Stockings and Cellulite (6 page)

Ploddy looked at me but didn’t question the request. Obligingly he turned the wheel and crawled along Aisle J. And there was my car. Just where I’d left it earlier that morning.

‘Could you stop for a moment?’

‘Is everything all right Mrs Cherry?’

‘Ah ha ha ha, you’re never going to believe this!’

‘Try me.’

Half an hour later, still smarting with embarrassment, I detoured to the newsagent’s to buy the local paper.

‘You won’t find any Footsie stuff in this one love,’ the same spotty teenager advised.

I handed him some loose change. ‘Actually I’ve bought this particular paper for a completely different reason.’

‘Oh yeah? Don’t tell me. You read all about Beckham’s botty, got a bit hot and bothered and now you want to look up local private masseurs.’

‘Idiot,’ I grinned. ‘I shall be reading the Employment columns. I want a job.’

Driving into the cul-de-sac, I psyched myself up to tackle the final hurdle of this interminable day.

Cynthia Castle opened her front door wide, pencil thin eyebrows arched, mouth pursed like a dog’s bum. The twins mumbled good-bye as they came out.

‘Thank you,’ I said stiffly.

Once home I settled down with a strong coffee and read the Jobs Offered pages. There was very little available on a part-time basis with a secretarial background. However, my eyes alighted on an agency advertising for temporary secretaries. Hm. A temporary job would give my rusty skills a chance to test the secretarial waters so to speak.

I glanced at my watch. Five minutes to five. The phone answered on the first ring.

‘Starting Point Recruitment Agency,’ purred a female voice.

‘Oh! Hello. Er, I’m thinking about returning to work.’

Seconds later I had a registration appointment scribbled in my diary which just happened to fall on a Friday, the same day as my impending date with Jed.

When Friday dawned, I set off to the agency feeling rather buoyant. Pushing open the swing door I was immediately engulfed in soft carpeting, computer screens and telephones. Butterflies took off deep in my stomach as a coiffed consultant by the name of Carmel invited me to sit opposite her.

‘Let’s start by compiling your Curriculum Vitae,’ Carmel smiled. ‘When did you last work Mrs Cherry?’

‘Almost ten years ago, just before my twins were born,’ I replied apologetically. ‘I’ve kept my secretarial skills up typing occasional survey reports at home for my husband when his secretary was up to her eyeballs-’

I broke off as it dawned on me that the secretary had probably been up to her eyeballs with my husband’s dick rather than dictation. I was almost ambushed by a fresh outbreak of tears. God, when would this angst cease?

‘That’s fine Mrs Cherry,’ Carmel assured. ‘All that remains is a small typing test and then it’s just a case of waiting for temping appointments to roll in. This will be the perfect introduction to ease you back into full time employment.’

That afternoon whilst cruising the aisles of Tesco, my mobile chirruped into life. It was Carmel rather tensely informing me that one of the agency’s regular temps had broken her wrist and, with a sense of urgency, asked if I would be prepared to take over the booking on Monday.

‘Yes of course,’ I beamed into the handset, ‘but don’t forget to remind the company that I can only provide cover until three o’clock because of the school run.’

‘That shouldn’t be a problem,’ Carmel assured.

I hung up feeling tremendously excited.

Later that afternoon Stevie knocked on the door ready to collect the twins for the longest period in
that
house so far. I wouldn’t see the twins until Sunday teatime.

‘Cass?’ he asked in a wheedling tone which instantly irritated me. ‘Have you thought any more about us getting back together?’

‘I’m still thinking about it,’ I snapped. ‘Although frankly, after listening to your litany of legovers, I wouldn’t get your hopes up.’

‘You know you don’t mean that Cass. You’re still angry – understandably so – but you’ll calm down eventually.’

I swung round furiously. ‘Oh will I?’

‘Yes, of course. It’s just that I’d like to get back to normal, preferably as soon as possible. I want to get on with my life.’

My eyes rocketed open in disbelief. ‘
Your
life? And what about
my
life, or is this just about you?’

‘I meant
our
lives getting back to normal. Apart from anything else, Cynthia’s sofa is doing my back in.’

