Vintage Babes (11 page)

Jenny had suggested I go north and stay with them for a while, or she could come down to me at weekends. I had said thanks, but no thanks. Bruce would not have welcomed a lodger and would’ve hated being left alone to look after his kids.

Throughout the years when Tom and I lived in Kensington, Jen and I had kept in touch. We’d telephoned, sent photographs to keep each other
au fait
with our children growing up, and she and Bruce had come to stay with us – minus sprogs – for an annual weekend. For Jen and me, the weekends had been non-stop talkathons, whereas our husbands had struggled to find much to discuss. As a hard-pushed, and hard-pushing, political journalist, Tom had had scant interest in Bruce’s tales of growing his own runner beans. While Bruce didn’t give a damn about the latest government upheaval.

Then, unexpectedly and to his great delight, Bruce, who had worked for a bank, was headhunted by a firm of financial consultants. The firm’s premises were in the south London suburbs – though they’ve since relocated to a swish custom-built office complex just a few miles from Dursleigh – and when Jenny and Bruce were wondering where to live, they stayed with me. They liked the village with its green and the river, and when I praised the local schools, decided to forget about living in the concrete jungle, a short commute for Bruce was acceptable. His ‘golden hello’ had included a preferential mortgage which meant they could afford a decent house in a decent location.

Having Jenny close again was good. Whenever I felt down, she’d cheer me up. When I needed to rant against Tom and the slick chick and the bloody injustice of life, she would listen and comfort – as she had listened and comforted during those other dire days long ago in Sale. In time my angst had ceased – even if there were still mornings when I’d wake up and be surprised and, yes, disappointed to find Tom wasn’t beside me – and I’d realised that there is a future after marriage.

Now Jen and I get together about once a week; maybe for five minutes or maybe for an evening, it depends on what’s happening. If Bruce is off on one of his business trips, we’ll go to the cinema or Jenny will come round for a microwaved dinner and we’ll talk. Part of the attraction is our differences. She reckons I’m sophisticated, daring, a bit of a hippy – if I am, it’s only in comparison to her – and some of the things I say shock her. Whereas I respond to Jen’s homeliness and reliability and, though I’m nowhere near as puritanical, I respect her strict moral code.

As someone who’s been happily married to the same man for thirty years, was a virgin when she married him and has only ever slept with him, Jenny is a member of an endangered species. But I admire her, envy her stability and it’s comforting to know that such people exist. Comforting to know long-term true love is still alive and kicking. And possible. My parents’ age group had the knack, but many of my generation seem sadly lacking. And heaven help the next lot.

When I arrived I saw Jenny through the glass of the front door, making her way backwards down the stairs, wiping the skirting board. And this on a Monday when she would’ve changed the bed – she and Bruce sleep between fresh sheets each week – done the washing, half of which was probably already ironed, and tidied the house after the weekend. In addition to hating conflict, Jenny can’t stand mess. So her windows gleam, the carpets are always spotless and nothing – no jackets, shoes, magazines – is left lying around. It’s a joke with her kids that if they put something down for more than thirty seconds, Mum will clear it away. Though I have heard Victoria mutter about her being ‘anal’ and needing to ‘get a life’.

I tapped on the door. ‘Hello,’ I mouthed.

‘Come in, come in. Lovely to see you,’ Jenny said, smiling and hugging me. ‘Carol, you look terrific. I wish I could wear black leather trousers, but –’ she sighed.

‘You can.’

‘You’re being kind.’

‘I’m not.’ Actually I was, but if you can’t be kind to your friends it’s a poor do.

‘No, my bottom’s too big and my legs are too short. Plus I need trousers with an elasticated waist.’

‘Stomachs are a design fault,’ I commiserated, when she looked down at her rounded tum.

‘And some are faultier than others,’ Jenny said ruefully. ‘Will you have a coffee and a sandwich? A smoked salmon sandwich? I was just about to make one for myself.’

‘Yes, please.’

It wasn’t by chance I’d called in at lunchtime. I had done so many times before and Jenny had always produced something far more appetising than Pot Noodles or the door-step cheddar cheese baps sold by the baker.

‘William loves smoked salmon, so I often buy some for the weekend,’ she said, shunting me through to her granite work-topped, stainless steel-applianced kitchen, ‘but he didn’t appear. Couldn’t spare the time. Remember I told you he was thinking of moving from his bed-sit to live with Becci in her flat? Well, that’s what he was doing.’ She looked pained. Jenny doesn’t approve of people having ‘partners’ and ‘living in sin’, so for her son to go down that route is a major disappointment and worry. ‘The only good thing is that the flat has a washing machine and tumble-dryer, so William will no longer arrive here carrying a huge load of dirty laundry.’

‘Which will make it easier for when you start work,’ I said, though I doubted the lad handling his own washing and ironing would last for long.

Following his father’s example, William is not big on the domestic front. And Becci, his girlfriend with attitude, is not the type to do his washing for him. Jen lives in perpetual fear of the girl and when I met her, at one of Jenny and Bruce’s dinners, she scared me half to death, too. A trainee solicitor, Becci burns with contrary opinions. She’ll argue about everything from the judicial system, to the merit of lip gloss over lipstick, to which English county has the most woodland. I’d said Surrey, whereas she proclaimed it was West Sussex. For definite. I checked later and I was right, though, if we should meet again, I doubt I’ll pluck up the courage to tell her.

‘How did the interview go?’ I asked.

