It’s Now or Never

by Carole Matthews

  Zak threw her bag in the back and slipped into the driver’s seat.

  ‘I’m a rubbish navigator,’ Lauren warned him.

  ‘This old car knows her own way there. Sit back, relax, enjoy the in-flight movie. We’ll be there before you know it.’

  ‘I can’t thank you enough for this,’ Lauren said earnestly.

  ‘It’s not entirely altruistic. A break won’t do me any harm either.’ Zak slid the car into gear and pulled out into the traffic.

  ‘This is going to be great,’ Lauren said with a happy sigh. ‘I can’t wait.’

  And neither of them saw Jude standing on the other side of the road, watching them.

  Chapter 87

  Greg drives me to Chelsea’s house in Woburn. Or country pile, should I say. The tyres of our knacky old car crunch on the gravel – my sister probably has a man in to rake it every day – heralding our arrival.

  I’m still struggling out of the car with my crutches when Chelsea appears at the front door. Her hanging baskets are blooming effusively and, unlike me, she clearly doesn’t forget to water hers. Chelsea, as a person, exudes perfection and her home is merely an extension of that. I do wonder every single time I see her how we came to be related. Why couldn’t Lauren and I have inherited the loveliness gene too?

  Greg decides to stay in the car. He doesn’t really like either of my sisters that much – Lauren for one set of reasons, Chelsea for another. My husband, as you may have gathered, is far more comfortable with relationships with fish rather than people.

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ I say as I hop towards Chelsea. ‘Greg’s got to get back.’

  She knows that this is sister-speak for, ‘My husband is being an anti-social bastard again.’

  ‘I have some clothes sorted out for you. There’s not much,’ she says apologetically. ‘There was a Designer Rail Sale event at the Swan Restaurant recently which I was involved in and I had a major clear-out then.’

  I’m grateful for anything. This Sunday morning, I’m planning to do a car-boot sale. A hideous thought. But needs must.

  Then when I’ve hopped through to her vast hall and I’ve stopped focusing on simply staying upright, I look up at Chelsea. ‘Oh.’ I’m taken aback that there are dark shadows under her eyes. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Fine, fine.’ My sister waves away my concerns.

  My nephew and niece barrel out of the kitchen and into my legs with the cry of, ‘Aunty Annie!’

  ‘Mind you don’t knock me off my crutches, you two!’ That would be all I need, two broken legs as well. That would well and truly put paid to my Andean adventure. I kiss them both. ‘How’s my favourite nephew and niece?’

  ‘I passed my ballet exam yesterday,’ Sophia tells me, giving me an exemplary twirl.

  ‘Good girl. That’s lovely.’

  ‘I want to dance for the Ballet Rambert when I grow up.’

  And, if my sister has anything to do with it, then I’m sure she will.

  ‘And I want to be Harry Potter,’ Henry announces.

  And, if my sister has anything to do with it, then I’m sure he will too.

  ‘Come in and say hello to Rich while you’re here,’ Chelsea urges. ‘He’d love to see you.’

  ‘He’s at home? Now?’ My brother-in-law is one of those who go out to work at six o’clock in the morning and is never home before nine o’clock every night.

  Chelsea nods towards the kitchen. I go in and, sure enough, Rich is sitting at the farmhouse-style table, a glass of whisky in his hand.

  ‘Bit early for that?’ I joke. But no one laughs.

  As I hug my brother-in-law, I notice that the atmosphere between my sister and her husband is a bit strained. Again, I ask, ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Richard also waves away my question. ‘Never better.’

  He and Chelsea exchange a wary glance and I’m no psychic but I can tell that all is not well in the King household.

  ‘How are things with Lauren?’ my sister wants to know.

  ‘Oh, she’s doing all right.’ Though it was touch and go for a minute. ‘She’s gone away for a few days with a friend. To the Cotswolds.’

  ‘I could do with a bit of that myself,’ Chelsea says, and the accompanying laugh is tired. This is the first time I’ve ever heard her voice the fact that there might be a chink in her perfect life.

  Perhaps they’ve had a row. Goodness only knows, it’s normal in most marriages. Just not Chelsea’s.

