Stockings and Cellulite (19 page)

‘Don’t be too long,’ I called after the twins, ‘we’ll be heading home soon.’ If I ever managed to raise my backside from this chair.

Matt began clearing the table and loading the dishwasher.

‘Don’t you mind Petra and Jonas pitching up as if they own the place?’

Matt bent down to stack a plate. ‘Not at all. I went to school with their Dad and I’ve known Petra and Jonas all their lives. They’re like family to me, especially after their mother died.’

‘God how awful. When did that happen?’

‘Four years ago.’

‘She was obviously young. Whatever did she die of?’

Matt straightened up from the dishwasher. He blew out his cheeks in a flummoxed gesture. ‘Philly had an undetected congenital heart condition. She died from degeneration of a heart valve. When I stop and think about it, there’s still a feeling of stunned disbelief. I guess it will never completely go away. Even now it seems impossible that Philly has gone. She was always roaring around – everything she did was at one hundred miles per hour. And she was such a happy person. Always laughing about something. And then suddenly she was lying in a morgue – dead from acute heart failure. Mac was devastated and went to pieces. For a while he kind of lost his marbles and gave us all quite a scare.’

‘What about Petra and Jonas? Are they at risk of this happening to them?’

Matt chucked a dishwasher tablet in amongst the crockery. ‘Thankfully not. Mac had them off to the doctor for a full heart scan and both kids were given a clean bill of health.’ He slammed the dishwasher shut and turned a dial.

‘Is your friend okay now?’

‘When you have kids you can’t sink forever. Thankfully he got through it and is swimming again. In fact, he even hinted that he’d met somebody meaningful quite recently.’

‘Well good for him. Life goes on and all those other clichés.’

‘Yep.’ Matt tossed an empty cake box in a recycling sack before crouching down in front of me. I swallowed nervously as a pair of hazel eyes zoomed in on mine. Was he about to make some sort of romantic advance? With my frozen muscles I was incapable of jumping up and running around the kitchen table, Benny Hill style.

‘You haven’t budged from that position for the last hour. Are you quite sure you’re all right?’

‘Actually, I seem to have set like jelly in a mould. I think a hot bath might help.
My
bath,’ I added hastily as the hazel eyes lit up like headlamps.

With supreme effort I hauled myself out of the chair and toddled to the door, anxious to put a safe distance between Matt and myself. The children were duly rounded up and shepherded to the car. They clambered into the back while Matt folded me up like a deckchair and slotted me in behind the steering wheel.

‘Are you okay to drive?’

‘Sure, it’s nothing a soak won’t put right.’

He leaned into the open window and lowered his voice. ‘Do you want me to pop round later and soap your back?’

‘Thanks but I have a loofah.’

‘I could give you a massage,’ he smiled hopefully.

‘Maybe another time,’ I kissed him chastely on the cheek before turning my attention to the back seat. ‘Children, do you have something to say to Matt?’

‘Thank you very much,’ they chorused.

‘You’re welcome,’ Matt raised a hand to them before turning back to me. ‘I’ll call you soon,’ he promised stepping back as the engine turned over.

On the journey home I detoured via the local chemist.

‘Why are we stopping?’ asked Toby.

‘Here,’ I thrust a fiver into my son’s hand. ‘Go and ask Nisha for a pot of Sudocrem.’

‘Isn’t that for babies’ bottoms?’

‘Just do it Tobes.’

After a steaming bubble bath and a copious application of healing cream, I spent the evening pottering. Shoving a pile of ironing in the airing cupboard, quite by chance I overheard the twins in conversation. They were chatting about their trip to the stables and meeting Matt. Talk was somewhat fractured by the periodic yelling of “Die you moron!” at the computer screen.

The bedroom door was ajar. I tiptoed across the landing, like an improbable ballerina up to no good.

‘Well I liked him,’ I heard Livvy say.

My ears pricked up and began flapping in earnest.

‘He was a total prat,’ growled Toby.

Pause for much erratic button stabbing.

‘Jonas and Petra were good fun.’

‘Yeah.’

Stab, stab, stab.

‘Do you think Mum’s in love?’

Tap, tap, tap.

‘Yesss!’ my son roared. What? I wasn’t in love at all. ‘I’ve
killed
it! Next level coming up Liv. Nah, of
course
Mum’s not in love.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Because Matt was a jerk and Mum wouldn’t fall for a jerk.’

