Stockings and Cellulite (10 page)

‘Well how very kind of you Mr Collins,’ I demurred. ‘But I have my children keeping me extremely busy this evening.’

Mr Collins raised his palms in a gesture of backing off. ‘Of course, of course. Have a lovely evening Cassandra dear.’

In the car park Mr Angry’s gold Rover was still in situ. Slipping behind the wheel of my car, I foraged around in my handbag for a pen and paper. No paper. Rooting around in the glove box, I discovered an old letter. The envelope would suffice. Smoothing out the creases, I began to write.

Starting up the car’s engine, I furtively glanced about before reversing backwards. Straightening up, I let the car trundle toward Mr Angry’s vehicle with a growing feeling of daring-do and not a little giggly. But the smile was wiped off my face when noting a second gold Rover had materialised from nowhere and parked alongside Mr Angry. Hell. Which car was his?

I pulled up the handbrake and cogitated. Surely it was the one nearest the entrance? Scanning the area to make sure nobody was about, I eased open the driver’s door. Which one? This one! Oh God, no, no, it was that one! Wasn’t it? Dithering, my eyes flickered back and forth from one identical car to the other. This one!

Head down, I scuttled the short distance throwing in a couple of guilty zig-zag turns for good measure. Carefully I placed the envelope under the Rover’s windscreen wiper before scampering back to my car and gunning out of there.

The following morning I parked right at the other end of the high street in a different Pay and Display.

At lunchtime Mr Collins suggested we partake in a spot of lunch together, purely to discuss clients, their cases, legal policies and so forth. I thanked him and said I already had an appointment. I pulled on my coat, aware that Mr Collins was staring lasciviously at my black stockinged legs, and set off to the Travel Agent to book a week’s Easter skiing in Risoul.

That evening I tossed a brochure apiece at the twins. ‘Tell me what you think of this!’

‘Wow!’ Toby sucked in his breath.

‘Oh Mum, this is so cool!’ Livvy exclaimed.

‘Isn’t it just!’ I grinned happily as the doorbell rang.

Feeling decidedly chipper and half expecting it to be Nell, I skipped down the hallway trilling, ‘I’m coming, I’m ca-ha-ha-humming!’

I flung the door wide but my smile died. For there on the doorstep, wearing a particularly pained expression, was Brad Pitt aka Ploddy.

‘Oh. It’s you.’ I stared at him in the glow of the outside courtesy light.

‘It is indeed me,’ Ploddy confirmed gravely. He raised his hand, holding aloft an envelope. ‘Does this belong to you?’

I gulped. ‘
Poss-
ibly.’

‘The envelope bears your name and address.’

‘Ah yes, in that case it is definitely mine,’ I whispered.

My eyes snagged on Ploddy’s vehicle parked on the driveway. A gold Rover.

‘Mrs Cherry I came to the conclusion some time ago that you were something of a character, but nonetheless felt compelled to visit you for an explanation. Why do you feel I should,’ he paused to read my writing, ‘partake in a spot of anger management?’

I cleared my throat. ‘I’m terribly sorry Mr Pitt. There’s obviously been a dreadful misunderstanding.’ Miserably I gave the explanation.

‘I see,’ said Ploddy eventually. ‘Not road rage but Pay and Display rage.’

Was I mistaken or did his lips twitch with the ghost of a smile?

As I sat, the following morning, with Mr Collins perched in close proximity on the edge of my desk, I irritably wished the man would stop invading my personal space.

‘And here’s another sentence that requires slight tweaking.’

His body leant in closer as he regarded my monitor, a wrist brushing against mine as he suggested changing a full stop to a comma. I gnashed my teeth and tried not to asphyxiate over the keyboard as wafts of aftershave assaulted my respiratory system.

‘Absolutely first class Cassandra. You really must let me thank you properly for all this marvellous work you’re producing. What about lunch?’

‘Would this be to discuss your clients, their cases, legal policies and so forth?’

‘Absolutely!’

‘Then I’ll have to decline because I really like my lunch hour to be a total respite from work.’

‘Ah.’

As I was powdering my nose in the Ladies, Julia swung through the door and cheerfully greeted my reflection.

‘Hi! How are you getting on with the office letch?’

‘Tell you in Starbucks?’

‘Sure. I’ll give you some tips on how to fend him off.’

‘Do you speak from experience?’

‘One hundred per cent.’

