by Lynda Renham
I hope they didn’t advertise in the Clapham Chronicle. This is dead embarrassing. What if they used their real names? My mum should have a degree in embarrassment. I still tremble at the memory of when I was a teenager and we lost our pet cat. Mum asked all my school friends if they had seen my pussy. I wanted to die.
‘Shoes,’ she barks.
Mum would have made Hitler a great wife. Even the cat is too afraid to shit in its own garden and goes to the neighbour’s. I exhale and pull off my boots.
‘You look tired,’ she says.
‘Well I do get up at five.’
‘Ridiculous godforsaken hour,’ she mumbles.
‘At least I finish early.’
‘Your cousin Helen is pregnant,’ she says almost accusingly, like I had something to do with it.
‘Oh,’ I say.
‘Everyone’s having babies except you.’
Not everyone. That’s a bit of an exaggeration isn’t it? Jennifer Aniston isn’t for one but I think better of saying that.
‘There’s plenty of time.’
‘You’re nearly thirty-two,’ she says, as if I could forget.
‘I’m not about to draw my pension.’
‘It’s getting late to have babies.’
‘Lots of women have babies late in life these days,’ I say.
‘I hope you’re not thinking of waiting until you’re sixty-two like that woman in Algeria. It’s a bit difficult spoiling your grandchildren when you’re dead.’
I sigh and follow her into the kitchen and slump onto a stool as messages issue from their antiquated answering machine.
‘Margo, it’s Joan, you don’t have a lemon squeezer do you? Geoff and I are trying something new for tonight.’
Lemon squeezer? Christ, what can they do with one of those?
‘Only me Margo. Just to let you know Pam’s husband has buggered off. We should all pop round later, cheer her up. What do you think? Call me.’
Mum’s name is Margaret by the way. But she decided after watching re-runs of The Good Life that Margo suited her better.
‘Hello, I’m responding to your advert for the garden swing. Is it still available?’
I stifle a giggle. Mum gives me a filthy look.
‘Honestly, some people,’ she huffs.
You have no more messages, announces the machine much to my relief.
‘I’m making camomile tea, do you want some?’ asks Mum, filling the kettle.
I nod, I think I need it.
‘What do you mean swingers? This is Clapham. People don’t swing in Clapham,’ I say dismissively. ‘This isn’t Surrey you know.’
‘You think we should advertise in Surrey?’ says Mum brightly, popping teabags into the teapot.
‘I don’t think you should advertise at all. What’s this?’ I point to a bulky envelope on the kitchen table. It’s addressed to me.
‘Sting and Trudie swing.’
Frankly I could swing for Sting and Trudie for the trouble they cause me.
‘Ah Roxie, how’s it going? You haven’t seen my sudoku book have you?’ says Dad, strolling into the kitchen.
Do people who do sudoku swing – surely not?
‘No,’ I say, removing my cardigan and socks. It’s hotter here than in the Bahamas.
‘Martin, please empty the recycling and move your trough off the kitchen table,’ snaps Mum.
I sigh.
‘Don’t you mean trowel?’ I say.
Things are worse than I thought if Dad is drinking from a trough, unless that’s part of their bondage games. I really must stop reading erotica if I’m starting to think my parents are at it. I did think about studying, English literature that is, not erotica. After all, thirty-one isn’t too old to start studying is it? But Darren doesn’t see the point in study.
‘You’ve got a good job Babe, haven’t you? What you going to do with knowledge, bloody dangerous if you ask me. Besides, I suppose we ought to get a baby at some point. You’ll never have time then,’ he’d said, making it sound like we’d just pop down to Aldi and buy one like you would buy a chicken. Talking of which … I stare through my parents’ kitchen window.
‘What’s that?’
‘Hens of course. Sting and Trudi have them.’
Oh well, that’s okay then isn’t it? I only hope Trudie and Sting don’t become cannibals. I’ll be in fear of my life.
‘Are you sure about that?’
She looks thoughtful.
‘I read it in Chat. Besides, think of all the eggs we’ll have.’
