by Jill Mansell
Wine, maybe. Or a bar of chocolate. Valpolicella versus a giant block of Fruit & Nut.
Sod it, she’d have both.
They left the shop together and made their way up the snowy street. As Maggie reached her front door, she slipped on a patch of ice, felt her legs shoot out from beneath her, and landed with a bump on the pavement.
Luckily, her thick padded parka cushioned her bottom. As landings went, it was more undignified than painful.
‘Shit!’ Maggie wailed as Barney reached down to her.
‘Are you hurt?’
‘Bloody bottle’s broken.’ She gazed in dismay at the carrier bag, leaking blood-red Valpolicella into the snow. And she’d managed to drench her Sunday Times. Behind her, she heard the sound of a vehicle making its way down the street.
‘Come on,’ said Barney, ‘up you get.’ But the spilled wine only made the snow more slippery, and his first attempt to help Maggie to her feet was unsuccessful. As she tried again, this time going for the ultra elegant all-fours approach, the gleaming black Land Rover Discovery approached them. Hector’s Land Rover Discovery, Maggie realized, unable to stop herself glancing through the green-tinted windscreen at Hector behind the wheel with Paula Penhaligon beside him.
Hector braked and buzzed down the window. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘No. I’m fine.’ Grabbing Barney’s outstretched arms with both hands, Maggie hauled herself upright.
‘Is that blood?’ Hector was looking alarmed.
‘Red wine. I’m OK.’ As she brushed crimson-stained snow from the seat of her parka, Maggie couldn’t help noticing that Paula was wearing a white fur coat and matching hat like something out of Dr Zhivago. And expensive-looking sunglasses like nothing out of Dr Zhivago.
‘Darling, we don’t want to be late,’ said Paula.
‘I’m OK. I just slipped in the snow.’ With all her heart Maggie willed him to drive off.
Before the driver’s window slid shut once more, she clearly heard Paula drawl, ‘Good grief, is the woman drunk?’
Barney helped her into the cottage, then went out to retrieve her carrier bag.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ Maggie protested as he returned with the bag. ‘I’m not an invalid, you know.’
But she was touched by the gesture. Barney really was a sweet boy. As she watched him fish out the stuffing and chocolate, Maggie thought what a shame it was that he already had a girlfriend. He’d be perfect for Tara.
‘I know you aren’t an invalid. But it’s not very nice, falling over in the street.’ Carefully wrapping up the bag containing the sodden newspaper and broken glass, he dropped it into Maggie’s kitchen bin. ‘Still, it was nice of Hector to stop, wasn’t it?’
‘Mm.’ Maggie would far rather he hadn’t. As she peeled off her heavy parka she saw that the wine had soaked into the bit where her bottom had landed. Fabulous, something else really bulky to wash by hand and struggle to dry.
‘He’s great,’ Barney went on with enthusiasm. ‘I mean, he owns the hotel but he still insists I call him Hector. It’s just so brilliant working somewhere like that; it makes all the difference.’
Joining him in the kitchen, Maggie peeled the sodden wrapper off the bar of chocolate and ran it under the tap. She offered Barney a piece.
‘Thanks, I love fruit and nut. And she’s really friendly too,’ Barney added. ‘Paula Penhaligon. She gave me a signed photo yesterday for my mum. I thought that was so nice of her. They make a great couple, don’t they?’
Presumably not Paula and his mum.
Maggie did her best to ignore the stab of pain in her chest. OK, not pain. Jealousy.
‘Oh yes. A great couple.’
‘He’s mad about her, you can tell. Well, they’re mad about each other. Imagine, they might end up getting married, wouldn’t that be fantastic?’
By this time fighting the urge to batter Barney over the head with her family-sized bar of chocolate, Maggie smiled blandly and said, ‘Wouldn’t it just?’
Barney left to finish painting his skirting boards and Maggie got on with the task of stuffing Madge. Plucked, Madge had weighed four pounds, which meant that after one hour and forty minutes of lying on her back with her legs in the air on a tray of roasting vegetables, she would be cooked to perfection.
Taking her out of the oven at midday, Maggie realized she’d lost her appetite. Madge looked delicious—glistening and golden and enticingly plump, but Maggie hadn’t the heart to eat her. Tara would have to do the honors later when she came off duty.
