Vintage Babes (27 page)

‘And it works,’ Peter declared, smiling at her.

She patted his arm. ‘You flatterer!’

‘Time we were gone,’ I said.

Tina nodded. ‘See you both next Tuesday.’

‘See you,’ Jenny and I echoed, and we made our way out of the house.

‘You were right,’ Jenny said. ‘Peter does have tufts of white hair sprouting from his ears. Not a turn-on. Tina didn’t mean it when she talked about him as a possible future husband, did she?’

‘Who knows?’

Jenny frowned. ‘But he has a wife.’

‘I doubt Tina regards a wife as much of deterrent, unless, of course, she happens to be married to Joe Fernandez.’

‘Probably not.’

‘Are you losing weight because you’re still worrying about Bruce and the woman?’ I asked, as we approached our cars.

‘Goodness, no! I’ve no idea why I made such a fuss. I mean, thinking about it again, the whole thing was so innocent. And Bruce isn’t a two-timer.’ Jenny trilled out a laugh. ‘I’ve almost forgotten about it.’

I slung her an old-fashioned look. The truth was that, despite her promise of a week ago, when it came to confronting her husband she still hadn’t plucked up the courage. The incident wasn’t forgotten and, while she might deny it, she was still worrying – and allowing fate to weave its dubious course. Though I suppose you could also argue that by not challenging Bruce, she might be preserving her marriage.

‘You’re lying, Jennifer,’ I said.

She sighed. ‘You know me too well. Yes, I’m so wound up I don’t feel like eating, not even chocolate – which isn’t like me, at all. And yet common sense says there isn’t any reason to be wound  up or to fret. We  made  love last night and it  was –’

‘Spectacular?’ I suggested, when she hesitated, modestly lowering her gaze.

‘Satisfying. Having Victoria and Shane in the house makes both of us feel a little inhibited. But if I still appeal, if Bruce still wants to make love to me, then he can’t be interested in anyone else. Can he?’

‘Impossible,’ I said, providing the answer she needed to hear.

Though Tom had continued to partake in our sex life at the same time he had been sleeping with Kathryn. The frequency may have tapered a little, but I had not noticed any decrease in his passion.

Opening her car door, Jenny slung her bag inside. ‘Maybe I should find myself a boyfriend and have an affair. That’d teach him.’

I grinned. ‘What type of guy do you have in mind? Mean, moody and a millionaire? Bearded intellectual? Hard-bodied beach bum with –’

‘I mean it. Bruce is away on a business trip for the next couple of days, so –’ She tossed her newly blonde head. ‘– I think I’ll look around. Flutter my eyelashes, wiggle my hips and see what happens.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘I’m not.’

She wasn’t. She was straight-face serious.

‘That’s crazy,’ I protested.

Her weight loss and new look may have boosted her confidence, but in even thinking about a flirtation Jenny was going too far.

‘Why? I’ve only ever slept with one man. I’m missing out. I’m a freak. If a campaign was launched to discover whether there are any sad souls left in Britain who’ve only been shagged – unpleasant word – by just one person, I’d be a sure-fire winner.’

‘And bully for you! Jen, you have a good relationship with your husband and a good sex life – usually. That’s what every woman wants. It’s every woman’s dream. It’s what we all hope for. The universal desire. Sleeping with some bloke you hardly know is a waste of time. It’s also dangerous, demeaning and, in your case, would be horribly disloyal.’

‘But exciting.’

‘No! You mustn’t even consider it. You don’t know that Bruce has cheated on you and, even if he has, two wrongs don’t make a right,’ I said urgently.

She ignored me. ‘What’s happening with Lynn?’ she asked. ‘I assume she’s still with you?’

I sighed. Jenny was simply sounding off and – surely? – would have second thoughts. Sensible thoughts. She wasn’t the type to give men the come-on. She wouldn’t know how to start. Her talk of ‘looking around’ was baloney. Imagination running riot. A total pretence.

‘She is,’ I replied, ‘and she’s still refusing to sort things out with Justin. How’s Victoria?’

‘Heavier by at least ten pounds and never stops talking about what a wonderful time she had in Oz. Shane’s on the heavy side, too. And noisy.’ She grimaced. ‘They’ve been here three days and already I’m back to acting as a chauffeur, expected to run them all over the place.’ Her chin jutted. ‘I’m not going to do it. The worm has turned. Would you like to come and have dinner tomorrow evening, around seven-thirty? I won’t be cooking, I shall ring for a pizza.’

‘Yes, please.’

Beth opened the fridge and looked inside. ‘Please may I have that can of orange?’ she asked.

Lynn shook her head. ‘No. You had a fizzy drink this morning and, as you know, one a day is your ration. So please close the fridge.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m asking you to and because you’re letting warm air in.’

‘I want to let it in.’

‘The food will go mouldy.’

‘I want it to go mouldy.’

‘But I don’t, so please close the fridge.’

Long seconds ticked by; rebellious seconds, can’t make me seconds. Then, finally, the fridge door thudded shut.

‘Orange is stinky and –’ Beth stuck out her tongue ‘– you’re stinky.’

Lynn sighed. ‘That’s silly talk.’

It was cheeky talk. The fashion in these politically correct days may be to insist that children should never be physically disciplined or even told they are naughty – ‘you’ve made a bad choice’ is apparently the phrase to use – but I still believe there are times when a short sharp slap can work wonders. I’ve longed to administer one to kids in public who have answered back; brattish, brazen and obnoxious. Yet if I had, I could’ve ended up in prison and the excuse for the kids – tomorrow’s delinquents – would be that they were suffering from Attention Deficit Disorder.

