Blowing It

by Judy Astley

  ‘They could be his parents,’ Mac agreed, ‘or they could be about to hand us a cheque that would have your average Lottery winner popping the champagne and thinking they’d be all right for giving up the day job.’

  ‘Or in your case,’ Sorrel sighed, ‘abandoning your teenage daughter to a university bedsit and nowhere to go in the holidays.’

  ‘Oh come on now, Sorrel, we did offer to buy you a little flat in the village. Even Ilex thought that would be a good investment. And there’s always Clover. She’s got plenty of room for you and she won’t mind being a base for when you’re not at Exeter.’

  ‘What? You haven’t even asked her! The very idea of it made her look scared rigid!’ Sorrel bit her lip. She’d been that close to letting it out that they’d all been over to Clover’s for dinner. If they found out, they’d be so hurt at the thought that all their family had ganged up together behind their backs. And it might make them even more determined to go – sometimes, parents could be more stubborn and silly than small children.

  ‘And we won’t be gone for ever. Months rather than years, you know. We’ll have to live somewhere when we get back.’ Lottie tried to reassure her. ‘By then you’ll probably think sharing a place with your doddery old folks is a completely horrible idea!’

  ‘You might not be gone for ever but the money will,’ Sorrel grumbled. ‘You’ll blow it all on air fares at silly prices just because you do stuff on impulse. You could do the whole world dead cheap, even first class, if you planned it right. The way you talk, you’re just, like, gonna dash from one thing to another all over the place, never mind the cost.’ Then she added, with a sly smile, ‘Or the jet lag … you haven’t thought of that, have you? Old people get jet lag much worse than young ones. You’ll really suffer.’

  ‘Oh we’ll be planning it properly, don’t you worry. We just haven’t quite got round to sorting out an order of play,’ Mac said. ‘And when we get back, that’ll be the time for decisions. We don’t know where we want to live. We want open-options on that, probably renting for a bit. It could be a flat in Soho – or it might be something remote on Dartmoor. Who knows?’

  ‘I know it won’t be Dartmoor,’ Lottie interrupted, shuddering. ‘Too cold, too remote, too … sheepy.’

  Sorrel grinned, her face transformed as if all the lights in her head had suddenly come on. ‘But Soho – excellent idea! Like, why don’t we find somewhere really great there now, and then I can move into it and take care of it for you for when you get back? That way, you don’t have to worry that I haven’t got anywhere to live and you’ve got somewhere with all your stuff in it for coming back to the minute that you get a bit fed up!’ She looked appealingly at Lottie. ‘I mean, suppose you wanted just to dash back and see us all for a little break, like you felt homesick or something? You’d need a base then.’

  ‘We’d thought of that: we could always stay at a hotel,’ Mac said, ‘or at a club. We’ll join one of those that old fossils who live out in the colonies come to when they need to see their stockbrokers or get their wills looked at by the ancient family solicitor. The sort of place where you’d run into the old Major from across the road, downing a pink gin and reminiscing about tiger-shoots.’

  ‘They’d never let us join,’ Lottie said. ‘Don’t you have to be at least ninety-five and have been big in the Indian Civil Service? And do they let women in?’

  ‘See?’ Sorrel was triumphant. ‘That’s what I mean! You’ll need to find somewhere to rent for later on. Great. As soon as the exams are done I’ll start. Soho! Fantastic!’

  ‘But you’re going to Australia,’ Lottie pointed out.

  ‘Oh I know, that’s OK. We could get Ilex to sort out a shorthold tenancy for three months and then I can move straight in when I get home. Sorted. See? Now. Mum and Dad, look at this lot: I’ve made you a list. You’re going to need all these.’

  Lottie went to take the list from her but Sorrel held on tight and started to read. ‘OK, now listen carefully because these things could be life-savers. So. First of all you’ll need a strap-on body pocket, for cash and passport and stuff that you absolutely don’t need to lose. You wear it under your clothes so it’s not nick-able. Because the world isn’t really full of sweet old hippies like you two, you know. Or rather you don’t.’

  ‘Sounds sensible.’ Lottie nodded.

  ‘And a survival whistle. In case you get lost in the outback or a jungle; then you need a sterile first-aid kit, one that’s got all your own syringes and sutures. Oh, and a dental one as well because at your age …’ Sorrel pulled a face.

