by Jill Mansell
It was all too much to take in. Lottie, her hands trembling, reached for her glass and knocked it onto its side. Five minutes ago she would have thrown herself across the table and licked up the spilled wine rather than waste it. Now she simply poured herself some more, right up to the brim.
“Am I allowed to ask questions yet?”
Freddie nodded graciously. “Fire away.”
“How long have you known?”
“A fortnight.” His smile was crooked. “Of course it was a shock at first. But it’s surprising how fast you get used to it.”
“I didn’t even know you were ill. Why didn’t you say something before?”
“That’s just it, I don’t feel ill.” Freddie spread his hands. “Headaches, that was all it was. I thought I probably needed new reading glasses, so I saw my optometrist…and when she looked into my eyes with that light instrument of hers, she was able to see that I had a problem. Next thing I knew, I was being referred to a neurologist, having scans and all manner of tests. Then, boom, that was it. Diagnosis. Lottie, if you’re crying, I’ll throw my drink over you. Stop it at once.”
Hastily Lottie blinked the tears back into her eyes, sniffed loudly, and ordered herself to get a grip. Freddie was confiding in her because he thought he could trust her not to dissolve in a heap. She wasn’t the crying type.
“Right. Done.” She sniffed again, took a gulp of wine, and said defensively, “Sorry, but it’s just not fair. You don’t deserve this.”
“I know, I’m marvelous.” Stubbing out his cigar, Freddie said, “Practically a saint.”
“Especially not after what happened to Mary.” Lottie’s throat tightened; she couldn’t bear it.
“Sweetheart, don’t get angry on my behalf. Mary isn’t here anymore.” Reaching across the table, Freddie took her hand between both of his and gave it an encouraging squeeze. “Don’t you see? That makes it easier. Finding out about this thing in my head isn’t the most terrible thing that’s ever happened to me. Not even close. Losing Mary and having to carry on without her beats this tumor of mine hands down.”
Now Lottie really was in danger of bursting into tears. “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”
“Romantic.” Freddie repeated the word and chuckled. “Know what’s ironic? That’s how her nickname for me came about. Mary always said I was about as romantic as a string tank. Oh, she knew how much she meant to me, but it was easier for us to tease each other. All that lovey-dovey hearts and flowers stuff was never our thing.”
Lottie remembered. The two of them had always been gloriously happy together; theirs had truly been a marriage to aspire to. Their verbal sparring had been endlessly inventive, as entertaining as any TV double act. She couldn’t imagine how desperately Freddie must have missed his beloved wife.
So that was why Mary had always called him “String.”
The unfairness of what was happening hit Lottie all over again. “Oh, Freddie. Why does this have to happen to you?”
“Or there’s the other way of looking at it, telling yourself you’re lucky it didn’t happen forty years ago,” said Freddie. “Now that would have pissed me off. But I’ve made it to sixty-four and that’s not so bad.” Counting off on his fingers, he went on, “When I was seven, I fell out of a tree and broke my arm. I could have landed on my head and died. When I was sixteen, I was knocked off my bike by a truck and cracked a few ribs. But I could have been killed then too. And there’s the time Mary and I were on vacation in Geneva. We got so plastered with a group of friends on our last night that we missed our flight home. And what happened? The plane crashed.”
He was getting carried away now. Lottie had heard this story before.
“It didn’t crash,” she corrected Freddie. “One of the wheels came off and it tipped over on the runway. Nobody was killed.”
“But we could have been. People were injured.”
“Bumps and bruises.” Lottie wasn’t to be swayed; there was a principle at stake. “Bumps and bruises don’t count.”
“Depends how bad they are.” Freddie eyed her with amusement. “Are we bickering?”
“No.” Ashamed of herself, Lottie instantly backed down. Bickering with a dying man; how could she stoop so low?
Evidently reading her mind, Freddie said, “Yes we are, and don’t you dare start giving in. If you won’t bicker with me anymore, I’ll find someone else who will. I only told you what’s going on because I thought I could rely on you to handle it. I don’t want the kid-glove treatment, OK?”