Honorable though it would have been to pretend that the reason she couldn’t bring herself to eat Madge was because she knew her—had known her, in fact, since she was a chick—the truth of the matter was she couldn’t stop thinking about the humiliating moment when Hector had driven by while she was scrabbling on all fours on the pavement.
When Hector had driven by with bloody Paula Penhaligon in the passenger seat.
‘You really mustn’t be embarrassed about falling over,’ Barney had said kindly as he was leaving. ‘It’s slippery out there. I fell over in the snow at the car boot sale this morning.’
Yes, but not in front of the person who pays you to have sex with them, Maggie had been sorely tempted to retort. Or at least had paid you to have sex with them up until they’d found themself someone who’d do it for free. Someone infinitely superior at that. Even if, according to Tara, Paula Penhaligon had had a face-lift.
Madge sat in the roasting tin, growing cold. Never mind; Tara would demolish a breast and a leg when she came home. Minus an appetite, and with no wine to console her, Maggie ate a couple of chunks of fruit and nut in an unsuccessful attempt to cheer herself up. She flicked through the TV channels, found nothing remotely watchable and washed her bulky parka in the sink that was three times too small for the task and imagined the fun Hector and Paula would be having now. Gorgeous, convivial lunch with friends. Bit too much to drink. You wouldn’t believe what we saw as we were leaving Colworth this morning—one of the villagers, pissed as a parrot, sprawled across the pavement. Darling, can you believe it?
The doorbell went as Maggie was struggling to wring out the sodden parka. Wiping her hands on her jeans, she answered the door and found a pink-cheeked, jolly-looking couple stamping their cold feet on the doorstep.
‘Oh hello, we’re staying at the hotel and we saw some of your lovely cushions in the gift shop down the road.’ The girl beamed at Maggie. ‘I know it’s Sunday but the woman in the shop gave us one of your business cards and said she was sure you wouldn’t mind us calling round. You see, we’d just love it if you could make us a cushion.’
‘No problem.’ Their shiny matching wedding rings and the way they were holding hands told Maggie all she needed to know. ‘Come on in.’
Their names were Valerie and Alan and, yes, they were on their honeymoon. Together they had already decided on the design they wanted. Val and Al, Together Forever, in curly lettering, the names entwined within a pink heart on a lilac background with butterflies and smaller hearts bordering the cushion like a Victorian Valentine’s card.
‘Together forever,’ Valerie echoed, her eyes shining with joy as she squeezed her husband’s pudgy hand. ‘That’s going to be us, isn’t it, darling?’
Until you get divorced, thought Maggie.
Alan, nodding vigorously, said, ‘We’ll be able to show this cushion to our grandchildren.’
‘That’s a lovely idea.’ Maggie forced a warm smile. Maybe they would be happy. Some marriages did last, didn’t they? In their thick fleeces, matching knitted sweaters, and unromantic hiking boots, they seemed besotted enough with each other to make a go of it.
‘We’re only here for another couple of days,’ Valerie explained. ‘I’d better give you our address so you can post it on to us.’
‘Don’t worry, I can do it straightaway.’ Seei
ng as she had an evening stretching emptily ahead, Maggie said, ‘Drop by again tomorrow. I’ll have it finished for you by then.’
‘Really? Oh, that’s so kind of you!’ Valerie’s eyes lit up and she wriggled on the sofa with delight. ‘We’ll be able to show our families when we get home. This cushion will be our memento of the happiest week of our lives.’
As soon as they’d left, Maggie set to work on the cushion. She felt guilty at having inwardly scoffed at their gullibility. Just because her own life was a miserable mess and she couldn’t imagine ever being like that herself, she mustn’t automatically assume every couple would eventually split up. It wasn’t Val and Al’s fault that she’d fallen for a man completely beyond her reach.
The truth was, she was jealous of them and their impossibly rosy view of the future.
A tear slid down Maggie’s cheek, plopping onto her wrist as she knelt on the carpet cutting out pink silk hearts.
Pathetic. Furious with herself, she brushed the tears away.
