‘That chicken smells very respectable,’ Juliet said. ‘Have you bought an oven-ready one from Morrisons and are just browning it off?’
‘No, I have not. And it’s turkey,’ said Grainne, turning to Floz. ‘Honestly, to listen to my family you’d think I’d burn water. I could always make a very
respectable Sunday lunch.’
The front door opened and Guy and Steve came in.
‘Hi, girls,’ waved Steve, trying to act cool and unboyfriend-like. Guy nodded at them. Floz nodded back, but smiled at Steve.
‘Floz, are you losing weight?’ said Steve, noticing that her cheeks seemed a little more hollowed than usual. ‘Doesn’t she look as if she’s lost weight, Guy?’
He set that up for his friend. Women always liked to be given a compliment like that.
Guy felt that, despite Steve’s well-meant remark, Floz might be uncomfortable with everyone assessing her figure, and wanted to help her out. And his instinct told him that the best way to
do that would be to say, ‘Hadn’t really noticed.’
‘Charming.’ Juliet clicked her tongue. ‘You always did have the gift of the gab, Guy.’
‘I didn’t mean that she hadn’t,’ Guy jumped in defensively. ‘I just meant that I hadn’t been looking at her . . . at all . . . in that way . . . in any way,
actually . . .’
Steve groaned. A picture of a man digging himself further into an enormous hole flashed into his brain. He saw Floz’s cheeks growing pink and heading towards scarlet so he stepped in,
clapped his hands and started to open the bottle of rosé fizzy wine which he’d bought for the girls.
‘I thought you might have brought Raymond along,’ said Grainne.
‘He’s away at some perfume convention this weekend,’ returned Juliet. ‘Good timing on his part, that’s what I say.’
‘I can’t get this damned thing open,’ Steve snarled, then yelped as he cut his finger on the wire clutching the cork.
‘Give it here,’ said Guy. He took the bottle, twisted the cork and it shot out like a bullet, narrowly missing Floz. Guy slammed his hand on top of the bottle as froth raced up the
neck, with the result that it jetted out sideways and all over Floz’s top half.
‘Goodness me!’ said Grainne, running off for a towel. ‘Your lovely white shirt as well.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Floz, wanting to throw herself through the picture window, leap over the garden fence and run as far away from Guy Miller as possible.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Guy, holding fingertips of despair to his forehead.
‘It’s okay,’ said Floz, wiping herself down with the back of her hand until the towel arrived and realizing with horror that her shirt was now see-through and one lacy bra-cup
with a pink trim could clearly be seen. Rosé wine dripped off her fringe. She didn’t have enough hands to try and blot the wet patches, dry off her hair and cover her boob.
‘It’s probably because it’s not chilled and has been rolling about in the car,’ explained Steve. ‘Sorry, I should have bought it last night and kept it in the
fridge.’
‘It’s all part of the general parcel of doom,’ sighed Juliet. ‘Doomed, we’re all doomed.’
The timer on the cooker went off.
‘Ooh, everyone to the table, please!’ Grainne clapped her hands excitedly. Steve dived onto the seat that Guy was heading for and so forced him to sit opposite Floz. He tried to look
anywhere but at her bra through her shirt, and failed for the split second when she caught him. She had a good mind to point upwards and say in a tight voice, ‘This way to my eyes.’
‘Wine, anyone?’ asked Guy, picking up what was left in the first bottle of rosé. He nearly dropped it because it was wet and slipped through his fingers.
‘I’ll do it, shall I?’ said Steve. He poured three expert flutes of it for the ladies, then some white for himself, Perry and Guy.
Grainne ferried in plates loaded with slices of turkey breast, sprouts, colcannon potatoes, uniform-looking Yorkshire puddings, roasted parsnips and crushed carrot and swede.
‘Mum, these are Aunt Bessie’s Puddings, aren’t they? You cheat,’ said Juliet, although it had to be said she was impressed with how normal the meal looked.
‘I could never do the puddings,’ said Grainne. ‘And thanks to Aunt Bessie I don’t have to struggle with them.’
‘This looks grand,’ nodded Perry.
Steve tucked in. He’d always loved eating at this table with the Miller family. Grainne could make a mess of beans on toast, but it was never the food that was the most important factor of
the enjoyment for him. He couldn’t remember eating with his mother at a table and there was never any of the chat and the laughter that he found here in Rosehip Gardens.
‘So, how’s the wrestling going, Steven?’ asked Perry, pouring some gravy on his potatoes then attempting to fish out all the lumps. It had the texture of frogspawn.
