Stockings and Cellulite (9 page)

‘Don’t be daft, we wouldn’t dream of doing that. Anyway, it’s only a bit of fun.’

‘So where exactly did you and Ben meet this vicar?’

‘Oh Ben’s played golf with him a few times,’ she airily dismissed my interrogation. ‘Clive occasionally makes up a four with Bill and Fiona, but it would be fair to say that he’s more their pal than Ben’s, and I gather Fiona is really into the church scene. She just
adores
Clive.’

‘Well clearly he must have something going for him other than a heavenly handicap.’

After Stevie had collected the twins the following evening, I stood nervously in Nell’s kitchen sipping chilled Chablis. My neighbour was extremely pink in the face, flapping arms at me as I got under her feet. Every now and again Nell would peer fretfully through the oven’s glass door at a duck sizzling away before darting off to the hob to stir a scrumptious smelling plum sauce. A mountain of chocolate profiteroles balanced precariously on a crystal platter nearby. All evidence of Marks & Spencer’s packaging had been disposed of. Fiona’s culinary reputation was apparently legend-like and Nell was determined to pass off the evening’s efforts as entirely her own.

‘Please do not mention anything about the packaged or processed food that is normally consumed in this house.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ I demanded, chippy from alcohol on an empty stomach.

‘I’d just prefer you not to breathe a word.’

‘Dear God,’ I rolled my eyes.

‘And don’t say the God word either. Clive thinks it’s blasphemous. Shit!’ squeaked Nell. ‘They’re here.’

Ben answered the door while Nell hastily despatched Dylan to his bedroom, a brand new DVD tucked under one armpit and under dire threat not to reappear for precisely one hundred and twenty minutes.

I scuttled into the lounge clutching a refreshed glass of wine just as Fiona and Bill wandered in trailing a camp looking man. From that moment I just
knew
the evening was doomed.

Ben led the introductions.

‘This is Cassandra, and Cass this is Bill-’

I shook hands and fixed a smile on my face.

‘And Fiona-’

‘How do you do!’

Bill and Fiona, dressed in matching Pringle sweaters, made an obvious public statement that they were Mr and Mrs and belonged exclusively to each other. Both sported the permanently ruddy complexions of those who loved the great outdoors. It was very apparent that Fiona did not possess any pot or tube bearing the words
face
and
cream
.

‘And finally this is Clive.’

Tall and thin with a receding hairline and bobbing Adam’s apple, Clive limply shook my hands.

‘I gather you play golf?’ I smiled.

‘Only when there is time, which is regrettably short. Are you partial?’

‘No, not really. Ambling across a huge field sporting a pair of outrageous checked trousers and dropping my sticks in the sandpit isn’t my idea of fun, ah ha ha ha,’ I trilled merrily.

Clive looked pained. ‘The correct phraseology is
green, clubs
and
bunker
.’

Jerk. I tried again. ‘I gather you’re a vicar?’

‘Yes.’

I blinked. Was that it then? No wish to elaborate? I nervously cast about for a conversation filler.

‘I’ve just remembered a religious joke I heard somewhere,’ I brightly informed my uninterested audience, ‘Oh yes, you’ll love this,’ I slapped my thigh and winked at Fiona. ‘Did you hear about the agnostic dyslexic who questioned whether there was a Dog?’

I promptly convulsed, clutched my sides and wheezed at the carpet.

Fiona looked blank. ‘Not sure I understand that one actually.’

I hastily excused myself on the pretext of giving Nell assistance, leaving them to talk about birdies and bogies. Such ridiculous terminology. Why on earth had I agreed to this?

‘What do you think then?’ Nell nodded her head in the direction of the lounge as she inserted hands into huge oven mitts.

‘You’ve got to be joking.’

Dinner was served. The drink flowed and things began to liven up. Clive was a pompous bible basher who repeatedly waved his fork around to emphasise a point whilst taking us all on a verbally guided tour of the New Testament and predictions within Revelations.

‘Oh yes, it’s all there,’ he informed. ‘Pestilence, plague, disease, flooding, earthquakes. Just take a look around the four corners of the world and see for yourself.’

Hell this man was depressing. I flung some more wine down my neck. I was bored silly and not more than a little tipsy. When Clive finally paused for breath I jumped into the gap and excitedly told everybody about Grace Herbert and her psychic predictions.

‘Ah. A charlatan in league with Satan,’ Clive nodded knowingly.