  Guiltily, I glance out of the window at our car. We’re hardly the picture of marital harmony. Predictably, Greg is drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘I’d better go.’

  I was going to raise the matter of the bounced cheque again, but decide that this isn’t the right time.

  ‘I’ll help you carry the bags,’ Chelsea offers.

  I follow her back to the hall. The feeling of disquiet just won’t leave me. ‘Sure everything’s fine?’

  ‘Tickety-boo,’ she says. But her smile is tight.

  She picks up the two carriers and I notice that the contents are rather more meagre than I’d hoped. Still, I’m grateful that Chelsea has even bothered, and my sister’s cast-offs will be a million times better than anything I can drag out of my wardrobe. She carries the clothes out to the car, and Greg gets out and kisses her briefly on the cheek. Then Chelsea put the bags in the boot.

  ‘Call me,’ I say to her. ‘Let me know if there’s anything that you need.’

  ‘I will,’ she promises. ‘I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.’

  But now I am worried, and I don’t know why.

  Chapter 88

  Lauren and Zak exited London at warp speed. At least, it felt like it. In truth, it was probably more like sixty miles an hour in Zak’s old car. They headed up the M40, skirted round Oxford and then wound their way slowly into the heart of the Cotswolds.

  Coldplay serenaded them on the journey and Lauren relaxed back into her seat, watching as the narrow streets of mellow stone houses replaced the motorways. She was sure they’d been to this part of the world as children with Annie and Chelsea, maybe for a family holiday. She’d have to ask Annie, as her sister was always better at hanging on to memories of that kind of stuff. If they had been here before, Lauren didn’t remember it being quite so pretty or so soothing to the soul. Perhaps she just hadn’t been stressed enough to appreciate it way back then.

  A while later, they arrived at the small village of Mickleton, just beyond the clutches of the main thrust of tourism in Broadway and Chipping Camden.

  Zak steered his car into a quiet lane by the old church and they trundled along the pot-holed lane, trying to miss the worst of the dips. At the end was a row of three tiny terraced cottages built in traditional golden Cotswold stone.

  ‘Left-hand one.’ Zak pointed at it. ‘Home Sweet Home.’

  ‘It’s beautiful. You can’t get rid of this!’

  He shrugged good-naturedly.

  In front of the houses was a shallow stream, and each of the houses was reached by an individual stone bridge just wide enough for one person. The front door was painted white, and a rambling pink clematis wound its way round the frame.

  ‘It’s more homely than glamorous,’ Zak warned. ‘But it has all mod cons.’

  He hoisted the bags out of the car and set off across the bridge to open up the cottage. Lauren followed, gazing wistfully at the scenery. Behind the houses it looked as if there was nothing but open fields, nothing to spoil the view.

  Inside, the ceilings were low, beamed. In the living room was a comfortable-looking sofa and a plump armchair by the fireside. The fireplace and chimney were of plain brick and housed a wood-burning stove that looked much-used. The stripped floorboards were partially covered by a colourful rug that co-ordinated with the soft blue upholstery of the chairs.

  Through to the kitchen, which was small but had clearly been recently refitted with Shaker-style units. A bright conservatory had been grafted on to the bac
k of the house, and in there was a small pine table that would seat four and another squishy sofa. Lauren wandered out in the garden, which was long and narrow and remarkably well maintained.

  ‘The man in the next cottage looks after it for me,’ Zak said as he came outside too, as if reading her thoughts. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without him. His wife airs the place and makes up the beds when I’m coming here too. All I have to do is phone them in advance.’

  The garden was well stocked with pretty flower borders. By the conservatory was a small patio which held two chairs. There was a shed near the bottom which looked as if it had been newly painted in a soft green colour. In the field beyond, a few sheep wandered aimlessly, plucking at the grass. Birds tweeted happily.

  ‘Idyllic,’ Lauren said, hugging herself.

  ‘Think this will give you some space to breathe?’

  ‘It was a wonderful idea to come up here. Thank you.’

  ‘It’s nice to have company. You can’t really have a romantic weekend here on your own.’ Then Zak tutted at himself. ‘Not that I’m suggesting . . . that wasn’t why I brought you here . . . Oh damn – you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lauren laughed. ‘I do.’

