Tickled Pink

by Christina Jones

  ‘Jenny, it’s Lola. I wondered if you were doing anything this afternoon? Oh, right. No, no, of course I understand. No, I’m fine . . .’

  She punched out another number.

  ‘Sheila? Is Mike playing golf today? I wondered if you’d like to – oh, no, well, of course . . . What? No, it was nothing. Yes, next week sometime. I’ll ring you . .

  The third number rang and rang. There was no reply.

  Her married girlfriends had been wonderful in their efforts to make sure she wasn’t left in isolation for too long, but they had their husbands, their children, to consider. They had normal family lives which couldn’t be put on hold every time she felt the desperation of her loss.

  Hurling the phone into the pile of cream and gold cushions on the sofa, Lola poured a huge gin and tonic, picked up the Sunday supplements, and headed for the bedroom.

  The following afternoon, having crossed Swansbury’s busy High Street, Lola approached the granite portals of Everton and Simpkins, Solicitors, with a feeling of some trepidation.

  ‘Ms Wentworth for Mr Everton,’ she announced herself to the receptionist. ‘We have an appointment at three.’

  ‘He’s expecting you. I’ll let him know you’re here.’

  Lola waited, savouring the warmth as the intercom call was made, and eventually Toby Everton appeared in the doorway. They shook hands and made murmuring introductory noises.

  Lola was pretty sure that Toby Everton wouldn’t have remembered her from Nigel’s funeral. She’d kept a very low profile, sitting at the back of the crematorium, stifling her sobs, then slipping away before the huge swell of mourners had shuffled out into the gentle rain to admire the floral tributes.

  Her grieving, by necessity, had been done very much in private. The privilege of the public outpouring of grief had fallen, naturally, to Barbara. Barbara and Nigel had been unhappily married for more than forty years when the cardiac arrest had cut the union mercifully short in the middle of a Rotary Club Dinner Dance.

  Whether anyone else from Marionette Biscuits knew or cared that it was Lola’s heart that had been broken, was immaterial. Barbara was Mrs Biscuit, and as such, received the sympathy vote.

  ‘Thank you for coming along at such short notice.’ In his beige office, Toby Everton indicated a beige chair placed dead centre between two yucca plants. ‘Can I get you a drink? Tea?’

  Lola shook her head. She just wanted to get this meeting over with. Nigel had never discussed his will with her, and she’d assumed the bequests had been made public months ago. Maybe there had been a codicil, something private, just for her. Not that she wanted nor needed Nigel’s money. She lived in the flat which Nigel had bought outright, was still working full-time at Marionette Biscuits, and the building society savings plus her private pension plan would eventually see her through her old age.

  A small keepsake, though, something personal of Nigel’s, would be a different matter altogether. Maybe he’d left her his watch, or his collection of framed cricketing hero cigarette cards, or his Gilbert and Sullivan CDs. To have any of those things which had been so much a part of the man she would love forever, would be wonderful.

  Their affair had never been financial; a future apart never discussed. It had simply never occurred to Lola that death would manage to achieve in a matter of minutes what Barbara had failed to manage in a lifetime.

  ‘Very well,’ Toby Everton made a pyramid of his fingers. ‘I have worked, as I’m sure you’ll be aware, for the Marion family for some time. Nigel’s death was a blow to us all. The affairs of the estate were convoluted, and probate being granted has taken some time. There is no easy way of saying this, Ms Wentworth, so I won’t prolong it. I have been asked to approach you by Mrs Barbara Marion, Nigel’s widow, regarding your position.’

  Lola shivered. Her face, however, used to wearing a mask of indifference, gave nothing away. ‘Really? And which position would that be?’

