Lew’s heart attack, which had happened just after they’d moved out of The Beeches, had thrown all the cards up in the air. He’d taken the very generous redundancy package the company had offered him, he cashed in his shares when they were cresting and only sold The Beeches when the property market peaked. He invested in safe and riskier markets and had a golden touch with both to the extent that he was a very wealthy man. He could afford to run the Pot of Gold at a loss, view it as an expensive hobby, but he didn’t want to. Lew poured his soul into that shop because it was within his capabilities to make it a success and he wasn’t such a fool that he didn’t realise he was over-compensating for his dashed hopes of being a father.
Woodlea, the house he and Charlotte now lived in was a fresh space for their new life going forwards, not one full of ghosts of children who never were and un-lived dreams but a place where they could start making new ones. Charlotte found the four-bedroomed new build with a lantern-roofed conservatory – the biggest one on an estate of fifteen exclusive builds. It was still too big for them, but she refused to move to a box, and it was well within their budget.
There were lots of cars parked outside The Beeches and fastened to the front gate with ribbon, bunches of pink balloons. A woman with two small girls, one dressed as a fairy, one as a Disney princess had just got out of a people carrier. The woman was carrying a tower of sparkly boxes. Lew pulled into the side of the road, just for a minute or two because he didn’t want to be spotted and mistaken for a paedophile.
The new occupants had twin six-year-old girls, a four-year-old boy and the mother was newly pregnant. The Beeches would be a house they would all grow up in, cherish and remember all their lives. It had everything a child could love: a secret room, a huge attic, the perfect slope in the garden for sledging down on winter snow. Lew felt the slightest prickle behind his eyes as if emotion were sharp and he twisted the key in the ignition after silently wishing the Orton family everything he had wanted for himself and Charlotte in that perfect family home.
Chapter 8
Charlotte was on the phone when Lew walked in. She had such a strange telephone voice it always made him want to laugh, though he didn’t. Her vowels rounded and she developed a silky purr worthy of Fenella Fielding. He wasn’t even sure she was aware that she sounded as if she had just quit sixth form at Roedean.
‘It has been too long, Gem, you’re right . . . yar . . . totally . . .’
Yar . . . totally. She was even starting to employ that ridiculous pretentious tone with her best friend.
‘Seven . . . or when you’re ready. I’ll do steak . . . haven’t made my special sauce for ages.’
She indicated to Lew that she’d only be two seconds.
‘Okay . . . see you Saturday. Great stuff. Ciao Gem . . . yep, hope you get on all right.’ Charlotte pressed the end call button with a very long silver-tipped nail then turned to Lew. ‘Hi darling, good day at the emporium?’
Charlotte never referred to it as a shop because it would sound too downmarket. She hadn’t said as much, but Lew knew. She’d always enjoyed the kudos that came with being able to brag, ‘My husband is an investment banker in the City’ but it wasn’t so palatable to admit that he now rented a shop dealing in old things, so in her head the Pot of Gold was a high-end ‘emporium’ full of things that Sotheby’s might covet.
‘Wonderful,’ he smiled and meant it.
‘That was a very enthusiastic answer,’ trilled Charlotte. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I’ve managed to get rid of Vanda Clegg,’ grinned Lew. ‘I never thought it was possible to be so happy about being ripped off.’
‘Ripped off? What do you mean “ripped off”?’ Charlotte’s newly microbladed left eyebrow rose a full Roger Moore inch.
‘To cut a long story short,’ began Lew, pulling the glass top from the decanter on the work surface and pouring himself a finger of malt, ‘she’s been stealing from me and then selling the merchandise on in another antiques centre virtually on the doorstep. Arrogance or idiocy, I have no idea which.’ Charlotte opened her mouth to speak, but Lew pre-empted the question. ‘If you’re going to ask how I found out, freakishly a woman who worked in the other shop came into mine asking for a job and recognised her. I gave Vanda the option to take her bag, leave and never darken my doorstep again or I’d let the police handle it. Not surprisingly she took me up on the offer.’
‘Oh my God, the cheeky cow,’ gasped Charlotte.
‘And what’s more I set on the woman who recognised Vanda. She’s worked in the antiques trade for years and really knows her stuff.’
He noticed that Charlotte stiffened slightly.
‘That was a bit quick. What does she look like?’
‘Mila Kunis,’ said Lew, feeling the whisky hit the back of his throat with a satisfying burn.
‘Really?’ Charlotte’s eyes widened.
‘No, not really,’ chuckled Lew. Mila Kunis was his favourite. But even if it had been Mila Kunis herself who had turned up looking for a job, Charlotte would have had no worries. Lew was married and that was it as far as he was concerned. He’d never strayed and he never would. If he ever fell out of love with Charlotte, he’d end it and then move on, not try the waters beforehand. And he’d seen very up close and personal recently, the full effect of an extramarital affair, and didn’t want any of it.
‘Well then? What is she like?’
‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Lew, ‘Average, I suppose. Brown hair, medium height, quiet. I was more interested in the fact that she appeared so knowledgeable than what dress size she was.’
