Stockings and Cellulite (3 page)

I waggled a forefinger in front of Cynthia Castle’s startled face and gained a smidgen of satisfaction that her eyes were round with apprehension.

‘You tell
your Ned
from me to keep his fists to himself. And you can also tell him that my son’s father is exactly that –
Toby’s
father.’

And with that I burst into tears and stumbled out of the office.

Later that evening Stevie turned up insisting we talk. Liv and Toby were overjoyed to see their father but their reaction was tempered with caution too. They wanted explanations.

‘There’s nothing to explain,’ Stevie confidently assured, ‘everything is in hand.’ He hugged them tightly before they reluctantly disappeared to watch The Simpsons.

When Stevie and I were finally alone, the urge to let rip and slap him hard was overwhelming, as if this would somehow alleviate the depth of my own emotional hurt. Instead I ranted and raged in fury and frustration releasing angst and vitriol until the dam suddenly burst and I was sobbing uncontrollably. Stevie had his arms around me in a trice.

‘Stop it Cass. Please. I can’t bear it.’

He
couldn’t bear it? Stevie was holding me so tightly my face was squashed into the soft fleece of his cream sweater. It was warm and heartachingly familiar. It was also now sodden and covered in mascara, snot trails and tears. Good. Let Cynthia Castle tenderly hand wash
that
little lot off.

‘Can I come back?’ Stevie whispered into my hair.

I froze. In my dreams I’d fantasised about this moment, written umpteen reunion scenes and re-played them too. Now he’d actually said the magic words. I removed my head from his chest and gazed into his soft hazel eyes with my own red rimmed road maps.

‘No.’

‘What? But I love you Cass! I’ve always loved you and I always will.’

‘I love you too Stevie,’ I replied. ‘But not as a husband. Not any more.’

From the incredulous look on his face, one could presume things were seriously not running to plan.

‘You can’t possibly mean that Cass.’

‘Oh but I do.’

‘For heaven’s sake! We go back a long way – we’re a team, we belong together. Apart from anything else, what about the kids?’

Ah ha. Yes. Livvy and Toby. Stevie was playing the card that gave the ultimate knee jerk reaction.

‘Stevie we might go back a long way, but we are not a team and frankly I would question we ever were. Couples who are devoted to each other are also dedicated to each other. They don’t cheat on their partners or cause public embarrassment and humiliation. As for Liv and Toby, obviously you are their father and I’m more than happy for you to see them whenever you want.’

‘Oh that’s
aw
fully decent of you,’ Stevie replied sarcastically.

‘After all, you’re only down the road,’ I pointed out dryly.

‘Listen to me Cass. Staying at Cynthia’s was only ever a temporary situation whilst the dust settled with you.’

‘Please. Spare me the soft soap. Where you now live and with whom is of no interest to me.’

Stevie glared at me furiously. ‘Meanwhile, as it’s almost the weekend, is it okay if I take the twins out tomorrow?’

‘Of course,’ but I was addressing his back. He stalked off to say good-bye to the twins.

The evening limped on. Pushing away the gloom that threatened to swamp me, I made some fresh coffee and settled down listing some outstanding chores, anything to keep occupied. Tomorrow I would purchase some Wellington boots for gardening, stock up on light bulbs and buy that new bolt long overdue for the garden gate.

Shopping list complete, I drove home the following morning with the tiniest sense of accomplishment stealing over me. I told myself that I’d fix that bolt without any male help whatsoever which would be yet another small inch down this new road of independence. And talking of roads, good grief, what was going on with this one?

I had encountered a junction and straight ahead was a traffic officer and stationary police car. The traffic cop gave me a hard look followed by a series of hand signals. Cautiously I proceeded towards him, trying to read his waving arms. Did he want me to pull over? What had I done? He seemed to be gesturing to the pavement. What? Pull over here? But there wasn’t any space due to parked cars packed bumper to bumper. I crawled forward desperately searching for an appropriate gap to pull into. No gaps. Things were starting to get distinctly gushy under the armpits.

I risked a quick glance in the rear view mirror. The cop had his back to me and had switched his attention to other drivers who were heading up a side road. At least my now pulling over wouldn’t cause a hold up.

