A Spring Affair

by Milly Johnson

  Lou had been up and dressed before Phil woke up to the smoky aroma of his breakfast. He gave off a sullen air which hinted that things were most definitely not back to normal between them. Less was more in the arena of mind games, which was why he also resisted his Sunday-morning sexual pass at his wife. A break in routine should get her thinking…His toxic seed had obviously started to germinate, it seemed, because she had been in a very troubled place yesterday. When he came in from work, she looked as if she had been crying for hours. Her eyes were swollen and she hardly said two words all evening. She’d blamed it on all the dust up in the loft, but he knew better.

  Of course, Lou had heard Tom knock the previous day, when he came to take the skip away, and she knew that he had waited a considerably long time before finally climbing into his cab. Even then he drove off slowly, looking up at the windows, as if he expected to see a curtain twitch. There was no way she would have let him see her in that state–scruffy and swollen and ugly from crying and raw–but much more than that, she had been feeling far too vulnerable to be anywhere near Tom Broom. The merest hint of sympathy would have opened up the floodgates to a dam of grief, and goodness knows what she would have said or done.

  It had drained her to lose so many emotional possessions at once. They had anchored her firmly to places in the past where she was comfortable–with the devil she knew. Taking them away cut her adrift, to a place where the waters were dark, scary and unknown.

  At first she panicked when Tom’s wagon started up to transport them to where she would never be able to see them again and she almost ran after him to tell him that she was taking them back. Nonetheless she took a deep breath, closed her mind against the urge and finally let them go. They were just things that had no magic to make the past return even if he had doubled-back. The facts were clear: there was no loving father waiting in the wings to make everything better; she couldn’t wipe away Phil’s infidelity; she would never hold her own baby in her arms. Deal with it, Lou, and move on, said the voice within her, firm but supportive for once. It was time to stop waiting for hopeless dreams to come true. Time to take control of her own destiny and start looking forward instead of back.

  She had slept the solid, dreamless sleep of the exhausted and now, in the morning, life felt fresher. Like her address book, it was no longer full of crossings-out with names still visible under the lines. Life was suddenly before her as a whole new space to fill with Casa Nostra and Deb and a new, stronger phase in her marriage, free from the long shadow of Phil’s affair dulling everything. She had to put that fact to the forefront of her mind–their marriage had survived Susan Peach and, however shaky it might sometimes appear, it was still standing, which meant its foundations were strong. Phil was a controlling man–true–and he’d made a mistake once, but there were much worse husbands out there. He didn’t abuse substances and he abhorred men who used physical violence on women. He was spoiled that was all–and that had been partly her fault for letting him get his own way so much. But he was generous and hardworking, and her husband, after all; the man she’d been pledged to till death do us part. In saying that, she was glad that Phil hadn’t pushed her to make love that morning.

  The aroma of meat wafted towards Phil’s receptive nostrils as Lou opened the oven door to baste it. Then it hit him that it wasn’t the smell he was expecting.

  ‘That’s beef!’ he said.

  And the Sherlock Holmes Award for Outstanding Deduction goes to Phil Winter of Barnsley, thought Lou.

  ‘I told you to get lamb! I’m trying to butter up Des to buy a twenty-seven-grand car, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Phil, I don’t like lamb and I presume I’m going to be eating too. Or would you prefer me just to scoff a Ryvita at the table whilst you five tuck in? Besides which, I don’t know whether Celia likes lamb but I do know she likes beef.’

  ‘Everybody in the world likes lamb but you, Lou,’ he growled sullenly. ‘You’re just weird.’

  ‘It’ll be every bit as nice. Better even,’ said Lou. ‘Trust me.’

  Phil knew it would be. He could always trust Lou–about anything. Lou would never let him down. It wasn’t a quality Phil particularly envied, though. One should always maintain a hidden weapon with which to surprise.

  ‘This is gorgeous beef,’ said Des, swirling it around the onion gravy before delivering it to his mouth where it melted wondrously on his tongue.

  ‘I like my beef more pink,’ commented Celia, although she hadn’t exactly left much by way of protest.

