The Yorkshire Pudding Club

by Milly Johnson

  The waiting times for a letter from Customer Services were down to three weeks, something that no one had ever managed before Janey came on the scene. She had streamlined the staff, got rid of a couple of the ones who preferred making personal calls to customer ones, which had a warning ripple effect on the others who thought the new boss might be a soft touch because she was pregnant. Those who were expecting the ‘new broom’ to leave them to it whilst she killed time until her maternity leave had been in for a big shock.

  Janey had the old (useless) broom’s desk moved out of the little box of an office so she was in the thick of the action. She had never felt so full of determination, bounce and energy in her whole life. The good sex might have had something to do with it, though the Marmite was starting to give her terrible heartburn. George was certainly full of beans too. He was working all hours to get as much overtime in as he could and they were squirrelling away every penny because no one was going to come along and give them a nice fat cheque for £10,000, like Penelope Luxmore had just given Helen to start off the baby’s savings fund.

  A couple of temps were good girls and Janey set them on permanently. One of them had been a supervisor in her last job and Janey quickly earmarked her to be her temporary cover whilst she was on leave, although one of the old guard–Barbara Evans–had something to say about that. She had presumed the position would come automatically to her because she was the longest-serving advisor there. Janey disagreed because she knew that Barbara, brilliant as she was with customers, would not have been able to produce all the stats and reports that were a daily part of her job.

  She noticed from Barbara’s personnel record that her grade didn’t reflect her acumen or her long service, and she had a word with Barry Parrish who agreed to bump up Barbara’s wage as a consolation prize. Barbara was more than happy with that, because she had only really wanted the extra money anyway, not all that responsibility. Even before Janey had explained to her why she was not in line to be her temporary cover, she knew deep down that she could not do all the complicated paperwork stuff.

  She extolled Janey’s virtues to anyone who would listen, and lots of people listened to Barbara. There weren’t many bosses who would care enough to do that for you, she had said. Janey Hobson had known her capabilities better than she had known them herself. She was quite the best boss Barbara Evans had ever worked under, and no one disagreed with her.

  Yep, Janey had most definitely found her niche.

  ‘There’s a story going round that you’re the father of my baby,’ Elizabeth said to Terry as she took in his morning coffee.

  ‘Well, I’m more flattered than you probably are, Elizabeth,’ he said, and she hooted with laughter.

  ‘It might be as well if I don’t go to Norfolk on Wednesday with rumours like this floating about though,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t give an arse for rumours,’ said Terry Lennox, bashing his fist down on the table and crushing an unsuspecting Jammy Dodger. ‘You’re going and that’s that. And if I find out who’s spreading these stories…’

  He left the threat hanging in the air, his face icing over enough to cause fatal damage to any passing Titanic. He no longer looked the archetypal figure of a benign, joking boss, and for the first time Elizabeth saw him as the feared shark he was reported to be in the business world. She pitied anyone, even Laurence, who got on the wrong side of him. It occurred to her then that she didn’t know Terry Lennox half as well as she thought she did.

  Chapter 34

  It was like Elizabeth always said: you did not get to be where Terry Lennox was with a ball of cottonwool for a heart, though at least he proved that he didn’t have to have his ruthless button switched on twenty-four seven like certain people to be a force. He saw no need to treat people like muck or lower beings just because he was a rich and clever bloke, plus he was infinitely more of a gentleman than Laurence Stewart-Smith could ever be. He picked her up mid-morning from her front door in his Jaguar on the day of his speech in Norfolk. She had only been on one Away Day with Laurence and he had made her get the train (economy ticket) whilst his chauffeur drove him down south in a Rolls Royce. Terry, she was pleased to find, was a nice steady driver, despite the car having an engine capability only a couple of horses short of a Ferrari.

  En route, he asked her if she had heard any more rumours and she had answered a truthful ‘no’. The sly looks had stopped as if they had been cut off with a sharpened scythe after that close encounter in the loos. She had actually travelled with Gobby Corpse Face in the lift the previous day, and the woman had been more or less tap dancing with tension. Elizabeth didn’t suppose she had ever had a longer journey up to the fourth floor. She could have dropped her in it, but why make a martyr of her? She had been fighting her own battles for as long as she could remember; she didn’t need a Terry Lennox to do it for her.

