Vintage Babes (12 page)

I had rung my daughter back and been treated to another roiling complaint which, thankfully, had been cut short because Beth had been eager to tell me about a police lady on a horse who had visited her playgroup. The children had been allowed to pat the horse which had proceeded to produce a steaming mound of manure, causing much giggling hilarity.

‘Any mention of Lynn and Justin getting married?’ Jenny said hopefully. She asks this every few months, has asked it for years, but my answer is always the same.

‘None. Like you, I’d prefer them to marry, for Beth’s sake. And yet does a ceremony and a piece of paper really make that much difference?’

‘It makes a big difference,’ she declared. ‘Within five years of the birth of a child, fifty-two percent of co-habiting couples have broken up, compared with only eight per cent of married couples. Though eight per cent is bad enough. And it’s common knowledge that children from one-parent families – usually without a father around as a role model – can suffer all kinds of emotional, educational and social difficulties.’

I felt flattened. ‘Oh dear,’ I said.

Jenny is full of facts, often surprising facts. It’s the legacy of years of sitting at home and scrutinising
The Daily Mail
while she eats her lunch. She’s also good on trivia, the showbusiness kind. She can quote the exact heights of Tom Cruise, Hugh Grant and Rob Lowe – poor guys are surprisingly short – knows Donald Duck’s middle name – it’s Fauntleroy – and that Charlie Chaplin once came third in a Charlie Chaplin look-alike contest. Not that this information is of the slightest use, but it’s something she remembers. And she believes that if it is printed in the national press
,
it must be the copper-bottomed truth. Although I have advised her differently.

‘Patrick’s company has offered him a move to New York,’ she said, in such an abrupt change of subject that I guessed she’d been thinking about William and Becci having a child out of wedlock – and hated the idea. ‘It’d be a big promotion.’

‘Will he take it?’

Patrick works for an international bank and already earns a high salary. He’s loose-limbed and lanky, with the kind of floppy, pale brown hair which is usually seen on ponies. He was born a few months after my son and I’ve always had a soft spot for him.

‘Probably. Bruce thinks he should. So when Victoria goes to university in September we’ll be empty nesters with a vengeance,’ she said, and frowned, as if unsure about this prospect of new-found freedom.

‘Did you speak to Victoria at the weekend?’ I asked.

‘No, she didn’t ring, though she usually does. I hope she’s alright.’

‘She will be. She can look after herself.’

She could, too. Not in any degree her mother’s daughter, Victoria was tough, unafraid and sassy. Often cruelly sassy. On one occasion she’d told Jenny she had no neck, just a double chin, while on another she’d said she sounded like a barmaid out of
Coronation Street.
Poor Jen, the comments had really wounded.

‘I suppose so.’ There was a pause, then another change of subject. ‘Have you changed your mind about going out on a date with Russell? He’s obviously taken with you.’

Her conversational turns are always for a reason. Often to block out worrying thoughts. And chances were she was now imagining Victoria being kidnapped, raped or eaten by a shark. Like me, Jenny inevitably zeroes in on the worst possible scenario.

I shook my head. Although my New Year’s Eve dinner partner had rung a couple of times since to suggest we meet, I had made an excuse. ‘No, and I won’t. As you know, he doesn’t appeal. Last week I went to see a woman called Tina Kincaid,’ I said.

Now it was me who was changing the subject, but I didn’t relish another encouragement to think again about Russell because then, maybe, I’d experience a thunderclap which would weld us together, hearts, bodies and minds, for life.

‘Tina the fashionista,’ Jenny said. ‘She used to be a model, then appeared in a show on television. Her husband was buried last Tuesday.’

‘That’s right. I’m writing his obituary. I wasn’t aware Tina had modelled.’

‘She was one of the top girls of her day. On the cover of
Vogue
and in high demand.’

‘She could still model, she looks terrific.’

Jenny nodded. ‘I was in the charity shop when her husband’s funeral cortège went by and I saw her. You’d never think she’s almost sixty.’

‘That old?’ I protested.

‘We’re not exactly light years away from the big Six-O ourselves,’ Jenny said wryly, and poured cups of coffee. ‘Do you ever look at a picture of someone in the paper and think ‘grief, they’re ancient’, then discover you’re older than they are?’

‘Often.’

‘Me, too. There’s a theory that, as the decades progress, we all start to think we’re fifteen years less than our actual age, and I reckon it’s true. I find it hard to believe I’m in my fifties.’

‘Yes, fifties means staid and clapped-out and sexless, until you hit them yourself. Then –’ I shimmied my hips ‘– you realise fifties are vibrant with a capital V. How do you know how old Tina Kincaid is?’

‘Because I remember reading about her being five years younger than Joe Fernandez and he’s sixty-four. He was on television the other night, joking about the relevance of the Beatles’ song. At one time there were rumours about him and Tina Kincaid – Tina Sinclair, as was – getting married.’

‘I thought he already was married?’

‘He is, but it seems that when she joined his programme they began an affair. She’d recently been divorced from a husband who dealt in rare books, he was a highfalutin type, and Joe –’ Jenny indicated quotation marks ‘– ‘helped her to recover’.’

‘I never knew that,’ I said, though the comedian’s appearance at the wake took on a different slant.

‘They didn’t advertise their affair, but it lasted a good number of years and then, suddenly, it was over. His wife suffered from an illness, ME or MS or something, can’t remember, and the tale was that when it came to the crunch Joe couldn’t bring himself to desert her.’

‘Or didn’t fancy the bad publicity that deserting an ill wife might bring.’