‘Think of all the mess you’ll have.’
‘I am thinking of it,’ says Dad, grimacing at the hen that is staring at us through the glass of the kitchen door.
‘Roxie thinks we should advertise in The Surry Advertiser,’ says Mum.
‘I never said that,’ I protest, fingering the envelope.
‘Do they know a lot about chickens in Surrey?’ asks Dad.
‘Don’t be stupid Martin, to advertise for swingers, of course.’
‘Oh that,’ he says dismissively. ‘Personally I’d rather keep bees,’ he adds, smiling at me. ‘I never did like Glenn Miller.’
What has Glenn Miller got to do with it?
‘I can’t believe you’re even considering it. You won’t even know these people. How can you trust them?’ I ask worriedly.
‘I’m writing a list of questions. For example, what is your favourite film? If they say Fatal Attraction we’ll avoid them like the plague, but there’ll be lots of us. How can it not be safe?’
Lots of us. Holy crap, as Anastasia Steele would say, they’re surely not thinking of an orgy?
‘Why can’t you copy someone safe, like Alan Titchmarsh for example?’
‘Absolutely,’ agrees Dad.
Mother scoffs.
‘Do you see Alan Titchmarsh swinging?’ she asks scathingly.
‘He is in his sixties,’ I say. ‘And probably too busy doing normal things like gardening.’
‘Well, we’re far from sixty and I really don’t understand why you’re making such a fuss about us doing a bit of swinging. It will be fun. We need a hobby now your dad has taken early retirement.’
A hobby? Jesus, I’ve heard swinging called some things but never a hobby.
‘It will be disgusting,’ I say, pulling a face.
‘I’ve got two left feet anyway. I’ll be useless,’ says Dad.
It’s either too hot in here or they’ve spiked my tea. What has his feet got to do with anything? I really don’t want to ask.
‘You’ll get the hang of it,’ says Mum.
‘I’m not sure I want to get the hang of it,’ says Dad, handing me a box.
‘Plenty of spuds in there, as well as carrots. If you want some broad beans I’ve got lots of them coming on.’
‘If Dad hasn’t got the hang of it by now he never will,’ I say feeling myself redden.
‘You have to practise, that’s the thing, Martin.’
I splutter on my tea.
‘Mum what do you think swinging is?’
‘Dancing to big band music of course, what else?’ she says, quickly spraying with Mr Muscle and mopping up my spilt tea.
Oh dear.
She points to the envelope.
‘That’s your book Tantric for the Busy Woman. I also bought you Fifty Shades number three.’
‘Ooh,’ I say excitedly. ‘Thanks so much Mum. I’ll hide them when I get home. Darren thinks I have too many books.’
‘The little things that make you happy,’ smiles Mum.
‘You shouldn’t need to hide anything,’ says Dad scathingly. ‘It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong.’
‘Don’t bring that up again Martin,’ says Mum.
‘I just don’t see why he should dictate what you do when he was the one playing away from home and …’
‘We’ve put it behind us,’ I say, pushing the package under the potatoes and carrots.
‘All the same, you earn g
ood money and if you want to spend it on books …’
‘We shouldn’t get involved Martin,’ says Mum.
All the same Dad is right. If I want to spend my money on books, why shouldn’t I? I’m too easy-going that’s my problem.
‘Ah there it is,’ says Dad gleefully, pulling his sudoku book from under the box.
I finish my tea and stand up. I can’t leave without warning them can I?
‘Mum, most people think of swinging as wife swapping. I don’t think you should advertise anywhere else.’
Dad sighs.
‘Good heavens,’ cries Mum. ‘Are you sure? But Sting …’
‘Might do all kinds of things but you don’t have to do them too.’
‘Ooh Martin,’ she says worriedly.
Dad rolls his eyes.
‘It’ll be okay,’ he says in a soothing tone. ‘I’ll sort it, don’t you worry love,’ he says patting me on the shoulder.
I kiss him on the cheek and make for the door. Mum hugs me.
