Stockings and Cellulite (26 page)

I returned the pink dress to the wary changing room assistant and instead ventured off in search of a sports shop. Ten minutes later my carrier bags contained a sensible pair of running shorts, a couple of cotton T-shirts, sturdy trainers and a baseball cap. Might as well look like a total Chav at the same time.

Once home, I immediately changed into the new sports gear. Virginal white trainers firmly laced and double knotted, I opened the patio doors and stepped out into the damp garden. It had finally stopped raining.

I bounced about on the spot for a bit before breaking into a gentle jog.

‘What
are
you doing?’ Nell’s pale face peered over the fence, laundry basket perched askance.

‘Getting fit,’ I puffed as I pounded my way to the bottom of the garden. All thirty feet of it. ‘You look rough.’

‘And you look a right proper Charlie.’

‘Second lap coming up.’

Actually this felt rather good. Muscles were doing their stuff and the old heart was steadily banging away under the ribcage. I trotted past the apple tree and on towards the rose bush – a distance of about five feet. As my trainers thumpity-thumped past Nell again, she rolled her eyes.

‘You’re wearing the grass out Cass,’ she chided. ‘Look!’

Sure enough, a visible path of flattened green blades could be seen.

‘Why don’t you jog on the pavements or around the park like other sensible adults?’

‘Oh I give up,’ I declared irritably, coming to a standstill. ‘Fancy a natter?’

‘Let me peg out this washing and I’ll be right over.’

Over a cup of extra strong coffee, it transpired Nell was not a happy lady. Desperate to regain her normal bounce after the accidental pregnancy, she confessed her emotions were akin to a rollercoaster.

‘I’m all over the place Cass. One minute I’m fine, the next I’m incandescent with rage and wanting to punish Ben,’ she inhaled deeply and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I know he was talking sense at the time and – for a while – I went with his logic. But then I got all emotional although Ben didn’t. Why didn’t he get emotional Cass?’

‘Men are different,’ I shrugged. ‘Nature programmes them differently.’

‘You can say that again,’ she flared. ‘Now it’s all over I’m finally starting to come to terms with it all. Meanwhile he’s the one sobbing into his pillow every night.’

‘Perhaps his tears are a delayed reaction.’

‘Huh. I’ve had to listen to him regurgitating matters, asking stupid questions like what colour eyes and hair the child would have had. It makes me want to slap him really hard. Of
course
I’ve quietly voiced the same questions. Before everything went wrong I constantly day-dreamed about whether it was a boy or a girl. Who it would look like. Take after. But it’s irrelevant now.’

‘Things will return to normal eventually. It doesn’t help that your hormones are still all over the place. Maybe you should both have some counselling together.’

‘I don’t go for all that self analytical nonsense,’ Nell frowned. ‘I just wish the whole sorry saga had never happened and things could be the way they were.’

‘They will be. Eventually.’

Nell contemplated her fingernails for a moment. ‘The thing is Cass, this whole blasted pregnancy thing has actually left me feeling incredibly broody.’

‘That’s not surprising really. It’s just hormonal. A phase that will pass.’

She grimaced. ‘Before all this happened, a baby was the last thing on my mind. And now I can’t stop obsessing about it.’

‘You could always get a dog,’ I joked.

‘Hey, that’s not a bad idea,’ her eyes suddenly sparkled with a light that hadn’t shone in weeks. ‘A little puppy. All cute and wiggly with a fat tum-tum.’

‘Nell I was just larking about.’

‘Many a true word said in jest. Yes, I’ll have a little puppy instead.’

I looked at my neighbour’s set jaw. ‘Oh terrific. Just don’t tell Ben it was my idea okay?’

As the start of the working week once again got under way, Morag, Julia and I met up at lunchtime and congregated on our favourite park bench. I told them about the recent changing room debacle and my resolution to tone up.

‘Don’t talk to me about exercise or diets,’ groaned Morag sinking her teeth into an acre of wholemeal stuffed with greasy bacon. ‘In the last four weeks I’ve lost three pounds only to put it all back on again. I nearly bought a book that boasts thinness can be achieved through self-hypnosis.’

‘What stopped you?’ Julia asked.

‘Because when I flicked through the pages the message was simply
think
yourself smaller. Well I don’t need to buy a book to tell myself that!’ Morag snorted derisively. She rooted inside a paper bag emblazoned with a local baker’s name and produced a vast flapjack.

‘Mm. Dee-
lic-
ious. And positively oozing with calories.’

