‘Shall I make a cup of tea?’ asked Tom. Everybody made tea in a crisis. In Coronation Street somebody was always putting the kettle on.
‘Yes please son.’
Tom filled the kettle and found a mug. He felt so guilty. He didn’t know what to say to his father, so stood in silence as the kettle boiled. How had everything gone so terribly wrong? Up until now Tom had cruised effortlessly through school and life in general. He was clever, good looking and popular. The girls loved him. Sixth Form was over. Uni awaited. Summer stretched ahead. One hot day blended into another. Sleep late. Hang out with mates. Meet up with a girl. Bring girl home. Sleep with girl. Sleep late. Repeat. Every day had been more or less the same. Until today.
Tom knew roughly where things had started to go wrong. Unlike his mates who dated Sixth Form girls, Tom had set his cap at the Over Twenties. Women rather than girls. Females who weren’t looking for long-term love. An older woman knew Tom wasn’t remotely suitable as a long-term love interest. He was a student and would be penniless for at least another four years. Older women didn’t seek young men like Tom for permanency. They wanted security. Rocks they could lean upon. Rely upon. Whereas Tom was like a boat drifting at sea. Unanchored. However, older women who already had rocks but wanted thrills definitely sought out young men like Tom. There had been so many older women in such a short space of time. Tom had met them all over the place. In the shopping malls. In coffee shops. At concerts. In the library. Even at school! Hell, even Rachel Gardner, his drama teacher, had shown interest in him. Okay, they were co-writing a drama together for Amateur Dramatics, but Tom knew Rachel wasn’t happily married. Now he was no longer her student at school, she’d been bending his ear. Gauging his reaction. Letting him know she was available. He might have followed it up if his parents hadn’t warned Rachel off.
Tom had watched his mates hook up with sixteen year olds. Such girls drove Tom nuts, giggling about engagement rings and being teenage mums. Even the more studious seventeen and eighteen year olds who were university bound didn’t appeal. They still wanted commitment of some sort. Somebody to refer to as my boyfriend. Somebody to go shopping with. Tom had listened to his mates moaning about Saturday morning visits to Top Shop. Hanging about bored witless while their girlfriends went in and out of changing rooms.
‘What do you think of this Connor? Do I look fat? Thin? Pear shaped? Are you even listening to me?’
They carried on like married couples. And Tom didn’t want to behave like a married person when he was only eighteen. His mates only tolerated it for a regular leg over. Tom wanted someone. But he wasn’t sure who. And when the germ of an idea had started to take shape in his mind, he’d been so horrified that he’d panicked. Shoving the idea away, Tom had decided upon a compromise. Leg overs with women who fundamentally left you alone. And things had worked out well. The few weeks with Florrie had been the most perfect relationship of all. Pregnant with another man’s child she’d been more interested in using Tom as a shoulder to cry on. She wasn’t looking for a replacement father for her unborn child. After being badly let down, she wanted a relationship with strictly no strings. Rachel would have been good too. Tom could have given her the attention she craved. Made her feel that she wasn’t just a boring mummy, but a yummy mummy. And when Rachel’s confidence had been restored, she would have returned to her unsuspecting husband with more enthusiasm for him and their marriage. Amanda had been Florrie’s replacement. Things would have jogged along quite happily for the next few days or weeks if Amanda’s husband hadn’t found out.
Tom had met her in the High Street. They’d both been texting as they walked, eyes on screens rather than ahead. When they’d crashed into each other, she’d fallen off her towering heels and sprawled painfully across the pavement. Tom had helped her up. He’d led her, hobbling, into McDonalds. While her bruises recovered, they’d had a milkshake and started chatting. Tom had noted the gold wedding band on the woman’s finger. It came to his attention primarily because of a whopping diamond sitting above it. The overhead lighting glinted off it, almost dazzling his eyes.
‘That’s pretty,’ Tom had caught her hand.
‘My husband likes to spoil me,’ she’d smirked.
‘He must be very well off.’ Youth permitted him to be crass.
‘He is. He owns a string of fitness clubs. In fact that’s why I’m here.’
‘What, in McDonalds?’ Tom had joked.
