I swept into the local Harvester dressed in jeans and a floaty top complete with carnation corsage looking a great deal more confident than I felt. Almost instantly I spotted Ken, even though he wasn’t wearing a buttonhole. Instead he was clutching a very large bouquet of carnations, rosebuds and frothy gyp. As our eyes collided the breath caught in my throat. It would be fair to say that the flowers were the best part of the evening.
Ken jumped up from his stool in the bar area and waved in my direction. I pasted a smile on my face and waved gamely back.
‘How simply wonderful to meet you Cassandra,’ Ken took my hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Now my dear, what’s your tipple?’ he patted the empty stool beside him.
A bucket of gin sprang to mind. Ken was gracious and charming, but he had clearly lied about his age. And not just a little fib but a serious whopper. Forty-five eh? That would have been about twenty years ago. His teeth were perfect, but then dentures were never anything else were they? And his thatch of dark hair bore more than a passing likeness to an acrylic toupee. I had nothing against pensioners. I just didn’t want one as a boyfriend.
I sat and made polite conversation while my dashed hopes sank to my strappy sandals, through the scuffed wooden floorboards, down to the cellars under the bar and merged with the very foundations of the building. Shifting my coccyx on the hard stool I feigned interest in Ken’s garden, car, tool shed, grandchildren and goldfish until Ken arrived at the raison d’être for his marriage collapsing.
By this time I was yawning into my glass and briefly pondering if wifey’s departure had anything to do with the fact that Ken could have bored for England. Or perhaps she’d simply tired of competing with the goldfish?
I gazed into the depths of my spritzer, gloomily watching tiny bubbles fizz and pop. Was this my lot then? A series of disastrous liaisons? This one wasted on a man grappling wretchedly with lost youth, another with the married Euan and – last but not least – Jed who had driven off never to be seen again.
I buried my face in the heels of my hands, rubbed my tired eyes and groaned with dismay. Instantly Ken was all concern.
‘My dear Cassandra, are you all right? Have my painful marital tales distressed you?’
I flushed guiltily, aware that I’d switched off and hadn’t a clue what he’d been talking about.
‘Um, yes, a little Ken,’ I spotted an excuse and swam hastily toward it. ‘I do sympathise.’ If I chucked in a few more compassionate murmurs then Bob would surely be my uncle.
‘I knew you’d understand,’ he grabbed my hands enveloping them within his dry papery grasp. ‘I told my Violet before she took off, impotency is suffered by millions and nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘Absolutely,’ I nodded, privately calculating the odds on a swift extrication and fleeing home.
What with the bouquet and the finger fondling, any onlooker would have been forgiven for thinking we were having a starry-eyed moment. Apprehensively I glanced from my captured hands to his smiling crinkled face awake to the fearful possibility that he was moments from zooming in for a romantic clinch. He clearly regarded this particular moment as recognition of just that.
‘You’re wonderful Cassandra,’ he gushed. ‘At last a woman who understands.’ He leant in closer, flimsy translucent lips heading towards mine. Like a deflecting magnet my body abruptly arched backwards and I nearly fell off my stool.
‘Ha ha!’ I attempted a tinkling laugh which instead came out as a strangled neigh. ‘Yes I do understand Ken. Really I do. I’m a fellow sufferer you see.’
‘Really? But I didn’t think women-’
‘Oh but yes – they do! Not as much as men of course, but it’s still a real bugger.’
‘Good Lord.’
‘Take Evening Primrose Oil and you’ll be as right as rain in no time.’
‘Evening Prim-?’
‘That’s the one. Meanwhile it’s been an absolute pleasure, but I must go. Relieve the babysitter of my, um, triplets. Two sets of them. Rather exhausting and all under five. Thank you so much for the beautiful flowers. Toodle-oo.’
And with that I turned on my heel and fled.
The following evening, when Stevie walked the twins home, I was greeted by one sullen daughter and a tight lipped ex-husband. Toby appeared to be the only one in high spirits, managing to aggravate Livvy even further.
‘Miss Stroppy Socks is having a moody!’ he gleefully informed.
‘That’s enough Toby,’ I ordered as Livvy barged straight past me and boycotted her father’s attempt to kiss her good-bye.