‘Could be.’

‘Then Tina chanced across Duncan Kincaid and – hey presto!’

‘But was it by chance?’ Jenny said. ‘Or had she heard he had plenty of cash, knew he was a widower and recognised an opportunity? Seems she’d been living in Dursleigh for a while before they met, so –’

‘She had?’ I consider I’m well informed about the village, but I wasn’t aware Tina had resided locally prior to her marriage. Nor that Duncan Kincaid was her second husband. ‘How do you know all this?’

‘Eileen, who works in the charity shop, told me. Eileen never stops talking. If she’s not describing her and her husband’s latest health scare – she’s forever at the doctor’s with some complaint or other, while he, poor soul, suffers from erectile dysfunction –’

‘That must’ve been some description!’

Jenny grimaced. ‘It was – she’s recycling local gossip. She reckons there’s something iffy about Tina Kincaid’s background.’

‘Iffy?’

‘Eileen’s convinced she has something to hide. Seems that when Tina and Duncan got married no one from her family attended and there’s not been sight nor sound of a relative ever since.’

I recalled Giles Kincaid’s ‘white trash’ remark. ‘Eileen thinks Tina could’ve banished her family from the scene because they’re down-market?’

‘Down-market or they’re all mass murderers or nudists, she hasn’t a clue. She’s just a busybody who loves to create tittle-tattle.’

‘Tina told me her father died when she was little and her mother isn’t around now, either. And if she was an only child –’ I moved my shoulders.

‘It must be sad to grow up without a dad and I can’t imagine not having any family. True, my parents and sisters are up north, but we’re forever telephoning or popping up and down to see each other. Poor woman, all alone with no one to care what happens to her.’ Jenny gave a sympathetic sigh. ‘And you’re writing Duncan Kincaid’s obituary?’

‘It’ll be in the paper this week, so long as Tina produces the photograph of him which she promised. Produces it by the end of today.’ After the sandwich and coffee, a cigarette would have been perfect. I restrained myself. Jenny’s is a non-smoking household and although she’s never objected on the rare occasions when I have lit up – and doesn’t complain when I light up in my own home – I’m conscious that she would rather I didn’t. ‘How do you fancy working out and becoming lean and mean?’ I went on. ‘Tina Kincaid has a personal trainer whom she’d like to share. I’ve said I might go along and she asked if I knew anyone else who would be interested.’

‘So you immediately thought of me?’

I was about to say ‘yes’, then I realised that Jenny had bridled. It was alright for her to complain about being overweight, but she didn’t welcome acknowledgement from elsewhere. I remembered how once I’d suggested she try Weight Watchers and received a surprisingly frosty look.

‘No, no, I just wondered if it might seem like fun,’ I replied, acting so darn casual I almost slid off my chair. ‘Personal trainers are all the rage and your street cred would soar with Victoria if you had one, or a third of one.’ I told her the days and time. ‘How about it?’

‘Ever since New Year, Bruce has been using the gym at work,’ she said. ‘He’s lost nearly a stone and on Saturday he bought himself a sports jacket from Balmour’s.’

‘Gee whizz!’

Balmour’s is a gents’ outfitters which has recently moved into Dursleigh, replacing a butcher who could no longer compete with the nearby superstores. They sell clothes which carry designer labels and designer prices.

Jenny smiled. ‘He surprised me, too. I never thought he’d spend so much or be so trendy, but I must admit he looks good in the jacket.’

He would look good, especially slimmer. Bruce is boxy-shouldered and of medium height, with mid-brown hair greying at the temples. A slightly formal bloke of the ‘decent honest citizen’ variety.

‘You want to watch it,’ I said. ‘New jacket, working on the pecs, losing the love handles – it’s the giveaway sign.’

‘Of what?’

‘A cheating spouse. Of another woman, stupid!’ I expected her to laugh. She didn’t, she looked… anxious. But Bruce has never had a wandering eye, never been one for chatting up the girls, and Jenny told me that when Tom and I divorced he’d vowed he couldn’t have coped with the hassle, so she was ‘stuck with him for all eternity’. ‘Just kidding,’ I said.

Now she did laugh, though it was a synthetic laugh. ‘I’ve seen much fatter women than me wearing leather trousers,’ she announced. ‘One or two who must’ve been at least a size 20.’

‘You’re what – a 16?’

‘Right, and that’s the average size for women in the U.K. these days. Marilyn Monroe was a size 16 when she sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to President Kennedy. I ought to cut down on the calories, but I feel I’m failing in my duty if there aren’t home-made cakes and flapjack in the tin.’

‘Rubbish!’

It is years since I’ve baked, let alone made pastry, and now I wouldn’t know where to start.

‘And Bruce will buy me Belgian chocolates as a regular treat. The times fit in with my hours at the shop, so I will come with you to Tina Kincaid’s,’ Jenny decided. ‘But as soon as I get a job I’ll need to stop.’

I nodded. ‘Understood, old chum. Understood.’

Melanie wiggled her fingers in farewell. ‘See you tomorrow.’

‘See you,’ I replied.

It was dead on five. The girl may be sloppy in her grammar, punctuation and spelling, but she was meticulous when it came to clocking-off. She often cut it fine arriving in the mornings, too. Yet she professed an earnest desire to be a reporter on a national paper and talked enthusiastically of
The Siren
as ‘work experience’. The door clicked shut behind her, the thump of her clumpy shoes on the stairs receded and the general office fell silent. Tony had been sent off on a job by our new lord and master, and wouldn’t be back.