  ‘There are two bedrooms and a small bathroom upstairs,’ Zak told her. ‘I’ll put your bag in the front room.’

  ‘That sounds great.’

  ‘You might not think so come Sunday morning. I warn you now that the vicar does like to ring the church bells very early.’

  ‘Clearly has no consideration for the stressed townies up here for some R and R.’

  ‘Strange country folk with their strange country ways.’ Zak laughed. ‘You settle yourself in. When I’ve whipped the bags upstairs, then I’ll make us some tea.’

  As he disappeared inside again, Lauren lowered herself into one of the garden chairs with a contented sigh. This was the life. Being here was like being in another world. The sun was warm, but not too hot, a gentle breeze taking the edge from it.

  She switched on her mobile phone. Missed calls – twenty-two. All from Jude. Lauren switched it off again. And that, she thought, would be the very last time she looked at her phone while she was here.

  Chapter 89

  Ellen has split up with her boyfriend. As far as I know, she hasn’t cried. She doesn’t seem overly bothered at all, even though she’s been with him for a long time. Another product of the easy-come, easy-go society.

  Instead, she seems to be hell-bent on finding another boyfriend. Tonight.

  ‘You can’t go out looking like that,’ I gasp, horrified.

  As well as being horrified at Ellen’s outfit, I’m also horrified that I’m saying the same thing to her that my mother used to say to me – the same thing that I vowed never to say to my daughter.

  ‘Shut up, Mum.’ Even now, at the ripe old age of twenty, Ellen sometimes reverts to the stroppy fourteen year old she used to be.

  I have accosted her in the kitchen just as she was about to go out. ‘Please, love. Look at yourself in the mirror.’

  ‘I’m cool,’ she whines. ‘Leave me alone.’

  The difference between me and my own mother is that I have a valid point. Whereas my mother did not.

  Frankly, my child looks like she’s on the game. Her top is little more than a bra and her ample bosom, not inherited from her mother I might add, is spilling out of it. Her skirt is what would have been called a pussy pelmet in the 1960s. It sits low, low, low on her hips and, at the other end, barely skims her bottom. It is hardly worth wearing. I have belts that are wider. How old does that make me sound?

  ‘Greg,’ I entreat. ‘Say something.’

  My husband looks up at my daughter. ‘Do as your mother says,’ is his token effort. Then he returns to studying Angling Weekly, but I see him give a secret shudder.

  ‘You were the one dressed as a Bunny Girl last week.’ Ellen’s hands are on her hips. ‘At least I’m not doing it for money.’

  But you could be, I think. You so easily could be.

  ‘She has a point,’ Greg chips in, looking up from his magazine.

  Who asked you? I think. But instead say nothing. This is one argument that I know I have lost.

  I turn to my son. My last hope. Bobby shrugs. ‘Everyone dresses like that now.’

  ‘Then everyone should have better taste,’ I tell him.

  ‘Whatever,’ Ellen mumbles.

  ‘Besides, what I was doing was for charity,’ I announce loftily to the back of the stalls.

  ‘And that makes a difference?’

  ‘It makes a world of difference.’

  Ellen snorts.

  ‘I’m trying to do something with my dull little life. I’m trying to be a role model.’

  More snorting.

  ‘I’ll be late,’ she says, which is the equivalent of ‘fat chance’.

  ‘I just wish . . .’

  ‘Everyone’s hanging on me,’ my daughter says, cutting me off in mid-flow. ‘Don’t wait up. And don’t pull the bedroom curtain back when you hear the taxi.’

  I stand guilty as accused. I don’t want to worry about them both, but I do. Constantly. They’re both adults – even though they never, ever behave like it. They should live their own lives as they see fit. I just don’t want them doing it in my house.

  ‘Give us a lift, bro,’ Ellen cajoles.

  ‘No worries,’ Bobby says, and picks up his car keys.

  Ellen flounces out of the room.

  ‘Keep an eye on her, Bobs,’ I beg.

  ‘As if,’ my son says with a hopeless shrug. ‘Laters.’