I wasn’t advocating a slap for Beth – the little girl is going through a confusing time and you can’t blame her for acting up – but I considered Lynn could be firmer. Or perhaps it was just me, getting tetchy.

After less than two weeks of my guests being in residence I was, on occasion, becoming a trifle stressed. I didn’t like sharing the bathroom – someone either seemed to be always in there or wanting to come in – and the wonky loo was getting worse. Where before it had flushed one time out of two, now it required repeated attempts. I must, I reminded myself, contact a plumber and get it fixed. My wardrobes were also a problem; packed tight with clothes I usually kept in the spare room.

Yet there was a plus side. It was good to come home after work and be greeted. Good to be able to talk to someone about the events of the day. Good to know that if I should trip, fall headlong down the stairs and be knocked unconscious – a depths of the night scenario – there would be someone to hear me, rescue me and to care. Perhaps when Lynn and Beth go I should get myself a lodger? Or perhaps not.

My guests were showing signs of stress, too. Beth seemed to take a dislike to every last thing, which was unswervingly termed ‘stinky’, while her mother struggled to keep calm. Poor Lynn, she was trying so hard not to appear forlorn. And yet, as she had yet to meet Justin and discuss their troubles, this could be said to be her own fault.

At least they had spoken on the telephone. First he had rung her and then she had rung him, but apart from giving Beth an opportunity to chat with her daddy, both calls had been unproductive and, from Lynn’s terse account of them, bitter. She had told him he needed to attend a course of anger management classes. He had informed her that she was a darn sight too critical. Stalemate.

However, help was at hand. I had spoken to Tom at his office and he was driving out to Dursleigh on Saturday afternoon. If we could manage it, I wanted him to have a quick word with me first and be filled in more fully on the situation, then he would speak to Lynn and – I hoped and prayed – persuade her to consider a reconciliation. Lynn was not aware of her father’s forthcoming visit. I had reasoned that if she didn’t know, she wouldn’t have time to build up resistance to his persuasion.

The prospect of meeting Tom again was also raising my stress levels. I knew it shouldn’t bother me, knew I shouldn’t
let
it bother me, but it wasn’t so easy. I may have reclaimed my life and the wounds may be well and truly healed, but… Whenever I thought about him, I was aware of emotions – mixed emotions – sneakily erupting inside me.

‘Spaghetti. I hate spaghetti!’ Beth declared, eyeing the pan which her mother was stirring.

Because she doesn’t approve of pre-prepared meals – though she consumed plenty during her teenage years – Lynn was making dinner for her and Beth, while I ironed the top I would wear for going over to Jenny’s house later.

‘You like spaghetti,’ I said.

‘Spaghetti is stinky.’ Beth stuck a finger up her nose, took it out and inspected it. ‘Joeys are stinky, too.’

‘You are being disgusting,’ I said sharply. ‘Now wash your finger and don’t –’

‘Chill, Gran.’

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. The little girl’s tone and the look she gave me were just so world-weary, so cute. Putting down the iron, I washed her finger myself and then hugged her. If Lynn hadn’t been busy spooning spaghetti bolognaise onto plates, I would have hugged her, too. We may be a messed-up family, but we were still a family and I loved them both, so much. So very much.

After they had eaten, Lynn took Beth upstairs for her bath. Before she went, I kissed the little girl goodnight.

‘She says please can Gran go up and kiss her again,’ Lynn reported, when she returned to the living room where I was all set to depart. ‘Sorry, but she does seem rather keen.’

Upstairs, Beth was lying in the subdued glow of her nightlight. A curly-haired angel in a pale pink nightdress, cuddling her teddy. When she saw me, she smiled. ‘’Lo, Gran.’

I bent to kiss her forehead. ‘Hello, my darling.’

She wrapped her arms around my neck, so tight they almost hurt. ‘I love you. And I love my daddy. I want to go back home and live with my daddy,’ she said.

‘I know.’ I also knew that was why she had needed a second kiss, so she could tell me. Unwinding her arms, I sat down on the bed beside her. ‘You will do, soon.’

‘My daddy carries me around on his shoulders so I can touch the ceiling and he plays Snakes and Ladders.’ She giggled. ‘He isn’t very good. I always win.’ The giggles faded and, in one of those quicksilver changes which kids are so good at, her big brown eyes were bright with tears. ‘It’s my fault my mummy left my daddy. I was naughty, I spilled crisps all over the floor, salt and vinegar crisps, and –’

‘It isn’t your fault, Beth,’ I said. I had read of how children blamed themselves for family break-ups, yet never really believed it was true. ‘Mummy and Daddy falling out has nothing to do with you. Nothing at all.’

Her brow crinkled. ‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m sure. I’m positive. And everyone spills crisps sometimes. I once spilled crisps when I was out with some friends
and
I spilled my drink. It was a glass of wine, red wine, and I knocked it off the table and onto the floor. The glass broke and the wine splashed everywhere. Onto people’s clothes and even onto a cat.’

‘A cat?’ Beth said, round-eyed.

‘A black and white cat, only the wine made most of the white parts pink. When it got splashed, the cat miaowed and jumped up in the air in surprise. Then it licked some of the wine off the carpet, gave a big hiccup and fell fast asleep under a chair with a smile on its face.’