The Summer of Second Chances

by Maddie Please

  Her companion looked puzzled for a few seconds.

  ‘Moratorium I think you mean, Val.’ Sandra turned to me. ‘Anyway it’s all online these days. Go on the Superfine website. Then you’ll find out if there is anything going. If there is – or if there isn’t for that matter – you’ll have to fill out a form and email it to head office. Then they get back in touch with you when there is a vacancy and then they send you to the area office to do a psychometric test. Then that goes off to Superfine’s head office. It takes about a month for the results to come back.’

  Val took up the story, tapping the counter in front of her for emphasis with one purple talon.

  ‘And then there’s the police check thingy and if that’s OK then management – that’s Mr Phillips – brings you into the store and you have a day’s trial. And if they like the look of you then you have a probationary fortnight with a mentor. I was a mentor for that Caroline, wasn’t I, Sandra, d’you remember?’ She sucked in her lower lip for emphasis. ‘Some of the longest days of my life. You do wonder what goes on in girls’ heads these days. Anyway, after that, if it’s OK, you can work on the till unsupervised for three months and then they decide if you’re up to it, and offer you a contract if everything’s fine and you haven’t run off screaming.’ Val chuckled.

  Sandra chortled along with her. ‘Like they say, you don’t have to be mad to work here but it helps!’

  They turned back to me.

  ‘So does that answer your question, dear?’ Val asked me kindly.

  ‘Yes, yes, it does. I was only hoping for a job on the till or perhaps shelf stacking?’

  ‘Still the same, dear, I’m afraid. These days it’s all about form filling and box ticking. Between you and me I doubt we’d get in these days, would we, Sandra?’

  Sandra roared with laughter.

  ‘Oh I see. Well thanks so much,’ I said and I wandered off, a bit startled. It was as though I was intending to apply for a job with MI5, not a small chain of West Country supermarkets.

  Sandra and Val returned to their character assassination of Josie, who had now phoned in sick. Cue a great deal more head wobbling and eye rolling in disbelief.

  I went into the store’s café, conveniently next to the clothes, where there was free Wi-Fi and the possibility of half an hour’s peace and quiet, and logged on. A few minutes’ research and I found everyone at Superfine – We Love Your Food As Much As You Do – was committed to providing customers with an exceptional shopping experience but there were no vacancies at my local store or any stores nearby. I completed the online application anyway because the last few months had taught me that you never knew when things might change.

  Then, in light of my sister’s comments, I did a bit more surfing and found there were several outstandingly glamorous actresses the same age as I was and at least one major tennis star. I looked at their smiling flawless faces and then looked at my reflection in a nearby mirror. Another woman had been browsing in the racks of clothes and was checking her reflection at the same time, assessing the suitability of some zoo-print harem trousers. We caught each other’s eye and both of us looked away embarrassed. I hope she decided against the trousers, they made her bottom decidedly elephantine.

  Jenny was right. I looked drained, haggard, dull, whatever other depressing adjective one cared to use. I wasn’t so deluded that I didn’t understand about photoshopping but I would bet my last KitKat that Gisele Bündchen didn’t own a grey skirt and matching cardigan from the Edinburgh Woollen Mill like I did. Ditto Paris Hilton and Venus Williams.

  What on earth had happened to me? Where had I gone? Had being with Ian prematurely aged me? I smoothed the skin on my face and neck and wondered if I should try a Croydon facelift. I dragged my hair back from my forehead and tried to sneak another look at myself.

  Zoo-trouser woman was now trying on a neon-orange T-shirt and some black and white zebra-print leggings, an outfit that had nothing to recommend it unless she was looking for fancy dress and wanted to go as a pedestrian crossing.

  I drank a cup of tea and ate half my toasted teacake while I thought about things. Would Kelly Brook have chosen to do the same thing under similar circumstances? Of course not! She would have teetered off on her Jimmy Choos with some huge rugby player boyfriend to Patisserie Valerie and nibbled an Exotic Fruit Tart (£3.40. I know because I Googled it) while a conveniently placed photographer took pictures of her scissoring legs and wide white smile.