  ‘Me too,’ said Phil in agreement. ‘I think Lou’s over-cooked it slightly.’

  ‘No, Lou hasn’t,’ clipped Lou sweetly. ‘Lou just hasn’t undercooked it. I like it heated all the way through, myself. Plus I don’t like the idea of giving children pink meat.’

  ‘More wine?’ said Phil, slightly taken aback by her verbal parry. Was this the start of the Change, he wondered. It would go some way to explaining all this clearing-up bollocks and that impromptu sex they’d had in the kitchen. He hoped she wouldn’t start growing facial hair, like Maureen. Fat Jack must wake up in the mornings and wonder if he’d married Geoff Capes.

  Celia initially refused a slice of the chocolate tarte when Lou put it on the table, although her eyes stood out like ping-pong balls with obvious desire for it. She patted her concave stomach and said something about already being half a micro ounce overweight.

  ‘Oh I don’t know, it would be nice to have something to get hold of,’ said Des, his eyes darting involuntarily to Lou. It was only a flicker, but one noted by both Lou and Celia.

  Oh well, that explains a few things, thought Lou with a raise of her eyebrows, even if it didn’t excuse it.

  ‘Yes, but you can have too much to get hold of,’ said Phil, also flicking his eyes at Lou and making sure she caught his meaning.

  ‘I think Lou has lost a little weight, am I right?’ said Des. ‘On a diet?’

  ‘Lou’s on the rotation diet,’ said Phil. ‘Every time I turn my back, she eats something.’

  He howled at his own joke and was joined by the children, although they were really laughing at Uncle Phil laughing.

  Lou experienced a pang of humiliation that quickly changed to anger.

  ‘Hark at Twiggy!’ she said, and watched Phil’s lips contract. She had never come back at him with a spiky riposte. She had always taken the joke like a dutiful comedian’s stooge.

  ‘Well, maybe I’ll have just a little pudding,’ said Celia, popping the bubble of tension that was puffing up like a giant man-eating vol-au-vent. ‘It does look delicious.’

  She nibbled her slice daintily. Too daintily, thought Lou. She ate the same way that Victorianna used to eat, craving the food in front of her but knowing if she didn’t put the brakes on hard she would be diving into it headfirst, only to have to rush up to the toilet to stick her fingers down her throat. Well, putting away a few puds might not be ideal, but Lou had always thought it was a damn sight more healthy than making your body go through all that laxative, deprivation and regurgitating nonsense.

  Scheherazade, who had not inherited her mother’s aversion to calories, stuck her finger into the remaining cake, scooped out a digitful and transferred it lasciviously to her mouth. Lou waited in vain for either parent or Phil to reprimand her because she had never felt it was her place to say anything when the children were bouncing on the furniture or nosing around in her drawers and cupboards upstairs. Her anger would stew inside but never find its way out, because she was too damn polite for her own good–see Bloody Keith Featherstone for more evidence of that one. But Lou Winter was indeed going through a Change (if not the Change) and she was thinking at that moment that Scheherazade and Hero might not be her children, but this was her house, and that beautiful chocolate tarte was her creation and she wasn’t going to stand by and see it desecrated.

  Scheherazade’s finger came out again and Lou whisked the tarte away before it made contact.

  ‘Now would anyone like me to c
ut them an extra piece? Scheherazade?’ asked Lou.

  ‘Yes,’ said Scheherazade.

  ‘Yes what?’

  Celia’s eyes snapped up.

  ‘Er…yes, please,’ said Scheherazade.

  ‘Right,’ said Lou with a knife in her hand and a knife in her smile. ‘I’ll give you this piece that you’ve just stuck your finger into, shall I?’

  Scheherazade took the plate, which Lou didn’t relinquish until she got a stunned ‘thank you’. The withering effect rippled through everyone at the table. They continued to eat in silence with only the tinkle of cutlery on crockery to break it.

  Phil stole a glance at Lou but she was pouring some cream and seemed quite oblivious to the fact that she was acting menopausal.

  ‘Gorgeous, that tarte,’ said Des, spraying crumbs as he spoke.

