by Katy Lilley
Maisie was a bit hazy as to where Runcorn was, but she was as sure as hell it wasn’t near Wimbledon.
Stanley? Who had promised her ever after? With another woman? Maisie leaned on the nearest tree and caught her breath. What the hell? By the way they were entwined it was no casual meeting.
How long had that been going on? It didn’t appear that they’d just met by accident and got on like a house on fire in minutes, and it certainly was no avuncular or friendly embrace.
How long? Too bloody long. Is that what his, got to study, go to Runcorn, too tired, need my own bed to get some sleep, was all about? That’s it. She had no intention of listening to excuses or not. With hindsight there had been too many times when he’d finished a phone call in a hurry or made an excuse not to stop overnight. That was it, no excuses. Move on—or try to. Think of his bad points.
Do not bloody cry.
Not that easy. Maisie wiped her eyes—when had they started to leak—and blew her nose. She wouldn’t waste a tear on him. Or, she allowed honestly, would try not to.
Luckily, the pair hadn’t noticed her as she stood, stared and eventually walked on by. She fumbled in her pocket and got out her phone. Time to send a text to Stanley—her now ex-boyfriend. Evidently Stanley’s idea of exclusive and hers differed somewhat.
Thank goodness they’d never found their forever home after months of looking. He’d always had a reason why wherever they looked wasn’t ‘the one’. Now she guessed the real reason was about 5’7” with dyed blond hair and wearing a pelmet for a skirt. How stereotypical.
She composed her message.
If she called him a two-faced, fink rat, ball-less weasel, it was no more than he deserved. The fact her phone screen blurred on more than one occasion as she realised how she’d been duped spurred her on. The information she added, saying his car had been clamped, and that she’d accidentally found and lost his credit card, was totally untruthful and petty, but gave her oh so much satisfaction. As did the way she ignored his seven texts and three phone calls in the space of the following ten minutes.
Several other texts, each more frantic than the last were sent whilst she was teaching. Again, once she saw them Maisie ignored them. Let him stew. She had no idea where his credit card was, and it seemed neither did he. A typical reaction. Stanley was forever putting things in a safe place and forgetting where they were, which was why she’d thought it a good idea to write what she had. The last text from him which she’d received just as the bell rang to end the pupils school day was short and to the point. ‘You bloody liar.’
It took all of her resolution not to reply with it takes one to know one. She took the higher position and ignored it.
He must have found his card and noticed his car wasn’t clamped. Maisie told herself she wouldn’t be human if she hadn’t hoped it would take longer. It rankled he couldn’t be honest with her. Why not say, ‘oh by the way, I’ve met someone else,’ or even ‘Maisie, you bore me, and you’re crap in bed?’ That would sting, but if she were honest sex when it happened had become boring. She hoped it wasn’t her fault but then how did she know? She hadn’t had much to compare with it lately.
Honesty was high on her list of non-negotiable.
No doubt, the next thing would be a text saying it was all her fault he’d strayed. Dammit she’d block him and change the locks on her house. He said he’d put the set of keys she’d given him somewhere safe but couldn’t remember where. It might or might not be true, so a new lock was imperative either way.
Could she get a new heart as easily?
Grow a pair. Would I want him back now? Oh no, so get over it already. Half an hour is long enough to indulge in self-pity. But it wasn’t, not really. One and a quarter seconds wallow per month of a relationship was nowhere near enough. She’d carve out some more ‘woe is me’ time later. For now, she had to get back to school and cope with a class of five year olds who had endoftermitis.
‘You look like you’ve lost a penny and found a pound as my gran said.’ Deb commented as they walked out of school once they had checked all the children had been accounted for and they were free to go. ‘What’s up? No Stanley tonight?’
Maisie took a deep breath. Maybe if she said if often enough it wouldn’t hurt so much. ‘No Stanley any night. It’s over. To be perfectly crude Stan has been sowing his seed elsewhere. Ploughing a different furrow, playing tonsil tennis with a. n. other. In the park of all places.’
