Dave Holgate had turned out to be huge mistake. She’d plumped for him for a change. A change from the steady and long-term succession of upper class twits and rich, Impressive On Paper city boys she had selected and then discarded – for being commitment-phobes, or freaks, or crashing bores, or arrogant sods, or cheats, or already married, or all of the above. She had thought a more down-to-earth man like Dave – a man not quite so Good On Paper – could give her what she wanted. Adoration, a good laugh and, perhaps, commitment; God knows no one else had come up with it.
Dave was cheeky, happy-go-lucky. He spoke estuary English, he talked about blokes not chaps, geezers not guys, unlike her posher consorts. He liked pie and mash and liquor, pints of lager, a night out at the dogs. Okay, he wasn’t as rich as the others, but, as she’d found to her cost, money wasn’t everything, right? She made a decent wage. And Dave had a very decent job halfway up a very ambitious ladder in the world of maritime insurance.
When she’d met him, at a bar in Spitalfields, she had viewed laugh-a-minute Dave as a work in progress. He wasn’t her usual impressive, finished article; he was someone who seemed impressed by her. He said he was lucky to have met her. Said she was different. Feisty, funny, classy. And she’d liked him, before he’d revealed his irritating true colours on that sixth date. (In hindsight, she wondered, did he have a rule? Six dates and it all hangs out?) He’d relaxed, got comfortable, too comfortable. He began referring to women as ‘birds’. Stroking his stomach as though it were a puppy. Eating with his mouth open. Her heart had sunk as swiftly as his decorum had deserted him.
For Paris’s sake, she’d valiantly tried to pretend the true colours weren’t shining through. She’d tried to ignore the fact that he was absolutely terrible in bed. When he’d laughed her into it that first month, he’d seemed quite good (although she was really drunk) but subsequent encounters had proved highly unsatisfying. Imogen had to do all the work, she had to go on top, he’d eaten too much, his ‘belly’ was hurting, could she shift over to the left a bit…?
The awful truth was that he was as far from her perfect man as you could get. She knew that even if he was the marrying kind, any proposal from him would be highly indecent and wholly unwelcome.
Only her good friends knew it, but Imogen wanted to get married. To everyone else, she put on a pretty good act of thinking it was all a load of rubbish, this marriage lark – she was ballsy, she was career driven, she took no nonsense or prisoners – but she wanted it. She wanted The Day, the years, the life; she wanted to be someone’s wife. When it finally happened, she would surprise everyone who didn’t know her as well and say she was trying marriage out as a giddy experiment, that if she made it to seven years like Madonna and Guy Ritchie it would be something. That it was a hoot, a mad adventure. But deep down she took it all quite seriously. That’s what this succession of no-hopers had all been about. Her end game was for one of these men to turn out to be amazing. Amazing enough to be her perfect husband.
One of these days, one of her Good on Papers would come up with all the goods.
Dave, less Good on Paper and pretty dreadful everywhere else, was never going to be that amazing guy. Imogen should have known it. She laughed to herself bitterly that she ever thought he was remotely marriage material, that she went to dinner after dinner with him hoping he’d magically become someone else.
If he had acted strangely protective over his bags or had anxiously patted his jacket pocket, as though checking something was there, at the start of the many amazing meals they’d had in Paris, she would have had a blue fit. The man was repugnant.
Three hours after she’d silent-screamed on the balcony, Imogen was on the Eurostar, sitting across from a slumbering Dave who was soporific from carbs and several hot chocolates with squirty cream and marshmallows. His eyes were firmly shut, greasy eyelids twitching slightly; hers were fully open. She not only saw the wood for the trees, she saw the entire forest and it was desolate and scrappy.
She’d had it. Men were a waste of time. Useless, hopeless, feckless disappointments, every one of them. She didn’t want to get married! What was she thinking? Why be saddled with one of the losers? She had a good life, a good job and good friends. It wasn’t like she even believed in love. Or wanted it. Love had happened to her once – just the once – and she had come out of it very, very badly. Love was not for her.