At a quarter to three Mr Collins materialised by my desk, noisily clearing his throat. I removed my headset and glanced up.

‘Now Cassandra my dear, you look absolutely exhausted working those poor little fingers to the bone. I really do insist you join me for a spot of sups this evening. I know a wonderfully cosy little bistro.’

But my ready excuse died on my lips as, without any announcement, a glamorous middle aged brunette swept into the office. Mr Collins jumped like a scalded cat and shrivelled before my eyes as he bowed and scraped all over the place. I gave the haughty stranger a curious look which she immediately caught and volleyed back with a supercilious stare.

‘Mrs Cherry, would you be so kind as to make coffee for
Mrs Collins
?’

Mrs Cherry eh? That was a first.

Five minutes later I returned with the coffee only to find Mr Collins pulling on his coat while Mrs Collins impatiently tapped a well shod foot.

‘Ah, change of plan Mrs Cherry,’ he blustered whilst attempting to squeeze past me, stomach touching his backbone lest some part of his body touch mine in wifey’s presence. ‘Sorry about the coffee, we’re going out for a late lunch.’

‘Super,’ I smiled brightly. ‘You must take Mrs Collins to that marvellous bistro. You know, the one you constantly want to take me to – purely to discuss your clients, their cases and legal policies of course.’

‘Ah ha ha ha,’ Mr Collins laughed looking slightly sick.

I went off to the kitchen to tip the unwanted coffee down the sink with a smile on my face.

The weekend’s arrival had me hitting the shops with the twins to get kitted out with our ski gear. Stevie turned up to collect the children just as I was trailing bulging shopping bags through the front door. He had some rather unexpected news.

‘Cynthia’s moving.’

‘Moving? As in moving
away
?’ I boggled. ‘Where does that leave you?’

‘Exactly where I am at the moment.’

I gazed at him uncomprehendingly.

‘I’m buying Cynthia’s house,’ Stevie explained. ‘It was only ever a temporary situation Cass. I knew it. She knew it. And now she wants a fresh start somewhere else.’

‘Oh she does, does she?’ I rounded on him, suddenly furious. I was aware of the twins sloping past, silent and anxious, but I couldn’t zip my mouth. ‘After wrecking our marriage,
Cynthia
wants a fresh start.’

‘Cass it was my fault, not Cynthia’s.’

‘Your fault…her fault…whatever!’ I spat. Upstairs I heard bedroom doors tactfully closing. ‘I think it’s pretty damn rich that she’s moving lock, stock and barrel to start all over again after a relationship breakdown – a relationship that barely lasted two months – while I’m still here facing the neighbours and embarrassment after years and years of marriage.’

‘Cass, would you just calm down and-’

‘Calm down? And now,’ my voice rose shrilly, ‘and
now
-’

‘And now we’re going to be permanent neighbours.’

I stood there, chest heaving, fists clenched angrily. Stevie stared at the floor, scuffing the heel of his shoe backward and forward before breaking the silence.

‘Sounds to me like you still care Cass,’ he said softly. ‘ We could call the divorce off. It’s not too late.’

‘You’re right,’ I exhaled slowly. ‘I mean you’re right it’s not Cynthia’s fault. If it hadn’t been her, it would undoubtedly have been somebody else. So no, Stevie, the divorce goes ahead.’

When Stevie finally left, taking Livvy and Toby with him, I felt edgy and unsettled. It didn’t help having the entire house to myself without the twins’ noise. God it was quiet. And lonely.

Grabbing a bottle of mineral water from the fridge I wandered into the lounge and flopped down on the sofa. Flicking through the satellite channels, I tried to lose myself in a house makeover programme. Distraction came in the form of a rather hunky male presenter urging a middle-aged couple to rip out their pre-war Formica kitchen and replace it with a contemporary work of art.

I took a sip of mineral water, fidgeting restlessly. Maybe it would help if I had my own home project to concentrate on – something to throw myself into, keep busy and stave off loneliness. A kitchen refurb perhaps? The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. And why stop at the kitchen? Why not redecorate the entire house? Maybe get shot of some scruffy furniture along the way. Ousting the old marital bed would be quite symbolic. I wouldn’t mind a sexy leather sleigh bed. It would certainly have Nell arching an eyebrow in disbelief.

