by Rachel Dove
They had been so excited about retirement. They had talked for years about what they would do, saved for rainy days, dreamed of the places they would travel to once their commitments were grown up and realized. Here they were now, their business sold, their working lives over, and their child grown. That was the dream, but it was fast becoming a nightmare.
Without work, each day seemed to merge into the next, Lizzie and he did nothing but fight and wind each other up, and their child had moved into an unfinished flat alone rather than live with her parents one day longer. It was safe to say, Irvin’s retirement dream was not going well. Looking again at the space where his wife’s car had sat, he frowned. Something had to change, and he needed to figure out how, and soon. Picking up the phone, he dialled a number.
‘Taylor? Hi, it’s Irvin. Not bad thanks. You busy? I think I need a pint.’
***
Lizzie pulled into the community centre car park and pulled on the handbrake. She put her hands on the wheel, eyeing the double doors suspiciously over her steering wheel. She noticed she had a blob of chocolate on her arm, and she licked it absent-mindedly. There were a few cars in the car park, but no signs of life inside. She took a deep breath, tucking the flyer into her handbag pocket. Now or never, Lizzie. She stepped out of the car, filled her arms with boxes from the back seat, and set off towards the doors before her brain could stop her.
Swish. The doors admitted her to a freshly painted foyer and reception area. Since Agatha Mayweather and the other ladies of Westfield had put the fear of God into the council, all threats of closure of the centre had been quashed, and the publicity had brought in some interest from neighbouring villages. They were constantly fundraising, but now the council had decided to back them, choosing instead to cancel plans for an ornate fountain nobody wanted anyway. It meant that the centre could employ some tutors, keep their staff on, and move with the times.
Not that Lizzie had really ever been there. When she was raising Lily, she was working in the business, so Lily had often come to work with her. The mums at the school gates were two kinds: the stay-at-home mums, and the career mums. Lizzie never fitted into either camp, and she didn’t go to mums and tots often, or have the time to attend classes, so she was coming today with great trepidation. And cookies.
‘May I help you?’ a voice said from behind her. Whirling around the best one could armed with boxes of baked goods, she turned to the voice. A young girl stood there, dressed in a long green skirt and cream turtleneck sweater. Lizzie hadn’t seen her before, but she had a name tag with the council emblem on it declaring her name was Suzie.
‘Good morning!’ she said, trilling out a greeting she didn’t feel the confidence for. ‘I am Lizzie Baxter, I live in the village, and I … I … brought cookies!’
The girl looked surprised for a couple of beats, but then recovered. ‘Cookies! How lovely! Did you make them all?’ The lady moved forward slowly, taking a box off the pile and opening the lid. She inhaled, and closed her eyes.
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘These smell amazeballs!’
Amazeballs? How rude! Lizzie kept her thoughts to herself, smiling at the strange girl as she looked at the biscuits in wonder.
‘May I?’ she asked, pointing a maroon-painted fingernail at the box.
‘Please, do,’ Lizzie said, absurdly grateful she had brought an icebreaker or two hundred. The girl snatched up a cookie with white chocolate chips and took a bite.
‘Oh wow,’ she said through another bite. ‘I have been good since Christmas, but this is worth breaking the diet for. Hey, Fernando, come and try one of these. Mrs Baxter brought them … er, why did you bring them again?’
Lizzie opened her mouth to speak but then Antonio Banderas walked up beside her and took a dark chocolate cookie from the box. Obviously it wasn’t THE Antonio Banderas, because he didn’t spend much time in Westfield, preferring LA, but right now, Lizzie’s eyes, brain, and other lady parts once thought to be dormant were telling her that he was actually stood next to her. He bit into the cookie, slowly chewing it with his eyes closed, and then turned to Lizzie. His pupils looked like two dark chocolate chips themselves, except it was Lizzie that was melting this time.
‘These,’ he said, a strong accent curling his vowels, ‘are muy delicioso.’
Lizzie blushed, tittering like a schoolgirl as he took another bite.
‘Oh ta,’ she said, her Yorkshire accent just as strong. ‘I just whipped them up this morning.’
