Good Enough

by PH Morris

  Good Enough

  PH Morris

  Copyright © 2019 PH Morris

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Matador®

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  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: books@troubador.co.uk

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  ISBN 9781838598884

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  To Elaine, the most amazing lady.

  Contents

  Acknowledgement

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Acknowledgement

  I would like to thank all my friends who told me I could do this and read the first ever draft, encouraging me. My long suffering husband for always being there. For my parents who said there is no such word as can’t, knock the T off and make it can.

  Prologue

  I would say that I am a good person, at heart. I try hard to make good decisions, but it hasn’t always been that way. I work arduously every day to not be filled with self-doubt and loathing.

  I am not one to wallow in self-pity because I am too ambivalent. It is a tricky balance. So, I try not to be too emotionally available, and I choke down the worst of how I view myself. I know I am broken, chipped like an old mug, but I am okay; I hope other people think I am okay too.

  Chapter 1

  Right, mental checklist. Bag packed – check. Directions to the hotel – check. Make-up and favourite toiletries, straighteners, toothbrush and sexy underwear– check, check and double check.

  I had been looking forward to our weekend away for such a long time. Mark had been working long hours on some big IT project, and he took a great deal of persuading to come away for the weekend. I didn’t even expect him to have a single day off work, so I planned the getaway around the bank holiday so that we would have Friday night through to Monday together.

  My girlie friends had invited me to a break with them the same weekend, but I had to decline; after all, this was what Mark and I needed. He had been busy with work for so long, working late nights, seeming to be either constantly tired, grumpy or both.

  I had decided to take Friday off work so that I could get ready. I had treated myself to a trip to the hairdressers, and my normally annoying and slightly frizzy, dark blonde hair hung in lovely curls around my shoulders, and both my toenails and fingernails had a beautiful French polish. I wiggled my toes in appreciation of their prettiness and then glanced at the clock. A little flutter of butterflies flitted through my stomach – god, what was up with me?

  Mark and I had been together for three years, and we had met through mutual friends at a party. We had seen each other a few times and, at first, I wasn’t swept off my feet; I felt he was too old for me, being eleven years older. But he was charming and funny, and we clicked and, to be honest, the age difference isn’t an issue any longer. I remember I didn’t deliberately tell my mum and dad how old he was, but when they met him, they were polite and kind. However, within a few days, while at work, I received a phone call from Mum.

  “Hi, darling,” she said.

  “Oh, hi, Mum. How’s Dad?”

  I don’t know why I always ask this and, given that I had only seen them two days earlier, it seemed a bit of a redundant question. But it’s my stock question, usually closely followed by ‘what have you been up to?’ I roll my eyes at my colleague Louise. She whispers, “Mum?” and I nod and smile weakly.

  Louise is one of my good work colleagues, and we have worked together for about five years. Although she’s not one of my oldest friends we are on the same wavelength and we giggle and snort about the most juvenile things. I feel it is particularly important to have an equally immature work colleague when you are both striving to portray the professional female manager role. I filled her in this morning in our usual ‘How was your weekend’ chat, so she knows that I am expecting this phone call and I bet her a coffee that Mum would ring after eleven. Louise points at the clock, and I realise that I owe her a soya cappuccino at lunch as it’s barely ten-thirty. She smiles smugly as I turn my attention to the likely grilling, I am about to endure. Louise only drinks soya, normal milk makes her a bit crazy, well, crazier. So, she must tolerate soya milk, which incidentally is more expensive for me, so she wins.

  My mum’s calm voice pulls me from my thoughts.

  “Soooo, Mark seems nice.” My mum stretches out the words.

  “Yes, I think so,” I respond lightly.

  “Listen, darling, Dad and I were talking and we just, well… well, we just wondered, and please tell me to butt out if I am talking out of turn.”

  “Oh, get on with it, woman!” Dad yells from the background. I can’t help but smile as I imagine him in the background hovering.

  “Sssshhh, I am getting to that!” she yells back.

  “What is it, Mum?” I tease, knowing full well what is on her mind.

  “Well, Mark seems lovely… but, well we just are a little… erm, a little concerned. That’s it, concerned, that he’s a little more mature than we expected. That’s all.” She hurries the latter part of the sentence, relief that she has got the words out there clearly audible in her voice.

  “Well yes, that’s right, Mum, he is a little more…erm, what’s the word… mature, yes, he’s a little more mature than me,” I confirm.

  I risk a glance at Louise, who is manically grinning at me. I must fight back a giggle.

  “Mum, what’s the problem? Dad’s a few years older than you.”

  “Cheeky,” my dad offers, his voice much clearer now, and I know then that he’s picked up the other line and is listening in rather than getting the story second-hand from Mum.