‘What
are
you talking about?’ I squinted across the table, stabbing my own fork around in mid-air. He wasn’t the only one in the room with a monopoly on the cutlery.

‘Evil souls conjuring demons and devils.’

I banged my fork down on the table so hard everybody visibly jumped. ‘That’s just typical of people like you Clyde.’

‘Clive.’

‘Whatever. The trouble with you is that you’re narrow minded, bigoted, fusty, crusty, blinkered and biased. You vicars smugly sell your Alpha courses, sit in church with your happy-clappy congregations, sing a few pop songs passed off as modern day hymns all the while with your heads stuck firmly up your bums.’

Fiona gasped, Bill blanched, Nell began making frantic head twitching gestures and Ben snorted with unsuppressed laughter, but there was no stopping me now.

‘Wasn’t Jesus a psychic, hm? Answer me that one! He knew all about when he was going to die, who would betray him and how he would rise again. And what about his miracles eh?’

‘Oh does this Grace Herbert do miracles too?’

‘Every day!’ I howled indignantly, although admittedly I had yet to see her multiply her packed lunch into a board room banquet or place her hands on the photocopier and heal it from jamming. ‘And what about David Blaine?’ I demanded, ‘I’ve seen him levitate right off the pavement. Nobody accuses him of being in league with the devil do they?’

‘I think you’ll find Jesus is incomparable to David Blaine,’ the Adam’s apple in Clive’s neck was yo-yoing furiously up and down his windpipe.

‘How so?’

‘Because Jesus was the Son of God, whereas David Blaine is an illusionist.’

‘Don’t you try and pull the wool over my eyes Clint. I’ll have you know that I am
more
than familiar with the Da Vinci Code.’ I nodded my head sagely and tapped the side of my nose with a forefinger for good measure. Except my nose seemed to have relocated and I ended up poking myself in the eye instead. With a streaming eyeball I turned to address Ben and Nell.

‘A wonderful evening dear neighbours but sadly all good things must come to an end. Fabulous grub Nellie-Wellie. Good old Markies eh?’

I awoke the following morning with a headache and a misty memory nagging my conscience. Had I made inappropriate conversation? Something to do with a religiously psychic evil charlatan posing as Jesus and floating off a sidewalk? I had a nasty feeling I owed Nell an apology.

Half an hour later, hair still wet from the shower, I sat in Nell’s kitchen clutching a mug of coffee.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I wailed, ‘I don’t know what got into me.’

‘An awful lot of wine?’ she ventured with a wry smile. ‘Don’t worry. I forgive you. It was quite funny actually, particularly when you interrupted Clive’s lecture on Genesis.’

‘What lecture?’

‘You told Clive that after God created man He’d taken one look at Adam and declared ‘I can do better’ before collapsing into hysterics over the After Eights.’

‘Geez.’

‘Oh forget it Cass, it couldn’t matter less. Now then, tomorrow it’s Valentine’s Day. Are you going to buy anybody a card?’

‘Like who?’

‘What about Jed? Perhaps you could re-establish links now that you’ve started proper divorce proceedings.’

‘I don’t think so,’ I sighed.

I briefly pondered whether Stevie had bought a card for Cynthia Castle. Bastard. With a bit of luck Cynthia might squash his penis flat.

So I purposefully ignored Valentine’s Day and instead flung myself into half term activities with Livvy and Toby. But even though spending quality time with the children was great fun, there was a frozen space deep inside me which felt out of sorts. Like having an ice cube lodged in one’s heart.

I sometimes caught myself aching for a pair of warm arms to embrace me. But not Stevie’s. Perish the thought. No, I wanted the comforting and nurturing arms of somebody who loved me both deeply and unconditionally.

One evening, long after the twins had gone to bed, I dolefully rummaged in the larder for a bag of toffee popcorn before switching on the movie channel. I selected a Bridget Jones film. She was a singleton wasn’t she? Maybe she had a leaf I could borrow from her book of life.

I poured myself a stiff gin and tonic and settled down to watch. Within moments I was hooked. Entranced, I flung my head back and poured toffee popcorn straight from the packet into my open mouth. It cascaded over my face and showered off sideways into my hair. No matter because Bridget was skiing in her own inimitable style down a vertical ski slope straight into a pharmacist’s, winning a slalom championship en-route.

