A Spring Affair (15 page)

As Fat Jack said, whilst eyeing up a little scrubber who was trading in a Fiesta, ‘When women start neglecting themselves, they deserve everything they get.’ When a bloke’s eye wanders, his missus should get the wake-up call to go and sort herself out. Jack himself had been unlucky on that front because Maureen had only got worse. Phil thought of that hairy mole on Maureen’s neck and shuddered. It was so big he felt sure it had its own brain. It was obvious that Jack only stayed with her because she serviced him with cleaning and cooking, and he didn’t want to fork out for a divorce. At least his Lou had cared about their marriage enough to fight for her man, and he’d had some very attentive sex and fantastic meals as a welcome-home-from-your-affair present. Fat Jack had got bugger all. Maureen hadn’t even shaved off her beard.

The telephone rang as Phil was in the shower. Something stopped Lou from picking it up and she let the answering machine take it whilst she listened on the screener.

‘Mrs Winter, it’s me, Tom Broom. I wasn’t sure if you said you wanted me to bring another skip or not earlier on when we were talking. If you do, can you call me? Thanks. Hope you had a nice weekend. Bye now.’

Hope you had a nice weekend
, Lou mocked. He was obviously crawling now because he was scared he wouldn’t get her business any more. And with good reason. Lou went to the cupboard and got out the dog biscuits which she thrust down to the bottom of the
kitchen bin, in a simple but definitive act. No, Lou wouldn’t call him back. She wasn’t going to pay him for the privilege of being an object of ridicule. Especially when he didn’t even know her first name!

When Harrison’s Waste Disposals turned up the following Saturday to drop off a new mini-skip, Lou realized she had no cash in the house and hurriedly wrote out a cheque to ‘Tom Broom’, which the skipman sourly gave her back. She contemplated the fact that she might have developed some Pavlovian response to skips, whereby as soon as she saw one she was obliged to make an absolute prat of herself.

She had found an alternative skip-hire company after searching through the
Yellow Pages
. Seeing Tom’s name there in black and yellow had given her a nip of sadness. His absence had cheated her of a secret fantasy that had brought a harmless thrill to a life that she was increasingly recognizing as joyless, empty and boring. She hated that Tom Broom’s brief cameo appearance had caused so much disruption. She had been content with her lot before he came on the scene with his bloody dog and his bloody skips.
Hadn’t she?

In the week that had passed, Lou’s subconscious still hadn’t presented her with the solution to the letting-Phil-know-about-Deb problem, after all; the whole thing was too mammoth for it to cope with. The only
thing it had come up with was the thought that maybe she should talk to someone about it and get a fresh view on the subject. But who was there. Karen? Too young. Her mother? Do me a favour! That left Michelle.

Michelle hadn’t been in touch since the text message saying that everything was hunky dory and she was loved up. Lou supposed she had been forgiven now and rang to leave a message on Michelle’s answerphone. There was no way she would pick up because it was Saturday and she was probably halfway to her fortieth orgasm of the weekend with Craig. But Michelle surprised her by answering after three rings and sounding really glad to hear from her, apologizing as usual for not being in touch: busy, busy, gym, gym, sex with Craig, sex with Craig…

‘So it’s going well then?’ said Lou carefully.

‘Fandabidozy. He is gorgeous! He can’t keep his hands off me!’

‘That’s great. Michelle, look, the reason I rang you—’

‘Hang on, I must tell you this–we were going to pick up fish and chips last night and he said he thought he was falling for me. Can you believe it? I just melted.’

‘Not there now, is he? I’m not interrupting, am I?’

‘Lou, do you think I’d have answered the phone if he was?’ she laughed, whilst making a clear point. ‘No, he’s going to a football match with his mates.’ She sighed indulgently. ‘It’ll do him good, getting some fresh air. This house stinks of sex. I’ve had to buy in a bulk load of Shake ’n’ Vac.’

‘I want to ask you—’

‘Mind you, he hardly got any when he was married, so he’s just making up for lost time with a decent woman.’

‘Michelle, can you help me on something—’

‘You should hear some of the tricks his wife’s done on him, the bloody bitch. I’ve told him he can move in here for a while but it’s too far away from Leeds for him. Do you know what she did once? You won’t believe this…’

Thus steamrollered, Lou gave up trying to interrupt and there followed a half-hour character assassination of Craig’s wife. Lou heard it but didn’t listen because five minutes into the monologue Michelle’s voice became white noise.