  ‘Oh thanks,’ Lottie said. ‘You think all our teeth are about to fall out.’

  ‘You’ll thank me, honestly,’ Sorrel said. ‘And obviously you’ll need a Swiss army knife with just about every attachment that they do, plus an ultra-light headlamp in case you’re struggling to get out of a ravine in the dark—’

  ‘Hang on a minute, Sorrel,’ Mac interrupted. ‘When did the “luxury” aspect disappear from our agenda? Because the word “struggling” wasn’t actually meant to feature in any of the trips I had in mind.’

  ‘You’ve got to be prepared,’ Sorrel told him sternly. ‘And what about a portable smoke alarm? Some of the places you stay in might be death traps in a fire.’

  ‘I don’t think the Maharaja’s palace in Jaipur is going to be unfamiliar with basic safety issues,’ he told her.

  ‘And then there’s the Magicool body cooler,’ Sorrel continued. ‘It says it’s great for ladies of a certain age.’

  Lottie grimaced. ‘That’s you, Mum,’ Sorrel said, in case Lottie didn’t know. ‘And Air Flight gel, those flight socks so you won’t get an embolism, acupressure jet-lag patches, silk sleeping-bag liners, trek towels, travel soap, plug adaptor, insect repellent—’

  ‘You’ve forgotten the partridge, and the pear tree,’ Mac said. ‘And you’re certain we need all this stuff?’

  ‘Um … well … yes. Two lots of everything. Except the dental kit and the body cooler. Just one each of those. I mean, if you’re buying it all for your own safety, you’d want to get it all for me too, wouldn’t you? Obviously?’

  ‘Obviously,’ Lottie agreed, defeated. ‘I just wonder about excess baggage, that’s all.’

  Ilex didn’t much mind the idea of marrying Manda. The more he thought about the constantly pursuing terror that was Wendy the more he felt the need to run to Manda for safety. It was such bliss simply to be in his own apartment with someone so easy to live with. He had certain reservations, one of them to do with feeling he was being firmly pushed into it by Clover, but he had to admit that perhaps he needed that push: he’d assumed he’d get round to it some time. Now was as good a time as any. Better, anyway, than waiting for a crisis to be the spur. And that crisis could well be to do with Wendy, if he wasn’t careful. There were other reservations he’d simply have to find a way round: for one, that people were definitely going to snigger during the ceremony when it was revealed that his middle name was ‘Adonis’. It would ripple all round the church or whatever venue Manda went for. He’d just have to think about how childish they were being. Maybe he could change it, in the next few months, to Alan or something. Or maybe they wouldn’t notice: loads of people had embarrassing middle names. It could be a lot worse – some unlucky sods were named after the England World Cup squad or Ringo or were christened John Elvis-Presley Smith. Parents could be so unthinkingly cruel when their brains were mashed by childbirth.

  He looked at Manda now, as she sat looking silky-pretty across from him at their table in Le Caprice and sipping so very neatly at her pre-dinner champagne that her lipstick didn’t smudge, and he thought about the many reasons why he should get on with it and simply propose to her. Would she turn him down? He didn’t think so. She’d been showing definite signs of nesting: the cookbook collection was growing; she’d taken to buying little things for her sister’s twins and pointing out to him how cute they were. New, velvety, jewel-coloured cushions kept appearing
on the sofas. As for the positives, at the most superficial level she was a truly stunning woman and was certain to mature, with those super-fine cheekbones, and slender frame, into a very beautiful one. He definitely wouldn’t be faced with some lumpy, frizz-haired old boiler in twenty years’ time. Also, apart from a perfectly amiable sister, she had no relatives to scrutinize him and find him wanting in any department. From what he’d heard of friends’ marriages, in-laws could be a dire interference. Women were fond of their mums. They went out on shopping trips with them where they told them things in a Starbucks break between shoe-purchases. Not good. You wouldn’t want every little niggle reported back – suppose they talked about personal stuff? Suppose Manda found his Fuzz magazines and had a mum to run to and tell? And look at Clover. She still called Holbrook House ‘home’ – what must Sean feel about that?

