‘Euan?’ she mimicked.
The previous background babble had become a highly charged silence with all eyes firmly on table eleven.
‘Who are you and what do you want?’ I quavered.
‘I’ll tell you exactly who I am,’ the woman waggled a polished talon at me which she then prodded me hard in the shoulder with.
‘I’m his wife. Got it? His wife. And what I want-’
prod prod
‘Is for you-’
prod prod
‘To get your claws-’
prod prod
‘Out of my husband-’
prod prod
‘You WHORE!’
And with that she lunged at the ice bucket and slung a load of freezing slush over my head. Before I’d even managed to react, my dinner plate had been flipped into my lap.
There was a collective gasp around the restaurant followed by an electrified buzz as diners began nudging each other. The waiters gathered into a five strong group and frogmarched the raving redhead off the premises. Chuntering broke out with disgusted looks being tossed my way. For make no mistake, the crowd’s sympathy was firmly with the wronged wife.
‘You lied to me!’
Nothing like stating the obvious.
Euan didn’t look up or even answer. I dabbed ineffectually at my hair with a sodden tissue. Fortunately the congealed mess in my lap had collected in the linen napkin spread over my thighs. With shaking hands I dumped it on the table. Mustering the vestiges of my dignity, I strode out of both the restaurant and Euan’s life.
Throughout the ensuing week I deliberately kept myself busy in the evenings, painting the newly plastered kitchen. As I viciously rollered emulsion across the ceiling I kept hearing Euan’s wife’s angry diatribe playing in my head. She’d called me a whore. I wasn’t a whore, but by God she’d made me feel like one. My mind flew back to the night I had discovered Cynthia Castle with Stevie. I felt tarred with the same brush. Cheap.
‘What’s for dinner Mum?’ Toby wandered into the kitchen.
I chucked the roller in its tray and scratched my head vigorously. ‘Something quick and easy. How about egg and chips?’
‘All right.’
‘How was school today?’ I dropped a kiss on his forehead before turning to wash the roller out in the sink.
‘Okay. We had a puberty talk.’
‘Ah yes.’ I had mentally mopped my brow upon signing the school’s consent form, relieved that they were taking charge of this potentially tricky subject.
‘Remind me Mum, what does ejaculate mean?’
‘Gosh…well now…um-’
‘Don’t worry Mum, I’ll look it up in the dictionary.’
‘Excellent idea!’
I squeezed the roller out just as Livvy came in.
‘When’s tea?’
‘Soon,’ I replied wiping my hands dry.
‘Hey, you’ll never guess what.’
‘What?’ I shook oven chips into a pan.
‘Sadie’s dad’s going into hospital,’ Livvy informed with round eyes. ‘For an operation on his bum hole.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Toby banging a large Oxford dictionary onto the kitchen table.
‘He’s got piles.’
‘Piles of what?’
‘Piles of dangly bits. Like grapes.’
‘Well I’m sure Sadie’s Dad would like to keep his bottom private,’ I shut the oven door and gave a tight little smile indicating the end of this indecorous conversation.
‘How do you get piles then?’ Toby persisted.
Livvy inclined her head to consider. ‘Sadie thinks it’s something to do with reading a newspaper on the toilet.’
I hid a smile in the palm of my hand and thanked God for my children. Despite a failed marriage and an abortive relationship which had ended so horribly, I was still lucky. Unlike Morag, who went home to an empty house night after night, I had Livvy and Toby. They filled my life with their own special brand of love, warmth and happiness.
Meanwhile Morag, utterly fed up with her own company in the long evenings, button-holed Julia and I in the corridor one afternoon.
‘We need something to perk us up,’ Morag declared. ‘I for one am hacked off about the current lack of male company in my life. And I’m missing sex,’ she added as an afterthought.
‘I’m totally disillusioned with my boyfriend,’ grumbled Julia. ‘His head is on a permanent swivel ogling other women. I honestly wonder why he bothers going out with me.’
‘Well I’m never going out with another man again,’ I declared. ‘They’re all cheating bastards.’
