‘Hi, darling,’ Jude said.
She wanted to block her ears.
‘He has? When was this? How is he? Let me speak to him.’ He turned to Lauren, his handsome face concerned, his hand covering his phone as he whispered, ‘Benjy’s come home from school feeling unwell.’
His voice softened as he spoke to his ten-year-old son. ‘Hi, Ben,’ he said. ‘Mummy said you’ve got a temperature. Did you go to the nurse at school?’
Lauren zoned out while the private conversation continued. This was part of being in love with a family man, she told herself. These things happened.
‘Put me back on to Mummy.’ He mouthed to Lauren, ‘Sorry.’ She filled her glass again and knocked it back. ‘I think you should take him down to the walk-in centre,’ Jude advised. ‘He sounded very listless.’
Then more at the other end from Georgia.
Jude stood up and paced to the other side of the room. ‘Don’t cry, darling. I know you’re worried. I’m worried too.’ He glanced anxiously at Lauren. ‘I’ll come back right now. Straight away – I promise. Give me an hour, maybe a bit longer.’ He hung up.
Lauren sighed. She finished her champagne and got up from the bed. ‘I’ll get dressed,’ she said.
Chapter 31
The mood at work is so exciting. There’s a real buzz about the place and everyone is talking nonstop about Peru. I wish the same could be said about my home.
The atmosphere here is so tense that you could cut it with a knife. Even a very blunt one. It’s fair to say that my husband does not share my enthusiasm for the exotic delights that South America might have to offer.
However, that’s where I’m going, whether Greg likes it or not. I’ve got my sponsorship forms in hand and that’s what I’m going to do next. Lauren is coming up tonight to see me for a couple of hours and I want to make a start on my fundraising before she gets here.
Greg is stomping about, looking very unhappy. He had nothing to say – well, not very much and certainly nothing encouraging – when I told him that I had made my decision and that I was, indeed, going to Peru. When I told him that I was also going to raise the necessary money all by myself, he snorted and disappeared into the garage to do whatever he does with his fishing tackle. I haven’t seen him since.
I leave my travel guide and my itinerary overtly displayed on the kitchen table. If by chance he pops back in and picks them up, then he might find that he’s interested after all. And, he could, if he makes a reasonably quick decision, still change his mind and come along with me.
Ellen wanders in as I’m putting my shoes on. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this, Mum. It’s not like you.’
‘That’s what your father says.’
‘He probably thinks you’ve cracked.’
I take Ellen’s hand as she passes and pull her to me. ‘I’ve loved being a mum,’ I say, ‘but you two don’t need me any more. Now it’s time for me to do something for me.’
‘Don’t women of your age normally take up Pilates or join a book club or something? I don’t know many of my friends’ mums who go trogging up the Andes.’
‘Doesn’t that make you even a bit proud of me?’
‘I just think you’re completely barking,’ my daughter reassures me.
‘Ellen, I want you to do something wonderful with your life,’ I tell her with a sigh.
‘I wouldn’t know what to do.’
‘The world is literally your oyster,’ I point out. ‘You’re a bright girl. You could go back to college, study to do something exciting or worthwhile.’
She shrugs. ‘I like working in Monsoon.’
‘I want more for you,’ I say. ‘I wish you wanted more for yourself.’
Another shrug. ‘I want a cuppa,’ she jokes. ‘Do you?’
‘No, thanks. I’m going out to start my fundraising. I need to raise at least two thousand pounds to pay for my place.’
‘Two grand? And you’ve got to pay? I’d need someone to pay me to go. You’re bonkers.’
‘Thanks for your support.’ I slip on my jacket.
‘You’re giving Dad a lot of grief over this, you know,’ she says. ‘He thinks you’ll be applying to go on Big Brother next.’
‘I might well do,’ I tell Ellen. ‘Or I could audition for X-Factor. What a good idea. My version of Chaka Khan’s “I’m Every Woman” is unique.’
And then, leaving my daughter with a gaping mouth, I flounce out.
Chapter 32
I start with my next-door neighbour, Pat.