‘No silly. In the High Street. I’ve just been checking out an empty commercial property. My husband is looking for something suitable to do a conversion.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought this mangy High Street was the place for a posh spa,’ Tom had said.
‘Oh not a spa. A gym. Well, wrestling to be precise. My husband used to wrestle professionally. Now he trains budding amateurs.’
‘I see,’ Tom had said. ‘Why did he stop wrestling professionally?’
‘He retired from the ring a long time ago,’ the woman had said. When Tom had looked perplexed, she’d smiled. ‘He’s a lot older than me. Fifty-eight to be precise. I’m twenty-six.’
The moment the woman had mentioned gyms and wrestling, Tom’s brain had pictured muscular six packs, sweat and stamina. So what if her hubby was fifty-eight. He wasn’t a weed. And if the guy was fifty-eight, that also explained why the woman was starting to bat her eyelashes at Tom. She liked her lifestyle and didn’t want change. But she was perfectly up for extra-marital fun.
‘My name’s Amanda by the way. And I think you should give me your mobile number,’ she’d looked up at him under her eyelashes.
Bingo. But Tom’s antenna had been up and he’d been aware of a bad vibe, a warning bell ringing incessantly. He wasn’t usually cautious, but this time he decided to be. Probably something to do with her old man being an ex-wrestler.
‘Well Amanda,’ he’s smiled, ‘I am very pleased to meet you. And my name is Si.’
Chapter Thirty Seven
After June had said goodnight to Steph and Si, she’d been about to return to Harry when the telephone had rung. June was delighted to hear Arnold’s voice.
‘I hope I’m not ringing too late,’ Arnold apologised.
‘Not at all,’ said June. ‘I’ve just said good-bye to my guests and now I have lots of washing up to do.’
‘Ah yes. Your dinner party. How did it go?’
June hesitated. The nice thing about Arnold was that she could be truthful. ‘Appalling.’
‘Oh dear. Did your friend not appreciate your advice about the weekend to Brighton?’
June flushed. Correction. The nice thing about Arnold was that she could almost be truthful. ‘Er, I didn’t manage to address the matter with him. I mean her. Harriett. Other events took over.’
‘Well don’t let it trouble you June. I was just phoning to say that I saw Bridget earlier. We had a chat about the rambling weekend. Bridget said there’s plenty of room for you and Ralph. She’d like to know if you’re definitely up for it so she can let the boarding house know.’
June hesitated. How to mention money? ‘Is it expensive?’
Arnold chuckled. ‘This is The Old Cumbrian Boarding House. Not the Ritz. Think youth hostel. Very basic but extremely cosy. Wholesome meals but cheap. Bangers and mash. Fish and chips. That sort of thing. You’re looking at fifty quid all in plus a tenner towards the mini-bus.’
June heaved a sigh of relief. ‘In that case Ralph and I are definitely coming.’
‘Excellent. I’ll let Bridget know right now. I’ll say good-bye so you can have your chat with Harriett.’
‘Er, yes. And thank you Arnold. Thank you very much.’
June hung up the phone. She smiled to herself. A weekend with new friends! And one of them was Arnold. How very nice.
‘Juney?’ Harry called from the living room. ‘Can you help me?’
June’s smile faded. She went into the lounge. Harry was still sitting at the table. He’d finished all the wine. His eyes were glazed.
‘I told you,’ said Harry petulantly. ‘I can’t possibly drive after your neighbour stamped all over my foot.’
June privately thought that even if Steph hadn’t trodden on Harry’s foot, he still wouldn’t have been able to drive due to drinking too much and being over the limit. She was annoyed that he’d presumed to spend the night without asking.
‘Who was that on the phone? I heard you mention the name Arnold.’
‘That’s right. Arnold is a friend.’
Harry looked irritated. ‘A male friend! What did he want?’
‘I’m away with a rambling group next weekend. Arnold was ringing to firm up arrangements.’
‘Next weekend!’ spluttered Harry. ‘But that’s the weekend we’re going to Brighton. You’d better ring this Arnold person back immediately. Tell him you can’t go. Honestly Juney, you might have checked with me first.’
‘Actually Harry, I think you should have checked with me first.’