‘What’s that all about?’ I jerked my head towards our daughter’s retreating back.
‘I think it’s my new girlfriend. Liv didn’t take to her too well. Probably the age gap.’
Ah. Well Cynthia Castle hadn’t exactly been a spring chicken had she? Stevie obviously had a thing about older women. Perhaps this one was a grandma. Or even a great-grandma.
‘Charlotte is eighteen,’ Stevie added.
‘Eighteen?’ I repeated gormlessly.
The number, like a shiny coin, rolled slowly through my frozen thought processes before dropping somewhere in the region of my oesophagus, momentarily strangling me. Eighteen? Jealousy curdled in my stomach. Whilst I had been out fending off an amorous pensioner, he’d been canoodling with a mere stripling only nine years older than Livvy. No wonder our daughter had the hump.
Livvy was very subdued over the Cocoa Pops the following morning.
‘You okay Miss?’
She shrugged, eyes cast down. ‘I hope none of my school friends ever meet Charlotte. It would be dead embarrassing.’
‘I don’t think that’s likely to happen,’ I assured. ‘Why does she bother you so?’
‘She tried acting like she was my big sister and she’s not!’ Livvy spat.
‘I expect Charlotte was just trying to get some rapport going between the two of you,’ I suggested. Why was I defending a child-woman I’d never met?
‘She kept prattling on about nail polish and make-up, what clothes I liked and whether I fancied Usher.’
‘I see.’ Who was Usher?
‘If she wants to be my new best friend she’d better wise up. Like understanding my heart belongs irrevocably to Mika.’
‘Well quite.’ And who the heck was Mika?
At work Morag insisted on listening to a blow by blow account of Saturday night and predictably split her sides.
‘What a hoot,’ she chortled as I glared at her sourly. ‘Oh Cass, buck up for heaven’s sake. Just write it off as experience. Meanwhile we’ll push on with Plan B.’
‘Which is?’
‘Speed dating of course.’
Oh yes. Wasn’t that a sort of musical chairs situation with a flirty little interview thrown into the mix? I had a horrible vision of talking to a room full of Ken look-a-likes all miserably clutching their lost libido and pick-me-up prescriptions.
‘You know Morag, I think I’d like to grow old gracefully on my own. Life is a lot simpler without a man in the equation.’
‘Nonsense. You’re just a bit disillusioned at the moment. Mark my words Cass, we’re going to find ourselves a pair of stunners in the not too distant future.’
Morag was, if nothing else, doggedly persistent.
As I sat outside the school gates that afternoon, I was pleased to see Livvy had perked up. She bounced out of school with Toby bringing up the rear, laughing with a gaggle of friends.
‘Hey Mum,’ she plonked herself on the back seat, ‘did you hear about the man who asked a piece of string, “Are you a piece of string?” and the string replied, “No I’m afraid not”.’ She roared with laughter. ‘Do you get it Mum? A frayed knot. Mum?’
But my concentration had lapsed elsewhere. Where exactly had Stevie met this Charlotte? In a pub? A club? McDonalds? The make-up counter in Boots? The fact that she was only eighteen irritated me. I tried to analyse why. After all, plenty of men went out with girls young enough to be th
eir daughters. And then I realised that I, too, was old enough to be this girl’s parent – a harsh reminder that I was half way through my life whereas she was youthfully poised on the first rung of adulthood. No matter what trendy clothes I wore or how I contrived to knock a few years off the hands of time, it was superficial. Nothing could alter the fact that my next birthday was the Big Four O. And for an added kick in the teeth, here I was back on that first rung, just like Charlotte. But whereas her future was a blank page ready to be put into print, mine was a case of having scribbled through everything previously written in order to redraft the chapters.
Stevie telephoned that evening.
‘Hi Cass, can I have a word with Livvy please?’
‘She’s in the bath. Shall I get her to call you back?’
‘Yeah. I want to see if she’s calmed down and let her know she’s my number one girl.’
Ah yes, the Charlotte Factor.
‘I think she needs to have some questions answered,’ I ventured.
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. Like, er, where you both met. And how serious the relationship is. Oh, and what her parents think of you – that’s if you’ve met them. Have you?’
‘So many grown-up questions from a mere child.’