  ‘If you like it, darling, I’ll get the recipe,’ said Celia.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Lou, tapping the side of her nose. ‘Trade secret.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Lou, it’s only a bit of cake,’ said Phil, attempting to laugh off his annoyance. She’d better not cock up this sale for him with her crazy oestrogen levels. What the hell was up with her? Was she going to go bright red and start sweating in a minute?

  ‘I’m sure Colonel Sanders had plenty of people saying, “For God’s sake, Harland, it’s only a chicken!” Good job for him that he didn’t give his recipe out to everyone who asked, wasn’t it?’

  Goodness knows how she had remembered what he was called. It was one of those odd trivial facts that brains store away, patiently waiting for its moment to shine.

  ‘Hardly the same, is it?’ said Phil with a crooked little smile. He was back on terra firma with a chance to show off his clever razor-like wit. ‘A multi-million-pound industry versus one woman and a few buns.’

  ‘Everyone has to start somewhere. Who knows, I might have overtaken him in profits if I’d started my business when I was originally going to,’ returned Lou.

  ‘What’s this?’ said Des, jumping in with interest. He was a financial adviser and the word ‘business’ always stirred his brain into whirrings.

  ‘I’m opening up a coffee-house,’ said Lou. ‘With my friend Debra.’

  ‘Debra?’ said Celia with a sniff. ‘Isn’t that the person who nearly broke up your marriage?’

  ‘No,’ Lou said flatly. ‘That was Phil.’

  Phil went beetroot. Even Lou was a bit taken aback by her audacity on that one. Standing up for herself had once been second nature. When had it become so difficult? The room temperature dropped like the track on a white-knuckle ride.

  ‘Go and play, children,’ said Celia.

  ‘Can we go upstairs?’ asked Hero, shovelling the last of the tarte into his mouth.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Celia, at exactly the moment when Lou said,

  ‘No, you can’t.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Phil snarled quietly between his teeth.

  Ignoring him, Lou got up from the table holding out her hands to the children. ‘Come on, there are lots of DVDs in the lounge you can watch, or there’s a Connect Four in the cupboard so take your pick, kids, but please, don’t go poking around upstairs. It isn’t polite.’

  Des, Celia and Phil cross-fired glances at each other but were too stunned to say anything. This wasn’t Lou. This was a Doppelgänger from Planet Crank.

  The children grumpily found a DVD they were vaguely interested in but were won over when Lou said they could lounge on the floor with all the cushions from the sofa and some pop and the tin of Quality Street. They were only allowed to perch on the pristine leather furniture at home and marble tiles weren’t conducive to floor-sprawling.

  Phil was about to whisk Lou aside and ask her what the hell she was up to when he realized that, now the kids were out of the way, they could get down to business. He’d deal with her later, after he had sold Des the car.

  Lou went dutifully into the kitchen as Phil started up a conversation he would quickly steer round to the Audi. Sure that she was out of earshot, Celia advised her brother to get in some Oil of Evening Primrose quick for his wife. Either that or an Exorcist.

  Lou filled up the dishwasher with what she had carried through. As she straightened up to go and get the rest she turned to find herself face-to-chest with Des and his dirty plate. He was so close to her that they could have auditioned for Dirty Dancing. Lou’s hand came out and slowly but surely she pushed him back.

  ‘Steady on there, Des,’ she said as frothily as a soufflé, but with her volume button twisted all the way up to number ten. ‘Don’t they have personal space on your planet?’

  Celia snarled loudly from the conservatory. ‘Des! Here–now!’

  She might as well have said, ‘Heel!’ for the effect it had on him. He slunk back to the dining table like a kicked dog.

  Interesting, thought Lou. So Celia was aware of his quirk. Maybe that’s why she bought all those designer shoes and handbags. Maybe she too was clinging on to something she felt was slipping away and was trying to comfort herself. Although in her case, Lou would have definitely preferred the slingbacks to the man.

  Tension hung over the table like a hydrogen-filled Zeppelin flying low on Bonfire Night. Phil annoyed with Lou, Celia annoyed with Des.

  ‘So,’ said Phil, attempting to direct the conversation back where he needed it to go. ‘Has he told you about the car, Ceel?’

