Love-40

by Anna Cheska

  ‘And I made them a bloody chocolate cake,’ Estelle breathed.

  As they watched, Terry, big, bluff and a bit too friendly for Suzi’s taste, opened the door and waved the small crowd of people inside. He was wearing an open-necked shirt and even from this distance, Suzi could see his gold medallion nestling in a forest of white chest hair. Yuck. Stan was there too – thin, dark and undeniably rat-like in appearance – handing out glasses of wine. It wasn’t hard for Suzi to imagine a long tail whipping …

  ‘At nine o’clock in the morning?’ she muttered.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a glass.’ Estelle stepped on to the pavement. ‘You hold the fort, Suzi.’ She looked kind of angry and Suzi felt a twinge of anxiety. ‘I’m going to take a dekko.’

  Chapter 4

  Michael Ashby felt pretty darn good as he swung his battered Ford Granada on to the main road and headed for Dorchester. He’d sent the letter. Another week nearer … Michael’s shoulders tensed. OK, maybe he should have talked things over with Suzi first, but there had never seemed a right time. And he’d always believed in acting on impulse. That way you got to be the guy giving the girl the flowers. OK, he had to admit that acting on impulse had caused him problems in the past – his failed business was evidence enough of that. But what the hell, Michael was a firm believer in grabbing the moment, obeying your instincts, believing that something was right.

  He accelerated, pushed a tape into the deck – some of the old stuff, soft and easy, The Eagles, nice mix, nice melody … And felt himself relax again. He liked this time of day, early evening, the air fresh but still, the sky pale grey and waiting for night-time velvet. On the road.

  And no wonder there hadn’t seemed a right time. Last weekend he’d barely had a look-in with all that hoo-hah about Liam and Estelle. Michael frowned as a white BMW overtook the Granada, gliding past with hardly a murmur. One day, he told himself.

  He shook his head, hummed a few bars of ‘Lyin’ Eyes’, one of the songs in his repertoire. Always went down well with women that one, something in the lyrics, he supposed. Yeah – if he had his way, Suzi’s darling brother and the gorgeous Estelle would sort out their own problems, not expect Suzi to act as referee, counsellor, mediator and the rest.

  ‘Lyin’ Eyes’ slid into ‘James Dean’. Michael liked this one. You could do a fair bit of leaping around with it and he enjoyed a bit of leaping around when he was performing. Got the blood pumping, helped his nerves and the audience thought they were getting more for their money.

  Michael speeded up at the dual carriageway. The BMW was out of sight – it would be. But what did he care? So long as he got to Suzi eventually. They hadn’t talked much on the phone during the week – they never did, as if the geographical distance produced an emotional one too. But this weekend would be different.

  Michael slowed to take the roundabout. He had it all planned. Tonight they’d go out for a beer, discuss how he was feeling about Saturday’s gig. Not nervous exactly, but apprehensive.

  He drummed his fingernails on the steering wheel as The Eagles hit the intro of ‘Peaceful, Easy Feeling’. Who wouldn’t be? It had been a while since his brief romance with pub singing, and he’d never sung in Suzi’s home territory. He hadn’t even planned it – he’d just happened to mention to the landlord at the Bear and Bottle that he sang and played the guitar, that he used to do gigs, and the next thing was, the guy had asked him for a tape.

  The following weekend, he had approached Michael (Michael was pleased about that – he didn’t want to look desperate for the work) and asked him to do a couple of sets in the pub. The date had been fixed and Bingo … ‘Peaceful, Easy Feeling’. Michael sang. The date was tomorrow night.

  It felt good. It felt like a turning point. It was never too late, he decided, for a change of direction, for a taste of success. And after the gig, Michael promised himself, easing into the outside lane, when he was flushed with the high of performance adrenalin and when Suzi was proud of him and smiling and – hopefully – eager to get him into bed (Michael knew only too well what a turn-on it was for women to be going home with a musician at the end of a performance. Otherwise – why would there be groupies?) he would tell Suzi about the letter, tell her what he’d decided.

  It made him excited just thinking of it, and he realised he’d almost hit the ton. Reluctantly, he eased his foot from the accelerator. Him and Suzi, what a great combination. What a great girl.