‘Limping along,’ said Steve. ‘It’s nice to get together with the lads, but one by one they’re all packing it in.’
‘That’s a shame,’ said Grainne. ‘I suppose it’s only the American stuff that the kids are interested in.’
‘More or less,’ sighed Steve. ‘That’s where all the action is. Plus the British stuff isn’t on the telly any more.’
‘Can you not get a job over there with them, Steven?’ Perry was now squashing the lumps with the back of his fork.
‘I wish,’ said Steve, taking the tip from Perry and turning his own fork over to flatten the gravy.
‘Who’s the man in charge over there? I’ll have a word with him for you,’ smiled Grainne.
‘His name is Will Milburn,’ said Steve, taking an emergency swig of wine. How much salt had Grainne put in the carrot and swede?
‘Is he a big wrestler himself?’ asked Perry.
Guy stepped in to answer for Steve, who was coughing hard.
‘No, he’s a short little midget.’
Whoops
. He turned quickly to Floz. ‘No offence, Floz.’
WHOOPS
.
‘None taken, I’m sure,’ huffed Floz.
‘How tall are you, Floz?’ asked Perry. ‘I’d say five foot one.’
‘Five foot two,’ replied Floz, waiting to hear what Guy would come out with next.
‘And what do you weigh?’
‘Dad.’ Juliet was the first to raise her hands up in frustration.
‘She’s only wee,’ said Perry. ‘I’m sorry if that embarrassed you, Floz. I only meant that you’re a little . . . what’re those fairy-things
called?’
‘Gnome?’ said Guy.
Shit
. ‘
NYMPH
. I meant nymph!’
‘Yes, a wee nymph,’ said Perry.
‘Not a nymphomaniac then?’ Steve roared with laughter.
‘You see what I mean?’ Juliet turned to Floz. ‘Next time call the RAC out for them and hide behind the nearest bush. Never let them owe you a favour again.’
Thankfully the conversation around the table turned to Perry’s plans for his garden and sog-wet-through, shortarse, gnome-like Floz was allowed to sit back in the shadows away from
confidence-stripping spotlights.
Grainne presented a rather dodgy-looking Black Forest gâteau for dessert.
‘You’re supposed to take the stones out of the cherries, Mum,’ said Juliet, nearly breaking her back tooth.
‘Did I just taste pistachio nuts?’ mused Perry.
‘Yes, I had some left over. I thought it would add a bit of interest.’
‘I think in future we’ll leave the party food to Guy,’ Perry said, winking at his son.
‘Mum made a better lunch than I did last time I cooked here,’ Guy said, pulling a cherry stone out of his mouth. ‘I had a real blip that day.’ At last, the chance to
hammer the point home to Floz, in case she thought that was his usual standard of cuisine.
‘You were doing fine, Grainne, until the cake,’ Perry said, rising from his seat to replenish everyone’s glass with wine.
‘I’ve done some home-made mints to have with the coffee,’ announced Grainne proudly. She wondered why that was greeted with a heavy silence and not a resounding cheer.
There was no getting away from the goodbye kiss after the coffee and the home-made fondant mints – with raisins soaked in crème de menthe – had been
attempted. The Millers were an affectionately demonstrative family. Floz found herself getting a bit nervous that Guy would stab her eye with his nose or nut her again. She hid behind Juliet,
hoping that she could get away with just waving at him.
‘Have you said goodbye to Floz, now Guy?’ Perry Miller pushed his son forwards.
God
, thought Guy.
God
, thought Floz.
Floz raised her head expecting concussion to follow shortly. Guy bent his head, expecting his body to do something random and mortally injure her. He made his finest effort to kiss her squarely
on the cheek, Floz made her finest effort to squarely present her cheek to him. Guy moved in too soon, Floz moved too late with the result that Guy’s lips landed with perfect precision onto
her own.
The kiss seemed both fleeting and everlasting at the same time. Guy noticed how soft her lips were and again detected the faint hint of strawberries on her skin. Floz noticed how firm his lips
were, the hint of coffee and whisky on his breath and, as he drew away, she caught the last notes of Guy’s aftershave: the scent of cedar and fresh air. He smelled like an autumn walk in a
wood, after the rain.
For a split second there was just the two of them in the room and no thoughts of anything else but the sensation of lips upon lips. No Nick, no Lacey, no past, no future, just that moment
existed.
Both of them would secretly replay that kiss – Floz almost as many times as Guy, despite all her inner protestations that he was a man to be avoided at all costs.
