by Sue Watson
“We had some good times, didn’t we?” I said looking down, away from his eyes.
“Yeah,” Tom answered, obviously unsure where this was going and making a big thing about sipping his coffee. I watched his eyes close as they always did when he took a drink. I used to love that when we were first together. I hadn’t noticed it for years.
“How’s Rachel?” I blurted. I don’t know what made me say this but I think I wanted him to say he was desperately unhappy and he missed me. I also longed for the caveat that Bitch Rachel had gained three stone, grown thick, dark, facial hair (and would ‘grown a penis’ have been really sick?).
“Erm, OK,” was all he offered.
“What’s she like?” I heard myself say, sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor and feeling a strong urge to put my head on his shoulder, to lean on him like I always had.
Silence.
“Is she slim?” I heard my fifteen-year old self ask.
“Stella, this is silly. It doesn’t matter what she’s like.” He moved to get up and I caught his arm. I didn’t want a row, I wanted to know why.
“Don’t you understand? I need to know what it was that took you away. I need to know what she had that made you want to leave us. Is she really pretty? Is she fun?”
“She’s attractive and she can be fun, but…I do have days when I think ‘you idiot, what have you done.”
“Do you?” I said, my voice croaking with suppressed emotion.
“Yeah, I miss you and of course I miss Grace, but then perhaps it was for the best. I’m finally getting there. Rachel’s OK. She’s difficult sometimes, insecure, you know – but we have some laughs.” I could feel the heat of rage and hurt rising from the soles of my feet and had the lump in my throat I hadn’t felt since Christmas when he’d left.
“Look, despite what you might think, Rachel’s a good sort,” he said, looking at me like he was trying to convince me to vote for the bitch.
A good fucking sort is she? Gosh, that’s funny, I thought she was a husband-stealing slut, was what I wanted to say. So I went one better. “I’m glad you’re finally getting there,” I said, clamping down the anger and relishing the next bit, “I’m moving on too. In fact I have a date tomorrow night – with a doctor.”
The look on his face assuaged a good deal of the stinging and was better therapy than any swearing and bitching on my part. He looked like he’d been hit by a truck, but soon composed himself enough to slap me back.
“Doctor? Ha – is that someone your mum fixed you up with, on the Internet?” he said, rather cruelly (obviously Grace had been blabbing).
“No, this is someone I met at a party,” I lied, staying calm, getting up off the floor and resisting the urge to kick him hard in the head from my now-higher vantage point. A little stiff from sitting on the floor but damned if I’d show it, I veered towards the sink and begin rinsing the cups.
“And who’s looking after Grace?” he started, with a whisper of indignance, which kind of roused my old friend, Mr Angry.
“Since when have you been concerned about who’s looking after Grace?” I said raising my voice and only just stopping myself from hurling pink polka-dot coffee mugs across the kitchen. “I don’t recall you saying ‘Stella I’m going out to have sex in every possible position with my girlfriend tonight, but don’t worry, I’ve sorted a babysitter’.” I hissed, as I frantically rinsed.
“I just meant that if you’re going gallivanting off with…”
“Don’t you even go there Tom. How dare you suggest that I’m ‘gallivanting’! How fucking dare you? Or that I’m putting my daughter second on the list when you’ve been nailing the office slut for the past year without a thought for your only child!”
“That’s right, it’s all my fault…”
“Damn right it is!”
“Stella, I just think it’s a bit much – introducing another man into her life. Isn’t it a bit soon?” Not for the first time in our relationship I was deeply awed by his gift for sheer hypocrisy, which always achieved an incendiary effect when used alongside his complete lack of empathy.
“Get out.” I spat.
“Stella…”
“Get out Tom. NOW.” He huffed, and gathering his carrier bag of mugs he went off to say goodbye to Grace while I crumpled into a navy-blue heap on the kitchen floor.
Eventually I heard him leave and within a couple of minutes Grace wandered into the room. “What are you doing, Mum?”
“I’m just wiping this mark off the floor sweetie,” I said, desperately trying to hide my tears.
“Dad’s gone now.”