She didn’t even want to go out with any of these no-hopers any more. She was dumping Dave as soon as they stepped foot back on English soil and he’d put his last fast-food wrapper in the bin. And then she was swearing off men. For good.
Chapter Two: Frankie
Frankie’s silent scream was made at the sink, after another unappreciated Sunday roast. Three and a half hours it had taken her. Three and a half hours! Roast beef, roast potatoes, six – six! – different types of veg because the fussy so-and-sos all liked different things, Yorkshire puds, stuffing and gravy. The whole bloody works. For her family to wolf it down in five minutes without a word of praise or thanks; abandon all their plates amongst cutlery scattered like dropped straws; and push back their chairs, leaving them all out from the table like boats in a flotilla.
She was left sitting alone at the kitchen table, as usual, unhappily polishing off all the roast potatoes because she’d damn well cooked them and they were really nice, not that that any of those ungrateful sods had the consideration to tell her so. Well, her three-year-old had grinned whilst eating one, before she’d taken it out of her mouth with her hand and gleefully mushed it onto the table. It was a kind of appreciation, Frankie supposed.
From the rest of those ingrates there had not been one expression of thanks, not one murmur or slight hint that anything was remotely delicious, or even just passable. Or even edible. Although they did eat it. Some of them. Some of it. Not enough. Not enough for the slaving she’d done.
Her cheeks were bright red from the oven, her hair had frizzed up from the vapour off the vegetable pans; she had an exclamation mark of gravy on her white, straining T-shirt.
As Frankie scraped four whole starving children in Africa’s meals into the stinky pedal bin and clattered the dirty plates into the sink, her silent scream spiralled upwards like steam from a boiling kettle.
Last night Frankie had run away for the night to the local GetAway Lodge. An out-of-the-blue, unprecedented, solo flight away from the house and the husband and the four children. A long-overdue escape.
She’d been dreaming of it for months. Every now and then, in that house, she had imagined what it would be like to just take off to the local budget hotel, on her own, for a night of solitude. For a single night away from it all. She’d had that GetAway room in her mind’s eye like a beacon in the dark. She’d craved it. She could see it. She could almost smell it. Clean, sterile. A navy blue headboard and a single, solitary scatter cushion. An inexplicable strip of shiny material running near the bottom of the bed. A dark brown wooden unit housing a television. A black and silver kettle. A small wicker basket containing packets of not-very-nice biscuits and diddy milk cartons and sachets of sugar and sweeteners: these meagre offerings would have to be supplemented with a carrier bag of chocolate and treats from the nearby service station.
There would be a bathroom that smelt of bleach and had three toilet rolls, one on the holder and a tower of two on the floor, on a silver stick thing. A single wardrobe with hangers that couldn’t be wrenched from the rail. A rough, thin dark blue carpet.
She would add magazines, a book and silence. Bliss. Peace and quiet. No one to talk to. No one to talk to her. No one to bother her. More than just ‘me’ time. Way more. Time to save herself.
Yesterday, she’d finally gone. She’d fled to The GetAway Lodge on reaching the end of an extremely frayed tether that had been fraying for years.
It had been just after three on Saturday afternoon and Frankie had been upstairs considering whether to tidy the children’s bedrooms or not. They were all absolute tips and if she tidied they w
ould only be absolute tips again in a couple of days. What was the point? She’d decided not to bother. On her way down she’d noticed an open screwdriver set on the hall floor and was coming to tell her husband, Rob, off about it. She found her family in the sitting room and had stood in the doorway, surveying the scene.
The carpet had been used as a litter bin. All her carefully (long ago, when she thought it had remotely mattered) chosen sofa cushions had been thrown all over the place; one was even balancing on top of the television, which was blaring way too loudly. Children were draped on the sofas and the floor, all eating something they shouldn’t. One was meandering around with a piece of French bread in her hand, dropping crumbs on the carpet like an errant Gretel from Hansel and Gretel. There was lots of annoying larking about. Noise. Mess. Chaos. Downright disregard.
