She knew that Caroline would try and be the supreme hostess, which was too much for her. And for Charley as well. She loved her friend but she probably didn’t want to live with her.
‘Julie sent her love,’ said Caroline. ‘She says you can stay with her. But I don’t suppose you want to go back to Upper Grove?’
‘Not really,’ said Charley. ‘Especially not next door to my old house. It’s really kind of you both to offer, but Mum’s right. I’ve got to stand on my own two feet.’
She heard the words come out of her own mouth, but didn’t believe them.
She bought the local newspaper and took it to the village green, where they sat down on a bench.
‘Where’s Flora today?’ asked Charley.
‘Easter holidays,’ Caroline told her. ‘I managed to persuade Jeff to take a whole day off.’
Caroline’s smile was tight, so Charley dropped the subject and opened the newspaper to flick through the property pages. She stopped for a while at a photograph of her own house with the words ‘Recently Sold’ across it.
‘Nice photo,’ said Caroline.
Charley sniffed away a tear. ‘The loft needed insulating anyway,’ she said, quickly turning the page.
They peered at the list of properties to rent. Everything at the cheap end of the market was a flat. That meant no garden, no patio and no barbecue. Charley shook her head. The bailiffs had taken away the huge gas barbecue and who the hell would she be entertaining, anyway, these days?
The cost was surprisingly high as well. Even the bottom three properties were at least £400 per month. How on earth did people cope with all the extra bills on top?
‘Studio basement flat,’ Caroline read aloud. ‘What does that mean?’
‘No daylight. No separate bedroom.’
‘Where do you sleep?’ asked Caroline, horrified.
‘In the kitchen probably. What’s the next one?’
‘Studio loft flat.’
Charley sighed. ‘I think that means you still sleep in the kitchen, but with the added bonus of a bruised forehead from all the sloping ceilings.’
‘This one sounds hopeful,’ said Caroline. ‘And it’s the cheapest. Spacious one-bedroomed flat, short walk from village centre.’
‘There must be a catch,’ said Charley, ringing the number on the advertisement.
She talked to the landlord who said they could view the flat that morning. But the address of the flat was in Lower Grove.
‘Oh dear,’ said Caroline. ‘That’s why it’s so cheap.’
They walked back to pick up Caroline’s car and drove to the high street. Once across the main traffic lights, the look of the road went down sharply as they entered Lower Grove.
The houses became smaller, less tidy, with no pretty hanging baskets. They took a left under a railway bridge and into the depths of Hill Estate. It was a jumble of tiny council houses, all plain and square apart from the occasional patch of pebbledash and graffiti which distinguished one residence from another.
On the edge of the estate was a large block of flats called Hill View Court. It was three storeys high and there was a burnt-out Citroën in the car park. The flats had been built on the H-block principle, presumably because most of the inhabitants had spent time at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
As they waited for the landlord to arrive, Caroline flicked the central locking for the doors. She gave Charley a small smile. ‘Just in case.’
The landlord finally arrived. He was a man called Harvey, with a large beer belly and body odour. He led them through one of the front entrances into a communal hallway and stairwell. At least the main door looked secure. Whether it was to keep the hooligans outside or in was less certain.
The flat was on the ground floor. The overhead light in the communal hallway flickered. Rubbish lay rotting in bags near the door. Music boomed through the front door of the flat across the hallway.
Harvey fiddled with the key before opening the door to number five. He flicked a switch as there was no natural light. The dim lightbulb showed the patches of damp in their full glory.
A brief inspection of the bathroom confirmed Charley’s opinion that yellow, black and mirrored tiles weren’t a fashion statement that should ever be repeated. The bedroom was tiny, but at least it had a built-in wardrobe. But when Caroline opened the wardrobe doors, there was an overwhelming odour of decay and the walls inside were covered in mildew.
The lounge was barely big enough for a sofa, which was good news because the bailiffs had taken them all away. The tiny kitchen housed an oven and washing machine, both included in the rental. Neither was new or modern, but Harvey said they worked. Caroline swung open the oven door and immediately closed it again.