‘Well quite.’ I flushed. ‘And don’t forget the little matter of their respective taste in pop stars.’
There was a pause.
‘I see. Well as Livvy has such a comprehensive list of points to discuss, I’ll wait and chat to her in person.’
Later that evening, after a hot bath, I scrutinised my face in the steamed up mirror.
‘Why are you staring at yourself mum?’ Toby appeared by my side and reached for his toothbrush.
‘I’m thinking about trying botox.’
He rinsed and spat. ‘What’s botox?’
‘Special injections that fade wrinkles. I was wondering if it might help me look eighteen again.’
He wiped his mouth on a hand towel leaving a trail of toothpaste.
‘You don’t need it Mum.’
‘Really?’ I perked up.
‘Course not. You look great. For a wrinkly.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Any time Mum.’
I chucked the towel in the laundry basket and switched the bathroom light off.
Chapter Eight
The following afternoon I drove to the local riding stables to deposit Livvy with birthday girl Sophia for the eagerly awaited pony party. Toby was not impressed at being dragged along to watch.
‘Aw Mum, I don’t want to watch a bunch of girls riding a group of mangy horses.’
‘Stop whinging, it’s not for long.’
At the riding school there was a sense of organised chaos. Twenty rheumy-eyed ponies lethargically plodded into the indoor school. Bit by bit children were paired up with ponies, stirrups adjusted and girths checked.
Livvy climbed onto a nearby mounting block and hopped onto the back of an ancient Exmoor named Molly. It looked suspiciously like a dishevelled donkey. Was this perhaps Molly the Mule, descendent of Muffin?
As Livvy settled into the saddle, I felt beset with anxiety. What if Molly was only pretending to be an old nag and underneath all that long hair lurked a thoroughbred bronco intent on bucking my daughter off? Visions of my own pony mad youth were instantly recalled. Riding bareback. No hard hat. Effortlessly popping my precious pony over five foot fences. Blissfully unaware that horse riding was a sport that had cost some riders their mobility, indeed their lives.
A slip of a girl – all of eleven years old – materialised by Molly’s neck, apparently the lead rein assistant.
‘Er, I think not,’ I called to the riding instructor. I scrambled over the wooden barrier separating the arena from the spectator stand and jogged over to my endangered daughter. ‘I’ll be the lead rein assistant.’ Livvy looked mortified. ‘I love horses you see,’ I explained to the astonished instructor. ‘It’s their smell – can’t get enough of it,’ I inclined my head next to Molly’s muddy cheeks and breathed deeply. ‘Mm, wonderful,’ I heaved as a mixture of ammonia and ungroomed hair shot up my nostrils.
And so for the next thirty minutes, much to Livvy’s chagrin, we shambled around the arena with me tugging at Molly’s bridle in order to make the wretched creature move even a leg, let alone gallop off with her hooves cheekily flicking upwards.
‘Okay everybody,’ the instructor said, ‘when I shout stop I want all of you to gently pull the reins. Okay? Stop!’
‘HEEL!’ I yelled at Molly. The instructor glared at me. ‘Sorry. Thought it was a dog. Just for a moment.’
‘Mum,’ Livvy hissed. ‘Would you please go away?’ An awful lot of eyes stared in my direction. Livvy leaned forward in her saddle. ‘Go and have a coffee with the other parents.’
I gave the instructor a tight smile. ‘Well I think she’s doing splendidly and clearly doesn’t need me any more.’
The eleven year old silently materialised by Molly’s side and I smartly headed off towards the café.
Inside Toby was mindlessly stuffing pocket money into a fruit machine. The birthday girl’s mother was setting out sandwiches and sausage rolls on a long trestle table with a couple of other school mums assisting. Perhaps they’d like a hand? As I made my way over, a tall man seemed to step out of nowhere and touched me lightly on the arm.
‘Hello,’ he smiled pleasantly. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’
Ah. The birthday girl’s father.
‘How very nice,’ I beamed up at him.
Sophia’s father indicated an unoccupied table in the corner and went off to get the coffee. Moments later he was back bearing a tray with two steaming mugs and a plate of chocolate biscuits. What a charmer. He set the tray down, swung his legs over a seat opposite and extended a rough hand across the table.
