A Spring Affair (7 page)

A long soak in a deep bath would have been a nice birthday treat, but the less said about that the better. Lou gave her quarter-finished building site of a luxury bathroom a hard, frustrated look, shook her head and went into the ensuite for a shower before she could get so wound up that she risked spoiling what had been, so far, a lovely day. Bloody Keith Featherstone! A name to make a saint swear.

Phil refused to get involved in Lou’s dispute with the builder. She’d wanted the fancy bathroom so she could sort it out. He reckoned she should cut loose from the man and organize another firm–it wasn’t as if she’d paid Featherstone in advance or anything stupid like that. Phil was quite happy with the shower in their large ensuite anyway. He couldn’t see the point of wasting time lying about in water full of the filth you’d just soaked off. He told Lou to use her feminine charms. Builders always responded to a bit of eye-fluttering and a nice cleavage. Well, lazy useless unreliable bloody Keith Featherstone hadn’t.

Lou had a blissful half-hour after her shower reading a
Midnight Moon romance, a big cup of coffee in her hand, and nibbling on a couple of the Godiva truffles that had been put through the letter box, courtesy of Des and Celia Winter-Brown. (That Lou had missed their visit was a big fat added bonus to the day.) No ordinary ‘Brown’ surname for Celia–she had insisted they both adopt a double-barrel after their wedding vows. How she and Deb had laughed at Celia’s fancy signature with its cascading loops, like Elizabeth I did on her death warrants. God, she so wanted to pick up that phone now and dial Deb’s number.

Lou took a lovely long time getting ready for her birthday surprise. She wondered what sort of restaurant Phil was taking her to. Anything would do, but an Italian really would just add the cherry onto today’s cake. There was little to beat the relaxed romantic ambience of an Italian bistro.

When Phil arrived home at half-past six, he had a strange sneezing fit in the kitchen that nearly made him drop the bags he was carrying.

‘Have there been any animals in here, Lou?’ he said.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Lou.
Whoops.

‘I have presents, I have champagne,’ he announced. Champagne was pushing it a bit. It was very brutal Cava relabelled
Vintage P.M Autos
. He would give a bottle to every new owner of a Phil Winter car, along with a
P.M. Autos
keyring and a pen. After a glass, who could tell it from the proper stuff anyway?

He had two presents for Lou, one in a white plastic carrier and the other in a gold gift bag.

‘Here you go, babe. You know I’m no good at wrapping.’

Well, blokes weren’t, were they, agreed Lou silently, not that it mattered to her. She opened the white bag to find another of his amazing electrical appliance purchases.

‘Oh, an omelette-maker! Great–thanks, love,’ she said, overdoing the enthusiasm a tad to override the guilt she felt because she had already earmarked it for the charity bag. Phil seemed very keen for her to open the other present. Smiling, Lou reached in and pulled out something frothy and black on a plastic hanger. She held it up to the light, not that there was all that much to hold up. It was a minuscule nightie in something scratchy with holes in strategic places. It came complete with a set of panties with a frilly slit where the crotch should have been. Phil’s hands came from behind and twiddled Lou’s nipples as if trying to tune into
The Archers
.

‘I thought we could have some fun with it when we get home later.’

‘We’ll see.’ Lou smiled a paper-thin smile whilst behind it she was trying to blot out all sorts of mixed thoughts. Why couldn’t it have been something sweet and sexy, not this tacky thing? Then again, this meant that he still fancied her, didn’t it? Surely that was a good sign? She really was Ungrateful Wife of the Year.

Phil slapped her bottom, hard enough to propel Lou forwards a couple of steps.

‘What colour’s that supposed to be on your head?’ he laughed, before heading off to the ensuite for his shower.

At half-past seven that evening, the taxi pipped its arrival outside.

Lou slipped on her jacket and followed Phil outside into the spring-chilly night. She felt great in her new outfit and make-up, and Phil looked extra-handsome in his dark green suit. It was his best and she took that as a sign that he was really going to push the boat out for her tonight. It made her feel
safe
and in turn,
safe
made her feel happy. She was going to have a wonderful evening, she just knew she was.

There were people already in the car so Lou turned back.

‘False alarm, Phil, it’s not ours,’ she said.

‘Yes, it is,’ said Phil.

‘Can’t be. It’s got people inside–look.’

‘Little birthday surprise.’

‘Birthday surprise?’

