Stockings and Cellulite (5 page)

‘But I thought you loved being a stay-at-home mum,’ I gasped in astonishment.

‘Sure, but sometimes I feel like Shirley Valentine. I caught myself grumbling to the toaster not so long ago. The grey matter is definitely not what it used to be and I thought this opportunity would be a perfect compromise.’

‘Working with kids? Your grey matter will keel over completely!’

‘Nonsense,” she pooh-poohed. ‘I’ll be polishing up on multiplication tables which will enhance mental arithmetic skills, my general knowledge will increase on a daily basis and there will be proper grown up conversation in the staff room at break times. Brilliant!’

‘Won’t Dylan miss you?’ I bleated, which was actually Cassandra-speak for
I will miss you.

‘Silly! Dylan’s timetable is the same.’

For some ridiculous reason I felt insanely jealous. But before I could question why, the telephone rang.

‘Cass it’s me,’ said Stevie. ‘I think it’s time to do some frank talking.’

‘What do you want to talk about?’ I asked, knowing fully well the answer.

‘Us of course.’

‘Right. This evening okay?’

‘All right. See you about sevenish.’

After Nell had gone I spent the remainder of the day seriously thinking about the pros and cons of reconciliation.

When Stevie eventually pitched up, his usual confidence and charm were missing. Instead he looked anxious. Worried even. He hovered uncertainly in the hall.

‘Well come in,’ I said leading him into the kitchen, the only room where a crisis was always aired.

‘Thanks.’

This was weird. He was behaving like he was a stranger in the place.

‘Sit down,’ I indicated a stool.

He pulled out the stool and perched uncomfortably. I did a double take as he gave his palms a quick wipe against denim clad legs. He really
was
nervous!

‘Look Cass, I’m not going to beat about the bush. I’ve thought long and hard about this and I think honesty is the best policy.’

‘Absolutely,’ I agreed.

And then my husband spread his palms across the kitchen table in an apparent gesture of truthfulness and launched into the Mother of All Confessions. Now whilst I am sure it was wonderfully therapeutic for him to release a long overburdened conscience, funnily enough it had quite the opposite effect on me. In fact as Stevie sat, visibly swaying with giddy relief, it was as much as I could do not to take a leaf out of Victoria’s book and resort to ransacking the saucepan cupboard.

His flirtations hadn’t been confined to merely the females I’d suspected, but included proper dalliances with girls who’d never even occurred to me. Women who’d been friendly with me. Smiled like Judas to my face. ‘Alice?’ I interrupted sharply. ‘Yes, Alice in Accounts.’

And not just Alice but also Rachel, Sophie, Kylie-

‘
Kylie
? But she can’t be more than twenty years old!’

‘I can’t help it if I’m attractive to younger women.’

‘Well you could have bloody well said no!’ I thundered, standing up and knocking my chair over backwards.

‘You’re right, I should have said no. But I didn’t and I’m sorry.’ Finally Stevie took a deep breath and spilt the Cynthia beans. ‘Honestly Cass, she meant nothing. None of them meant anything.’

‘Is that meant to make me feel better?’

‘For what it’s worth, yes. Forgive me Cass. Please. Let’s start again.’

‘I’ll think about it and let you know,’ I hissed.

‘Can’t you tell me now?’ he implored.

‘No. I need to think about it quietly. On my own.’

Preferably when I’d worked through the seething fury that was engulfing me.

After Stevie had gone and the twins were in bed, I sank into the sofa and bathed in the television’s soothing cathode rays. I found my mind wandering and, after Nell’s revelations regarding her new impending job, idly considered the possibility of part-time work for myself. If this separation became permanent, serious thought would have to be given to generating my own income. There was also a secondary factor which had everything to do with Livvy’s stinging remarks regarding my inability to hold an intellectually interesting conversation. Before the twins came along I had worked as a legal secretary. Perhaps I could make a minor comeback?

I sighed and switched off the television. Hauling myself from the depths of the sofa, on a whim I decided to turn out and tidy up my chaotic wardrobe. I could start with that muddled handbag mountain. Best to check inside them too and empty out any disgusting old tissues.

I sat back on my heels and opened the clasp of the sequinned clutch bag I’d taken to
Passé
. Inside a tiny scrap of paper nestled in the folds of the lining. Ah yes. The looker’s telephone number. I stared at it and considered. Why should Stevie have the monopoly on affairs. Hang on a minute Cass. Who said anything about having an affair? You’re just talking about making a telephone call. Having a conversation. Nothing more.

