She took a small sharp knife out of the drawer and began to slash at the chicken in front of her – squeezing more lemon juice over the rosy flesh she’d left marinating, trickling olive oil, adding herbs and black pepper.
As she sliced onions and crushed garlic, she wondered if Fay was right and she should just tackle Roger when he got in. But a part of her wanted to test him – to see whether he would be late on Wednesday, to prove to herself that the uneasy feeling in her solar plexus was the intuition that had been right before, and not the menopausal neuroses she could see Fay suspected.
She was chopping chillies when she heard his key in the lock. Hastily shoving the piece of paper out of sight, she listened to the familiar evening sounds, the jingle of his keys as he dropped them into the bowl on the hall table, the thud of his briefcase on the bottom stair – his low call of hell-oo as he walked into the kitchen already shrugging off his jacket.
Her gut twisted as he came in, big and smiling, the way he’d come in a thousand times before. He leant round her, bending to kiss her cheek. ‘Smells good.’
‘That’s just the oven pre-heating.’
Roger looked at the tray of chicken, as she scattered the finely chopped chillies and sloshed in red wine. ‘I can see it will smell good soon then!’
She bent to put the tray in the Aga and then turned and searched his face. He looked as he always did. ‘You seem happy.’
Roger nodded. ‘Yep, all going well. I’ve got a dinner with the chief exec of AG next week but it’s all going through remarkably smoothly and–’
‘What night?’ It was out – too sharply – before she could stop herself.
‘Err Thursday I think – is that a problem?’
‘No,’ she shook her head, turning away and pulling a bag of spinach leaves towards her. ‘Just wondered. What about the rest of the week? Have you got a lot on?’ She swung back to watch his face.
He looked surprised. ‘About the same as usual. Do you need me to do something?’ Was she imagining it or had that been a flicker of anxiety?
‘I might need to be out a couple of evenings myself, that’s all,’ she improvised. ‘I want to get together with the others about the party and I’m seeing a new client – she can only do after 8pm … Just thinking about Joe …’
‘I won’t be late any other night …’
She felt the relief wash over her as she continued to gaze at him. He was looking pretty good at fifty-two. Grey hair suited him. He was a bit heavier than he used to be but he had the height to carry it off. He was still an attractive man. Women would still be interested, but he was coming home to her. He smiled again. She could see he was wondering why she was so uptight.
‘I had a funny text exchange with Bex today,’ he said. ‘She sounds buoyant.’
‘Oh.’ Charlotte pushed down the pang in her solar plexus. ‘I haven’t heard from her.’
Roger shook his head. ‘It was only because she sent me a photo. Some bloke sprawled out in front of the TV watching football surrounded by beer cans.’ He laughed. ‘She said it reminded her of me. One of the boys down the corridor is an Arsenal supporter – she said the way he went on about it was like listening to me and Joe.’ He draped an arm around Charlotte’s shoulders. ‘I’m sure she’ll be onto you soon. Wanting advice on how to cook something – what was it last time – artichokes?’
Charlotte nodded.
‘She sent you her love, anyway,’ Roger added.
‘That’s nice,’ Charlotte said brightly, wondering if this was true or her husband was just trying to make her feel better.
She smiled at him. ‘Want a beer?’
‘I’ll just get this suit off.’
His suit jacket was still hanging on the back of one of the pine chairs, when the beep came. Charlotte waited. He didn’t look towards it.
‘Sounds like you’ve got a text,’ she said lightly.
‘It’ll be Don. He was going to let me know about squash on Sunday.’
‘Oh.’
She walked to the doorway. ‘Joe!’ she yelled, hating the way her stomach had clenched again. ‘Chilli chicken!’
When she turned back, Roger had retrieved the phone and was looking at the screen. As she came towards him, he snapped it off and dropped it back into the pocket.
‘Yep,’ he said. ‘Don’s booked a court for nine.’ Roger patted his stomach. ‘It’s going to be hard work – I’ve lost fitness doing all these long hours–’
Charlotte tried to read his expression. Was this an act for her benefit? Reminding her of the demands of work so she wouldn’t question it if he came home late? Was it even really his friend Don who’d sent a message?
