‘Hi,’ she says to Jen, kicking off her shoes and sinking breathlessly into her favourite chair by the window.
‘Hi. Welcome home.’ Jen pushes a button on the remote so that the sound on the television sinks to a mumble, while the pictures still flicker garishly. ‘How was your day?’
Mannie giggles. ‘Christ, we’re just like an old married couple. Good. Yours?’
‘Bloody awful. Flaming Sonya’s flaming skiving again.’
‘What’s she done now?’ Mannie has heard many stories of the wrongdoings of Jen’s temporary member of staff, a slovenly girl with no standards and less ambition.
‘What has she not done more like,’ Jen grumbles. ‘She was meant to tidy up a big report, insert the graphs and tables, check the spelling, make sure everyone’s bits were added in – perfectly straightforward stuff, wouldn’t you think? She only put everything in the wrong place, ran a spell check that missed some glaring errors and misnumbered all the graphs. Then she stared at me when I told her off and claimed I was bullying her!’
‘Sounds grim.’
Jen gulps at her wine. ‘Did you see Callum?’
‘We just sank a couple of drinks at the Opal Lounge.’
‘Good hols?’
‘The snow was perfect, apparently.’
‘But he’s glad to be back, he missed you.’
‘Something like that.’ She feels oddly reluctant to discuss Cal, but fortunately Jen moves seamlessly on to a topic she loves – herself.
‘I splashed out today,’ she confides. ‘Popped into Harvey Nicks.’
‘What did you get?’
‘An Armani suit. It’s wicked.’
‘Let’s see then.’
Jen unwinds herself from the futon and sets off eagerly to fetch her prize purchase. She almost collides, seconds later, with Myra Featherstone, the oldest of the three housemates.
‘I’ve got some news,’ Myra announces, her plump face portentous.
Mannie sits up, her face flushed in the warmth of the kitchen.
‘Do tell. Or let me guess.’ She surveys Myra mischievously. ‘You’re looking quite smug, so you’re not about to tell us that you’re mother’s coming to stay again.’
Myra pulls a face.
‘Okay, right about that then. Must be promotion?’
Myra, who totally lacks ambition, has been content in her secretarial job in a small lawyer’s office in town for ever.
‘No?’ She sighs. ‘When will you learn to tell people how great you are? They don’t value you there. If they won’t promote you, get another job. They’ll give you a rise faster than you can say Myra Featherstone, bet you anything.’
Jen, coming back in, drapes her suit carefully over the back of a chair. ‘She’s right. Blow your own trumpet, or Mannie’ll be in there blowing it for you.’
Myra looks apprehensive.
Mannie says, ‘Has Graham finally popped the question?’ Seeing the apprehension replaced with a blush of pride, she leaps over the low coffee table and envelopes her friend in a huge hug. ‘He has? Fantastic! This calls for champagne.’
‘Have we got any?’
‘Always. Get it out, Jen. Then we can celebrate your suit too. Maybe you can wear it at the wedding.’
‘Oh no, I’ll have to get something new for the wedding,’ Jen says, clearly shocked at the idea of missing such a blissful opportunity to shop. ‘Fixed a date yet?’
Myra giggles and blushes even more. ‘Give us a chance.’
‘Where are you going to do the deed? What about the reception? I hope you’re not going on a diet, My, you mustn’t change a thing about yourself – promise? What does Graham think, is he terrified or thrilled?’ Mannie’s questions rattle off her tongue, her thoughts – as ever – flitting before her like butterflies that must be chased and captured before they flutter beyond reach.
Jen opens the bubbly with a satisfying pop and hands out three foaming glasses. ‘Here’s to you and Graham. Let’s see the ring, then. An emerald? Wow, I love it.’
Generosity is Jen’s middle name, Mannie thinks. It’s just a few weeks since her boyfriend of three years announced he’d started seeing someone else, leaving Jen in a state of devastation and offering the explanation for the splurge of retail therapy that is characterising her life at present.
‘Bloody hell, Myra,’ she bursts out, ‘I’ve just realised – you’ll be leaving the flat.’
They stare at each other, aghast.