The Deb and Phil thing was something she would have to sort out on her own, Lou thought, with a guilt-free yawn and a mind that was a million light years away from Craig and his incredibly talented penis.

For three consecutive Saturdays now, Lou had been slipping out to meet Deb. It felt as if they had never been apart, except for one big difference. In the old days, there was nothing they couldn’t talk about; now there were a couple of taboo subjects. Phil being the biggest. And as much as Lou would have liked to have exorcised the ghost of Tom Broom through a good gossip, it seemed a bit of a cheek to talk about a bloke she fancied–
had
fancied–with a friend she had once given up to save her marriage. There, she had finally admitted it to herself: she had fancied him. Not that it mattered now that he was totally gone from her life.

She and Deb had talked on the phone a few times during the week, on her mobile because she didn’t want the number showing up on the house phone bill. She couldn’t afford to rock the boat in any way, especially because she had the distinct feeling that Phil knew she was
up to something
. Some sixth sense within her was waving a bright red warning flag. Phil was as wily as a fox and nothing got past him.

In saying that, she
was
deceiving him. She had fibbed twice, saying she was shopping in Meadowhall when all the
time she was drinking coffee and eating cake with Deb. That couldn’t be right, could it? Lying to her husband went against everything Lou believed in. The pressure was starting to weigh heavily on her. God knows, she would never have been able to put up with the strain of having an affair. Not that there was anyone she fancied enough to have an affair with. Not since the only person recently to have made her heart beat faster had turned out to be a bit of a shit.

In Maltstone village garden centre café, Lou and Deb were just devouring two very nice slices of chocolate fudge cake. They hadn’t gone back to
Café Joseph
. They didn’t want to send the waiter into hormonal overdrive.

Talk flowed easily enough between them. Lou told Deb that she had ordeal-by-lunch-with-mother to look forward to on Tuesday, which would probably be light relief after another soul-destroying day in Accounts on Monday, but Deb seemed a little distracted.

‘You OK?’ Lou asked.

‘Yes, of course. No, I’m not actually,’ came the contradictory answer. Deb put down her fork and stared hard at Lou without saying anything.

‘What’s up?’ said Lou, through her last mouthful.

‘Lou, I’ve got something to ask you.’ Deb was biting her bottom lip. She used to do that when she was nervous, Lou recalled.

‘God, it sounds like you’re going to propose. If you are, I have to tell you I’m married already.’

‘Yes, to a total prick though,’ said Deb without thinking. She took a sharp intake of breath; it was as if she was trying to suck the words back. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean for that to come out.’

Lou let loose a bark of laughter. ‘It’s actually a big relief,’ she said. ‘I know you can’t stand him and you really don’t have to pretend that you do. You don’t owe him anything.’

Except a boot in the knackers, thought Deb.

‘Anyway, this isn’t about
him
,’ she carried on. Not dignifying
him
with a name. ‘This is about you and me.’

‘Go on.’ Lou was all ears.

Deb opened her mouth to start, and then shut it again. She’d forgotten her well-rehearsed opening gambit. There was nothing for it but to plunge in headfirst.

‘What?’ urged Lou with amused curiosity.

‘
Working Title Casa Nostra
,’ blurted out Deb. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy giving it another go?’

‘Yes,’ said Lou immediately.

‘Take your time, I know it’s a big decision. I so want to do this but I understand that it would probably cause trouble between you and you know who…and there’s a lot more at—’ Her brain suddenly caught up with her ears. ‘You’re joking!’

‘I’ve never been more serious in my whole life.’

‘Bloody Norah!’

They stared at each other, hardly daring to breathe. Then they valved out to a childish bout of giggles.

‘Deb, I am so glad you asked. I would never have dared, seeing it was my fault in the first place that we never went ahead,’ said Lou.

‘It wasn’t your fault, it was…’
that cretinous balding twat’s
‘…well, it doesn’t matter about faults. Maybe it wasn’t the time for us back then. The older I get, the more I believe in fate and timings. Are you sure you want to?’

‘I am totally, positively sure I’m sure. Ever since I found that file again I haven’t been able to get it out of my head.’

‘I could scream I’m so excited,’ Deb said with a full-capacity smile.

‘So where do we start?’ asked Lou.

‘Well, you’re going to have to start by telling Phil about me,’ said Deb. ‘Otherwise it will be a bit hard to explain where all those millions sat in your bank account have come from, when the business takes off. I’ll start by borrowing the
Casa Nostra
file from you and refreshing my memory on what the sodding hell I was planning to make a Brando out of.’

