Stockings and Cellulite (43 page)

Edna was easy to buy for – Marks & Sparks gift vouchers plus a food hamper, just to prove one didn’t need to be welded to the cooker to enjoy excellent cuisine.

Morag and I dumped our shopping over her client sofas and flopped down, exhausted.

‘Sod work for five minutes Cass,’ said Morag sprawling her legs out. ‘Go and stick the kettle on and we’ll have a nice cup of coffee.’

‘Martin Henniker would never have let me get away with this.’

I trundled happily off to the kitchen and even managed to find a couple of choccy biscuits going begging.

‘So,’ I said five minutes later, setting the tray down. ‘What are you getting Matt for Christmas?’

‘Good question,’ Morag rolled her eyes. ‘He jokingly said he’d like a Ferrari.’

‘Wouldn’t all men,’ I replied. ‘Why do they have this fascination for speed?’

‘It’s the Sex Factor. They know that if they’re driving a Ferrari they can get away with having a face like a constipated chicken and still be a babe magnet. A car like that is the pinnacle of male motoring.’

‘I know!’ I squeaked excitedly. ‘Let’s buy Matt and Jamie a Ferrari
experience
! You know, one of those jobbies where they go out for the day and roar around a race track.’

‘Clever girl Cass, you’ve cracked it! Now, forget that pile of tapes sitting over there. I’ll tell Susannah that you’re stacked out and need some extra help. You meanwhile are going to get on the blower to Silverstone and sort out the little matter of two Ferraris.’

When Jamie came home from work I was so excited about the Ferrari business I almost gave the game away.

‘How was your day?’ I asked, anxious to be distracted from the lure of the racetrack.

‘Not bad. Quite by chance I happened to run into Stevie,’ Jamie said bending slightly to peck my cheek. ‘And I’ve invited him to Christmas dinner.’

‘You did
what
?’

‘Well Livvy and Toby are his children Cassie.’

Jamie chucked his coat over the banister. Gromit immediately strolled over and disappeared amongst the folds of the material.

‘Yes but the twins are seeing their father on Boxing Day.’ I followed Jamie into the kitchen. ‘It was all arranged.’

‘Well they can still go to Stevie’s on Boxing Day, but he’s coming here on Christmas Day nonetheless. Oh, and he’s bringing Charlotte.’

‘Oh jolly good,’ I folded my arms across my chest while Jamie washed his hands at the kitchen sink. Wasn’t Stevie going to be just
thrilled
when he watched Jamie opening his Ferrari experience. I’d never done anything like that for him in all our years together. But then again, I miserably concluded, he’d never done anything special for me either.

‘Well can you and I at least exchange our Christmas presents in private, without an audience?’

‘Of course darling,’ Jamie agreed, ‘first thing in the morning when I bring my beautiful fiancée breakfast in bed.’

‘Oh well, put like that how can a girl resist,’ I grinned. To hell with Stevie and Charlotte.

When I walked into the office the following morning Morag was slumped over her desk. I rolled my eyes.

‘Heavy night again?’

‘The wedding’s off,’ she mumbled into the ink blotter.

‘
What
?’ I rushed over and put my arms around her shaking shoulders. ‘Has Matt done something wrong?’

Morag nodded, fat tears rolling down her cheeks.

‘Really awesomely terrible?’

More head nodding.

‘The bastard!’ I closed my eyes, grimly assuming the worst. ‘I know exactly what you’re going through. It’s like millions of tiny knives piercing your heart and then some masochist twisting them for good measure.’

Morag’s face crumpled with emotion. How
dare
Matt do this to her!

‘Do you want me to go round and chop his balls off?’

Men who got it out and put it about needed castrating.

‘N-no,
huh-huh
, it’s worse,
huh-huh
, than that,’ she gasped.

‘Sweet Jesus. You mean-’

We exchanged a meaningful look and she nodded.

‘He’s bonking another man?’ I croaked. Oh Lord. I needed to sit down.

Morag instantly recovered. ‘Of course he’s not bonking another man you moron,’ she yelled. ‘The lazy bugger’s not pulling his weight!’

‘Not pull-?’

‘No he’s not! I can’t possibly marry a man who takes me for granted.’

Surely this was rather over the top in the reaction stakes? But one thing was very clear. Morag was about to offload and under no circumstances should she be stopped.

‘Do you know Cass,’ she spat, ‘last night I was working on some papers and Matt popped his head around the door with some bloody men’s magazine tucked under his armpit. Then he blew me a kiss – like this.’ She puckered up and planted a smacker on the palm of her hand which she sensuously blew across the room, albeit with a very wild look about the eyes.