“Yes…er, he’ll be back on Friday to pick you up,” I looked up and forced a smile, but she wasn’t fooled. She nodded, patted me on the head and went back to the relative safety of Miley Cyrus and her double-life as a schoolgirl/pop-star.
Meanwhile I brushed myself off, wiped my eyes and foraged for a pen. According to the latest issue of Celebrity Psychology, a ballpoint was better than anger management therapy. You used it to avoid a conflict by inscribing your angry thoughts somewhere on your body. The way it worked was you write the name of the person or issue that’s causing you anger and pain and if you began to feel that anger rising you glanced at the written word and apparently it had a deep, calming effect.
I couldn’t bring myself to write Bitch Rachel so sitting at the table in my date dress with swollen cheeks and red eyes I wrote, ‘bunny boiler’ ten times on the inside of my left wrist. I couldn’t say it was instant but I felt slightly better and at least it would help prevent me committing a double-murder – I hoped.
24 - The Doctor, the Damsel and the Date
Against my better judgement, I decided to go on the date. I’d been veering between feeling wobbly and furious since my confrontation with Tom and it took Lizzie to finally persuade me to go. She was back from Australia for a few weeks and gave me a pep talk about moving on. Grace also approved, so with some reluctance I decided to go for it.
I wore the ‘date dress’, which as far as I could see showed no signs of the kitchen floor. I also wore some very high, very expensive black strappy Gina shoes, courtesy of Lizzie who was going to babysit Grace. Added to my date doubts I couldn’t help but feel that Grace’s approval was influenced by the fact that she got to spend the night with her favourite auntie, eating millions of E numbers and watching unsuitable DVDs way past her bedtime.
Jostling for space with inappropriate DVDs, Lizzie’s overflowing overnight bag contained at least one hundredweight of chocolate and a bag of knitting. The chocolate and DVDs were nothing new but the knitting needles poking out of the top surprised me; I couldn’t imagine that the woman who’d braced herself for the ice-cannon in Ibiza would be the same one sitting in her arm chair knitting and purling.
“It’s the latest thing,” she said when I asked her. “I’ve joined ‘The Stitchin’ and Bitchin’ Club’ with Al. We are the new ‘Knitterati’ – it’s the woolly way forward honey.” Lizzie was the original fashion victim and if someone told her that Stella McCartney had taken up dog-handling, Lizzie would be on the back field with an Alsatian and a big whistle before you could say ‘down girl.’
“Al’s making a lovely long purple cardi for winter and I’m creating a little cashmere number,” she continued, opening up her knitting bag and draping a rather luscious mink-coloured half-knitted pashmina round her shoulders. “I’m loving the stitchin’ and the bitchin’ is a revelation. You wouldn’t believe the swingers, the affairs, and, yes – the transvestites living in our community,” she announced loudly, warming to the theme. “Respectable neighbours indulging in afternoon delight and Al says he’s scared to go out at night now after hearing the lurid tales of car keys thrown on laminate floors and every man for himself in fishnets.”
“I’m impressed with your handiwork,” I said, caressing the costly thread and trying to change the subject before Grace enquired about the nature of transvestism or love in the afternoon. Too late: “Mumm
y,” she piped up, “what’s Afternoon Delight?”
“It’s a sort of dessert,” I answered vaguely, crossing my eyes at Lizzie and going back to the softness and safety of cashmere. “Such delicate work Lizzie. I didn’t think you could do stuff like that.”
She smiled proudly, “It’s funny how everyone has a talent. Al’s a great swimmer, you’re a great cake-maker and I seem to knit like a dream. Talking of your fabulous cakes,” added Lizzie, delving into her overnight-bag for extra ciggies, “I hope you’ve left a little something in Pandora’s Box?” She winked hopefully and nodded towards the cake tin.
As it happened I’d just been practicing my pastel macaroons in case scary Sangita ever called. I opened the plastic container and laid two pretty, pistachio discs on a plate. Held together with the softest, most delicate rose-scented buttercream, made with unsalted Normandy butter and sugary pink crystallised rose petals, the macaroons were crispy on the outside with a surprisingly soft centre. The pale green discs complimented the almost pink of the cream which looked and tasted gorgeous.