‘I won’t let you down this time, Deb. Whatever happens,’ said Lou earnestly.

‘I know,’ said Deb, and she did know–although it was probably a good job that at that precise moment, neither of them knew just how much
would
happen.

Lou opened her wardrobe doors and looked through the banks of clothes for her black skirt and red top. She was taking her mother out for her birthday lunch to a lovely Italian restaurant just outside Wakefield, but what should have been a simple clothes-choosing exercise turned out to have complications. The realization struck her like a slap: she really did have some awful clothes. Her eyes were tugged towards the burgundy suit she wore so often for work. Looking at it, head on, bulkily sitting on the hanger, she could see why Karen took the mick out of it so much. It looked short and thick and squat–was she really that shape? There was no way that it was going back in the wardrobe now that she had seen it through her recently acquired objective eye. Sliding it from the hanger, she dropped it quickly onto the floor before she could change her mind.

She checked the clock; she had a spare half-hour to make a start if she wanted to do what had suddenly landed in her mind and Lou did want to, very much. She could no longer tolerate
any
potential rubbish that she spotted, and she had spotted a lot in her wardrobe.
Do you wear 20 per cent of your wardrobe, 80 per cent of the time?
the article had asked and she concluded that she probably did, looking at this junk hanging up.

Pushing up her sleeves, she started at the left, pulling out a loose black dress in which the whole Billy Smart family and some Bengal tigers could adequately have performed.
But it’s comfortable and OK for lounging about the house in
, said a weak little inner voice.
Tough
, returned Lou, and replaced the empty hanger on the rail. It might have been a comfy purchase, but she looked like a gothic Mama Cass in it. ‘And there’s another for the rubbish pile,’ she said to herself, seizing a faded pair of red track-suit bottoms that were big enough for Santa to change into after his Christmas dinner.

The blue suit was a bland necessity for work. The black one was her favourite but it had been a ‘to slim into’ purchase, and she never had. It wasn’t made from a stretchy fabric nor did it feature the elastic waistband she so favoured these days. It really would have to go, along with all the other ‘too smalls’ that waited patiently but in vain for Lou to regain the figure she had twenty years ago. It was a very classy two-piece though, she thought. She tried it on again for old times’ sake and found with some surprise that it slipped over the hips it usually snagged on. The jacket, which she had never been able to close across the bust, buttoned up beautifully now. Not only that, there was actually room when she rotated her shoulders and jutted out her chest in the exaggerated fashion of Barbara Windsor in
Carry on Camping
. Looking at herself in the mirror, she was pleasantly taken aback at the reflection.
I’ve lost weight! Flaming heck, when did that happen?
Either that or a benign fairy was coming in and stretching her clothes at night.

A loose pink shirt with white spots started a separate charity-shop pile. It had been one of her favourites until Phil pointed out that she looked like Mr Blobby in it and totally put her off wearing it. Next, it was goodbye to that size eight pair of grey check trousers, a lovely red dress and some sundresses, all size tens, which had been hanging up and taunting her that she was too fat to fit in them. Well, they wouldn’t be there to taunt her any more! Next…

Within twenty minutes 75 per cent of Lou’s wardrobe was crammed into four bin-bags, along with a fifth one full of old knickers, ancient bras, bobbly tights and unwanted shoes, including the ridiculous high heels that she had worn that night out with Michelle and couldn’t think of without associations of pain, inner and outer, and a
Highway to Hell
soundtrack. The old black faithful skirt that Lou was originally going to wear for lunch was now in a charity bag, teamed up with the gathered red top, which she knew didn’t make the best of her chest, but it hadn’t bothered her that much, until now.

The remaining clothes in her wardrobe suddenly had room to breathe and the sight of the fresh space gave her that curiously light and uplifting feeling again. Plus, it would be quite fun to replenish her wardrobe, she thought. But from now on she was only going to buy clothes that looked and felt and fitted as well as the black suit. There were to be no big fat comfortable clothes that made her feel like an old frump or impossibly small clothes that made her feel bovine by comparison. She put her lovely black suit back on and looked forward, for once, to her mother’s verdict.

Renee opened up the car door and climbed gracefully out. She had a smart little taupe suit on that made the best of her trim figure and slim legs, and she carried the matching light brown handbag that Lou had bought her for her birthday. Mother and daughter strolled into the Italian restaurant and were greeted by a round-faced but attractive waiter with a pronounced accent.

‘Have you lost weight?’ asked Renee, who had been studying Lou from the back as they walked to their table.