  Toby gave a wry smile. ‘I don’t think that Nigel was quite as discreet as he believed he was. Your, um, relationship has been common knowledge to Mrs Marion and her children for some considerable time.’ Lola felt the shock jolt through her as though someone had just wired the uncomfortable beige chair to the mains. Sensing the tears welling inside her nose again, she swallowed quickly, still managing to keep the mask in place. Weeping in private was one thing, but she’d vowed there would never be tears in public.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘Ms Wentworth, we both know what I mean. You and Nigel were having an affair for almost thirty years. It suited Barbara not to make a fuss. After all, she had the status of being the legal spouse, and all the benefits thereby accrued, and wanted to retain them. However, things have now very obviously changed. It is my duty to inform you that your position at Marionette Biscuits is to be terminated forthwith

  ‘No!’ Lola rocked forward on the chair, almost colliding with one of the yucca plants. ‘She can’t do that! She can’t sack me!’

  ‘I’m afraid she can. Mrs Marion has inherited all the Marionette Biscuits factories under the terms of the will, and, having been granted probate, intends to dispose of them immediately. She has already found a buyer for the Swansbury premises and land. The new owners will not be continuing with biscuit production. A skeleton staff will stay on until the handover, but you will not be required.’

  Lola’s head swam dizzily throughout this legalese. Only one thing was clear. She no longer had a job. No job . . . Without Nigel life had been unbearably lonely, but at least going into the office each day, to the place they’d shared for so long, made him closer somehow, and his loss slightly easier to bear. But now – not working at Marionette Biscuits? Not working at all?

  She was only forty-nine! What on earth was she going to do with the rest of her life? No Nigel, no job ... She might as well have died with him . . . In those lonely dark hours while being visited by the four-in-the-morning horrors, she often wished she had. There was nothing left for her without him.

  She groped in her handbag for a tissue, ducking her crumpled face away from Toby Everton’s professional gaze. This was too awful to take in. All the pain of losing Nigel swamped her again, and she suddenly missed him so much that she couldn’t breathe.

  Sucking in steadying gulps of air, she raised her head. ‘I, er, don’t know what to say. I would have thought that this, um, wasn’t a matter for a solicitor . . she stopped, fumbling for thoughts, stumbling over words. ‘What I mean is, surely if the factory is being sold, I would just be informed of my redundancy along with the other employees, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘But you’re not like the other employees, are you, Ms Wentworth?’ Toby Everton rolled smoothly on, obviously used to dealing with tearful clients and making no comment. ‘You are very, very different.’

  Lola felt the misery trickle down her spine. She had never been ashamed of being the other woman in Nigel’s life. She’d been a good mistress, fitting her own life around his, always understanding when the family’s demands had to come first. She’d spent solo Christmases and birthdays for as long as she could remember, and had never, ever once phoned Nigel at home, or begged for more of his time, or embarrassed him in any way.

  Their time together had been blissful, and Lola had always been more than happy to settle for those precious shared moments. At work they had been professional and were sure that successive Marionette Biscuits employees were unaware of their private status. However, it seemed that Barbara had known all the time, and for whatever reason had decided to keep her own counsel – until now.

  Lola leaned forward, pulling her green wool dress down until it almost covered her knees. Her clothes were always uncluttered, her hair was bobbed and blonde, her body slender and toned. She’d had plenty of free time and money to make sure her physical standards never slipped. Suddenly it was desperately important that Toby Everton didn’t think she was all the things she knew she’d been called – slapper, a bit on the side, a heartless t
art, a husband-stealer.

  ‘I loved Nigel deeply. He loved me. We fell in love. That’s all. I never wanted to hurt Bar— Mrs Marion.’

  Toby nodded, his eyes gentle. ‘I know, Ms Wentworth. I was Nigel’s friend as well as his solicitor. You made him very happy. He adored you. I’m in no position to judge on moral issues, nor would I want to. What I do have to do is present you with the legal facts.’

  Lola stared over Toby Everton’s head and watched the white January sky reflect across Swansbury’s rooftops. When she’d regained control, she looked at him again. ‘Very well. Thank you. I understand that my job has gone, which is something of a shock. At my age I’m probably unemployable, but no doubt I can retrain. Or work from home or –’

  ‘This is the difficult part,’ Toby fiddled with his tie. ‘With regard to your accommodation. There are complications on this issue, too.’

  ‘Complications? I’m sorry, I must be very dense, but I don’t understand –’

  Toby Everton’s voice was quiet, as if by lowering the cadence he could soften the blow. ‘Ms Wentworth, I’m afraid you no longer have a home.’