  Then there was Manda’s tidiness. OK, that was hardly top of the list when you were seeking out a life-long soulmate but total sloppiness on home premises would be a definite no. If a woman was a dedicated clothes-scatterer and bathroom slob when there were just the two of them in a minimally furnished flat, imagine what she’d be like when there were a couple of children, and all their toy-junk to be dealt with? He’d be forever scooping up Playmobile bits and crunching tiny cars underfoot. Ah but children. That was the big one. She wanted them, he could tell. There was a Mini Boden catalogue in the flat – she claimed her sister Caro had left it there but had she?

  Did he want children? He’d probably get used to the idea, eventually, once they turned seven or so. Given the option, it now occurred to Ilex that at the moment he’d really rather have a cat. He liked them but had never owned one – Mac and Lottie had always kept wolfhounds, possibly as many as four or five of them in sequence during his growing up, and each one called Bonzo. Mac had said it was simply what he called his dog and that was that, no choice, no protests allowed. A grey cat would be nice. Simon at work had a cousin who bred British Blue ones – big solid dense-furred creatures with Cheshire-cat grins and fat, cartoon faces. The big question remained to be asked though: what did Manda think? So, he thought, here goes.

  ‘Manda? I just want to ask you something.’

  ‘What is it, Lexy?’ Manda purred. Great eyes, he thought. They managed a rare trick of looking soulful and saucy at the same time.

  ‘I just wondered …’ he asked, hesitating. Lexy? God, not her as well. Had she been talking to Wendy?

  ‘Come on … you can ask me anything, darling. You know that.’ Manda slid her hand across the breadcrumbs he’d nervously scattered on the table.

  ‘It’s just … Manda, I was wondering, if you’d consider …’

  ‘Yes?’ She leaned forward and smiled, giving his hand a gentle, encouraging squeeze.

  ‘Would you like to …? Maybe it’s time we …’

  ‘Mmm … go on!’ Her eyes were all glittery and excited now. It looked like he was on for a yes.

  ‘I was wondering,’ he stroked her fingers, and she curled them round his, caressing, ‘do you think,’ he continued, ‘would you consider the possibility of us maybe … getting a cat?’

  * * *

  Only moments later, out on the pavement, Ilex watched in dismay as Manda’s taxi sped away. He went back inside to pay the bill for the food they’d ordered but not eaten, but first asked for a restorative brandy and climbed on to the end bar stool, avoiding the eyes of nearby diners who for once weren’t being too cool to stare.

  ‘The young lady’s had to leave then?’ the barman commented sympathetically as he handed Ilex the drink.

  ‘Yeah.’ Ilex sighed, wishing he was, at this moment, a smoker. That was one hell of a speedy flurry she’d left in – up from the table, jacket grabbed and out through the revolving door in one fluid movement, leaving it spinning fast and furious, along with the echo of just one heartfelt violently spat-out word: ‘Bastard.’

  ‘It seems I said something,’ Ilex confided to the barman. ‘All I did was ask her one simple question. She didn’t even answer.’

  ‘Oh, I think she did, sir,’ the barman told him. ‘I’d say she definitely did.’

  THIRTEEN

  SHIFTY. THAT WAS the word. Clover, driving to collect Elsa from her Bébé France class, was quite certain this was precisely the word for the way Sean was behaving at the moment. He had suddenly taken to using his mobile phone for all outgoing calls, and if it rang he’d answer quickly and move swiftly out of the room to talk. He’d developed a peculiar way of speaking into it – as if only half his mouth worked – together with an awkward lopsided stoop when walking, protecting the thing from sight as well as hearing. She no longer dared to check his calls or go through his pockets, not now he really was behaving so strangely. After all, it was one thing to go through life on a level of mild suspicion – that was just sensible self-preservation, wasn’t it? Surely safer for the soul than blind trust? But it was quite another to feel thoroughly agonized that you really might have something substantial to be suspicious about. After all, who could blame Sean if he’d found someone more spontaneous and exciting to have sex with? Someone who would be all too willing to cancel everything at a second’s notice to go and have sex in a swish hotel? What an idiot she was. If he’d only ask her again, she’d settle for an hour in a Travel Lodge at the back of the nearest Little Chef. She decided, as she drove dangerously subconsciously through the afternoon school-run traffic, that she’d be the one to do the suggesting. What they needed was a couple of nights away somewhere, just the two of them, for some passionate re-bonding. Might as well do these things while they still could, while Mac and Lottie were there at Holbrook House with time and space for their only grandchildren, before they sold up and ran out on them all. Stop it now, Clover told herself, feeling that tension was pushing tears into her eyes again. Stop being such a self-centred baby. Cars behind started beeping and she realized she was sitting staring into space while the traffic lights had turned green. A glossy-looking young woman in a Discovery, presumably also on the school run, put two fingers up at her and shot past her. So rude.

