that’s the case, how come I do so much window-shopping?’
Cécile took his hand in hers. ‘Do you want to do more than window-shop?’ she asked breathily. He was a very attractive man, and she could see the muscles through the fine white shirt he was wearing.
He gazed into her eyes, and thought about Katie. Beautiful, adorable Katie. If a tad plump Katie. Nothing diet and exercise couldn’t sort out. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But I won’t deny it’s tempting. Pudding?’
‘What a singularly ‘orrible word. Poo-ding.’ She exaggerated the word. ‘Thanks. But no thanks. Maybe some petits fours and a small coffee.’
She leaned back, and he was aware of the warmth being withdrawn as she took away her hand.
Richard and Louise had spent the evening slobbing out in front of the television after packing their offspring off to bed. He had been regaling her with the story of his fellow producer’s eyebag surgery. ‘She didn’t want to do it, but she was strong-armed into it. They needed to make up the numbers for a plastic-surgery strand. And now they’ve dropped it. They really are awful. Although, between you and me, she looks a lot better now. She did look like she’d been in a domestic incident for a few days, but the stitches have come out and you’d never know.’
‘Should I have mine done?’ asked Louise, turning her face towards him.
‘You haven’t got eyebags.’
‘Perhaps not big ones yet. But it’s only a matter of time before the clutch bags become fully fledged totes.’
‘We’ll get you some eyebag splints.’
‘How kind. We can get them colour-coordinated.’ She got up off the sofa and went to open another bottle of wine.
‘Do you think Katie will get off with Paul Martin? Or has already got off with him?’ She raised her voice from the kitchen. A friend of a friend of hers worked at Wolf Days Productions and couldn’t believe she would cheat on the gorgeous Adam Williams.
‘“Get off with” is such a revolting expression,’ said Richard, mildly. ‘If she had, they would have shown it. They’re doing as much as they can to suggest it, but if they had the evidence, it’d be out there.’
‘Like extra-terrestrials,’ Louise said, topping up his glass.
‘If the aliens stopped abducting people in small farming communities in America’s Midwest, they’d be in trouble. We’d find out where they came from, and exactly why they insist on using anal probes on humans. What can they find out with a probe that they can’t find out by any other means?’
‘So do you think Katie and Paul Martin are getting it together?’
‘Katie is the most massive flirt. It’s second nature to her. But she and Adam seem very happy. On the other hand, she’s a generally happy person. I dunno.’
‘You do need a nice warm man to hunker down with if it’s well below freezing,’ she said, giving him a kiss under his ear and snuggling under his arm. ‘I wonder what those snowsuits are stuffed with to make them so impervious to the cold.’
‘Penguins.’
She laughed. ‘Of course. And polar bears. What have you heard about him?’
‘Only what I’ve read in the newspapers. His columns are pretty much like all the others. A rant here and there, bitchy comments about celebrities. Issue of the day. He has a good turn of phrase and they’re often quite funny. Sometimes very funny, actually.’
‘I think he’s a bit of a snake,’ said Louise, ‘because he knows she’s going out with Adam.’
‘He can’t know how the producers are cutting the show, though. The flirting might be a tiny percentage of what’s going on.’
‘I’m glad they got rid of Denise Trench. She was revolting.’
‘Or she was made revolting in the edit suite.’
‘You really do ruin the magic of television,’ laughed Louise.
Rod Fallon and his wife had gone out to a charity dinner, dropping their sixteen-year-old daughter Eleanor at a friend’s house for a sleepover. ‘Although sleepover is a misnomer–precious little sleeping involved, I bet,’ he said to his wife.
He was right. Eleanor and Issy were going to a party. They promised, faithfully, that they would be back by midnight. It was being held in a smart townhouse, and had been organized by the older brother of a friend of Issy’s, who was the son of a famous musician.
Eleanor was going through a belated parent-hating phase, and needed no encouragement to get drunk. She ploughed straight into bottles of highly coloured drinks, dragging Issy with her.
By the time Issy’s mother arrived to pick them up, they were in a terrible state. Her daughter was glassy-eyed, lipstick-smeared, and Eleanor was on a pile of coats, kissing a spotty boy with a stiff quiff and a bent end. As she dragged them both out of the door, the party was disintegrating. The
re appeared to be some sort of fight going on. As she bundled the girls into the car, two police cars roared up, just in time to witness Eleanor Fallon vomiting down the side of a black BMW.