At last Myra says, ‘I suppose I will.’ There’s real regret in her voice before she adds brightly, ‘But hey, nothing stays the same for ever.’
Chapter Seven
Mannie excuses herself and heads for her bedroom. Her mother texted earlier, she is to be on “Newsnight Scotland”. Mannie is interested in politics, she and Jonno were raised with social consciences. These have developed depth and become more informed since Susie was elected to the Parliament.
She slumps happily on her bed, picks up the remote for the small set she keeps in there and presses Two. Her mother appears on the screen, the burnt-butter eyes intent, a stray lock of caramel hair falling untidily across her face. Mannie is distracted by it, longs to hook it to one side. She recognises the slightly wrinkled backdrop of Princes Street by night, sees the faint shadow on the street scene cast by the studio lights and deduces that her mother is in the remote studio in Edinburgh. The effect is ramshackle and cheap and she knows that this studio is hard to perform in.
To compound the difficulties, the interviewer is being extra caustic.
‘So let me get this straight, Mrs Wallace, you’re saying that despite the line your ministers were giving us, you are totally opposed to any cuts at all? Isn’t that a bit unrealistic?’
‘No, of course not ... I mean yes, I am opposed ... cuts are not ... should be opposed—’
Mannie sits forward. What is wrong with her? She looks tired, which is unusual, but worse, she’s falling over her words and appears flustered and ill prepared. This is a subject she’s as familiar with as her own navel, for heaven’s sake.
‘And finally, the Rivo Trust. I believe you are a Trustee? Can you explain the rumours we’re hearing that—’
‘I can explain nothing.’
Her mother has taught her to read body language and Mannie recognises the signs of defensiveness immediately – the shortening of the neck, the tensing of the mouth, the unflattering tightness around the eyes.
She presses the short dial on her mobile even before her mother is off the screen. ‘Dad? What the hell’s up with Mum?’
Her father is evasive.
‘I expect she’s tired.’
‘She’s often tired, Dad, but she’s never like that. It’s a poor performance.’
‘Perhaps not quite up to her usual.’
‘So what’s the matter?’
Archie grunts but doesn’t speak. He’s being diplomatic, as always, but she senses something else too. What?
‘How did your anniversary dinner go?’ Mannie demands, sliding her questioning gently in a new direction in an effort to glean more clues.
‘Fine.’
Fine. The bland catch-all. She recalls her mother’s irritation with the words just a couple of days ago. Fine? Fine is all right. Fine is okay so far as it goes. Fine is— ‘Da-ad,’ she says reproachfully. ‘Is that all you can say?’
‘We had a nice dinner – though she didn’t eat much and wanted to leave before dessert.’
Mannie is perplexed. ‘God. Doesn’t sound like Mum. Is she ill?’
‘I don’t think ill, exactly, Mannie.’ There’s a pause, then he says, briefly, ‘Stressed.’
‘Yeah but stress, Dad, we all do stress. How’s the album?’ She’s momentarily distracted again, remembering to ask him.
‘Coming on. I’ve got this tune in my head, I can’t get the words for it yet. It’s annoying me that they aren’t happening.’
‘Hum it.’
He obliges, but the line flattens the sound. �
��Sounds catchy. What’s stopping you?’
There’s another small silence. Her father always gauges his words before speaking, so she’s used to this, but it seems that today the pauses are longer than usual, the hesitations resonant with meaning.
‘I don’t know.’ Now he sounds tired. ‘Things.’
Mannie’s antennae swivel alertly in his direction. Something is going on. She tries another gambit. ‘How’s Jonno?’
‘Working. He’s on a late shift again tonight.’
Mannie thinks quickly. ‘Listen,’ she says, ‘I haven’t been round in an age. Can I invite myself for lunch on Sunday?’
‘Sweetie, since when did you have to invite yourself to your home?’
‘I know – but you’ll be there, all of you?’
‘So far as I know.’
‘Can I bring Cal?’
‘His place is set already.’
God, her father is nice, she thinks, loving the unfaltering affection she hears in his voice. ‘See you then. Make sure Mum gets some sleep – give her a hug from me, huh?’
‘Any excuse for an extra embrace.’