‘It only needs a bit of a wipe down,’ grunted Harvey, sounding as if this wasn’t high on his list of priorities.
Charley peered out of the kitchen window, which overlooked the car park. ‘At least I can keep an eye on my hubcaps.’
‘So? You gonna take it?’ asked Harvey, picking his thumbnail.
Charley glanced across at Caroline, who was violently shaking her head in reply.
But Charley shrugged. The way her life was at the moment, it was a perfect match.
So she shook hands with Harvey and agreed to move in at the weekend. He wanted to be paid in cash for the rent, which was handy as she didn’t have a bank account.
As they drove away, Charley realised she had both a job and a home. She should be thankful for that. But she didn’t feel it. She was pretending to be strong, but inside she was quaking with fear.
She just wanted her husband and her old life back.
Chapter Eighteen
SAMANTHA SAT DOWN at the chest press machine and settled herself into position. As she ruthlessly worked her upper arms into submission, she darted her eyes around the gym to see who was there.
It was Saturday on Easter weekend, so the place was packed with people working out. All the stereotypes were present and correct. Marathon Man was sprinting away with no intention of relinquishing the running machine. Midlife Crisis Man was on the rowing machine in his brand new sportswear, desperately trying to shed his beer belly, no doubt on the advice of his doctor. Bench Press Guy was flexing his pectoral muscles, with weights so heavy that his veins were bulging.
All were considered and then quickly dismissed. These weren’t viable options for someone as good-looking as Samantha. Her toned body was looking great in its tight-fitting Lycra and she had just enough waterproof make-up on to look as if she was naturally gorgeous.
Her eyes finally settled on a man doing sit-ups on an exercise ball. His gym wear of shorts and t-shirt was trendy enough without being too self-consciously sporty. He was sweaty after his workout without being disgustingly wet. He was in his early thirties and nice enough to look at. Not classically handsome like Richard was, of course. But certainly someone she could mess about with for a while.
In Samantha’s eyes, all men were toys to be played with and teased. She had adored her father and at an early age learnt to wrap him round her finger, using her big brown eyes and wide smile to charm him into submission.
But not even Samantha’s charms could keep him at home. It was all her mother’s fault, Samantha knew. Her mother with her sniping and nagging. Never making herself look pretty. Of course her father was going to cheat on her with someone far more attractive. Why wouldn’t he?
Other women never seemed to like Samantha. But that was fine because the feeling was entirely mutual. Apart from the others in their foursome, of course. But even they were a teensy bit dull, she had to admit to herself.
She thought about Richard with whom she had enjoyed a marvellous flirting session the previous day. He was the small spark of glamour in an otherwise very tedious village. Something to brighten up her dull days.
But that would have to wait. In the meantime she had a long bank holiday weekend to endure, and no one to share it with.
Samantha got up and walked sl
owly over to the exercise mats where the good-looking guy had just completed his sit-ups. She allowed him a small smile before she began her own stretches. She could feel his eyes on her, feel his appreciation of her taut body.
They would have a drink in the sports bar afterwards. And then? Well, he was just another man to be played with and discarded, like all the rest.
Caroline had spent all week devising an Easter egg hunt that made the Da Vinci Code look simple. She had been secretly hoping that Flora would be able to work out all the clues by herself and was frowning therefore as she watched Jeff lead their daughter into the corner of the garden where the next clue lay.
She sighed, checking her watch. They only had half an hour until her parents arrived. Caroline ran through the checklist in her mind. The Easter biscuits and simnel cake were made. The lamb was in the oven, filling the house with a divine aroma.
Even the display on the dining table was perfect. She and Flora had spent many hours painting blown eggs. Although, Caroline had to admit to herself, not many of those hours had been happy. Flora was a heavy-handed child who had destroyed many fragile shells with one stab of her paintbrush. Therefore, Caroline had spent most of the recent evenings painting the damn things herself.