  It was a boiling hot day, and Elizabeth was in desperate need of a lie-down when they eventually saw the signs indicating that Ocean View was the next turning right. The journey from the main road, down a tree-shaded drive to the charming castle-like hotel, felt like half the trip again. Terry, typical male driver that he was, did not believe in taking coffee or loo stops, and had to disappear in the direction of the Gents as soon as they landed in the Reception foyer, leaving Elizabeth to check them in.

  ‘Mr Lennox is in the Garden Suite,’ confirmed the receptionist, ‘and you, Miss Collier, are in Crystal–that’s our Honeymoon Suite.’

  ‘No, there must be some mistake,’ said Elizabeth, foraging for the confirmation letter in her handbag and finding it. ‘Look, I’m in Harlequin.’ Blimey, Expenses would have a fit if she didn’t sort this out!

  ‘I had you upgraded,’ said Terry, appearing at her shoulder.

  ‘Oh, right,’ she replied, immediately wondering why. Somewhere in her head, a warning flag started to rise.

  The porter wasn’t around so Terry said he would carry their bags upstairs himself. Elizabeth was very quiet in the lift as they headed up to her bedroom first. She knew it had all been too good to be true. A bloke couldn’t help but misuse power; it was hard-wired into his genes.

  She opened up the door of the Crystal Suite to a room flooded with sunlight that bounced off all the crystal lights and ornaments and made pretty rainbows on the walls. There were two huge glass doors open to a balcony that gave a magnificent view of the sea in the distance. With its airy lightness and long chiffony drapes, it was just like Rebecca’s bedroom in the black and white film they made of the book, and it would have been Elizabeth’s ideal room, give or take Mrs Danvers trying to shove her out of the window. She had always wanted to live near water–ideally the sea, but the beach didn’t stretch to Barnsley. Once John and she had drawn their dream houses for a laugh. His was quite practical, except for the huge basement cinema and snooker room, whilst hers was a labyrinth perched precariously on rocks overhanging violent, crashing waves. It was one of the few million occasions that he had said she was completely barking, but in a nice way because John Silkstone had never been unkind to her.

  There was a bathroom off to the left that was like something out of Dynasty, and the focal point of the room–the bed–was wide enough to have contained the honeymoon couple, the bridesmaids, best man, ushers and the vicar, if he was lucky.

  Did he want to sleep in it with her? Is that why she was there? All that rubbish about his wife babysitting–who was he kidding? They were all the same, really…didn’t she know that by now?

  She did not want those thoughts in her head, but nevertheless they were landing there, thick and fast, and wouldn’t budge. She recalled his anger about the gossip, how much of a stranger he had seemed then; her realization that she could not possibly know all his depths and capabilities in such a short time. She felt suddenly unsafe and froze as he called out her name softly.

  ‘Elizabeth…’

  Here we go, she thought, forecasting a difficult scene which would no doubt end in her having to get a train home
and then start a job-hunt again tomorrow. He came over, put his hands on her shoulders and looked down into her face.

  ‘I hope you didn’t mind me and Nerys plotting behind your back,’ he said. ‘I thought you deserved a little surprise. Me and the wife have stayed in this room before and it’s a real treat. There’s a gym downstairs, although you’d break the equipment if you went on anything, the size of you, lovely gardens outside, nice coffee lounge with big cakes, or you can just go out on the verandah there and read. Get room service to bring you up some sandwiches and charge it to your room. I’ll expect your moral support at seven-thirty in the bar to the left of the stairs at the bottom. Oh, and if you’re going for a shower, watch out because the force of it will blow your bloody head off!’ He pinched her cheek, as if she were his favourite niece, picked up his bag and left her in wide-open-mouthed silence, shame stifling her with its heat.

  She realized when she went downstairs at seven-fifteen why he needed someone along. He was trying very hard not to shake. He looked like an executive jelly.

