Read Year of Being Single Online
Authors: Fiona Collins
‘Gasman!’ she shouted and then slammed the door.
Grace and Frankie raised their eyebrows even higher.
‘I forgot my phone,’ Grace said, with a shrug, and dashed back into her house, leaving the front door wide open.
Frankie was left alone, in her doorway. The man was now swiftly disappearing up the road, his carrier bag banging against his right leg. Where was his van? All she could see was a car that looked a bit like a limo, at the end of the street. Imogen was cheating, wasn’t she? She had to be. Frankie would have to get to the bottom of it.
As she closed the door, she remembered she’d forgotten something, too. She hadn’t packed Alice’s sun-hat in her overnight bag this weekend. Damn. She’d need it. It was a boiling hot day and Rob had told her last night he was taking the children for a picnic at Hylands Park.
They used to go there all the time. Hylands House itself was beautiful – a majestic white stucco neo-classical mansion – and its parkland boasted acres of greenery, a lake and an excellent wooden play area for kids. They used to spend a couple of hours at the play area then walk up to the house, to explore the stable centre, the second-hand bookshop and the artists’ studios. It was one of their favourite places. It meant a lot to them.
Frankie would take Alice’s hat to them.
She parked her car and walked up the gently sloping hill. All around her were families, running dogs, laughter, kites, picnic bags, blankets and sandwiches in tin foil. Frankie scanned the hill for Rob. Ah, there he was, right at the top. She could just make him out, kneeling on a picnic blanket. Alice was a plump bundle next to him. Harry and Josh were playing some kind of fun-looking, two-handed rounders. She couldn’t see Tilly at first, then realised Rob was leaning over her. He was probably on nose-wipe duty.
Frankie had quite a way to walk. She did a kind of slalom, between all the people and blankets. A marauding sausage dog meant she had to round a massive oak tree at the top of the hill and approach Rob and the children from the right. They hadn’t yet seen her.
Rob’s hair looked nice. He’d flicked it up slightly at the front into a less deep Tintin quiff. There was gel in it – that was unusual – and he was wearing a really nice shirt. Blue and white checks. Short-sleeved. She bet he didn’t have any sun cream on. He’d burn. Burn, then go brown, that was his usual style. He was wearing those jeans that Frankie liked, the ones she’d bought him from TK Maxx. He was all scrubbed up, and she was reminded of how he looked on their first date – clean and gelled – and how excited she had been at the sight of him, how she sneaked sideways glances at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. And how much she fancied him, and how she knew she would love him, one day soon.
A lovely scene, so far: pastoral, picturesque. But something was off. There was a picnic blanket joined to Rob’s – its red and white stripes perpendicular to his blue and green ones. On the other blanket was a woman in a stripy Breton top and a pair of cut-off jeans, crouching by a wicker picnic basket. A small boy was lifting up one corner of the blanket with his big toe whilst he stood chattering away.
‘Hi, Mum!’ said Tilly, as Frankie got nearer.
‘Mummy!’ said Alice, reaching up her delectably tubby arms. Frankie stepped towards them and tried to envelope both her daughters in a hug. Alice wrapped her arms round one of Frankie’s legs. Tilly gave her a brief squeeze round the middle then skipped away.
‘Oh hi, Frankie,’ said Rob, shoving a screwed-up tissue in his back pocket. ‘Thanks for bringing the hat. I’ve been trying to keep her in the shade. Couldn’t face the shops in all this heat.’
She’d texted him to say she was coming. He hadn’t told her he wouldn’t be alone. All the fun and near-flirting of last night’s texts disappeared into the ether.
‘That’s okay,’ she said, handing him Alice’s gingham sunhat. ‘Looks like you’re having a nice day.’
‘Yeah. Yeah. Gorgeous weather, eh? We’re all enjoying ourselves.’
‘Hello, boys!’ called out Frankie to her sons.
‘Hiii, Muuum,’ they chorused, not even looking over.
‘Oh, this is Jenny,’ said Rob, and the woman smiled. ‘My neighbour. The one I mentioned? She’s a lone parent, like me. You don’t mind me saying that, do you Jen?’
Jen.
‘No, of course not. I try not to be
alone
though, too much.’ And
Jen
gave a shrill laugh and popped a miniature Scotch egg in her mouth.
I bet you don’t, thought Frankie, releasing a now struggling Alice, who wandered off to peer into Rob’s carrier bags. You’re certainly not alone at the moment. And
lone parent
? That sounded really final. Rob sounded quite proud of it. Pleased.