Deb stared. ‘Ah, shit, I’m so sorry.’ She gave Maisie a hug. ‘Mind you, yeah…well I always thought he was a bit of a weirdo. All those hankies that matched his socks. I’m sorry though, because you love him.’ She bit her lip. ‘And I did wonder if he was as loved up as you when I saw him on the tube around a year ago doing the tonsil tennis thing with someone not you. The woman was tiny, curvy, as in over curvy, and had short black hair.’
Eh? So, he has been at it for ages, and with more than one woman? Maisie scowled. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I almost said something,’ Deb said. ‘Now I wish I had. But you said he was away, and I wondered if I’d mistaken him for someone else. But if I did, he had a doppelganger right down to the same colour socks as his hankie thing. Bright blue with yellow spots on.’
The bastard, I bought him those after he told me how much he would like them.
‘Loved,’ Maisie said firmly, if not truthfully. ‘Love turned into distaste around 12.57 pm today.’ She hugged Deb back. ‘And it sure as hell like ain’t reverting.’
Great almost end of term and moving on present. She was once again single. Friends and colleagues might or might not be jobless. Okay, it was only just gone half term, but it was, as many teachers surmised, the term from hell. It dragged on and on, as winter eventually lost its grip and grudgingly gave way to spring. If you were lucky.
As if to mirror her gloomy mood just after Maisie unlocked her car, flung her bag onto the floor of the passenger side, and headed out into the rush hour traffic, the sky darkened, and the next heavy rainstorm began to bounce off the tarmac. The windscreen wipers had a hard time clearing the glass, and she had the demister on full blast.
Welcome to spring. The sunshine of lunchtime was a fond memory. The temperature had dipped a good ten degrees and she almost wished she had her Uggs on.
Maisie shivered and pulled the sides of her jacket together. Roll on warmer weather. She didn’t do cold. Sometimes she dreamed she could afford to buy shares in a thermal clothes company because she reckoned she kept them in business.
The blooming traffic seemed twice as heavy as normal. Usually she missed most of it, by either heading home as soon as school finished or stopping on and preparing lessons. On occasion, she went for coffee, and if she wasn’t driving, a drink or a meal with colleagues until rush hour was over. However, the Stanley thing had upset her enough that neither appealed and she headed straight home. Once there she could indulge in sulks, temper or a stiff drink, whichever appealed the most.
Or as straight home as rush hour allowed. She got stuck in a queue and was resigned to a slow drive back to her house. The longer it took, the more Maisie accepted it was definitely a home, glass of wine and a ready meal or take away delivery day. No way was she being good company.
Thank goodness tomorrow was the last day of term and the day after she was heading south to start her new life. She had thought there would be lots of trips to-ing and fro-ing both to sort out her stuff and spend time with Stanley. Now it was only sort out her stuff. And, she guessed, his. For someone who only stopped on a casual basis, there was a lot of it scattered around.
Even for commuting, the traffic was horrendous. Maisie stopped in a queue for a roundabout and cussed most all the things she normally loved about her lifestyle.
Traffic, traffic and bloody traffic. For years she fought against getting a car, saying public transport worked for her and she didn’t need one. Finally, after a rise in train and tube fares, a season of strikes and the wrong sort of lea
ves on the line, she succumbed and got a car that was small enough for London traffic and big enough not to make her feel intimidated by buses and juggernauts. And was ever grateful. Except on days like the one she’d just experienced.
Once past the roundabout, where the traffic usually thinned, road works narrowed the usual two lanes to one and a contraflow. Maisie popped an antacid, turned on the radio and did her best to be cool, calm and collected.
Until some idiot tried to squeeze into a space not big enough for even a Bubble Car—and it was a Merc—and scraped her car. The noise set her teeth on edge. It might only be a little scrape, as scrapes went, but it was enough to make her fight back tears, which the driver’s effusive apologies didn’t go near halfway to diffusing.
Car horns blared as he got out of his car, examined the damage and admitted it was his fault.
‘No excuse, but I’m not used to this car.’ He left his insurance details, smiled very charmingly, handed her a business card, a bottle of wine and a box of very expensive chocolates, evidently meant for someone else, and then hit on her.
