Mixed Emotions

by Debbie Viggiano

  ‘Mmm, something smells good,’ Laura called out.

  Jake came into the living room. ‘Shall we?’ he grinned.

  ‘Yes please,’ Laura twinkled.

  Revenge was a dish best eaten cold. This dish was spicy hot. Laura liked that. She was going to enjoy her romance with Jake. Later on she’d sleep with him for the first time. She had a feeling they were going to spend the rest of their lives together. It was funny how things worked out. A coincidence. Some would call it The Law of Karma. Laura almost felt sorry for Ruth. She couldn’t have planned it better if she’d wanted to. And she absolutely hadn’t! Tomorrow morning she would share with Jake what she’d pieced together. That Ruth had left Jake for Laura’s husband.

  Second-time-around relationships can be a highly emotive experience. Debbie has since taken this short story and re-worked it as a full length novel. Check out ‘The Ex Factor’...

  MISGIVINGS

  ‘Don’t jump in the puddle!’ I yelled. But my boy, deaf to my pleading and loving every moment, splashed straight through a row of mini lakes drenching both himself and me. ‘Oh Romeo,’ I scolded, ‘your legs are all wet.’ And they were. All four of them.

  My dog rolled his eyes and barked happily. I couldn’t be cross with him for too long. He’d been given to me by my husband. A present.

  ‘Happy birthday Juliet,’ Alan had said. He’d passed me a beautifully wrapped box. Red ribbon. Fancy paper. The works. And inside had been the sweetest looking ball of fluff I’d ever clapped eyes on. ‘There’s only one name for this pup,’ Alan had declared, ‘Romeo. For my Juliet.’ And my eyes had filled with tears of happiness.

  And now my eyes filled with tears of sorrow. For Romeo had been the last present Alan had ever given me. My husband had died a week later in a motorbike accident. And much as I love Romeo, I can’t help thinking that real life imitated art. Would Alan still be alive if we’d called Romeo a different name?

  FREEDOM

  Lizzie’s rubber gloves swished about in the soapy water. Washing up didn’t take long these days. Just the one cup, saucer and plate. It had been that way for the last few weeks. Ever since she and Brian had gone their separate ways. They’d periodically talked about selling their detached house. The plan had been to downsize at some point. But thanks to discovering Brian’s infidelity, everything had happened a year or two prematurely. Lizzie liked her compact brand new apartment. But she hated living on her own.

  Lizzie glanced at the calendar on the kitchen wall. Today was the twenty-first of March. According to some small print under the numbers two and one, it was also the first day of Spring. A time of re-birth. Indeed, two roads away lambs dotted a farmer’s field. And Lizzie’s first grandchild had recently been born. When Erica had breezed in and told Brian and Lizzie they were to be grandparents, both of them had been full of big plans. Lizzie was going to convert Erica’s old bedroom into a playroom and fill it with dolls, tiny dressing-up outfits, and a rocking horse. Brian had shot down Lizzie’s assumptions their grandchild would be female and talked about turning the loft room into a miniature train paradise. And Lizzie had smiled. How typical of them both to embrace Erica’s news in such a way. After all, they’d stopped embracing each other. More or less anyway. There wasn’t much physical touchiness. Not since they’d stopped having sex the previous year.

  Brian had blamed his age. Lizzie could still remember sliding a hand over her husband’s rotund abdomen. Stroking. Working her way down. And then Brian’s hand grabbing hers.

  ‘Don’t love. My tackle doesn’t work the way it used to.’

  Lizzie had been surprised. At forty-seven years of age, she certainly hadn’t considered herself past it. Brian had only just celebrated his big birthday. Was there some sort of invisible line that one crossed at fifty? Did a message get fired off from the brain to the nether regions? Hi Dick. Just a quickie. But regrettably not that sort of quickie. Very sorry and all that. But you’re now officially past it.

  Lizzy liked to think there was plenty of fizz and spit left in her. She had every intention of being a glam gran. As a journalist, her colleagues had always admired her energy, pace and enthusiasm when going after a story. And many an office wolf had let her know of their availability. She’d laughed off their offers, flattered nonetheless. And then Erica’s pregnancy had become difficult. A couple of scares. A threatened miscarriage. Frightened and anxious, Erica had reverted straight back to childhood and wanted Mum. So Lizzie had given up the London rat race. In order to be near Erica, she’d switched to freelance and now worked from her home office.