  What would she be wearing tonight? Michael allowed himself a moment of weakness, considering this. Something slinky and sexy perhaps? A black silky dress that would cling to her small slender body? Or a red skirt with side slits that …

  Whoa. He stopped himself right there. Thoughts like that were for the weekdays when Suzi wasn’t around. He’d be seeing her in an hour. And whatever she was wearing, he just knew this weekend was going to be hot.

  * * *

  Tenderly, Suzi watered the seedlings in her greenhouse. Tomorrow she’d pot them on, two to each peat container. She brushed soil from her fingers. She knew from experience that the seeds would take off, especially with all this unexpected March sunshine. Though it was late afternoon, it was still warm in the greenhouse, protected as it was from the sea breeze that she knew would bare its teeth at her as soon as she slid open the door.

  Suzi inspected the seedlings with a critical eye. ‘Don’t forget to grow,’ she warned them. She was aiming for a bumper crop this summer – tomatoes, aubergines, courgettes, peppers; she’d be freezing ratatouille by the bucketful with any luck.

  In the corner, tabby cat Treacle stretched out in the bag of straw destined to lift the strawberries away from the earth in a few months’ time. Suzi rubbed his neck to make him purr, allowed him to nuzzle into her wrist. She glanced at her watch. At six-thirty, she promised herself, she would go inside, pour herself a glass of white wine, put some Bryan Ferry on the CD player. Mmmm. Chill out.

  And tonight she wouldn’t cook – she wasn’t in domestic goddess mood, she was more Ground Force or maybe Gardeners’ Question Time, since she was hardly a Charlie Dimmock. And she wouldn’t dress up. Not that she did very often – she didn’t have the wardrobe for it and she preferred to be comfortable, if she were honest. As for Michael – he never minded what she wore. She’d just wallow in a deep bath with a few drops of ginger oil and maybe another glass of wine to refresh the parts that needed it most. And then throw on whatever fell out of the wardrobe first when she opened the door. She chuckled. What the hell …

  She’d wait for Michael to arrive and they’d order a take-away – Indian maybe. Chicken passanda. The aroma of cream, coconut, mild spices seemed to drift into the greenhouse to tease her.

  Yes, a bit of a ‘chill’ was what they needed, Suzi decided, whisking a spiky strand of dark hair from her brow and kissing the tuft of fur just above Treacle’s nose. Because it took Suzi an hour or two in Michael’s company before she could unwind enough to feel close to him again. Not that she was complaining, she thought, re-filling her water spray and misting the next batch of cherry tomato seedlings. It was just the way things were.

  Beyond the greenhouse she could see her small flock of buxom and matronly Buff Orpington hens, foraging in their run, looking for food. And Charles the randy cockerel strutting his stuff, encircling them, casual but confident, letting them know who was boss. Suzi smiled. She liked the chain that ran between her kitchen, her garden and the hens. The flock gobbled up her veggie waste, the vegetables in her kitchen garden thrived on chicken manure. And then there were those delicious eggs …

  She stretched into a back bend that eased her aching muscles. The week had been even crazier than usual – what with Estelle cleaning and clearing the debris from the flat above, hardly even stopping to eat, looking more dusty and manic with each day that passed, and the revelation of Stan and Terry’s Bargain Basement. She and Estelle had maintained a huffy superior silence on the subject, but she wasn’t sure who they were fooling. Stan and Terry’s place was
full of customers, theirs empty. So what price superiority when you had a living to make?

  Suzi arranged the seedlings on the slatted shelf of the greenhouse. In the event, she’d barely had the time to think of Michael, let alone miss him. She paused, seed tray in hand. And realised that she liked it that way. But wasn’t that terrible? How was it that years of living alone had made her so independent, so selfish of her own time, her own space? Was she irredeemable? Was she a hopeless case? Was she destined to be a gardening spinster, her animals and her plants substitutes for a man, children; items of life that were supposed to be more desirable?

  ‘Suze!’ The voice was faint.

  Suzi replaced the last tray, straightened up and watched Liam as he picked his way across the soggy lawn of her riverbank garden. At his feet were Samson and Delilah, the two rescue dogs that had hated each other on sight when Suzi had acquired them and who were now inseparable.

