A Good Heart is Hard to Find

by Trisha Ashley

  ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man of over forty is in possession of a major defect,’ Orla stated, walking past me into the cottage and flinging her coat and bag on to the nearest chair.

  Then she stared glumly at her reflection in the mirror over the fireplace.

  ‘Yes, just as I thought,’ she said. ‘Hair blond to the roots, curves in all the right places, minimal crow’s feet, luscious lips, big, baby-blue eyes. What a waste!’

  ‘Do I take it that your Perfect Partner wasn’t?’

  ‘Forty-six and still lives with Mummy. I’ve had every variety of unmarried man now: divorced, for which read rejected by wife for a very good reason; Mummy’s Little Boy, like tonight, and Widowed, Wizened and Smug, like last week’s offering.’

  ‘You haven’t had Reclusive or Gay yet,’ I pointed out helpfully.

  ‘They don’t join dating agencies – or at least, not Perfect Partners. What’s that you’re drinking?’

  ‘Max’s bottle of Laphroaig from under the sink.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like whisky?’

  ‘I’d never tried it before, because Pa’s drinking spirits put me off the idea. But it’s like gold: hot liquid gold.’

  ‘Very poetic. I’ll have some. Got any ginger?’

  ‘You can’t put ginger in good whisky!’

  ‘You can if your friend’s snooty lover isn’t there to see you do it.’

  She kicked off the stiletto shoes that had raised her to the level of my chin, then curled up on the sofa. ‘Phew, that’s better! You know, it’s simply impossible to believe in the theory of evolution, because if it was true by now women’s feet would naturally have pointed toes and thin, four-inch heelbones.’

  ‘Mine wouldn’t, I’ve been wearing those Nanook of the North knee-length suede moccasin boots all winter. And Max isn’t snooty!’

  ‘Of course he is, and he’s getting worse the older he gets. He’s turning into a boring old fogy right under your nose. Just think about it,’ she added earnestly. ‘The sudden passion for golf, imagining he looks good in Rupert Bear trousers, droning on about why expensive wine is the only sort worth drinking, trying to get you to write literary novels instead of the horror you’re so brilliant at: I rest my case. Come on, let’s be young and reckless and desecrate his whisky!’

  ‘You’re an idiot,’ I said, pouring her drink. ‘And Max isn’t like that at all!’

  But then I actually thought about what I was saying instead of letting my mouth run on automatic pilot and realized she was right: ‘OK, yes he is – and selfish, too! Why hadn’t I noticed that before?’

  I took another swig of whisky, which was helpfully reconnecting parts of my brain that had long since stopped communicating with each other even by semaphore. Laphroaig Gets You Clean Round the Bend.

  ‘Until he took himself off for this sabbatical thing, I’d just been drifting along never really questioning anything, Orla. I mean, I did all the agonizing years ago when I fell in love with him and realized he couldn’t leave Rosemary, and once I was committed to the relationship I suppose it was just like a long marriage, where the changes are so gradual you don’t notice them.’

  ‘Except it wasn’t a marriage, and it’s a bit significant that he took his wife to America with him and not you,’ Orla pointed out helpfully. ‘You’re still only The Mistress even after all these years. Or maybe because of all these years? Your novelty’s worn off.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Well, it’s no worse than me, is it? Dumped for a younger model, and destined to be divorced, single and desperate for ever. I’m a Trade-in, and you’re a slightly tarnished Spinster of This Parish.’

  Since we seemed to have empty glasses I poured us both another generous measure of peaty goodness.

  ‘At least you still have parents who love you, Orla. Mine always treated me like a changeling or a cuckoo in the nest, just because I took after my gypsy great-grandmother, and then they cast me out entirely when they found out about Max.’

  ‘Yes,’ she conceded. ‘Though Daddy can’t always remember who I am these days.’

  ‘I was an unwanted throw-back for the first half of my life, and I’ve been a married man’s mistress for the second. That’s not going to look good on my tombstone, is it?’

  ‘No, but then, you’re not going to pop your clogs yet, are you? You’ve probably got years left, and you can write your own epitaph before you go.’

  ‘She dealt horror and death wherever she went?’ I suggested.