‘Yes, love. I asked Fat Jack and Maureen to join us,’ Phil said, talking through a rictus smile in case the people in the taxi were watching their approach.

‘You. Are. Joking,’ said Lou in much the same way. It was like a private ventriloquist’s convention.

‘I thought it would feel more like a party with another couple. This is all for you, Lou, please don’t spoil it for me.’

‘Don’t give me that. You’re going to talk business, aren’t you, and leave me with Boring Maureen all night? It’ll be just like last flaming Christmas all over again,’ said Lou, still gritting her teeth.

‘Lou, what do you take me for?’

She didn’t answer that one.

Fat Jack and Phil moved forwards into the restaurant, their identical smiles flashing superiority at the
Chinese waiter, one an older, brasher version of the other. The ladies followed an almost dutiful five paces behind.

Jack seemed more colourful and dynamic than ever but Maureen seemed to have aged a few years in the few months since Christmas. Her customary ‘teak sideboard’ hair shade hadn’t been touched up and the greys and whites ran wild in her short tight perm. A long twisty hair was sprouting unchecked out of the large mole on her neck which Lou tried not to stare at. Maureen looked as thin as a baby bird, hollow-cheeked and pale–almost as if she was fading away to ultimate transparency.

Fat Jack ordered a Chinese banquet for five (the greedy sod), and scampi and chips for Maureen who didn’t eat foreign food–and just as Lou had predicted, Jack and Phil talked cars, with the occasional foray into what Barnsley FC should do to have any chance of winning the FA Cup next season, and then onto the fascinating subject of Jack’s new koi carp fishpond, complete with waterfall, sauna and internet café (or at least that’s where the bragging was heading). Halfway through her crispy duck and hoi sin sauce, Lou gave up trying to catch Phil’s attention, she gave up trying to start up a conversation with monosyllabic Maureen and she gave up believing that this evening had anything to do with her birthday, or her. Stupid Lou.

Lou ate her food and drank her wine and watched the hands of the wall clock lazily circle. Maureen had eaten hardly anything, but had been drinking wine unnoticed in the background at a surprising rate, then she had a double Tia Maria instead of banana fritters as well. It was
a wonder she wasn’t on her back by the time the bill arrived.

Lou just couldn’t wait for someone to ring a taxi to take them all home.

‘Have you rung for a cab?’ she asked Phil.

‘Er, we thought we’d just nip to the club down the road for a couple,’ said Phil as he helped her on with her coat. ‘Birthday drink?’ he added hopefully.

‘Oh, you remember it’s my birthday, do you?’ said Lou quietly but crossly.

‘We’ll have our own little birthday party when we get home.’ Phil grinned and gave her a suggestive wink. He was saved from Lou’s response because attention turned to Fat Jack, who had just fallen over his chair from the effect of all the brandies.

The club was slightly more depressing on the inside than the rough brick exterior suggested, which was a feat in itself, but it did serve the best pint in the area, apparently, and that was a far more important factor to local men than any fancy furnishings. It had also been designed with a very long bar, to accommodate more ‘leaners’ and the comfortable women’s seats were deliberately positioned a small taxi ride away from it. All that was missing was a barbed-wire fence down the middle with a serving hatch.

Phil brought Lou and Maureen two double vodkas and Cokes each, then he rejoined Jack at the bar. Lou sipped at one of them and her eyes flitted around the flaked paintwork, the cobwebs snagged on the Artex and the black and white picture of some mouldy ex-club Chairman given pride of place on the wall. The pressure to engage with Maureen all night had tired her brain out
and she just wanted to go home and have a bath. Then she remembered she didn’t have a bath.

She and Maureen had socialized four times before and yet she had heard Maureen say little more than, ‘Please,’ ‘Thank you’, ‘Hello,’ ‘Goodbye,’ ‘Nice place,’ and, ‘Just going to the toilet.’ Oh, not forgetting her famous, ‘Those mince pies were nice. Did you bake them yourself?’ at Christmas. Boy, she had really let her hair down that night. So no one was more surprised than Lou when Maureen suddenly started to talk.

‘I’m a grandmother, did you know?’ she said with a wistful, slurring pride.

‘Congratulations,’ said Lou. She knew their only son, Peter, lived out in Australia, although not much more about him than that. ‘When did that happen then?’

‘Five years ago today,’ said Maureen. She really did know how to entertain, did Maureen.

‘Well, slightly belated congratulations then,’ said Lou. ‘Boy or girl?’

