by Maeve Haran
‘The wonderful Wenceslaus?’ Laura asked. ‘He is rather gorgeous.’
‘Yes, but Julia’s married. I’m so annoyed with her about it. I still believe it’s a silly fantasy, but she put a photo of him on her phone and her husband found it and was naturally livid. But even that didn’t stop her; she’s still been hanging round Wenceslaus. The thing is, I don’t know whether she should stay with Neil or leave; I just know she seems so unhappy and I don’t know how to help her sort out her life.’
‘Isn’t that up to her?’ Laura asked gently. ‘I sometimes worry our generation is too involved in our children’s lives. Maybe it would be better that they had to sort things out themselves, like we did. Though who am I to talk? Sam won’t get out of bed and Bella’s having a baby and living in a squat while my husband divorces me.’
They all began to laugh. ‘Let’s have another bottle. Contrary to moralistic pronouncements, drink is the answer.’
‘The thing is,’ Ella pronounced, ‘we may not look old, but the truth is, we are old. I wrote a whole blog on the signs of ageing and loads of people came back with their own lists. And they were all our age.’
She was so upset about Julia she’d forgotten her blog was supposed to be a secret.
‘You wrote a blog?’
Ella realized Claudia and Laura were both staring at her as if she’d just announced she was a Martian. She had to own up some time and she’d hated all the secrecy.
‘Yes. Wenceslaus showed me how. I wanted it to have lots of black humour so I called it MOAN FART DIE. Actually, I get quite a lot of hits.’
‘You write MOAN FART DIE?’ Laura demanded, stunned. ‘But that’s the blog Sal’s always going on about! She sent it to both of us to read.’
There was an ominous pause. ‘You wrote about why men leave their wives after twenty-five years!’ accused Laura. ‘When I read it I thought it sounded very like my situation but, Jesus, Ella, I had no idea it actually was my situation. And then . . . Ella, that blog about a friend of yours and their divorce lawyer saying adultery was commonplace – that was me too, wasn’t it?’
‘I know, I know, I’m so sorry.’ Ella desperately hoped they’d understand. ‘I just sort of wrote it and didn’t believe anyone would actually read it, a bit like keeping a diary.’
‘Don’t be so bloody naïve!’ Laura flashed, angrier than any of them had ever seen her. ‘I told you that stuff in confidence. I mean, I didn’t spell it out because I didn’t think I needed to. Because we’re friends! How could you? What if Simon reads it or his lawyer? Or Bella or Sam? For God’s sake, Ella.’
‘Why didn’t you ask us if it was OK to use it?’ Claudia seconded. ‘Did you expect to make money from this blog? Sell lots of ads for plastic surgery on the back of Laura’s divorce? Would my mum’s mental problems have been next? Or Sal being too old to get a job? Is anything fair game? What about Julia’s fantasy about your lodger, that’d make a good blog, you could make it really funny!’
‘Oh God, you’re right,’ Ella wailed. ‘You’re both right. I see that now, but I really didn’t at the time. You probably won’t believe this but it was really a way of me learning to use the Internet.’
‘Oh, that’s OK, then.’
‘And you lied to Sal! She asked you, I heard her, if you had read MOAN FART DIE and you said you hadn’t.’
‘She kept wanting me to write for her magazine.’
‘Why didn’t you just say no?’
‘I didn’t want her to know it was me.’
‘So you could betray more secrets!’ Laura was almost in tears. ‘Why don’t you try trolling next? I gather anonymity’s useful for that too! To think I came here tonight to tell you about my son who won’t get out of bed and my unmarried daughter who’s five months’ gone and how we bumped into my husband with his pregnant mistress in John Lewis’s baby department. They’d make good blogs, wouldn’t they? Help yourself because I won’t be telling you any of my private life in future!’
Laura reached for her bag and coat and stumbled out of the wine bar.
Ella dropped her head into her hands. ‘Oh, God, Claudia, I’ve really screwed this up.’
‘Yes,’ Claudia agreed, ‘you have. And, to be honest, I’m not sure how you undo the damage.’
