Gemma dived into the bread and speared a butter curl with her knife. She loved her food and usually ran a lot so she could burn it off.
‘I could eat this all night,’ she said, closing her eyes and savouring the taste.
‘Why are you drinking water, Gem?’ asked Charlotte suspiciously.
‘I’m driving home tonight. I’m up early in the morning because I have someone’s nails to do for a wedding at six.’
‘Really?’ asked Charlotte. She gave a secret point to her stomach.
‘Yes really,’ said Gemma.
‘You boring fart,’ said Regina.
‘It’s all money in the bank, Regina,’ returned Gemma. ‘Weddings are big business for me.’
‘Big business, nails,’ chuckled Jason. Lew picked up an unexpected scathing note in his tone but his observation was distracted by Regina’s over-egging of the food-approval pudding.
‘Mmm, fabulous prawns, Charlotte,’ she purred, spraying panko crumbs over the tablecloth as she delivered her verdict. Considering she deemed herself tantamount to landed gentry, she had some very big holes in her manners. Talking with her mouth full was standard, as was ignoring any need to mind her Ps and Qs.
‘So how’s the world of antiques?’ Jason asked Lew, pronouncing it anti-queues.
‘Growing. Slowly,’ said Lew.
‘Lewis set another member of staff on,’ bragged Charlotte.
‘Oh really?’ Regina sounded impressed. ‘How many do you have now then?’
‘Well, I still only have one,’ explained Lew. ‘I had to sack one for stealing and so I took someone on in her place.’ He felt Charlotte kick him under the table.
‘Anyone we know?’ asked Patrick.
‘I doubt it. She’s called Bonnie,’ said Charlotte.
Patrick shook his head. ‘Don’t know any of those.’
‘Wasn’t there a Blue Peter dog called Bonnie?’ asked Jason.
‘And is she?’ asked Regina. ‘Bonny, I mean, not a dog.’
‘It would be very unfortunate if she was a minger with a name like Bonnie,’ said Jason, dipping a prawn in the tiny bowl of dressing sitting on his plate.
‘I had a temporary PA working for me once, an Asian girl called Priti,’ said Regina. ‘She was absolutely stunning, luckily for her.’
‘Not good for Priti if she married someone with the surname Hideous though,’ piped up Patrick, looking around the table for approval for the line. ‘Or Awful.’
‘Because there are loads of people called Mr Hideous and Mr Awful walking around, aren’t there, so shut up, Patrick. Remind me, what was your slag called again . . . Marlene Hunter, wasn’t it? M Hunter – Munter for short.’ And she laughed hard and Gemma and Charlotte, Lew and Jason all swapped glances and thought it would be best to change the subject matter as soon as humanly possible.
‘So how’s things with you, Jase?’ asked Lew, noticing that Regina’s glass was already empty. He stood up and tipped the bottle over her glass, filling it to just over half way.
‘Good, good,’ said Jason.
‘To the top, Lew, I’m thirsty,’ Regina instructed with a red-lipped smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She was still angry with Patrick, Lew guessed. Still angry despite the big diamond, the holiday, the expensive bag. None of it could wash away the indelible stain that his affair had stamped on his marriage. He bet that Regina said her renewed vows in the Maldives beach service through clenched teeth.
‘Oh guess what,’ said Jason, after chewing vigorously to clear his mouth of coconut breadcrumbs. ‘Pick up my brand new Porsche next week.’
‘Nice.’ Lew nodded approvingly, then waited for Patrick to wade in with a counter-brag. Pick up a new Porsche, I’ll raise you a Lambo. Regina had never been so happy, since Lew had packed in his job in the City and they were now the number one high-earners in the group with Jason and Gemma in second place. But there was not a peep from Patrick. He really must be out of sorts. Lew snatched a glance at him, wiping his mouth with his serviette. His eyes looked as if they were drooping at the outer corners, like a sad Basset Hound’s.
Charlotte stood up to clear the plates and Lew rose also to help her.
‘He’s bouncing around like Tigger,’ chuckled Gemma, addressing the table. ‘I don’t get how a car can have such an effect on you boys. Jason’s like a dog with two willies at the moment.’
‘Gemma, darling, it’s a Porsche,’ grinned Lew.
‘Totally unpractical if you’re going to have a sprog, of course,’ said Regina.