‘With your looks and figure you should have been a model. That Darren is holding you back if you ask me …’
‘I thought we weren’t getting involved Margaret,’ scolds Dad.
I kiss her on the cheek and lug the box to the car. They’re not wrong about Darren but that’s a partnership isn’t it? You’ve got to make it work. With that thought in my mind, I climb into my Fiesta and head home.
Chapter Three
I balance the box of spuds on my arm, throw my bag over my shoulder and trudge up the ten flights of stairs to our one bedroom flat. There is a lift but having got stuck in it once with the neighbourhood’s local pervert I now tend to avoid it. I assure you fifteen minutes of my panting is preferable to the five minutes of his. Before I’ve reached the second floor I can smell Liz Mitchell’s cigarette smoke and her fragrance of eau de Deep Heat.
‘I thought I heard you,’ she says blowing smoke out of the corner of her red-painted lips.
Saw me more like, the nosy old biddy. No way did she hear me. I don’t start panting until I get to the sixth floor. I swear to God she is stitched into that pink fluffy dressing gown of hers. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her out of it.
‘Hello Liz,’ I say politely.
‘What you got there?’ she asks poking her nose into my box and dropping ash onto my spuds. I wrinkle my nose in disgust and turn to ascend the next flight.
‘Poor Dot’s rheumatism has flared up again. Blue her ankles are,’ she says in her raspy voice while blowing more smoke my way. The hallway is becoming blue too. ‘I thought I had troubles with my health but she’s in a state poor love.’
‘Oh dear,’ I say, trying to sound as sympathetic as I can.
‘What she needs is someone to come and do once a week,’ she says looking at me pointedly.
The box feels heavier by the minute.
‘I said Roxie is the ideal person. After all, you don’t want strangers in your place do you? You can’t trust cleaners can you? My mate had all sorts nicked by hers.’
I fight back a sigh.
‘Of course I don’t mean you. I know you wouldn’t nick from anyone,’ she says, while stubbing out her lipstick-tipped cigarette on the hall floor. ‘When can you pop into her?’
Oh dear. This is all I need.
‘The thing is I’m up to my eyes in work and I’m not sure I could fit her in,’ I say, trying not to sound exasperated. I so hate cleaning. If the Morgan Group didn’t pay so well, and Darren had more work, I would give it up tomorrow. If only the garage would give him more hours.
‘I should be getting more work next month,’ he said last night, but he says that every month. Still, he does go out every day looking for work so I can’t really ask for more can I? Work is scarce these days isn’t it?
‘Not even for Dot? Her feet are that swollen I reckon she can’t see her toes. That would worry me, wouldn’t it worry you? They must weigh a ton.’
The weight of this box is worrying me more. I’ve still eight flights to go.
‘I’ve got so much on with the hotels but I can ask around.’
‘I think she’d prefer to have you. It’d only be an hour a week.’
‘Well …’ I hesitate.
‘She’d be so grateful.’
‘I’ll drop in on Monday after I finish.’
I’m too nice for my own good, that’s my problem.
‘Lovely,’ she says, touching my shoulder. ‘Ooh by the way, I saw him on the telly this afternoon, you know, that Ark Morgan of yours. Talking about his property empire, he was, and how it is expanding. I say, he’s one good-looking chap. I tell you, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.’
I somehow think the chances of Ark Morgan ending up in Liz Mitchell’s bed are pretty slim. My heart flutters at the thought. Not of him in Liz Mitchell’s bed, obviously, but in mine. Ooh, I’m starting to pant already and I’ve not got to level three yet.
‘It’s not being repeated I suppose?’ I ask breathlessly.
She lights another cigarette and says,
‘Oh yes, it is. I had a look for you. I said to myself Roxie will want to see this. So I checked in my Radio Times. It’s on again tonight at seven, called Empire Magnets. You can record it on that fancy telly Darren bought.’
The fancy telly that Darren got on the never-never, she means.
‘Thanks so much Liz. I’d better go,’ I say, ‘this box is heavy.’
