A Spring Affair (11 page)

Renee twisted the three gold bands around her finger. One a thin, old gold wedding ring, one beautifully studded with a full range of precious gems that Shaun had bought her to say he would love her for ever, the third an engagement ring with three emeralds and five diamonds. They had cost him a small fortune at the time, but they were exquisite pieces and the young jeweller who designed them went on to be a big name in the industry. Shaun couldn’t possibly have known what an investment he’d made when he bought those rings. He had placed them on Renee’s finger when his heart was full of the ambitions that charmed her down the aisle with him. Shaun’s enlarged heart was always going to be the undoing of him.

When Elouise came along, Shaun decided he didn’t want to be a man who worked all hours and never saw his wife nor his child, so he found the plâteau job that enabled him to provide well for his family but be home every evening to eat with them and enjoy them. No one could say that Shaun Casserly didn’t provide for his family; they wanted for nothing. Well, none of the basics anyway. However, even Renee had been shocked to find
out the true extent of his provisions for her, just in case they didn’t make it to his pension together. The insurance policy he had in place would see her in good stead for the rest of her days, but it had all been much too late for Renee.

Elouise’s birth had marked the death of all Renee’s greater plans for their early married years: the monstrously huge house and three-acre garden, the flash car, the holidays cruising the Mediterranean…She wanted so much more than this three-bedroomed bungalow with a conservatory, even if it was big enough to swing a very large cat in. Material possessions made life’s journey a happier, more comfortable affair. Love was, she found, a cheap firework that blinded with its flare before dying and leaving nothing of its original promise.

Renee treasured her rings, though, even more so since they went missing a few years ago. She had taken them off to get a manicure and couldn’t for the life of her find them afterwards. She and Victorianna had looked everywhere but they’d simply vanished. She couldn’t have imagined how much they meant to her until then, which somehow managed to assuage some of the guilt she felt at never missing Shaun as much as she should.

It was a big relief when Lou managed to find them, but oddly enough they had turned up in a place that Renee was sure she had searched quite thoroughly herself. It had all been a very odd business.

Lou promised Phil she would make the car showroom accounts her priority the next morning, but instead she found herself in her old jogging bottoms and T-shirt, heading down the cellar steps with a roll of black binliners. She fully intended to clear out the cellar in the morning and then spend all afternoon doing the books–well, that was the original plan, anyway. However, five spare pillows, four packs of carpet tiles, three demijohns, two chipboard tables–alas, no partridges nor pear trees–later, Lou knew there was no way she was going to break off her clutter-clearing in order to sit at a desk trying to put Phil’s financial affairs in order.

The showroom accounts were a nightmare. Phil had so many little tax fiddles going on, most accountants would have gone blind or insane or both with it all, but at least they would have got paid whilst they were going doolally, which is more than Lou did. Occasionally he threw her the promise of ‘making it up to her with a nice surprise’, but the surprise in question never materialized. Unless one was to count the various new ‘surprise’ kitchen gadgets.

There were three big dry cellars under the house. One
was totally empty; Phil had been talking about turning it into a gym for the last six years. So far he had bought a small trampoline from Argos which was stuffed in a corner still in its wrapping, and an unpunched punch ball hung from a rafter. The middle cellar housed all the past years’ account files, the artificial Christmas tree and all the decorations. Lou searched through the bags and found some broken baubles and anaemic tinsel, but annoyingly nothing to really get her rubbish-clearing teeth into.

Most of the junk was concentrated in the first cellar, where the many shelves were full of ‘useful’ items which it was thought good to have to hand. There were countless bags of screws and nails, light fittings, switch plates, paintbrushes with a bald patch resembling Phil’s, a selection of torches that needed batteries and bulbs, rusty hammers, garden hoses that had been awaiting mending for longer than Lou could remember (and had been long replaced anyway) and lots of plugs that Phil had cut from defunct electrical appliances ‘just in case’. There was a big box of his old videos covered with dust and verdigris: cowboy films, some B movie action titles she had never heard of, a couple of Chuck Norris’s, and tucked away right at the bottom, wrapped in brown paper–
Breast Side Story
and
Titty Titty Gang Bang
. She carried them back upstairs in a binliner and threw them in the skip before breaking for a quick sandwich. Now that she had got stuck in, she knew there was no way she was going to do any accounts before the space was totally clear.

