by Debbie Rix
‘There’s no marmalade, Ma, but there’s heaps of that Damson chutney.’
‘Really?’ said Miranda, looking up from her notes. ‘No marmalade. That’s a shame. Never mind, the chutney will do. I’ve been thinking, G, I’ve talked to Jeremy about it and I’ve decided to take on some extra work.’
‘Oh? What sort of work?’
‘Well, you know my friend Suzanne, Jenny’s mum at school?’ Georgie nodded. ‘You know she’s the editor of a local magazine, rather glossy, aimed at the yummy mummy brigade round here. It’s full of fashion and make-up tips and house interiors. Lots of adverts from estate agents, you know? They give it away in cafés, and restaurants, and at the station; in fact, we stock it at the shop. They make their money through advertising really. Anyway, she bought a couple of scarves from me last Christmas for her kids, and really liked them. And we got chatting, and she’s asked me to come up with a couple of column ideas for her magazine. I don’t know if she’s just being kind, but she suggested that I could mention the knitting company, so it would be a bit of promotion for that.’
‘What sort of column does she want – knitting patterns?’
‘No, not that, although she is thinking of doing an article herself on ‘great knitted accessories’ and she’ll give me a mention. No, she seems to think I might be quite good at a recycling, make-do-and-mend sort of column.’
Georgie laughed. ‘Well she’s right there. You’re brilliant at that!’
‘Oh, so you think I could do it then?’
‘Mum, you’d be great. Just tell them what we have for supper each evening.’
‘Cheeky! OK, I’ll give it a go. I love going round boot fairs, and I could find some bits and pieces and do them up, take pictures and so on. Or I could do homemade preserves, homemade presents, that sort of thing. And who knows, maybe something will come from it. She wants me to blog about it as well, to sort of drive interest. The problem is I’m not sure I know how to set up a blog, if I’m honest.’
‘I can show you. We set up a blog at school a couple of years ago. It’s really easy.’
‘She’ll pay, of course – Suzanne. Not heaps, but enough to make it worth doing. It will mean a bit less time for the knitting, but will make a nice change. I should be able to fit it all in. And who knows, it might lead to other work.’
Georgie banged a couple of jars of damson chutney on the table.
‘That could be your first blog,’ said Georgie. ‘Christmas on a shoestring…’
‘That’s a jolly good idea,’ said Miranda. ‘So, damson chutney, OK. We might need to make up some new labels for it. And I could get some pretty fabric from the little shop in the High Street to make nice tops; what do you think?
‘Yes, sure. And you could take lots of photos and put them on your blog.’
Georgie felt a little frisson of pride for her mother. They had been together and reliant on one another for so many years. She knew it hadn’t been easy for Miranda after the divorce, but her mother was always cheerful and, apart from the odd anxiety about bills, was relentlessly optimistic. As the child of divorced parents, she was not alone; nearly a third of her classmates were in the same position. Over the years, as she had listened to her friends swapping stories of arguments and unpleasantness between their parents, she felt lucky that her mother always managed to maintain a positive view of the world. She saw her father occasionally; not as often as she’d like, but that was no fault of her mother. She had never stood in his way. It was just one of those things. And she had Jeremy of course. He wasn’t a father, but had long ago appointed himself as her ‘honorary godfather’, a role that pleased them both.
The lists written and pinned to the notice board in the kitchen, Miranda took some potatoes from the vegetable basket.
‘So what are we going to do this half term, sweetheart?’ she said, as she began to peel them at the kitchen sink. ‘Just think, a whole week off school! I’ve asked Jeremy for an extra day off so we can do things together if you like. I will have to go to work on Thursday and Saturday. You could come with me if you want to, or you could stay here if you think you’ll be OK.’
‘Mum, I’m fifteen, of course I’ll be OK!’
‘Yes, of course you will. I just wondered if there was something you’d like to do.’
‘No, I’ve got work anyway. We’ve got a project I’ve got to get on with.’
‘Ooh,’ said Miranda, in her most annoying helpful-mother voice. ‘Anything I can help with? You know how much I love glueing and sticking.’ She put the peeled potatoes on to boil.
