‘Excellent. So let’s get this conversation back on track. Where was I? Oh yes, separate lives-’
‘Cass you’re making a mistake-’
‘No! Hear me out please. I need to be true to myself from now on. I don’t want any reconciliation. In fact,’ I took a deep breath, ‘I want a divorce.’
Chapter Four
Following my request for a divorce, Stevie’s immediate reaction was one of dismissal.
‘You’re not thinking properly Cass,’ he’d stormed. ‘When you’ve removed your brain from your backside we will resume discussing our future. A future together.’
Work provided a welcome distraction even if Morton Peck & Livingston’s staff were as much fun as a leaking roof. On the home front I had since owned up about my whereabouts between nine in the morning and three in the afternoon. Both children seemed relieved that I was out of the house every day and otherwise occupied. Another happy diversion came in the form of Jed who telephoned me on my mobile in Friday’s lunch hour.
‘Am I speaking to the gorgeous Cassandra?’
Swooning slightly, I squeaked confirmation into the handset.
‘I know it’s rather short notice, but I wondered if you’d like to go to the cinema this evening?’
I squeaked a bit more as mutual times were agreed. It was only after Jed had rung off that I realised a small matter of babysitting arrangements were outstanding.
Hastily I punched out Stevie’s mobile number.
‘Have you come to your senses yet regarding our reconciliation?’ he barked.
‘Er, no. Would you like to see the twins tonight while I go out?’
‘Are you asking me to babysit my own children?’ he asked incredulously.
I considered. ‘Yes.’
He sighed irritably. ‘Of course I’ll have them, but Cynthia is having a Girls’ Night In tonight. It might be better if I see them at home.’
Home. He still thought of our house as his home. It was inevitable that at some point we would need to get around to sorting out the house, its ownership, our belongings.
‘We still have talking to do,’ I ventured.
‘Damn right we do,’ Stevie huffed. ‘You need to stop and think carefully before making nonsensical demands like divorce.’
‘If you live in a glass house you shouldn’t throw stones.’
‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Did you ever stop and think carefully before permitting Cynthia Castle to strip you down to your socks and impale upon your person her PERMANENT DEPOSITS OF SUBCUTANEOUS FAT?’ my voice rose to a shriek.
There was a moment’s silence.
‘I’ll see you at seven,’ Stevie snapped before hanging up.
A hand lightly touched my shoulder. I looked up, cheeks pink with anger, to regard Mr Morton boggling at me.
‘Er, could you type this up Mrs Cherry?’
Blast and damnation. He must have heard everything. But did it really matter? Especially when Carmel telephoned with the good news of another booking next week for a law firm in nearby Boxleigh.
‘And you have made them aware about the part-time hours and the fact that half term is looming?’ I whispered into the handset.
‘The Personnel Officer is desperate to secure any sort of available assistance so I can promise it isn’t a problem,’ Carmel assured.
Before leaving Morton Peck & Livingston for the last time as a temporary employee, I made discreet enquiries via Reception as to who was the matrimonial solicitor. An appointment with Mr Livingston was pencilled into my diary.
Stevie turned up at six, an hour earlier than arranged and consequently caught me wearing just a bath towel and applying full party make-up.
‘Going out with Nell?’ he enquired.
‘No.’
When I failed to elaborate Stevie followed me into the bedroom, observing my indecisive wardrobe riffling.
‘Sorry, do you mind?’ I jerked my head toward the open door indicating he leave.
Ten minutes later I tiptoed downstairs in a cloud of perfume intent on blowing hasty kisses to the twins before scampering round the corner to wait for Jed. Stevie was watching television, a child tucked under each armpit. The bottom stair creaked and Livvy turned.
‘Wow, you look nice Mum.’
Stevie instantly disentangled himself from the children and followed me to the shoe cupboard.
‘Who did you say you were going out with?’
‘I didn’t,’ I said just as the doorbell rang.
Stevie got there first.
‘Er, hi. Is Cass there?’ I heard Jed ask.
I rammed my feet into a pair of stilettos.
‘Are you taking my wife out?’ Stevie spluttered.