Harry puffed out his cheeks. He looked extremely put out. ‘I suppose I can get my money back. Help me up the stairs Juney.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Firstly I want to use the bathroom. Secondly I want to go to bed. Your bedroom isn’t Brighton, but I suppose we can still have a good time.’
June pursed her lips. ‘Harry, you’re not staying the night in my bed.’
‘Why ever not?’
June sat down at the dining table. ‘Look Harry. We’ve been having great fun with the salsa classes and had some nice dates. But I’ve barely known you a fortnight. I need time to think about this Harry.’
‘At our age Juney we haven’t got time! What is it you want? Some long, old-fashioned courtship?’
‘Yes!’ said June.
‘But whatever for? I’ve bought you champagne. We’ve watched the sun set. Let’s move on to the next bit. Come here Juney. Let me run my hands through your hair. Kiss your rose petal lips.’
At the mention of Harry wanting to kiss her, June recoiled. No thanks. Not if it was anything like the last time.
‘I’ll go and make up the spare bed Harry.’
June left Harry opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish. She could have done without this. Rootling around in the airing cupboard, she pulled out a duvet and shook out fresh sheets. Ten minutes later she helped Harry up the stairs. June showed him the bathroom and pointed to the spare room.
‘I’ll leave you to sort yourself out Harry. I must get on with the washing up and let Ralph out.’
June turned on her heel and went back downstairs. She let Ralph out into the garden and then busied herself with dirty dishes. The evening, designed to showcase Harry as suitable fiancé material to Steph and Si, had ended up showcasing Harry only to her. And June now knew that Harry was not fiancé material. Yes he had a detached house, a lovely car and a solid pension. And he had been magnanimous splashing his money on champagne and wanting to take her to Brighton to stay in hotels that had four poster beds. But what Harry didn’t have was a generous personality. He’d been over familiar with Steph, condescending to dear Si and far too pushy with her. June felt as though everything Harry did was to secure one purpose. Getting her into bed. She rinsed the last plate and left everything to dry overnight in the draining rack. June decided that it might be time to cool things off with Harry. The only couplings she wanted with him were on the dance floor.
June let Ralph back in, locked up and turned off the kitchen light. Ralph bounced up the stairs ahead of her. June walked along the landing. The spare room door was closed. Thank goodness. Harry had gone to bed. Relief flooded over her. She pushed open the door to her bedroom. And then stopped dead in her tracks. For there, in her bed, was Harry. In all his naked glory.
Chapter Thirty Eight
Steph ran up the stairs. Locking herself in the bathroom, she let the tears flow. Was there anybody else in Jessamine Terrace who’d had a day like hers? She’d bet her last lottery pound that there wasn’t. Today she’d found her husband naked in another woman’s garden, provided street theatre to a bunch of dustmen, endured a pensioner groping her and now this! Finding Si beaten up in their own hallway had been a shock. Discovering Si had apparently committed adultery with a woman called Amanda was the greatest blow of all. Steph sat on the loo seat and put her head in her hands. It was too much. She was crying so hard she was having trouble breathing. She pulled a ribbon of tissue paper off the loo holder. Scrunching it up, she blew her nose. Steph didn’t recognise her husband any more. It had been difficult enough believing Si about Dawn. But she’d been prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. But now, another woman had popped up on the scene. And this time Si could offer no explanation. Huh! More like he’d run out of crazy excuses. How many women was he seeing? Was this the first time he’d been unfaithful? The second? Third? Was he having some sort of mid-life crisis? Steph pressed the soggy toilet paper to her eyes in an attempt to stem the tears. Bits of tissue stuck to her eyelashes and face. She didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything anymore. She just wanted to dig a great big hole, jump in and disappear forever.
There was a knock on the bathroom door.
‘Go away!’ she shrieked.
‘It’s me. Tom. Open the door Mum. Please.’
‘No. Leave me alone.’
‘Dad’s innocent Mum. You have to believe me.’
Steph stopped crying. Innocent! What would Tom know about his father’s innocence? Maybe if Tom had seen Si with Dawn in her birthday suit he’d think again. A red mist suddenly shrouded her brain. Furious, she reared up from the toilet like a sea monster from hell. Unlocking the bathroom door, she flung it open.
Tom shrank back from the blotchy vision before his eyes.
‘You’re still a child Tom. Despite your romantic forays into the adult world, you know nothing. Trust me.’