‘No, but thanks. We’ve gone a bit beyond glueing and sticking these days. Besides, sounds like you’ll have enough to do with your own project. Do you mind if I go and watch telly for a bit before supper?’
‘No darling, off you go. It won’t be long.’
Miranda took some mince out of the fridge to make a shepherd’s pie. If she added lots of vegetables she could probably make it last for two nights. She peeled two onions, a couple of carrots and a sweet potato and chopped them all in the ancient blender her mother had given her years before. She fried them all off before adding the mince and browning it a little. She added a bit of Lea & Perrins followed by a tin of tomatoes and salt and pepper. She considered taking a picture of it for the blog. Surely everyone knew how to make shepherd’s pie – didn’t they? She took a picture anyway. Then she pushed the saucepan onto the cooler side of the cooker before sitting back at the table. She opened her laptop and wrote: Austerity Blog: how to live for virtually nothing by Miranda Sharp.
The phone rang. It was Charles. ‘Hi Miranda, how are you?’
‘I’m good. How are you?’
‘I’m very well. Darling, I’m sorry it’s been a while. I’ve been away on business as you know. But I’m back now, and would love to take you out for dinner. What are you up to this coming week?’
‘Well it’s G’s half term, so not a huge amount. We’re just here, you know..’
‘How about tomorrow?’
‘Yes, OK, that would be lovely. I’d ask you here but…’
‘No, I’d like to take you out.’
It had been two weeks since she had last seen Charles. They had been out together four times in all – twice to the Curzon cinema in Richmond, an art house cinema that showed not just the latest movies but also filmed theatrical performances. He’d managed to get two tickets for them to see the latest production of Hamlet, which had impressed her. They’d also been out for dinner. Once to a chic restaurant on the edge of Kew Green, which Charles had declared ‘rather a find.’ And the second time to Bocca di Lupo – a bustling Italian restaurant in the heart of Soho. The food on both occasions had been delicious and Miranda enjoyed their evenings out enormously. Charles was handsome and charming and Miranda felt herself melt a little each time he called her ‘darling’. It made her feel special; as if he really cared for her. It had been so long since anyone apart from Jeremy or her mother had called her by any sort of endearment. She had been surprised at how disappointed she had felt when Charles announced an urgent business trip that would take him away for a couple of weeks.
‘I’ve got to go away, darling,’ he’d said during their supper in Soho. Miranda had been spooning chocolate mousse into her mouth, luxuriating in its sheer indulgence. Charles had watched her with a combination of amusement and affection. Charles didn’t eat puddings.
‘Some interesting things are on sale in Hong Kong, and I really need to get there. Normally I’d do my buying on over the Internet, you know? But I ought to see the stuff for myself.’
On the way home, he had held her hand in the car as he drove – a romantic but tricky manoeuvre that involved them changing gear together, his hand over hers on the gear stick. Until that evening, their kissing had been a relatively innocent affair: a kiss on either cheek when they parted, just once a kiss on the mouth. But that night, as they sat in his expensive, leather-lined car outside her house in Sheen, he had kissed her properly, hi
s tongue exploring her mouth, his hands slipping beneath her coat and caressing her breasts through the silk of her blouse. The windows had steamed up and she found herself hoping he would let his hand drop down between her thighs, as boys had been wont to do in her youth, their hands sliding up and up until… But he stopped at her waist and pulled away slightly.
‘I ought to go,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ll be back in a couple of weeks, and I’ll call you, OK?’