CHAPTER TWELVE
In the olden days Sunday newspapers took a couple of hours to read, and at the end of the process, you had been informed, tickled and tested. Nowadays, thought Jack, in his hotel room in Blackpool, you felt guilty about the mountain of paper that was discarded before you got to the smidgen you wanted to read. He put the sports section, the travel section, the fashion section, the motoring section and the culture section in the bin, then got back onto the bed to read the news section and the gardening section.
It was another grizzly, drizzly day, so it was with some reluctance that he eventually put the paper into his bag, and went down to Reception to comply with the checking-out time. He had a cup of tea in the dining room, finished reading the paper and, wishing he had bought a mobile phone, made a call from the hotel reception. Then, leaving himself plenty of time, he made his way to the bus station.
It wasn’t a packed bus, and he had two seats to himself as he retraced his steps back to Yorkshire, where he took a taxi. A casual observer would have assumed he was going home, since the car followed his normal route, but after a short while, it veered off, eventually coming to a halt outside the Old Coach House.
Bob Hewlett had been surprised, to say the least, when Jack had phoned to ask himself to stay but, within minutes, he had succumbed to the plea for help. He was pleased to see that Jack was carrying a small suitcase, since he had not enquired as to the length of his visit. ‘Good trip?’ he asked, showing Jack to a bright room at the back of the house, with a beautiful view across the garden to the hills beyond.
‘Fine. Uneventful. A careful bus driver, and that’s all you can hope for. Perhaps a little too careful. He went round the bends so slowly I could have balanced a cup of tea on my thighs and played a hand of whist. Not unlike how you ride your motorbike,’ he said ironically.
Bob was quietly chuffed that Jack had noticed his speediness on his beloved Triumph. ‘This is your bathroom, by the way,’ he said, pointing to it, two doors down from the bedroom. ‘I know the bath isn’t very big, but you do have an enormous shower head.’
‘Why, thank you kindly. Maybe if I brought my ears forward, you wouldn’t notice so much.’
‘Ha. I can see where your daughter gets it from,’ said Bob, who then blushed slightly and turned on the taps in the basin to cover it. ‘Yes,’ he said randomly. ‘They’re working.’
‘Were they not?’ asked Jack, who hadn’t noticed the blush. ‘If there’s anything I can do around the house while I’m here, it would make me feel better about imposing on you like this.’
‘No worries,’ said Bob. ‘I think everything’s all right. If I do notice anything, I will immediately supply you with the proper tools and demand you get it sorted.’
Jack smiled. ‘I mean it. It’s very kind of you to let me stay. And it really won’t be for very long. It may look odd, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do that I hadn’t done already.’
‘I’ll be in the kitchen, when you’ve unpacked and everything,’ said Bob. ‘I’ve got the ingredients you asked for. You really don’t have to cook for me if you’re feeling tired, though. I’m sure I can rummage up something passable.’
‘There will be no rummaging up passable food while I’m here,’ said Jack, forcefully. ‘I’ll be right down to deal with that deer.’
He quickly got out his toiletries, washed his face and made his way downstairs. In the warm kitchen, he got to grips with the venison.
‘Can I help?’ asked Bob.
‘No. You can talk to me while I’m wrestling this into the pot.’
The sound of a distant radio could be heard.
‘Whoops. Left the portable in the garden. I was digging over the ground ready for some new inhabitants. I’ll go and get it. Be right back,’ said Bob, as Jack rubbed seasoning into the meat.
‘How are things?’ he asked, when Bob returned.
‘Fine. Fine. Could do with more work but it’s ticking over.’
‘Love life all right?’
Bob barked a laugh. ‘Cut straight to the chase. I assume you’ve heard the rumour that Clare McMurray and I have gone our separate ways?’
Jack nodded. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, washing his hands in the sink. ‘I assume your oranges are in the fridge?’
‘Oranges?’ said Bob. ‘Um. I don’t know whether I got oranges. If I didn’t buy them, is there anything else you can use?’
‘I’ll think of something. Did you get cranberries?’
‘Definitely. Yes. They’re in the fridge. And the vegetables. I’ll peel those. I’ve got to do something or I’m going to stand here like a…like a…’
‘Lemon.’
‘I don’t think I have any citrus fruit at all.’
Jack smiled.
‘Do you want a coffee while you work?’
‘I’m a tea-holic. So maybe a pot of tea? Or a mug of builder’s. Whatever you’ve got. “Coffee” is a strange word, when you think about it. Cough-ee. Like a person over whom one coughs. And, funnily enough, coffee does make me cough.’