‘No they’re not,’ Morag put an arm around my shoulders and gave me a hug. ‘We’ve just been a bit unlucky that’s all. Let’s go on the prowl. Check out a few bulging trousers and see what’s up for grabs.’
‘That sounds like one-night stand talk,’ Julia looked fearful.
‘Nothing wrong with a high quality one-night stand Jools,’ she countered. ‘You need to loosen up and let your drawers down once in a while. So that’s settled then. We’re having a girls’ night out.’
‘Oh God,’ Julia and I murmured in unison.
Morag wasted no time in getting her entertainment project together. One hour later she pinged Julia and I an e-mail.
Re: Girls night
Date: This weekend
Itinerary: Cocktails at Pinks, nouvelle cuisine at Scooby’s, clubbing at Razz.
As Saturday morning dawned, I felt flattened by depression. The temptation to simply stay in bed and miss Morag’s scrupulously planned event was overwhelming. However, I knew my working life wouldn’t be worth living if I dared to cop out. Moodily I flung back the duvet cover and headed off to the shower.
Pinks was packed. Nell, always up for a giggle, had joined us and appeared to be getting on like the proverbial house on fire with Morag and Julia.
We perched on tall stainless stools around a tiny monopod table slurping concoctions with dodgy names like ‘Raucous Ride’ and ‘Blow Job’. Handsome bare-chested barmen wearing black trousers and dickie-bows mixed and shook martini shakers behind a chrome bar. Pretty waitresses scantily clad in fuchsia leotards, fishnets and stilettos weaved through the table islands holding aloft loaded drinks trays.
After a couple of fruity cocktails to loosen the mood, we took ourselves off to Scooby’s. The cuisine was so nouvelle it was practically raw and the portions so miniscule it did nothing to mop up the alcoholic haze Morag and Nell were now firmly enveloped in. Morag insisted we try out a selection of house wines. She was in fine fettle by this point and went on to loudly regale us and most of the restaurant with risqué humour.
‘So this kid went up to his dad and said, “Dad, I don’t understand the difference between potential and reality. ” And his father said, “Son I will demonstrate the difference. Firstly, ask your mother if she would sleep with Robert Redford for One Million Pounds”.’
‘If he was still thirty years old then you could count me in,’ Nell bawdily thumped the table making Julia jump.
‘Definitely,’ Morag nodded approval. ‘Anyway, this father then told his son to go and ask his sister if she would sleep with Justin Timberlake for One Million Pounds. The kid was somewhat confused but agreed and went off to see his mother.’
‘I could never ask my mother if she wanted to sleep with Robert Redford,’ Julia fingered her pearls primly.
‘Don’t suppose your old mum would be interested anyway,’ Nell giggled. ‘I know mine wouldn’t. Too busy sticking her dentures in a night glass and slapping face cream all over her wrinkly bits.’
‘My mother doesn’t wear dentures,’ Julia looked shocked. ‘She’s only sixty and she still thinks Tom Jones is sensational.’
‘Well that’s sorted then. She can give old Tom a good knobbing instead,’ Nell sniggered before tossing back her wine.
‘So the kid says, “Mum, would you sleep with Robert Redford for One Million Pounds?” and his mother replied
, “Don’t tell your father, but yes I would.” The boy then found his sister and asked her, “Would you sleep with Justin Timberlake for One Million Pounds?” and the sister replied, “Most definitely I would.”
‘Don’t blame her,’ Nell nodded in agreement.
‘So the kid went back to his father and said, “Dad I now understand the difference between potential and reality. Potentially we are sitting on two million quid but in reality we live with two slappers”.’
Cue lewd laughter from Nell and laddish shoulder clapping from Morag. Julia and I glanced at each other. Her expression said it all. I gave the smallest nod of sympathetic understanding. Only a few more hours of this fun evening to get through.
Fortunately the night club was within walking distance so Nell and Morag linked arms and took a tottering lead in the direction of Razz.
‘Why does Morag always have to get sloshed?’ moaned Julia.
‘Because she’s lonely and nursing a broken a heart.’
‘What’s Nell’s excuse then?’
‘She’s got a lovely husband but he’s rather staid and doesn’t take her out very often. She’s just making the most of a girls’ night out.’