  “And you know I never go for the conventional man,” I continue.

  “Yes, I know, love, you do like variety, but we just worry, that’s all,” she acquiesces.

  “Variety,” my dad almost chokes on the word. “Do you remember that born-again Christian guy you dated? And then there’s the one who thought he was flash Harry, and then there was that—”

  “Listen, Mum,” I interrupt, before Dad can character assassin all my previous dates, “I like him, he�
�s good to me, he’s got a good job, and we have a laugh – and Dad, he’s not religious or flashy or anything else you were going to say.”

  “Okay, love,” my mum sighs, “as long as he looks after you and treats you properly then I guess that’s good enough for us.”

  I know why they worry so much, they have always been concerned, but before I can go there, I gently shake myself and make a bid for the exit.

  “Listen, I’ve got to go, Mum, Dad, I have a meeting starting in two minutes, and I don’t want to be late.” Knowing that tardiness is a pet hate of my Dad’s he takes the bait instantly.

  “Yes, of course, darling, you must go. Go. Yes, you don’t want to be late,” he hurriedly offers by way of goodbye.

  “Speak soon,” I respond. “Love you.”

  “Love you,” they both offer in unison, and I wait before I put the phone down. I know my mum always forgets to hang up properly, and so I listen in for a few moments to hear the first few comments of their continued conversation, which revolves around which of them was right not to worry.

  I sigh deeply and look up at Louise, who holds up her empty coffee cup as an invitation to make me a well-needed brew…

  I pull myself from my reverie and glance at the clock again. It’s almost twelve, and I had a mini timetable outlined in my head. If he finishes work at twelve-thirty, factor in at least thirty minutes of distractions and hopefully he will leave by one and be through the front door by two at the latest. Quick change and shower and off by three, probably miss the Friday traffic, and we will be in the South Lakes for four-thirty.

  I promise myself not to be too fussy, and I am determined not to harass him or ring him before one-thirty as he has started to get very sullen if I ask him what time he’s due in and I don’t want a fight before we go – that would just spoil my happy mood. So, I have a quick once around the kitchen, tidying up the already perfectly tidy space, and double check that I haven’t left any milk in the fridge. Apart from the half bottle for a brew, just in case he wants one when he gets in, it’s all good. I’m not really a fussy person, people tell me I’m not high maintenance, but I don’t know what to do with myself as I wait impatiently, and I am certainly not going to start organising the spice cupboard to fill the time. That’s just desperate. I didn’t even sleep last night with thinking about today; it almost feels like a nagging doubt, lurking in the back of my mind, but there really isn’t anything to worry about, and I put the feelings down to excitement. I should be tired, but I am just excited.

  Still circling the kitchen, I groan and mentally curse myself for pacing. “Stop it!” I mutter under my breath.

  Going back to my little timetable, I would expect him to ring me when he is in his car, just to, well… to say he’s on his way. I decide that if he’s not called me by one-forty, then I will call him. I don’t know why I am so jittery. I’ve always prided myself on my easy-going girlfriend label. So, I risk a look at the oven and wait to watch it change to 13:40 on the digital clock.

  I decide to call him on his mobile, rather than the office phone – that way, he will know it’s me. I mentally pat myself on the back but quickly feel crestfallen when, after several rings, the voicemail kicks in.

  I put the phone down and dial again, this time leaving a breezy message.

  “Hi, it’s me. I just wondered if you are on your way, or stuck in traffic… anyway, no problem, I am just excited and looking forward to getting away, so call me when you have a mo. Bye.”

  Another twenty minutes go by, and I decide to call him at work, and if he’s there I can speak to him, if not I can ask one of his colleagues if he’s left.

  I dial his work number, and it rings three, four times, and then a familiar voice picks up on the fifth ring. “Mark’s phone,” comes the response.

  “Hi, it’s Melissa, is Mark there?”

  “Oh… Hi, Melissa, it’s Steve.”

  Now I am slightly more panicked – why did he pause? Don’t stress, don’t stress. Think happy, calm thoughts. Steve is one of Mark’s close work colleagues, and he’s now obviously a little uncomfortable at having to deal with whatever shit Mark is in.

  “Hi, Steve, I wondered if Mark was there?” I repeat, going for as nonchalant as I can muster.

  “He’s, he’s in a meeting, Mel, it’s run over and he’s still in there.” He sounds flustered, and I push away the idea that Mark is standing across from him making a slicing motion at his own throat in an attempt to get rid of me.

  “Oh right.” I can’t help sounding disappointed. “Do you know when he might be out? It’s just we are going away this weekend, and I thought he was finishing at lunchtime, and anyway can you get him to ring me as soon as he can please?” I trail off.