  To ensure the accuracy of her notes, she’d taped her interviews using a recording device attached to the home phone. And then one day, while transcribing the tapes, she’d unwittingly caught Brian out. He’d made a series of telephone calls from the extension in their bedroom. To a female. Revealing conversations were interspersed between the interviews. Even worse, when Lizzie had replayed the conversations, she’d realised that the woman was actually women. Three of them to be precise. No wonder Brian’s tackle wasn’t working properly. It was probably worn out.

  For Lizzie, the final humiliation was attending the genito urinary clinic. She’d been the oldest woman in the waiting room. Everybody was studying each other. But pretending they weren’t. Lizzie had peered under her eyelashes, eyes flitting discreetly over the others. Her over there looked like a lady of the night. Was it any wonder she might have the clap? Or what about that teenager in the corner – the one with the sunken eye sockets. Turning tricks to pay for her fix? Lizzie had smoothed a non-existent crease from her tailored skirt and sat, rigid, in her smart jacket. A scruffy woman sitting opposite had given her the once over. And what had that woman been thinking about her? That Lizzie might be a high class hooker?

  Lizzie peeled off the rubber gloves. The apartment’s state of the art kitchen had a dishwasher, but she hardly ever used it. She tipped the washing-up bowl upside down. The soapy water – like her marriage – disappeared down the plug hole. Still, no good dwelling on it.

  Thankfully she’d been given a clean bill of health. Lizzie didn’t often pray, but she’d thanked God from the bottom of her heart when the doctor had given the all clear. Lizzie sighed with relief. The axis on her world her rocked, but it was settling down again. Life was getting better. And unbelievably love was in the air.

  She wondered if the three women knew about each other. Brian had been so shocked when Lizzie had confronted him. His normally ruddy face had drained of colour. And his jaw had been quite overcome by gravity. Then he’d gasped. Given a sort of strangled yelp. His face had gone through quite a colour spectrum. From pink. To white. Then grey. Finally putty. With a blue-ish tinge. By that point he’d been on the floor – clutching his heart.

  The paramedics had arrived swiftly. Two strapping men. Efficient. Calm. One of them had caught her eye. She flushed at the memory, ashamed that whilst her husband had lain wheezing on the Axminster, she had admired dark hair curling over the collar of a uniform, two strong arms and brown eyes like liquid chocolate. Probably the shock. Shock was like that. Made you feel detached. Numb. Certainly she’d felt extremely distant in the hospital. Sitting on a hard plastic chair, hands cupping disgusting machine coffee. An overhead fluorescent light had been on the blink. It had flickered annoyingly. And finally sputtered out.

  Lizzie gazed out of the window. The new day held a promise of Spring sunshine. Outside a squirrel zig-zagged across the communal garden. Daffodil shoots were poking out of the recently turned earth. Which reminded her. She had things to do. First, she must visit Brian. She supposed she should buy him flowers. He liked roses. What colour should she buy? Red was meant to symbolise love. After discovering what Susie, Janie and Isabelle had been doing with Brian’s bits and pieces, Lizzie’s love had turned to ashes. No, definitely not red roses. Nor white. Too pure and virginal. She’d once read that yellow roses stood for infidelity. Perfect. Yellow roses it would be.

  Turning from the windo
w, Lizzie picked up her handbag and found her car keys. She wouldn’t stay too long with Brian. She didn’t owe him anything after all. Plus she didn’t want to be late for her rendezvous with Jack. Jack with the strong arms and eyes like liquid chocolate. What a stroke of luck that had been. Lizzie’s car had been at the garage having a service and MOT. So she and Erica had taken the bus to Bluewater to do a bit of last minute baby shopping. When Erica’s waters had broken outside John Lewis, there had been no option other than to call an ambulance. And suddenly there he was. Sam. Sam, Sam, the Ambulance Man. Lizzie giggled girlishly. And later – when Eloise had been delivered in hospital and not a shopping mall – Jack had popped back. Lizzie had still been there. After all, Erica had wanted Mum close by.

  Some might say it wasn’t very orthodox to be flirting with a paramedic when your husband had had a heart attack, but Lizzie didn’t care. Let the tongues wag. Wag away!