‘Well if I were her I’d be at home enjoying every minute of my husband’s company.’
‘Depending on which side of the fence you’re viewing from, the grass can always look greener,’ I pointed out.
At the club’s entrance black bouncers immaculately turned out in top hats and tails ushered us into the semi-gloom. Space was a luxury as we jostled towards the bar, elbows tucked in, blinking against strobe lights. The soles of our stilettos adhered to a floor already covered in spilt drink.
I peered through the gloom. Clientele ranged from lads and lasses in their early twenties to men and women in their forties. There was a tacky glamour about the place, from the loud décor to the funky music.
Clutching newly purchased beverages we huddled together around the dance floor watching the scene. Suddenly there was a tap on my shoulder. Swinging round, I was stunned to find myself looking at Ploddy. I mean Jamie.
‘Hello Cassie!’
He sounded delighted to see me.
‘H-hi!’ I stammered back, heart flipping all over the place. What on earth was he doing here? No doubt the stunning Selina wasn’t far away.
‘I don’t usually come to places like this,’ said Jamie.
‘Me neither,’ I hastily agreed.
‘Really? You gave me the impression you were quite partial to a bit of a boogie.’
Ah. Passé.
‘Once in a very blue moon,’ I assured. ‘So why are you here?’
‘Stag night.’
‘We meet again,’ cooed Morag barging into the conversation. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us Cass?’ She was staring at Jamie with a predatory gaze. And who could blame her? He looked absolutely divine dressed from head to toe in designer black, hair gelled into contrived carelessness.
‘Jamie, this is Morag.’
‘Well hello,’ she gushed in her best I-want-to-have-sex-with-you voice. ‘You are the naughty policeman who booked me for speeding!’ She ran the tip of her tongue across her pink lips and jostled her bosoms for effect.
‘I am indeed. It’s very nice to meet you again,’ Jamie replied. ‘Would you excuse us a moment – Cassie?’
Suddenly I was being propelled toward the dance floor. In my peripheral vision I saw Morag’s jaw being overcome by gravity. Nell and Julia were also wearing gobsmacked expressions.
The music was fluid and pulsed with a sexy repetitive beat. Jamie smiled as we started to dance. Every now and again he drew me close so we moved together, bodies touching. I’m not sure how long we danced for – certainly a while. Eventually he returned me to the girls. Morag’s mouth was still hanging open.
‘I’d better get back to the others,’ he said, ‘and make sure the bridegroom-to-be isn’t totally smashed. It was good to see you again Cassie.’
‘You too,’ I croaked. The words died on my lips as Jamie bent down and pecked my cheek. The kiss scorched my skin.
‘Well,’ spluttered Morag as Jamie disappeared into the crowd.
‘Fancy that,’ I clutched hold of her to steady myself.
‘I do actually,’ she quipped.
That night I slept restlessly, plagued by weird dreams with lustful undertones. I had been invited to a private ceremony where Charles and Camilla were renewing their marriage vows after a spot of bother with a kiss-and-tell tart. Jamie and I were among the invited elite.
In this vision I was amazingly thin and staggeringly beautiful.
Jamie was initially delayed due to crucially important police work arresting Britain’s Most Wanted Man. When he arrived he momentarily held up Charles’ and Camilla’s vows because he insisted kissing me passionately to which I responded with alacrity.
‘Terribly sorry Charlie,’ said Jamie eventually. ‘Do please continue.’
‘Will do old chap.’
As the ceremony drew to a close I realised both Charles and Jamie were dressed in pristine jodhpurs and riding boots. They leapt astride a pair of waiting polo ponies while Camilla whinnied at me to follow her. She then proceeded to give me tips for second marriages. I was just debating the finer points of wearing oyster pink instead of cream when the clock radio blared into life ruining everything.
For a fuzzy moment I half expected the telephone to ring with Jamie inviting me out on a date. And then I remembered that he already had a girlfriend – the gorgeous Selina.
The following week I was working for Morag which made it far easier to chat about men (or rather the lack of), our respective divorces (very messy in her case) and beauty treatments.
‘So what do you think?’ I jabbed a finger at my corrugated brow. ‘Should I give botox a whirl?’