‘I’m Matt by the way.’
I shook his hand. ‘Cassandra,’ I replied. ‘Mm,’ I took a sip. ‘Delicious. Thanks very much for this.’ I took another sip and discreetly checked Matt out over the cup’s rim. He was certainly nothing like his prim and proper wife who always dressed in a very uniformed way – navy skirt, white shirt, flat loafers. Matt, by comparison, was scruffily attired in jeans so distressed they were mere threads away from nervous breakdown. Rusty coloured hair curled in unruly fashion over a frayed collar and – goodness – was that a gold hoop in his left ear?
‘The party’s going well,’ I nodded toward the ponies plodding around, heads drooping lower and lower. Jolly good. With a bit of luck Molly would keel over any second from exhaustion and I could legitimately pluck Livvy into the safety of this café. Matt picked up on my fretfulness.
‘Don’t worry, the ponies are all bomb proof. I take it one of those kiddies belongs to you?’
I gave him a strange look. ‘Well, yes. And you too surely?’
‘No, it’s only the ponies that are mine.’
‘Aren’t you Sophia’s father?’
‘Nope. I’ve got a few daughters but, to the best of my recollection, none of them are called Sophia.’ He grinned disarmingly. ‘Allow me to introduce myself properly. Matthew Harding. I’m the owner of this place.’
I felt myself flushing. ‘I’m so sorry. I thought you were someone else. What must you think of me accepting an invitation for coffee with a total stranger?’
Matt glanced towards the arena. The children were all dismounting now and the ponies were being led away. He looked back at me.
‘Cassandra, I can see you will need to return to your daughter very shortly. But to answer your question frankly, I was taking a chance upon you being single. I’m just an old rogue attempting a chat up number on you,’ he gave a rather endearing shrug and his hazel eyes twinkled mischievously. Gosh, he was quite attractive actually.
‘That’s okay, I’m not married,’ I blurted foolishly. ‘Well, I am, but not for much longer if you see what I mean. That is, I’m not with anyone at the moment.’ Oh cringe. Talk about sounding desp
erate. I’d be throwing myself at him over the coffee cups in a minute. At that precise moment the fruit machine began to judder like an overloaded washing machine. It gave three deafening clangs and spewed out a cascading shower of silver.
‘YES!’ Toby punched the air in delight. ‘Mum! There’s enough money here for your buttocks injection.’
That night I lay in bed going over the afternoon’s events with a secret smile on my lips. On the bedside table was Matt’s equestrian business card. He’d pressed it into the palm of my hand before disappearing. His last words had been for me to call him.
At Hempel Braithwaite I began a lengthy float assignment for one of the Senior Partners. Martin Henniker was to be my boss right up to when the children broke up for the long summer holidays. As the working day unfolded, I realised that he and I were never going to bond. Words like unpleasant, nasty, disagreeable, sarcastic and downright rude would not have been inappropriate to describe him.
Morag pinged me an e-mail that we meet for lunch vis-à-vis speed dating. I groaned into my keyboard. I really didn’t want to do this just yet. Especially now I had Mr Harding’s telephone number. But Morag wouldn’t take no for an answer.
‘We’ll go this Friday,’ she insisted.
Julia, disillusioned with her current inattentive boyfriend, was joining us.
Once the twins were tucked up in bed and well and truly out of earshot, I barricaded myself into the kitchen and settled down by the phone to ring Matt. Apprehensively I punched out the numbers. There was something about a woman ringing a man which made my toes curl. However, I’d been reluctant to give out my number in case one of the twins had answered the phone. It had been Matt’s suggestion that I call him instead.
‘Cass!’ he sounded genuinely delighted to hear from me and the usual small talk ensued for a minute or two. Eventually Matt steered the conversation to Saturday night.
‘I’d love to take you to a little restaurant I know. Traditional cuisine. Cosy atmosphere. Can’t go wrong,’ he assured. ‘It will give us a chance to talk quietly and find out a bit more about each other.’ There was a small pause while he let me digest this. ‘And Cass, I do want to find out more about you.’ Another pause. ‘A lot more,’ he whispered. I instantly broke out in a muck sweat.
STOCKINGS AND CELLULITE Page 12