‘Jed!’ I trilled, barging past Stevie. ‘How lovely to see you.’ My eyes were wide with unspoken meaning which I desperately hoped he would cotton on to. I turned back to my slack-jawed husband. ‘Back about midnight. Toodle-oo!’
As we drove off, Jeff gave me a side-long look.
‘Cass, I’m not getting into a tangled web am I?’
‘Not at all!’ I laughed shrilly. ‘That’s my ex. He’s simply seeing the children while I’m out. No big deal. We’re cool,’ I was appalled to find myself slipping into Toby-speak. Jed looked unconvinced.
The evening was blighted from the start. At the cinema we watched a romantic comedy, but all hopes of flirty hand holding were off the agenda. Afterwards we went to a little eatery which lacked any sort of atmosphere and reflected the widening chasm as Jed mentally distanced himself. I found myself jabbering nonsense to fill the silences. Flustered, I began to feel more and more upset.
When Jed dropped me home I was horrified to see Stevie silhouetted in the lounge window like a sentinel. After a few agonising seconds, Jed cleared his throat.
‘Cass, exactly how ex is your ex?’ he asked.
‘Well, you know, ex as in over and done with.’
‘But not divorced?’
‘Oh yes definitely. Well, you know, almost definitely. It’s just a matter of finalising things.’
‘So you’ve got your Decree Nisi?’
I bit my lip and didn’t answer.
Jed took a deep breath and contemplated his hands folded firmly in his lap.
‘Cass, I’m terribly sorry, but I’d rather steer clear until your husband is most definitely a fully fledged ex-husband.’
So that was that.
‘And you’ve got the nerve to bang on about my adultery!’ Stevie hissed as I drooped through the door.
‘I have not committed adultery with anybody,’ I snapped. ‘I’ve simply been out to dinner with a friend. Now please leave my house because I’m not in the mood for an argument.’
‘This is my house too Cass and don’t you bloody forget it.’
With that he snatched his jacket from where it lay over the banister and stomped off into the night, the door slamming behind him.
The following day I caught up with Nell who kindly agreed to look after the twins when I have my appointment with Mr Livingston, the matrimonial lawyer.
‘Are you sure about going through with a divorce?’ she asked placing a large mug of steaming coffee in front of me.
‘Absolutely. Stevie confessed to a list of conquests this long,’ I held up my hands indicating a gap of several feet. ‘The man could have given me an ST.’
Nell looked momentarily stumped. ‘Sanitary towel?’
‘No, you know, sexually transmitted lurgy stuff.’
‘Oh, right. That reminds me of a joke,’ she broke into a few guffaws.
I flashed a wounded look over the rim of my coffee cup.
‘I’m not taking the Mickey, honest. One of the teachers told me this one.’
I sighed. ‘Go on.’
‘Two guys are chatting over their pints together. One said to the other, “Did you get your test results from the doctor?” and the other guy morosely answered, “Yeah. Looks like all those years of phone s
ex has caught up with me. I’ve got Hearing Aids”.’ Nell paused expectantly. ‘Cue laughter,’ she prompted.
‘Sorry, I’m miserable at the moment.’
‘Then don’t divorce Stevie!’
‘I’m dejected because of something else.’
‘What?’
‘Do you remember that chap I met at Passé?’
‘The looker?’
‘Mm. Well, he took me out the other day and again last night.’
Nell instantly straightened on her stool. ‘Go on.’
‘And then he dumped me.’
‘Dumped you? But I thought you’d only just got acquainted?’
‘Yes, we had. But then he met Stevie.’
‘Why the devil did you introduce him to Stevie?’ she squawked.
I gave her the low down concluding with Jed disappearing over the horizon in his natty little sports car, never to be seen again.
‘I see,’ she considered. ‘Well, if the boot had been on the other foot Cass and you had driven to Jed’s only to find wifey waving him off, what would you have thought?’
Point taken I suppose.
‘Listen, I’m having a little dinner party in a couple of weeks. Why don’t you join us?’
‘No way. I’m not up for any of that being-paired-off-with-the-spare-berk-nonsense.’