  I slumped in my seat and thought about Bryn. And then I thought about Bonnie and I was consumed with resentment.

  Why was I six inches shorter and a stone heavier? Why did she have a cloud of Pre-Raphaelite red-gold curls while I just had plain brown hair? She had a red sports car and Bryn for a boyfriend. I had a four-year-old Vauxhall and my sister in the spare room. Even at thirty-nine and three husbands down, Jenny enjoyed herself more than I did. Life was very unfair.

  I started on the second half of my teacake and then thought better of it and pushed it to one side. My new life of positive action would start today and I knew what I needed to do first. I picked up my mobile and opened the contacts, scrolling down until I found the right one. Then I pressed the button and waited.

  CHAPTER 9

  Daisies – loyalty

  ‘So,’ Susan said, ‘you’d better come in.’

  It was nearly six months since I had last seen her and she looked terrible. Despite all the animosity that had existed between us, I felt sorry for her. She was never a large woman, but her navy twin set and pleated skirt now hung off her like sacks. There seemed to be nothing left of her except her iron will and perfect posture. Her hair, coloured and lacquered for so many years into a style similar to the Queen’s, was now silvery, longer and scraped back out of the way into a clip.

  I pressed my cheek to hers for a moment; still the same cold, softly scented skin. Perhaps she had a few more wrinkles and lines, but that wasn’t surprising.

  She showed me into the sitting room with great formality as though it was the first time I had been there. I remembered so many tedious visits, sitting in the unyielding armchair furthest away from the fire willing away the hours. Counting the plate collection on the wall. Listening as Ian boasted to her of his latest (fictional, as it turned out) deals and successes. Sympathising with her aches and ailments. Trying to keep up with the spiteful infighting of the local WI and their attempts to oust Susan from their midst. Following impenetrable tales of someone called That Dreadful Gwen and her henchwomen Sylvia and Vivienne. The Mafia was nothing compared to that lot, I can tell you.

  Susan settled herself opposite me, there was no offer of coffee so I guessed this was going to be a short visit. We sat in silence for a few moments, Susan pleating the folds of her skirt with thin hands. I could see her wedding ring swivelling around her finger as she did so. Nature abhors a vacuum and so do I; I struggled not to start babbling or asking stupid questions.

  Eventually Susan broke the silence.

  ‘So, here we are.’

  ‘Yes, indeed!’

  My tone was quite chirpy and inappropriate so I coughed and tried again more quietly. ‘Yes. Jenny told me you wanted to see me about something.’

  ‘I have had several phone calls from that woman. From Trudy Stroud.’

  ‘Good grief!’

  Susan looked up at the ceiling as though she found me immensely irritating for even speaking. The atmosphere between us was unbearable. It was as though she was holding in an outburst of hurricane strength by sheer force of will.

  She pressed her fingertips to her temples. ‘Why do you always have to be so noisy, Charlotte? Please just be quiet for once. I have asked her not to but she persists. Crying down the phone at me. At me!’

  I shook my head in sympathy but suitably chastened I didn’t speak.

  ‘And then two weeks ago she began to ask for…’

  ‘Ask for what?’ I whispered.

  Susan didn’t speak for a moment then she stood up and wal
ked to the window. Outside the garden was its usual, dull, regimented self. Neat rows of bedding plants and over-pruned rose bushes just as Trevor had planned them, thirty years ago.

  ‘Ask for what, Susan?’ I said. My head was spinning with the possibilities.

  Susan didn’t answer. I could see her shoulders were shaking slightly. Was she crying?

  I got up, wondering what to do. Should I go over and put a consoling hand on her arm? Hug her? Did I dare?

  At last Susan turned round and I realised she was angry. More than that, she was incensed. She looked at me, her grey eyes like chips of ice.

  ‘This is very embarrassing. I don’t know what to do. You’re the last person I want to have involved in this but I can’t think of anyone else to ask – I obviously don’t want to involve the police. She wants money.’

  My jaw dropped.

  ‘Trudy wants money from you?’

  Susan nodded. ‘She says she has some personal items of Ian’s and also some photographs.’