Sal sat with the letter from the hospital in her hand, shaking. She had finished two cycles of chemo and had hoped she was making good progress.
Now the consultant wanted to see her again.
For the first time since she had had the diagnosis, Sal wasn’t sure she could do this alone. She longed for sane and rational Ella to come with her and hear this next news.
She’d begun to delve into the depths of her very untidy bag looking for her phone, when she heard it ringing from the other side of the room.
‘Hello there, Ms Grainger.’ Claudia’s familiar tones greeted her. ‘Long time no meet for glass of bad wine. How’s your work crisis? Ready to come out and play yet? We’re all worried about you. We’re wondering if you’ve secretly mutated into an alien. We’d still love you, you know.’
‘The job’s a bit knackering,’ Sal replied cautiously. ‘I don’t have much energy left for socializing.’
‘Don’t say you’re feeling old as well? My God, Sal, talking of which – you won’t believe this – it turns out that Ella, our Ella, is the writer of that blog you love.’
Sal listened, so stunned she forgot her predicament. ‘You don’t mean MOAN FART DIE?’
‘Absolutely. We had a huge fight about it. Laura was really upset because Ella used stuff in it Laura told her in confidence.’
‘But Ella can’t be the writer. Why wouldn’t she tell me, when I’ve been asking her to write for us? She knew how desperately I was trying to get hold of the writer!’
‘She didn’t want anyone to know it was her, she says.’
‘My God,’ Sal felt almost physically winded, ‘I feel really betrayed!’
‘Join the club. We all do. How can we tell her things if she’s just going to use it in a blog? Sal? Are you all right?’
‘I’ll call you back later, Claudia. I just need some time to digest this.’
To think she’d just been about to call Ella and finally come clean about her cancer. That would no doubt have ended up in the blog too!
Sal sat down on the bed again, the letter still in her hand.
She really was on her own.
What was it John Donne had said – that no man is an island? Well, she certainly was. In her whole life she had never felt more friendless and stranded.
For a moment she was tempted to tear off her wig and throw it in the bin. If she were a Rachel, she might do it. If she were a Rachel, she might stride into work bald as a billiard ball. But she wasn’t Rachel, she was Sal.
She placed the wig back on her head, reached for her sunglasses and headed for the office. Now that she knew Ella was the author of MOAN FART DIE she had better start looking for another star writer.
CHAPTER 19
Ella sat with the phone in her hand, staring out at the frosty sunlit garden. Her friends were right. She had been stupid and naïve. How could she have had the ridiculous fantasy that she was writing just for herself?
She had so enjoyed trying to overcome her fear of all things technological that writing the blog had seemed like her own private reward. The fact that she got responses from total strangers just reinforced this. The blog wasn’t about her real life, it was something out there in the ether. If she had accepted Sal’s offer of writing in the magazine, that would have been real, which was why she had never considered it. She would indeed have seen that as a betrayal. None of this, of course, made any difference to her friends.
She realized how dangerously seductive the Internet was, at once intimate and anonymous. She could see why people invented whole personalities and identities for themselves that had nothing to do with reality.
But the Internet wasn’t a parallel universe. The offence she had caused was firmly rooted in
this one. She had no idea what to do next, how to make it up to them. Just when she wanted their support over the Julia problem, no one even wanted to talk to her. And who could blame them?
For now she would go to the allotment and try and dig herself out of the depression that had descended on her.
Increasingly, Claudia was finding Tuesday was the day of the week she really looked forward to. The Christmas choir recital had been a big success and now they were deeply into The Sound of Music. If anyone had told Claudia the highlight of her week would be singing ‘How do you solve a problem like Maria’, she would have given them a withering glance. And yet it was true, and not only because of Daniel Forrest.
‘I’ll probably go to the pub after,’ she told Don as she wrapped up in a coat and scarf.
‘Fine. I won’t wait up.’
And then she had added her guilty addition: ‘Why don’t you come along too?’
‘What, and find myself cast as the lead in The Desert Song? I don’t think so.’