  ‘That’s more like it. And it’s always seemed to me that you had your life arranged to suit you pretty well – perhaps better than you realized.’

  ‘Oh yes, apart from feeling permanently guilty about Rosemary, only seeing Max for occasional weekends had a lot of advantages. He devoted himself to me when he was there, and the rest of the time I could write, and research, and bum about in my old dressing gown looking an absolute dog.’ I sighed. ‘Of course, the downside was that there was never anyone but me to cope with the blocked drains, or the blown fuses, or even just keep me company when I felt lonely or down.’

  ‘And the infrequent sex,’ pointed out Orla, whose list of life’s priorities was perhaps not in quite the same order as mine. ‘Why you’ve remained steadfastly faithful to the Unfaithful is one of the great paradoxes of all time. Max was definitely getting the best deal: a wife, a comfortable home and a career, plus someone young and pretty on the side. All he had to do was turn up when he felt like it with his little hamper of goodies and expensive bottles of plonk. No strings, no worries.’

  ‘He loves me!’ I protested, then paused. ‘Or – he did love me. He really did, Orla. When I finally agreed to this arrangement he actually cried! And he promised he would be faithful to me always.’

  ‘But was he?’ she queried cynically.

  ‘As far as I know, and I don’t really see how he’d have the time to be anything else, because he’s either been working, or under Rosemary’s eye, or here. Or playing golf, I suppose, which was originally only a cover story for his weekends away. If Rosemary hadn’t been an invalid, I’m sure he’d have left her soon after we met. But he always meant to marry me when she … well … when she—’

  ‘Died?’ Orla suggested helpfully.

  ‘That sounds so crude, but yes,’ I agreed guiltily.

  ‘You’re so credulous! Just because she’s partially paralysed after that skiing accident it doesn’t mean she won’t live as long as anyone else if she has the proper care – which she does, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, of course, the best of everything. And I never wanted her to die just so Max and I could marry … or not entirely. I’m guilty enough as it is.’

  ‘Oh, come on! You were a naive student from a strict family, desperate for love; he was a lecturer, your typical suave, handsome, older man in a position of power. It’s only surprising that you resisted so long. Max should have let you go when you got that teaching job and moved here to Westery. You’d probably have found a nice man and have lots of children by now.’

  ‘Who knows? You thought you had a happy marriage until Mike suddenly asked for the divorce, didn’t you? But I would have liked the chance to have children, and that’s the only thing I’ve ever argued about with Max. He’s never wanted them, and I have, and the years pass so quickly. And then suddenly he tells me he’s off to America for a year with Rosemary!’

  ‘The bastard,’ comforted Orla. ‘Have the last of his whisky.’

  ‘He even said it would probably do our relationship good to be apart for a few months!’

  ‘The absolute bastard!’

  ‘Yes, and it was when he said he couldn’t pass up an opportunity like that, that I suddenly saw him – us – from a different perspective. Things sort of shifted.’

  ‘I should think so, after all the opportunities you’ve passed up for his sake.’

  ‘That’s what I said, and then we argued about the baby thing again, because I wanted to try a
nd get pregnant before he left. I expect he thinks I will be past it when he gets back, and I probably will be too, if I’m not already.’

  ‘I don’t know what you want one for anyway,’ Orla said. ‘But then, my maternal instincts are completely absent. How old are you now?’

  ‘Forty-four.’

  ‘Mmm … late, but you could still give it a go. You can get some sort of kit, can’t you, to test if you’re still fertile?’

  ‘Yes, but Max won’t be back for months, and even then I’d still have to persuade him.’

  ‘Not with Max. Someone else.’

  ‘But I don’t know anyone else except Jason, and he’s such an old friend I couldn’t possibly. And even if I could, just look how his son’s turned out!’ I shuddered. ‘Who’d want offspring like Tom?’

  ‘That’s a point, and he’s as old as you. Whereas if you got a younger lover you’d probably have a better chance of getting pregnant – if you’re really serious about it. Maybe younger lovers are the way to go anyway? I mean, if I’m not going to find good sex and a soulmate combined in one package in my age group, I might at least have the good sex.’