  It also crossed Clover’s mind, as she pulled into the road by the school, that Sean’s new interest might not be a real person at all. He was also, these days, spending hours on the internet in his study upstairs, flicking swiftly to a screen saver whenever Clover tried to slide softly into the room to catch a glimpse at what he was looking at. Oh God, please don’t let him develop a porno chat-room habit, she thought as she parked the Touareg behind Mary-Jane’s Street Ka. Or even worse, please don’t let him have hit on a special new on-line lust-interest. She hoped he hadn’t fallen for that old scam – didn’t they always turn out to have as much substance as a child’s imaginary friend? He could be deluding himself he’d pulled a twenty-two-year-old Russian lovely. She’d read about mid-life men who did that. Men who, driven by a testosterone level that was pumped to a giddy height of over-excitement, would race off to meet their slinky beloved for a session of rampant sex in one of those sleaze-dives that charge for rooms by the hour, only to find instead a couple of burly muggers lying in wait to relieve him of all credit cards, empty his bank account and possibly even subject their gullible victim to a dose of blackmail.

  She wished she hadn’t been so flippant with that word now, using it the other day on Ilex. There was absolutely nothing funny or pretty about it. And that one had backfired, hadn’t it? Something must have gone horribly wrong there, or Ilex wouldn’t now be back in his old bedroom at Holbrook House with no possessions other than what Manda had crammed into a suitcase and hurled down the stairwell of their apartment block. Manda wasn’t telling anyone what had happened. Clover and Lottie had both tried but she was keeping both the apartment phone and her mobile switched to voice-mail. And of course it was no good asking Ilex. Lottie said he’d muttered something completely unintelligible about blue cats, then refused point blank to elaborate further. Why didn’t men talk? Clover was completely convinced that so much that was wrong in the wor
ld could be sorted out perfectly easily if men, and, well, everyone really, would just open up to each other a bit more, the way women did. You could get so much straight in your head with a girlfriend, tea and a gooey piece of home-baked chocolate cake.

  ‘Hi, Clover! Everything all right?’ Mary-Jane, jaunty and sleek as ever in a new pair of skinny jeans, was already out of the building, firmly stuffing the plump little back end of Jakey through her car door.

  Clover looked up, startled out of her dismal thoughts. ‘Everything all right?’ was that the question?

  ‘Oh … hi! Er, yes! Yes everything’s fine! Really great!’

  Well, there it was. When it came to it, what else could you say?

  ‘So you were growing herbs and salad crops as a commercial enterprise? Won’t you miss it?’ Mrs Cresswell’s delicate high gold sandals were not best suited to the uneven terrain in the orchard. Lottie hoped the poor woman wouldn’t turn her ankle. She looked the clued-up, smart sort who might sue. Chickens wandered around, pecking speculatively at her feet in the hope that her painted toenails would turn into sweet berries. Mr Cresswell hung back by the gate, rightly wary of Charlie the cockerel, who was fast approaching and doing his best aggressive sideways strut while trailing one wing stylishly like a bullfighter with his cloak, closing in for the strike.

  Commercially? Well, Lottie had to think for a moment before answering that one. ‘Commercially’ implied there was profit in it, as opposed to loss. Frankly, she and Mac couldn’t honestly claim that any of their enterprises had been what a generous-natured person would call ‘commercial’, not if you wanted to append the word ‘success’ with any accuracy.

  ‘It was more of an interest that sort of grew,’ she explained instead, choosing her words carefully. ‘A couple of years ago there was some space that needed filling in the east long border so we decided to mix in some ruby chard and purslane among the flowers, just for family use and it, well … sort of took off from there.’