‘I’m going to Peru,’ I say. ‘Doing the Inca Trail for the Dream Days charity. Would you perhaps like to sponsor me?’
‘Greg told Terry about this.’ She flicks her thumb towards her husband indoors as she throws back her head and guffaws. ‘Are you mad, girl?’
I feel my lips tighten and I hope it looks like a smile. ‘I thought it would be a fun way to raise money for a good cause.’
‘Fun?’ My neighbour snorts at that. ‘I’ll sponsor you,’ she says. ‘Too right I will.’ And she writes down a pound on the form.
A pound? Her expression tells me that she thinks she’s Rockefeller’s daughter for stumping up that much.
‘Thanks,’ I say. Pat closes the door and, muttering, I head for the next house.
‘Peru?’ Mr Manley says. ‘You can’t drink the water there.’
‘Possibly not.’
‘Definitely not.’
‘Would you like to sponsor me?’
He huffs at that, clearly not enamoured at this unexpected request for expenditure, and looks at what else is on the form. As Pat has written a pound, so does he.
Next house. ‘Why would I want to pay for you to go to Peru?’
‘It’s not actually for me, it’s for the Dream Days charity.’
‘And how much money does the charity get out of this lot?’
‘Er,’ I say. ‘I’m not exactly sure.’
Sighing. ‘Put me down for a pound.’
It seems that none of my neighbours in Goldstone Road are high-rollers as I spend the next hour working my way along the road in a very depressing manner. By the time I’ve visited twenty houses, I’ve received fifteen pounds in pledges, four people didn’t come to the door even though I know that they’re in, and one person slammed the door in my face without even offering me a measly pound for my efforts. They won’t get a Christmas card this year.
It’s accurate to say that my soul has been destroyed. I decide to give up for the night and trudge home. I’m slightly alarmed that this makes me breathless and our road is as flat as the proverbial pancake. How am I going to tackle the Andes puffing like this?
By the time I get back home, my confidence has departed and Lauren has arrived.
My sister’s sitting at the kitchen table with my darling daughter, and a bottle of wine is open. I kiss her when I come in and Ellen slopes off – presumably before I try to tell her how to run her life again.
Lauren pours me a glass of wine. ‘You look knackered.’
I flop into the chair next to her with a heartfelt huff. ‘Fifteen quid,’ I say. ‘It’s taken me a whole hour to raise a measly fifteen quid. Times are clearly hard in Goldstone Road. I’m never going to get my money at this rate.’
‘Early days,’ Lauren reassures me. ‘I’ll get you some cash from Jude. In fact, the way he’s just treated me, I’ll ask him for double.’
‘Is he being difficult?’
‘He’s being married,’ she sighs.
‘Oh, Lauren.’
‘Never mind that now.’ She waves away my concern. ‘Chelsea will be ridiculously generous to make up for the fact that she’s incredibly wealthy and we’re povs. And I’ll give you a hundred quid even though I’m skint.’
‘Thanks.’ Tears come to my eyes.
‘No crying,’ Lauren admonishes. ‘What’s that for?’
‘I don’t know if I’m up to this. Now that I’ve said I’ll go, I’m really frightened.’
&nbs
p; ‘You’ll raise your money. You’ll go. You’ll be fine.’
‘Greg’s not happy.’
‘Hard lines,’ is Lauren’s verdict. ‘He shouldn’t be such a boring old fart.’
Greg is standing at the door.
‘Sorry, Brother-in-law,’ Lauren says with an embarrassed giggle. She gets up to hug him.
Greg glowers at me over her shoulder.
‘You should go with her.’ Lauren digs my husband in the ribs. ‘Have a laugh, a bit of excitement in your twilight years. What harm would it do?’
My husband has no answer to that. But the hurt in his eyes makes me want to curl up and die.
Chapter 33
Greg liked to start with maggots. Always. Three on the hook, cast out. Then he’d catapult some more maggots on to the surface of the water around the same area. Fish had very short memories and would feed constantly. Perch preferred a red maggot. White for bream.