Mannie laughs. ‘Night then, Dad.’
‘Night darling daughter. Don’t let the midgies bite.’
The old phrase. Even now, even at the grand age of twenty-eight, she clutches the phrase to her and feels cherished.
On Friday Mannie and Callum meet friends, eat out, go clubbing, but by Saturday she’s tired. Cal suggests pizza and they eat it curled up on her bed, watching end-to-end DVDs of ‘The West Wing’. Mannie is wearing grey joggers and a pink tee shirt that bear the legend, I love chocolate, Cal has on ragged jeans and a plain black tee shirt. Mannie tears off a slice of dough and fights with the cheese as it forms strings and threatens to slide off altogether.
‘Forgot to say, is it okay if we have lunch at my folks’ house tomorrow?’ She speaks through the food but manages to make it look all right.
‘Does that mean roast lamb and crumble?’ He looks hopeful.
‘I didn’t check, but something like that, I would think.’
He munches on pizza and considers. ‘But it does mean we’d have to get up.’
‘By midday.’
‘I guess.’ He looks at her calculatingly.
‘What?’
‘I’ve been away a week.’
‘So?’
‘I’m just working it out. Whether a Sunday lunch is more tempting than another couple of hours in bed with you.’
‘And?’
He balances his plate on his knees and counts the arguments silently on his fingers. ‘Yeah. Lunch wins.’
‘Sod!’ she squeals, grabbing a pillow and swinging it in his direction. His plate slips onto the carpet, and the cardboard box with the remains of the pizza does a back flip onto the floor beside it as he grabs for her and wrestles the pillow away.
‘Witch!’
‘Buggering—’ her mouth is stopped as he clamps his own down on it and she discovers that his body is pinning hers against the sheet. She wriggles in protest, desire swamping her as she feels his erection against her thigh. Their kiss deepens and she tenses in pleasure as his hand sneaks under her tee shirt to find her breast.
This is what she wants. Callum McMaster mastering her. She thrills in the knowledge that right now, at least, it is what he wants too.
‘Fat-arsed b—’ she manages to pant as he stops for breath and she’s punished for it as he flips her onto her stomach and gives her backside a couple of resounding smacks.
‘Sadistic prick!’ she squeals, her desire overflowing.
‘Wild, wild woman,’ he whispers, his voice hoarse with desire as he pulls her up towards him, peeling her tee shirt over her head so that her breasts fall free for his hands to cup. They are kneeling now and he’s behind her, his arms pinioning hers so that she can’t move, his breath hot on her neck. She throws her head back in pleasure as his fingers massage her nipples.
This is what she wants. This!
And then he is inside her and the intensity of the sensation ripples through her whole body so that she begins to lose all sense of where she is, she only knows that he is her king, her emperor.
Too soon, it’s over, and they are sated. He lies along the length of her, gently, breathing heavily, his arms supporting his weight. She can smell the sharpness of his sweat and the sour smell of sex, a heady mix, bringing unexpected sweetness. Her face is on the mattress and she wonders, vaguely, where the pillow is, before remembering.
‘More pizza, Vicar?’ she asks politely, and he explodes into laughter behind her.
Mannie smiles a small, satisfied smile. She realises in that moment that this is perhaps the nearest she has got to true love in her twenty-eight years and she closes her eyes and recites a small prayer.
‘Please,’ she says silently to whatever divine being might be listening, ‘let him love me too.’
On the small screen, Martin Sheen is dispensing wisdom and chilli.
They make love again, drowsy and hot from sleep, as the sun peeks through the curtain,. This time he makes it last for ever, his clever hands finding her most sensitive places and forcing her to an agony of desire before finally bringing her to a climax.
At eleven she fetches coffee and makes toast. At midday, reluctantly, they rise and shower.
‘Will Jon be there?’ he asks as they near Hailesbank.
‘Think so. He’s on late shifts at the moment so he’ll probably appear just as Dad’s carving.’
‘How’s the job hunt going?’
Mannie navigates a steep bend in the road. ‘Same, I guess. Haven’t heard differently.’
‘Pretty hard on him. Hard on all kids right now.’
‘Yeah. Glad I’m not starting out.’