‘Are you pregnant yet?’ she asks.
Do I look pregnant? Why is everyone preoccupied with your fertility status once you get past thirty? It’s not like your breasts shrink and your vagina closes up is it? You can still make a baby after thirty. I begin ascending the next flight.
‘Not that I know of,’ I say.
‘Don’t leave it much longer,’ she advises.
I bet Jennifer Aniston doesn’t get nagged about having babies.
‘I don’t know why you don’t get the lift. You girls and your weight,’ she says before slamming her flat door.
I plod up the next eight flights and slump outside our flat. I take a few minutes to catch my breath and finally let myself in. The sounds of Jerry Springer reach my ears followed by a screaming woman.
‘I’ve got a job to maintain, a baby to take care of and I have to clean up after you, I’m tired all the time. Of course I don’t want sex …’ she screams in her Texan drawl.
God, she sounds like me but without the baby bit. I can’t seem to escape babies today.
‘Now you tell me you’ve been having sex with my best friend.’
Oh dear, she’s sounding more like me by the minute. Maybe I should go on one of these shows. I wonder how much they pay. I glance at the large plasma screen and fight back a sigh. Is this why we’re in debt? So Darren can watch this crap? The screeching of the smoke alarm makes me jump out of my skin and I drop the box onto the messy couch, crushing a bag of cheese and onion crisps.
‘Shit and bollocks,’ curses Darren. ‘Is that you Babe?’
‘No, it’s Jennifer Aniston.’
‘What did you say?’ he shouts.
I walk into the kitchen and bash the smoke alarm with the broom. I wonder how often Jennifer Aniston has to do that when Justin Theroux makes toast. The screeching stops and I open a window to let out the smoke.
‘The toaster’s buggered,’ he grumbles, reaching over to give me a kiss. ‘I’ve had no lunch apart from a bag of crisps. You’re late back for a Saturday.’
‘I popped to my parents. Dad’s potatoes have come up,’ I say turning down the knob on the toaster.
‘You always have it on too high Darren,’ I say, dropping the shopping bag onto the table. ‘I’ll make some pasta. I bought some wine. Didn’t Joey have any work for you today?’
I try not to show my disappointment. He rummages through the bag.
‘Things are a bit slow.’
It seems things are always slow.
‘Didn’t you get the custard creams?’
Most men
greet their wife with endearments. I get didn’t you get the custard creams? Don’t get me wrong, I love Darren. He is my partner after all. And although we’re not married I have agreed to take him for better or worse. Admittedly it has been mostly for the worse, recently. Most days I’m okay and we’re as happy as any couple could be, considering. It’s just some days, like today for instance when Dad reminded me of the past and I come home to the bloody Jerry Springer debacle that I can’t help remembering Darren’s indiscretion with my friend. Well, obviously, ex-friend. I’m not that laid back to still have her as a friend. I might be stupid sometimes but I’m not that daft. The truth is I can’t leave him. Where would I go? On my own, my salary wouldn’t pay the rent on even a tiny flat, and there would be nothing left for food and bills. Darren does love me and no one has the perfect partner do they? Sylvie says I don’t value myself enough and why should I settle for anything less than perfect.
‘I didn’t have enough money,’ I say taking a bag of pasta from the cupboard.
He uncorks the wine.
‘Well, I think that will be sorted later,’ he says with a smile.
‘You’ve got more work?’ I say hopefully.
He pulls the cork out with a pop.
‘Not work exactly. But when Joey and I bought our lottery tickets today he said he got a little tingle down his spine.’
That will be his liver. It must be on its last legs the amount he puts away every night.
‘I did too,’ Darren continues. ‘I think we’re going to win Babe. Just think. It’s a big one tonight. We’ll be off to Ibiza to party Babe, with all our mates until the money runs out.’
‘Or we could invest some of it …’
‘Nah, we don’t know nothing about investments Babe.’
‘We could buy a house?’ I say, dropping the pasta into the boiling water.
‘Don’t be daft. You can’t take it with you, that’s my motto.’