I indicated and came to a gentle stop, but the traffic officer took no notice of me. Two minutes passed. Then three. Had he lost interest in me? I dithered. Perhaps he hadn’t actually wanted me to stop at all? Yes, that was it. I’d been mistaken. Sighing with relief, I indicated, pulled out and drove off. Clearly I’d caught a lull in the traffic because there wasn’t a car in sight. How strange. And quite eerie. This was usually such a busy town. I sped up enjoying the throaty hum of the engine and was happily trundling around a bend when I encountered a scene of such carnage I nearly choked on my tonsils.

A huge lorry had jack-knifed across the road. Skew-whiff to its rear was a car, squashed like a concertina, a lamp post sliced through the broken engine and embedded in the driver’s seat, shattered glass everywhere. A vast fire-engine was blocking any further progress of my own vehicle, as were an ambulance and another police car, blue lights flashing as they idled at various angles across the tarmac. Firemen were reeling thick hoses off the engine, a bunch of paramedics were crouched over a stretcher, and an absolutely furious looking policeman was striding towards me yelling into a walkie-talkie. The cop was about my own age and a dead ringer for Brad Pitt. Despite the dreadful circumstances, I felt my heart do a few unexpectedly skippy beats.

The policeman raised his hand indicating I halt. I buzzed down the window.

‘Hello Officer.’

I gave a winning little smile but Ploddy’s face remained thunderous.

‘Switch off your engine, step out of your vehicle and hand me your keys,’ he barked. ‘Im
med
iately.’

Cripes. Did he want to give me a breath test? Bloody hell. I’d only drunk a bit of coffee that morning. Okay, four coffees. But they had been decaff. Okay, best not to lie. Confess to the filtered stuff. These cops weren’t stupid were they? Clearly they could detect dilated pupils and the shakes at ten paces. This didn’t seem quite the appropriate moment to do a breath test what with a body on that stretcher and –
crikey
, it really was a body.

I suddenly felt a bit odd. With jellified legs and scared out of my wits, I craned my neck up at the policemen. He was tremendously tall, even taller than Stevie. I stared at him like a frightened rabbit.

‘Have I done something wrong Officer?’ I whispered.

‘Wrong?
Wrong
?’ he bellowed, his good looks contorted with rage. ‘My colleague ahead instructed you to divert left, but you blatantly ignored him and continued forward.’

I suddenly twigged. ‘Oh! Do you know Officer I wondered about that,’ I gabbled with relief as understanding dawned. ‘He was flapping his arms about and I thought he wanted me to pull over but I couldn’t find anywhere to stop.’

‘Flapping his arms about?’ he hissed, chin jutting belligerently, eyes like flint. Shame he was so apoplectic. It really did spoil those devastating good looks.

‘Madam, can I suggest you equip yourself with a copy of The Highway Code and study the bit about
flapping arms
.’

‘Um, will do Officer,’ I cranked up a nervous smile.

‘Are you aware Madam that you have driven onto the scene of a major road accident?’ Ploddy flung his own arms wide indicating the mayhem.

‘N-no, I wasn’t originally aware Officer, but I am now. I’m terribly sorry.’ Heavens, he still looked absolutely livid. ‘H-have I wiped out all the clues?’

Ploddy’s head inclined slightly, his mouth dropped open but nothing actually came out for a moment or two.

‘This is an
accident
scene Madam,’ he enunciated slowly, ‘not a
burglary
.’

I nodded my head. This situation was having a dire effect on my body. My bowels momentarily lurched and I clenched my buttocks tightly together.

‘It’s women like you that give blondes a bad name,’ he growled.

I nodded away. Now what the devil was that remark supposed to mean?

The copper gave an exasperated sigh and thrust my car keys back in my hand.

‘Get out!’ he yelled. ‘Go on! Get out of here right now before I change my mind and give you three points on your licence and a hefty fine.’

More frantic nodding. My clammy hand curled around the car keys. I didn’t need telling twice.

‘Yes Mr Pitt,’ I bleated and hurriedly squashed myself behind the steering wheel. In my haste to get away I over-revved the engine whilst shoving the car in gear, forgot about the clutch, gave a lurching bunny hop forward and immediately stalled. By this point I was very aware that my deodorant had completely let me down.

With reeking armpits and swearing under my breath, the car engine whined before turning over. Nervously I negotiated my way around the firemen, past the ambulance and its grisly contents, zig-zagged between the fire engine and the paramedics and finally got the hell out of there.