If he hadn’t had a bite in half an hour, he’d change his bait. Perhaps go for a cocktail – a worm and a piece of sweetcorn. If that didn’t work, then he might change to what Ray was using if his friend was being more successful. Ray always had the widest range of bait with him – boilies, hemp, cat meat, dog biscuits, floaters in a stunning variety of bizarre flavours, such as tutti-frutti and strawberry split, pellets, groats, bog standard bread, breadflake and magic bread.
If a shark had wandered, unsuspecting, through the Grand Union Canal, Ray would have had something to hand to tempt it with.
‘Where have all our fishy little friends naffed off to today?’ Ray asked, exasperated. ‘We’ll have to move in a minute, matey, otherwise I’ll be getting some dynamite out of my box to blow the buggers out of the water!’
Greg looked over to his friend. ‘Do you think I’m a boring old fart?’
‘No, no, no,’ Ray said. ‘You like what you like. That’s a quality to be admired.’
He thought so too. Greg was a creature of habit, that was for sure. He liked his food plain. He liked his tea from the same mug. He liked the same toothpaste. He liked a certain regularity of mealtimes. But did that, per se, make him boring? Was old-fashioned steadiness a virtue that was currently overlooked?
How would Annie cope if, after all these years, he suddenly changed overnight into a person she didn’t recognise? Suddenly decided he didn’t like fishing? Suddenly started eating curries or staying out late? Began dressing like one of those daft forty-year-old blokes who wear teenagers’ clothes? Maybe got a tattoo?
But he was no more likely to do that than he was to . . . well, to suddenly announce that he was going to Peru.
Greg had always steered a steady course and it had served him well. He didn’t see any reason now to turn away from it.
At work, he’d watched some of the managers who came and went through his office. They wanted to do nothing but trample over everyone else on their fight to the top. And for what? A few extra pounds in their pockets, a bigger motor in the drive, a house that cost an arm and a leg to run that they never saw?
He’d never wanted to be like that, and if it meant that money was a bit tight, did that really matter, at the end of the day? They didn’t go hungry, their kids had never been barefoot. Okay, Ellen and Bobby didn’t always have the latest computer games or the trendiest trainers, but they’d had a good, solid family upbringing with two parents around who cared for them and their tea on the table at the same time every night. That’s more than could be said for most kids.
Greg had never put his work first. He’d never thought to chase after any of the secretaries who had given him the eye. He’d only ever thought of Annie, Ellen and Bobby. If they were happy, he was happy.
Now it seemed that Annie wasn’t happy and he had no idea what to do about it.
Chapter 34
I take my trainers and tracksuit into work. Then sit and stress all day. Exercising will be fun. Won’t it? I could do with losing a few pounds anyway. Plus I want to be powering up the hills with the rest of the young things in the Party Party expedition and not lagging behind at the back.
At five-thirty there is a steady trickle of people departing, all wearing their jogging gear. They look undeniably keen. And undeniably better than I do in a Lycra ensemble. I nip to the ladies’ loo, slip into my ratty old stuff and, heavy of heart, drive the couple of miles to Furzton Lake for our running rendezvous.
In the car park by the large leisure lake, the team are assembling. I can’t say that I’ve ever exercised in public before and I’m not that enthusiastic about starting now. Blake Chadwick is summoning everyone together, so I get out of my car and go to join them, trying a little half-run as I do. Good grief, that’s unpleasant.
‘Hi, Sexy,’ BC says to me as I approach.
I try to pretend I’m not panting and gasp out a, ‘Hi.’
‘Ready for this?’
Not so that you’d notice.
‘Okay, team,’ he shouts in a particularly encouraging way. ‘Let’s do this!’ And he sets off at breakneck pace, jogging around the lake.
I love this part of Milton Keynes. The sun’s sparkling on the expanse of water, herons glide gracefully through the air, a throng of ducks, coots and Canada Geese shadow our progress. The lake is bordered on two sides by a luxury housing development and I’d like to live here, sitting out on my balcony with a beautiful view of the water and of hyperventilating receptionists trying to get fit.