Oh wouldn’t she? Somewhere along the line I’d once married one.

I did a few seconds of noisy throat-clearing before barging in Toby’s bedroom.

‘Hi guys!’

No response.

I leant over and pressed the off button. ‘I
said
hi guys.’

‘Aw whadya do that for Mum?’ they complained in unison.

‘Time for a talk.’

They caught my tone, shot each other a look before giving me their full attention.

‘About today,’ I ventured.

Two faces peered at me silently.

‘Did you enjoy it?’

Two nods of the head.

‘Did you like Matt?’

Only one nod of the head. Livvy. I looked at Toby, an eyebrow arched enquiringly. ‘Well?’

‘He’s okay I guess. I deliberately let you down Mum and I’m really sorry.’ And with that he burst into tears.

An emotionally exhausting family session then followed. All three of us aired and discussed our respective feelings on the dramatic change of events in the last five months that had led up to the point we were now at. The
divorce
word was brought out into the open for the first time.

‘Your dad and I have desperately tried to smooth the edges on everything that a permanent split entails,’ I said gently. ‘Above all else, we love you both dearly.’

‘But not each other,’ sniffed Toby.

‘We do love each other but not in the way that married couples
should
love each other. All that matters now is that you get to see both of your parents as often as possible. Dad’s even bought a house in the same road so he can be near you.’

‘So how does Matt Harding fit into the shape of things?’ asked Toby.

‘He’s a friend,’ I replied firmly.

‘But is he your
boy
friend?’ Toby persisted.

‘I don’t think of him that way. He too has children who are in exactly the same situation as the two of you, so he understands how you feel. Matt just wants to be friends too.’

‘So you don’t think you’ll marry him one day Mum?’ Livvy asked.

‘Of course not! I like Matt a lot. But like is
like
, like isn’t
love
. And much as I like Matt, I don’t see myself ever falling in love with him. But-’

‘What?’

I hesitated. ‘Nothing really. Just that maybe it would be nice to fall in love again one day. In a hidden corner deep within every human being there is a part of us that yearns to be loved and
in
love. But for now there is nobody. And there may never be. All that matters right now is you two. Understand?’

They nodded and then we all hugged and sniffed a bit.

‘How about we raid the freezer and have some cheer up nosh?’ I gave them a watery smile.

The twins didn’t need to be asked twice and catapulted down to the kitchen. Out came the raspberry sorbet, the dregs of an old tub of Cornish Vanilla and a rather congealed tub of Strawberry Sundae. Ice-cream was greedily scooped out and scattered with colourful hundreds and thousands and topped with ripples of fudge sauce.

‘God this is disgusting,’ I groaned.

‘But utterly delicious,’ Livvy grinned.

In the midst of this ice-cream mayhem Matt telephoned.

‘Hi Cass. I just wondered if you and the kids fancied a get-together tomorrow?’

I nervously patted my posterior. ‘More horse-riding?’

‘For the kids yes, but not for you and me.’

Matt then went on to explain that his widowed mother was visiting for family lunch and we were very welcome to join in.

‘Cass, it’s a totally informal lunch where my noisy children will display disgusting table manners, talk with their mouths full, drop food everywhere and maybe lip my poor old mum. It’s most certainly not a “Meet the Mother” situation, I promise.’

‘Ha ha,’ I laughed, almost choking. Had I been that transparent?

‘Liv and Toby can mess about down the stables with my bunch while you help me cook lunch.’

‘Did you say
help
you? As in
assisting
with cooking?’

‘Yup. Good heavens Ms Cherry,’ he teased, ‘you didn’t presume there were romantic connotations behind the invitation did you?’

‘Not at all Mr Harding,’ I quipped back. Well actually yes. How disappointing. Suddenly I felt confused. Whilst I wasn’t wishing to take a flying leap into Matt’s bed, nonetheless there was something very pleasant about the playfully flirtatious undercurrents. But then again I didn’t seem to know what I wanted from this relationship. Correction.
Friendship.
It was no good giving the twins weighty assurances that Matt Harding wasn’t falling-in-love material or telling myself – much as I liked the guy – that I didn’t want to take things further when I seemed more than happy to participate in teasing banter. I sighed heavily. God this dating lark was perplexing.

‘So is that a yes?’

‘Absolutely, we’d love to come to lunch.’

‘Good. See you at nine.’