‘Ah well, that seems nice and romantic-’

‘AND THEN,’ she cut across me, ‘Matt told me he was going to relax in bed where he would wait for me.’

I nodded in acknowledgement. Best just to stick to head movement.

‘So I said I’d be along in two minutes. But before going up I went into the kitchen to check the back door was locked and – da da!’ she made a noise like a fanfare of trumpets. ‘Washing up in the sink, a dishwasher that needed emptying and the kids’ dirty jodhpurs just chucked on the floor.
His
kids’ dirty jodphurs,’ she waggled a finger at me. ‘And I thought to myself, hang on a minute Morag – he’s upstairs relaxing while you’re down here with chores outstanding. You get my drift Cass?’

‘Why didn’t you just go and ask him to give you a hand?’

Morag put her head on one side as if to consider. ‘Hm. Possibly I’m a bit hormonal because certainly that thought didn’t occur to me.’

‘So what happened next?’

‘Next I was overcome with incandescent rage. I made a stupendous racket crashing about hoping he might realise that something had upset BOUNCY BUNNY,’ she shrieked.

‘Bouncy Bunny?’

‘That’s me – on account of these,’ she prodded her heaving bosoms. ‘So I cleared everything up and stomped up the stairs,’ Morag thumped her high heeled boots up and down on the office floor to illustrate her point, bouncy bunnies nearly blacking her eyes. ‘Then I banged around in the bathroom before finally slamming into the bedroom where Matt was happily engrossed in Miss December.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘And do you know what Matt had the audacity to say?’

I shook my head.

‘He told me to chill. BLOODY CHILL,’ she screeched putting both hands to her temples and massaging viciously. ‘So I’ve told him the wedding’s off.’

‘Oh come on, surely you don’t mean that?’

‘Yes I do. Well, no. Not really. I feel all mixed up at the moment,’ her lip wobbled again.

‘I think you’re suffering a touch of pre-wedding nerves. Give Matt a ring. Tell him you over-reacted and still want to get married.’

‘I did
not
overreact,’ she said stubbornly.

‘Then just explain that you need a bit of help now and again and that you had a touch of PMT. Everything will be fine. You’ll see. I’ll go and make a nice cup of coffee while you ring him.’

She nodded meekly and picked up the receiver.

God. All I needed was a cancelled wedding putting the cat amongst the New Year pigeons. Clearly Morag was stressed. Perhaps I should invite her to Christmas Dinner with Matt. Yes, good idea. We owed them heaps of return invitations and Matt had come to the rescue so many times having the children at the stables in the school holidays. I’d tell him to bring his children too. I gulped and wondered exactly how many children there were when the register was taken. I couldn’t expect Edna to cook for all those extra mouths. I’d have to raid Marks & Spencers.

That evening, as soon as the children were in bed, I cornered Jamie en-route to the television.

‘Darling, I want you.’

‘Splendid. In here all right? Only the footie’s on in,’ he glanced at his watch, ‘six minutes, so it will have to be a quickie.’

Jamie’s finger hovered over the remote control, eyes flickering anxiously between the television screen and my chest. It occurred to me he’d probably be quite happy to watch the footie whilst actually on the job. Annoyed I struck a pose, hands on hips.

‘In case it had escaped your attention, in exactly four days it will be Christmas.’

‘No, no, fully aware,’ Jamie cast another anxious look at his watch.

‘And we haven’t written out one single Christmas card.’

‘Haven’t you?’ he seemed genuinely shocked.

‘I said
we
Jamie – as in
we
haven’t written out any cards.’

‘Cassie no!’ protested Jamie as I strode across the floor. ‘DO NOT SWITCH THE TELEVISION OFF!’

‘Only if you agree to help me.’

‘Okay, okay. I’ll write cards out with you, but leave the telly on. I can multi-task.’

I split open the first packet and shared them out.

‘I’ve invited Matt and Morag for Christmas Dinner too.’

‘Oh for goodness sake Ref!’ Jamie slapped a Christmas card against his thigh in annoyance. ‘Don’t you recognise a foul when you see one?’

‘Four of Matt’s children are coming too.’ I added.

‘Oh right,’ said Jamie looking up in surprise. ‘Which ones?’

‘Haven’t a clue,’ I shrugged licking down an envelope.

