Me and Sheila had been best friends at school all those years ago. We kind of lost touch when I moved out. Our lives went down different paths and she became a memory of a spotty girl in school uniform I used to know. Until one weekend when I was down visiting Mum and we bumped into each other in the middle of Market Square. It was like the intervening years hadn't existed. We must've stood under umbrellas in the rain for ten minutes catching up on what each other had been doing. We went out for a meal that night at the eat-as-much-as-you-want-until-you-regret-it Chinese buffet down by the back of Sainsbury's. I hadn't laughed so much in years.
We made an effort to keep in touch after that - thank God for the internet - and so when I moved back, she offered to take me out to meet her friends.
I volunteered to be designated driver for the night and pick her up.
Sheila had one of those nice semis in Bedgrove at the posh end of Aylesbury. 'Nice' families live there, the estate agent had told her, mostly because of the reputation of the local schools. Sheila had no children, but 'nice' was what she wanted, so that's where she settled.
I parked outside her drive. No sooner had I turned off the engine than she came rushing out of the front door and down the garden path.
‘Hi Rach,’ she said, opening the passenger door and leaning in. ‘Like the hair.’
The clock on the dashboard said 18:56. Seeing as we'd agreed to meet at seven, I couldn't see what all the rush was about. ‘I'm not late am I?’
‘The sooner I get there, the sooner I can have a drink,’ said Sheila. She chucked her oversize leather handbag with its abundance of buckles into the passenger footwell and jumped in.
‘Bad weekend?’ I asked.
‘Bad week.’ She rolled her eyes in a 'don't ask' kind of way and reached for the seatbelt. ‘Are we going or what?’
I turned the ignition. My trusty eight-year-old Fiesta roared into life. ‘The Plough?’
‘The Plough.’
If you didn't know the pub was there, you wouldn't know the pub was there (if you get my drift). It's set back off the Tring Road, just by the Esso garage, so despite being on a busy route out of the town centre, it's reasonably quiet. The car park was about half full so I slotted into a space near to the entrance without a problem.
My nostrils filled with the smell of cooking beef as soon as I opened the car door. It's primeval power went straight to my stomach, making me instantly hungry. The pub sign, with its picture of a rack of ribs oozing with barbeque sauce, served only to intensify my belly's desire to be fed.
We both got out, I locked the car with a bleep and flash of indicators, and we headed inside.
‘Thanks for the lift,’ said Sheila, swinging her handbag over her shoulder. ‘If you change your mind and want a drinkie, we can take a taxi back. You can kip at my place if you like.’
‘I've got work tomorrow.’
‘So have I.’
‘Going in on my first day with a hangover isn't quite the impression I want to give.’
She laughed. ‘Rach, you're so straight sometimes.’
If I was straight, I wouldn't be going to the pub on a Sunday night when I should be at home putting my feet up and ironing my blouse ready to make a good impression at the office. But if I was going to have any sort of social life at all in Aylesbury, I needed to start going out.
The pub itself was surprisingly large inside. Its high ceilings and generous floor area gave it a feeling of space. A family was tucking into large plates of burgers and chips at one of the tables to our left. My stomach stabbed me with another pang of hunger.
‘Drink?’ said Sheila as we approached the bar.
‘Sparkling water, please. No ice. But a slice of lemon if they have it.’
Sheila rolled her eyes again, but she ordered my drink without further comment and got a large glass of chardonnay for herself. Drinks in hand, we walked round the bar to a kind of antechamber at the back where four tables were tucked away. Around one of them, a group of twenty-something blokes in football shirts were being loud and drinking beer. Behind them, to the right of an old brick fireplace, a woman on her own jumped up when she saw us.
‘Sheils!’ she squealed. She got up and they hugged. She was a big woman with an ample cleavage billowing out of her tight top.
‘This is Rachel, the friend I told you about. Rachel, this is Gayle.’
I smiled at the big woman and we shook hands awkwardly.
‘Sheils tells me you've been living up north for the last millennia,’ said Gayle as we sat down. She pronounced it 'oop north' in that cod Yorkshire accent that southerners find inexplicably amusing.
