by Jo Edwards
Mum. “Your mother’s gone to bed, I think,” he told me. “Said she was thoroughly worn out.” He winked at me. “Night Foggy.”
I said goodnight and put the salt and pepper shakers back on the kitchen table. There were newspapers and place mats scattered all over the kitchen floor; he was a bit of a messy worker, but I shouldn’t complain, not when he did Mum so many favours. I looked around the kitchen to see if there was any post from Dad but there didn’t seem to be anything. I mustn’t be so impatient; he had a very successful business to run and would be extremely busy. At least I had the chance now to look at the website that Lucy had recommended for my holiday. I tapped the address into my phone, expecting images of palm trees and sun drenched beaches to pop up, but instead the site had pictures of bars and scantily clad people stood around drinking. I read the introduction:
“Guys! We know that you think about having no strings attached sex about every ten seconds. What you need is a holiday for men where your fantasy can become reality! Our adult holidays for single gentlemen guarantee you’ll meet exotic ladies or other men, depending on your persuasion. We create a sensual experience for western men looking for a partner.”
Blimey! I stared at the website, feeling my eyes growing as large as saucers. Had I typed in the correct website address? I looked at Lucy’s Post-it again. Yes, it was right! Why had she considered it suitable for me? Oh my God! Was she trying to tell me that I should be single? Did she want me to leave Myra? Why would she want that, unless she … no, it couldn’t be possible, could it? Did she want me for herself? Was it possible she could be in love with me? There was some strong evidence, after all - she’d drawn those pictures for me, leaving them secretly on my desk when I was at lunch, she always ‘liked’ my rehearsal videos when someone posted them on Facebook, she was often too shy to say good morning to me or acknowledge me during the day and now there was this – directing me to a sensual holiday website. Could it be true; did I dare to dream?
I poured myself a glass of milk and stirred in two teaspoons of strawberry Nesquik, pondering on what my next move should be. I couldn’t finish with Myra before Auntie Trisha’s civil partnership; she was looking forward to going so much now she had her new outfit. I’d tell her afterwards. No, I’d wait for Dad to come and ask his advice first, man to man; he would know what should be done for the best. I couldn’t wait to see him.
It was a very trying week at work, with the team seemingly split into a George camp and a Nick camp. I didn’t want to take sides and went out of my way to be especially nice to both of them, although once when I’d said hello to George, Cathy snarled, “Why are you talking to that Granny Shagger?”
It was all so terribly awkward. Poor George had ventured into the canteen for a coffee but had returned with a massive stain on the crotch of his trousers. “Spaghetti ‘oops,” he muttered miserably, as he passed my desk. To my dismay, Lucy had gone sick so I couldn’t thank her for giving me the holiday website or look for any more signs that she was in love with me. Cathy said Lucy was having to “spend a bit of time at the library” and everyone had roared with laughter, but I didn’t understand why that was so funny, although I laughed too, so as not to look silly.
My back was so sore it was rather difficult to think about anything else. I had to stand up at frequent intervals throughout the day to ease the pain, which annoyed Jess; she said it was like sitting next to a “fucking jack-in-the-box”. I went to Boots at lunchtime and they gave me something called Co-codamol. They wouldn’t sell me Ibuprofen as well so I got that from Superdrug. Hopefully I had enough to get through the wedding relatively pain-free.
A very civil partnership
Saturday morning dawned bright and sunny – whoopee! It was the perfect day for a civil partnership. Myra, Mum and I were going to get the ten thirty bus into Gloucester, which was the start of our journey to Trout Hall, where the ceremony was being held at two o’clock.
It was just before ten when the post landed on the front door mat. Mum was still in the shower and I was dressed in my M&S machine washable charcoal suit, which had been an absolute bargain at £59! I felt extremely smart - I must make sure someone takes a photo of me so I can put it on Facebook; I’d love Lucy to see me all dressed up like this. I picked up the post and there it was! An envelope with Dad’s handwriting on it! This was it - he was writing to say when he would visit!
I tore open the envelope with trembling fingers.
Dear Morto,
Many thanks for your initial investment and congratulations! You are on your way to your first fortune! I will be down to see you shortly with your cheque, and in the meantime, if you know anyone else who is able to invest in our company, a reminder that my bank details are still: 40.92.49 00389933. They won’t regret it!
