The Runaway Wife: A laugh out loud feel good novel about second chances

by Dee MacDonald

  ‘He’s a retired chartered accountant, Jeannie. He’s reliable, methodical, a pillar of society. He’s done absolutely nothing to upset me. I think my problems – my doubts, my demons – are all in my head. I seem to have lost myself somewhere along the line.’

  ‘Well, at least you’re doing something about it. There are so many bored, restless women out there just getting on with it. But I read recently that some women – and men too – are beginning to rebel. “Silver singles” or something, I believe they’re called.’

  Connie sighed. ‘Lately, since I retired from my floristry business, I seem to be withering away; I just feel invisible. And I don’t even know if I love Roger any more. He thinks I have too little to do and should join things – the golf club, the WI, things like that. He’s probably right, he usually is. He’s very sensible.’

  ‘This Roger of yours is plainly trying to compartmentalise you into a bog standard, jam-making lady, and I can see you’re not at all like that. Was he ever exciting?’

  ‘Not exciting, no. But he loved me in his own way, and we had four children. I really didn’t have the time or inclination to analyse our marriage. Now I have both.’

  Over spaghetti carbonara and a bottle of the wine Connie had stocked up on in Kendal, she told Jeannie about the death of her parents, about being bundled off to live with Uncle Bill and Aunt Lorna. Uncle Bill, her mother’s brother, spent most of his time in the oil business in Nigeria. Connie had known, even at five years old, that she was there on sufferance and never felt much loved except when her uncle came home, which wasn’t often. She’d got on reasonably well with her cousins, the youngest of whom, Linda, was her own age and with whom she still kept in touch fairly regularly. She described her escape at sixteen to train in floristry, followed by her stint as a tour guide – and then Roger coming along.

  ‘“A good catch”, everyone said approvingly, and then, before I knew what I was doing, I was three months pregnant and there we were shivering in an unheated registry office one icy January day. But, enough about me,’ Connie concluded. ‘Right now I’m still more concerned with the fact that your money’s been stolen.’

  Jeannie shrugged and sighed. ‘I won’t pretend it’s not a blow because I depend on my state pension – there were no company pensions in my line of work. And I don’t have any savings because they all went on buying this flat, but I’ll manage.’

  Connie noticed that Jeannie picked at her food, but ate very little. And, on closer inspection she could see that the entire flat was slightly shabby, the carpet threadbare in places, a typical example of slightly faded grandeur. The furniture was old, and it was entirely due to Jeannie’s innate sense of style that it gave the impression of opulence.

  The mahogany table had been draped in an ancient, yellowing lace cloth, with silver cutlery and crystal wine glasses, along with a beautiful antique Crown Derby bowl containing the salad. ‘It belonged to my mother,’ Jeannie explained. ‘I do like nice things, don’t you?’

  Afterwards, when she’d helped Jeannie clear up, Connie said, ‘I really should go and not put you to any trouble.’

  ‘Go? Go where?’ Jeannie asked. ‘You’ll be done for drink-driving, my dear. Oh no, you are spending the night here. We’ve already decided that. I only have the one bedroom, but I can make up a bed for you on the sofa, if you wouldn’t mind that.’

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t mind that. And I have my Miracle bedding in my car, which should do the job nicely and save you too much bother. Now, tell me more about your dancing.’

  Jeannie’s sofa was comfortable, but not quite long enough. The Miracle was warm and light, and Connie slept well but woke with a crick in her neck. She wondered if she’d have been more comfortable on the sleeping mat that Brian had persuaded her to buy.

  As they sat down to coffee and toast for breakfast Jeannie said, ‘The thing is, you get used to being solitary. It’s one of the reasons I never married. Some people are better on their own than with others and I wonder if you, too, aren’t like that. Perhaps, when you were living with your uncle’s family, you constructed an invisible wall around yourself?’

  Connie nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, you’re right, I think I might have done. And yet it seems crazy to class myself as a loner when I’ve been married all these years with a family.’