Charlotte, quickly bored with shop talk, moved on to another subject. ‘Gemma and Jason are coming up for supper on Saturday night.’
‘I thought that’s what you might have been arranging when I walked in.’
‘And Patrick and Regina. We haven’t seen any of them for weeks and it’s our turn to host.’
Lew liked Gemma and Jason a lot, he could relax with them, less so with Patrick and Regina, especially at the moment. He tried not to sigh but failed.
‘Oh, don’t react like that, Lewis, everything is back to normal now,’ huffed Charlotte.
Lew nearly spat out his whisky. ‘Are you joking?’
‘Well, it is until Regina has too much to drink. So we’ll just make sure she doesn’t.’
‘Okay,’ said Lew, blowing out two large lungfuls of air which made his lips vibrate in a judder.
‘Oh, Lewis, don’t look like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘They’ve put it all behind them. Nothing has happened since they renewed their vows.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Lew, with sarcasm. ‘How much did all that cost? Three weeks in the Maldives, not to mention Regina’s dress and the diamond eternity ring and all the other things he bought her. And remind me what happened two weeks after they came home, when we all went to the Koh-i-Noor on Regina’s birthday.’
‘Ah, I’d forgotten about that,’ said Charlotte with a grimace, recalling a very drunk Regina lobbing a party-sized mixed platter of starters at her errant husband, Indian snowball-style.
‘How can you forget about it, Charlotte? I didn’t think it was possible to get a suspected detached retina from having an onion bhajee land in your eye. She nearly blinded her own husband.’
‘She was off her face. She couldn’t remember anything about it afterwards.’
‘Oh well, that makes it okay then.’ Lew shook his head in exasperation. ‘She got all six of us banned, five of us who remember it in glorious technicolour. This, my darling Charlotte, will not go away for years, trust me. If ever. I don’t have Regina down as the forgiving sort, even with a diamond the size of one of Nanny McPhee’s warts.’
‘Oh, gross, Lewis.’ Charlotte gave a shudder.
Thirteen months ago, news of Patrick’s affair had rocked their little group of six. Regina was beautiful, clever, scary and the only child of a very rich daddy and Patrick had always known on what side hi
s bread was best buttered: the look but don’t touch side. Not surprisingly the object of his affection, Marlene, had been a blue-eyed blonde. Surprisingly, she was not a delicious young floozy with fake boobs and inflated lips, the type Patrick usually ogled, but a plain, gentle, homely-looking woman older than his wife. And if THAT wasn’t enough, the smart, preened, savvy Patrick had got himself caught out with the stupidest of mistakes: sending a Valentine’s card meant for his mistress to his wife. Needless to say, Patrick cut off the affair before he was cut off from Regina, her daddy’s money and his bollocks. Patrick had done whatever he could to mend the damage, but Regina’s forgiveness ran only surface deep because there was a lake of magma that surged up as soon as she had reached a certain level of inebriation, which always led to a spoil of festering sarcasm and bilious, excruciating, bitterness.
‘So, talking of affairs, do I need to check this . . . what’s her name . . . out then?’ asked Charlotte.
‘Bonnie,’ returned Lew. ‘And no, don’t be silly.’
‘Bonnie?’ Charlotte quirked both eyebrows this time.
‘Nice.’
‘Yes she is,’ said Lew, stepping towards his wife, looping his arms around her, refusing to play any jealousy games. He gave her a big kiss on the cheek. ‘But she’s not as nice as you. How do you fancy going out for tea tonight instead of cooking? Pasta Papa. To celebrate the fact that I never have to walk in and see Vanda Clegg again.’
‘Oh, that would be good,’ said Charlotte, though her voice carried a note that suggested otherwise.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Lew, pulling her to arm’s length.
‘Well . . .’ Charlotte sighed, ‘Pasta Papa is okay but . . . couldn’t we go to Firenze instead?’
Lew pulled a face of gentle protest. Firenze was a wonderful place to dine, but more for a grand occasion. Pasta Papa was cheap and cheerful and around the corner and he wouldn’t have to dress smart for it or get a taxi. A bowl of Tagliatelle Papa-style, their thin garlic and mozzarella bread and an ice-cold Peroni was all he wanted, not the full posh and pernickity shebang. He would need to have a word with Charlotte about her spending habits anyway after taking a very close look at their accounts recently. She was going through money as if it were loo paper.
Charlotte was now pushing out her bottom lip. ‘Oh, please. You did say it was a celebration and we haven’t been for ages. We don’t have to have every course.’
Lew conceded. Anything to make her happy. ‘Oh, go on then,’ he relented.
Charlotte giddily clapped her hands. ‘I’ll change into my new dress.’
She scurried up the stairs and Lew watched her. Charlotte didn’t like to do cheap and cheerful any more, she’d been spoilt. Lew picked up the phone to ring Firenze and book a table, but he would still have preferred Pasta Papa.
