A Summer Fling

by Milly Johnson

  They had another pot of tea and then the time came for Grace to make a move to go home. Tall as she was, she was dwarfed by her big, handsome son. When did he become a man? The boy had never given them a minute’s trouble in all those years and he was now treated as a pariah by his father because he was gay. The unfairness of it all pained her heart.

  ‘We’ll meet again soon,’ she said at the door.

  ‘Look, I can’t see you next Saturday, but can you sneak off the weekend after – Easter weekend? Meet you here, same time? I’d like to introduce you to Charles. He’s been dying to meet you after all I’ve told him about you.’

  ‘Aw, bless you,’ said Grace, adding, ‘So is Charles a partner as well as a partner?’

  Paul grinned. ‘He’s a partner. He is someone’s partner but more about that one later.’

  ‘I’ll be here, same time,’ said Grace. They kissed again. He looked happy. Her boy.

  ‘Good. Anyway, I’m relying on you to come and help me pick out some wallpaper and furniture eventually. I want it to be bright but restful.’

  ‘I’ll help you all I can, you know that,’ said Grace. She touched his face, his strong, handsome face. His features reminiscent of Gordon, but a Gordon who was pliant, a Gordon who didn’t think it was a weakness to feel. If only her husband thought about people with as much affection as he thought about caravans.

  The weekends were the worst for Anna. A desert where her thoughts tormented her and the bed seemed bigger than ever. Time wasn’t a great healer. She was feeling increasingly worse, not better. It had been nearly two months now since she had walked in, needing Tony’s arms around her more than ever, but all she found was a strange quiet about the house and saw the note on the table. Sorry, need some time to think and we need some time apart. There is no one else though – honest. Obviously, with Tony having an elastic relationship with the truth, there was indeed someone else. Lynette Bottom, aged nineteen with a peachy derrière and bobbly tits. He had taken her on in his barber’s shop as a Girl Friday about six months ago. Now she was official bed-warmer. Anna wondered if he’d put her hourly rate up for that.

  Anna hadn’t heard from him since he had left, which was good in a way, she tried to tell herself, because he hadn’t come back for his stuff or asked for a split of assets. And his share of the mortgage and council tax was still going into the bank. But she so wanted to hear his voice and see him. It took every bit of strength she had not to make a detour past his shop on the way to the train every morning. She honestly didn’t know what she would do if she saw him. She couldn’t quite trust herself not to leap on him, force him to kiss her, beg him to come home. Or worse – fly at Lynette Bottom and grab her by the hair and totally embarrass herself by saying something wild and angry and chavvy. So she let him do what he had to, unharassed, under absolutely no pressure, and hoped one day that the answer machine would be flashing a message that he’d had his fun and wanted to come home.

  It was an effort to get out of her dressing gown at the weekend, let alone put her face on. Whereas a few weeks back she wouldn’t have gone out to the wheely bin in less than full war-paint, now she was going shopping in Morrison’s without wearing even a blob of foundation. Grey roots were pushing out of her tired-looking chestnut hair. Her hair had always reflected her mood. When she was happy, it was bright and conker-shiny, but it looked dull now, even after she’d just washed it. Her unmade-up eyes were puffy through lack of sleep. She looked knackered and ten years past her age. She was one step away from going to the local shops in slippers and pink terry towelling pyjamas. And the dreaded birthday was just around the corner when life apparently would begin, so the saying went. Fat chance. She wondered if slitting your wrists in a warm bath was a painless way to die or if that rumour was as much bollocks as the rest of her life was.

  ‘Wakey, wakey, rise and shine!’

  Raychel’s eyelashes fluttered open to Ben’s gentle awakening. She made a leisurely stretch and he tutted.

  ‘Take your time, why don’t you?’

  Raychel laughed and shuffled to a sitting position so Ben could put the tray on her lap. Every Sunday morning he made them breakfast in bed. He had done since they had moved in together when they were seventeen, although in those days he hadn’t been confident enough to tackle the Full English and it had just been toast and coffee with a daft flower in an eggcup at the side.

  He sat down beside her with his own tray and began to tuck in.