I fiddled with my wedding and engagement rings while I cogitated. They twirled around my finger, their familiar chinkety-chink playing over and over. Suddenly the rings jammed painfully against my knuckle. I stared at them in bemusement. What was the point of getting a new bed to mark a fresh start when I was subconsciously clinging to married woman status? I should have taken the rings off ages ago. Indeed, many a woman would have hurled them at her unfaithful husband long before now, never mind one that had fornicated before her very eyes.

I grimaced at the memory. It still hurt. I wondered if the emotional fall-out would ever completely go. The light caught and played on the dainty cluster of diamond chips, sparks shooting off like miniature fireworks. Pretty rings. Inexpensive. It was all we could afford at the time. Stevie had kissed me and promised that one day I’d have an eternity ring too. Needless to say that had never happened. And now it never would. I looked at the rings on my finger for the last time before slipping them off.

As I drove to Hempel Braithwaite on Monday morning, I did some financial calculations. My money bond’s annual interest was ready to be drawn. There was enough to take care of a kitchen and maybe a bit more too. I liked the idea of having a project to throw myself into. Even my dreams last night had been hectic with designers and luvvies re-decorating the house. I’d stood in the midst of chaos shrieking, ‘I can’t
possibly
have yellow paint Laurence – it will clash with my hair.’

In Reception Susannah Harrington was waiting for me.

‘Good morning Cassandra dear. Let me introduce you to Morag McDermott, one of our dynamic solicitors in Company and Commercial.’

I shook hands with a dour looking thirty-something female who looked as dynamic as a pair of old socks.

‘Morag will be your boss for the next three weeks while her secretary holidays in America.’

‘Pleased to me you,’ I smiled at Morag while my tummy contracted. I wasn’t getting good vibes from Ms McDermott at all.

I settled down to work and tried to tune out the poisonous atmosphere emanating from my new boss.

As the week progressed, my misgivings about Morag proved unhappily correct. At around eleven every morning she would storm into our shared office apparently nursing a monumental hangover. She would then slam things around her desk, growl into a mobile and achieve absolutely nothing. Come noon, in a fit of bad temper, she would wordlessly stalk out without a backward glance. Invariably, just as I was reaching for my coat to go home, Morag would stagger through the door wafting whisky fumes and declare
we
had a lot of work to do.

So far I’d managed to avoid a drunken screaming match as invariably she would sit down, nose dive on to the ink blotter and snore robustly.

But on this particular morning Ms McDermott happened to be waiting for me, an expensive shoe tapping impatiently.

‘What time do you call this?’ she snapped.

Do not rise Cass, do not rise. I looked at my watch. ‘Five minutes to nine,’ I carefully replied.

She flung a tiny plastic cassette at me. I dodged and it landed on my desk’s surface with a light clatter.

‘I want this typed and ready for half past nine on the dot.’

And a very good morning to you too Morag McCow. Just what was this female’s problem? Either she had rampant premenstrual tension or one hell of a personality disorder. God help me if it was both.

At noon Morag once again disappeared with no explanation whatsoever and didn’t return until I had logged off and was buttoning up my coat. But instead of sinking soporifically down on to the ink blotter, she instead collapsed upon her chair, placed her head in her hands and surrendered to uncontrollable sobbing.

My instinct was to rush over and offer comfort, but she wasn’t the most approachable of people. I didn’t want her blotchy face rearing up and snarling at me to bog off. In the end I made do with awkwardly patting her shoulder.

‘Er, Morag? Can I make you a cup of coffee?’ I asked gently. She peered at me vacantly through brimming eyes. ‘Morag? Have you had bad news?’

She gave the smallest of nods. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Terrible news. My husband doesn’t love me any more.’ Her face crumpled. ‘I’ve only been married six months.’

Ah.

Over the next few days I got to know the real Morag. She was actually an extremely nice lady with a heart as soft as a strawberry centre. Her entire family lived in Scotland and she had nobody in the South of England other than her estranged in-laws.

‘I was initially so wrapped up in my marriage and work that I didn’t really make any friends down here,’ she confessed one day.

‘Well you can certainly count me as a mate. It’s the weekend tomorrow. What about we have a get-together on Saturday night. The twins will be at my ex’s so I won’t have to hurry home.’

‘I’m available all day,’ Morag hinted, looking at me hopefully.

I smiled. ‘Unfortunately I’m not. I’m checking out new kitchens but you’re welcome to keep me company.’