“Darling, you wouldn’t get finer in the salons of Paris,” Lizzie enthused, munching away. “They sell macaroons in the French coffee house in Harrods and I’m telling you, these are just as good, if not better. You should be on the phone to Al-Fayed sweetie, or whoever the hell owns the place now.” I was glad she approved, I’d been experimenting with the colours, texture and flavours for days and felt I now had something else to add to my growing cake repertoire.
After a quick cup of coffee and more macaroon-sampling with Lizzie and a hug from Grace, I applied lipstick, a cloud of Chanel and left for my first date for many years, feeling very nervous.
I took my time arriving at Bruce’s. I didn’t want to be too desperate and arrive before Diego so I sauntered down Broad Street which was buzzing, with bare arms on the street and music and aftershave on the air. My chest was fizzy with excitement (and fear) as I tripped past the busy bars, their doors wide open to allow the last of the summer evening to waft in. Anything could happen tonight and that felt scary – but good.
The bar was dimly lit with Australian beer signs in coloured neon lights and as I opened the door to walk in I was met with blackness. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust and assuming he was already there waiting, I needed to compose myself quickly. This would be the first time that Diego saw me and if it was love, he would recall this moment for many years so I walked slowly, trying hard not to stagger, with my arms out to steady myself – not a good look on a first date.
Once my eyes had refocused I spotted a man at the bar who I hoped was Diego. He was standing under a lit Foster’s kangaroo and I thought wow and as he smiled expectantly in my direction I thought thank you Mother. Standing against the bar, he looked about six foot (nice), in his early forties (another tick) with shiny brown hair and the sweetest smile (fasten your seatbelts, ladies).
Along with relief that he wasn’t one of mother’s axe-wielding madmen, I was overcome with nerves that turned my legs and stomach to jelly. As I wobbled towards him on Lizzie’s unfamiliar Gina heels I felt the same as I did on my very first date as a chunky fifteen-year old with acne and terminal shyness. It was imperative to walk quickly and keep up the momentum in the heels but as he turned to greet me he was clearly surprised at the speed I was approaching and let out a little yelp as I sailed into him. I think he was slightly winded, but it broke the ice; I blamed the shoes and he laughed.
There was really no need for my nervousness because from that first moment he was just so lovely and warm and smiley. He couldn’t do enough for me, helping me with my jacket and ordering drinks while directing me (with a guiding hand on my arm to prevent any more sudden moves) to a seat. Once I was safely deposited with a large glass of red, I asked him about the hospital he was currently working in. “Crazy, crazy, crazy,” he said, waving his arms about in a very cute way, obviously bemused by the NHS way of doing things. We laughed about my mother (what’s not to find funny?) and after another large glass of wine I was ready to share with him the information that my husband left me for another woman at Christmas.
“She’s older than me and some say, much bigger,” I lied. I didn’t want him to think I was rejected on the grounds that I was too old or too fat. He smiled and nodded enthusiastically. I found him so easy to talk to – and what with the wine and those big, brown understanding eyes, I went into some detail about the break-up (editing turkey violence, I didn’t want him to think was unhinged).
“He walked away from us on Christmas Eve – the presents half-wrapped, the carol singers unpaid,” I waxed, trying to give this some context and feeling.
He was fascinated. “My heart goes out to you,” he said, touching his heart with both hands and then extending them out to me. How cute was that?
Regaling him with my life story and reaching for another slurp of red, my sleeve rose slightly to reveal ‘bunny boiler’ etched in biro on my inner wrist. Spotting it, I nearly choked on my Merlot. I’d freshly applied it earlier during an ‘I’m going to kill all Bitch Rachel’s bunnies’ moment and had meant to scrub it off before the date. I cringed and covered it up but I think it was too late – he looked away, but he’d spotted it. I decided to keep going and tried not to think about it and as Diego smiled and listened I told how Tom and I first got together, our wedding, honeymoon, Grace, even MJ. All the time I was talking and enjoying the wine and the atmosphere I was looking into his lovely big brown eyes. I lost myself in their warmth and twinkle and began to imagine kissing him.