There was a stack of books on the shelves that she remembered Phil buying on a whim from a closing-down sale ages ago, but she had never yet seen him read
anything but newspapers and car-focused periodicals, so she knew they wouldn’t be missed. Lou read avidly, but these titles in her hand didn’t appeal to her much. However, they were in far too good a condition to throw away, so they went into the cellar charity bag to join a candle-making kit and some white plastic garden tubs which Lou had bought on an impulse but never really liked.

She swept up shovelfuls of dust and cobwebs, trying to avoid the spiders. Phil would have screamed at the size of some of them, and though Lou didn’t exactly want them within cuddling distance, she never killed them. A thought of her dad visited her, telling her what an important job they did in killing the big noisy germ-ridden flies who filled up their clogs on dung-heaps then went tapdancing on cakes. Her dad had been full of little stories like that to make her laugh. She’d hoped one day to tell them to her own children. Ah well, she shook that thought away before it took a grip.

Under the shelves she discovered with glee the antique airer she had bought the previous summer and totally forgotten about. She had sanded the few rough bits and waxed it when she had first got it home, but had been unable to find any pulleys to attach it to the ceiling beams, so she had stored it down the cellar until she had time to go on a more detailed hunt for them. The first time around, B&Q had sent her to Focus, Focus had sent her to Wickes, and Wickes had sent her back to B&Q.

The article said that if she was to mend any such broken items which had potential for use then she should strike whilst the iron was hot.
Utilize or bin it
. With that
in mind, Lou made a mental note to go pulley-hunting at her earliest convenience.

Stored underneath the airer was a shirtbox full of photographs, and as she had just about finished and was ready for a cuppa, she took it upstairs and opened it up whilst she was waiting for the kettle to boil. She couldn’t remember why she had kept them, for the few important photos she wanted to keep were in her ‘treasure box’ in her bedroom. Lou wasn’t a great one for photographs; she had been quite content to carry the memories of various special days around in her head rather than look at second-rate snapshots of them which rarely succeeded in capturing any true essence of the moment.

Seating herself on the floor in the conservatory with a mug of strong instant coffee, she tipped the box out onto the rug to look at the stills of her past. Most were out of focus or long shots, or were just plain boring landscapes of once-nice days, now just unrecognizable vistas. Amongst them was a family shot of her wedding. Her mother was in dark blue with a hairdo that made her look like a minor member of the Royal Family. She was colour coordinating (by prior arrangement) with Phil’s mum, also in navy. Lou had never really got to know Sheila Winter much, beyond the fact that she had indulged her offspring to nutter proportions, instilling in them the belief that they were beings more supreme than the Daleks and destined always to get everything they wanted. Maybe if Phil and Celia had had a few more tantrums which didn’t work, it would have done them good, Lou had started to think recently. Sheila had retired to Devon and died suddenly three months after the wedding. The funeral had been an odd affair,
peculiarly emotionless. Sheila’s sisters, and even her twin brother, had seemed more interested in getting first pick of the after-service vol-au-vents than saying goodbye to one of their own, and weirdly, there had been a photographer there as they all got together so rarely and didn’t want to spoil the opportunity for some family groupings. (‘Can we have one with the corpse and immediate family?’ ‘Now let’s have one of the corpse throwing her wreath?’ Lou had thought blackly at the time.)

Phil had been understandably quiet, but was back to work the next day with a ‘life goes on’ comment at the door. Celia was mourning openly with dramatic wails and cries and getting lots of attention, but was out shopping the next day, ‘to take her mind off things’. It was all so different to when her dad died. Lou hadn’t stopped crying for months, and trying to slot herself back into normal life had been like feeding herself onto a motorway full of fast-moving lorries whilst riding a skateboard.