‘Nine in the morning?’ I squeaked. ‘I thought you said
lunch
?’

‘I did, but I also said you were helping me, remember?’

When I cautiously poked my head around Matt’s kitchen door the following morning it was with an element of surprise that I saw Petra and Jonas at the kitchen table hoovering up piles of buttery toast. Despite having had their own breakfast, Liv and Toby swiped a couple of wholemeal triangles from their proffered plates.

‘Good grief, doesn’t their father feed them?’ I hissed at Matt.

‘I told you before Cass, this is their second home. They’ll probably join us for lunch too. And talking of lunch, we need to make a start.’

‘Bit early isn’t it?’

‘Not for what I have in mind,’ he waggled his eyebrows and smiled suggestively.

Oo-er. Thank goodness the children were still here. But not for much longer judging from the amount of chair scraping going on as they stood to leave, heads bowed together in a giggling huddle. Moments later they’d peeled off to the stables leaving me alone with Matt. I felt a small frisson of panic. However, the only vibrating gadgets that he produced were those stowed away in kitchen cupboards. A rather phallic looking blender was deposited on the work surface along with a battery powered cheese grater.

‘Neat,’ I commented picking up the latter for inspection. ‘I haven’t seen one of these before. What are we making?’

‘Lasagne,’ replied Matt setting down a chopping board and vicious looking knife. ‘Here. You chop the basil and beef tomatoes and,’ he stretched sideways digging around in an overloaded vegetable rack, ‘these red onions too.’

I turned and stared at him aghast. ‘But we can buy lasagnes by the trolley load in Tesco.’

‘That as may be, but they wouldn’t taste like the ones we’re going to make.’

‘I thought you were a beans on toast man!’ I accused.

‘And so I am. But occasionally I enjoy cooking properly and anyway, where my mother is concerned she wouldn’t expect anything else.’ He placed some parmesan in the grater and set to work. ‘She’s Italian and would revile any convenience foods cooked in a supermarket foil tray.’

Just as well she didn’t regularly park her bottom around my kitchen table then.

An hour or so later Matt was ready to line several baking trays with thin rectangles of pasta and a mixture of meat sauce. As he deftly set about layering and stacking, I admired his culinary skills. The final layer was topped with mozzarella, ricotta and flakes of parmesan. One by one the trays disappeared inside a vast kitchen range.

‘However many people are we catering for?’

‘A small army.’

Within minutes a delicious aroma pervaded the kitchen. Matt directed me to the cellar for red wine while he scrubbed pots and pans. I left him to it and explored the ground floor of the house en route to the cellar.

Large lofty rooms led off from the hallway. There was a faded elegance about the place but it was a bit too tatty for my liking. I would definitely have drawn the line at those mud encrusted Wellington boots abandoned in the lounge.

When I eventually returned with a couple of bottles of Chianti, Matt was putting the last saucepan away.

‘Half eleven,’ he said checking his wristwatch. ‘Not bad timing. In fact,’ he looked at me speculatively, ‘we’ve got time to be naughty.’

I instantly positioned myself on the other side of the kitchen table ensuring an enormous obstacle was firmly wedged between his body and mine.

‘Shall we indulge?’

‘In what?’ I squeaked.

‘A glass of robust red or a good slug of gin?’

Relief washed over me like a tidal wave. He was merely bandying words about suggestively, that was all. It was a simple case of partaking in some mildly flirtatious chit-chat.

‘In that case I’d love to be naughty,’ I chortled provocatively. Steady Cass. Keep it light. Don’t send out the wrong signals. ‘Wine please.’

‘You are a wicked wayward woman Cassandra Cherry,’ Matt declared. He rummaged in a messy drawer for a corkscrew and then selected a couple of glasses from a cupboard.

‘Cheers!’ I toasted. ‘I didn’t realise you were half Italian. Can you actually talk the language?’

Matt regarded me for a moment, dropped his voice an octave and launched into a fluent husky Italian. I gasped wantonly with surprise. Thank God the guy didn’t talk like this all the time. There was no telling what havoc it could wreak with my hormones.

‘Buon giorno, come va?’ he murmured seductively as strong brown hands suggestively wandered over his body, slowly fingering each individual button on his open necked shirt, travelling down and down and down a bit more, lightly grazing the zipper on his faded jeans. My eyes bulged. Did he want to take his clothes off for me?