  ‘I hate these bloody Captain of Industry speech things,’ he said, glugging away on a Perrier and wishing it was a brandy. ‘Your calming influence will be greatly appreciated. How was your afternoon?’

  ‘Lovely,’ she said, and meaning it. ‘I had a nap in the sunshine, sent down for a sandwich and a scone with clotted cream, had a bath and here I am.’

  ‘And looking very nice as well,’ he said, indicating her long navy gown. She had to admit, she was starting to feel pretty formidable. The baby bump gave her extra presence, and she had noticed how much smilier and nicer people were to her, unless she was in the alien toilets at work, of course. She felt quite the lady that night, especially in that posh frock. Not that she’d ever have occasion to wear it again, of course.

  There were lots of suits, bow-ties and ballgowns around. She clung to a corner, glad that she wasn’t expected to hang onto Terry’s shirt-sleeves. He was busy circulating and a lot happier knowing that he had at least one friendly face in the crowd of Brutuses, or was it Bruti? She thought of Miss Ramsay, and how the teacher could never have known the impact her shaking up of the class seating arrangements would have on their lives. If it had not happened, she might still have been best friends with Shirley Cronk and Julie Williamson, who, if the local rag was to be believed, had clocked up between them more charges than the whole of the Great Train Robbers. She wondered if Miss Ramsay was still alive. Probably not; she was giving Methuselah a run for his money when they were twelve. Did she die a spinster with no one to mourn her but an old cat–like Elizabeth herself probably would?

  A gong sounded and everyone started to filter through into a huge dining room, ornately decorated in white, gold and silver. According to the seating-plan, she was not placed next to Terry at dinner; he was annoyed by this, but Elizabeth told him not to make a fuss. Secretly, she did not relish being in the limelight and inviting rumours from even more directions that she was his mistress. Instead, she was seated between two very nice and bumptious men: one a potato farmer from Doncaster, the other a poop-scoop manufacturer from Cornwall. They were both merry and down to earth, and she was happily entertained by them during a 300-course meal which still left her hungry, mainly because most of the dishes consisted of little more than a grape or a mushroom. People were filling up on drink instead and, through her very sober eyes, she could see there were going to be quite a few red faces in the morning. The woman in the scarlet dress, for instance, who had arrived looking cool and distant, was now eating strawberries from some Tuxedo’s lips, and there was a very loud young Suit talking rather aggressive politics to someone who was trying desperately to ignore him and eat his roulade.

  There were four speeches–the so-called warm up in which she would have nodded off, had it not been lent some interest from Politics Boy heckling. Then there was Potato Man’s rival, which made for some very acidic but amusing side comments from her dinner companion during the self-inflating monologue. As the fill-up of coffee arrived, a lady with a voice as plummy as Mrs Plum’s plum jam took the stand, but she was surprisingly witty and made everyone laugh. Then there was the pièce de résistance, the man they had all come to hear–Terry Lennox. He began his speech after the long bout of applause had died down. There was not the slightest hint of nerves in his very funny, intelligent delivery in a voice with both boots in South Yorkshire; Elizabeth could have listened to him for hours. He got a tumultuous round of applause and a standing ovation, and both were well deserved.

  ‘How was I?’ he asked as the crowd started to wander out, mainly in the direction of the bar.

  ‘Inspirational! But don’t tell you I told you so,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks for being here, Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘Half these bastards would stick their cheese-knives in my back if I turned round. It really helped having someone on my side in the room.’

  ‘Well, there was a Potato Man and a Poop-Scoop Man next to me who both thought you were the bee’s knees,’ she said.

  ‘Ah well then, three of you, out of what, two hundred? Not bad odds for me.’

  ‘That’s at least fourteen thousand more than Laurence. He’s way into minus figures,’ she whispered, and they both chuckled.

  ‘Look, come through to the bar or bugger off up to bed. I’ll not hold you fast to any more duties, but I need a very large brandy,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind going up if you can do without me,’ said Elizabeth, as a yawn popped out. She felt tired and very heavy. It seemed that she was putting on weight by the day, and all the rich food had not helped what she presumed was her first taste of heartburn.