‘This is Frankie.’ My wife. No, he didn’t say that. She was though, wasn’t she? She was still his wife.
He leant across the blanket’s dividing line and handed Jen’s kid a chocolate Mini Roll. Sharing. Nice.
‘This is Jonathan,’ Rob said.
‘Hello,’ said Frankie. Jonathan gave a shy smile.
‘Do you want to sit down for a bit?’ asked Rob. ‘We’ve got plenty of food. Or is there something you’ve got to do?’
‘Er, no, I’m okay, thanks, Rob. There
is
something I’ve got to do. I’m on my way there…now.’ There was nothing. There was nowhere. No one. She was going home to an empty house and nothing to do for the rest of the day. But no
way
was she sitting on a blanket with Rob and Jen, even though her heart had a pang in it the size of a rock at the sight of her children, looking so clean and beautiful and happy and well fed, enjoying the hazy sunshine and a perfect summer’s day in the park. It made her want to cry.
She bet Rob and Jen would mosey on up to the house later, like
they
always used to: go to the stable centre, get an ice cream. Peer in through the windows of the house at the gorgeous stately rooms inside. Peer into the room that was so special to Frankie and Rob…the room where they’d held their wedding reception, a decade ago. It had been packed full of people. She had looked the best and slimmest she’d ever looked. Rob had looked unbelievably smart. They’d both been so joyous and happy, with so much to look forward to. Perhaps Rob would say nothing about it; there would be no flicker of recognition or nostalgia across his face as he took Jen’s hand and they walked back across the grass down to the lake…
Frankie had a feeling she’d never associated with him before: jealousy. Why was his best, scrubbed-up self coming to the park with this woman?
‘I’ll be off then,’ she said, feeling utterly dejected. The girls were giggling over daisy chains. The boys were now doing a disjointed, laughing
haka
. She started to walk away.
‘See you,’ said Rob. ‘I’ll bring them back at six tomorrow, shall I?’ There was a non-pupil day this Monday. He was taking the day off and they were staying an extra night. He was rummaging in another Tesco carrier bag. Why didn’t he bring the cool box? Frankie thought. Then she remembered; it was at her house.
‘Bye.’
There was no begging for her to stay. No wailing at the thought of her going. They were used to it, she thought. Used to not seeing her on these weekends with Rob. They didn’t need her. None of them did. Least of all her husband.
As she got to her car she looked back up the hill. She put on her driving glasses, to see them better. The three boys were haring around. Rob and Jen and Tilly were sitting on Rob’s blanket, Alice on Jen’s lap. Jen was passing Rob something. He was leaning towards her and it looked like he was laughing.
Anyone near them walking a dog, or flying a kite, or screwing up the last piece of tin foil from their last cheese and pickle sandwich, would think they were a family.
Grace was excited, jittery. So jittery she’d forgotten her phone and had to go back for it. She needed it for Google Maps. There had been a strange man on their street, leaving Imogen’s drive. She hadn’t seen his face, but according to Imogen men from the gas company now sported suits and ill-fitting grey hoodies.
Very
strange. Still, she couldn’t concern herself with that now. She was on a mission. She was on the brink of starting a wonderful new relationship. Farewell James and his cheating bastard heart for good! She’d found someone better. Someone better-looking, nicer…someone who would be faithful to her and treat her right. She couldn’t wait to get to Greg. She would put away her purse, he would put away his escort plans and they’d start the rest of their lives.
He lived on Chelsea Road, in Chelmsford. He hadn’t told her the number but he’d told her the street when she’d asked him. Escorts didn’t usually give out their addresses, she was sure, but he’d told
her
. He was different.
She
was different.
She’d go to his street and look for his car.
To get to Chelsea Road, Grace had to drive through the centre of town. She made steady progress – traffic wasn’t too bad on a Sunday. Turning right at the roundabout by the university, she passed the Pacific Hotel. Greg’s car was quite distinctive: an electric blue Beetle. He’d dropped her to the end of her road in it, after the roller-skating. It was there, in the hotel car park. She was sure it was. She had no choice but to swiftly put on her indicator and turn at lightning speed into the car park. A car beeped behind her angrily; she’d braked quite suddenly.
She parked two rows behind Greg’s car and instinctively – feeling like a ridiculous rookie cop on a stake-out – ducked and peered up through the windscreen. She could see the doors to the hotel lobby.