  ‘I thought I had a soulmate, but he’s really keener on the golf than me these days. I’m just a habit to him.’

  ‘Convenient Cassy, always there when he wants you,’ agreed Job’s comforter. ‘Probably convenient to Rosemary too, because although she knows he’s unfaithful, at least it’s only with one person.’

  ‘I suppose so. But whenever I wonder if I could bring myself to break with him, I remember all the good times. And when he rings up and says he misses me, I just can’t do it! He can be so charming when he wants to be that the things I mean to say go right out of my head, and I can’t ring him back and say them later, because I’ve no way of contacting him.’

  ‘What, none?’ Orla said, startled. ‘Email?’

  ‘He doesn’t trust it.’

  ‘Right. New-fangled invention, I know. He could write?’

  ‘He could – but he doesn’t. I tell you, Orla, when I take a clear look at my life, what have I got apart from my writing?’

  And an empty glass.

  ‘A clear case of rebellion?’ she suggested. ‘It’s not like you to drink Max’s precious whisky, for a start! And now I come to think of it, where are all his things?’

  She looked around, her eyes so wide that the spiky lashes spread like a sooty sunburst. ‘I mean, we’re drinking whisky from the bottle, not a cut-crystal decanter, and these glasses look like Woolworth’s finest.’

  ‘They are. I’ve just packed all his stuff into empty Fortnum and Mason hampers and put them in the attic while I was up there getting the Christmas decorations down.’

  ‘Sounds like a fair exchange. Are you going to put the decorations up now? Can I help?’

  ‘Why not?’ I said, waving my glass expansively. ‘There’s the tree, and I’ve made gingerbread stars, and I’ve got two dozen candy canes, and little chocolate umbrellas and—’

  ‘You do go over the top at Christmas, don’t you? Must be that strict childhood you had.’

  ‘I love Christmas! Even Christmas on my own,’ I enthused.

  ‘You haven’t been alone on Christmas Day since Mike left me,’ she pointed out. ‘You, me, Jason and turkey at my house as usual?’

  ‘And Tom,’ I added.

  ‘Into every pot of ointment a fly must fall. With any luck he will drink too much and pass out like last year, and Jason will have to take him home early,’ she consoled me.

  Actually, it turned out that there were three flies in the jar of Seasonal Balm, and the major one was that by Christmas Day Max had failed to send me even a card, let alone a present, and I knew there was little chance that he would be able to slip away and phone over the holiday.

  Tom, bluebottle number two, was indeed present at Orla’s house for Christmas dinner, the price we have to pay for our friendship with Jason. It is a constant amazement to me that he could father so objectionable a child. (Or man, I suppose I should say, since he is now at university.)

  After Jason and Tom had finally gone home, replete and bearing foil-wrapped parcels of left-over turkey and pud, Orla revealed the existence of the third fly to me.

  ‘I’ve thought up a new act for Song Language,’ she told me as we cleared the festive board.

  Song Language is the name of the singing telegram service she set up after Mike left in order to try and maintain the standard of living to which she was addicted.

  She’s a Marilyn Monroe look-alike herself and she’d soon talked me into a Vampirella costume (which was not much different from my normal look, actually) and a couple of other people into even more improbable garb.

  ‘It’s a great idea,’ she said now, tossing the turkey carcass arbitrarily into the dustbin, because, as she pointed out, who wants to see turkey ever again after Christmas Day?

  ‘You have?’ I said cautiously, hoping it didn’t involve me.

  ‘Yes. You’re going to double up as Wonder Woman! Won’t that go down a bomb?’

  ‘Me? Wonder Woman? You mean, like that old TV series with Lynda somebody – Carter – terrific figure and a mouth like a ventriloquist’s dummy?’

  ‘That’s the one. You’re tall and dark-haired, and you’ve got the figure for the costume, and the legs for the boots, too.’

  ‘I haven’t got the mouth, though, or her really light-coloured eyes. Mine are just grey, putrid grey.’

  ‘Putrid?’

  ‘Sorry, I meant pewter. Must have been thinking about something else.’