Cairn Cottage is on a small back road just a mile short of Hailesbank, tucked almost out of sight behind the steep hill from the gateway. Its low roof appears when they are half way up the drive and the familiarity of it tugs at her. This is where she grew up. This is the anvil on which her soul was fashioned.
‘The hens are still here, I see.’
‘Of course. Bet there’ll be eggs in something – sponge cake, maybe, or Yorkshire pudding if its beef. Hungry?’
‘What do you think? A man can’t live by shags alone.’
‘Hush! Here’s Dad.’ They pull up in the courtyard as her father emerges from his studio. ‘Hi Dad! Hi.’
There are hugs and kisses for her and an embrace for Cal.
From the kitchen comes the sound of barking and Prince emerges, his tail a blur, then her mother appears, her thick hair caught up in some kind of clasp, hooked out of the way for cooking.
‘Mum! Hi. Can I smell lamb?’
‘You can. Come on in. Hello Callum, you’re welcome, as ever.’
‘Do you mind if we go see the hens first? It’s such a glorious day.’
‘Do, yes. Jon’s down there, mucking out.’
They walk back down the hill, following the curve of the contour so that they wind round the side of the house before turning back towards the hens. Jon is standing in the middle of the enclosure. He isn’t shovelling muck or scattering straw, he’s just standing, as if his mind is a hundred miles away and Mannie is momentarily concerned.
‘Jonno!’ she calls and picks up her pace.
He turns and waves. She clambers over the fence and accepts his clumsy, brotherly kiss on her cheek.
‘Hi, Sis, what gives? Haven’t seen you in an age.’
‘Here’s Cal.’ She beckons him in. ‘Great. I’m great.’
She grins at Jonno and watches impatiently as the men greet each other before she blurts out, ‘I’m glad I caught you alone, Jonno. What’s up, with Mum? I’m worried.’
Jon finishes his work by flinging a scoop of feed to the eager hens. ‘Dunno. I don’t see much of her. I’m usually asleep when she leaves in the morning and out when she gets back. I heard she fluffed her lines on “Newsnight”.’
‘Dad hasn�
�t said?’
‘Dad hasn’t said anything very much. He’s spending most of his time in the studio.’ Just as they are about to round the corner of the cottage, he halts and turns. ‘There’s an odd atmosphere. You can’t help notice it.’
‘Atmosphere?’
‘Like they’ve had a row. They’re talking, but it’s all very polite. You know?’
This is unusual. Her parents are not given to arguing and if they do, it’s a quick blast and then forgotten. Sulking is not in either nature, her mother sails gaily on her course, her father finds a way to make peace.
‘I’m going to find out,’ Mannie says, determined.
Jon and Callum look at each other and something passes between them, some shared understanding, perhaps, that it’s in the nature of Margaret-Anne Wallace to find out and to forge ahead whatever the consequences might be.
She catches the look and says indignantly, ‘What? Something’s getting to Mum and it’s showing. We have to find out so that we can help her.’
‘Yes, Mannie,’ they chorus and she gives a quick ‘Pah!’ of contempt as she turns and leads them towards the cottage, and lunch.
She has inherited at least some of her father’s sense of diplomacy and waits till after they have eaten. She enjoys the lamb, has seconds, glares at Callum when he mouths, ‘Gutso!’ at her and tries to kick his ankles with her foot. But the table is too wide and her toes meet only an indignant Prince, who yelps and farts, plods into the kitchen and slumps down onto his bed.
‘How’s the job hunt going, Jon?’ Callum asks, sinking back on his chair and laying an appreciative hand on his stomach.
Mannie glances at her brother with a flicker of apprehension. Jonno hates talking about his continued lack of success.
But Jonno likes Callum and he’s smiling. ‘As it happens I’ve got an interview next week.’
Susie exclaims, ‘Jonno! That’s fantastic. You didn’t tell us.’
‘Don’t get too excited. It’s only an interview. Anyway, I haven’t really seen you.’
‘Where is it, Jonathan?’ her father asks.
‘One of the big banks.’
‘Sounds good,’ Mannie says.
Loving Susie: The Heartlands series Page 7