Julia and I glanced at each other.

‘So when are you starting this Think Yourself Smaller diet?’

‘Oh I already have,’ Morag replied airily. ‘Which reminds me.’ She paused and glared menacingly at the flapjack before launching into a sing-song mantra. ‘I-am-thin. I-am-skinny. I-am-sooo-thin-thin-thin. Skinny-skinny-skin-neee.’ She stopped and smiled. ‘There, all done.’ With that she began to greedily shove the flapjack into her mouth.

I stared at her in disbelief. ‘Is that it?’

Morag gave me a sideways look. ‘Not quite.’ Her hand burrowed into her vast organiser handbag and reappeared clutching a pot of Omega 3 tablets.

‘These little babas are excellent for cleaning one’s clogged up arteries.’ She rattled them in my face. ‘So it’s a case of chant your mantra, eat your sin, swallow a pill and get wonderfully thin.’

‘Was that rhyme in the book?’ asked Julia.

‘Nope. I made it up.’ Morag rammed the last of the flapjack into her mouth. ‘Mm yummy. I can almost feel the weight dropping off.’

‘I’ve got to go,’ I stood up brushing crumbs off my lap.

‘But it’s only half past. No need to rush off surely?’ Morag asked.

‘It’s the twins’ birthday tomorrow. I’ve bought their cards but I must nip into Game and Next. Splash out on a wad of gift vouchers for them. They’re at that age where I haven’t a clue what to buy.’

‘How old will they be?’ asked Julia.

‘Ten.’

It was only natural that Stevie should join in on the birthday celebration too. The following afternoon he left work early and arrived not long after I’d returned from the school run. It was very much a family affair with the annual iced cake and ritual lighting of candles. The children made wishes as they blew out their candles, filling the air spiralling smoke. Stevie and I immediately launched into an off-key rendition of
Happy Birthday
while Liv and Toby looked both proud and faintly embarrassed. The digital camera immortalised their smiles, this year for two separate photograph albums.

‘Now hold it right there,’ grinned Stevie, ‘and I’ll go and get your presents.’

He disappeared out to the car, reappearing moments later with enormous boxes.

‘Goodness, whatever is all this?’ I asked.

Toby caught sight of a brand name on the side of one carton.

‘It’s a media centre!’ he screeched excitedly.

Livvy gasped. ‘
Two
media centres!’

‘Well,’ Stevie shrugged modestly, ‘it’s not your birthday every day is it?’

He swiftly set about installing everything.

‘Where’s the hard drive?’ I peered all around the monitor, getting in the way.

‘There.’ Stevie tapped the back of the flat screen.

The doorbell rang.

‘Won’t be a mo’,’ I said jogging across the landing and bouncing down the stairs like a kangaroo – exercise was still very much to the fore of my mind. I opened the door to a willowy blonde.

‘Hi!’ she squeaked in a little girl voice. ‘I’m Charlotte. Can I have a word with Stevie please?’

I gaped at the vision on my doorstep – a sort of early Britney Spears with breasts almost big enough to rival Morag’s décolletage.

‘Um, yes, just a minute,’ I stammered before bounding back upstairs. Stevie was now in Livvy’s room.

‘Er, Charlotte’s here.’

Stevie reversed out from under Livvy’s desk. ‘I’ll pop back tomorrow,’ he promised, ‘and help pack up the old equipment. If you like I’ll flog it on e-Bay for you.’

‘Okay. Great,’ I stared blankly after him as the front door banged shut.

I felt strangely out of sorts. For a couple of hours there we’d slipped back to being a united family doing things together with our children. But within seconds the past had crashed away hurling me back to the present so that once again I was just another single parent.

The feeling didn’t abate until lunchtime the following day when I once again sat with the girls on our park bench.

‘You’re in shock,’ advised Morag.

‘But that’s ridiculous,’ I spluttered. ‘I don’t even want to stay married to Stevie. Why do I feel so rattled?’

‘Because,’ Julia proffered, ‘in your heart of hearts you are wondering if the divorce is now a wise thing.’

‘Rubbish,’ snorted Morag. ‘Of course Cass is doing the right thing. Stevie is a serial womaniser. Can’t keep his todger under wraps for more than five minutes without brandishing it about at parties, office do’s, high days and holidays.’

‘Steady,’ I gulped. ‘That’s my husband you’re talking about.’