‘He’s not a berk,’ she giggled.
‘Ah ha, so there is a spare man!
‘He’s a vicar, very nice and you’re coming.’
Time was passing quickly now that I was working. Suddenly I was once again donning my black suit, this time for Hempel Braithwaite along Boxleigh’s bustling high street.
The receptionist, in complete contrast to the last one, was a merry faced girl in her early thirties with a mass of brown bubbly curls haloing her head.
‘Can I help you?’ she smiled.
‘Hi, I’m the temp, Cassandra Cherry for Mrs Grace Herbert in Personal Injury.’
‘I’m Julia. Take a seat and I’ll let Grace know you’re here.’
As I sat down, I had an awful moment of déjà vu and fervently prayed Mrs Herbert wouldn’t be in the same mould as Mr Morton. Thankfully she wasn’t. Grace Herbert was a dear little apple dumpling of a lady with several chins, ample hips and ankles that folded over the sides of her sensible shoes. Mrs Herbert peered at me over pince-nez spectacles attached to silver chains as she extended a hand in greeting.
‘Hello my dear. I hate formality so do call me Grace. I just know we’re going to get on like a house on fire. Capricorn?’
‘Er, no, it’s Cassandra.’
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Julia stuff a fist in her mouth. She looked like a definite mate.
‘No dear, your birth sign.’
‘Oh! Yes, I believe so.’
‘Excellent!’ Grace beamed as she led me out of reception and along a corridor. ‘I get on extremely well with Capricorns.’
‘Jolly good,’ I smiled uncertainly.
Was that the only qualification required then? Never mind being able to type at one hundred and twenty words a minute or demonstrate a good telephone manner. Just make sure your birth sign was the goat and rest assured you were unlikely to lock horns with this particular solicitor. How eccentric.
The day went quickly and the work was – dare I say it – a piece of cake. Dictation was clear with impeccably given instructions so it was virtually impossible to make mistakes. My fingers whirled over the keys producing reams of printed documents and, as the hands of the clock nudged towards midday, I asked Grace if she would like a cup of coffee.
‘Ooh lovely dear. Three sugars please and put some of the sweet stuff in yours too. It’s very good for shock and I can tell you’ve had a few lately.’
Definitely eccentric.
I went off in search of the kitchen faintly amused. What did she know about my life?
All too soon it was time to get Livvy and Toby from school.
‘Cheerio dear. See you tomorrow. You go and see to those lovely twins of yours.’
‘Will do,’ I smiled.
I couldn’t wait to see my children’s happy faces as they spilled through the school gates with their friends. Swinging my handbag jauntily over my shoulder, I was half way across the car park before being brought up short. How did Grace Herbert know my children were twins? I stood stock still until a car tooted me out of its way. Oh how silly Cass! The agency must have told her. Of course.
But the following day Grace Herbert stunned me by making reference to the legal appointment with Morton Peck & Livingston. I was one hundred per cent positive I hadn’t mentioned anything about it in conservation. Her blue eyes twinkled over her little spectacles as she smiled mysteriously at me.
‘Sometimes I’m privy to certain information dear.’
I wasn’t at all sure I understood that comment.
Once home I telephoned Stevie to advise him of the impending appointment with the solicitor. I didn’t want him being unprepared for the letter that would duly plop through Cynthia’s letterbox.
He gave a sigh of resignation. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this Cass.’
‘Stevie please. I don’t want to start arguing. I just want to get on with my life.’
‘We don’t need to be divorced for you to get on with your life.’
I thought back to the fiasco with Jed.
‘I think it’s better this way.’
‘Are you absolutely sure this is what you want?’ he asked grimly.
I took a moment to desperately try and recapture just the smallest of sparks. Sadly there wasn’t even a splutter.
‘Quite sure.’
‘You won’t turn into one of those bitter and twisted women who withhold access or use children as an emotional weapon?’
‘Of course not!’ I retorted, deeply offended.
We then had a surprisingly amicable chat about finances. Stevie said he was prepared to sign over the entirety of the house to me on condition I accept only a small monthly payment for the twins. The mortgage was paid off two years ago so the house represented a solid amount of equity. If I drew upon my bond’s annual interest and continued temping, then financially things would be stable.