‘Well, don’t have a heart attack!’
‘Nah, we’ll take it easy – a couple of old gents together.’
Charlotte suddenly and inexplicably felt close to tears.
She knew how the others saw it. ‘Hostess-with-the-mostest’, Sherie always called her. She knew from the outside her life looked idyllic – the big family home in Kingsgate, the loving husband, the great kids, regular holidays and frequent entertaining. And it was good – she’d always known how lucky she was. She was the one the other three relied on to always look on the bright side, to feed and nurture everyone, to open a bottle, stick a roast in the oven and make everything all right again. She was a regular, if ageing, Pollyanna. Wasn’t she?
Except now she felt strange. Lost somehow. Even when she was talking and laughing, these days she was always touched with a low-level dread as if something terrible was about to happen. For the first time ever, she lay awake at 4.a.m. worrying about things she’d usually not give a second thought to. She dithered over what to wear, felt anxious about something happening to one of the children. Or Roger. Bloody Roger – it was all his fault she was stressed like this.
Roger was supposed to be her best friend who she’d trust with her life. She had once. She’d forgiven him for Hannah but she realised she’d never been completely at ease since.
As Joe ambled into the room, Charlotte busied herself getting the tray out of the Aga so neither of them would see the tears in her eyes.
Fay might think that Charlotte was as tough as she was, but Charlotte knew she wasn’t at all …
Chapter 4
Fay cracked three eggs into sizzling oil and expertly flipped the sausages browning under the grill, throwing a look at the young man lolling in her kitchen doorway. She remembered the evening she’d told the others about Cory.
‘It’s the perfect arrangement for both of us,’ Fay had explained, smiling at Sherie’s look of amazement. ‘I get a lithe young body in bed with me and he gets a decent breakfast. When Cory stays with Tiffany or whatever her name is, it’s chipped mugs and a biscuit if he’s lucky.’
Sherie had looked appalled. ‘You know he’s got someone else?’
Fay had snorted. ‘Of course he has! He’s twenty-three – wants to be at it all the time – and I don’t want him round more than once a week. I love to see him come–’ she gave a dirty chuckle ‘–as it were, and I’m happy to see him go again–’ Fay had enjoyed the way the others were gawping at her. ‘Confident that he will return because he gets double bacon and toast with proper butter.’
Charlotte had given her a huge grin. Roz nodded with admiration. But Sherie, as usual, persisted. ‘But don’t you want–’
‘Something long-term or permanent?’ Fay was brisk. ‘No thanks – I tried that and it didn’t suit me. Can’t be doing with someone hanging around all the time. I go through my front door and I shut it behind me and I thank the Lord it’s just me. The only bit that bothers me is why on earth I didn’t give Dave his marching orders earlier!’
‘How long ago was it?’ Sherie always wanted the detail.
‘I don’t know,’ Fay’s tone suggested she couldn’t be bothered to work it out. ‘Seven years or so. Best thing I ever did.’
Sherie had opened her mouth and shut it again.
As Cory came up b
ehind her, and put his arms around Fay’s waist, there was a moment when she thought what she’d told Sherie might almost be true. She pictured Dave walking away from her down the path, a rucksack slung over one shoulder, a bulging bag in his other hand. She’d sat quite still on the bottom stair, watching through the still-open front door. She had stayed there a long time.
Fay jerked back to the present as Cory nuzzled into her neck. ‘Are we having hash browns?’
‘I’ve got some fried potatoes in the oven.’
‘That’s why I love you.’
‘Pah!’ She nudged him off as she crossed to the coffee machine, blowing air out dismissively. ‘Through your stomach.’
He often said things like that. The young were supposed to be thoughtless and self-absorbed and she’d have expected him to be off like a long dog once the wake-up shag was over, but he was always tactile and affectionate in the mornings. Would hang about after breakfast if it was a weekend, and talk to her about his job at the bakery, his family, his mate Josh who was earning a fortune in Canary Wharf but sleeping so little and sticking so much coke up his nose that Cory worried he would fall apart.