By the time I’d worked my way through a second sizeable gin, it came to me with resounding clarity that all my problems would be resolved if I went skiing. I sipped some popcorn and flung gin all over my face before staggering upstairs to bed.

Thus I returned to my job upbeat and full of optimism. As I shot into the Pay and Display car park, I spotted one remaining space and bee-lined towards it just as a gold Rover appeared in my rear view mirror. The driver revved impatiently and attempted to squash past in a bid of out-manoeuvring. Narrowly avoiding a nasty prang, I zoomed into the remaining slot.

The man’s horn blared. Unfazed I gathered up my handbag, umbrella and car keys only to discover the driver getting out of his car. Oh joy.

‘Oi you!’

Ignoring him, I tossed my head back and briskly strode off.

‘Hey I’m talkin’ to you Missus Fancy Raincoat!’

I stopped and gave him a cool look.

‘Yes?’

‘That’s my parking spot you’ve just nicked.’

‘I think you’ll find this is a public car park.’

‘That as may be, but the unspoken rule in this
particular
car park is those that get ’ere at this time of mornin’ pick their spot and stick to it. An’ that’s
my
spot.’

‘Well we’ll have to agree to disagree on that. Good-bye.’

‘You haven’t heard the last from me,’ the man yelled furiously.

Oh Lord. Anxious to put distance between us, I quickened my pace. Deciding not to take any chances, I broke into a run.

Julia looked up from her switchboard as I crashed into Reception. ‘Goodness, you’re keen to get here!’

‘That’s me,’ I scraped a shaky hand through my hair. ‘Ready, willing and able.’

‘I’m very pleased to hear it,’ purred an oily male voice. ‘How wonderful it would be if all women were as enthusiastic as you.’

I spun round to find myself staring into the depths of charcoal pinstripe so sharply tailored it could possibly inflict wounds. My gaze travelled up to a wickedly grinning raffish face.

‘Mr Collins,’ he stuck out his hand. ‘And I do believe you are Cassandra?’

‘Yes,’ I gasped as my hand was captured in a handshake like no other. For one crazy moment I thought Mr Collins was about to lift my hand to his cupid-bowed lips. Instead he grinned like Bruce the Shark encountering Nemo.

Brilliant. In the space of five minutes I’d encountered both the car park lunatic and the office wolf.

I caught Julia’s broad wink as Mr Collins led me out of Reception and off to his office where the touchie-feeliness continued for a few minutes longer disguised under the cloak of gallantry. Warm fingers brushed the nape of my neck as he thoughtfully took my coat. My backside was given the tiniest caress as he oh-so-thoughtfully whipped out the typing stool. An arm glided around my shoulder as he cosied down, cheek to cheek, on the pretext of showing the location of keyboard and mouse. When an arm suddenly brushed across my breasts as he tapped in a password I shoved back the typing stool. The castor wheels squeaked in protest as they viciously ran over Mr Collins’ soft leather slip-ons. He let out an undignified squawk.

‘I’m
sooo
sorry Mr Collins,’ I apologised, cupping my hands to my face in a gesture of horror but managing to execute a perfect clip on his chin in the process. ‘Oh
God
! I’m just
sooo
sorry.’

‘Quite all right. No worries,’ he squeaked, nervously backing away.

The rest of the morning mercifully passed without incident.

At lunch time I grabbed my bag, keen to be off to the travel agents to pick up a couple of ski brochures. But on approaching my car I was brought up short by its appearance. The windscreen was decorated in lemon Post-it stickers, all covered in abuse and clearly the poetic work of Mr Angry. I looked around. There was his car. Right by the entrance. Despite finding an alternative parking space, clearly he had felt it necessary to vent his spleen.

Irked, I peeled off the stickers along with a plastic envelope. Oh terrific. A parking penalty. In my haste to scarper to safety I had completely overlooked a little matter of feeding the ticket machine. Stuffing everything in my handbag, I started up the car and headed off to the travel agents.

Emerging back into the sunny high street a little while later, I felt a glow of achievement. Folded under my arm were two holiday brochures sporting leaping snowboarders hurtling through space, salopetted legs tucked under jacketed torsos.

At five minutes to three, Mr Collins thanked me profusely for my wonderful typing, spot-on spelling and immaculate presentation before clearing his throat.

‘Cassandra my dear, would you like to meet up later for a drink – purely to discuss clients of course. It would give you the chance to get familiar with some of the cases, legal policies and so forth.’