Gemma’s eyes saucered and her voice came out whispery when she asked the question, ‘How did you know about that?’ Her glare slid to Charlotte whose cheeks flared pink with halogen speed.
‘Sorry, I might have said something.’
Gemma shrugged. ‘S’fine. It wasn’t a secret.’ But Lew noticed the clipped tone. Gemma wasn’t stupid and knew they’d been talking behind her back.
‘Are you pregnant? Is that the reason why you’re on water?’ asked Patrick, his face lit up like a Christmas tree.
‘No . . . we’re trying though,’ said Gemma.
‘You’re not seriously thinking about having a brat, are you?’ said Regina, as if Gemma had said she was considering getting a vaginal piercing without anaesthetic.
‘Yes, Regina, we are,’ replied Gemma, with a tone in her voice that said, ‘so fuck off and mind your own business’. Lew knew that Gemma didn’t like Regina for the same reasons he didn’t like her; she was a spoilt, pretentious, nasty cow and, also like Lew, she put up with her because they all liked Patrick so much.
‘Well, brat or no brat, you can’t deprive a boy of his car toys, Gemma. His balls maybe, but not his car.’ She snorted with laughter; Regina had a laugh ripe from the gutter.
Lew stood to fill glasses and hopefully steer Regina away from man-baiting waters. Charlotte took his lead and started loading up the dishwasher. It didn’t have the desired effect.
‘Never wanted brats,’ said Regina. ‘They’re millstones round your neck for the whole of your life.’
‘You were a child once, darling,’ said Patrick.
‘Oh shut up, Patrick.’ Regina swept up her glass and almost drained it in one.
‘I think you’d make a lovely mother, Gem,’ said Patrick and raised his Peroni in her direction.
‘Are you actively trying for a baby then?’ asked Regina.
‘Yes, we’re at it like rabbits,’ Gemma replied with a crudity that wasn’t typical of her, and Lew could sense her annoyance.
Behind them Charlotte dropped a plate and swore.
‘Gemma!’ Jason’s admonition was a hard growl. Lew leapt in with the first thing he could think of, diverting the conversation to Jason’s plans to extend the garage whilst Charlotte brought the steaks to the table. Everyone had medium except for Patrick who preferred his well done and Regina who liked hers so blue it was still mooing.
‘Help yourself to special sauce,’ said Charlotte, indicating the jug on the table. Patrick was first to pour it over his steak.
‘You’ll have to try my special sauce next time you have dinner at ours,’ said Patrick.
‘You and Marlene both,’ sniggered Regina.
Patrick ignored her. ‘Whisky, cream and my secret ingredient, a dribble of honey.’
Regina wrinkled up her whole face. ‘Don’t bother, it’s fucking awful.’ She reached for the bottle of white in the middle of the table as no one was filling up her empty glass.
Patrick swivelled his head around to his wife who looked as if she were enjoying poking the tiger and under his breath Lew heard him say, ‘Regina, stop it.’
‘Stop what?’ she answered at full volume. ‘Stop telling people that you’re no Gerald Randall. Well . . . maybe you are if the Mail is to be believed.’
Celebrity Chef Gerald Randall was headline news that week after it had been revealed his perfect Brady Bunch six-offspring marriage was a sham because he’d been having wild Fifty-Shades-of-Grey-type sex with
a TV producer for twelve years.
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said Patrick, dropping his cutlery onto his plate, a gesture of tired defeat.
‘And another thing—’ Regina started up again, but the feeling of Lew’s arm around her shoulder cut off her words.
He spoke softly into her ear. ‘Reg, please. You’re a guest in my house and so is Patrick. Don’t spoil this evening.’
As if Regina had been jolted out of a groove and Lew’s gentle admonishment had given her some perspective of how she was coming across, she conceded and gave him a slurry reply. ‘Apologies, Lewis. I’ll be a good girl.’
The bubble of tension that hung like an airship over the table seeped away. To everyone’s relief, the rest of the meal was consumed with the usual camaraderie they’d enjoyed pre-Patrick’s infidelity. After dessert, the women remained at the table with coffees and impressive chocolates and the three men went out onto the patio because Patrick was desperate for a smoke and Jason needed a vape.
‘Thanks, Lew,’ said Patrick, drawing on the newly lit Lambert and Butler as if it was an inhaler stilling the onslaught of an asthma attack.
‘What for?’ asked Lew.