  As Suzi watched, Liam bent to pet Samson, big, black and ugly but solid and dependable as a rock. Delilah, in contrast, was a tiny cream Jack Russell lookalike – though something indefinable had been added and the temper was missing. Delilah hadn’t snapped at an ankle since Suzi had taken her in. But she was still running scared – you could read it in her brown eyes and couldn’t help but wonder about her past. Suzi watched her now, trotting along in Samson’s shadow. Samson was a whole lot of dog to hide behind.

  ‘I thought I’d find you out here,’ Liam yelled through the greenhouse door. He must have come along the riverside path, she realised. He had a canvas bag slung across one shoulder, and in his free hand he held a bottle of wine, carried loosely by the neck. Two sure signs, Suzi knew, that he planned to stay awhile. She felt Bryan Ferry and her bath drifting sadly away from her.

  She slid open the door. ‘She’s moved out then?’ As predicted, the sea breeze almost blew her breath away. A gaggle of gulls flapped overhead, screeching and cawing to the wind.

  ‘I know it’s pathetic.’ Liam was not a big man but he leaned so heavily against the side of the greenhouse that Suzi couldn’t help feeling twitchy about the glass. ‘I should go out and get drunk, or stay in alone, write a few poems and have a good bawl, I suppose.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Suzi braced herself for another mini-tornado – ah, she thought, the pleasures of living by the sea – stepped out of the greenhouse and pulled the door to, leaving a cat-sized gap for Treacle, should he eventually summon enough energy to move.

  ‘But the flat seems so bloody empty…’

  ‘That’ll be the day.’ Suzi pictured the organised chaos that characterised Liam’s living space.

  ‘I don’t want to be alone,’ Liam said sulkily. He had flung his bag down on the grass and it was proving to be of interest, not just to the two dogs, but also to Hester the goat, who had strained her leash just as far as it would go and had already managed a decent masticate on the strap. ‘I need to talk to someone,’ Liam went on. ‘To you, Suze.’

  Despite herself, Suzi remembered Estelle’s words. It’s always his needs, she had said. ‘Perhaps you should be talking to Estelle,’ she countered, kicking the bag out of Hester’s reach.

  Seemingly unaware of the wet strap, Liam picked it up and followed her as she made her way back inside the cottage. Hopeful of food, Samson and Delilah trotted alongside and by the back door they were joined by Castor the white cat, who jumped elegantly down from the fence to beat them all to it.

  ‘She doesn’t want to talk to me,’ Liam grumbled. ‘Not very adult of her, is it? She says she wants space, for God’s sake. Space. I ask you.’ He began rooting for a corkscrew. ‘Anyway – how come you’re on her side all of a sudden?’

  ‘Am I?’ Suzi considered this as she prepared food for the animals. Actually, she didn’t want to take sides. She was in a difficult position and she’d far rather not get involved at all. She ladled food into bowls.

  ‘So what d’you reckon she does want?’ Liam grumbled.

  Suzi considered this. What did most women want? Money? A good sex life? Security? Someone who wanted to cuddle them especially when they had their period? ‘Maybe Estelle wants to get married,’ she suggested.

  Liam stared at her. ‘Is that what she said?’

  ‘No…’ In fact Estelle had said nothing of the kind. But wasn’t it about time? Wasn’t that what people did?

  Suzi warmed to her theme. ‘Maybe she wants children,’ she went on.

  ‘Children?’ Liam made them sound like an alien species. ‘But…’

  ‘People do.’ Suzi put the bowls down for the dogs and cats. ‘She’s only thirty-nine. It’s not too late.’ She paused, thinking of the biological clock that women talked about, that she’d never even heard ticking. And she felt a sudden sadness. ‘Is it?’

  Liam seemed to have gone into shock. His eyes glazed, his eyebrows met in a frown and he pushed a hand through his dark curls. ‘Marriage? Children?’ Shaking his head, he managed to recover sufficiently to yank out the cork, pour himself a large glass and down it in one. ‘I’ve asked her,’ he said. ‘I used to ask her quite often.’

  ‘Oh.’ Suzi was surprised; guilty, she supposed, of falling into the stereotypical way of thinking, that it was the guy who was unwilling to commit. ‘And she refused you?’ Part of her couldn’t imagine any woman refusing Liam. But then again, not every woman saw Liam through rose-tinted sisterly spectacles.