Claudia kissed the top of his head in silent acknowledgement that, apart from his lack of voice, Don was the least likely man in Minsley to be cast as a seductive sheik.
The school hall was already full by the time she arrived. Everyone stood round the big stove at one end warming their feet, and there was the unmistakeable aroma of mulled wine in the air. What was it about mulled wine? Mostly she loathed the stuff and yet, if you were outdoors or on the ski slopes, it miraculously tasted magical and irresistible. Tonight was one of those nights.
Claudia breathed in the scent of cloves, cinnamon and lemon peel and decided everyone in the world should join a choir.
‘You look happy.’ Betty had left her scooter at the door and had taken to what she called her ‘chariot’: a walking frame on wheels.
‘Probably drunk!’ Claudia laughed. ‘Have you tried this? It’s really good.’
‘Daniel brought it, I gather. Hmmm, he’s never done anything like that before. Aye aye, here he comes.’
‘My two favourite women, sharing a drink and a gossip. Not about me, I hope?’
‘Don’t be creepy, Daniel, we expect better from you, don’t we, Claudia?’ Betty reprimanded. ‘We might forgive you because of your Glühwein. It’s surprisingly good.’
‘That’s because I learned to make it in Austria. It’s not as sickly as the stuff here. Now, Claudia, I’ve got the perfect part for you.’
‘Not Maria, surely?’ asked naughty Betty.
‘The countess. You’re the only one with the sophistication to carry it off.’
‘Well . . .’ Claudia began to reply.
‘Excellent. I knew you’d agree.’ He swept on to the next group to allocate more roles before Claudia could argue further.
‘Come on, Countess,’ Betty teased, ‘let’s get another before the drink runs out, or are you too sophisticated for a refill?’
‘All right, Mother Abbess. I suppose you’re about to tell me to “climb ev’ry mountain till I find my dream”?’
At the end of the practice they all crowded into the pub – except for Betty, who decided for once she was feeling too tired.
‘Would you like me to walk back with you?’ Claudia offered.
‘With my demon scooter I’d be there before you got your coat on. Stay and have fun.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘But not too much.’
The choir were a jolly bunch. She liked mixing with people who – unlike her own daughter – perfectly understood why she might like to sign up for singing once a week. It was fun trying new things and she even enjoyed watching other choirs sing the same songs on YouTube. Sometimes the choirs sounded just as amateur and occasionally off-key as they did.
By the time she decided to head for home, the night had become colder and clearer. There was a moon high in the sky with countless clusters of stars surrounding it, some bright and distinct, others almost like silver dust sprinkled across the galaxy.
A voice behind her made her jump.
‘One good thing about the country is the sky at night.’ She turned to find Daniel walking behind her. He must have left very quickly to have got here so soon.
Try as she might she couldn’t repress a small thrill of excitement. The whole street was silent and still and in the white light it had an air of unreality almost like a Hollywood stage set.
‘Were you serious about Sing Out?’
‘Sing Out?’
‘My charity getting kids to start singing, remember? Keeping them off the streets? Stopping them mugging old ladies?’
‘Yes, definitely. I’d like to.’
‘Good for you.’ He was serious for a moment. ‘I’ve been trying to work out how to get them interested so they don’t see us as irritating do-gooders. Have you ever been in a prison?’
Claudia shook her head.
‘It’s quite a shock. Even the young offenders’ version.’ He looked up at the velvety sky dotted with a million stars. ‘A far cry from Minsley.’ For the briefest of moments his eyes held hers. ‘I’m glad you’re coming.’
When she got home, she was surprised to find Don still up, glued to his laptop, but this time he made an odd furtive move to cover the screen so that she wouldn’t see who he was emailing.
If Claudia hadn’t been so thrown by Daniel Forrest she might have looked harder to find out.
‘What the hell am I going to do about Sam?’ Laura asked her daughter Bella. She was so worried and frustrated at her son’s strange behaviour that she was considering professional help. The only thing was, how did you get help if your son wouldn’t even get out of bed to seek it?
‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ Bella advised her. ‘I’m sure it’s some kind of weird stage. Maybe he just needs some sleep.’