“You don’t want any treatment at all,” Lottie retaliated heatedly. “The thing is, maybe radiotherapy and chemo would work.”
“You’re allowed to bicker,” Freddie said firmly, “but you definitely aren’t allowed to nag. Or I shall have to sack you.”
“You’re selling the business.”
“Ah, but I could sack you now. Sweetheart, I’m a grown-up. I’ve made my decision. If I’ve got six good months left on this earth, then I want to make the most of them, do what I want to do. In fact, that’s where you come in.” He was more relaxed now, casually swatting away a hovering wasp as he spoke. “There’s something I’m going to need a hand with, Lottie. And I’d like you to help me out.”
For an appalling moment Lottie thought he meant help with doing away with himself when the time came. Jolted, she said, “In what way?”
“Good grief, not that kind of help.” Yet again reading her mind—or more likely the look of absolute horror on her face—Freddie gave a shout of laughter. “I’ve seen you clay-pigeon shooting. The only thing you managed to hit was a tree. If I need putting down when the time comes, I’ll ask a damn sight better shot than you.”
“Don’t joke about it.” Lottie glared at him. “It’s not funny.”
“Sorry.” Freddie was unrepentant. “But the thought of being aimed at by you and a twelve-gauge is. Look, I’m dealing with this in my own way,” he went on, his tone consoling. “We all have to go sometime, don’t we? I could have a heart attack and drop dead tomorrow. Compared with that, being given six months’ notice is a luxury. And that’s why I’m not going to waste it.”
Lottie braced herself. He’d said he needed her help. “So what will you do?”
“Well, I’ve given this a lot of thought. And it’s actually not as easy as you’d imagine.” Freddie pulled a face. “I mean, what would you do? If money was no object.”
This was surreal. Morbid and surreal. But if Freddie could do it, so could she. Lottie said, “OK, it’s a cliché, but I suppose I’d take the kids to Disneyland.”
“Exactly.” Looking pleased, Freddie nodded vigorously. “Because you know it’s what they’d love more than anything.”
Defensively Lottie said, “I’d love it too!”
“Of course you would. But if the kids couldn’t make it, would you go along by yourself?”
The penny dropped. Feeling terrible all over again, Lottie longed to hug him. Instead she said, “No, I suppose not,” and took another gulp of wine.
“You see? My point exactly.” Freddie sat forward, his elbows on the table. “Years ago, before she got ill, Mary and I used to dream of retiring one day and traveling the world. She wanted to walk the Great Wall of China, visit the Victoria Falls, and explore the lost city of Peru. Top of my list was a fortnight at the Gritti Palace in Venice, followed by trips to New Zealand and Polynesia. Then we’d start arguing, because I said when the traveling was out of our system we should buy ourselves a little villa in Tuscany, and Mary insisted that if she was going to be old anywhere, she’d rather be old in Paris.”
He paused, gazing for a moment at the almost empty bottle of Château Margaux. “But that’s the thing, isn’t it? The whole plan was that we’d be old together. Now I can afford to go anywhere I want in the world, but there’s no point anymore because where’s the f
un in going on my own or with a bunch of strangers? I only wanted to see those places with Mary.”
Lottie pictured him in front of some spectacular view with no one he cared about to share it with. It was how she would feel, sitting all alone in a carriage on one of the roller-coaster rides in Disneyland. Without Nat and Ruby there at her side, how could she possibly enjoy it?
“Traveling’s out, then.”
Freddie nodded. “And I’ve decided to give the dangerous sports a miss. Doing a parachute jump, rappeling, white-water rafting.” His mouth twitched. “Not really my scene.”
How could he be this cheerful? Mystified, Lottie said, “So what are you going to do?”
“Well, that’s why I’m asking you to help me.” Freddie looked pleased with himself. “You see, I have a plan.”