The meandering child kicked a small yellow football (long since banned) against the radiator. It made a jarring, reverberating thwack and a wedding photo in a silver frame, sitting on a small shelf above, wobbled then fell with a heavy plonk face down on the carpet. It was a wonder it hadn’t smashed. Nobody moved to pick it up. The kids carried on screeching and larking about. Rob lay on the sofa watching Deadly Sixty and let a second Mars Bar wrapper fall from his outstretched arm onto the carpet.
It was nothing out of the ordinary. It was a scene that was pretty commonplace in that household. But Frankie had suddenly pictured herself standing in exactly the same spot five years from then. Ten years from then. Standing in the doorway, with everyone bigger (including Rob, probably, if he carried on eating all that chocolate) but absolutely nothing changed. Chaos, disorder, disregard. Nothing would ever change, would it?
‘Would anyone notice or care if I just left you all to it?’ she’d said.
There was silence.
‘If I just walked out and didn’t come back?’
Still silence.
Something crunched within Frankie. A switch that had been threatening to be pressed clunked down with a thump. She’d had enough. She turned and slowly walked back upstairs, like a robot.
It had all ground to a halt. Her enthusiasm for family life. Her energy for any of it. Her cooking mojo had been worn down to a nub. It had disappeared on a wave of non-appreciation and apathy. She didn’t want to iron another work shirt. She didn’t want to pick up another cowpat of compressed jeans and pants that Rob simply stepped out of before getting into bed. She didn’t want to look for another missing item whilst a shouting man stomped round the house. She didn’t want to load or unload another dishwasher. Or put anything else in the bin. Or answer any more questions. She loved them all so much – well, Rob, not so much, let’s be honest here – but they were driving her mad.
If she ever got time to do a full day of housework and get the house pristine, there were five brilliantly effective saboteurs who could trash all her good work in seconds. There really was no point. And she had a few stock laments that she trotted out almost daily to completely deaf ears: ‘Why is there cheese all over the floor?’, ‘Why does no one, no one, hang up the bath mat but me!’ and, ‘For the love of God, can’t you, just once, put things away!’
No one had explained it properly. No one had spelled it out to her. She’d had this ridiculous, fuzzy vision of marriage and babies when she was younger: a sweet-smelling, talcum-powder-dusted oasis of flowers and baby bubble bath and sunny days and holding hands with her husband while her beautiful children ran fresh-cheeked through a meadow. No one had spelled it out to her that marriage and babies actually meant years and years of drudgery.
And, most devastatingly, giving up any semblance of your life. The life you had before.
She was done.
Except she could never be done. This was not a job she could resign from. She had to stay here for ever. In that house. With that husband. With those children…
She had to get out.
Now.
Or she would go stark, staring insane.
Frankie went into her bedroom, silently packed a small overnight bag, and walked out of the house. She was shaking but determined. She was going.
The GetAway Lodge was five miles away. As she’d driven there, ‘Young Hearts Run Free’ had come on the radio and tears had clichéd down her cheeks. She was a lost and lonely wife. Well, not lonely. The opposite of lonely. She was surrounded by loads of the buggers. But lost, for sure. Self-preservation. That’s what needed to go on today. GetAway Lodge, GetAway Lodge, GetAway Lodge. She was coming. It had been a bright light, an oasis, a little piece of heaven in the distance.
She’d gone, breathless, to reception and asked for a room for the night. The girl there had looked at her in a funny way. Was it because Frankie’s surname was Smith? Frankie had almost laughed. Was this young girl – clearly hung-over and looking like she had hastily slapped Saturday’s make-up on top of Friday night’s – expecting some swarthy fella to suddenly appear from behind the potted plant, in a jaunty necktie? With a lascivious look. And dubious shoes.
‘Just you?’ the girl had said, her over-drawn eyebrows twitching and vodka breath distilling over in Frankie’s direction.
‘Yes, it’s just me.’