  Lola felt loneliness and despair swamp her. All the private tears suddenly threatened to become very public. Her voice wobbled. ‘I may not have got a job, Mr Everton, but I certainly have a home. Of course I have. I’ve got the flat, at Swansbury Water, one of the apartments by the river –’

  ‘Your name is not on the deeds.’

  ‘No, I know, although I’m sure Nigel did offer. It was his property. But I’ve always lived there. We’d, that is, I’d, always imagined that one day, we’d live there together. Openly.’ She sighed. ‘I didn’t want the flat to be in my name, like a gift. Foolish, I know. But it was really important that I didn’t take more from Nigel than I could give back, you see. I lived in his flat because the arrangement suited us both. We’d always said we’d change the ownership details one day . . .’ Lola sat back rigidly in the chair, the realization slowly dawning. ‘You mean it’s Barbara’s flat now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that means –’

  ‘Unfortunately, Ms Wentworth, it means that the Marion family want, and can legally have because you aren’t even an official tenant, immediate vacant possession.’

  This time Lola didn’t even try to hide the tears.

  Toby poured her a glass of water. ‘Do you have savings? Somewhere else you can go?’

  Ignoring the glass, Lola clawed at mental lifelines and immediately discarded them. There was nothing. Only the pathetic building society account. Oh, why hadn’t she been more prudent with her money? – and the pension plan which wouldn’t kick in for another eleven years. There was nothing else. She was jobless and homeless and broke. And worse, far worse, was that every link with Nigel was being severed at a stroke. Barbara Marion had taken her revenge.

  Standing shakily outside Everton and Simpkins offices, vaguely aware of the swish of traffic a few inches in front of her, Lola tried to clear her brain. Tried to think of what she should do next. What, if anything, she could do to salvage the situation.

  She couldn’t go back to the Marionette office, that was certain. The news of the closure would have been broken by now. She couldn’t bear to see the faces of the colleagues she’d shared her working life with for so long, looking shell-shocked and shattered as the realization of the redundancies sank in. There wasn’t even any point in clearing her desk. There was nothing there that she’d need in the future.

  The future? What future? What future was there for a homeless woman of nearly fifty who knew of nothing but the sales and marketing and promotion of fancy biscuits?

  She stepped into the road, and was immediately accosted by the blaring of a dozen horns. Leaping back on to the pavement, she glared at the drivers. She really didn’t care if she was run over – as long as they made a decent job of it. Finished her off. She wouldn’t want to spend months being hospitalized, then discharged to – where? – a hostel for the unloved and unwanted?

  Despite everything, Lola smiled to herself at the notion. She had never truly looked on the half-empty-glass side of life, not even after Nigel’s death. She wasn’t suicidal – just grieving. And shocked. And desperately lonely. Crossing the road more carefully, she acknowledged to herself that many people, not knowing the circumstances, would say that she’d got her just deserts. That any woman who knowingly stole another woman’s husband deserved to be humiliated and left with nothing.

  Only she hadn’t stolen Nigel, had she? Merely shared a small and wonderful part of his life. He’d remained with Barbara because of the children, and then later when they’d grown up because he felt guilty, and all Lola had done was snatch blissful moments to make him happy. As he’d made her. And now, she thought, miserably clambering into the hatchback in the riverside car park, she’d never be happy again.

  She drove through Swansbury and back to the flat on autopilot, giving herself a stern mental talking-to. Her happiness wasn’t an issue here, she decided, as she unlocked her front door, probably for the last time. Happiness was pure self-indulgence – and something that she’d think about later – like Scarlett O’Hara. Right now the only thing on the agenda must be damage limitation and survival.

  The sight of the flat now, under the awful new circumstances, brought the grief rushing back in. Every item of furniture, every small ornament, had a Nigel-memory poignantly attached. Was she supposed to leave everything behind for Nigel’s family? Did Barbara not only have a right to the apartment, but also to the squashy sofas and the reclining chairs and the beautiful Indian coffee tables?