Chapter 9
Stephen went to bed early that night with a headache brought on by the stress of Bonnie’s news, so he said, so she claimed the front room and flicked to the news, but it was all doom and gloom. CCTV footage of a student raped on a street, a bomb blast in a holiday resort in Egypt and yet another death of a small child who had slipped through the net of social services. The image of the little boy’s face remained in her brain long after the point where she turned over. He was smiling, despite a split lip, looking up at whoever was taking the photo with big blue eyes full of light which would be extinguished just a few days later. Bonnie gulped down a throatful of tears. How could someone who had carried such a beautiful little boy for nine months treat him so cruelly? There were too many people in the world who shouldn’t have children but did, and too many who should but couldn’t. It was an imbalance that Mother Nature hadn’t managed to rectify yet.
There was no gynaecological reason why Bonnie couldn’t have children. She’d always wanted them. She hadn’t had them with her first love Joel, because he was a metronome that swung wildly between two versions of himself: a balloon that sailed high and carelessly with the clouds and a dragging dead weight that couldn’t lift its head from the ground. The High Joel, the exhausting, full of life, happy, funny Joel would have made a wonderful dad. That Joel loved everyone and everything, he was a Red Setter pup in a beautiful man’s body. Low Joel couldn’t see beyond himself. A dark half of paranoia, sadness and self-loathing who tried to alienate Bonnie, pushing her buttons to prove the self-fulfilling prophecy that he was unlovable, but she had stuck firm to him whatever he threw at her, always hoping the doctors would find the combination of medicines that would allow them to be a normal couple, doing normal coupley things like socialising, holidaying, having a child. But no amount of wishful thinking had helped defeat the black forces at work in his head. He had bailed out of his white-knuckle roller-coaster life and left her crushed.
As for Stephen, the subject of starting a family hadn’t risen up in conversation before they were married. Not much had, she’d realised with hindsight. She’d been lost, disorientated, struggling under the weight of her failure to help Joel or her father and he’d been on the scene, a self-imposed guide-rope through the confusion, patching up her broken heart with kind words and patience and she’d married him through gratitude masquerading as love. She had thought he would lead her into the light, but instead he had pushed her into the dark.
They hadn’t slept together after the first few weeks of their marriage. They’d tried to have sex just a couple of times and it was awkward and cold and it was obvious that Stephen had no interest in that side of marriage at all. He had suggested that Bonnie might want to move into the bedroom across the landing, the larger one with its own ensuite and Bonnie, hurt but stoical, had complied. They had quickly settled into a sexless companionship of a relationship, with not much companionship.
It was half-past eleven when Bonnie turned all the lights off, checked that the doors were locked and went upstairs. She read in bed for another half hour until she felt her eyelids dropping. She liked Midnight Moon romances, where heroes were strong and handsome and heroines feisty and beautiful and passion flared between them like a factory-full of fireworks. Stephen frowned on them because he said they were ‘lesser books’ and Bonnie didn’t disagree with him, not because she thought he was right, but because he would never accept he was wrong. Her books were her escapism, they gave her hope that there was a strong, handsome hero out there with her name on his heart. She knew she was too young to settle for the life she had, but she had been forced to accept this quagmire of complacency because she had nowhere to go, no money to go with, and she was scared to make the break.
She used to feel sorry for Stephen. He had no friends, nor family since his mother had died – just her. She gathered he wasn’t a popular person at work; one of the grey people who came in, did their job efficiently, needled a few people by being a Norman-know-it-all and went home. He’d promised to look after her, keep her safe and he had. Safe from everyone but himself. She lived in a nice house with him, they had no debts or pressures and he wasn’t bad to her, but neither was he good to her. They went abroad once a year on holiday for seven days, always to the same quiet Spanish place. Bonnie read a lot in the sun, Stephen walked and took photos of buildings and try as she might, Bonnie could not recall any of the conversations they must have had over dinner at the hotel before retiring to their twin beds in any of those years. He had tricked her into believing she was loved. He needed her, but not for love. She used to feel sorry for him, but she didn’t any more.
She had recurring dreams in which she was eighty years old and she was still in this house, married to him, and she would wake from them feeling as if all the air had been stolen from the room. She was bored beyond belief by her life.
But tonight, for once, she was going to bed with wishes and hopes in her heart that tomorrow was not going to be just another same-old, same-old day. She could have kissed the old lady with the Gulvase for dropping her in it with Ken Grimshaw.
The Daily Trumpet would like to apologise to the Nobb family for the unfortunat
e wording under their photograph in a feature on them last week. It should have read: Five generations of the Nobb family, not Five generations of Nobbs. We apologise for any offence incurred by any of the Nobbs.
Chapter 10
Lew’s eyes opened slowly and took moments to focus on the time showing on the bedside alarm clock. When they did, he had leapt out of bed as if it were on fire. It was quarter to nine. He had never once been late for work. He had either slept through his alarm or not set it, neither of which seemed possible for someone like him. Charlotte was awoken by his racing around getting dressed. She propped herself up on her pillow and asked why he was tearing about like a loon.
‘I’ve overslept,’ he explained. ‘When do I ever do that? And I’ve got the new sales assistant starting this morning. She’ll probably be there now. Great start.’
The Queen of Wishful Thinking Page 4