After checking in, Frankie had walked to the neighbouring petrol station and bought four magazines, three bags of Minstrels, a Galaxy, a Boost and a large bag of salt and vinegar Kettle Chips. Then she’d returned to her lovely room, and ate and watched telly until midnight. Unhindered. Uninterrupted. Unbothered. She’d replied, I’m fine, to each and every one of several texts from Rob, once she’d told him where she was. He shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d threatened it often enough. His texts had started off angry, then worried, then resigned. He obviously thought she was just having an episode. She could visualise him, on the sofa at home, trying and failing to work out when she’d had her last period, before returning to his television and snacks.
I’ll be back tomorrow, was the final text she’d sent, at about midnight, before she’d turned out the light and snuggled down, alone, under the white cotton sheet and the limited comfort of the dodgy striped comforter. The thought of being back had filled her with dread, but for those rapidly passing hours of bliss, she was free.
Frankie had arrived home at ten this morning and it was like she’d never been away. Actually, it was worse than if she’d never been away. She had let herself quietly in the front door. Shoes had littered the hall. A child’s padded jacket had been flung on the second stair up. A congealing, pink plastic cup of milk had been randomly placed on a windowsill.
She’d walked into the kitchen. There had been remains of a Saturday night takeaway strewn all over the table, an empty styrofoam burger box open on the floor like a Muppet’s mouth, an almost-empty bottle of lemonade on its side on the worktop, a sticky dribble coming from it and dripping down the under-counter fridge. Cupboard doors and drawers were gaping; there was a sink full of dishes and empty tins filled with water, and an overflowing bin. For God’s sake!
‘Rob!’
Silence. There had just been the slight rustle of the white plastic bag the takeaway had come in, left redundant on the table and flicking in the chilly January breeze coming through the wide open back door.
‘Rob!’
‘In the garden!’
They had all been out there. Rob, in his bright red fleece and Timberlands and, despite the weather, those bloody shorts she detested, the ones with the tar stains on the knees. Harry and Josh, duelling with cricket bats. They duelled with anything these days: light sabres, plastic pirate swords, and if it came to it, rolling pins and tubes of tin foil and cling film. At least they were doing it in the garden; they usually fenced at the top of the stairs when she was trying to come down with a massive basket of laundry. Tilly was doing cartwheels on the wet grass in double denim, and three-year-old Alice was plomped on her bottom on the overgrown lawn (where was the waterproof-backed picnic blanket?) and noshing on a very unseasonal choc ice. Half of it appeared to have exploded over her face, and all th
e children looked overexcited and under-dressed.
‘Mummy!’ Tilly had hollered, mid-wheel, and Alice had run over to Frankie and wiped her chocolatey cheeks on her mother’s leg. Frankie hugged Alice, waved ‘hello’ at the other children then retreated back to the kitchen, where she’d started tidying up. Within ten minutes, Harry had come into the kitchen for something and ended up telling her she was ruining everything, as always (she had dared ask him if he had finished his science project for school tomorrow) and Rob had stormed into the kitchen demanding to know where his phone was.
‘How the hell should I know?’ said Frankie, swiping at a ketchup splodge on the table with a sodden yellow sponge.
‘It’s been moved,’ growled Rob, ominously and incorrectly, and he marched off upstairs, huffing about ‘turning this place upside down until I find it.’
‘Oh, bog off!’ Frankie had mumbled, under her breath, then felt her spirit die a little as she remembered she’d promised them a big Sunday roast this weekend.
She’d only just got back, but she wanted out again.
Frankie gave a deep sigh as she peeled a Brussels sprout off the floor with one hand and scraped a strand of frizzy hair off her face with the other. The blissful night at the GetAway Lodge was becoming a distant memory. As soon as she’d stepped through the door and seen those littered shoes and the congealing cup of milk, the wife and motherhood juggernaut had started its engine and it was now rumbling again at full, reluctant pelt as she cleared up the aftermath of the roast dinner. She scraped more dishes in the bin, wiped the table, put the table mats away, swept the kitchen floor, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. She still wanted out. She wanted her P45. She’d had enough.
Cloudy with a Chance of Love Page 26