Jenny switched on the coffee machine. ‘Not well.’

I had guessed it hadn’t. I knew that if she’d been offered the post of Personal Assistant – the latest term for secretary – with a local housebuilding firm, she would’ve telephoned me straight away to share the good news.

‘What happened?’ I said.

It was her third interview and she had told me about the others. How the jargon had had her floundering. How the emphasis had seemed to be on ‘delving into her psyche’. How she’d been asked to talk about a matchstick for two minutes.

‘I was one of six applicants and we’d been summoned
en masse.
’ She took a multi-grain loaf from the breadbin. ‘I was the oldest, by far, and the pair who interviewed us – Mandy, who was Head of Human Resources, and Damian, the Team Leader – seemed so aware of my advancing years that I don’t know why they’d ever asked me to attend. Damian remarked on my not having been in paid employment since the late Seventies, which was before he was born. Made me want to reach for my Zimmer frame!’

‘Perhaps they were frightened of being criticised as ‘ageist’ and sued, so you were the token oldie,’ I suggested, only half joking.

‘Could be. Before I started attending interviews, I wasn’t particularly conscious of my age and I didn’t consider fifty-three to be decrepit. I’d read that being in your fifties is fashionable, because it’s our generation that has the spending money. And sixty is said to be the new forty, which makes us only thirty-something. But now I’m beginning to feel as if I’ve been around since Moses was a lad.’ Jenny pulled a face. ‘Anyhow, Mandy explained that after everyone’d been seen we should wait, then she and Damian would confer and announce their choice.’

‘Sounds like taking part in
Pop Idol.
’

She smiled, buttering the bread. ‘It was. The company operate a policy of all-week dressing down and Damian, who had that gelled spiky hair, was in a polo shirt and chinos, so he looked like someone from
Pop Idol
. Though a kid contestant, not a judge. I’m getting the hang of the lingo,’ she went on, ‘so I was able to trot out which packages I have. But they were keen on ‘people skills’ and ‘communication skills’.

‘Which are simple common sense.’

‘Exactly. When I last applied for jobs, the main concern was shorthand and typing speeds, but these days they throw such oddball questions. Like ‘what are you most proud of in your life?’

‘To which you replied?’

‘My children. Yes, the minute I’d said it I knew they’d been looking for something sexier,’ she said, when I raised my brows.

‘Such as going hang-gliding off Mount Everest or the time you’d arm-wrestled an alligator and won.’

‘Similar.’ She was laying slices of smoked salmon on the bread. ‘They gave the job to a foul-mouthed girl in her twenties, who was wearing a skin-tight dress with one bare shoulder. And Mandy’s comment to me as I left was that I hadn’t been ‘sufficiently pro-active’.’

‘So at the next interview you’ll go topless, scatter f-words like confetti and tell them about your days in the SAS?’

‘You’d better believe it.’

‘Are there any more interviews in the offing?’ I asked, as we sat down at the table. A neatly set table, with linen placemats and napkins and milk in a jug.

‘No, but I’ve posted off three more applications so keep your fingers crossed. And if you should happen across Bruce, remember that everything’s hush-hush.’

‘It is?’ I spoke through a mouthful of sandwich. I was starving. ‘Why?’

‘Because now if I mention finding a job, he gets annoyed. He says he earns more than enough to keep us in considerable comfort, so what’s the point. But he’s missing the point. Although I’ve always been happy at home I feel as if I’ve spent my entire life being someone’s wife or someone’s mum and now –’ she sighed ‘– I want to be myself and do my own thing. To earn my own money and have a measure of independence.’

‘So you go for it, gal!’

‘I shall, but I’ve decided to say nothing more about attending any interviews. I’ll wait until I’m successful and hit him with it as a
fait accompli,
he’ll be pleased for me then.’

Would he? Bruce has always run the show. Not in any domineering manner – he’s an amiable guy – but he’s the boss. And can be a touch lordly. Most of the time Jenny agrees with whatever he wants or suggests, though if she doesn’t she doesn’t argue. She lets him have his own way. I’m sure the reason he’s opposed to her working is because, although he would never admit it, he believes that having a wife who stays at home and whom he supports imparts extra status. Being the sole breadwinner makes him king of the midden. Like my dad, Bruce also expects to be waited on hand and foot. Which he is. Jenny even packs his suitcase when he goes away, then gets chastised if he doesn’t have the particular colour of shirt he wanted.

It was Bruce who landed Jenny with the charity shop sessions. One of his colleagues, now retired, had a wife who was active in cancer – shops, fairs, appeals – and the man had spoken of how desperate they were for help. Seems the average age of volunteers is seventy and charities have great trouble finding replacements because so many younger women work. Bruce had offered Jenny’s services. He had offered without consulting her, which is typical. And she had uncomplainingly agreed, which, again, is typical.

‘How’re you getting along with your new boss?’ Jenny enquired, as we ate.

‘We’re co-existing, just, but the man’s a control freak. He insists on giving me orders, which I do not appreciate.’

‘You won’t. You’ve been a free agent for so long. But shouldn’t an editor give his reporters orders?’

‘Not when the reporter in question could teach him a thing or two!’

‘Any sign of him becoming disaffected with working at
The Siren
?’

‘Not yet, but it’s early days.’

‘
He has to be better for the paper than Eric.’

I made a face. ‘That’s what Lynn says.’

‘How is she?’

‘Fine. Grumbling about Justin watching too much footie on the box, but she’ll get over it.’