  ‘Well, they say you can feel very alone even when you’re surrounded by people, and maybe you need to be on your own again now, to take stock. Don’t give up on your marriage, Connie, but don’t rush back either. Somewhere along the way you’ll decide what you should do with the rest of your life – or perhaps the decision will be made for you. Believe me, I have a strong feeling about it. It’s important to be on neutral territory and it’s important to follow your instinct. Promise me you’ll keep in touch and let me know what you decide?’

  ‘I promise,’ said Connie.

  Later, while Connie was preparing to take her leave, and Jeannie was showering, she dug into her bag and found a sheet of paper on which she wrote, ‘You’ve helped me so much, Jeannie. Please accept this for my bed and breakfast at one of the most delightful places I’ve stayed in!’ She then folded two twenty-pound notes into the piece of paper and wedged it under the bowl of red roses on the table for her hostess to find later.

  Jeannie found the note and the money when she sat down at the table at one o’clock, to tackle a bowl of soup, which she probably wouldn’t finish. How kind Connie was! But there’s a sense of sadness around her, Jeannie thought, and I hope she can find that part of herself that she’s lost because she deserves to be complete and properly happy.

  She thought about Paul again. All so long ago now, of course. Their affair had lasted twenty-four years, a well-known ‘secret’. She kept his photo by her bedside. She’d be joining him soon. The surgeon couldn’t be sure how long she’d got. ‘Could be weeks, months,’ he said, after she’d refused the last lot of treatment. Well, she’d had a good innings and there wasn’t much to live for now.

  ‘Wow!’ Connie had said when she’d been shown round the little flat and had seen Paul’s photo. ‘Wasn’t he handsome! Oh, Jeannie!’

  And Connie had hugged her; a lovely, spontaneous gesture. What a nice woman she was, Jeannie thought, and so deserving of some passion in her life; memories to hold onto during the grey years ahead. You’ll need your memories then, Connie, she thought, so get them before it’s too late! And it was so kind of her to leave that money. It wasn’t as if she was a rich person; she just couldn’t be with that old car, and a sleeping bag in the boot. But I’ve got her mobile number so I must thank her, and I do so need that money. Thank you, Connie, thank you.

  That night Jeannie dreamt of Paul again. There she was, on that now famous stone seat in front of the Taj Mahal, having strayed from the rest of her group. No sign of them anywhere and she wondered briefly where they might all have gone. Well, they’d have a good idea where to find her, since everyone posed here when they come to the Taj.

  She was suddenly aware of someone sitting beside her. She cast a sidelong glance, recognising his elegant feet, his long legs and lean body and those dark, smouldering eyes that were studying her intently. She stretched out her hand to take his, but he’d disappeared again. And she’d so wanted to hold him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  CLOSE CONNECTIONS

  Connie found her way to the docklands in spite of the fact that Jeannie’s instructions were somewhat vague, but at least she was able to work out in which direction she should be heading. It might, perhaps, help to have a more detailed map of the area, an Ordnance Survey or something and, with this thought in mind, she parked in front of what appeared to be a newsagent-cum-post-office-cum-general store. Connie found no detailed maps and so decided to ask the girl at the counter if she had any idea where Boxwood Close might have been. She was relieved there was no queue but the girl, unfortunately, had never heard of Boxwood Close. However, the little old man with the rheumy eyes and the bicycle clips behind her had. He
nudged her to one side to allow the rapidly forming queue to proceed.

  ‘Don’t think it’s there any more, pet,’ he said, stroking his stubbly chin. ‘Thirty years or so back they took down all them old terraces, y’know, and built all them flats and things. But Boxwood was only a few streets away from me mam’s when we were little so I can tell ye where it should be. Now, the best thing you could do would be to head for Cypress Avenue and have a walk down there because Boxwood would have been a turning off that.’

  ‘Is that near here?’ Connie asked.

  ‘Not far at all. Just take a left out of here, down to the traffic lights and turn right. Down to the roundabout, or is it another traffic light? Can’t rightly say, I’m on me bike y’see. No. I tell a lie, it’s definitely a roundabout. So, you take the third turning off the roundabout. The second roundabout. No, wait a minute, it would be the third roundabout…’

  ‘Thanks so much,’ Connie said. ‘And now I’ve lost you your place in the queue.’ And all sense of direction, she thought.