‘Having my back in there.’ Patrick wiped his left eye with his knuckle and Jason flashed a look of ‘oh heck’ at Lew.
‘It’s fine, mate,’ said Lew.
‘She won’t let it drop,’ sniffed Patrick. ‘It’s wearing me down like you wouldn’t believe.’
‘As it would,’ replied Lew, for the want of something better to say.
‘It cost me an arm and a leg in “letting it drop” expenses but nothing’s changed. It would have been cheaper and less painful if I’d let her cut my bollocks off.’ He coughed and Lew saw two big splashes of Patrick’s tears drop onto a flagstone.
A few seconds’ silence ensued as Patrick smoked and Jason vaped.
‘Marlene texted me last week,’ said Patrick in a low voice. ‘She said that she can’t stop thinking about me.’
‘Oh Patrick, be very careful,’ warned Lew.
‘I can’t stop thinking about her either,’ said Patrick.
‘Just got to nip to your loo, Lew,’ said Jason, quickly rising to his feet. That he didn’t want to be party to this secret was quite obvious.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ said Patrick, more tears dropping.
‘Patrick, do you really want to start all that up again?’ said Lew, his voice concerned but with a strong cautionary note. Regina wasn’t his favourite person but that didn’t mean that he condoned what Patrick had done to her. ‘You hurt Reg very badly and it’s going to take a lot of time to get her trust back.’
Patrick gave a sarcastic laugh. ‘She doesn’t want me to have her trust, Lew. She only wanted me to stay so she could punish me for the rest of my life. There are so many things you don’t—’ He cut off the sentence to draw the last of the nicotine from his cigarette. ‘It wasn’t a cheap fling you know. I fell in love with her. With Marlene. I miss her.’
‘You’ll get over it, Patrick.’
‘You talking from a textbook or first-hand experience, Lew?’ said Patrick, lifting his eyes to his friend.
‘Are you seriously asking me that?’ replied Lew. It shocked him that Patrick could think he’d been in the same position.
‘All those years working down in London during the week. You must have had your opportunities.’
‘Well I didn’t,’ said Lew convincingly, though it wasn’t strictly true. There had been an extremely bright and beautiful graduate who had an obvious crush on him and he’d found himself more than once wondering what it would be like to hold her. But he was married and he hadn’t even opened the door a sliver on that one. He’d made sure he was never alone with her, didn’t flirt with her and never gave her the slightest inkling that unfaithful thoughts had flitted across his brain. He was only human after all and he couldn’t do anything about involuntary reactions to her pheromones, but he could do something about not acting on what his perfidious brain was encouraging him to do.
‘I understand. Charlotte’s a good girl so why would you even look,’ said Patrick. ‘But Regina’s poison, Lew. Treacherous. I’m so stressed I shouldn’t really be drinking. It’s a depressive, alcohol, did you know? Not that I think I could be more depressed if I tried. I’ve got an appointment at the doc’s on Tuesday. I think I need Prozac or something before I end up throwing myself off a multi-storey car park.’
Lew’s features assembled into a look of horror. ‘Jesus, Patrick, are things that bad?’
Patrick lit up another cigarette. ‘No, ignore me, not that bad. But I want to nip things in the bud before they get any worse.’
The sound of Regina’s witch-like cackling resonated from inside the house and Patrick winced at the sound of it. It spoke volumes about how much that twenty thousand poundsworth-plus of reconciliation fees, not to mention a crocodile handbag, had been wasted.
In Tuesday’s Daily Trumpet we printed an article about Freda’s Café in the market and its child-friendly facilities. Freda Bagshaw, owner and proprietor, would like us to point out that she has not had the washroom designed to make the hanging of babies very easy for stressed parents, but changing of babies. We apologise to Freda and her excellent café.
Chapter 16
Bonnie was awoken at four-thirty the next morning by Stephen pottering around downstairs. He was going fishing and so was filling up a flask and making some sandwiches to take with him. It would be cheese – mild cheddar – with a sprinkling of black pepper on wholemeal bread spread to the very edges with Flora because that’s what he always had. She heard the van draw up outside which belonged to his friend Gerald, although ‘friend’ was pushing it a bit. Gerald was a pensioner whom Stephen had met on a river bank two or three years ago and they didn’t socialise outside these Sunday morning outings. Stephen didn’t have the sort of friends who invited them out as a couple for dinner or a drink at the pub. Bonnie used to have coupley-friends who wanted her and Stephen to join them but after too many refusals and excuses made, the invitations dried up and left her as socially isolated as he preferred to be. If it wasn’t for the occasional coffee dates with Valerie, Bonnie thought she would have gone stark, staring mad.