‘Mummy!’ cried Flora, running up to her. ‘Look what the Easter Bunny has left me!’
She held out a Junior Illustrated Dictionary.
‘How super!’ said Caroline, with a big smile. ‘You’ll have to show Nanny and Grandad when they arrive.’
She watched Flora rush off into the house to read her new book.
‘A bit of chocolate wouldn’t have killed her,’ muttered Jeff, coming to stand next to his wife.
‘You know it makes her hyper,’ replied Caroline. ‘Besides, if she’s inherited my soft teeth we’ll have to be careful, otherwise she’ll end up with a mouth full of fillings before she’s eighteen.’
Jeff sighed. ‘I just think we should let go once in a while. Let her be normal.’
Caroline spun round to face her husband. ‘She is normal.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Then let her eat chocolate, for God’s sake. She’s not overweight. She’s not a faddy eater. She’s just a kid.’
‘I know that,’ snapped Caroline, stung by his criticism. ‘But don’t worry. I’m sure my parents will have bought an egg for her, so she can gorge herself on chocolate all afternoon.’
‘Good,’ retorted Jeff.
Caroline marched back into the kitchen, feeling hurt. Flora was a balanced, healthy child. Of course she led a normal life. Hadn’t she just had a treasure hunt? Wasn’t wanting to educate your child well normal?
Jeff was just stressed, as usual, and taking it out on her. Everything was fine.
All Julie wanted to do was to sit on the sofa, watching Easter Parade. Preferably whilst eating her own body weight in chocolate.
But the lounge was full of strangers, there wasn’t any chocolate left in the house and the music on full volume was rap music. Judy Garland and her Easter bonnet it most definitely wasn’t.
Julie shuffled into the kitchen and stared around at the mess. Dirty plates and mugs were piled up in the sink. Butter and cheese had been abandoned on the kitchen tops. Spilt drinks. The oven on, but nothing inside.
She sighed as she switched it off. Nick had said he wanted to support her in the weeks following her mother’s death and initially she had been grateful for the company. But she’d known it had been too good to last.
In fact, it had only taken three weeks before the real story came out. Another job gone, apparently through redundancy. The subtle hints about his lack of funds. Her purse missing a £10 note she had been certain was in there.
And now his so-called friends were in her house. Suddenly Julie craved the solitude she normally hated. At least if she was lonely she could escape into the garden. But here there was no escape. Her garden was being used as a convenient ashtray for Nick’s frequent cigarette breaks.
It was no use. She would have to ask him about finding another job once Easter was over. The inevitable row would ensue, closely followed by her feelings of guilt. But they couldn’t go on like this.
Raucous laughter filtered in from the lounge causing Julie to grab her car keys and handbag. She had to get out of there, if only to visit the garden centre.
‘I’m going out,’ she shouted through the lounge door, which had remained worryingly shut most of the afternoon.
There was no response.
Julie shut the front door behind her, trying not to worry about what lay on the other side of the lounge door. Yet another day spent tidying up beckoned tomorrow. But not now. Now she would go and look at plants, even if she could not afford to purchase any.
She stopped short in front of her car. Nick had borrowed it that morning, claiming his was out of petrol. But he had failed to mention the small dent which had suddenly appeared in the rear door.
Julie glanced at the junk-food debris which was strewn across the passenger side.
It was her own fault. She had forgotten one of parenting’s golden rules. Never lend your car to anyone to whom you have given birth.
Chapter Nineteen
THE WHOLE OF Charley’s family turned out for her move into the flat on Easter Monday. Her parents’ hallway was filled with boxes and suitcases. Her granny was moving in as Charley was moving out.
She took a long look around her mother’s spare bedroom. Charley didn’t want to leave, but knew she couldn’t stay any longer. She picked up her handbag and an empty mug before heading downstairs to the kitchen which was crowded with family members. The chattering stopped. She was obviously number one topic that afternoon.
Through the crowd, Charley could see her mother standing in front of the grill which was on full blast, despite the warm spring sunshine outside.