Chapter 38
‘I said, scrub my back.’ Daisy wriggled in the bath, splashing water and bubbles over the side as Josh’s hand playfully slid round her rib cage. ‘That’s not my back.’
‘Anatomy never was my strong point. Good job I’m not a surgeon.’ He grinned, glancing out of the bathroom window as his mobile began to ring in the living room. ‘Starting to snow again. Hang on, let me get that.’
Daisy heard him answer the phone, greeting one of his friends with enthusiasm. As she lazily soaped her arms, Josh came back into the bathroom.
‘…what? You’re where? God, that sounds fantastic. Hang on a sec, she’s right here, I’ll just ask her. It’s Tom Pride,’ Josh explained. ‘He’s in Austria. There’s a group of them sharing a chalet in Kitzbühel and one of the other chaps has just been flown home with a smashed-up pelvis. Which is bad news for him, of course, but on the other hand…’
‘Good news for you?’ guessed Daisy. ‘Or do we call it a lucky break? Don’t tell me, they’ve got room for one more and they thought of you.’ Was that a niggle there in her voice? A little niggly edge?
‘Wrong, actually. The other chap’s wife flew home with him. They’ve got room for two more and they thought of us.’ Luckily Josh hadn’t taken offense. Sitting on the edge of the bath he added persuasively, ‘So what d’you think? Can Vince take care of things here? It’s only for a week. Tom says the chalet’s fantastic, the skiing’s superb, they’ve got a great crowd out there—and it’s mixed, not just a horrible gang of boys, drinking nonstop and throwing up in the jacuzzi. Come on,’ he leaned teasingly over the bath, ‘we’d have a brilliant time. You could do with a break.’
Daisy knew she could, but she also knew she wasn’t going to get one. Vince had already booked a couple of days off in the coming week in order to attend a cousin’s wedding in Glasgow.
‘I can’t.’ Regretfully, she shook her head. ‘Vince is away.’ It was a shame, but it couldn’t be helped.
Josh’s face fell. ‘OK. Never mind. Tom,’ he returned to the phone, ‘sorry, mate, we can’t make it. Daisy has to work.’ A pause while he listened to Tom’s voice at the other end, then, ‘No, no. Thanks, but I wouldn’t feel… it wouldn’t be…’
‘You could still go,’ suggested Daisy, squeezing bubbles out of the sponge.
Josh looked at her. Hesitating. She knew how much he wanted to.
‘Hang on again, Tom. Daisy’s saying something.’ Moving the phone away from his mouth he said, ‘Wouldn’t you mind?’
‘Of course I wouldn’t mind. You love skiing. You can’t do much here while the weather’s like this.’ She waved at the snow tumbling like confetti past the window. ‘No golf, no driving lessons with Tara. And it’s only for a week.’
She meant it. The moment of nigglyness earlier had been a Pavlovian reaction, a hangover from her marriage. Even when she had thought she’d trusted Steven, some inner instinct had never entirely trusted him. But that had been then. Things were different now. This was Josh, whom she knew she could trust. He was the polar opposite of Steven.
‘You know what you are?’ Grinning, Josh leaned precariously over the bath and gave her a huge kiss. ‘Gorgeous.’ The phone in his hand began to cackle and he spoke into it. ‘No, not you, you’re an ugly sod. I’m talking to this beautiful gem of a girl here… yes, I mean Daisy. And she’s naked. In the bath. Oh yes. And right now I don’t know if I even want to leave her here on her own, but she says that if I want to come out to Kitzbühel, it’s fine by her.’
Ten minutes later, it was all fixed. Josh had got himself on a flight from Bristol to Salzburg, leaving tomorrow lunchtime. By late afternoon he’d arrive at Chalet Sattelkopf in the heart of Kitzbühel, for seven days of hard skiing and seven nights of wild après-ski.
‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’ Josh brought a bottle of white burgundy into the bathroom and handed Daisy a glass.
‘I really don’t mind.’ She smiled, because he was looking like a young boy on Christmas morning.
‘You don’t have to worry about me. I won’t be getting up to any funny business.’
‘I know that too.’ She did. It was a great feeling.
‘Unless Jennifer Lopez is there,’ Josh amended. ‘Obviously.’
‘Oh well, goes without saying.’ Daisy nodded to show she understood. He had a bit of a thing for Jennifer Lopez.