Miranda had to admit that she had been slightly disappointed and surprised that he had not suggested they go into her house together to finish what they had started. They were both adults, and she thought she had made it clear enough that she fancied him – wanted him. Perhaps he was an old-fashioned sort of guy. Perhaps he had an early start. To be fair, she hadn’t suggested it either, but mostly because she was at a loss to know how she could sleep with anyone with Georgie in the next room. It was unimaginable. The thought of her daughter either hearing them having sex or finding them together the following morning was so appalling, that she had not encouraged it. Sex was something that had effectively been turned to ‘off’ since she had split up with her husband, but her desire for Charles was becoming harder to control. She only had to see him cross the road to her house from his car to feel the familiar surge of longing. His body was perfect: tall and angular; his voice was low and strong. When they sat together having dinner, she was mesmerised by his forearms – long, lean, covered in fine gold hairs that matched the hair on his head. When he spoke, he used his hands quite a lot in an expressive way. He often had his shirt-sleeves rolled up and she loved those arms. His watch was elegant and expensive. He dressed beautifully, but not in a mannered way. Always blue shirts. Nice cufflinks. Smart suits.
But she did wonder why he hadn’t mentioned the sex thing to her. Why, for example, had he not taken her to his house? She knew he lived a little way out of London down the M3, but she didn’t know any more than that. Sometimes, in her darker moments, she wondered if there was a wife somewhere in the background, managing the M3 life. Elegant and beautiful, just like him. But she couldn’t bring herself to ask. Besides, how do you ask?‘ Oh Charles, lovely dinner. By the way, do you have a wife?’
She’d discussed it with Jeremy, of course. In fact, Jeremy had become positively obsessed with her love life.
‘So,’ he’d say when they arrived together at the shop on a Saturday, ‘tell me all. I want to know every detail.’
‘Oh Jeremy, there’s nothing to say.’
‘What do you mean, there’s nothing to say? Have you slept with him yet? Why not? Do you love him or is it just a physical thing? Do you think he loves you? What do you mean, he calls you darling? That means something, surely!’
‘Oh Jeremy, you call me darling, and that doesn’t mean anything at all, does it?’
‘It means I love you, just not in that way.’
‘I know, but maybe he’s just a bit theatrical,’ said Miranda.
‘No. I know his sort. I think he’s an old fashioned romantic. It’s all those antiques he deals in. He’s like some wonderful Edwardian gent, don’t you think? Miranda, I think maybe he’s the one. And you not sleeping with him is probably the best thing you could do. You’ll drive him wild with desire.’
‘I think you’re a little bit in love with him yourself, Jeremy,’ said Miranda, laughing.
Jeremy blushed. ‘And for the record, I’m not avoiding sleeping with him,’ she continued, ‘I just don’t know where we can do it. I mean I can’t do it at home with G there, can I?’
Miranda sat musing on this last conversation after she hung up the phone to Charles. She dialled Jeremy’s number.
‘Jeremy, darling,’ she said in a sweet, almost unctuous tone.
‘What do you want?’
‘Oh Jeremy, really, you are so cynical.’
‘I am not cynical. I’m realistic.’
She outlined her plan. She was having dinner with Charles the following evening, and might Jeremy possibly take pity on her and have Georgie for the night? Perhaps they could have an ‘unsuitable movie’ extravaganza and sleep-over at his house?
‘My God,’ he protested, ‘how old do you think I am? Fourteen?’
She laughed.
‘Oh, of course I will – anything for my goddaughter. I can’t have her despoiled by the sound of rampant sex going on in the next bedroom can I? It might scar her for life.’
‘Oh Jeremy, thank you…’
Miranda nervously suggested the idea to G over supper.
‘So Jeremy wondered if you’d like to go there tomorrow. He’s got a plan to take you to some madly risqué movie or something and then to his flat. You’d like that wouldn’t you?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Mum. I was thinking of asking Cassie over; we’ve just been on Facebook.’
Miranda felt a wave of disappointment, followed by the familiar feeling of resignation.
‘Oh. Well, OK, if you don’t want to.’ She spooned shepherd’s pie onto Georgie’s plate.
‘But,’ said Georgie, gazing intently at her mother’s face, ‘it would be nice to see Jeremy. And I do like his idea of an unsuitable film. So yeah, tell him, yes.’ She noted how her mother flushed with excitement and felt pleased that she could make her so happy quite so easily. She wondered what plans her mother had in her absence. ‘Don’t you want to come with us?’
‘No,’ said Miranda a little too hurriedly. ‘I thought you might like some time with your godfather alone.’