Chapter 4
Nat and Ruby had been dispatched to their father’s house for the evening. When Lottie arrived at nine o’clock to pick them up, she was greeted at the door by Nat, who threw himself into her arms and said, “We’ve been having fun.”
“Hooray.” After the last couple of traumatic hours digesting Freddie’s news, Lottie gave him an extra-fierce hug.
“Ow, Mum, let go. Dad’s told us all about VD.”
“Has he?” She blinked. Had Mario gone completely mad?
“It’s great. I love it.” Wriggling free and dragging Lottie through to the kitchen, Nat exclaimed, “I’m going to do loads and loads. VD’s my favorite thing.”
“Not VD, you idiot.” Ruby rolled her eyes with nine-year-old superiority. “It’s voodoo.”
“I’m not an idiot. You’re the idiot.”
“Anyway, VD’s something completely different. It’s to do with—”
“So, voodoo,” Lottie hastily interjected. “Why’s Daddy been telling you about that, then?”
“We told him about the horrible man. Didn’t we, Daddy?” As Mario entered the kitchen, Nat turned to him eagerly. “The one who told the lies about us this afternoon. And Dad said what we needed was to get our own back and we should try VD.”
From the doorway, Mario grinned. “I find it generally does the trick.”
“Voodoo,” Lottie emphasized.
“Voodoo. So Dad told us how you make models of people you don’t like and stick pins in them. So that’s what we’ve been doing!” Triumphantly, Nat rushed over to the kitchen table and brandished a clay figure bristling with cocktail sticks. “This is the man, see? And every time you stick a stick in him, he gets a real pain in the place where you’ve stuck it. Like this,” he continued with relish, jabbing another cocktail stick into the clay figure’s left leg. “In real life he’s hopping around now, going OW!”
Lottie looked at her ex-husband. “Just remind me again, how old are you?”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist.” Mario was grinning broadly. “It’s just a bit of fun.”
“And this.” Nat gleefully stabbed the clay figure in the stomach. “Ha, that’ll teach him to tell lies about us.”
A bit of fun. Wonderful. Lottie wondered sometimes if Mario had an ounce of common sense in his head. Exasperated, she said, “You can’t teach them to do things like that. It’s irresponsible.”
“No it isn’t, it’s great.” Ruby was happily prodding her own voodoo doll with cocktail sticks. “Anyway, we didn’t take your clothes, so that horrible man deserves it.”
“That horrible man is going to be my new boss.” Lottie sighed. “So you’re just going to have to get used to him.”
“See? Even you think he’s horrible.” Interestedly, Nat studied her face. “Is that why you’ve been crying?”
“I haven’t been crying. It’s just hay fever.” Pulling herself together, Lottie realized how hard it was going to be, keeping the news of Freddie’s illness to herself. “Come on, you two, time to take you home.”
“No need to rush off. Give them ten minutes in the yard.” Mario, shooing them out through the back door, steered Lottie gently onto a kitchen chair and said, “You look as if you could do with a drink. I’ll get us both a lager.”
Château Margaux one minute, a can of Heineken the next. Oh well, why not? Kicking off her sandals and leaning back in the chair, Lottie watched him fetch the cans from the fridge, then reach up to the wall cabinet for glasses. She loved being divorced from Mario, but it was still possible to admire his good looks and effortlessly toned body. In fact, it was probably easier now, without the associated emotional ties and that perpetual sense of anxiety in the pit of her stomach that he might be sharing his body with someone else on the side.
Which, in the end, was exactly what had happened, although, needless to say, it hadn’t been Mario’s fault.
But then, nothing ever was.
“There you go. Cheers.” Having poured the Heineken into two glass tumblers, Mario handed one over and surveyed her over the rim of the other. “So are you going to tell me why you’ve been crying?”
No.
Lottie shook her head. “It’s nothing. Freddie and I were just talking about Mary. It got a bit emotional, that’s all.” Reaching across the table for the clay voodoo dolls, she began pulling out the cocktail sticks. “He misses her so much. We can’t imagine what it must be like.”