  ‘As usual. And you don’t have to be an exact copy, just near enough to give the impression,’ she wheedled. ‘I bet it would be even more popular than the vampire thing.’

  ‘Yes – with men. Why does the thought of walking into pubs and parties dressed only in a push-up swimming costume and kinky boots not sound all that attractive to me, I wonder.’

  ‘And tights and a tiara thing,’ Orla said persuasively. Seeing I was far from convinced, she added: ‘We could send Jason out with you as a minder, if you’re afraid things might get a bit out of hand.’

  ‘No thanks, he’s bad enough when I’m dressed as a vampire! As Wonder Woman I’d need a minder to protect me from the minder.’

  ‘Think about it. It would mean even more money.’

  ‘I’ll think about it, but I can’t imagine doing it! It takes me all my courage to do the vampire act, Orla.’

  I resisted all her persuasions, but I feared she was unlikely to let her idea go that easily.

  While I knew it was unlikely that there would be a message on my answering machine from Max when I got back, I was illogically deeply upset when there was nothing more than the standard message from Pa, who took no account of such debauched festivals as Christmas.

  ‘You will burn in hell, girl, for your sins lie heavy on your soul! Yet the adulterer is gone from you, and if you truly repent now and serve the Lord, you may yet escape the fiery flames of eternal damnation! Your brother James, too, is a drunken harlot,’ he added.

  Clearly sweet baby Jane had been telling tales again. I wondered what poor old Jamie had been up to now. And aren’t harlots usually women?

  ‘Spawn of Beelzebub,’ he finished rather predictably, and I was just thinking: Ho-hum, nothing new there, then, when his message was followed by my name uttered in a small, breathy voice. Familiar – yet strange.

  ‘Repent, Cassandra – it’s not too late,’ whispered Ma, before quietly replacing the phone, a pale Ghost of Christmas Past.

  Why? Why did she send me a message after so long? Did it mean that she did, deep down, care about me?

  Or perhaps it was just that Pa had told her to do it?

  Unsurprisingly, I felt somewhat forlorn and unsettled for quite a time after this. Do not think, though, that I sat moping and alone on Christmas evening without a greeting or gift to my name.

  I’d already exchanged presents with Orla and Jason (a book called Everything You Need t
o Know About Last-Minute Pregnancy from Orla, and an antique mourning ring from Jason), and Mrs Bridges next door had given me an adorable hand-knitted toilet-roll cosy in the shape of a white poodle. It was the sort of thing Max absolutely loathed, a factor that just then endeared it to me all the more.

  My four brothers (who have steadfastly kept in touch since my ejection from the family nest) had also communicated according to their different natures.

  George and Philadelphia sent their annual pre-printed Christmas card, Francis a pair of skiing socks (though I could no more ski than I could fly), Jamie the harlot a box of chocolates with a card sending ‘lots of snuggles to Little Huggins’ (who was presumably now puzzling over why Jamie should be sending her brotherly greetings with her chocolates), and Eddie a battered parcel wrapped in handmade paper full of strange lumps, bumps and stalks, containing one of those stick crosses wrapped in coloured yarn which for some reason are called God’s Eyes.

  I have never heard that God is at all into psychedelia, especially Pa’s God, and I bet Eddie sent one just like it home.

  Jane’s offering was a coffret of bathtime goodies, though why they call them coffrets I don’t know, since it has very ashy connotations to me. Maybe it sounds posher than box?

  The contents were all rose-scented, which suddenly and painfully reminded me of walking with Max down a path covered in velvet-soft pink petals, long ago. He’d said that he’d strewn roses before me, and what more could I ask?

  But there, alas, was the basic difference between us: he’d seen rose petals, and I’d seen dismembered flowers.

  As usual, I sent everyone a copy of my last book, Grave Concerns, for Christmas.

  Happy Yuletide reading.

  2

  Pregnant Pause

  Even aficionados of the horror genre will be shocked, stunned and revolted by Cass Leigh’s latest offering on the altar of bad taste …

  The Times

  Max did eventually send me a Christmas present (in January) of some expensive but noxious perfume. It smelled like it had been extruded from the nether regions of a musk rat, and probably had.