  ‘She said, weren’t we fine as we were. Are. Were,’ Liam told her. ‘She said she wasn’t sure.’

  Of what, Suzi wondered. Or of whom? She had known Estelle for practically her whole life, and yet she could be so secretive. She had never, for example, discussed with Suzi how she felt about marrying her brother. How on earth had that subject got left out? ‘And children?’ she ventured.

  ‘Need security,’ Liam snapped. ‘Or that’s what she’s always said. Although why she imagines –’ He broke off abruptly, looked at Suzi. ‘Do you want to marry Michael?’ he demanded.

  ‘Good grief, no.’ Suzi was surprised he had to ask. Liam and Estelle had been together for ever, but it was still early days for herself and Michael. And she and Michael had never had the intensity Suzi associated with love. Not that she knew anything about it – having never been in it – but she could make an educated guess. She had dated various men, enjoyed their company, been to bed with one or two who had – like Michael – crept past her wariness, who had liked animals, not tried to dominate her, been kind, sweet, tender. And OK, those men were few and far between. She had to admit that the majority of her adult life had been spent living alone, her passions reserved for CG’s, her animals, her cottage and the books she still consumed voraciously, although she no longer worked in Pridehaven library. But as for love …

  Anyway, she bent to stroke Castor’s sleek coat and received a head-butt in return. She had her animals, didn’t she? She had no reason to feel sad. What did she need with love?

  * * *

  It was Saturday afternoon and Estelle paused mid-vacuuming to scan the local paper she’d picked up from the floor. She flicked the switch, the whine of the vacuum faded and the heavy throb of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon took over. Goodness knows how, but it energised her just to have it on in the background; she could hear the thrust of it deep in her senses, over and above everything else. Either that, or she was having an eighties reversion. She’d better be careful, if she went any further back she’d be needing therapy and wearing love-beads.

  HOUSE CLEARANCES WANTED, the advertisement read. With a jokey illustration of a man bent double carrying a wardrobe – but still with a smile on his face. CLEAR THE DECKS … START ANEW … FAIREST DEALERS IN TOWN.

  Estelle sat down heavily on Aunt Mo’s old rocking chair, practically the only piece of furniture she owned, despite the shopful downstairs. The chair seemed more at home here than it had in Liam’s garret, Estelle reflected, remembering the childhood evenings she’d spent curled up on the sofa, telly down low, faintly aware of Auntie Mo in the corner,
scribbling on a notepad, rocking for all she was worth. ‘Helps me think,’ she used to say. Every now and then the steady rhythm of the creaks would change and she would come back to the real world, ask Estelle, ‘Do you want anything, ducks?’

  But Estelle would long ago have got hungry and helped herself. She shook her head at the memory. Such loneliness. It was easier all round when she started spending her time at Suzi and Liam’s.

  She rocked slowly, looking around the small living room that was at least hers – for a while. She might paint it, she thought, something decadent and seriously seductive like chocolate and cream, or fruity like tangerine and cranberry. Something that reminded her of youth and having fun. Only, who was she being seductive for? And was she over-reacting to the fact that she was nearly forty?

  Though Auntie Mo had never been a bad parent substitute, Estelle reminded herself. She had taken her brother’s child in without hesitation, given her as much time and love as she could spare – for a woman obsessed with the other world of the romantic fiction she created. And best of all, she had left what money she had – not a lot, writing fiction clearly not being as lucrative as one might have thought – to Estelle, when she eventually died. Not of a broken heart or something faintly romantic like leukaemia, but of a stroke that wiped her out quickly and cleanly, shortly after she’d written the words, THE END.

  Sad though Estelle was to lose her, she was grateful on Auntie Mo’s behalf for the timing (for imagine how distressed she would have been to leave her hero and heroine entrenched in misunderstanding) and certainly grateful for the small legacy that had enabled her to join forces with Suzi to create Secrets In The Attic. She was just getting to the point in the customer complaints department she worked in – customer services really, but complaints summed it up more accurately – when she was likely to lose her cool. Just about to reach that career point of no return, when she might adjust her headphones one day and say to some moaning old git, look, why don’t you just fuck off? It wasn’t easy working in a complaints department. After all, listening to abuse all day couldn’t possibly improve one’s self-esteem.