Being a native southerner myself, I tried not to be offended. ‘The Midlands, really,’ I said.
One of the bar staff brought over a towering plate of salad with grilled chicken and bacon bits sprinkled on top. Gayle caught the woman's eye. ‘That's mine.’ And took it from her.
My stomach growled like an angry dog overdue its supper.
Gayle picked up her fork. ‘Don't mind if I...?’
We didn’t. And so, while she tucked into her dinner, I picked up a menu which had the same enticing picture of glistening spare ribs on the front. They were tempting, but the thought of getting barbeque sauce down my arm in front of Sheila's friends suggested I should really go for something less messy.
‘What are you having?’ said Sheila. ‘My treat.’
‘No,’ I said, reaching for my purse. ‘You got the drinks.’
‘A sparkling water? Hardly going to break the bank.’
I perused the pages. ‘I don't know...’ Everything looked nice. ‘A burger?’
‘Two burgers then.’
Sheila went back to the bar to order, leaving me alone with Gayle and her large plate of salad.
‘So,’ she said, licking ranch dressing from her lips. ‘Have you got a fella?’
The word 'no' stopped at my throat like a cough that wouldn't come. I remembered the fun I'd had that morning. ‘Darren,’ I said.
‘Boyfriend?’
‘Husband.’
By the time Sheila had returned from the bar holding her receipt for two burgers, I'd told Gayle all about my fairytale wedding at the castle in Italy. ‘Sheils, you didn't tell me your friend was married?’
I shot Sheila a warning glance. She looked at me with confusion, but got the message and acted all innocent. ‘Didn't I?’
‘What about you, Gayle?’ I said, getting in quick before Sheila gave the game away.
She grunted. ‘Divorced. Frankenstein has the kids at the weekend.’
‘Frankenstein?’
‘Her ex, Frank,’ Sheila explained.
‘I call him Frankenstein because of the little monsters he created. You having kids, Rachel?’
With my aged body? Unless I got hitched real soon, babies would be out of the question. ‘Me and Darren have talked about it, but...’
‘Don't,’ said Gayle. ‘I thought Jimmy and Joe were rascals when they were two. But at twelve and thirteen...’ she shook her head. ‘Boys!’
Gayle stabbed at a cherry tomato with her fork. The prongs slipped on the skin and the little red missile shot across the table. I parried sideways and it flew past my arm.
Sheila giggled into her wine. When she laughs she sounds like a constipated hyena. It set us all off. I laughed until I felt the bubbles of my sparkling water coming back up through my nose.
‘God!’ I snorted, wiping my nose on the back of my hand. ‘And I'm not even drunk.’
‘We can soon fix that,’ said Sheila. ‘How about some red wine?’
I gave her a hard stare. We'd already had that discussion.
Sheila shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’
By the time Claire arrived, Gayle had set us off laughing about something else. Claire was younger than the rest of us, probably in her early thirties, and was the only one in a proper relationship. She had a six month old baby at home which she'd just got off to sleep and left with her genuinely real h
usband.
The last member of the group to arrive was Katy, pushing forty and single in name only because of her long standing ‘dull as dishwater’ boyfriend. They'd been together for five years, but still maintained separate homes as if their relationship were based on convenience rather than love. Her straggly dyed blonde hair reminded me of how I used to look when I was back in Leicester. She wore a pair of purple rimmed glasses which she kept perched on the edge of her nose and took delight in peering over whenever she got the opportunity.
‘How's your burger?’ said Sheila.
‘Mmm,’ I said through a mouthful. It wasn't as tasty as the smell had led my stomach to believe, but it was still pretty damn good. Especially as Sheila had ordered one with added mushrooms, bacon and cheese. I chased the last smear of tomato sauce around the plate with a final crispy chip and crunched.
‘Sunday's the only night when I get to sit down with a proper meal,’ said Claire. She'd ordered chicken with jacket potato and was picking at it like an anorexic on a diet.
‘Doesn't that delightful husband of yours cook for you?’ said Gayle. She'd gobbled down all her salad and given up her pretence of calorie counting by tucking in to a tiramisu surrounded by a lake of runny cream.