Somehow Maisie managed to refuse politely, and not snap, ‘who wants to go out with a moron who thinks he can bully his way into a space half the size he needs?’ Actually, with short black hair, and a sexy smile, he could be drop dead gorgeous and the sort of bloke she’d be happy to dally given, except for his ingratiating manner. So certain it hadn’t been all his fault. And the fact she was off men for the duration.
Ha, liar, liar, pants on fire.
The driver of the car in front of him had braked suddenly she was told, leaving Mr Merc, one A. B. Smith and associates—ha, convenient name—nowhere to go. But… Not likely. Home and a cuppa beckoned, and the incident added one more annoyance to the day. The fact she wasn’t bothered that she was once more single could be brushed off. The scrape couldn’t. Even if it would get repaired at someone else’s expense.
Mr Merc thought he might need to contact her? Not a cat in hell’s chance. Insurers all the way. Even if she had fancied him—and she hadn’t—she was off men for the foreseeable future. She might become an old maid with cats. Rumer, her present cat, might like more company. Who was she kidding? Rumer was in love with her next-door neighbour who gave her such delicacies as fresh fish and liver.
What next? A speeding ticket? Not much likelihood where she lived. Around there she was lucky to get out of second gear. A premium bond win? The last one of them was so long ago it was before they’d put £25 as the minimum win. She’d got a hefty £50, but nothing since. Mind you, she hadn’t bought any more bonds since then either.
She only did the lottery at school in the teacher’s syndicate and the best they’d done was three tenners and five lucky dips.
I’m maybe not one of the lucky looking faces.
By the time Maisie, soaked after standing in the rain to exchange details, let herself indoors, kicked off her shoes and flung her bra in the direction of the laundry basket, she was ready for a sit down.
However, she couldn’t settle.
Stanley, the one guy she thought she’d spend the rest of her life with. The one who had declared his love and wanted them to move in together. The bloke she was supposed to be house hunting with. The man who had all but asked her to marry him, was a liar. A big fat unfaithful liar.
That man.
The rat fink.
She ran a bath and sat in it while she had a good cry. It did her the world of good as she wondered if perhaps a lot of her misery was more due to the fact that she’d wasted two years of her life on someone who as her gran said, couldn’t keep his pecker in his pocket.
Enough was enough. Maisie got out of the bath and checked the time. Still early. Plenty of time to get ready and head for open mic night at her local, The George and Dragon. She’d been going to give it a miss, as she usually went with Stanley, who played the spoons—badly, but with great enthusiasm, and wouldn’t accept his lack of rhythm or lack of skill.
That was where she had met him. It seemed like fate therefore that the first place she should go without him, was there.
Maisie had cussed her weekly music lessons and hours of practice as a teen but now was thankful her mum had insisted, saying she could learn to play the guitar as long as she continued her piano tuition. As she’d once had the ambition to be in a rock band—or be a folk singer along the lines of her mum’s favourite, Joan Baez—Maisie had agreed. The desire to make a risky living in folk clubs or with not known and probably never would be known bands, had long gone, but her enjoyment of the guitar stayed, and she went along to open mic nights as often as she could.
Tonight was going to be one of those nights, flags flying. No one, but no one would be able to say she appeared to be upset. She surveyed her wardrobe and deliberated on what would look good, not tarty and give her room to move.
A long boho dress in blues and greens to compliment her nail varnish. Stanley hated it, which she decided was all the more reason to wear it. Maisie added lime green suede ankle boots - an impulse buy and hidden from Stanley who disapproved of things he thought unnecessary. Lime green suede boots in his mind, would definitely come into that category. She perused her jewellery box, made a mental note to untangle several chains and selected an assortment of costume jewellery. She was all set.
The first question asked of course was, ‘Where’s Stan the man, eh?’ by Bob the landlord as he poured her a glass of her favourite Chenin. ‘Let you loose?’
She smiled grimly as she handed a tenner over. ‘Other way round, Bob. I’ve let him loose. Forever. I’ve decided he’s not my man. I don’t share.’