‘Really?’ asked G.
‘Oh, all right; Charlie has asked me out and…’ She trailed off.
‘You want to come back and shag each other’s brains out,’ said Georgie.
‘Oh Georgina!’ Miranda said sharply. ‘That’s a disgraceful thing to say.’
Georgie laughed. ‘It’s all right, Ma. I do understand; as long as you know what you’re doing. And as long as you think he really likes you.’
Her mother paused mid-forkful and gazed lovingly at her daughter. ‘Since when did you get to be so bloody wise?’
‘Since I had you for a mother,’ said Georgina.
Chapter Fourteen
The Date
On Saturday morning, Miranda woke early, drowsy and with a sleepy sense that something important was supposed to happen that day. As she emerged into wakefulness, she remembered what it was. She and Charlie were going on a date that night. And what was more, she had managed to engineer it so that Georgina would be at Jeremy’s house. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat staring into space for a few moments. She felt nervous. It didn’t take long to identify the reason. Was this the night that she and Charlie would end up in bed together? If she was honest with herself, she felt acute anxiety at the mere idea of having sex. It had been so long – almost thirteen years. The number thirteen struck her as symbolic. Unlucky for some? Or lucky for others?
She wandered into her tiny en-suite bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair needed washing and she looked tired. She peered down inside her nightie and decided that things needed a bit of a tidy up ‘down there’.
‘Oh God,’ she said aloud as she squeezed toothpaste onto her toothbrush. Maybe it was just all a bit too much effort – love. Maybe it would better if she just cancelled the date and instead spent a jolly afternoon with Jeremy and Georgie.
She washed her face and applied a little moisturiser. She was thirty-seven years old. She had not had a boyfriend since her marriage had ended. Surely it was time for her to embrace life, and Charles too, with open arms and see what might ensue? She’d played it safe for so long that she had really forgotten how to take risks. And there was no doubt that sleeping with Charlie would be a risk. She didn’t know him that well. He was deliciously handsome of course, and entertaining and charming. But there was a private core to him that appeared pretty inscrutable. Could she be comfortable having sex with someone she didn’t know that well? She had never been a one-night-stand sort of girl. But, she had known him for a
few weeks now; they had been on four dates; he was not really unknown and, she reasoned with herself, it was just sex, after all. What was the worst thing that could happen?
She brushed her hair and tied it back into a ponytail before taking off her nightie and putting on some old tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt. ‘Shit,’ she said out loud. ‘I’m not on the pill!’ She had not been on the pill for years. She might actually get pregnant. ‘Shit, shit,’ she said again putting on an old cardigan that had once belonged to her father – large, moth-eaten cashmere, but comfortable. How on earth could she suggest to a new boyfriend that he might actually have to use a condom? It was really all too complicated and embarrassing. Maybe, she thought to herself, as she peered under the bed for her slippers, maybe he wouldn’t want to sleep with her anyway. Yes, that’s probably what would happen. And who says she had to sleep with him? Just because G wasn’t there didn’t make sex automatic. Maybe they would just cuddle and have coffee and if she felt that he was keen, she could go to the doctor on Monday and get the pill sorted out. Then she would be ready the next time.
Her mind was a whirr of conflicting ideas and emotions as she descended the stairs. Georgie’s coat had been thrown onto the pegs in the hall the previous evening, and the hem was draped over the vase. She moved it to another peg and adjusted the vase so that it stood in the centre of the table. As she looked at the face of the dragon snaking its way around the centre, a comment her aunt had made to her on one of her last visits to the house in Cheltenham came to her: ‘Life, Miranda, is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.’
She went into the kitchen and turned on the kettle. The sound of morning television blared through from the sitting room next door. ‘Georgina,’ she shouted, ‘do turn that down a bit; they must be able to hear that telly in Richmond.’ She made a mug of tea and surveyed the kitchen. It was a mess from the previous evening. Jeremy had given her the day off work to get ready for her date. She might as well give the house a bit of a spring-clean. Whether she slept with Charlie or not, at least he would find her house clean and tidy.