  ‘Yes, he has,’ she said, attempting to smile and look normal as Phil started his sales spiel.

  Lou poured four coffees and dispensed home-made truffles made with crème de menthe. She’s gone to a lot of effort, thought Phil, deciding that gave her a few brownie points. Though not enough to get her totally out of the woods. This afternoon’s performance only went to prove he needed to take even firmer action.

  ‘Fantastic machine.’ Phil passed the box of cigars over to Des before choosing one himself. Celia lit up a cigarette. ‘Previous owner only drove it in dry weather. Two years old and less than six thousand on the clock. Goes like shit off a shiny shovel. You name it and that baby’s got it.’

  ‘I’ll get you an ashtray,’ said Lou, scurrying off meekly–like her old subservient self, they were all relieved to note.

  ‘So–are you going for it then, Des? I’ll cut you a deal that only family can give you.’

  He addressed his brother-in-law but looked at his sister. Maybe Des trying to grope Lou in the kitchen would have put him nicely in Celia’s debt. Buying a big fancy black car for her to swank about in might just get Des out of the mire.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Des with a regretful shake of the head. ‘I’ve seen a gorgeous silver BMW in Buckley’s.’

  ‘It’s a lot easier to keep clean than black,’ said Celia, who had set her heart on a car with the blue and white BMW button. It was far more prestigious in her book than a series of hooped rings.

  Phil knew instinctively that they’d already made up their minds before they came today and had taken advantage of his hospitality. Even worse, they were buying from ‘Mr New-Kid-on-the-Block’ Jack Buckley, his sworn business rival. Well, if they weren’t buying then they might as well piss off until December, he thought. Des was as entertaining as syphilis and Celia was only interested in being bigger and better than them. Oh! He must remember to tell Lou that he’d invited them for Christmas dinner. His classic car business would be nearly up and running by then, and he and Fat Jack could apply double pressure on Des to invest, greased further by copious amounts of brandy and Lou’s turkey and trimmings. Oh yes, and he must tell her Fat Jack and Maureen were coming as well.

  ‘I’ve got a surprise for Christmas dinner this year,’ said Phil, five minutes after waving off Des and Celia with an outward smile and an inward, ‘Thank Christ.’

  ‘Christmas? But that’s half a year away yet!’

  ‘It’ll be on us before we know it. I want to get plans in place.’

  ‘Well, if you’re already thinking about it, how about going out
for the big meal this year? Apparently the Queens Hotel do a fantastic one. And they’ve started taking bookings, I see, in the Chronicle.’

  ‘Er, even better than that, I thought…a traditional family Christmas!’ said Phil, making it sound like she’d just won the star prize on a gameshow.

  Lou looked at him blankly.

  ‘At home,’ he went on, and stood there expectantly as if he was waiting for her to shout, ‘Whoopee!’ and start leaping around with joy.

  Lou let out a long breath. It wasn’t hard to see where this one was going.

  ‘I thought we could have the kids around at Christmas. I know that would be nice for you, Lou–kids and Christmas and all that.’

  Manipulating git, thought Lou, but listened on.

  ‘And obviously Des and Ceel.’

  ‘Obviously,’ said Lou. She knew what was coming next. Phil wasn’t as opaque as he thought he was.

  ‘And your mother. We can’t leave her out.’

  ‘No. Absolutely.’

  ‘And…Fat Jack and Maureen. I noticed you got on like a house on fire with her last time. Chatting away together for ages, you were.’

  He made a move to hug her and no doubt then would have gone on to paint a jolly picture of a house full of dear friends and family engaging in Christmas merriment and gleeful children sitting opening gifts under a glittering Christmas tree. There would be a gentle snowstorm outside and Perry Como scoffing mince pies at the door complete with a group of carol singers and chestnuts roasting on the open fire. Lou could have quite happily roasted Phil’s nuts on an open fire.

  She put up a hand to stop his affectionate advance.

  ‘So let me get this straight. Instead of a six-course meal made by someone else in a lovely hotel, with no washing-up to do afterwards, I get to slave away making a dinner for nine with no one to help me cook it or clean up?’