‘Tell this legal bod to keep it straightforward. I’m not messing around with solicitors myself, so just give me the paperwork, show me where to sign and we’ll split the bill. Agreed?’
I couldn’t say fairer than that.
As I approached Morton Peck & Livingston’s building the following afternoon, I repressed a shudder. Shouldering open the door, nothing had changed. What a dreary place.
‘Cuthbert Livingston, pleased to meet you Mrs Cherry.’
My solicitor shook my hand before indicating a chair opposite his desk. Dapper and with a warm manner, he was nothing like Mr Morton.
Nervously I sat down. While Mr Livingston selected a clean page on his scribble pad and searched for a functional biro, I glanced around his office. Fake wood panelling encased all four walls. Grey light filtered through dusty Venetian blinds. Battered filing cabinets lined the far end of the room. It was with a pang of sorrow that I realised the first steps to formally ending my marriage should end in such a gloomy room, in utter contradiction to the way it had all begun. A warm day, bathed in lemon sunshine, a young bride floating amidst a sea of white lace, tumbling hair sprinkled with a rainbow of confetti.
The receptionist suddenly barged in bearing a tea tray. With a jangle of cheap bracelets, she set down the regulation china and stale shortbread, simpered to Mr Livingston and even managed to bare her bleached teeth in my direction. Clearly paying clients were entitled to a free smile. I gave a chilly one in response.
After the best part of an hour outlining general divorce procedure and taking copious notes, Mr Livingston told me not to worry about anything and to leave matters in his capable hands.
‘Is that it then? Don’t you need any proof of adultery?’
‘Not at all Mrs Cherry. The days of private invest
igators jumping out of bedroom wardrobes and catching couples playing coitus are long over.’
‘I saw my husband and Cynthia Castle with my own eyes. Believe me Mr Livingston, neither of them were playing quoits.’
I continued to work at Hempel Braithwaite and found myself enjoying it. Julia, the receptionist, was definitely a new pal.
‘So how are you getting along with our Gracie then?’ she asked one lunchtime over a whiffy egg mayo bap.
‘Fine. She’s great to work with. Just a bit, oh I don’t know-’
‘Weird?’
‘A little,’ I admitted. ‘She seems to know an awful lot about me and my personal circumstances, but I’m at a loss to understand how.’
‘She’s known as Godly Grace in the firm.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she’s psychic.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ I guffawed and promptly choked on a crumb. Julia thumped my back until I could breathe again. ‘You mean,’ I croaked, larynx struggling for complete recovery, ‘that she wraps a shawl around her head, pops a pair of gold hoops in her earlobes and then consults a crystal ball?’
‘Sort of, but without the props.’
‘Oh don’t be ridiculous. You don’t believe all that mumbo-jumbo do you?’
‘I’m telling you Cass, Grace Herbert could probably tell you what colour knickers you’re wearing and when you last bonked your husband.’
Even I didn’t know what colour underwear I’d hurriedly pulled from my knicker drawer earlier this morning. Grotty Grey probably. And as for when I’d last – well it was unthinkable.
‘Gracious,’ I eventually replied.
‘Gracious Grace,’ Julia giggled. ‘Ask her to give you a reading some time. She’s really rather good.’
As another working week drew to a close the Personnel Officer, Susannah Harrington, summoned me to her room. Tall and thin with a beaky nose, iron grey hair and coal black eyes, she wouldn’t have looked out of place as the Governess of a female prison. Susannah was, in fact, absolutely charming but her officious presence automatically reduced me to check stockings for ladders and fingernails for dirt.
Timidly I tapped upon her door.
‘Come,’ a voice boomed from within. ‘Don’t look so scared Cassandra,’ she chided as I scuttled over to her desk. ‘This isn’t a disciplinary hearing. In fact,’ she rearranged some paperwork and then switched her telephone to voicemail, ‘I want to praise you.’ She smiled and the austere features instantly softened.
STOCKINGS AND CELLULITE Page 6