I’ll be down soon son – looking forward to seeing you and discussing your directorship. I really miss you son.
Yours truly
Dad
Gosh – my directorship! That sounded so grand. I looked at myself in the hallway mirror. I’d better get used to wearing a suit if I was going to be a director; M&S did an easycare range too, which would be very practical - Lucy would be so proud of me! I re-read Dad’s letter, feeling a tinge of disappointment that I didn’t have an actual date for his visit but at least he had included his address this time! It was a PO Box number in Manchester – goodness me, he was only three hours away! I took several deep breaths; I just had to be patient, I would see him very soon. With a surge of happiness, I phoned a local taxi company and ordered a car to take us to Trout Hall. It was very extravagant, but for once in my life, I could afford to be frivolous!
I hadn’t factored in how much quicker a taxi would be than three buses, so we arrived at Trout Hall two and a half hours before the ceremony was due to begin. Luckily the bar was open, so I got Mum and Myra a bottle of wine to share whilst I ordered a glass of water so I could take my painkillers. Mum was admiring Myra’s outfit; she was wearing a fluffy white cardigan over a black and white dress that had an extremely tight bodice and a wide, knee-length skirt. She had a black and white feathery thing on the side of her head. “Foggy bought it all for me,” Myra told Mum proudly, “And the shoes. They’re faux satin.” Mum almost choked on her Lambrini. She stared at me. “Where did you get the money from for that lot?” she demanded. “And for splashing out on a taxi – what’s going on?”
“He got a bonus,” Myra explained, seeming to relish telling my mother this. “Didn’t he say? He wanted to treat me. For a change.”
Mum’s face had turned a funny dark colour. “Morten! How could you? Didn’t you stop to think that I might like to be treated for a change?”
“He treats you all the time!” shrieked Myra. “Look how much bloody housekeeping he gives you – anyone would think you live in Downton sodding Abbey the amount he has to pay!”
“Now, look here, you, you-”
“Oh, here’s Auntie Trisha!” I exclaimed with huge relief. My aunt came over to greet us. She was wearing a red checked shirt over faded skinny jeans and brown cowboy boots; she said she’d just come to fetch a bottle of Jack before she started getting ready.
“What’s your dress like?” asked Myra.
“It’s like a suit,” Auntie Trisha grinned. “You can’t see me and Biffa in puffy white dresses, can you?”
“Can’t wait to see Mum’s face,” muttered Mum.
“I didn’t think Granny Pattern was coming,” I said in surprise.
“Of course she’s coming!” scoffed Auntie Trisha. “There’s no way that tight old bat would miss out on free food and drink!”
“Oh, she doesn’t drink-” I started to say, but Auntie Trisha screeched with laughter and punched me on the arm. “You are funny, Foggy! Got to dash - see you all later.”
We sat down again. My arm really hurt but I couldn’t rub it because I didn’t want anyone to think I’d been hurt by a woman. Mum and Myra ordered another bottle of wine and I noticed Mum fluttering her eyelids at the
young waiter while Myra whipped off her cardigan when he came over. When he placed the bottle on the low table, he came face to face with Myra’s bosom, which was being squeezed out of her bodice like it was in a sausage machine. He backed away in alarm, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to escape.
Wedding guests started to arrive and soon the small bar was filled with smartly dressed friends and relatives. We were called into a side room just before two o’clock and there was Granny Pattern, already seated in the front row, wearing a black coat and a black hat with a veil. “She’s waiting for the fucking funeral march,” hissed Myra, who had become rather giggly. I’d only had a pint of lager but even so, my head was already swimming. It must be because my stomach was empty. The music started – 10cc’s ‘I’m Not in Love’ – and Biffa and Auntie Trisha walked up the middle of the room arm in arm. Auntie Trisha had a lovely cream silk trouser suit on and Biffa was wearing a white sort of Teddy Boy suit, with a long jacket, drain pipe trousers and chunky brogues. Her hair was cropped very short with a little quiff at the front.
I shot a look at Granny Pattern. She had her eyes closed and was clasping her hands to her chest. Was she holding a crucifix? I couldn’t