Feeling the pressure of tears build behind her eyes, she turned resolutely back to her wedding pictures, shuddering at the sight of Des and Celia bracketing her on the photograph: Celia, looking very designer-clad in a hat that was part-Royal Ascot, part-standard lampshade; Des, looking part-Bryan Ferry’s younger brother, part-Nosferatu. Phil looked so lean and handsome with thick fair hair. He had always looked younger than his age, but with that air of supreme confidence that had attracted her so much. He wasn’t smiling like everyone else on the photograph; in fact, he looked rather surprised. At one side of him was Victorianna, a younger, fresher, more glamorous version of Renee, and the minx was wearing
a white dress. It had caused a bit of an incident on the day, as the old organist had started playing ‘Here Comes the Bride’ when she walked to her seat, which Victorianna would have loved, of course. The angle of Victorianna’s arm disappearing behind Phil’s back made it obvious that she had just nipped his bottom. And
that,
Lou remembered, was why this photograph was in the reject bag.

In the line-up, Lou was smiling, looking exceedingly pretty in a long plain ivory dress that pushed her in and out in all the right places. She had always had a shape–Phil hadn’t complained then about her not being like a beanpole. In fact, if her memory served her right, he’d rather savoured her curves. Then there was Deb, her one and only bridesmaid, in a shade of scarlet, looking slim and blonde and gorgeous and more like a blood relative of Victorianna’s than Lou did. That similarity had come in exceedingly handy during Operation Great Ring Rescue.

There were some holiday shots: a pinprick in the sea which she remembered as being a dolphin she spotted on their honeymoon in Benidorm; hideous family shots of Phil’s horrible uncle with his pet brown cardigan who came to stay seven years ago and gave Lou the longest fortnight of her life; the façade of the Hotel Artemis in Corfu. It was the only holiday they’d had outside Benidorm in all the years they’d been together. Lou had wanted to go to Rome but Phil had ‘surprised her’ and booked Greece instead. They had gone there to celebrate their sixth wedding anniversary and Phil had gone missing after their celebratory meal. She found him emerging from an olive grove with a woman called
Wanda from Wakefield who was residing in the same hotel. She was a brassy piece in her fifties, hair bleached to inflammable straw and a mouth full of Stonehenge teeth. He said he’d been helping her look for her husband Alf (who turned up the next day snoring away in a fishing boat cuddling a bottle of Ouzo) and of course Lou had believed him. It was only later, when Phil left her for Susan Peach, that Lou wondered if he had, after all, indulged his passion for mutton that night amongst the fruit trees of Greece.

There was an old school photograph in the pile, her last one, when she was sixteen. She couldn’t remember all the names of her classmates, but two faces stood out from the rest. The pixie-faced Gaynor Froggatt, who was to die in an alcohol-and-heroin haze six years later, and Shirley Hamster who was so jealous of Lou’s long hair that she had once snipped some off during Latin. She had been little prepared for Lou swinging around and giving her a right hook that sent her flying backwards over the chair and into the bookshelf behind. It had been worth Renee’s abject disgust, the headmistress’s lecture on ladylike behaviour and a week’s detention translating Catullus’ love poetry, especially as she had rather enjoyed doing it, as she recalled. Her dad had given her the thumbs-up but only when her mother’s back was turned.

Elouise Angeline Casserly. In those days she had stuck her chin and her chest out wherever she walked; a girl who was scared of nothing and primed to take on the world. She was half-goddess, half-pit bull terrier. She dived headfirst not only into life but also off the stage at college discos, knowing that the rugby lads would always catch her. She was a demon on the hockey pitch, blasted
aces out at tennis and was still dancing long after the diehards had dropped with exhaustion. She was indestructible, spirited, marvellous. So what had turned her into this little woman who wore minimiser bras and was terrified that the wrong word or an extra inch on her waist would spell the end of her marriage? Where the bloody hell had Lou Casserly gone with her insane, loopy, passionate, determined spirit–the woman who was going to make her fortune opening up the best coffee-house in the world with the best friend anyone could ever have in the world?

Before thought, sense or reason could get in the way, Lou levered herself up, letting the photographs tumble from her lap, and reached for the telephone.

She could still remember the number. In saying that, what guarantee was there that it would still be the same one? And wasn’t it a bit stupid, ringing during working hours? But she dialled the number all the same and it connected and burred five times before a dear, familiar voice answered.

‘Hello.’

‘It’s me–Lou…Casserly…Winter,’ Lou said with a cracked voice. ‘Deb, is it possible? Can we meet?’