‘Bella, he’s been sleeping solidly for a week. No one can need that much sleep!’
‘Actually,’ contributed the normally reticent Nigel, ‘I read this article about young guys in Japan who start sleeping for a day or two then gradually take to bed permanently. It’s a huge phenomenon there. They call it Hikikomori.’
‘Gosh, thanks, Nige,’ Bella commented. ‘But Sam isn’t Japanese.’
‘No, but the point I was making is that these guys aren’t depressed or anything, they just want a break from the world’s expectations.’
‘Well, Sam can’t have a break.’ Laura wanted to tear her hair out. ‘He’s got to find a job or do some volunteering or do something.’
‘I’ll see if I can track down a new game,’ Nigel offered helpfully, ‘that might tempt him up.’
Funnily enough, the thought of her son endlessly playing computer games suddenly seemed a good thing – at least, compared with staying in bed permanently.
Laura’s day just got better and better.
A letter arrived from Rowley Robinson advising her that Simon was pushing for a decree nisi which could mean he was definitely hoping for an order against the matrimonial home.
‘To sell it, you mean?’ she demanded as soon as she got Rowley on the phone.
‘I’m afraid so. We have a date for the court case, but I strongly recommend we negotiate. Only about one per cent of petitions actually make it to court. After twenty-five years, he’ll have to pay you a lump sum, even if you do sell the house.’
‘What about the new woman? She seems pretty successful. Maybe she can support him and I can keep the house.’
‘I’m afraid they’ve already thought of that one. Apparently she doesn’t intend to work once she has the baby.’
Bloody typical. ‘So you think we really will have to sell the house?’
‘I’m afraid it looks that way.’
Well, that should cheer Sam up.
Mr A had asked if she could work all day today and she was actually quite grateful. Even stacking shelves and shooing off shoplifting children was better than moping around the house. She wished Sam could see that.
She was just replenishing the Pot Noodles, one of LateExpress’s star sellers, and fantasizing about Suki comin
g in so that she could pelt her with cans of cut-price baked beans, when she saw a figure dodging in and out behind the confectionery. Suspecting another grab and run, a technique polished to perfection by the nimble-fingered school children, and which wouldn’t bring a blush to the cheeks of the Artful Dodger, Laura ran round the corner and collided with the figure of Ella, buttoned into a frogged Russian coat, carrying a bunch of roses.
‘I know you never want to speak to me again, but I’m sorry. Really, really, sorry.’
‘Twelve red roses sorry,’ commented Laura.
‘I could make it twenty-four,’ offered Ella sheepishly.
‘I just don’t understand how you could have done it.’
‘I was incredibly stupid and naïve. I honestly never thought anyone would read them. I mean, why should they? Who am I? Some retired old boot who lives in Old Moulsford. It’s not as if I’m Katie Price or Liz Hurley or someone who really wants to be in the spotlight.’ She handed over the roses. ‘And I always stuck up for you in my blogs.’
‘In future don’t even mention me. Or anyone who sounds like me.’
‘Agreed.’
The truth was, Laura didn’t think she could get by without Ella; Ella was a vital part of her support system. ‘OK, I’ll put you on probation.’ She opened her arms and Ella hugged her so tight she could hardly breathe.
‘I won’t abuse it, I promise.’
‘You’d better not. My son won’t get out of bed and my husband wants the house sold, and I need you to listen to me blubbing and NOT PUT IT IN YOUR BLOODY BLOG!!!!’
Claudia made a cup of coffee and thought about Don’s strange reaction last night. He had definitely been hiding something. She decided to have a furtive check of his laptop while he was out on another foray to his precious dump. He and the staff were all on first-name terms and last night he’d announced his goal that their household set itself a target of recycling every single bit of their rubbish!
Mutinously, Claudia threw the plastic milk container into the bin designed for compost.
Don’s laptop was just sitting beckoning at her from the other side of the kitchen. Claudia hesitated. She shouldn’t be doing this. She’d been burned before when Gaby was about twelve, opening her daughter’s diary and discovering in glowing detail how much she hated her mother.