‘I’m worried about Floz,’ said Juliet that evening. She was cuddled up to Steve on the sofa and Floz was having yet another early night.
‘Have you ever considered that she might be tired and that’s why she’s having early nights?’ said Steve, weaving a hank of her black hair around his fingers.
‘Well, considering she’s having so many early nights, she looks shit for them. Her eyes tell me she isn’t sleeping well. And you’re right – she’s losing
weight.’
And that wasn’t all. Juliet didn’t say it aloud because it would have felt the wrong side of gossipy to say that Floz no longer waited to have her first glass of wine with Juliet in
the evening. She had usually had one – or maybe two – by the time Juliet got in.
‘Have you asked her if anything’s wrong?’
‘Course I have. She said there isn’t, but there quite obviously is.’
‘She’s just much more of a private person than you,’ said Steve, taking a chocolate and putting it between Juliet’s lips because he knew it was her favourite flavour.
‘Not everyone wants to talk if something is wrong.’
‘Something
is
wrong – I know it and I will get to the bottom of it,’ said Juliet. ‘One way or another. Anyway, are we having sex tonight?’
‘If you like,’ said Steve.
‘Don’t be too enthusiastic, will you?’ tutted Juliet, pulling away from him, but his arm looped around her and reeled her towards him.
‘I’d love to have sex with you. But I’m equally as happy lying here like this,’ he clarified.
‘Good, that’s settled. We’ll lie here for a bit and then have sex. Then we’ll both be happy.’
It was an added bonus to be having sex that night because Juliet’s regular-as-clockwork period hadn’t happened today as it should have. She wasn’t that worried – it was
only a day late. So far.
Steve walked around the brand new Mercedes two-seater sports car. He could barely stop the purr that was rising in his throat as the salesman pointed out all the features,
knowing that this sale was in the bag. It was the sort of car that would draw Chianti Parkin to him like a sex magnet. Except for some inexplicable reason, she wasn’t even on his mind as he
studied its features. He was thinking of Juliet sitting in the passenger seat, hair streaming behind her as they tore along a beach road in the sunshine.
‘Will you be wanting finance?’ the salesman asked.
‘Nope,’ replied Steve. ‘I’ll pay for it by Switch.’ Steve had been saving up for a long time towards this moment – sailing out of here with a swanky car that
he could truly call his. But the salesman was too cockily confident that he’d sealed the deal, so Steve tagged on a very casual: ‘That is, if I take it.’
‘How can you not?’ laughed Mr Smug the Salesman.
‘Because I’m weighing it up against a Porsche and a Jag that I’ve test driven, that’s why,’ fibbed Steve convincingly.
‘No comparison with this baby,’ said Mr Smug.
‘Oh, I beg to differ,’ said Steve. ‘The Jag was a very comfortable drive in particular. Smooth as silk. And it clung to the road around corners.’
‘Ah, but how much do you really know about these top of the range—?’
‘Quite a lot,’ interrupted Steve. ‘I’ve been repairing and souping up cars since I was eleven.’ A fact that was quite true. He had had a Saturday job with a
rough-arse of a man on their estate who owned a car workshop. He didn’t mention that a lot of the top-of-the-range cars which came through the doors were ringed, resprayed and sold on in the
dead of night or souped up for robberies.
The young salesman’s oily smile trembled on his lips as he began to realize that he might be out of his depth slightly here if they started trading car facts.
‘Perhaps you’d like to take our model for a spin,’ he said. ‘Or we have a scheme where you can hire a similar model – at a very reasonable rate – for up to a
week in order to fully appreciate the effect a car of this quality will have on your life.’
‘That sounds great. I’ll be in touch,’ said Steve, holding his hand out to shake and signify that he was leaving Mr Smug for now.
He swaggered out of the car showroom and went back to his vehicle outside the empty building next door that had a huge flapping
For Sale
notice nailed to the wall. Then he remembered what
he had to tell Guy and rang him straight away.
Juliet was staring into space with a quizzical look on her face. There were several things on her mind at the moment that she didn’t like. Firstly: she was actually
planning to cook Steve a meal tonight. That lifted their ‘just sex’ relationship into the dangerous territory of dating. She couldn’t date Steve Feast – he was a knob.
She’d thought he was a knob for nearly thirty years. But her mind kept taking her back to bed with him and how tender he was with her there, how selfless, and she had to admit he had a point
thinking he was God’s gift to women. She hadn’t come as hard or fast with any other lover, not even Roger.