‘For heaven’s sake, would you look at that stupid referee – stop arsing about Ref and send the tosser off!’

‘Oh my goodness!’ I clamped a hand to my mouth.

‘It’s okay Cassie, he’s given him a red card.’

‘I can’t possibly ask Morag without asking Nell. She’d be so hurt if she found out. Which means asking Ben and Dylan too.’

But Jamie had leapt off the sofa, fists clenched, bellowing with joy as his team delivered a goal.

‘YES! YES!’

‘Do you think she’ll bring Rocket?’

Jamie sat down, high on his team scoring.

‘Of course. Rocket is Nell’s daughter, even if she does happen to have four legs and halitosis.’

On the drive to the office the following morning I illegally clamped my mobile to one ear whilst weaving through heavy rush hour traffic.

‘Hair by Design,’ a harassed voice spoke over the background noise of hairdryers and in-house music.

‘Hi, can I book an appointment with your top stylist please?’ I yelled into the handset as a car angrily beeped me. Now what was that for? The driver stuck a middle finger up. Not to be outdone, I took my free hand off the steering wheel and stuck up all my fingers. Waggled them about for good measure.

‘Sorry, he’s fully booked,’ was the reply.

‘Okay, is the bottom stylist available?’

There was an indignant pause. ‘All our stylists are highly qualified hair technicians.’

‘Okay, well I’ll have one of them please.’

‘There are no available appointments until the New Year.’

‘I see. Well what about the shampoo girl? I’m desperate,’ my voice cracked.

A brief pause. ‘How desperate?’

‘Desperate enough to pay double,’ I offered sensing weakness.

‘W-e-ll. I could fit you in tonight, after hours. What sculpting had you in mind?’

Sculpting? I just wanted a hair-do.

‘Nothing drastic. Just a re-style and a bucket of highlights.’

‘That’s the best part of three hours work,’ squawked the voice.

‘Oh please help me,’ I begged pathetically. ‘I have to fly to the Bahamas for a wedding on New Year’s Eve.’

‘Oh, a member of the jet set are you?’

‘Well I don’t like to brag,’ I answered coyly. ‘If you give me your business cards I’ll happily pass them around for you.’

‘Who will be there?’

‘Top secret at this stage, but it will be in January’s issue of
Hello!
They’ll be holding the front page.’

‘Get yourself over to me for seven this evening. And that will be four hundred quid. Cash.’ The phone went down.

That evening I left the salon with a halo of blonde highlights and a sheet of hair waterfalling over my shoulders. In my handbag were a stack of business cards proclaiming
Nikki, Style Director
for distribution amongst the rich and famous.

I flushed with shame as I recalled my biggest porky – that I knew the cousin of the sister of the best friend of the wardrobe dresser for Madonna and guaranteed the Queen of Pop would descend at some point in the future imperiously demanding hair sculpting.

Meanwhile the larder was swelling with home cooking that Edna was producing on a daily basis. Maybe I could avoid Marks & Sparks after all?

‘There’s enough fodder to feed an army in here,’ Jamie sniffed appreciatively.

‘Heaven only knows where we’re going to seat everybody,’ I pulled some hidden Christmas stocking presents out of a cupboard along with rolls of shiny wrapping paper.

‘We’ll shove the kitchen and dining room tables together and tell everybody to squeeze up.’

‘Not sure if that will be possible with Morag’s assets,’ I arched an eyebrow while breaking cellotape with my teeth. ‘Come out of that larder Mr Mackerel and give me a hand with these presents.’

Just after midnight we surveyed with satisfaction a sea of colourful packages.

‘Nightcap?’ asked Jamie.

‘Please,’ I stretched my arms up above my head, unkinking muscles. Neatly written name tags were taped on my pile of stocking presents. I glanced at Jamie’s contribution and froze.

‘Um, darling? Which present belongs to whom?’

Jamie looked in bewilderment at his pile. ‘Gosh I don’t know Cassie. I just did as I was told and wrapped the blasted things.’

‘Yes but you were meant to label them. As in:
To Jonas Love from Father Christmas
.’

‘Well never mind. The children will just have to open them on Christmas morning and do swapsies.’

‘Uh-uh,’ I shook my head. ‘I’m not having Third World War breaking out because Livvy has unwrapped Toby’s Play Station game or Jonas has opened Petra’s lip gloss and nail polishes.’

‘Jonas is displaying all the signs of full blown rebellion. I’m not entirely sure he’d be displeased with lip gloss and nail polish.’

‘Get unwrapping.’