We’re not a quarter of the way round and, already, I wonder why I’m doing this. My heart is banging against my chest so hard that I think it might burst out. Everything feels like it’s jiggling too much and I realise that I should have bought an industrial-strength sports bra. Everyone else shoots ahead, but Minny stays back, jogging along with me. This is the first time I’ve seen her without her high heels. She’s a tiny little thing, very pretty, very young, very girly.
‘I’m really pleased that you’re coming with us,’ she says as we run along together.
‘Thanks,’ I manage to pant. ‘That’s nice.’
‘We all are,’ she continues. ‘We think it’s great that you’re doing something like this at your age.’
Not quite so nice. I’m only thirty-nine, but maybe I do seem like the Old Woman of the Sea to these bright young things.
A moment later, Blake drops back to join us. ‘How are you doing, girls?’
‘Okay.’ Minny picks up her step and I do likewise.
‘One lap of the lake or two?’ BC asks.
‘One,’ Minny says. ‘I’m going out.’
‘Undoing all this hard work?’
‘If I’m lucky,’ she teases.
‘Angie?’
‘Annie,’ I puff. ‘I’ll try two.’ If I haven’t had a heart-attack by then.
‘Good girl.’ Then Blake sprints to the front again.
‘He’s well fit,’ Minny says approvingly, and I couldn’t possibly disagree with her.
Chapter 35
By the time we start the second lap, I am beyond pain. My face is glowing like the setting sun. Everything hurts. All of it. I can’t even be specific.
I don’t notice until we start running again, but it seems to be just Blake Chadwick and my good self. Everyone else has faded away into the car park, even my companion, Minny.
‘Just the two of us,’ Blake says, noticing the absence of our colleagues at the same time as I do. ‘Lightweights.’
I laugh at that and we fall into step together. I might be imagining it, but I think he slows down to my pace. Well, put it this way, I’m damn sure that I’m not keeping up with him.
This may sound silly, but I think his easy style is helping me. I seem to pick up a rhythm that blocks out the pain and, this may be a shock, but I actually start to enjoy it. Well, that may be stretching it. I just don’t feel like I’m dying. Thankfully, BC doesn’t tempt fate by trying conversation as this might test my theory too far, but we jog along together quietly in pleasant harmony.
When we’ve finished our secon
d lap, I stand in the car park wheezing like a forty-a-day smoker.
‘Well done,’ Blake says, and I hold up a hand in thanks, talking still being a little tricky. He gets a towel out of his car and rubs himself down with it. ‘Fancy a celebratory drink?’
‘I couldn’t touch alcohol,’ I say. ‘I’d be flat on my back.’
‘We wouldn’t want that, Sexy,’ Blake says. One of his winks again. ‘I was thinking more along the lines of a cola or something.’
There’s a pub by the side of the lake – one of those big, impersonal family affairs with plastic food at credit-crunch prices. But there are benches and tables outside and, for some reason, a canal boat stranded afloat in a fake bit of canal which makes quite an attractive area.
‘Yes,’ I say without panting too much. What am I rushing home for, except to be met by stony silence? ‘That would be nice.’
We walk the hundred yards or so to the pub at a – mercifully – sedate pace.
‘Sit here,’ Blake says, as we reach a table by the narrowboat. ‘I’ll get the drinks.’
So I sit there fanning myself with a plastic menu, trying to cool down until my colleague returns with a glass of cola for me and a pint of orange juice for himself. We drink in silence as we look out over the lake.
‘Do you run here often?’ I ask.
He laughs. ‘Is that a pick-up line, Sexy?’
I feel myself colour up and, thankfully, Blake steps in to rescue me. ‘Yes, in fact I run here nearly every day – usually in the morning before I come to work. When you enjoy as much corporate hospitality as I do, you have to do something to keep in shape.’ He pats his washboard stomach fondly. ‘What about you?’
‘The only exercise I’ve had for the last twenty years is picking up dirty washing that my children have left on the floor.’ It was meant to be a joke but, for some reason, it makes my eyes prickle with tears.
‘What age are your kids?’
‘Ellen’s coming up twenty and Bobby’s just turned eighteen.’
‘You don’t look old enough to have kids that age.’
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