As the car jerked to a halt on the driveway, I heaved a sigh of relief and momentarily rested a cheek against the cool steering wheel.

‘Coo-ee!’ Nell rapped on the window making me jump out of my skin.

‘God, don’t do that. I’ve had more shocks than I can take this morning.’

‘Coffee?’

‘Yeah. Yours or mine?’

‘Definitely yours. Ben’s been in the downstairs loo and stunk out the whole of the ground floor.’

‘Oh lovely,’ I gave her a wan grin as I stuck the key in the lock.

‘Now then Cass,’ my friend plonked herself down on a kitchen stool and fixed me with a beady eye. ‘You need to start getting out and it just so happens an excellent opportunity has arisen to test out your wobbly ego.’

‘Who says my self-esteem is suffering?’ I immediately went on the defensive.

‘It’s so obvious. Look at you breaking out in a muck sweat at the mere
suggestion
of going out. You’d much prefer to hide away, curled up on the sofa in your bobbly cardigan and slipper socks with the remote control all to yourself.’

My shoulders drooped. ‘Am I that transparent?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with staying in. But not night after night.’

I hugged my coffee while Nell outlined her big plan. Basically she had a mate intent on celebrating an impending fortieth birthday with a bunch of girlfriends next Saturday in a dodgy sounding club by the name of
Passé
.

‘What the hell does that mean?’ I scowled. ‘Past it?’

Nell shrugged. ‘The club stipulates entrance is not permitted to anybody under the age of thirty.’

‘Oh brilliant. So it’s bound to be full of wrinklies all wearing their emotional baggage on their sleeves.’

‘Nonsense. Now drink up and we’ll go out and buy some new razzle to dazzle.’

‘What, right now?’

‘Right now.’

We drove to Fairview, hallowed stomping ground of women shoppers like ourselves. Nell fiddled with the car radio.

‘Good heavens Cass, why are you listening to Radio Two?’ she tweaked the volume then expertly stabbed at buttons reprogramming stations. ‘Nobody of our age listens to Terry Wogan.’

‘I like Terry,’ I retorted defensively.

‘So does my Granny,’ she muttered.

And so it was that I awoke, a whole week later, with a sense of nervous anticipation. One newly purchased outfit was awaiting its induction at
Passé
. On impulse I threw open the wardrobe door and lifted the regulation LBD out. One word summed up the garment. Minimalist. Minimalist in the sense that there wasn’t much of it but the price tag dared to question otherwise. Bought in an incredibly giggly moment with Nell, I now regarded the dress in horrified disbelief – plunging neckline, cut-outs at the naval, slashes to the shoulders and, at the back, an open gash trailing down to the cleavage of one’s backside with scissor splits around the hem’s perimeter. At least they were only weeny splits. But then again they couldn’t really be anything else considering the skirt only barely covered one’s knickers.

I crouched down and extracted a shoebox from the wardrobe’s depths and nervously lifted the cardboard lid. Nestling upon a bed of tissue paper were the sexiest stilettos I’d ever set eyes upon. Nell had taken one look and pronounced them ‘fuck me’ shoes. I’d purchased them on impulse whilst in the midst of an adrenalin rush, recent rejection mixing with bitterness and hurt. And now? The only feeling coursing through me now was one of dismay. What on earth had I been thinking of? And exactly what statement would I be projecting attired in this gear? What signals would be read?
Single saddo woman – all offers considered
.

But maybe I’d feel a bit better if I
looked
better. The mirrored wardrobes reflected back a woman older than her years, careworn and pale, mousy blonde hair falling lankly to shoulders, faded green eyes distinctly lacklustre. If only fairytales didn’t have the monopoly on fairy-godmothers.

I reached for the phone.

When Nell appeared later that evening, dressed to the nines and wearing enough scent to rival a perfume shop, she stared at me in amazement.

‘Blimey, what have you done to yourself?’ she gasped. ‘You look absolutely drop dead gorgeous.’

‘Oh give over,’ my sun-kissed cheeks dimpled as I gave a modest twirl. It was amazing what transformation could be wrought in a spray-on tanning booth. And of course Giorgio had worked miracles with my hair, effortlessly layering and shaping so that the finished look was akin to celebrity status. It had been an absolute pleasure to watch him at work not least because of his brooding good looks, pale brown arms and curling chest hair peeping over the top of his low buttoned shirt.