As the van pulled away, Bonnie tried to shoulder her way back into the dream she’d been having before she’d been so rudely pulled from it. She was in a beautiful castle with fairytale turrets and every wall inside was painted with a different colour. There was a deep moat around it and the drawbridge was pulled up. Stephen was standing on the far bank screaming at her, but she knew with all certainty that she was safe from him, forever.
There was no point in wishing herself into a house like that, even if it was the first step to actually getting it, if her mother was to be believed. ‘The Queen of Wishful Thinking’, her dad said he used to call her. Her mum had been proof that wishing was a good thing, but only if you had the guts to back it up and go for what you wanted. She was born so premature, she shouldn’t have lived and the doctors said she’d probably never walk – but she had. They said she would most likely not lead an independent life – but she had. They said she would never be able to bear a child – and she’d defied them in that too. She’d tackled every hurdle life had put in her way by imagining herself flying over it and then doing exactly that. Except for that last one which had been too high, too slyly positioned.
Instead of the huge castle, Bonnie’s thoughts turned to something attainable: the little white house on Rainbow Lane. She imagined opening the green gate, walking down the path and in through the red door. She saw a table where she could sit and eat her dinner alone without having to look at Stephen chewing every mouthful of food, her things displayed everywhere in homely chaos without being forced into pattern and symmetry. She thought of waking up in a citrus-lemon bedroom with tangerine curtains and lime green bedding, of cooking in a kitchen painted every possible shade of blue and violet, of sitting in a huge scarlet chair, safe and content w
ith the weight of a sleeping dog pressing on her feet. This wasn’t a wish too far, this was doable if she backed it up with some action.
She should never have started thinking about the house because she knew now there was no way she would get back to sleep. She pulled on her dressing gown and went downstairs to make herself a coffee. As the kettle was boiling, she took out a pad and a pen from the drawer and started to jot down some non-committal figures. She wrote down her approximate secret savings and her expected basic wage. Usually she handed most of it over to Stephen for her share of the bills and savings. Now, with a new job, would be an ideal time to hand over less and keep more for her secret stash. He wouldn’t be happy, but what could he do about it? Well, knowing him, he could ring up Lew and ask how much he was paying her but she didn’t think Lew would tell him. Then she started to think about how she might earn some extra money on the side.
She had always said that she would leave her marriage without asking anything from Stephen but a quick divorce, even though she knew that he had inherited a considerable sum from Alma, and the insurance company had paid out over thirty thousand pounds, because she’d seen that on a letter he had once carelessly left lying about. Was there anything she could sell, she wondered. The only thing she had of any value was her parents’ jewellery and that was unthinkable. Plan B: was there anything she could make and trade on the internet?
She unplugged her phone from charge and looked at the listings on eBay for some ideas. She’d always had very deft fingers, loved to cut up things and draw and stick when she was a child. She used to make all her own greetings cards for people, though she barely had anyone to send them to these days. She still had her large box of craft supplies which she hadn’t touched for years. On the ‘about to end soon’ listings, some black cat confetti caught her eye. Seventy-five little cats for two pounds plus one pound fifty postage and packing. A silly idea came to her, but still one worth considering. What if she sold confetti in bags? A hundred pieces of it for two pounds fifty, including postage and packing? Her brain started spinning as she went back upstairs and pulled the craft box out of her wardrobe. She couldn’t remember the last time she opened its lid. She took out the bag of German punches underneath all the paper. One of the dealers had given them to her dad to pass on to her. There was a cat design, a dog design, a reindeer head, various flowers, an owl, Happy Birthday, balloons . . . lots of them, all needing a good squirt of WD40 and then a clean. It wouldn’t make her a millionaire but it would be easy and every penny would come in handy. She still had a stock of unused coloured paper and the pound shop was good for craft materials. She could supply an upgrade on the usual confetti, press the cats out of glitter paper, draw red blobs on the reindeer noses – she had plenty of spare time to do that when Stephen had gone to bed. Bonnie felt an eel of excitement ripple through her. She could ask the traders at the antiques centre to keep their eyes open for unusual punches.
The Queen of Wishful Thinking Page 8