‘Stewart?’ said Claire. ‘You've got to be kidding. If he's not sitting down in front of the telly with a beer within five minutes of getting home from work, he's off for a boys' curry night.’
Katy, who was sitting between Claire and me, leaned forward and looked over the top of her glasses. ‘What about you, Rachel?’
‘Darren's a great cook,’ I said. ‘Roast beef, duck a l'orange, tagliatelle carbonara. Every night he brings some new creation out of the oven. It's nice to come to a pub and have an ordinary burger, actually.’
‘Seriously?’ said Claire.
‘I'm really lucky,’ I said. Sheila kicked me under the table. I ignored her. ‘He likes to cook. And he likes to cook for me. It would be cruel to ask him not to.’
‘Wow,’ said Gayle.
‘Sounds like a new love,’ said Katy. ‘How long have you been married?’
‘Only a couple of months.’ I surreptitiously wrapped my empty finger in the napkin on my lap. If I was going to keep this up, I needed to buy myself a ring.
‘That explains it,’ said Gayle, dropping her dessert spoon on her plate, virtually scraped clean of cream. ‘It won't last, love, take it from me.’
‘Oh Gayle!’ said Claire.
Katy looked over the top of her glasses at her.
‘What? I'm just saying it like it is.’
‘Like it was for you, Gaylster,’ said Claire. ‘It's not like that for everyone.’
Sheila stood all of a sudden. ‘My round, I think. Drink anyone?’
She took orders from everyone around the table. ‘Rach, give me a hand will you?’
We headed off towards the bar, but as soon as we were round the corner, Sheila stopped and turned to me. ‘You didn't tell me about Darren.’
‘It's just a bit of fun, Sheils.’
She looked at me sideways. She took my left hand and held it up between us. There was no ring on my finger; not even a tan line. ‘You're not married, are you?’
I snatched my hand back. ‘Don't you think I would have told you if I was?’
‘So what's this all about, Rachel?’
‘I'm fed up of telling people I'm a 40-year-old spinster who works in finance.’
‘But you are a 40-year-old spinster who works in finance.’
I glared at her. ‘That's not the point.’
Sheila was angry at me, I could see she was. And a little disappointed. ‘You're lying to my friends.’
‘It's just a laugh, Sheils. Just for tonight, I promise. Let's see how far we can take it.’
She frowned, but something behind her eyes suggested she was considering it.
‘Less than two hours ago, you were complaining I was too straight,’ I reminded her.
She gave in. ‘Okay. But next time we tell them it was a wind-up.’
‘You're on.’ We continued to the bar. I pushed the boat out a little by having a dash of lime cordial in my sparkling water and we carried the drinks back to the table.
The girls were talking about sex when we got there.
‘You should get one of those doo-dahs,’ said Claire to Gayle.
‘Dildos,’ Katy corrected.
‘With two boys in the house?’ said Gayle. ‘Not likely.’
Sheila passed the half of cider to Gayle and the bottle of vodka orange to Claire. I handed Katy a G&T.
‘Gayle's complaining she's not had any since she chucked Frankenstein out,’ said Claire whose skinny frame meant she was blotto already.
Gayle gave her a hard stare. ‘Can you say that a bit louder? I don't think they heard you over the other side of town.’
‘I'm only sayin', sometimes a girl's gotta help herself.’ Claire took a swig from her bottle. ‘What about you, Rachel? How's Darren in that department?’
I sat down and cradled my water and lime close to my chest. ‘Sex with Darren? What can I say?’ I rolled my eyes like the very thought tingled my insides. ‘Oh. My. God! If you know what I mean!’ I grinned and sat back in the chair.
The others - even Sheila - instinctively leaned forward; anxious for more.
‘Three. Times. A night,’ I said.
‘Seriously?’ said Claire.
‘He's insatiable!’
‘But is he good?’ said Gayle.
‘Fireworks inside of me.’ I hid my smile behind my glass as I sipped my water.
‘Where did you find him?’ said Gayle.