  ‘I’ll never eat all this!’ she said. ‘You always give me far too much.’

  ‘Get it down you. You’ve no fat on your bones. No pudding unless you finish it!’ He wagged his finger at her and she speared a sausage and dipped the end in ketchup. She never did finish the huge breakfast he served up; he always had to help her out.

  ‘Just think, there will only be another three Sundays in this house, then we’ll be in our own place.’

  ‘Aye, well enjoy it then because once I start paying a mortgage we’ll only be able to afford to split a Pop Tart for breakfast,’ replied Ben, through a mouthful of bacon.

  ‘I won’t mind,’ said Raychel, sighing as she thought of the new flat they would be moving into soon.

  ‘As if!’ said Ben. ‘I like making your breakfast.’

  ‘You spoil me,’ smiled Raychel. She leaned over and gave him a kiss on his stubbly face.

  ‘Give me that sausage if you’re not going to eat it,’ said Ben.

  ‘Get lost,’ said Raychel, playfully stuffing the whole sausage into her mouth so Ben couldn’t have it.

  ‘I didn’t know you could do that!’ gasped Ben with a cheeky grin. ‘Raychel Love, I think you just might have to stay in bed for a bit longer and show me that trick again.’

  Ben abandoned his breakfast immediately and jumped on a shrieking Raychel. Some things were more important than a Sunday morning fry-up.

  Chapter 10

  ‘Morning, girls!’ said a cheerful Christie to her troupe of four. It was five to nine on Monday morning and they still looked furtive, as if they were sneaking in late. They made her laugh. This job was just what she needed. She was so grateful she had mentioned the fact to James McAskill that she was looking for a full-time job. The ladies intrigued her though, each in their own unique way; they all seemed locked in their own little worlds. Grace, for instance. How many women in their fifties refused healthy offers of early retirement – not once, but twice? What was she running from? And young Dawn was positively schizophrenic. Sometimes she had that glow of a girl in love, only for it to be replaced by the world’s biggest worries showing on her face – what was all that about? Little Ray was a sweetheart, but so jumpy. Nails constantly in her mouth, and when there were no more nails, her fingers bled from the skin being ripped around them. Anna intrigued her most of all. Had she ever bloomed? Christie wondered. She had the air of one who never had. That would have been so unfair if she had not. Every woman should have her moment of flowering. Everyone should have days to look back on when they could say, ‘I was at my most beautiful then.’

  ‘Morning, everyone,’ said Malcolm, swaggering through the office. The ladies returned the greeting politely enough.

  ‘Morning, Christie,’ said Malcolm, leaning over her desk. Christie looked up to find a man who was decidedly more orange in the face than she remembered from Friday. Mahogany even. She had the sudden desire to spray some Mr Sheen on him. Poor man, did he realize how silly he looked?

  ‘I thought we might have lunch together. Let me take you through some of the ideas for the department that I never got to implement.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Christie. She didn’t really like the corporate lunch thing, but the man was making an effort to be friendly and it would have been very rude of her to rebuff him. ‘Shall we say twelve in the canteen?’

  ‘Or we could go to the Italian around the corner?’ he angled.

  ‘The canteen is fine by me,’ said Christie in such a way that brooked no discussion.

 
‘Oh . . . er . . . canteen it is then,’ he said and cocked his finger at her. ‘Right, best go and sort out the troops. Catch you later.’ He clicked his tongue and then strolled back down the office with a satisfied grin.

  Christie’s eyes dropped back to her work, otherwise she would have seen four grimaces as each of her ladies imagined the prospect of lunch with Orange Malcolm.

  At twelve, Christie clocked Malcolm settled at a canteen table with a generous serving of shepherd’s pie and salad. She picked up a plate of ravioli, sprinkled it with parmesan, and joined him. Gallantly he stood up while she took a seat.

  ‘Food’s not bad here,’ he said, unaware of a clot of tomato on his chin.

  ‘Yes, it’s very good,’ said Christie and speared a cushion of pasta.

  ‘Mr McAskill eats down here a lot. That’s a good sign.’