  ‘Doesn’t matter, dear, I’m in no hurry.’ And with that he shuffled back to the end of what was now a long line.

  What a gentleman, she thought, as she got back to Kermit and tried to make head or tail of his directions. She was relieved to hear Cypress Avenue wasn’t too far away and, in her usual fashion – and by now thoroughly confused, having gone the wrong way down a one-way street and found none of the roundabouts he mentioned – found it entirely by accident. It was tree-lined and quite grand, and she couldn’t for the life of her imagine terraced houses around here.

  Connie pulled in opposite an imposing white Georgian-type structure with a shiny black door adorned with bay trees in little boxes on either side. Decidedly posh. It was then that she felt the bump from behind; someone had hit Kermit!

  Connie leapt out to find herself face to face with a tall, very handsome Asian gentleman emerging from a sleek black Jaguar.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve just hit your bumper.’

  Connie bent down to study the collection of dents on Kermit’s rear bumper.

  ‘Well, I did feel a little jolt,’ she said, ‘but I couldn’t tell you which of these dents, if any, it might have made.’

  ‘I definitely hit it,’ the man said. ‘And I can only apologise as this car is quite new, and considerably longer than my previous one. And I realise now I was trying to drive into far too tight a space. Luckily for me I don’t seem to have done any damage to mine.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, please.’

  ‘But I do worry! And I must give you my card.’ With that he withdrew a card from the inner pocket of his immaculate, expensively cut grey suit. ‘If there’s any problem at all with your car you must contact me straight away.’

  ‘Well, OK, just in case…’

  ‘In the meantime, please come across to my office and have a cup of coffee to recover.’

  ‘No, really, I’m OK—’

  ‘I insist. Anyway, I need to give you the details of my insurance, just in case…’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Rav Mukherjee. Please call me Rav.’

  ‘Connie McColl.’

  ‘Well, Connie McColl, now you come with me, please.’

  Ignoring her protestations, he guided her across the road towards the black shiny door and the bay trees, where a gleaming brass plaque announced ‘The September Lodge Clinic’. She glanced down at the card he’d given her. He was plainly a doctor of some kind, his name followed by a long line of initials, none of which meant a thing to Connie. Might he be a gynaecologist, or a heart specialist, or what? Looking at his offices, he was the real deal for sure. But whatever he was he sure as hell wasn’t NHS, she thought, as she was ushered into a sumptuous reception area with deep-pile beige carpeting and lots of tall, exotic, potted plants. The receptionist (or could she be a nurse? – no, on second thoughts, she definitely couldn’t) was caramel-skinned, blonde and beige-clad – completely colour-coordinated with her surroundings. She bared a row of perfect teeth as they approached.

  ‘Have a seat for a few minutes while I make some calls. And then Arabella will show you up to my office,’ he said.

  Connie sat down on a pale grey chair underneath the branches of some tall, silvery-leafed plant, feeling hot, bothered and completely out of place in her old jeans and T-shirt. The coffee table groaned beneath the weight of a ton of glossy magazines, which Connie noted were all up-to-date as well. No six-month-old Hello!s round here.

  Whatever this man was, he must charge a fortune to afford a set-up like this. And a top-of-the-range Jaguar. And expensive suits. And Arabella.

  Mr Mukherjee was talking with a client, said Arabella, but he wouldn’t be long. Not a patient, a client. At this point a stunning-looking woman came in and spoke to the receptionist in dulcet tones before sitting herself down opposite. She bestowed a small, tight-lipped smile at Connie before immersing herself in Vogue. Connie, feeling scruffier by the minute, was tempted to sneak out of the door, but at least she was beginning to have a good idea what this doctor did for a living.

  ‘Mrs McColl?’

  Connie jumped.

  ‘So sorry to have kept you waiting. Do come up to my office.’ He glanced across at the Vogue lady. ‘Oh, good morning, Mrs Middleton! Honey will see to you shortly. Just the usual, is it?’ There was a ‘Honey’ as well!

  He turned to Connie. ‘This way.’

  With his hand beneath her elbow, he shepherded her up a flight of stairs and into his office, which was very large and very white, adorned with framed certificates which Connie strained to read, but couldn’t manage without her glasses.