“I’m now planning my own business, making cakes; professionally and personally I need to move on,” I stressed, keen to let him now there was a vacancy in my heart.
“Yes, your mother she says your cakes are mwah,” and with this he made a kissing noise involving his mouth and fingers that I’d defy any woman to resist.
Trying not to be completely distracted by his gorgeous mannerisms and delicious accent, I talked him through Sangita and the cake order. He listened intently throughout showing real interest.
By the time the bar closed I was feeling like I’d got a lot off my chest, but still didn’t know his second name. I hadn’t asked him about his daughter, his life in South America – or even the million-dollar question, ‘could you see yourself marrying a blonde Englishwoman with a lot of issues and a weakness for buttercream?’ Never mind, I’d save that for our next date. I hoped there would be a second date. He must have bought me about six (or was it seven? eight?) glasses of wine and I never once offered to go to the bar. What must he have thought of me?
I think I was a bit tipsy when we left because as he walked me towards a taxi I fell off the pavement and the only thing I can clearly remember is sitting in the gutter laughing. Diego offered to help me up but I shouted, “No Tom, I’ll be fine,” and managed to get up without any help by using the taxi door as a hoist. I couldn’t remember what we had arranged for our next date. I wish I hadn’t drunk quite so much, I wish I hadn’t fallen over – and I wish I hadn’t called him Tom.
The next day started out as a hangover day and turned into something completely different. I was feeling pretty rough after my hard-drinking date with Diego and had almost given up on Sangita and her diva cakes when I got the call. As soon as I picked up and heard her barking orders, I guessed the news was good.
“Stella. Sangita here. We’re looking at a ‘yes’ on the cakes for Fashionista Tea. I will send all requirements in writing. Will call later. LA is on the other line.”
With that, she was gone and I danced round the kitchen. They wanted my fairy cakes and, despite my inexperience, were risking the curvaceous, basque-shaped confection too. For the privilege of creating, nurturing, cajoling and baking these cakes to perfection in record time, the company would pay me a small fortune. I was so happy I just couldn’t believe it, after all the bad stuff that had happened. It was about time my luck changed.
I picked up the phone and called Al. He was due to finally fly t
o Oz the next week and I was dying to tell him the good news about Sangita’s call – after all, he was a big part of the pitch. I’d tried his home number about six times, on the seventh, he answered.
“Al I have the most brilliant news,” I exploded. “I’ve got the ‘big bun’ contract, the one with the ‘busty basque’. The big one,” I laughed.
“That’s fabulous, doll,” he said, sounding subdued.
As always, it looked like Al had some bigger event unfolding and he launched straight into “Oh babes, I hate to rain on your parade. I’m so excited for you really, but yesterday – well I had some bad news.”
“What is it, Al?” I asked, worried.
“I lost my job, Stel. They fired me.”
I was shocked. Al was a great researcher. Yes, he went out on a limb sometimes but as in the case of vicars and tarts he put his finger on the nation’s zeitgeist discovering Bernard and Denise in a garden in Rochdale.
“Al, I’m so sorry. Why? What happened?”
“Mary-Jane Robinson is what happened,” he said, through gritted teeth. “I made the mistake of suggesting some ideas to her about Barry’s Barbie. As you know, it’s always good with a successful series to come up with the next idea pronto and I thought for the next series it would be good to get real people involved. A sort of barbecue X-Factor, if you will. We’d call it Barry’s Real Barbie, do a big cook-out with lots of interesting punters to bounce off Barry then Barry and a couple of celebrity judges would choose the winner.”
“That sounds brilliant.”
“But yesterday MJ said my ideas for the current programme weren’t strong enough so my contract was not being renewed. Then this morning I hear that all my ‘weak’ ideas are to be included in the new series – and get this – MJ is credited with every single one of them.”
I couldn’t believe it – well I could actually. She’d got rid of Al so she could take all the credit for his ideas. Once more the woman had committed an incredible act of injustice in the workplace and was living to tell the tale.