She patted her hair, sucking in her stomach a little as she watched him eat. He was dressed in a white shirt, open almost to his belly button, and black sequined trousers. She looked him up and down half expecting him to evaporate like the apparition she thought he was.
The girl was looking at Fernando herself like she was a little bit enamoured as well. A bit of a silver fox to her, probably. An image of Phillip Schofield popped into her head and she came to her senses a little. A man who spent years with his hand up a puppet would never be considered a heartthrob in her eyes.
‘These, my beautiful stranger, are perfecto!’
She blushed again. ‘Oh really, it’s nothing. You should try my Victoria sandwich!’
He looked her in the eye as he took another bite of cookie. ‘I would be honoured,’ he said earnestly, and Lizzie heard the girl gulp next to her.
She smiled at Fernando, not quite trusting herself to speak. She felt a hot flush coming up through her toes, and resisted the urge to fan herself. ‘I will bring you some tomorrow,’ she breathed, remembering she had a couple frozen at home. Thinking of home reminded her of Irvin, and she winced inwardly. What would he say if he saw her now, flashing her warm biscuits at this fine specimen?
The girl was still eyeing the man up when the phone on her desk rang. She went to answer it with a groan, and it broke the spell. Fernando tipped his head to her, taking another cookie from the box and moving away. Before he went into one of the rooms, he pressed a flyer in her hand.
‘Three times a week,’ he purred, and melted away.
Lizzie was about to say, ‘Oh, go on then, yes please,’ when she realized what he was talking about. The flyer was for salsa classes, run by him, Fernando Fuentes. She slipped the flyer into her handbag as the girl put the phone down.
‘Are you going to go? To the salsa class, I mean? I need to book you a slot, if so – he does tend to fill up.’ She smirked at Lizzie, and the two ladies grinned at each other.
‘Yes, I think I will please. And tell me, what other classes do you have?’
***
Irvin was sat in the Four Feathers with a face like a slapped bottom. Taylor drained his pint, motioning to Irvin’s empty glass.
‘Another, or shall I just send for the hangman?’ he asked, jovially.
Irvin rolled his eyes, pushing his glass to Taylor.
‘Aye, go on then. And a whisky chaser.’ Taylor’s brows shot up, and Irvin silenced him with a twenty thrown onto the table. ‘My round, my order.’ Taylor shrugged, heading to the bar. The Four Feathers was a traditional pub, in that it wasn’t a gastro pub, and didn’t come with a play area. Here you got what it said on the tin. It was a little pub, the size of a small terraced house, tucked into the end of a small residential street. There were brass plaques on the wall bearing horses and carts, thick dark velvet curtains at the windows, and their biggest claim to fame was that Winston Churchill had once had a tipple in there. (Allegedly, there was no photo evidence to substantiate this, but the locals were adamant.) Since there were only two pubs in the whole of Westfield, the locals were not that picky either.
The pub was tiny, and went in a circle around the bar area. You could sit at the actual bar, and still almost reach the windows with your fingertips. Irvin loved it here; it gave him peace and quiet. Taylor got their order and sat back down, straddling the stool across from him. Irvin and Taylor were the same age almost, only a couple of years apart in school, but when Irvin looked at his ol
d friend, he was shocked at how old he felt. Taylor was positively sprightly compared to how he felt.
‘So,’ Taylor said, passing across a shot glass and pint, and sipping from his own bitter. ‘I take it retirement is not going well. What’s up?’
Irvin slugged his whisky, wincing as the warm shot of alcohol hit the back of his throat.
‘I don’t know, I just thought it would be different. Lizzie and I, we planned for this for so long, and now it’s here.’ He took a sip of his pint, not trusting himself to speak any more. ‘Where’s your chaser?’ he asked.
Taylor shook his head, amused. ‘I am not retired yet – day drinking is not on the cards. Besides, Agatha would bloody kill me if I turned up half cut.’
Irvin snorted. ‘Ah, you newlyweds, you don’t want to be letting you put her under the thumb like that, you know.’
Taylor swatted at him. ‘I am not under the thumb; I am a man in love. Happily married. As are you,’ he said, jabbing a finger at his friend. ‘I don’t know what the deal is, but you and Lizzie are made for each other – you have been since school. What are you doing, wasting your time like this?’