‘Don’t let her see me crying,’ her mother was sobbing, trying to dry her eyes in the heat. ‘I must be strong for my brave little girl.’
Victoria nudged Maureen in the ribs. Their mother spun round and looked at Charley for a second, her mouth trembling, her cheeks shiny with tears. Then she drew herself up to her full height and strode across the kitchen, cannoning members of the family into the wall units.
She swept her eldest daughter into her arms. ‘I’m going to miss you.’
Charley began to tremble in her embrace. She never wanted to leave this hug.
‘Now who’s going to take your father his morning coffee?’ carried on Maureen. ‘You know I won’t go near that workshop of his.’
Charley smiled through the tears. ‘I’m only ten minutes down the road.’
Her mother released her grip and stroked Charley’s hair. ‘You’ll be all right.’
She nodded hard, trying to convince them both.
‘Is someone going to get me a cup of tea or shall I just expire from thirst?’ Everyone looked up to see Granny standing in the doorway. ‘What’s going on in here? Maureen, why are you a bitter, sobbing heap?’
Granny was tiny but wasn’t a woman to be messed with.
Elizabeth, Victoria’s twin, rolled her eyes. ‘Charlotte’s just a bit upset, that’s all.’
‘Nothing to be upset about,’ barked Granny, coming to stand in front of them. ‘So you got yourself in a bit of a state . . . are you going to let that man ruin your life?’
Charley shook her head, more out of fear than honesty.
‘Then turn that frown upside down, my girl. I’ll have that cuppa in your new abode.’
Charley opened her mouth wide in horror. She’d had no intention of letting her family see the ghastly flat, especially her mother and grandmother.
But Granny wasn’t about to take no for an answer. ‘You’ve got a kettle, haven’t you? Maureen, pack the tea bags and milk. And some decent biscuits. The good ones that you’ve been keeping back, not them economy packs you’ve been dishing up. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.’
The procession of cars left Little Grove and made its wa
y into Lower Grove. A short while later they were all parked in front of Hill View Court flats.
‘Bloody hell,’ Charley heard Victoria mutter as they got out.
‘Mummy said a bad word,’ said one of her young nieces.
‘Quite right,’ said Granny, taking her great-granddaughter’s hand. ‘But this is your Aunty Charlotte’s new home, so let’s be nice about it. We should all be grateful for having a roof over our heads in this day and age.’
Charley put the key into the front door and stepped into the flat.
‘The hall’s on the small side,’ she said over her shoulder, bracing herself for the inevitable guffaws. But they never came.
‘Never seen the point of hallways,’ said Granny, striding past. ‘Waste of good space, if you ask me.’
Charley showed them into the bedroom. ‘It’s a bit musty.’
‘Nothing that a good airing won’t cure,’ said her mother, opening a window.
They all peered into the kitchen. ‘It’s tiny,’ Charley told them.
Her mother ran a finger along the worktop. ‘You don’t need a lot of space. It’s only you.’
Finally they went into the lounge.
‘Quite cosy,’ said her father, sucking on his pipe. ‘It’ll save you a fortune on heating because you’re insulated by all the flats around you.’
They were being so kind, so positive, that Charley could feel the sobs welling up inside her. She hid her face as she followed her mother back into the kitchen.
‘You can keep the coffee and tea bags,’ Maureen told her. ‘I’ll take most of the mugs back with me, but I bought you some washing up liquid and a few other bits.’
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Charley, leaning against the counter. ‘And it’s true. The flat is horrible.’
‘You need to start somewhere,’ said Maureen with a shrug.
Charley’s father and brother-in-law brought in the mattress that had been strapped on to the top of Dad’s Volvo. This was followed by an ancient armchair, a portable television, a small nest of tables and a chest of drawers for the bedroom.
‘Feels more like a home now it’s got furniture in it,’ said Granny, sitting down on the only chair.
The Desperate Wife’s Survival Plan Page 8