An older couple with matching rucksacks came through them. Then a giggly group of young women wheeling those hand luggage cases. Hen night – one of them was still wearing pink fluffy deely bobbers. Then, in a flurry of
huge
leopard print scarf and laughter, a blonde fifty-something in a black maxi dress emerged. She had an expensive-looking red patent bag over her shoulder, leopard print shoes to match the scarf, and her hair was flicky blonde and mid-length.
Greg appeared behind her, in the trousers and shirt he’d worn to Ascot. The woman, mid-laugh, stepped forward and planted a kiss on his lips. It was a long peck, almost a smooch. Then she reached behind and, although Grace wasn’t sure, seemed to squeeze his bottom. They laughed. Oh God. A client! Grace felt sick.
The woman turned and skipped down the lobby steps to a red sports car parked close to the lobby. With a swish of a fancy key fob thing, she got in, fouffed her hair in the mirror, put on some shades and sped away.
Greg started walking down the steps to his car. Without daring to look over at him again, Grace took off the handbrake, slammed her car into reverse, and got the hell out of there. As she drove away, hot, stupid tears ran down her cheeks. She’d been a bloody fool, all over again. A bloody idiot. Why had she thought for a minute that dating Greg was her being
controlled
and
in charge
? What a joke! She hadn’t been protecting her heart. Her heart had come way off the rails and was careering down a one-way track on one of those pushy-pulley things. She was way, way out of control.
Gutted wasn’t the word. How
could
he? Somehow, between saying goodbye to her at the station last night, and now, he had managed to sleep with his first client. Well, congratulations, Greg! How much did he get for it? £200? £500? She angrily googled his agency website again, when she got in. It didn’t say, but everything he did had a price. Everything was fake. Everything he’d done, all those nice things he’d said. Fake, fake, fake. How could he kiss her like that and then go and make some cold hard cash shagging Mrs Fifty-something Leopard Print?
It was a done deal. Greg was a proper escort now. He was initiated.
And it was all over for him and Grace. She was absolutely gutted.
A very happy woman sighed contentedly and languidly stretched her arms above her head. A happy woman who had gone back to bed after seeing Richard off up the drive. She didn’t care that he’d been spotted, not really. It was bad luck that both Grace and Frankie had seen him, but Imogen would explain to them properly later…that she was sorry, but she’d fallen in love. Maybe she’d pop over to see them tonight. For now, she was going to spend the rest of the morning in bed, chilling out and reliving the amazing sex she’d had with Richard.
And wow, it had been amazing. Amazing! He had been considerate, tender. Loving, exciting. He knew exactly what to do and when to do it. They had some music going: something 90s, Brand New Heavies, ‘Midnight at the Oasis.’ The lighting had been just perfect. Half moonlight, through her open window. There was a gorgeous eye-locking moment about 80 per cent in.
Everything had been perfect. He’d not attempted to talk dirty once. Talking dirty was an absolute bugbear of hers. If she heard the mere sniff of a ‘Do you like it when I do that, baby?’ her libido took off in a jumbo jet to Timbuctoo, never to return. Thankfully, there was none of that. He was lovely and silent, except when it was appropriate to be otherwise.
And afterwards, he’d been fabulous. He’d stroked her cheek and told her she was beautiful and then early this morning – they were both too wired to sleep in – he’d made her a bacon sandwich, and she’d put on his shirt, like they do in the movies,
and
she’d looked dead sexy in it, just as she was supposed to.
When he’d left, she’d lent him her huge grey fleece, to put over his suit – not a brilliant disguise for a lover, clearly, despite her making him pull up the hood (Gasman! Was that the best she could do?) – and he’d kissed her and told her he’d see her very, very soon. She told him she couldn’t wait.
‘Happy?’ he’d asked her, just inside her front door, looking faintly ridiculous.
‘Deliriously so.’
‘Me too. You’re the one for me, Imogen. I knew it as soon as I first saw your stroppy face.’
‘And you’re incredibly corny, Mr Stoughton. As well as being slightly rude. Now off you go.’
She lay in bed until eleven o’clock before she got bored. She wasn’t really a lying-in-bed person, even when she tried to be. She sat up and reached under it for her small laptop. She’d check her emails, have a mooch around the fashion blogs she liked to follow. She plumped up several pillows behind her and, sighing contentedly, opened up Outlook.