Irvin groaned. ‘I don’t know! That’s just it! I have no idea what is going on, or what to do about it. Lizzie and I don’t talk, and this morning she went out and never even told me where she was going.’
***
His friend looked forlorn, and Taylor felt sorry for him, sat there nursing his pint.
‘She hasn’t left the house without kissing me for thirty years, and now she never even looks at me. I don’t know what to say to the woman! When I came down this morning, it looked like she was practising for Bake Off. That woman always reaches for the recipe books when she is upset. It’s not a good sign. Her baking is like an omen of doom, mark my words.’
Taylor resisted the urge to laugh. ‘I get it – Agatha is the same with her to-do lists. When the flipchart comes out, I duck!’ The two men laughed then, picturing Agatha in one of her legendary moods. ‘Look, Irvin, as big a fan as I am of grabbing a pint, I do think that you do need to find your wife, don’t you?’
Irvin nodded glumly. ‘It’s the fighting I can’t take. We never did it before. We bickered sometimes sure, but about stupid stuff, taking the bins out, leaving the toilet seat up. This feels different; this feels bad.’
Taylor smiled at his friend, draining his pint. ‘Well, sitting here isn’t going to do anything, is it? And last time I checked, you still had a wife, so there is still time.’
Irvin nodded. ‘You are right, as usual. Fancy sharing a cab back?’
Taylor laughed, patting his stomach as he stood up. ‘Cab? No chance, let’s walk back. Work off those pints.’ Irvin groaned, buttoning up his coat.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘Is Archie not going to miss you today?’ Lily asked as she fitted the headboard into the slot behind the bed frame. Will helped her push the bed to the wall.
‘No one misses me, Lily,’ Will said. He cleared his throat and looked away. ‘He gave me a couple of days off – it’s quiet at the estate till spring kicks in.’
Lily nodded. ‘What about Kim?’ she said, busying herself with unpacking her new sheets. They were a bit crinkly, but without a washing machine, they would do for now.
Will stiffened before her, and she turned her gaze away from him.
‘Like I said, I won’t be missed,’ he said, and she wondered what type of woman wouldn’t miss him. ‘What’s next?’
‘Er, that’s okay. You’ve done enough. I feel like I’m taking all your time up.’
Will shook his head, reaching for a pillowcase. ‘I don’t mind, I’m glad to help. Good to keep busy.’ He stuffed one of the new pillows into the case, flopping it down on the bed. ‘Where’s all your stuff, anyway?’
‘It’s in the van, with half of the furniture shop,’ she quipped, unpacking a valance sheet to put on the bed. She shook it out, and Will grabbed the other end. ‘I can cope honestly – you’ve done enough.’
Will flicked the sheet, tucking the corners in.
‘Listen, it’s my day off, I’m bored, and could do with the company. If you need the help, I’m here.’ He smoothed down the sheet, straightening up and looking across the bed. ‘So, do you want me here?’
Lily looked at him, wondering if he was aware of the double entendre. Him, asking whether she wanted him here, gazing at each other over a bed yet to be christened. Lily nodded before she broke out into a blush.
‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘I want you here.’
Will looked relieved, and nodded. ‘Good, that’s settled then. So, shall we go unload the van properly, see what we have here?’
Lily grinned, grabbing her keys. ‘Lead the way.’
***
Stuart’s last lesson of the day had ended on a high. Mrs Shiverton nuzzled his neck with her lips as she pushed her cleavage further into his face. The steam they were generating fogged up the windows, a curtain against the night sky outside. He grabbed at her boobs clumsily, making her squeal with girlish delight. Stuart gave them a little squeeze, amplifying her excitement.
They were like rocks wrapped in socks, and he frowned as he rubbed his thumbs over her hard nipples. He suspected that they were always hard, whatever the occasion, and this was not because of his attentions. Her breasts were of a large size, barely contained in her red sheath of a dress, and the bra was more for scaffolding and display purposes than containment. She wiggled on his lap, lapping at his ear.