‘Girl,’ Maureen sniffed. She opened the locket around her neck with trembling fingers to show Lou two blurry pictures, one of a baby and a blonde toddler on the other side. ‘This is my Charlotte,’ she announced, gulping on the name.

‘Aw, she’s bonny,’ said Lou truthfully. ‘You must be feeling as if you want to just hop on a plane and go out there. Have you any plans to?’

Maureen shook her head. Then Lou realized she couldn’t speak because there were great big fat drops of salty tears dropping down her face and making beads on her little tweed skirt.

‘Maureen, are you OK?’ asked Lou.

‘Jack wouldn’t ever go and see Peter now, so I’ve never seen my granddaughter,’ Maureen said at last. Lou fished in her bag for a tissue, which Maureen utilized completely.

‘Scared of flying, is he?’ said Lou.

‘No,’ said Maureen.

‘I see,’ said Lou, thinking that was the end of that conversation. Still, it was a record for Maureen. Then Maureen reached over, took a long swig from her drink and started up again.

‘Our Pete always wanted to travel but Jack was all on for forcing him into the business. He said if Pete didn’t stop his fancy ideas then that would be it, he could fuck off and not come back. Pete told him he was quite happy to do that and not come back and went out of the door with just a bag on his shoulder. That was the last time I saw my son.’

The tears drop-dropped. Maureen’s eyes glazed over as she was dragged back to that happy Christmas scene of her family being smashed up in front of her eyes. She felt Pete’s kiss again on her cheek, heard his sweet young voice saying, ‘Bye, Mam, I’ll ring you soon.’ She heard Jack telling her that she could fuck off as well if she wasn’t going to back him up.

Maureen pulled herself forwards out of the raw pain and started foraging amongst the jumble of bingo pens and cigarettes in her bag for her own packet of paper hankies. Lou still had her eyebrows raised from hearing Maureen swear like that. None of these words seemed to be coming from her lips, but those of another woman, one buried deep inside her. Lou watched the older woman blow her nose and take a long, shuddering
breath, looking momentarily elegant as she presented her fine-boned profile to Lou. Phil had told her that Maureen had once been Miss South Yorkshire, something Lou had scoffed at until now, looking side-on at the remnants of a much-faded beauty.

‘Pete was never interested in cars. He was a lad that used to take himself off into the countryside and draw. That’s what he’s doing now–graphic art in Sydney–and he loves it. He’s done really well for himself, despite his father telling him over the years that “he’d come to nothing, painting all the bloody time.”’ Maureen laughed a little manically.

‘All those years I stuck with Jack to keep the family together, turning a blind eye to his women–and for what, because it all collapsed anyway. All those bloody years wasted.’

‘Jack had other women?’ said Lou. As if on cue, Fat Jack laughed loud and crudely at the bar, his great blubbery belly years past the effort of being sucked in, and Lou wondered what Maureen had ever seen in him–never mind what anyone else had seen in him. Then again, there were always women who could put up with anything for a man with a fat wallet who wanted a bit on the side, as she well knew.

‘He could always get women, love,’ said Maureen, looking at him also but seeing a different Jack–a younger, slimmer Jack with sharp suits and smooth patter.

‘It nearly killed me the first time I found out about it, but I didn’t want him to leave me so I just let him get on with it. There was Peter to think of, you see. He was only a bairn and where would we have gone? I didn’t work because Jack wanted me at home and I
wasn’t talking to my family by then. I couldn’t have given Pete the comforts Jack could supply. We’d have ended up in a hostel, and what life is that for a lad?’ Maureen gave a bitter laugh. ‘Course, his flings always ended because he just wanted the thrill of the chase. His tarts weren’t exactly the type to have his tea on the table for him every night, but it never got any easier, seeing him drown himself in his best after-shave and then lie to you that he was off out for a pint with a business contact.’

Lou felt quite sick and very guilty. To her shame she’d presumed Maureen had always been a limp lettuce. She had never even considered that once she might have been someone whole and pretty and confident, who had been whittled away by small cruelties over the years. But then
this
Maureen at the side of her, crying softly into a glass of vodka, would never have attracted someone as strong and forceful as the young Jack. Once upon a time, it seemed, there had been a sparky beauty queen and a dynamic go-getter who had butted together perfectly, but then the power balance had somehow tipped and kept on tipping until they had evolved into little more than parasite and host. Jack the lad and Miss South Yorkshire were long gone, leaving two strangers behind.