‘They don't make Darrens in a factory,’ I said. ‘He's a one-off. And he's only interested in pleasuring me.’
Gayle blinked several times as if trying to expunge the image from her mind. ‘Maybe I'll get one of those doo-dahs after all.’
We giggled. Like a bunch of tipsy schoolgirls drooling over a picture of a pop star in a magazine. It was fun. Much better than a discussion about my hopeless real life.
The call went out that the pub quiz was about to start and pens and paper were delivered to all the tables taking part. We spent the next hour or so arguing about what river Niagara Falls was on and what number is next to 17 clockwise on a dartboard. I managed to look intellectual by knowing that South West Africa is now called Namibia, and earned sad points for remembering that Johnny Morris was the first presenter of Animal Magic.
We came second to last with a pathetic 9 points out of 20. Niagara Falls turned out to be on the Niagara River - not the Hudson, like Claire insisted - and number 3 is next to 17 on a dartboard.
It was almost eleven by the time Sheila made her obligatory last trip to the loo, we said our goodbyes and left the pub.
‘You're incorrigible!’ she said, still giggling, as she tottered over to my car in high heels, giving added meaning to the term 'tipsy'. ‘Three times a night - in your dreams!’
With a bleep, my Fiesta unlocked and we got in. ‘It's not unheard of.’
‘But it's not real,’ said Sheila. ‘Get his end away, then turn over and keep you awake with his snoring for a couple of hours - that's a real man.’
‘Not my Darren.’ I placed my hand on my heart and fluttered my eyelashes. ‘He's perfect. After he's set off a firework display inside my body, I lay there stroking his firm muscles until he's ready to pleasure me again.’ I managed to keep a straight face until the last word, then burst out laughing.
‘Stop it,’ said Sheila, tears of laughter running down her face. ‘You're making me horny and I've got to go to work tomorrow.’
‘Work!’ I'd almost forgotten it was my first day at the new job in the morning. I clipped on my seatbelt and started the engine. ‘Come on, let's get you home so I can get me home and get some sleep.’
We giggled to ourselves as we made our way back to Bedgrove and had pretty much exhausted our funny bones by the time we got to her place.
‘Thanks for
the lift, Rach,’ said Sheila as she got out.
‘You're welcome.’
‘Give my love to Darren!’
I smiled. ‘I will.’
*
It was a five minute drive to Elmhurst at that time of night and I was pretty tired when I got there. I'd moved in less than a week before and it still didn't feel quite like home. I'd managed to unpack most of the boxes and throw some paint on the main bedroom wall, but the place was still acclimatising to me.
There was something different about it when I walked into the hallway. The light was on in the lounge and there was a smell that wasn't quite right - sort of perfumy. I stood for a moment, looking at the soft glow coming from underneath the lounge door, trying to remember if I'd left the table lamp on. The police say to always leave a light on in your house when you're out to deter burglars. Except, I'd just taken on a mortgage and was trying to keep the electricity bill down.
I turned the handle of the door and entered.
The glow wasn't coming from the table lamp, but from a collection of candles on the coffee table. I froze. I would never risk burning down my new house by leaving lit candles unattended - not as if I'd lit them in the first place.
I tensed at the sound of creaking upholstery. A man's head poked up from the sofa. ‘Hello Rachel,’ he said. ‘Had a nice time?’
I screamed.
Fear, anger and panic inside of me all at once, scrambling my ability to think straight. I turned left and right and left again like a trapped wild animal, searching for something - anything - I could use as a weapon. I grabbed the tiffany lamp from the phone table next to the radiator and held it to my chest - a barrier between me and him.
‘Whatever's the matter?’ He got up from the sofa and approached me.
My heart racing, my breath panting; I backed off and bumped up against the lounge door I'd just closed behind me. The cord of the lamp snagged tight at the socket. I was ready to yank it free from the plug and beat him to death with it if I had to. ‘Who are you?’
‘It's me.’
He took another step. I flinched.
‘It's Darren.’
Whirls of confusion made me dizzy. ‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘No, no, no, no, no, no.’
Matchmaker Cat (A Romantic Comedy Short Story) Page 3