The Desperate Wife’s Survival Plan

by Alison Sherlock

  She was barely scraping through the month and had already had to sell the last of her jewellery that she had kept hidden from the bailiffs to meet the rent.

  She had unearthed her jewellery box from the back of the wardrobe. It mainly held big gaudy pieces bought by Steve. They looked, and probably were, expensive but had never been to her taste. She kept her great-grandmother’s ring and pearls but, apart from a few earrings and necklaces, took the whole lot to the new Sell Your Gold shop that had opened up in Lower Grove.

  By Friday afternoon she had had enough and was grateful for the fact that once she had cleaned Mrs Wilberforce’s entrance hall, she would be finished for the week.

  Now that she had thoroughly cleaned the drawing and dining rooms, they only took half an hour to dust and vacuum. She was still building up to the horror of the kitchen, so had set herself the task of transforming the entrance hall and stairwell first.

  The woodwork and windows were no trouble. However the entrance hall included a vast fireplace which was a blackened mess. It took her a whole hour to clean it thoroughly. Then it took a further ten minutes to wash all the soot from her face and hands.

  Drying her hands and wishing she were anywhere but here, Charley allowed herself a loud sigh.

  ‘Hi,’ said Mike, suddenly appearing next to her.

  She had opened the back door to let in some fresh air and hadn’t heard him come in. She grunted a reply, still rattled by his uncaring attitude towards her the previous week. Plus her own embarrassment at having accused him of thinking her a thief.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  She glanced down at her t-shirt which was smudged with black soot. ‘I’m filthy.’

  ‘So? I am too.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘You’re a gardener. You’re allowed to be. It’s expected.’

  ‘It’s only dirt.’ Mike shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s a job. You should be grateful.’

  She barked out a humourless laugh. ‘Oh, yeah?’ she said, sarcastically. ‘Grateful for the fantastic time I’m having? Do me a favour.’

  He stared down at her. ‘Many people would be grateful for your job. You only beat the rest of the competition because Peggy had a word with that Patricia.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘My mum heard it from Peggy.’

  Charley sighed again. The village telegraph was obviously still working well. But suddenly she felt irritated. On top of everything else, she had to stand here and listen to someone tell her she should be grateful for the mess she was in. Thankful, even, that she was broke and alone.

  ‘Listen,’ she snapped. ‘You don’t know how hard it’s been for me. In fact, you don’t know anything about me and my life.’

  ‘I know plenty,’ he told her. ‘Fancy clothes, fancy car, fancy house. Now it’s all gone and poor little Charley hasn’t got any toys left to play with.’

  She flinched.

  ‘It’s not just that,’ she told him, tears pricking her eyes.

  ‘Yes, it is. You feel humiliated. Well, get over yourself.’ He changed his tone of voice to a slightly softer one. ‘Did you hear about Tommy Flynn? Threw himself in front of a train a month or so back.’

  Tommy had been in their year at school too.

  She nodded. ‘I heard. But he had suffered from depression for years.’

  ‘Cheryl Mann? Her husband walked out the very day she had her baby.’

  This bit of news hadn’t reached Charley and she was surprised.

  ‘And what about Greg Baker? Just back from Afghanistan with his leg amputated from the knee.’

  She held up her hand to stop Mike from going on. ‘So what’s your point?’

  ‘My point is, you’re healthy and you’re alive. You’ve got all your limbs and most of your brain cells.’ His eyes twinkled before he became serious once more. ‘You never used to be a snob at school. You never used to care what people thought or lust over the most expensive car or house.’

  A tear finally escaped and rolled its way slowly down Charley’s cheek. He reached out and wiped it away with his rough hand. He had gardener’s hands.

  Mike stared into her eyes for a beat before saying, ‘There’s nothing wrong with being humbled once in a while. Get over yourself, Charlotte Summers, and I might start to like you again.’

  She recoiled at his words but he was already walking back out into the garden. Charley was left alone with a swirl of emotions and a whole lot of anger.