  ‘A very good sign,’ she agreed.

  ‘But then I suppose you know that already.’

  Christie veered away from the subject that she suspected Malcolm wanted to bend towards. She was quite aware that people were intrigued by her relationship with James, but she had no intention of revealing her private life to strangers. This was a working lunch, not a chat between familiars.

  ‘So, you were saying you had some ideas,’ she deflected.

  ‘Oh, yes. Well, James McAskill, as you will know, is really into incentivizing. I thought you might like to show him this. I sourced some great promotional gifts before I gave up the department for Cheese,’ he said, as if he’d had a choice in the matter. He ferreted in his coat pocket and brought out a clear plastic isosceles triangle. Through the middle was the company logo and across the widest part were the words, ‘I spoke and White Rose Stores listened.’

  ‘Very impressive,’ said Christie turning it around. She was being kind. It was pretty awful and she couldn’t think of anyone who would be inspired to spend their free time trying to improve the business in the hope of getting one of these things in return.

  ‘It’s a paperweight,’ said Malcolm proudly. He loaded his mouth with potato. ‘Yes, I took it on myself to get the example made. It didn’t cost the company anything, of course.’

  ‘Very light for a paperweight,’ said Christie. ‘Wouldn’t it have been better in glass?’

  ‘Health and safety issue,’ said Malcolm. ‘Plus, glass would be way too expensive. These would be made in the Far East at a fraction of the price. Instil a sense of pride though, wouldn’t they – glass or plastic? And you could order in bulk to cut costs even further. It would do nicely for when they roll out the idea of taking suggestions for the other departments because it’s a general statement – not tied to Bakery in any way.’

  Christie made a series of facial gestures that Malcolm took to mean that she was speechless with admiration. ‘Well, I’ll bear it in mind, certainly.’

  ‘I know Mr McAskill would love this idea and I don’t mind if you were to tell him where it came from,’ said Malcolm, with a wink. Christie knew James would view it from all angles and say: ‘What on earth is it?’ before slam-dunking it in his bin.

  Malcolm bought two coffees after their meal was finished and more of his mediocre ideas had been imparted, including some very unusual shapes for loaves. Christie watched him holding up the queue at the till as he counted out and handed over a load of change, exact to the last penny.

  ‘How are you getting on with those women?’ said Malcolm, imbuing the last two words with all the joy of sniffing off-milk.

  ‘I like them very much.’

  ‘Funny bunch if you ask me,’ said Malcolm, coming in so close that Christie was overcome by the fumes from his awful aftershave again. ‘That Grace is a snobby piece, thinks she is above everyone. She’s fifty-five and I reckon she thought she’d get the Scheme Manager’s job. Why else would you turn down retirement? Bit late to start getting ambitious really, so watch your back! Anna’s a bit sullen. Never seen her smile yet. And I understand Dawn is getting married, isn’t she?’

  ‘Is she indeed?’ asked Christie.

  ‘Word of warning, that sort always make too many personal calls. Plus, I don’t think she’s the sharpest knife in the drawer. Don’t know anything about the other one, the young one, Raychel, except I would have thought she was a bit boring to have in such an energy-driven project. Not exactly Miss Personality, if you know what I mean. I’m surprised Mr McAskill picked that lot, to be honest. I’d have had at least one man in there myself.’

  Christie wondered if she should write to the Guinness Book of Records and suggest an entry for the most number of character assassinations in one minute. Still, she always liked to give people the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was trying to help her settle in, albeit in a very clumsy way.

  ‘Well, I have to say, I find them all extremely amiable and hard-working,’ Christie said brightly.

  ‘New broom sweeps clean,’ said Malcolm and his hand closed over Christie’s with a squeeze. ‘You do realize they’ve already started taking the mick, coming in at nine and going home as soon as the clock hits five?’

  ‘But that’s the working day. Why on earth should anyone do more?’

  ‘Because that’s what we do at White Rose Stores, my dear,’ he said with a very patronizing smile.

  That gave Christie the perfect escape clause.

  ‘I’m totally indebted to you for the insight,’ she nodded. ‘I had better get back and make sure they’re behaving, in that case.’ And with that she purposefully picked up her tray.