He asked Fay questions too but she told him little. He knew she was running the business her late father had started when she was a baby, that she was divorced, that she spoke reasonable Spanish and could knit. But she was careful about anything more.
‘Nothing heavy,’ she’d warned, when he’d first come home with her after pitching up at Green’s wine bar with a couple of pals, the night she was running the quiz. ‘We’re just doing each other a favour.’
She hadn’t expected to see him again but back he came, week after week. Now he’d suggested they spend this entire Friday to Sunday together but Fay had just laughed. ‘Do you really want to look at me sprawled on the sofa in my pyjamas with a facemask on?’
He laughed too. ‘You wouldn’t be!’
‘I would. Weekends off are my down time. You can come Friday night and bugger off in the morning. And if you’re very good, you can pop in Sunday afternoon for a cup of tea and a scone.’
‘You sound like my nan.’
‘I expect I’m older than she is.’
She certainly had a couple of years on his mother. Cory had mentioned his mum’s forty-seventh birthday a few weeks ago. No doubt she’d be as horrified as Sherie if she knew where her little soldier had spent the night. Fay gave a small chuckle to herself as she pressed the button to take the roof down on her red Mazda MX5, liking the feel of the cold air on her face as she reversed out of her driveway and headed along the Eastern Esplanade. The sea was grey and choppy today, but the sun was bright.
Fay turned into Rectory Road and down through Nelson Place to Albion Street, looking at the restaurants and cafes that now lined the bottom of Broadstairs, so many more than when she’d been a child. She swung the car past Costa Coffee, wrinkling her nose in disapproval – she had banked there when it was still Barclays! – and up York Street, headed for the Pysons Road Industrial Estate where Sternhouse Removals had its home.
She put her foot down as she left the last roundabout, finding the wind whipping through her hair exhilarating. It was a lovely cold, sharp day. She would have liked to have reason to take the car for a belt up the motorway but the office called. Reluctantly she slowed down and turned onto the estate following the winding road round until her empire stood before her.
She felt the small rush of pleasure and achievement she got every time she saw the row of distinctive brown and orange lorries, parked outside the small glass and steel reception area with the huge storage facility stretching behind it. The business had been here for nearly fifty years – but it had tripled in size since she’d taken over.
‘Morning Ma’am!’ A young man in a dark brown boiler suit, with the orange Sternhouse logo, jumped down from one of the cabs and saluted her smartly as she walked towards the main doors. Fay grinned. ‘Good morning, Toby.’
She crossed the small carpeted space with its four chairs, coffee table and water cooler, and through the door at the back. As she walked through the drivers’ room, shaking her head at the discarded cups and day-old newspapers, a stocky man in his fifties looked up from a computer screen in the corner.
‘How we doing, Len?’ Fay kept going into her own office, propping the door open for him to follow. He rose and strolled after her, a blue folder under his arm.
‘The Waldron Road woman has booked. But she wants to go on the 21st now. Which is tricky because we’ve got three other big ones the day before and her packing’s going to take a day on its own.’
Fay threw her jacket on the hat stand in the corner of her office and flicked the switch on the coffee machine. ‘Get some more bodies in from the casuals list.’
‘I already have.’
Fay nodded as Len continued. ‘We’ll have to put Toby and Will on her job – can’t trust that to just anyone – have you seen how much china she’s got?’
‘I did the quote didn’t I? Speaking of which, I’ve got three more to do this morning. I hope Elaine’s on time for a change.’
‘It was only one morning,’ Len’s tone was mild. ‘Her grandson was off school and her daughter had to get to work.’
Fay snorted. ‘Elaine needs to get to work! There are a stack of invoices to go out as well.’
‘It’s not even quarter to nine yet.’
‘Hmmm. Want one of these?’ Fay slotted a pod into the machine and pressed the button, apparently intent on the dark stream of espresso that began to trickle into her cup.