  An hour later, as soon as Lizzie deemed it appropriate, she said good-bye to Brian and hastened off to Greenwich Park. She and Jack were going to enjoy a stroll in the Spring sunshine. And nothing and nobody was going to stop her. Certainly not Brian.

  Lizzie started the car up and pointed the bonnet towards London. As she roared off, the March breeze ruffled the yellow roses on Brian’s grave.

  JOY

  Natasha wasn’t a fan of Christmas. This year she was going to hate it even more. For the first time ever, she’d be on her own. It didn’t help that everybody around her was fizzing with that extra bit of excitement. In June Buckingham Palace had announced William and Kate were expecting their second child. The baby was due on the twenty-fifth of December. A Royal Christmas the headlines had blared. And in every magazine or newspaper, there was Kate – stunning in designer maternity wear.

  And now Natasha hooked some loose hair over her right ear, staring ahead at the school stage before her. Her whole body was tense. Like a tightly coiled spring. Any moment now she’d go pi-doiiiiiiing right across the squeaky floorboards, bypass the makeshift manger, and crash straight into the headmaster who was supervising the lighting and stage curtain. Natasha tried not to think about William Royall. Or look at the strong forearms poking out from rolled up shirt sleeves. Outside it was bitterly cold. But here, wedged in the wings of the primary school’s stage with hot spotlights beating down on the pupils of Year 1 – her pupils – Natasha felt overly warm.

  ‘Ouch!’ a voice came from behind her.

  ‘Sorry!’ she murmured. There wasn’t much space in the wings squashed against three wise men and a camel with a square hump. She knew she should have cut up that box of Walkers crisps.

  ‘Miss?’ whispered the camel. ‘I need the toilet.’

  ‘Please Harry,’ Natasha wheedled, ‘hold on for a few more–’

  She broke off. Oh no! Mary and Joseph were having trouble with their lines.

  ‘Joseph! Where have you been?’ Mary harangued.

  ‘In the carpenter’s shop,’ said Joseph uncertainly, ‘doing carpenterly stuff.’

  There was a pause. Mary stared helplessly at her teacher. Natasha mouthed the script. ‘I have been looking after the Christ child all day long.’

  Mary nodded. ‘Christ this child has been a terror all day long.’

  The audience tittered. Natasha inwardly groaned. One of the shepherds had had enough and taken off his headdress. Moments later the tea towel was wedged in his dressing gown pocket.

  ‘Boys – you’re on,’ Natasha gave the three wise men a little prod. They shuffled onto the stage followed by the camel. Seconds later the Walkers crisp box tumbled off the camel. There was a loud squawk.

  ‘Ignore it Joel,’ hissed Natasha, ‘and carry on.’

  The camel then burst into noisy tears as his burgeoning bladder got the better of him. A puddle formed.

  The shepherd pulled the rolled up tea towel from his dressing gown pocket. ‘Miss,’ he piped, ‘do you want to borrow this?’

  William Royall stepped out of the wings and addressed the audience. ‘There will now be a short break.’

  The curtains swished together and Natasha grabbed the tea towel. ‘Thank you Daniel. Tell Mummy I will wash this. Fiona?’ Natasha called to her classroom assistant. ‘Take Harry to the toilet please and find his day clothes.’

  Natasha turned to find William Royall standing in front of her. ‘All part of the job eh?’ he grinned.

  ‘Y-yes,’ she stuttered.

  Natasha stared at the headmaster stupidly. She’d had a monumental crush on him ever since joining the primary school last term. Indeed, she couldn’t remember when she’d been so affected by a man. It seemed decades ago. Even Tim hadn’t impacted upon her like this. Not that he was around anymore. He’d waltzed off in an office sunset with his secretary. And now Christmas was looming. And everybody around her seemed to be paired off, putting up fairy lights on their Christmas trees and swapping presents. Everybody apart from her. Natasha was dreading Christmas day. Alone in her gloomy flat with a Tesco’s Christmas dinner for one.

  ‘Despite your camel’s little accident and a few fluffed lines, you’ve done a smashing job on this year’s nativity play,’ William Royall winked. ‘Curtain up again,’ he glanced at his wristwatch, ‘in five minutes?’

  Natasha nodded and tried to think of some witty riposte. ‘Sure,’ was all she managed.