  ‘Quite,’ said Malcolm with a smug grin, pleased that she had taken his comments on board. ‘I think I’m just going to have a small portion of apple pie before I get back to the Cheese grindstone. It’s been lovely talking to you, Christie.’

  ‘And you, Malcolm. Very useful. Very . . . revealing.’

  She really was a very attractive woman, he thought as he watched her wend her way over to where the empty plates were stacked. Her heart-shaped bottom had a natural sashay like Marilyn Monroe. However she had got that job, he would have bet his life savings on it being something to do with that bottom.

  ‘Good lunch?’ asked Grace. She was alone in their section. The others were all shopping in town. Separately, not together.

  ‘Pleasant enough,’ said Christie, not sure how convincing she sounded. ‘I’m going to get another coffee. Can I get you one?’

  ‘Oh, er, yes, thank you,’ said Grace. ‘Milk, no sugar please.’

  ‘No, I didn’t imagine you would take sugar with a figure like yours,’ said Christie.

  ‘Oh, erm, thank you,’ said Grace with some surprise. ‘However, if the truth be told, I have a terrible sweet tooth if I gave way to it. Thank God for yoga. That keeps me on the straight and narrow.’

  ‘I give way to my sweet tooth on a regular basis, as you may have guessed,’ Christie returned, smoothing her hands over the curves in her bright, summer-blue suit. She had the most beautiful clothes, none in shy colours. ‘My brother is a dentist and he keeps my teeth on the straight and narrow, if not my figure. And I think if I even attempted the Lotus position, my spine would snap.’

  ‘I didn’t start classes until I was in my late twenties,’ returned Grace. ‘Trust me, it’s a very gentle wake-up call to the body.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Christie. ‘I get all the relaxation I need from éclairs, an occasional balloon of brandy and the odd packet of Embassy Regals.’

  She waited for Grace to wince at the reference to cigarettes. Somehow she thought she would disapprove. Grace didn’t. Instead she said, ‘Everyone needs to unwind. I think there’s nothing more dangerous to one’s health than the inability to relax.’ And she smiled. Christie suspected that Grace hadn’t truly unwound for a long time, not even through the medium of yoga.

  ‘I totally agree,’ said Christie. ‘Milk, no sugar, you said? Same as me. I manage, at least, to avoid sugar in my drinks.’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Grace. A boss had never volunteered to fetch a dr
ink for her in all her working life. But then, like half the building, she suspected Christie Somers was very far from the norm.

  Dawn had bought presents in town in her lunch hour. Gold earrings for her bridesmaids – Denise and Demi, Calum’s sisters – and a tie-pin for the best man – Rod, otherwise known as Killer, Calum’s best friend, although she couldn’t imagine he’d ever use it. Maybe it would come in useful for his appearances in court. He was electronically tagged and on a curfew, so he would be leaving the celebrations early. She’d buy Muriel some flowers. Calum’s dad, Ronnie, was giving her away. She had said that she would walk down the aisle herself because her dad wasn’t there to do the deed and there were no uncles or anyone to ask on her side, but Muriel had said that was stupid and volunteered Ronnie to do it. Ronnie hadn’t objected. The Crooke men tended to do what the Crooke women said. She wondered if Calum would take any notice of what she said once she became a Crooke woman.

  She was hiring penguin suits for him and Ronnie and Killer. The amount of money she had spent so far was starting to wake her up in the middle of the night, sweating. She hadn’t a clue where the rest was going to come from.

  Chapter 11

  ‘Ta daaahhh,’ said Ben at exactly half past nine on the Tuesday night. ‘Finished one room at least, thank goodness.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Ray, drawing the last brushful of paint across the wall. ‘Only two more rooms to go.’

  ‘Ah, man, we’ll have it done by the weekend. It’s worth it though, isn’t it? A free month’s rent for a few evenings of this?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. These ceilings are high. There’s a lot of wall to paint.’

  ‘The house looks twice bigger in this colour.’

  ‘Remind me not to wear magnolia trousers then,’ said Raychel.