He had a sudden flash of memory in his head of Lily, laid in his bed in his favourite T-shirt and a pair of pants, make-up free and hair all tousled. Mrs Shiverton was grinding on him now, her diamante thong digging him in the testicles through his slacks. She pushed her bosom further into his hands, licking his ear lobe. Stuart flashed her a fake smile and tried to get back into the game.
This WAS his game, normally. He taught them golf, flattered them, gave them what they wanted. These rich young women in the countryside, bored rigid by their ageing spouses, they lapped it up. He provided a service: discreet, satisfaction guaranteed.
Stuart was candy to them, a sweet little treat – calorie free. The Willy Wonka of Westfield. So why wasn’t he feeling it?
Mrs Shiverton’s phone buzzed in her bag, and she took her tongue off his ear lobe momentarily to reach for her Prada. Red, just like the cherry colour of the convertible that they were parked up in. She was straddling him in the passenger seat, and she dug him in the ribs with her knee as she flipped her phone open.
‘Hello, darling!’ she cooed, putting her long-nailed index finger over Stuart’s mouth to shush his anguished cry. ‘No I didn’t get lost, silly boy.’ Her voice went up a few octaves, in baby-talk tones. She sounded like Betty Boop. Stuart rolled his eyes, and she dropped a silent kiss on his lips, winking a fake lash his way.
‘My girls have been taking me out. I’ll be home soon. Did your big meeting go well?’ she purred. The male voice on the line spoke back, and she made a noise like a baby laughing at a fart.
‘That’s amazing, so you got the bonus too? That’s my big sexy pudding pot! See you soon, baby!’
She clicked off the line, manoeuvring herself back into the driver’s seat.
‘I have to go, sweetheart, duty calls, but dinner was great.’ She giggled. ‘Same time next week?’
Stuart zipped up his fly, nodding. Somewhere some poor sap with more money and ego than sense was sat in his office, nursing a scotch and waiting for this woman to come home, fresh from another man. Stuart didn’t know who he pitied more, the deluded husband or the trophy wife. He stepped out of the car, avoiding a final kiss before she waved at him and zoomed off.
The golf club was deserted as he walked through the main gates, lit up with the outdoor lighting in the dark night. February was here, and it wasn’t that cold. They had seemingly had the worst of the winter, and Stuart’s thoughts turned once more to the tours he should be going on this su
mmer.
His father had been pressing him lately; recriminations and unasked questions zinged down the telephone wires between them. He was waiting for his son’s next step. Manager and golf pro of a countryside club was all well and good, but not for a man of his age and talent. He could hear his father now: ‘Any news, son? You signed anyone? Practice starts soon you know.’
His mother was much the same, asking him about Lily. When she was going to visit home with him, whether they had set a date, how her biological clock would soon be ticking. By the end of the calls, Stuart felt like his chest was in a vice, being squeezed inch by inch with every expectation, every disapproving look when he saw them or silence down the line. He was starting to feel like the black sheep of the family label would never wash off, and he knew he was on borrowed time. He just didn’t know how much time he had, or what his next move was.
It wasn’t till he was lying in bed later, about to drift off to sleep, that he realized he hadn’t heard from Lily again. In fact, she hadn’t been in touch since leaving his place Sunday morning, after an uncharacteristic sleepover he had begged her for. What was going on with her?
Normally Lily was one of the things that he could manage in his life. She was the thing that made it all work. The unattached women all wanted bigger fish than him, and the spectre of a scandal with an engaged man kept them easy to manipulate. The attached women had enough to lose of their own, and Lily was his someday plan. She was the pure one, the one his father approved of, the one his mother would love like a daughter. A good mother for his kids, someone to keep the home fires burning. Someone who he could trust to only tend their own garden, not look for greener grass elsewhere.
Lily was the key log in the dam. Once that log was kicked out, he planned to be safe and dry in a boat, heading to his future life. If the dam collapsed now, he was liable to drown beneath the weight of the water. Stuart wasn’t one for metaphors, unless they were sporting ones, but since his father had once told him this story as a child, it had stuck with him. Today, it felt as though his dam had sprung a slow leak.