‘Oh for goodness sake Cass, there are far more important things to consider than the state of your forehead.’
‘So it is a state!’
‘It’s our sex lives that are a state,’ Morag waggled her finger at me.
‘Oh God,’ I groaned.
‘It’s no good praying. We need to do something about it ourselves. Now look at this,’ Morag shook open a newspaper and spread it across her desk. ‘The local rag. Read, study, learn. Particularly the Lonely Hearts column.’
‘What – right now?’
‘No, we’d better knuckle down to some work for the time being. Swot up at lunchtime. Circle the suitables and we’ll have a post-lunch meeting. Grab Julia and ask her for some input too.’
A couple of hours later Julia and I sat on our favourite park bench in the warm Spring sunshine. With something akin to morbid fascination, we boggled over all those Desperately Seeking.
‘I’d say that ninety nine per cent of these are complete non-starters,’ she snorted derisively. ‘I mean just look at this one – fabulously firm fifty five year old seeks suitable playmate that is still moist.’
‘Ooh, I think I’ve found a possible. Listen! Forty-something male, tall, attractive and well educated seeks similar lady for friendship and possible romance.’ My red biro flagged the advert.
‘Hm,’ Morag considered as she later read my choice of advert. ‘Sounds a bit too good to be true. However, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Ring up the voicemail number.’
‘But I thought Mr Bradbury was due in for a meeting?’
‘He is, but not for another hour. Meanwhile,’ she poured over the newsprint tapping her pencil against her teeth in consideration, ‘I shall have the sexy thirty-two year old male who would like to meet a glamour girl for fun nights.’
Trust Morag to wade straight in at the deep end.
Her potential amour was keen enough to respond within ten minutes, but it was a disastrous conversation. The stranger kept demanding to know her bust measurement which infuriated her.
‘All right!’ she raged. ‘You know Jordan? Well my tits make hers look like two fried eggs on an ironing board. So now that bit of de
tail is out the way, tell me the length of your dick because unless it can match my fifteen inch vibrator you are on to a complete non-starter.’
He hung up.
I had to wait until the evening before my chosen guy from the lonely hearts column telephoned. Amazingly he was very pleasant to talk to and with growing interest I listened to him chat a little about himself. His name was Ken, he was an architect, divorced and forty-five years old with two grown up children and four grandchildren. My eyebrows shot up into my hairline. He and his offspring had clearly got off to a very early start in the baby-making department. We accordingly arranged to meet at a local Harvester on Saturday. I pondered how romance might flourish surrounded by families with children baying for flame grilled burgers.
‘How will we recognise each other?’ I asked stifling a giggle.
‘Why don’t we be traditional and wear a flower in our lapel,’ Ken suggested.
‘Okay. Carnation?’
‘Why not!’
Excited, I immediately telephoned Morag to share my news.
‘Bugger the lonely hearts column,’ she growled. ‘I’ve revised my opinion and now think it’s a waste of effort.’
‘I thought you might at least be pleased for me.’
‘I am Cass. I’m just a bit frustrated at the moment. Sexually frustrated no doubt. Let’s try speed dating instead.’
‘Well by all means find out more about it,’ I ventured cautiously, ‘but don’t commit me to anything until Saturday night is out the way first.’
I hung up the telephone just as Livvy appeared in the doorway.
‘Oh there you are.’ She flapped a brightly coloured piece of paper in my direction. ‘It’s Sophia’s tenth birthday next week after school and she’s having a pony party. Can I go?’
‘A pony party? Gosh, that’s a first.’
Parents were getting ever more competitive about who could provide the most original party for their little darling. Whatever happened to good old musical chairs or a visiting magician pulling a bunny out of a hat?
Saturday dawned and, with it, a sense of anticipation. Taking advantage of the twins being at Stevie’s, I took a long time getting ready.
Flipping a classical CD into the hi-fi, I sighed happily as the light staccato notes of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons reverberated around the house. Humming along, I tipped bubble bath and aromatherapy oils into the tub and lit scented candles for good measure, revelling in a mixture of hot water and musical quavers.
STOCKINGS AND CELLULITE Page 11