‘I saw one of those recently in one of the papers,’ said Bob, ‘or maybe it was an email. “Rectum,” meaning to make a mess of them.’
‘Testicle. A humorous exam question,’ added Jack.
‘Nice,’ said Bob.
As they smiled together, they were both thinking it was like having Katie there in the room, talking silliness.
Bob was glad that Jack had invited himself to stay. It was the next best thing.
And Jack was glad that Bob had agreed to have him. He wished that Katie hadn’t messed up, and that they were still together. He liked Adam, but the man was self-obsessed and spent an awful lot of time talking about work. He couldn’t imagine inviting himself to stay with young Mr Williams.
Bob busied himself with the tea, then helped with the vegetables. When dinner was in the oven, they slumped onto the sofa with a couple of beers and put the television on.
‘It’ll be ready in about two hours,’ said Jack. ‘Hope that’s OK.’
‘That’s absolutely fine. Not doing anything pressing. Sunday nights are a curate’s egg, aren’t they? You can’t start anything because it’s Monday tomorrow and it’s too much of a lazy kind of day to go round finishing things.’
‘I must say this is very comfortable,’ said Jack.
Bob was thinking how pleasant–yet strange–it was having Jack relaxing on his sofa. ‘What did you get up to yesterday?’ he asked.
‘I spent all day at Blackpool Pleasure Beach. I went on the Big One about six times, and have a lot less hair as a result. And then I went on most of the other rides, barging those youngsters out of the way. One of the few advantages of being old. Having said that, you know the worst thing?’ Bob shook his head. ‘How sad it is these days that a seventy-year-old man can’t go round a funfair on his own without attracting the occasional comment about paedophiles.’
‘That is bloody sad.’
‘But, really, people are obsessed. And the last research I saw said that attacks had stayed static for the last hundred years. I pretended I was with my granddaughter at one point.’
‘You don’t have a granddaughter, do you?’ asked Bob, sitting up suddenly, surprised.
‘No. Ben and Katie have so far refused to provide me with one. I had an imaginary granddaughter who was ill and being looked after by my wife, so I was making sure the pass wasn’t wasted. That’s what I was telling people in the queues. I have no idea whether they believed me or not, but it made me feel better.’
‘Crying shame that you had to, though.’
‘I know. It’s funny…there was a girl on one of the rides who reminded me so much of Katie. About eight, she was. And she was really excited about her new red shoes, but trying to be grown-up and not show it. She kept pretending she needed
to stretch so she could admire them. I remember taking Katie out for some new shoes, and Lynda telling me they had to be black for school. But Katie wheedled, and did that thing little girls do when they wind you round their grubby thumbs. We came back with a pair of red ones and I got it in the neck from Lynda. There was hell to pay. At least I’d bought them a couple of sizes bigger, as Lynda had ordered me, so she could grow into them. Of course by the time she did grow into them, they were wrecked. So scuffed there was barely any leather left. And Lynda had refused to splash out on red shoe polish just for Katie’s shoes, so they got browner and browner. Katie hated having to clean them. You could see her gingerly putting on the tiniest dob of brown shoe polish because she liked them cherry red.’ He sat quietly for a minute, remembering. ‘You know, we didn’t have a lot of money, but it seemed to me that Lynda and I had a lot more fun then. Or maybe I mean that we had a lot more fun together,’ he ended wistfully.
‘Another beer?’ asked Bob.
‘Don’t mind if I do. It’s a shame we can’t go down the pub, but I can’t risk someone telling Lynda they saw me.’
‘What are you going to say to her when you do see her?’
‘Oh, something will occur to me. I’ll wing it. Knowing my luck, she’ll have decided to go on a round-the-world cruise for a month. Or I’ll walk through the door and she won’t have noticed I’d gone.’
‘Best-case scenario?’
‘I walk back in, she throws herself on me like I’m some prodigal husband, we walk off into the sunset.’
‘Better make sure you’re wearing stout shoes, then.’
Bob went into the kitchen to get more beers, and Caligula came prancing in through the open door to find a comfy armchair. He considered his options and, based on the merest whiff of venison, chose Jack. He padded round and round the lap, raising his paws and expanding his claws as he did so, until he found the optimum position, whereupon he sank into a cat ball and drifted off to sleep with his tail tucked firmly round his feet.