‘Yeah go on then.’ Len sat down in her other office chair. ‘How’s your mum?’
‘Still away with the fairies.’
‘But OK? Being looked after.’
‘She still thinks she’s staying in a hotel but she’s almost stopped asking when she’s going home. Says the food is mostly OK but they can’t cook liver. Wants me to have a word …’ Fay gave a sudden shout of laughter. ‘I would but offal hasn’t once been on the menu!’
‘Ah,’ said Len, affection in his voice. ‘I liked your mum. Jean was a good woman. Your dad was devoted to her.’
‘I don’t know why – she was never off his back. Always bloody creating about something.’
Len raised his eyebrows and gave a small smile. Fay removed her cup and put another in its place. ‘Don’t look at me like that. I only create when it’s justified.’
Len smiled again. ‘That was just her way. She was kind to me. Sent round casseroles when both the kids were born.’
‘I know – you’ve told me before. Are you angling for me to make you one or something?’
‘Can’t imagine you cooking anything like that.’
‘Well, you’d be surprised.’ She laughed again. ‘I’ll buy you a pint and a pie next week.’
‘By the time we’re the other side of this lot, we’ll need it. And talking of kids–’ Len pulled a large pink envelope from the folder. ‘For Matthew and Lisa. We’ve had a whip round for flowers and a toy for the baby. Just waiting for you to sign now.’
Fay fished in her handbag and then held out a twenty-pound note. She didn’t look at the cover of the card, just opened it and signed her name briskly in the bottom left-hand corner, before pushing it all back towards Len.
‘Having kids costs a fortune these days,’ Len said conversationally. ‘And Matt has shaped up good. He’s well past his probation period and I was thinking–’
‘How much?’
‘Another couple of grand a year – bring him in line with the other younger ones now he’s trained.’
‘I’ll get Elaine onto it with the next payroll. Now what have we got in the pipeline to pay for all this?’
By the time the older woman arrived, Fay had been through the next week’s job sheets with Len and he’d disappeared to round up the lads he needed for a relocation to Hemel Hempstead. Through the window, Fay watched him cross the yard.
She’d been twenty-seven when she’d been called back from h
er teaching job in Spain because her father had collapsed with a heart attack. Len had been thirty-three then but he’d worked with her Dad since he was sixteen and knew what to do. She thought back gratefully to how he’d taught her the ropes in those awful early months, made sure the younger men showed her respect, came in early and stayed late even when his wife was kicking off, quietly supporting her as she threw herself into running and later expanding the business.
Now she could run it herself with one hand tied behind her back. But she wouldn’t want to – she was glad Len was there to oversee the daily detail, work out the rotas, get the lorries serviced and make it all happen. He was a brilliant right-hand man, good at knowing instinctively who to employ, who to let go, not afraid to disagree with her if he thought she’d got it wrong. She’d tried to look out for him too, since his divorce, often taking him to the pub on a Friday – feigning polite interest in the pictures of his grandchildren even though–
Fay gazed at her computer screen open on an excel sheet. Elaine was tapping away in the adjoining room, her back to Fay, everyone else was out on jobs.
She hadn’t looked for days. It had been better since she’d banned herself from using the computer at home. Left her laptop at the office. And taken the app off her phone.
Fay’s eyes locked on the icon in the bottom left hand corner of her screen. She’d sworn she wasn’t going to do this any more. She hesitated, then almost robotically she double-clicked. Went through the usual motions till there it was. The mop of dark hair thrown back, the laughing face, squinting in the sun – if it were her, Fay, she’d have been wearing sunglasses. And in her arms … Fay felt the familiar tightness in her chest, she was holding herself rigidly as if by keeping very still, she’d feel nothing. She breathed out slowly, looking at the golden-haired toddler, clutching the pink plastic spade. There were no new pictures. Nothing had changed.
She’d told Len she was trying to create a proper demarcation between work and leisure. He’d been approving – said she worked too hard, that the business was flourishing and everything was under control. She should have proper days off …
The Big Five O Page 3