  ‘Okay, off you go then,’ he said. ‘We’ll have breakfast about nine. Ring my room number when you’re up. It’s er…’

  ‘Seventeen,’ she said.

  ‘Memory like an elephant!’

  ‘Goodnight, Captain, have a brandy for me,’ she said, saluting him, then heaved herself up the staircase in the welcome direction of her room.

  Tired as she was, it was too beautiful a night not to sit out on the balcony and watch the moon over the sea. She got a glass of orange from the minibar and the warm breeze ruffled the waves and played with her hair. It would be a gorgeous place to spend a honeymoon, not that she would ever get to find out–an old tart on the cusp of forty with a baby to an unknown father–boy, she could see them starting to form an orderly queue already! She needed to get real–that much was true after being actually vain enough to think that very-married multi-millionaire Terry Lennox might have wanted to bed her. There were decent blokes out there as well as rats, although the most decent of them all was not interested in her any more.

  John Silkstone hadn’t come back into her life to reclaim her. The truth of it was, he had come home for his parents and if she hadn’t bumped into him in a DIY store, then their paths might never have crossed again. John was a friend, a good friend who once got very drunk and told her he loved her but had recovered sufficiently to marry someone else within three months. Seven years later he might be back in her life–helping her out, enjoying her company, drinking her tea, eating her Jaffa Cakes…but he was not a fool who would make the same mistake twice. Normal people moved on; no one stayed frozen in time as she did. He was a good bloke and all he wanted was her friendship, and that would have to be enough. Sitting there in that beautiful room meant for lovers, she felt incredibly alone and sad that friendship was all there could ever be between them now.

  At three in the morning, Elizabeth was to discover that the perfect Honeymoon Suite had one fatal flaw; the wall behind the bed was paper-thin. Although, to be fair to the architect, the couple in the next room were making a huge amount of racket–and their own porn movie, by the sounds of it. She managed to drift back to sleep, but the sounds of their obvious enjoyment of each other awoke her again half an hour before her alarm went off. She escaped to the bathroom and enjoyed a powerful shower, wondering if it was Lady in Red and Strawberry Gob Man, or maybe
Politics Boy got lucky. She rang Terry Lennox and told him she was up and about, then she heard the rampant couple open their door to leave. She had to know who it was, so she grabbed her bag and mischievously timed her exit to coincide exactly with theirs. She stepped out into the corridor–smack into her ex-boss’s assistant and her best friend’s husband.

  She had a few moments of disorientation that occur when people from the different worlds in life are seen out of their normal contexts and the brain struggles to make sense of the situation. Elizabeth, Julia and Simon stood in a stunned triangle, none of them really knowing what to do. Well, actually Elizabeth knew what she wanted to do–she wanted to hit them both. She wanted to protect Helen’s lovely, beautiful heart from this disgusting pair. However loose Elizabeth’s morals might have once appeared, she had never touched a married bloke, and certainly not one with a substantially pregnant wife at home. Elizabeth drew in two big angry lungfuls of air, too furious to do anything but charge through them and go down the stairs to breakfast. She didn’t know what she would do with this information. She didn’t know what she could do with this information.

  It was a lot easier in the old days, when you could protect your friend by smashing someone else’s face in.

  Chapter 35

  From the start, something had niggled Janey about the way Elizabeth had explained the conception of her baby. Even though her friend hadn’t exactly got the reputation of an angel, Janey didn’t buy the ‘drunken bonk at a New Year’s party’ story one bit. There had been more than a few undesirables in Elizabeth’s life, and far more than her fair share of casual and careless relationships–starting with creepy Wayne Sheffield and ending with scraggy Dean Crawshaw–but Elizabeth had always been meticulous about contraception; she just did not take chances or do accidents. Nor would she have played around behind Dean’s back, Janey was sure of it; she was very moral like that, was Elizabeth. No, none of it added up. It was like peering through a dirty window, knowing all was not well inside but being unable to make out what was going on in there. Then she found the slit of an opening and the little she saw through it was enough to make Janey feel sick.