‘Yes, I think I have,’ Lou confirmed. ‘It must be all that exertion filling my skips.’

‘Haven’t you gone on the scales to find out?’ said Renee, who weighed herself every morning naked, after her ablutions and before her Bran Flakes.

‘I don’t have any scales,’ said Lou.

‘Well, you want to keep it up and before you know where you are you’ll look nice again.’

‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Lou tightly.

Once seated, they studied the oversized menus over slimline tonics, ice and lime.

‘Thank you for the flowers, they were beautiful, by the way,’ said Renee.

‘Good, glad you liked them,’ said Lou, aware that her mother had shifted her scrutiny from the menu to her face.

‘Your skin’s looking nice,’ she said at last. ‘Have you been doing anything to it?’

‘Just drinking a lot of water,’ said Lou. Her skin had always been nice, though. She hadn’t suffered any of the volcanic facial activity that had plagued, and continued to plague Victorianna despite her diet of healthy-this and healthy-that. Tee Hee.

‘Nothing better than water for the skin,’ said Renee.

‘Filling the skips is a thirsty business,’ Lou added, whilst thinking, Wow, two compliments on the trot. There’s a first! Betcha there wouldn’t be a third. She curled her fingers away before her mother noticed them. The life-improving qualities of intensive physical clutter-clearing didn’t extend to cuticle-care and nail preservation.

‘What are you going to have?’ said Renee.

‘I think I’ll start off with garlic mushrooms.’

‘Oh you’re not, are you?’ Renee screwed up her face, disapproving. ‘You’ll undo all that good work if you eat a big plateful of butter.’

Lou snarled inwardly. ‘What would you like me to have, Mum?’ she said with a fixed grin.

‘Have what you like,’ sniffed Renee. ‘I’m only trying to encourage you.’

‘I’ll have the tiger-prawn salad,’ said Lou. She just prayed the prawns’ last meal had been garlic mushrooms.

‘What about for main?’ asked Renee eventually, after she had decided on the salmon.

‘Lard pie and chips,’ Lou answered with flat petulance.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Elouise,’ said her mother, as if she were nine and had just asked for a gerbil.

Lou ordered chicken in a mushroom and white wine sauce. She forewent the gastronomic pleasures that
Café Ronaldo’s
garlic bread would have given her, knowing she wouldn’t enjoy it all that much with her mother watching her every mouthful.

‘Have you heard from Victorianna?’ asked Lou, after the waiter had taken their order.

‘Yes, she rang very early this morning and her card is
on its way, apparently. Their post takes ages,’ said Renee, waving away the whole American postal system with one sweep of her small, thin hand. ‘I don’t know–they can send men up to the moon, but they can’t get a birthday card here on time. Typical!’

‘Has she sent you a present?’ Lou enquired sweetly.

‘She’s put some money in the card for me to get what I want,’ replied Renee, adjusting the serviette on her lap so she wouldn’t have to look Lou in the eye. ‘Vera’s going to visit her son in Germany for her birthday, did I say? Her son’s paying for her to go out there.’ Renee couldn’t help the almost indiscernible sigh that came out with it and despite all her criticisms and pettiness, Lou felt a sudden all-engulfing wave of sympathy and love for her mother. Victorianna really was one-way traffic. She must have known how much their mother wanted to go out there and how it hurt her that she had not once been asked.

‘You should tell Victorianna to invite you over,’ she said.

‘I can’t
tell
her to invite me, Elouise,’ Renee snapped.

No, thought Lou, with a plan already sparking into life in her head. But I can.

Later that evening, Lou was snuggled up in a bed with fresh, cosy sheets on it, which felt extra comforting as the wind howled outside and rain lashed against the window. Phil had tried to initiate sex, but she had said she was too tired. He hinted at doing ‘other things’ instead, but she hinted back that she was too tired for those as well. He punished her with his back and no kiss goodnight, which didn’t bother her half as much as it was intended to.

She had just drifted off to the shallows of sleep when she was woken up by a rude shake.

‘Lou, Lou, what’s that noise?’ Phil was hissing.

‘Wha…’

‘
Shhhhh!
…Listen.’

Lou did as instructed. She was just about to say she couldn’t hear a thing when her ears caught a scratching noise.

‘There’s someone trying to get in the back door,’ whispered Phil. ‘Did you put the alarm on?’

‘Yes, of course I did. Go and see who it is,’ Lou whispered back.