  How dare he talk to her like that? How dare he even think that about her? She wasn’t a snob. She wasn’t a bad person. She didn’t deserve all this.

  But a very small voice deep inside wondered if his words might be true.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  SAMANTHA HELD THE phone under her ear as she picked up the set of matching underwear.

  ‘Bloody man!’ raged Charley.

  ‘Absolutely,’ murmured Samantha in agreement.

  Perhaps red was a bit too trashy? Maybe the pale blue was better. Virginal, even. Samantha smirked to herself. Her two previous meetings with Richard had proved that she was anything but.

  ‘So what if my clothes are designer?’ carried on Charley. ‘What does that matter to anyone?’

  ‘Every woman should have pretty things,’ said Samantha, now looking at a lace body before putting it back on the rail. Richard was classier than that.

  She glanced at her watch. Half past four. She had already ducked out of work early, pretending to have a dentist’s appointment, but really she just wanted to go shopping for something lovely and new, to bolster her confidence when she saw him later.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about him and this was bad. Bad for her self-control. Bad for staying on top in this relationship. If it was even to be a relationship.

  He had come over to her flat twice since they had slept together at the conference. Yes, he was definitely married. No, he probably wasn’t going to leave his wife any time soon. A couple of kids had made sure the wife was going to hang on to him as long as she could.

  But that was fine with Samantha. She wasn’t looking for love and marriage. Just a bit of fun with absolutely no strings attached.

  The reason she couldn’t stop thinking about him was that the sex had been phenomenal. It had been a long time since anyone had made her feel like that in bed. So they would continue to enjoy the sex and leave the messy relationship love stuff to others.

  She was nearing the tills when she saw a pair of fluffy black handcuffs in the ‘hen night’ section. Samantha threw them into her shopping basket. Just in case he had a kinky side. She wanted to be his perfect fantasy.

  Nothing on the outside of Caroline’s beautifully kept house was anything less than perfect. The four-bedroomed detached cottage had been recently repainted. The front lawn was immaculate. The box hedge was clipped regularly to prevent any irregularities from ruining the line. There was even a white picket fence along the front of it.

  The back garden was equally neat, until you reached a narrow path leading around the back of a hedge. Home-grown vegetables had seemed such a good idea at the time. Jeff wanted to do the manly thing and had dug over the whole area before collapsing in a heap in front of the Sunday football match on the television. As far as he was concerned, that was the only contribution required.

  Caroline had readily agreed with him and speedily researched which vegetables would suit their soil, climate and aspect.

  Jeff had joked the previous evening over dinner that soon all their fruit and vegetables would be brought in from the garden. Caroline had smiled and nodded along with him. But her heart was speared by fear. Fear that he would discover her guilty secret. Fear that her husband would find time in his hectic schedule to saunter down the garden path and find that things were not so rosy there as he thought.

  For some reason, the green leaves of the early potatoes were a sickly-looking yellow. The onions she’d pulled up were barely bigger than a shallot. The strawberry and raspberry plants showed
absolutely no signs of life.

  In a final act of rebellion, the tomato plants had shrivelled up within a couple of days of being planted. It was these that Caroline had just been pulling up, to replace with healthy new plants she had bought from the garden centre.

  Except Charley had rung to rage on about Mike’s words to her earlier.

  ‘Did you know about Cheryl Mann?’ she asked down the phone.

  ‘Yes,’ said Caroline. ‘Very sad. The husband’s gone off with some bimbo.’

  ‘Must be catching,’ said Charley.

  Caroline thought of Jeff. Thank God she trusted him. She knew she should confess to him about the vegetable plot and that he would just laugh. After all, he wasn’t like Steve, the lying, stealing cheat. Caroline had more faith in her husband than that. But these little lies weren’t in the same league. She just wanted everything to be perfect for him and Flora, that was all.

  ‘Look, don’t upset yourself,’ she told her friend.

  ‘I didn’t become a snob, did I?’ asked Charley in a small voice.