‘Ah.’ Bob nodded. ‘I was wondering about that. Been a few hints that he’s been, shall we say…a bit of a one to spread it all about. Nothing concrete or I would have given you a hint. Take it from me, love, he’s no loss. Here you go.’ He handed her the tenner back. ‘This one’s on the house. You go and give us some welly. How about, ‘You’re so vain?’ Not you, love, him.’
She grinned. More and more it appeared Stanley had not been slow at sharing himself. How to feel a fool at not knowing what a sleaze bag he was.
At least Bob always had a way of making you look on the bright side. An evening of songs that showed she was so over Stanley—even if she wasn’t. ‘Yeah, why not. I’d do ‘fifty ways to leave a lover’ if your piano was in tune.’
‘Hey, it is,’ Bob said in an affronted voice.
Maisie raised her eyebrows. ‘Really?’
‘Done today. Ask Cam. He was here.’
‘True enough. A lot of swearing and calling Bob something rude for leaving it so long by the tuner, but it’s in fine shape now.’
Maisie swung round and gulped. Her mouth was suddenly dry, and she took a hefty swig of wine, only to cough as some went down the wrong way.
The bloke who had spoken—Cam she guessed—patted her back. ‘Grief, people don’t usually react to me so violently. Are you okay?’
‘Yeah, sorry.’ Maisie coughed and sipped the water Bob handed her. ‘Went down the wrong way.’
What a manner in which to meet someone. Not. Especially someone drop dead gorgeous. She might still be in her post Stanley, woe is me phase, her off men forever phase—actually there was no might about it—but she wasn’t blind. Dark curly hair, a tad too long, blue eyes that twinkled, and a fit, toned and honed body. Droolworthy, spine—and the rest—tingling hot. So much for her off men mantra. Ah well, if you couldn’t change your mind, it was a sad state of affairs.
Down girl, you’ll be panting next. Does that make me fickle? Yesterday, madly in love with Stanley and now this? Maisie thought about that for all of three seconds, and decided no, it was a normal reaction. After all, you could be in love with someone and still admire someone else’s attributes. Plus, Stanley’s antics had killed her love, stone cold.
She set the water glass on the bar and picked up her wine and downed it. She had an idea she might need it. It would be rude to jump someone’s bones before you’d
been introduced, wouldn’t it?
‘Glad it wasn’t one look at me that made you ill,’ the guy said. ‘I’d be gutted. Hi, I’m Cam.’
‘Maisie.’
‘Who’s gonna kick open mic off?’ Bob said, breaking into their mutual check each other out session. ‘Go on Mais, over to you. Give it some welly.’
Maisie grinned good naturedly. She might as well. ‘Okay, don’t nag. Mind you, be warned, if I’m rusty, it’s your fault,’ she cautioned Bob. ‘I usually warm up with joining in when other people sing.’
‘Ah, you’ll be fine.’ He dismissed her concern with a wave of a hand. ‘Do a Bonnie Tyler one.’
Cam accompanied her to the stage. ‘What do you play?’
‘Piano, guitar and mainly folk. Rarely Bonnie Tyler, although Bob loves her.’ And if she sang “Nothing but a heartache” she might break down. ‘Probably start with “The night they drove old Dixie down.”’ A song Stanley hated.
‘Great, let me get you anther glass of wine.’
Bob heard and grabbed the bottle from the fridge behind the bar. ‘Lubricate the tubes.’
‘Why not?’ Maisie accepted the inevitable. ‘I’ll get started.’
She lost count of the number of times, her ‘no more’ was shouted down, but not how many glasses of wine she drank. None were forced on her, she knew exactly what she was doing, and how much she imbibed. She sang, danced a tango with Cam—she was a bit hazy as to why—and accompanied him as he sang, “The Sound of Silence” and “As Time Goes By”. They ended with “It’s Too Late Baby”, and a rendition of “The Only Way is Up”, which seemed to involve a lot of bouncing around and high fiving the room.
Laughing, they bowed to the cheers and whistles, and flopped down onto a settee Bob had put a sign on saying ‘Reserved for the Tremendous Twosome’. He brought a pint and another glass of wine over, plus a plate of cheese and crackers and another of mini sausages, a favourite of Maisie’s. Behind them someone sang “Brown Sugar” with more enthusiasm than skill or tunefulness.