  The back door slams and my stomach tenses as I hear Bobby’s old banger roar up the road.

  ‘Why don’t they want to do marvellous things with their lives?’ I complain as I stomp up and down the kitchen on my crutches. ‘Why are they happy to settle for mediocrity? Why do they have no ambition for themselves? Why do we not expect more from them?’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘Then why are they happy to do nothing but drink and go to nightclubs in unsuitable clothing?’

  ‘Perhaps it makes them happy,’ my husband suggests.

  Greg could at this point remind me that I got my injury by drinking whilst dressed in an unsuitable manner. But he doesn’t. I’m sure if he’d thought of it then he would.

  ‘Then it shouldn’t make them happy,’ I retort in full rant mode. ‘It should make them miserable. They shouldn’t be content with dead-end partners, dead-end jobs and dead-end lives. They should want to . . . fly!’

  My husband looks at me as if I’m mad. Which, perhaps, I am. ‘Stop trying to make them discontent.’

  ‘I’m trying to make them ambitious.’

  ‘It’s the same thing.’

  ‘Okay then, maybe a bit of discontentment is necessary to get people off their backsides and achieve something with their lives. When did you ever see a content person rule the world? Does the person who is happy to sit on the riverbank of life ever scale the dizzy heights of Everest?’

  ‘That sounds like it came from one of those fortune cookies that the Hong Kong Garden give away.’

  ‘I’m trying to think more deeply about my life.’

  ‘That’s fine, but don’t expect the rest of us to do it. We’re not all like you.’

  ‘Well, you should be.’

  ‘If you’re such a great role model, what were you doing getting blind drunk and falling off a ladder just the other week?’ He looks pointedly at my cast.

  Ah. He hasn’t forgotten that, after all.

  ‘That was a one-off,’ I mutter, wind gone somewhat out of my sails. ‘I don’t do it every weekend.’

  ‘And neither do your children.’

  But they do. ‘Don’t you want more for them? Don’t you want more for yourself?’

  ‘I’m going to get my tackle ready for tomorrow.’ Greg shuts his Angling Weekly, causing a disgruntled draught, and with that he bangs out of the room.

  The discussion, it seem
s, is closed.

  Chapter 90

  Lauren spent the rest of the afternoon dozing on and off in a garden chair, enjoying the warmth of the gentle sun on her face.

  Zak pottered about inside the cottage and, occasionally, brought her out a drink of orange juice or a welcome cup of tea. It was a very pleasant way to while away the remains of the day. They’d be going frantic at the office without her, but that was the least of her worries now.

  If it was finally over with Jude – and this time she really wanted to stick to her guns – then a new job and a new place to live would have to be her top priorities. She saw Zak coming out into the garden again and smiled at him. But she wasn’t going to dwell on her impending homeless and jobless status now.

  ‘I’ve booked dinner at a local hotel tonight, if that’s okay,’ her friend said as he sat down next to her.

  Lauren was surprised to find that she was hungry again. But then, it had been a long time since her chicken soup earlier today.

  ‘We only have to stroll down the road.’

  ‘Sounds perfect.’

  ‘I thought we could go and have a drink first.’

  ‘Even better.’

  ‘Then you go and freshen up while I take up deckchair duty.’ Zak closed his eyes and settled into his garden chair.

  It was nice for someone else to take charge of her life as her brain was too exhausted to think. She looked at his face while his eyes were closed. He was a very handsome man, there was no doubt about that. Had she noticed that before? Really noticed it?

  ‘What?’ he said, opening one eye.

  Lauren smiled. ‘I’m just thinking that you’re a very nice man.’

  ‘I’m a complete bastard, actually,’ Zak informed her. ‘This is a carefully constructed façade that could shatter at any moment.’

  ‘I bet you’re kind to small children and furry animals too.’

  ‘Nah,’ Zak said. ‘Eat them for breakfast.’

  ‘And here was me thinking you liked nothing more than a bit of toast.’

  ‘Shows just how easily you’re fooled,’ he teased. He closed his eyes again.

  Zak might only be joking, but it was true. She had been fooled by the man in her life. For years.