  ‘No,’ said Caroline, firmly.

  She was bending down to place the rotting plants in the bottom of a garden rubbish bag when she found that she felt dizzy and a bit nauseous. Caroline staggered over to a low wall and sank on to it, trying to breathe deeply and keep calm.

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Charley.

  ‘Sorry but I’ve got to go,’ said Caroline. ‘Nothing major, just a problem with Flora.’

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Caroline, trying to control her breathing. ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow.’

  She hung up the phone, feeling the prickling of tiny beads of sweat on her forehead. ‘Mummy!’ called Flora, coming around the corner. ‘I’ve planted my sunflower seeds.’

  ‘Good girl,’ said Caroline, fixing a bright smile on her face.

  ‘Where’s the watering can?’ she asked.

  Caroline stood up, suppressing the sickness and forcing herself to carry on. She had no time to be sick. There was work to be done.

  ‘So what if my house was large?’

  ‘Charley, you’re talking to the wrong person,’ said Julie. ‘Mine’s covered in dog hair.’

  She let her friend rant on for a couple more minutes but in the end had to hang up. She knew she had to face whatever was waiting inside for her.

  Julie cautiously turned the key in the lock. She crept inside and closed the front door softly. There was no sound, no movement. She sighed and felt herself relax as she turned around . . . but then stopped in her tracks. There he was. The enemy within.

  The fat, golden retriever puppy sitting in the middle of the hallway gave a short, delighted puppy bark at seeing Julie. She glared back at him. He was sitting next to a pool of pee on her oak floorboards.

  ‘Nick!’ she hollered, but already knew he wasn’t at home. His car wasn’t in the driveway.

  Julie went to find some wipes from the kitchen. The cupboard under the sink was stuffed with wipes and disinfectant since the puppy had arrived.

  But when asked, ‘How are you getting on with finding a new home for the puppy?’ each morning and evening, her son would merely shrug his shoulders and reply that he was waiting for a phone call.

  In the meantime, Julie was stuck with them both. Her son had told her that he was ‘between jobs’. She was secretly praying for a swift employment offer as her quiet routine had been totally disrupted. Contrary to all promises, Nick hadn’t fed or cleaned up after the dog since they had both arrived. The puppy whined when left, had chewed every sock and shoe available, and appeared never to have been toilet trained. Julie’s home had become one massive lavatory, or so it seemed to her.

  Even her beloved garden was starting to look a little battered. The pots of herbs around the back door had been pulled up in some kind of canine frolic. Julie had had to move them up high out of reach.

  Every night she would fall exhausted into bed and then listen to the puppy whine. Nick said he couldn’t hear a thing and that she must be exaggerating.

  Julie couldn’t wait until her life reverted to normal once more, when it would be just her and her beloved garden.

  Chapter Thirty

  IT WASN’T THE first time the boy had pointed the pistol at Charley but it was the first time she’d known he was going to shoot her.

  Mrs Smith’s stepson was home from boarding school for the holidays. Alexander was a ghastly child who wasn’t due back at school until late September.

  Charley wasn’t sure if he should return to school or be sent straight to prison.

  ‘Put it down,’ she told him, looking around the kitchen for an escape route.

  There wasn’t one. He was blocking the doorway.

  ‘Think of the trouble you’ll get into if you shoot me,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t care.’

  The eight-year-old boy broke into a grin and squeezed the trigger.

  Water came rushing out of the water pistol and splashed against her chest and face. Ker-pow. She’d been hit.

  Mrs Smith rounded the corner a second too late.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said, taking in Charley’s dripping face and sopping wet top. She turned to face her stepson. ‘That was very naughty, Alexander. Say sorry to Charlotte.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he sing-songed. ‘Can I have some chocolate?’

  ‘No,’ snapped his stepmother. ‘We’re going to Isabella’s birthday party in a while. You can have some there.’

  ‘But I want chocolate now!’ he wailed, stomping around the kitchen and kicking over the bucket of water with which Charley had been mopping the floor.