  ‘Please sit down and I’ll order some coffee. What do you prefer: espresso, latte, cappuccino?’

  ‘No, thank you. Really. I’m fine.’

  ‘If you’re sure? I have never hit another car before, Connie. May I call you Connie? I am horrified with myself. Now, let me have your address. Where do you live? Sussex! That’s a long way from here. Are you in Newcastle on business?’

  ‘Er, no. I’m on my way to try to find the street where my father was born, and then on to see some friends in Scotland. Just passing through. Would you know a Boxwood Close?’

  ‘I think there’s a Boxwood something-or-other round the corner. I’ll show you in a minute.’

  ‘So, I’m guessing you might be a plastic surgeon, Rav?’ She studied his well- manicured, capable hands.

  He leaned across the table. ‘Well, dermatology’s always been my thing. I’m fascinated by skin, Connie, it’s the first thing I notice.’

  ‘Oh, interesting,’ said Connie, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. What was he going to say next?

  ‘As long as there are women wanting to sweep away the years, there’s plenty of work for me.’ He laughed. ‘Do you know what the worst thing about this job is? It’s the panic on women’s faces when I tell them what I do, and they think I’m sussing them out as prospective customers.’

  ‘Is there panic on my face then?’ Connie asked. Dear Lord, what must I look like?

  ‘Not too much. You look fine. You’ve got a nice friendly face, just a few sun blemishes, which most fair-skinned ladies of your generation have. You weren’t very savvy about sun protection back then, were you?’

  ‘That’s true. And surely your wrinkles are part of your personality,’ said Connie. ‘I certainly wouldn’t want a stiff Botoxed face, or whatever it is you use. I want to be able to laugh.’ She wondered if Mrs Middleton ever dared to laugh.

  And, she thought, I want to laugh a lot more, because I’m learning to – and bugger the wrinkles.

  ‘I’ve written my insurance details on here.’ Rav tore off and handed her a sheet from his memo pad. ‘Now, where did you say you were going?’

  ‘After I’ve looked for Boxwood Close I’m heading for Edinburgh.’

  ‘But are you quite sure I haven’t damaged your car? Let me escort you across the road so I can be reassured that it’s OK.’

  In
the reception area Mrs Middleton had disappeared and Arabella was engaged in deep conversation with a stick-thin woman wearing enormous sunglasses. Connie could only catch a smidgen of their conversation. ‘The swelling will go down, Mrs De Vere, I promise.’

  Outside Rav said, ‘I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Connie. Can I interest you in a quick spray-tan before you go? I’m sure Honey could fit you in.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Connie replied. ‘I’m hoping to get the real thing.’

  Rav raised one eyebrow. ‘In Edinburgh?’

  ‘Well, it seems to be a good summer all over the country. But I’m going to have a wander round Newcastle first in the hope of finding Boxwood Close.’

  ‘OK, try taking that first left along there.’ He pointed down the road. ‘And are you sure this will get you all the way to Edinburgh?’ He patted the roof.

  ‘It’s got me all the way from Sussex, so I’m certain it will.’

  ‘Any problems with the car, Connie, you get in touch.’

  She smiled to herself as she headed along Cypress Avenue. Who were women like Mrs Middleton trying to impress? She looked as fake as the buildings Connie was now passing. Endless neo-Georgian architecture and blocks of stylish low-rise flats (every one of them with plastic windows!) fronted with greenery-filled balconies. The whole area had plainly been gentrified beyond recognition. When she reached the turning Rav had indicated, her heart leapt. St Egbert’s Way! St Egbert’s, of course, had been the name of the church at the end of Boxwood Close. Relieved to see a name she recognised, she proceeded down St Egbert’s Way, which was narrower than the avenue by far, and also full of mock-Georgian residences and smart cars. And silence. No kids playing around here, unlike the last time she visited, forty-five years ago. She walked on – and then she saw it: the little church with the wonky spire. And the tiny graveyard. It was still there and, as far as she could remember, looked exactly the same, only dwarfed by the larger buildings. She reckoned Boxwood Close would have been just a few yards further on, to the left, and then she saw the sign: ‘BOXWOOD MEWS – RESIDENTS ONLY’.