I froze. So he wasn’t sleeping in her bed after all? Or was he? Was he telling the truth? Or was he lying? Would I ever recognise when he was being honest or whether I was being spun a pack of lies? The very thought of never knowing for sure sent my stomach churning. Could I resume living by his side knowing I would be in a constant state of turmoil? I had a mental vision of riffling through the pockets of his suit at the end of every working day. Feverishly scrolling through the text messages on his mobile. Possibly even ringing a few numbers I didn’t recognise just to see if the voice that answered might be female. And then what? Hang up? Or blindly wade in asking impudent questions with somebody who might innocently turn out to be a female tax consultant? If our relationship stood any chance of reviving and surviving, then trust was paramount. But I no longer trusted Stevie. In fact, I didn’t think I’d ever trust him again. My head felt dizzy and I clutched hold of the doorframe to steady myself.

‘Are you okay?’ Stevie had a protective arm around my shoulder in a flash.

‘Fine thanks,’ I tetchily shook him off just as the twins appeared.

‘Cass I’d better go, Cynthia’s got a big roast in the oven for all of us.’

‘Oh yummy yummy. Well run along then,’ I spat.

‘Don’t be like that Cass. Please. Could you let me have some sort of answer fairly soon?’

After he’d gone I moodily plucked an apple from the fruit bowl and bit into its lacklustre skin. Huh, just like mine. Yuck, it was badly bruised. Like my heart too. Suddenly I whipped round and flung the apple at the kitchen wall. It splattered against the paintwork leaving a trail of pulp and sticky juice in its wake.

‘Bastard!’ I shrieked at the disgusting mess and promptly burst into tears.

Oh God, this was no good. Jed would be here in a couple of hours. I needed to calm down. Have a bath. Get ready.

I blew my nose on a sheet of kitchen towel, cleared up the mess and went upstairs. While the bath was running I routed around in the medicine cupboard looking for something to sooth frazzled nerves. What was this? Suppositries. A periodic requirement but only good at soothing frazzled piles – the result of bearing two babies in one go. I sorted through the packets and selected some hayfever tablets.
May cause drowsiness
. Excellent. Three of them should calm me down. Along with a good stiff drink.

Jed was greeted by a lethargic woman with dilated pupils.

‘Hi!’ he greeted.

‘Hi!’ I gushed back.

‘You look fabulous,’ he smiled appreciatively.

‘So do you,’ I blurted.

It was true. Jed was even better looking than I remembered. Olive green eyes, dark hair and extremely white teeth. I wondered if they were bleached. Best not to ask at this stage. Maybe later, when he’d unbuttoned a bit. Perhaps he could even tell me who his dentist was.

‘Ready?’ he asked offering his elbow in a charming old-fashioned gesture.

He led me to his Porsche Boxster and opened the passenger door. I sunk into the leather depths. Oh very nice. Yes, very nice indeed. I tucked my legs in and let him shut the door.

We drove to a quaint pub and started the evening off sitting before a warm log fire, heads together chatting. I sipped a gin and tonic while Jed stuck to mineral water. A sense of relaxation stole over me which I suspected was nothing to do with the mix of pills and alcohol but everything to do with Jed.

Eventually we went through to the pub’s dining area which was all knotty wood and low beams. Lots of atmosphere. Inevitably the conversation touched on our respective failed marriages and we exchanged sob stories. Surprisingly, when I told Jed how I’d found Stevie
in flagrante
, instead of becoming angry or upset I found myself seeing the funny side. I won’t pretend I creased up slapping my thighs with mirth, because I didn’t. But somehow a shrug of the shoulders and a rueful smile helped soften a distressing memory.

Driving home, was it my imagination or had the atmosphere changed? All previous banter seemed to have been left behind in the pub. I sat tensely in the passenger seat. Jed drew up outside the house, the engine turning over throatily. There was a pause. A sense of waiting. What now? What was the form? Issue an invitation for coffee? Sit at the far end of the sofa? Work our way towards each other? Make mad passionate love whilst the dodgy springs protested? I was completely out of touch regarding rules of the dating game.

‘Can I ring you sometime next week?’ he asked.

‘Y-yes, of course,’ I stuttered. ‘Thank you for a wonderful evening.’

‘It was a pleasure.’

And then Jed simply leant across the small divide between his seat and mine, cupped my face in his hands and planted a soft kiss on my lips.

I spent the remainder of the weekend feeling strangely uplifted. Now why was that? It was almost as if an invisible pair of rose tinted glasses had been perched on the bridge of my nose transforming the world into a much nicer place to dwell. Was this experience merely a histamine hangover or had optimism genuinely entered my life? As I stood over the ironing board gazing out of the kitchen window, a beam of sunlight pierced the grey clouds and haloed them with silver linings. It made me feel as if I were suddenly seeing light after being in a very dark tunnel.