  ‘Alexander! Stop that!’ Mrs Smith clutched her Botoxed forehead, which was straining unsuccessfully to scowl.

  ‘I want chocolate! I want chocolate!’ he chanted, going round and round the kitchen table, all the while kicking spilt water up the kitchen cabinets.

  ‘I said no!’

  ‘I’ll tell Daddy!’

  ‘Enough!’ she cried. ‘We’ll get some on the way to the party, okay?’

  Alexander finally stopped stomping. ‘And a new Playstation game?’ he said, an evil grin on his face. ‘Then I can tell Daddy how nice you’ve been to me today when he gets home later.’

  Mrs Smith gave her stepson a smile which suggested she would like to gouge his eyes out with her false nails, but merely said, ‘Of course, darling.’

  They departed a short time later, leaving Charley with a thumping headache and a hell of a mess in the kitchen.

  ‘I thought you were supposed to be cleaning up the mess, not making it,’ said a voice from the back door.

  She turned round and shot Mike a glare. She hadn’t forgotten his previous harsh words, which had left her stewing all weekend.

  ‘Any chance of a coffee?’ he asked.

  She ignored him as she began to mop up the water.

  ‘Charley?’ he prompted. ‘Hello?’

  She squeezed the mop head into the bucket before looking at him. ‘I’m not speaking to you,’ she told him.

  ‘Thank God for that. I thought I’d gone deaf.’

  ‘You were very mean to me.’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Only for your own good.’

  She sighed. ‘Why do you hate me?’

  ‘I don’t hate you. However, I still haven’t forgiven you for breaking my yellow pencil.’

  She looked up, puzzled. ‘On Friday? I don’t remember.’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I mean when we were twelve.’

  ‘Twelve years old?’

  ‘Yeah. In Mrs McClusky’s class.’

  Charley stared at him in utter bewilderment. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘We used to sit next to each other. You stole it out of my pencil case for something, used it and then broke it. You were trying to impress Steve because you had a huge crush on him.’

  Charley blew out a long sigh. ‘And look how well that turned out.’ She glanced at Mike. ‘Well,
sorry about the pencil.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  With that, he left.

  Charley shook her head. Who would harbour a grudge about a pencil after all these years? Men. There was something wrong with each and every one of them.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  CHARLEY HAD A secret.

  The weekdays weren’t a problem. She would clean all day and then stagger back, exhausted. Her evenings were then spent slumped in front of the television, before a quick shower and into bed. But at least keeping busy meant that she didn’t have time to think about her ex-husband any more.

  She didn’t really bother about making a fancy dinner either. She still felt embarrassed and guilty about the sheer amount of food she used to waste by buying too much and then letting it go uneaten. Let alone how much money she used to squander on takeaway coffees, sandwiches and cakes.

  Now she checked how much money she had in her purse before she went food shopping, and tried to spend around half what she used to. She bought food from the basic supermarket ranges. Some of it tasted fine. Some was dreadful. Trial and error taught her which to avoid.

  Some food was horribly expensive, she realised. Especially meat and fish. So the majority of her meals were jacket potatoes or pasta. She no longer bought bottled water either. It tasted just fine coming out of the tap so she made do with that, refilling a spare bottle each day to take with her to work.

  Carbohydrates were abhorred by Dukan dieters, but Charley now weighed less than she had done for many years. The combination of physical work and reasonably healthy meals meant her extra pounds had just dropped off. All those years of worrying about her weight, when all she’d had to do was follow the bankruptcy diet.

  But the weekends dragged. So much time and nobody to spend it with. She did pop out and see the girls sometimes, but most of her time was spent in solitude. It was then that her mood deteriorated, as she mulled over mistakes made in the past.

  Even cleaning was better than sitting around with nothing to do all day. In hindsight she could see the tediousness of her previous existence. Not that she wouldn’t have given her right arm to go back to a bit of luxury now and then, and to her wonderful kitchen in particular.