  Fortunately the rest of the nativity play went like clockwork. Angels and snowflakes danced around the manger. Joseph patted the toy donkey on wheels and Mary hugged Baby Jesus. The shepherds and wise men obediently sat cross-legged. The sheep and mice looked adorable. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house when the children sang Silent Night. When the curtains swished together a second time, it was to the accompaniment of rapturous applause.

  Half an hour later Natasha was huddled in the shelter of the bus stop when a car drew up. The window buzzed down. It was William Royall.

  ‘It’s far too cold to be waiting for a bus. Let me give you a lift home.’

  Natasha’s fingers and toes were numb with cold. ‘That’s very kind,’ she smiled.

  As she settled herself into the passenger seat and let the car’s heat embrace her, Natasha sighed with pleasure.

  ‘Looking forward to Christmas?’ asked William Royall conversationally.

  ‘Truthfully? Not really,’ Natasha shook her head.

  ‘Me neither,’ said the headmaster.

  ‘Oh? Why ever not?’ The words were out before she could stop them.

  ‘Because I’ll be on my own. What about you?’

  ‘Er, well, would you believe I’m on my own too.’

  There was a moment of silence while they both digested this.

  ‘I don’t suppose–?’

  ‘Do you think you might–?’

  They both spoke together and then laughed.

  ‘After you,’ said William.

  ‘Well I just, um, wondered, you know, if you really didn’t have anything better to do, whether you’d like to join me for Christmas dinner?’

  William Royall smiled. ‘I was going to ask you the very same question. How’s your cooking?’

  ‘Not bad. Why?’

  ‘Because mine’s ruddy awful. So what about you do the cooking and I’ll bring the champers for the table and the brandy for the Christmas pud?’

  ‘Sounds perfect,’ grinned Natasha. It looked like she was finally going to have something of a Royall Christmas herself.

  CRISIS

  Claire stooped down to pick up the dropped Christmas tree bauble. That was the last one. She chucked it in the battered cardboard box at her feet. It landed with a soft plop and disappeared under a tendril of tinsel. Straightening up, she regarded the Christmas tree. Stripped bare. Just like her emotions. She’d cried so much she felt dehydrated. Deep within her ribcage was a relentless throbbing. A dull part of her brain registered that the pain must be heartache. When she’d telephoned her mother to say what had happened, incredibly her mother had said, ‘I told you take your Christmas d
ecorations down before the twelfth night. Now see what’s happened!’ Claire had momentarily held the receiver away from her. Gaped at it in disbelief. Her marriage to Paul had abruptly ended, and instead of offering words of comfort her mother was blaming superstitious nonsense? Unbelievable.

  Claire felt a surge of anger flare within her. Something had ignited in her stomach. Like touchwood, it was whooshing up towards her brain. Adrenalin and fury coursed through her veins. Suddenly she bent down and lunged at the box of decorations. Snatching it up off the floor, she flung it hard across the room. Strands of fairy lights snaked upwards, trailing tinsel and multi-coloured baubles. For a split second the living room looked as though a giant party popper was going off. And then everything landed with a horrible crash. There was a nasty tinkling noise as tiny bulbs splintered against B&Q laminate planks. Claire straightened up, chest heaving from exertion. She surveyed the mess upon the floor. It was the seventh day of January. And the decorations were now well and truly down.

  Fourteen Days Ago

  ‘Look who’s here!’ Paul called as he came through the front door.

  Claire pasted a smile on her face and went to greet her husband and visitor. Paul was grinning widely.

  ‘It’s Belinda!’ Paul enunciated, as if Claire was educationally sub-normal. Or their guest was a three year old. ‘Isn’t this wonderful darling!’

  ‘It most certainly is,’ Claire beamed back. And then she felt slightly foolish as she realised Paul had been addressing his daughter. Her step-daughter. But Claire made sure her grin didn’t falter.

  A tall slender girl followed Paul into the hallway. A trail of cold night air whipped around everybody’s ankles. In Claire’s seven years of marriage with Paul, she’d never met Belinda. She’d not been allowed. Not that it had been Paul’s fault. He’d had a difficult enough time seeing Belinda himself thanks to an ex-wife who, for some reason, had a monumental axe to grind. But now the daughter had apparently told her mother she wanted to freely pursue a relationship with her father. Stay in his home. And meet his wife.