‘And will you miss me?’ Josh sat on the edge of the bath.
‘Every minute of every hour of every day.’ Tilting her face up for a kiss, she added, ‘Well, unless Jude Law books into the hotel. Obviously.’
Josh nodded. ‘I can understand that. I’d sleep with Jude Law in a flash. But otherwise I can trust you to behave—what are you doing?’
‘I think you need a bath.’ Daisy hooked her wet fingers round the front of his rugby shirt and pulled him towards her.
‘Right now?’
She tugged harder. ‘Right now.’
‘Still in my clothes?’
‘You can take them off if you want—oops,’ Daisy murmured happily as he landed in the water with a splash. ‘Too late.’
***
Tara was having the most fantastic dream. She was sitting in the hot seat on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? with Chris Tarrant giving her his teasing, twinkly-eyed smile. She was up to five hundred thousand pounds with only one more question to go and the audience was agog.
Chris mopped imaginary sweat from his brow. ‘So. Tara. Are you ready for this?’
‘I’m ready, Chris.’
‘For one million pounds,’ he announced, skillfully building the drama. ‘Here we go. In Greek mythology…’
Tara listened to the question, a smile spreading over her face as he read out the four possible answers. She knew nothing about Greek mythology, but luckily she knew a girl who did.
Even more luckily, she still had her phone-a-friend lifeline left.
‘Of course she’ll be one of your phone-a-friends,’ Dominic had assured her yesterday. ‘She’d love to help you. Anything you want to know about literature, art, or Greek mythology, Annabel’s the one to ask. She’s a real expert.’
Hooray for that.
‘I’d like to phone a friend, please,’ Tara told Chris Tarrant. ‘Annabel Cross-Calvert.’
As they waited for the phone to be picked up, Tara fantasized about winning the million. Gosh, it was going to be so brilliant… if she had that much money, Dominic might even leave Annabel and come and live with her instead. Not at the cottage, of course, oh no. She’d buy a much grander place than that…
‘Annabel? Hi, this is Chris Tarrant, I’ve got your friend Tara here and she needs your help.’ Pausing, he added significantly, ‘To get her up from half a million to one million pounds.’
The audience buzzed with excitement.
‘Oh gosh, that’s fantastic.’ Ann
abel sounded thrilled too. ‘I just hope I know the answer! Right, go ahead, fire away!’
As Tara read out the question, her heart began to thump with anticipation. Annabel was an expert; she knew everything about Greek mythology. She was seconds away from an astounding triumph.
When she’d finished listing the four possible answers, there was a moment of silence.
Then Annabel said, ‘Well, I’m so glad you rang, Tara, because I do know the right answer.’
Tara waited.
Chris Tarrant was waiting too.
The studio audience collectively held their breath.
The man whose job it was to send sparkly confetti tumbling from the ceiling prepared to pull the sparkly confetti switch.
‘But guess what?’ Annabel went on gaily. ‘I’m not going to tell you what it is!’
Gasps all round.
‘You can’t do that! It’s not fair,’ Tara wailed. ‘Quick, just tell me the answer!’
‘Nope. Don’t want to. Bye, Tara.’ And Annabel put the phone down with ten seconds still left to go on the clock.
Totally humiliated, Tara hung her head and said, ‘I’ll take the money, Chris.’
Oh well, half a million, that was still pretty good, wasn’t it? Dominic might still leave Annabel…
But now it was Chris Tarrant’s turn to be unfriendly. That lovely twinkly smile of his had gone.
‘I’m sorry, Tara, but the rules have been broken. You named Annabel as a friend and she clearly wasn’t a friend. That means you’re disqualified from the competition. I’m afraid you leave here with nothing at all.’
Tara woke up with a start, just as the studio audience were beginning to boo her and chant, ‘Off, off, off.’
What a completely horrible dream. And how mean of Annabel. No wonder Dominic didn’t love her if she was capable of such a spiteful act. Who in the world would want to stay married to a bitch like that?
Untangling herself from the duvet, Tara climbed out of bed. It was ten to eight. Dominic had said he’d give her a ring at eight o’clock and she didn’t want to speak to him before she’d brushed her teeth.