“And there was me thinking you were upset because today’s our wedding anniversary,” Mario teased.
Heavens, was it? August the sixth. Hell, it was too. How weird not to have remembered. Weirder still that Mario had.
“It isn’t our wedding anniversary. It would have been,” Lottie corrected him, “if we’d stayed married.”
“Ah, but you left me. You broke my heart.” Mario looked convincingly bereft.
“Excuse me. I left you because you were a cheating weasel.”
“Ten years ago today.” His expression softened at the memory. “That was such a great day, wasn’t it?”
Actually, it had been. Lottie smiled. She had been twenty years old—far too young, really—and Mario had been twenty-three. Mario’s Italian mother had invited hordes of her excitable relations over from Sicily for the occasion, and Lottie’s girlfriends had been entranced by the male cousins’ smoldering dark looks and Godfather-ish glamour. Everyone had mingled joyfully together, the weather had been glorious, and the dancing had carried on until dawn. Lottie, all in white and only slightly pregnant, had wondered if it was possible to be happier than this. She had Mario and a baby on the way; things really couldn’t be better. Her life was officially perfect.
And, to be fair, it had been pretty perfect for the first few years. Mario was charming, irresistible, never boring, and never bored. He was also a fantastic father who adored his children and—especially good, this—didn’t shy away from changing diapers.
But Mario’s legendary capacity to charm was coupled with flirtatiousness, and after a while, Lottie had begun to experience the downside of being married to a man who enjoyed being the center of attention. Other girls made their interest in him only too blindingly obvious. Lottie, no shrinking violet herself, told Mario the flirting had to stop. But it simply wasn’t in his nature. That was when the arguments had begun. It was crushing to realize that you’d married a man who, essentially, wasn’t the marrying kind. At least, not marrying and monogamous. Jealousy was a pointless emotion and one that Lottie had never suffered from. She had too much self-esteem for that. If Mario couldn’t be faithful to her, then he didn’t deserve her. Staying with someone you were unable to trust wasn’t something she could countenance; sooner or later, she knew they would begin to hate each other.
Either that or she would end up stabbing him with something far bigger than a cocktail stick.
For the sake of Nat and Ruby and before the hatred and bitterness could take hold, Lottie announced to Mario that their marriage was over. Mario was devastated and did his best to persuade her to change her mind, but Lottie stood firm
. It was the only way, if they were to remain friends.
“But I love you,” Mario protested.
He did; she knew that.
“I love you too.” It was more of a struggle than she let on to be brave and go through with it. “But you’re having an affair with your receptionist.”
“No I’m not!” Shocked, Mario insisted, “It’s not an affair. Jennifer? She means nothing to me!”
That last bit was probably true as well.
“Maybe, but you mean everything to her. She phoned me in tears last night to tell me just how much. For an hour.” Lottie sighed. “And don’t tell me you’ll change, because we both know that would be a big lie. It’s better this way, trust me. Now, why don’t we sit down and decide who’s going to live where?”
Mercifully, money wasn’t an issue. Mario was the manager of a glossy car dealership in Cheltenham and, it went without saying, a superlative salesman with an income to match. They agreed that Lottie and the children should stay at Piper’s Cottage, while Mario would buy one of the new houses on the other side of the village. It hadn’t occurred to either of them that they wouldn’t both stay in Hestacombe. Nat and Ruby would still be able to see Mario whenever they wanted, and he would be able to continue to be a proper father to them.
It had all worked out incredibly well. Ending a marriage was never without pain and sadness, but Lottie had taken care to keep hers well hidden. And before long, she had known she’d made the right decision. It was like moving into the shallows after far too long frantically treading water. Mario Carlyle may have been a less than ideal husband, but you couldn’t ask for a better ex.
Apart from when he thoughtlessly taught his children to stick pins into clay effigies of her new boss.