  I stood there, gaping for a moment, not knowing what to say. Just as I was wondering if I dared ask how much Trudy was expecting, Susan spoke again.

  ‘She wants five thousand pounds.’

  At that point I laughed. ‘She’s not serious?’

  ‘She says she is.’

  ‘Or she’ll what?’

  She made a quick gesture with her hands, her shoulders very narrow and angular under her cardigan.

  ‘That’s blackmail, Susan.’

  ‘Of course it is. But what can I do?’

  ‘Ignore her. Tell her to sod off.’

  She flinched at my language. ‘But Ian’s things…’

  ‘A few snaps and a couple of pairs of socks. So what.’

  ‘She says she’ll burn them.’

  ‘Then let her.’ I couldn’t imagine a few pictures of Ian in his leisure moments with his mistress were worth anything to anyone but Trudy.

  ‘But you don’t understand, she’s got his passport, his birth certificate. She has the album containing his baby photographs. A sweater I knitted for him. Other things. She won’t tell me. How could she say she’s going to burn them? What sort of woman is she? I can’t bear it. I can’t sleep for worrying about it. I can’t eat anything. I’m just so tired all the time.’

  I moved a step closer. Treading carefully in case she lashed out at me. Her skin was pale, translucent, her eyes rimmed with red, flaking skin.

  ‘Have you seen the doctor?’ I said.

  Susan regained a little of her old venom. ‘Her? She’s never there. I rang for an appointment a couple of times and she’s always off. Her children. Sports day. Half term. I don’t know why they employ her at all.’

  ‘You could see Doctor Hawkins? He’s very kind.’

  Susan pulled a disapproving face. ‘I don’t want a man messing me about, asking questions.’

  ‘You don’t look well, Susan,’ I said.

  She shot me a poisonous look. ‘What do you expect? He was my only child. My son.’ Her eyes slid away from me as though she couldn’t bear to look at me. ‘You never loved him.’

  ‘Yes, I did, Susan.’

  ‘Not like I did.’ She began to wring her hands together, her voice rose in despair. ‘I don’t know why I asked you here. You’re as useless as ever. How? How could that woman have his passport and his birth certificate? I don’t understand it. Why did he give them to her? His baby photographs!’

  I opened my mouth to protest and then some of the depth of her misery struck me. If it made her feel better to have a go at me then so be it. It was blindingly obvious to me why Trudy had my husband’s passport and birth certificate but I wasn’t going to add to Susan’s grief by telling her.

  ‘Do you want me to speak to her? To Trudy, I mean?’

  I saw a spark of hope flare in her eyes and then she looked away.

  ‘You? What could you do? Nothing.’

  ‘I can try.’

  ‘Do what you like.’

  It was the closest I was going to get to her agreement.

  She stood and watched me for a moment while I fidgeted. In the past Ian had been there, taking her attention away from me for ninety-nine per cent of the time. Now she looked me up and down, her mouth pursed in dissatisfaction. I wished I had worn something more formal rather than jeans and a white shirt. But then I had already dispatched a large bin liner of what my sister called my ‘middle-aged’ clothes to a charity shop. I didn’t have a lot left to choose from.

  ‘You’ve lost weight,’ she said.

  What does a woman say to that comment? I opened my mouth to thank her for this rare compliment and then she spoiled it.

  ‘You needed to, you were getting very fat.’

  ‘You’ve lost weight too, Susan,’ I replied, ‘you look very frail.’

  If we were being honest with each other I didn’t mind having my say.

  She ignored me. ‘So will you speak to her? To that woman?’

  ‘If you have no objections I will. It can’t hurt, can it? But I’m not going to give her a penny.’

  Susan pressed her lips together and nodded in approval. ‘I wouldn’t dream of asking you to.’

  ‘Right then,’ I said, wondering what to do next. How soon could I politely leave, I wondered? Susan’s attitude was more straightforward.

  ‘I want you to go now,’ she said, ‘and don’t feel you need to come back if you don’t get anywhere. I don’t think we need to pretend any special friendship, do you?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  It made me rather sad. It’s one thing to deal with one’s own dislike of someone and quite another to face outright loathing from them in return.