I wasn’t naïve or foolish enough to believe I’d fallen in love after one date with a stranger. Of course not. But I did believe that one date with another man had altered my perception about Stevie.

As the weekend rolled into the start of a new week, I rose half an hour earlier than usual to prepare for
Operation Return to Work
. I gulped nervously. This was top secret stuff. Nobody knew about it, not even Nell with whom I usually confided everything. The secrecy was partially due to cowardice – what if the whole thing was a disaster? That was why discretion was tantamount. Once the booking was complete and depending upon its level of success, then and only then would I convey to everybody my successful return to work. Or not as the case might be.

‘Hey Mum!’ Livvy stared at me in surprise. ‘You look-’

‘Yes?’ I asked eagerly standing before her in my new black-as-midnight suit.

‘Has somebody died?’ Toby cut across his sister.

‘Of course not!’

‘Why are you all dressed up?’ asked my son who, by sheer dint of being born with a willy, possessed the enviable male knack of getting straight to the point.

‘Are you seeing a solicitor?’ asked Livvy, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

‘N-no. Whatever makes you ask that?’ I stuttered.

‘Daddy wondered if you might be taking legal advice before you make a decision about a reconciliation,’ she explained.

‘Oh did he now?’ I flushed angrily. ‘And why is Daddy discussing grown up matters with you?’

‘Because I asked him.’

‘Well in future don’t!’

‘So where
are
you going?’ asked Toby.

‘To the doctor,’ I replied crisply.

‘With full make up and dressed to impress. Are you having a smeary test?’

‘Thank you Toby,’ I spluttered, ‘that’s quite enough of that sort of talk.’

Finally, after a last minute game of hide and seek looking for the car keys, we headed out the front door.

‘Ooh what’s the occasion?’ Nell appeared on her driveway within seconds of my locking the front door. Damn.

‘Dentist,’ I explained hurriedly.

‘You told me it was a doctor’s appointment,’ Toby accused.

‘Correct on both accounts,’ I smiled tightly. ‘Doctor first and then the dentist. Must dash,’ I fluttered a hasty wave at Nell’s astonished face before legging it to the sanctuary of the car.

Forty minutes later I parked in the staff area at the rear of a Victorian terrace. I gazed up at the elegantly old fashioned building and read the words
Morton Peck & Livingston
etched in gold across the windows. With mounting excitement, I grabbed my handbag from the passenger seat and marched up to the front door, heels clicking confidently over the paving stones.

Inside, a generous hallway doubled as a reception area. A peroxide blonde receptionist with heavy make up and an orange tan was clearly in the middle of juicy gossip with a fellow colleague.

‘I told her fair and square,’ the blonde sniffily informed her pal. ‘I said that if she didn’t tell her mother then I most certainly would. After all, I’ve known Mirium for years.
Years!
’ the blonde shrieked. ‘What on earth would Mirium think if she discovered I’d known all along what her own
daughter
was up to?’

My ears wiggled appreciatively as I stood and patiently waited. My goodness, what on earth was Mirium’s daughter doing? Evidently it was more than raiding the biscuit tin after hours.

‘Yes?’ the blonde snapped, unprepared to divulge further details of Mirium’s daughter in front of a stranger.

‘Hello, I’m the temp.’

‘Sit down,’ the blonde waved a bejewelled hand at a row of hard chairs. ‘I’ll let Mr Morton know you’re here.’

I sat on one of the uncomfortable chairs until the Senior Partner’s arrival. He was a short man somewhere around mid-forties with a pale non-descript face. On the bridge of his nose perched a pair of rectangular glasses through which he coldly observed me. It would be fair to say that a bag of frozen peas emanated more warmth than Mr Morton.

‘Mrs Cherry?’ he enquired giving my outstretched palm a brief shake. ‘Please come with me.’

We went up a flight of stairs, across a landing covered in threadbare carpet and through a side door which led into Mr Morton’s office. There was a distinct air of dreariness, no doubt generated by years of regulation brown gloss and scuffed beige walls. A vast table smothered in rows of stacked files edged one wall. Opposite was a battered desk layered with bundles of ribboned documents, scribble pads and an ink blotter. A Dictaphone machine lay abandoned in the middle of this organised chaos.