‘There’s no way I’m going downstairs,’ said Phil gallantly.

‘Look out of the window then!’

‘No, they might see me. Where’s your mobile? Mine’s downstairs on charge.’

‘So is mine.’

‘Oh, bloody marvellous!’

‘Shhh,’ said Lou, straining to hear. Threaded amongst the whistles of the wind was a definite whimpering. Whatever it was, it was animal not human, and sounded in pain too. She hopped out of bed.

‘Where are you going?’ said Phil.

‘To look out of the window,’ replied Lou. She nudged the curtain open and peered down, but the rain was hitting the glass at full pelt and her view was distorted.

There it was again, a clear yelp.

‘That’s not a burglar, it’s a dog,’ said Lou, slipping on her dressing-gown and heading for the stairs. Phil jumped out of bed and followed her tentatively downstairs to the kitchen. As Lou typed in the code to turn off
the alarm, Phil made a clattering grab in the drawer for a bread-knife.

Despite his expectations, there was no spooky silhouette of a mass murderer framed in the glass of the back door. Phil stood behind Lou, serrated-edged weapon at the ready, as she unlocked the door as far as the chain would allow. There on the doorstep was a very soggy and bedraggled German Shepherd.

‘Chuck this at the bloody thing,’ said Phil, handing her a pan. ‘SHOO!’

Lou huffed loudly and slipped the chain off.

‘Fucking hell, don’t let it in!’ Phil yelled as she then flung open the door and Clooney shivered into the kitchen.

‘It’s the skip man’s dog,’ said Lou, grabbing a towel from the top of the ironing basket and bending to his side. He was shaking, trembling, his ears flat against his head.

‘Well, what’s he doing here? Market bloody research?’ demanded Phil, watching incredulously as she made soothing noises and attempted to rub the dog dry.

‘How do I know, Phil? He’s obviously remembered the house.’

‘How can a dog remember a house?’

‘In case you haven’t noticed, my name’s Lou Winter not Barbara Woodhouse.’

Clooney sneezed and then Phil sneezed.

Lou couldn’t resist. ‘You’re allergic to each other,’ she smiled wryly.

‘It’s not funny. Get it out of here,’ said Phil crossly, making a move to grab the dog’s collar but thinking better of it when his hand got within three foot of the dog’s jaws.

‘You are joking!’ said Lou, fighting the mischievous urge to say,
I wouldn’t send a dog out on a night like this!
‘You can’t let him back out in this weather, poor thing.’

‘Well, you can’t keep him here, can you?’ said Phil, who could feel his nose beginning to fill up with mucus.

‘Pass me the phone,’ said Lou. ‘I’ll ring the skip man. He’ll be frantic.’

‘He’s not going to be at work now, is he? It’s…’ Phil looked at the clock on the oven…‘half-past pissing one!’

‘Well, I don’t know where he lives, Phil, so leaving a message is the only thing I can do!’

Lou could remember Tom Broom’s number, but thought it wiser to go through the pretence of looking it up in the telephone directory. As expected, an answering machine clicked on.

‘Hello, Mr Broom,’ began Lou efficiently after the announcement and the long beep. ‘It’s Mrs Winter, number one, The Faringdales, Hoodley. It’s one-thirty on Wednesday morning and I’ve got your dog here. He’s OK but very wet. I’m going to bed him down here for the night—’

‘Oh no, you’re fucking not, Lou! You fucking aren’t bedding that scruffy, smelly, hairy bastard thing!’ screamed Phil in the background.

Lou ignored him and carried on, ‘…So there’s no need to worry. He seems fine. Anyway, that’s it, end of message, bye for now. Oh, and here’s my number…’

She put down the phone and turned to defuse Phil, who sneezed again dramatically enough to be right up there with any passing Oscar nominees.

‘He can sleep in here,’ she said calmly, trying not to
inflame the situation by pointing out what a big girl’s blouse Phil was being. ‘I’ll disinfect the place tomorrow. You won’t know he’s ever been here.’

Phil’s brain recalled him sneezing like this before in the kitchen.
Have you had a dog in here? And she had answered, ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘He’s been here before, hasn’t he?’

‘I brought him in for a biscuit once, that’s all,’ said Lou.

‘Where are you going now?’ asked Phil as Lou marched out of the kitchen, leaving him alone with the Hound of the Baskervilles. The vicious-looking thing was enormous, and his head was on a level with Phil’s balls. Phil did a quick exit and trailed behind Lou as she went to the top of the stairs and pulled down the loft ladder.