  “Sure, Mel, of course I will,” his tone softer now.

  “Right, well, okay then. Thanks, Steve, bye,” I mumble.

  “Okay, bye,” he repeats back to me.

  I press end and stare at my phone for a few seconds. I feel a mixture of fury, disappointment and sadness, and stomp around the kitchen cursing under my breath about how inconsiderate he is, but I also can’t shake the feeling of dread and looming defeat.

  I text him on his mobile and type: ‘Please ring me ASAP’.

  Then I copy and paste the same message, again and again – so much for the low-maintenance girlfriend. After about three hours I am staring at my outgoing phone calls to the same number, of which there are now eight, together with about seven ‘please ring me asap’ messages. I feel pathetic, needy and desperate.

  Then, in a silent protest, I put it face down on the worktop, so I don’t have to look at the picture of Mark and me on holiday, our faces smiling at the camera in our little selfie.

  No sooner have I put it down than it starts to ring. I snatch it up and press the answer button to the ‘withheld caller’, thinking to myself that if this is a PPI salesperson, I am going to lose it.

  “Hi, Chica,” says the familiar sing-song female voice of one of my best friends, Kat. Chica is her pet name for me

  “Oh, hi Kat,” I sigh.

  “Oh, babe, what’s the matter?” she says, her voice dripping with worry. “I didn’t expect you to pick up. I didn’t think I would get through to you with the reception being so bad in the Lakes. I was going to leave a message, but I am guessing there’s a problem,” her voice dropping at the end with sympathy.

  I can feel myself tear up but try hard not to blubber away all my frustrations, so I take a stuttering breath and plough on. “Mark’s not back yet; he got stuck at work.”

  “Oh, the little shit,” she blurts out. “I bloody knew it. I know you love him, babe, but he has really got to stop all this work shit and put you first.”

  “I know, but you know what the worst bit is – he hasn’t even rung me or text me or anything…Surely he could just nip out and call or text or something.” Now I am back among the myriad of feelings and hurtling straight from pathetic sniffling wreck to bloody pissed off.

  “Listen, babe, you know I love you, don’t you?”

  I nod my head slightly in response, feeling that she can see me, as she continues:

  “But me and the girlies were saying the other day that he just doesn’t treat you right.” She pauses briefly before continuing, “Look, I’m not going on a big rant about how we all hate Mark.”

  “You all hate Mark?” I squeak.

  “No, no, of course not… well, maybe a bit, anyway that’s not the point – the point is, we love you, you are amazing and gorgeous, and we think you deserve to be treated like a princess. Why don’t you come with us this weekend? I am leaving in like thirty minutes, and Alison can’t come now.”

  “Why, what’s up with Alison?” I ask, trying to get away from the topic of how now apparently everyone hates Mark – who knew?!

  “Well, her little boy has chickenpox, and she can’t just bugger off
for the weekend, although it seems like a perfect excuse to escape from the screaming rug rat.” She chuckles. We all know that Kate would love kids one day; she pretends she doesn’t like them as she’s focusing on ‘her career’, but she’s the only one whose face lights up when she sees baby Callum. “So, how about it? We are off to the Woodland Retreat, and there are tons to do. Come and wave a big two fingers up to Mark and work, and we can get pissed and have a right laugh. What do you think?”

  “I wish I could, but I want to be there for Mark. He’s been under a lot of pressure at work. You know, he might be ringing me right now and could be on his way with a big bunch of flowers and a perfectly plausible explanation.”

  Kate and I both know he isn’t, and I know for sure that he isn’t waiting on the other line because I have call waiting on my phone and I would know. I steal a glance at my phone just in case and, although I know it’s not going to have any call waiting on the other line, I am just more than a little disappointed.

  Kate gives in, for now, knowing deep down that I can’t take any more of her either slagging Mark off or persuading me to go with the girlies. To be honest, I feel a bit pathetic knowing that she understands me that well and knows to walk away. God, I am a lost cause.

  “Okay, Chica, but if you change your mind then let me know, and you can come and join us; we are only an hour and a half away. We will keep the vodka in the freezer for you,” she adds, trying to sound chipper.

  “I might keep you to that. Anyway, speaking of running late, aren’t you all supposed to be there by now?”

  “Yeah, about that, I got stuck at work,” she laughs loudly at the irony and hypocritical rant she’s just gone on at Mark’s expense. “The girls went on without me, so I am just leaving work now.”

  “Ha ha, Kat, no wonder the number was withheld.”

  “Good one, Miss Marple,” Kate adds, “but call or text if you need me.”