‘
Ex
husband. This is nothing more than shock. You’re jolted. You’ve been delivered a nasty kick in the teeth. By your own admission you have stated a girl stood on your doorstep, a mere stripling of a teenager no less, moreover looking like a certain pop star-’

‘Oh Morag drop the court room drama speak,’ I interrupted irritably. She’d be saying wherein, heretofore and aforementioned next.

‘I’m just stating the obvious Cass. This girl is eighteen. You are nearly forty. It was a blow to meet your husband’s girlfriend and realise he’s pressing such youthful flesh. And that you aren’t.’

That last remark hung heavily in the air. Let’s face it, I wasn’t even pressing old flesh. I set about savaging a lettuce leaf from my Tupperware crammed with rabbit food.

‘How’s Matt and Giles?’ I growled, keen to change the subject.

‘Miles,’ corrected Julia instantly looking gooey.

I glanced at Morag who also appeared to have gone dewy eyed, sausage sandwich suspended halfway to her mouth.

‘Matt is quite simply divine,’ she purred.

Jolly good. So it was just me not having any fun then.

Stevie returned early evening to complete the installation of Livvy’s media centre.

‘How long will you be?’ I asked.

‘About an hour or so.’

‘Would you mind terribly if I popped out for a bit? I won’t be long.’

‘Not at all, go ahead.’

I scampered off to my bedroom and quickly changed into the new running gear. Cracking the door open, I peeked furtively up and down the landing. The coast was clear. I ran down the stairs and out the front door.

Sprinting along, I felt faintly smug. I might not be eighteen or have a taut body, but by golly I could still run. Okay I was running downhill, but so what? Look at me go! I was like a greyhound!

I streaked on, round the corner, down to the village Post Office where the ground levelled out, around another corner and belted on towards the Common. This bit wasn’t quite as effortless as the Common tended to go up hill and down dale. Struggling now to maintain the impetus, I laboured past a bench where a gaggle of jeering teenagers mocked me. I shambled breathlessly out of their line of vision and collapsed behind an ancient oak. Stupidly I’d left home without a bottle of water.

I bent forward, hands to knees. Panting hard, I contemplated a smooth brown pebble lying next to one trainer. Why was I rushing? Life was too short to charge about. Walking was just as good as jogging.

I set off again, this time adopting a strolling rhythm. Bowling along, I decided to enjoy the leafy scenery around me. Under a clump of tall rustling elms frolicked a family of squirrels, tails rising and falling in squiggly arches as they made sudden darting movements. Branches hung low, worshipping the sun’s rays, freckling green leaves with lemon light. The grass was strewn with tiny daisies, their saffron centres fringed by petals edged in pink stain, as if a child had lightly daubed them with a felt pen. I was instantly transported back to my school days, sitting on the playing field making fairy crowns with daisy chains.

When I eventually got home, I found Stevie in Toby’s room enthralled with the new machinery. As the TV burst into life on the flat screen Livvy posted a CD into an invisible slot, instantly cancelling the newsreader’s monotony with an explosion of rap.

‘These machines are something else Cass,’ Stevie shouted over the din.

I nodded my head in agreement and kicked off my ripe trainers. Leaving everybody to it, I padded back downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of cold cranberry juice. Tipping my head back I glugged straight from the carton just as the doorbell rang. And there on my doorstep, for the second consecutive evening, stood the beautiful Charlotte.

She was dressed in a tiny cropped T-shirt and bleached jeans embroidered with a rainbow of thread. The denims were artfully ripped, frayed and distressed to within an inch of fashionable life. The non-existent waistband was slung so low it was almost indecent. I was hideously aware of my own dishevelled appearance and damp T-shirt which – I discreetly sniffed the air – even now was emitting the whiff of sweaty armpits. I squirmed with embarrassment as Charlotte daintily wrinkled her nose.

‘Is Stevie still here?’ she squeaked.

‘Um, yes. I don’t suppose he’ll be much longer,’ I mumbled wondering why this young girl felt the need to collect Stevie for the second night running.

‘Shall I wait?’ she asked pointedly.

‘I’ll call him for you,’ I quickly replied. ‘STEVIE!’

My estranged husband instantly appeared on the landing.

‘Been drinking blackcurrent Cass?’ he grinned coming down the stairs.

‘Cranberry actually. Why?’

‘You’re sporting a colourful moustache. And you’ve spilt some down that awful T-shirt.’

At work Martin Henniker seemed to have become a permanent thorn in my side, Susannah Harrington having had no success in finding a permanent secretary.