  Susan held out an arm and for a moment I thought she wanted to shake my hand, so I held mine out. She curled her lip at me and I realised she was directing me to the front door. I went.

  Trudy bloody Stroud.

  I had hoped I would never hear that name again. An unlikely femme fatale by anyone’s standards. I’d met her a couple of times but she had just been someone Ian complained about a lot, he told me she worked in HR, if anything he said could be believed with hindsight. And then at the last minute, on Boxing Day, Ian had casually chucked out the idea of inviting some of his staff to our New Year’s party as though he was doing me a favour. We were sitting around the dining table with Ian’s mother who had joined us for Christmas as usual and who was now picking at the re-hash of overcooked food respectfully known as Boxing Day lunch.

  ‘I know, I’ll bring along some people from work if you like. We can invite Phil from accounts…’

  I raked my memory banks. Ah, yes, Phil, a man distinguished only by his pedantry.

  ‘…and I’d better ask Trudy from HR…keep her happy.’ He’d rolled his eyes at this point.

  Trudy – short, sullen, with the beginnings of a fine moustache.

  I frowned, remembering something.

  ‘Hang on, Trudy Stroud? I thought you couldn’t stand her? You’re always moaning about her.’

  Ian looked puzzled. ‘No, I’m not, you must be thinking of someone else. And Julian from IT.’

  Julian – tall, with rimless glasses; spectacularly boring.

  I could see this was shaping up to be some party.

  Ian was warming to his theme. ‘And of course—’

  ‘I won’t come, if you don’t mind,’ Susan interrupted before we could beg her to attend. She looked down and fiddled with the linen napkin in her lap. ‘Ann is going to call round and we like to be alone with our memories on New Year’s Eve. A bit of peace and quiet after all the madness of Christmas.’

  Madness? What madness was that then? Perhaps Susan had spent the festive season in a parallel universe. I don’t remember any wild behaviour since she had turned up on December 23, unless you count an unusually spirited exchange of views over a game of Scrabble on Christmas Eve. And just for the record, Qi is a word.

  ‘Won’t people have made other arrangements by now?’ I said, ignoring her
. I knew I was grasping at straws. ‘I mean, it’s very last minute.’

  It was bad enough spending every Christmas with my partner’s mother but after the dullest Christmas since records began, the prospect of spending New Year’s Eve with Ian’s workforce was too horrible to contemplate. I tortured myself for a few seconds, imagining the regulars at our local pub whooping it up at a raucous party. Perhaps they would form a conga line around the pub car park in the snow while I spent the evening with people ten years older than I who would want to discuss the forthcoming New Year kitchen sale in minute detail.

  Ian laughed, confident of his pulling power.

  ‘They won’t turn down an invitation from me, will they? Not from their boss. Don’t be daft. You wouldn’t, would you? If Doctor Hawkins asked you round for a party?’

  ‘God forbid.’

  ‘I’ll probably have a quiet supper and read,’ Ian’s mother continued, looking into the far distance and her perfect life on Planet Susan. Ian rolled his eyes and topped up his mother’s wine glass. She didn’t seem to notice. ‘My friend Ann gave me such a lovely book for Christmas, about debutantes in wartime.’

  Ian turned back to me, his enthusiasm growing. ‘I’ll fetch up some wine for the party from the cellar and you can do some nibbles.’

  ‘Hah! So your part in the proceedings takes ten minutes but I’m going to be in the kitchen chained to the stove for days!’

  ‘I’ll help,’ Ian said. He took my hand and stretched his eyes wide in an attempt at sincerity. Then he pulled a funny face and I laughed and slapped his arm.

  ‘You’d better if I’m expected to entertain the dullest workforce in England!’

  I stood up and began clearing away the battered remains of our turkey pie while Ian and his mother discussed the weather and tried to trump each other’s snow stories. One that Susan would always win because she had lived through the winter of 1963.

  I returned with the Boxing Day special, a vast trifle in Ian’s grandmother’s glass bowl; a thing of unparalleled ugliness. Ian’s eyes lit up.

  ‘I think I deserve a dessert,’ he said, as he always did.