‘I know that Dad’s innocent.’
Calm suddenly descended over Steph. An unnatural calm. One that comes before a storm. ‘And how would you know that your father is innocent?’
Tom gulped. ‘Because it was me having the fling with Amanda.’
‘Nice try son.’
‘But it’s true!’
‘The only trouble is,’ Steph enunciated through clenched teeth, ‘your name is Tom Garvey. Not Si Garvey. So don’t try and cover up for your father.’ She could feel herself getting wild about the eyes.
‘But I’m not! I told Amanda my name was Si. I knew she was married and I–’ Tom looked shamefaced, ‘I lied. I lied because if her husband found out, he wouldn’t be able to come after me.’
Steph threw back her head and laughed. It was a horrible sound. The cackle of a madwoman. That was appropriate. She felt quite deranged. ‘BOLLOCKS!’ she shrieked.
Tom took a step back. He’d never heard his mother swear before, much less say bollocks. ‘I’m telling you Mum. Straight up. Dad took my pasting.’
‘I don’t believe you Tom. You’re a clever boy. You’re off to university. If you had given a false name to this Amanda person, you’d surely give any name other than your father’s. So nice try. But stop covering for him. And keep out of this. It’s between me and your Dad.’
Tom opened his mouth as if to say something. Instead he just shook his head and shrugged in resignation. He went to his room. Seconds later his door closed.
Steph was desperate to talk to somebody. To hell with it. She’d ring Shirley. So what if Shirley gossiped to all the other Tesco staff. It would come out sooner or later wouldn’t it? They’d all look at Steph as she went about her business. Pitying looks while she stacked shelves and scanned goods. Ah, poor Steph. There she goes. The most betrayed woman in Blackfen. Her husband is a right goer. Not one but two women. Although by the time Shirley had finished gossiping, the Tesco girls would believe Si had ten women on the go. Steph stifled a sob. No. Not Shirley. She headed down the stairs. Si was still sitting at the
kitchen table, clutching the frozen peas. Except they were now soggy. He looked up as she came into the kitchen.
‘Love? Come and talk to me.’ Si held out a hand.
‘Don’t you call me love,’ Steph hissed. ‘I’m not your love. And don’t you dare try and get Tom to cover up for you.’
‘What?’
‘You heard.’ Steph snatched up her laptop from the kitchen table. ‘I’m going to bed. And you can spend the night on the sofa. Unless you want to clear off to Dawn’s. Or Amanda’s. Or whoever else you’re bonking.’
‘Steph–’
Steph stomped up the stairs clutching her laptop. The tears began flowing again. She wiped the back of one hand across her eyes and went into the bedroom. Chucking the laptop onto the bed, she quickly changed into her nightdress. Slipping under the covers, she fired up the laptop and logged on to Facebook. A message from Barry Hastings. Steph inwardly groaned. Whatever Barry had thought of her crazy message, she was about to find out. She had her ‘hacked account’ excuse at the ready.
Dear Steffy. I am so sorry about your marital woes. You can confide in me any time you like. Why don’t we meet up and have dinner. Let me spoil you. My treat. I’m available tomorrow evening. Here’s my mobile number again. Call me. Right now.
It wasn’t yet ten o’clock. Most people were still awake at this hour. This time Steph didn’t hesitate. Her handbag was by the bed. Rummaging inside, she extracted her mobile phone. And pressed the numbers that would connect her to Barry Hastings.
Chapter Thirty Nine
Si chucked the packet of soggy peas in the pedal bin. He felt lousy. On top of everything else June’s chilli chicken casserole was playing havoc with his guts. Si turned off the kitchen light. He needed headache pills. And the bathroom. Not necessarily in that order. Wincing with every step, he went up the stairs. All was quiet in Tom’s room. He could hear Steph on the phone. No doubt she was bending somebody’s ear. Telling them what a dreadful husband she had. He hoped she wasn’t moaning to his father-in-law. Si had always had the feeling he’d been a disappointment in the son-in-law stakes. That Steph had married beneath her station. His in-laws would have preferred their daughter to have wed a banker. Or a property developer. Somebody flashy. Like that Barry Hastings.
Flings and Arrows Page 14