  Still numbed, Lola pulled her suitcases from the wardrobe, poured a treble gin with a splash of tonic, and picked up the phone.

  Two hours later, Jenny, Sheila and Mo, her married girlfriends, sat in the middle of the mayhem. They’d rushed to her aid as soon as they could. Their loyalty had made her cry again. They’d formed a sort of rescue chain, taking it in turns to pack her possessions, refill her glass and pass the Kleenex box.

  ‘Isn’t there any way you can fight this?’ Jenny sat on one of the bulging suitcases. ‘You know, go for a stay of execution or something?’

  Lola shook her head. ‘Toby Everton said not. There’s no point. I have no legal rights at all. I’d have had more rights if I’d been a squatter. The flat is part of the estate and the entire estate went to Barbara.’

  Sheila frowned. ‘So where will you go? Oh, I know we’ve all offered you a bed short-term, but I mean . . . Haven’t you got any family at all?’

  Lola nursed her gin and stared out of the open glass doors, across the balcony, and watched the low January sun dripping silver stars into the estuary. An only child, her parents had died years ago. There’d been a couple of elderly aunts, both now in nursing homes, and her Cousin Mimi whom she hated.

  ‘I’ve got a cousin in Somerset, but there’s no way that she’d help. She made her feelings very clear about me and Nigel years ago. I think her own husband has played away on and off throughout their marriage. She was never going to look kindly on me being the Other Woman.’

  Jenny, Sheila and Mo said nothing. Lola knew that they had a certain sympathy with Cousin Mimi’s point of view. She honestly couldn’t blame them.

  ‘Why don’t you ring her anyway?’ Mo suggested. ‘Sod the facts, just say you’ve got some time off, you’re going to be in her neck of the woods, want to visit to make amends. You know the sort of thing.’

  ‘She’ll pretend to be a Latvian au pair or something as soon as she knows it’s me. She won’t want me within corrupting distance of her Howard.’ Lola sighed. ‘In fact I’m pretty sure she thinks it’s like a disease. That I’m genetically programmed to pinch married men.’

  ‘Try it,’ Jenny scrambled from the suitcase and handed her the phone. ‘It’ll be better than nothing. Two weeks in Somerset will give you time to think. Time to plan ...’

  Lola took the phone but didn’t punch out Mimi’s number. She didn’t want Jenny
and Sheila and Mo to see her humiliated further. ‘I’ll do it later. When she’s had supper and is feeling more mellow. Now, is there any more gin?’

  Cousin Mimi was anything but mellow, even after supper. Her voice, squawking like a wet hen down the telephone line, made Lola hold the receiver away from her ear and wince. Jenny, Sheila and Mo had returned to their families, insisting that Lola told them the minute she knew where and when she was going. It had taken several more gin and tonics before she’d been brave enough to contact Mimi. Now she wished she hadn’t bothered.

  After five minutes of pure vitriol spouted re men who cheated on their wives, tarts who pinched other women’s men, the government’s lax approach to morality, and the state of the adulterous nation in general, Mimi finally ran out of steam.

  ‘So,’ Lola said, ‘I take it that you don’t want me to visit.’

  ‘Well, if you’re in the area, I suppose you could pop in . . .’

  ‘It would only be for a couple of weeks . . .’

  ‘A couple of weeks! You mean you’d want to sleep here?’

  ‘That was the general idea, yes. And I promise I won’t wander about the house in provocative underwear or try to lure Howard into the spare bedroom with promises of tantric passion.’

  ‘Howard isn’t here.’ Mimi’s voice was icy. ‘He’s away for a month. Trouble in Geneva.’

  Lola smiled to herself. Over the years there had conveniently been trouble in some distant enclave that couldn’t be sorted without Howard’s personal and lengthy intervention. ‘Oh, right, so in that case you’ll be glad of some company, won’t you?’

  Mimi’s pause wasn’t flattering. ‘Well, I suppose so. Just as long as you pay the going rate. We’re a tourist spot, you know. We’re on the Super Somerset list.’

  ‘I’m more than willing to pay my way, Mimi. And January is hardly high season, is it? I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.’