I dialled the number.

It took several attempts to ring the looker’s number without hanging up half way through. Finally, when I did manage to nervously punch out all the numbers, I spent an hour talking to a total stranger!

The looker’s name was Jed, he was two years younger than myself, divorced and had a little boy. The conversation concluded with arrangements to go out. As I hung up the phone I exhaled shakily. Oh my God, I had a date!

When Livvy and Toby returned from tea with Stevie in
that
house, I immediately set about using my subtle powers of persuasion to extract information. Nosy-parkering in other words.

‘Mum!’ Livvy eventually howled. ‘Please stop quizzing us.’

‘I’m only asking if you had a nice time,’ I shot my daughter a wounded look, whipped up a bit of lip tremble for added effect.

‘Yes, we did.’

‘Was the pizza nice?’

‘It was okay.’

‘And, er, was Cynthia nice?’

‘She was okay.’

Cow.

‘And was Daddy nice to Cynthia?’

‘He was okay.’

‘Right. So-’

‘So everybody was nice and everything was okay. Okay?’ Livvy growled before thumping off to her room, Toby hot on her heels so desperate was he to avoid a grilling.

Well honestly! And I hadn’t even got close to asking the really pertinent questions – like whether Stevie was sharing Cynthia’s bed or sleeping on the sofa.

‘I’m just popping over to Nell’s,’ I called up the stairs. ‘She’s started her new job and I want to know-’

Two bedroom doors banged simultaneously. Oh well.

‘So how’s it going?’ I asked my neighbour as I tucked my legs under her kitchen table and took a sip of coffee. ‘On second thoughts let me guess. The teachers are overworked, there’s a complete lack of class control and your days are spent watching thirty snotty nosed children beat each other up.’

Nell laughed. ‘It’s going brilliantly actually.’

She then launched into a summary of amusing anecdotes the little darlings had uttered, the titillating conversation of the hallowed staff room and pointed to an invitation propped against the toaster for a ‘Brainstorming Evening’.

‘ To raise funds for the school – promises to be a good laugh.’

‘I’m so pleased for you,’ I said, feeling anything but.

What was the matter with me? Was I jealous of Nell’s job?

Back home, the sour mood persisted. Irritably I concluded the wardrobe tidy-and-chuck-out session.

The following morning I hauled two bulging black sacks down to the car. I dropped the twins at school and detoured via the charity shop to dump the discarded clothing. My wardrobe was now so tidy it was virtually empty. Sighing, I pointed the car in the direction of Fairview.

The next few hours were a blur of frantic purchasing as, like a woman possessed, I trotted the perimeters of both the lower and upper mall not once, not twice, but three times. Eventually, defeated by the awkwardness of carrying so many bulging bags, it was time to call it a day. I’d nip home, unload the goodies and with a bit of luck have time for a quick coffee before collecting the twins from school.

I tottered across the car park, arms like stretched spaghetti, to Aisle J. That was strange. Where was my car? I could have sworn it had been parked here. Perhaps it was in the next aisle? No. The one next to that? No. Oh for heaven’s sake Cass. Right. Start at the beginning.

With a sense of rising panic I searched up and down each of the car park’s individual aisles wearily trailing umpteen shopping bags. At this rate I would be late picking up the twins. In desperation I telephoned the school from my mobile and put the secretary in the picture.

‘I’m sure the car can’t be far away,’ I tinkled apologetically.

The secretary didn’t tinkle back and instead droned on about no late class provisions for pupils and that alternative arrangements should be made for Olivia and Tobias.

‘I’ll ask my neighbour to collect the children, she’s Dylan Lambert’s mother.’

‘Dylan has already left for the day with his grandmother for a dental appointment. Mrs Lambert was unable to collect her son herself because she’s assisting with computer club at the school she works for.’

‘I see.’

My thoughts darted about, desperate to find a solution. Stevie worked in London and was miles away. Maybe the twins could start walking? But what if they took that lonely shortcut across the park and through the woods?

The secretary cleared her throat indicating she was about to broach a sensitive subject.

‘Mrs Cherry, there is one possibility. I could contact Ned Castle’s mother on your behalf – Mrs Cynthia Castle?’

‘Yes, yes. I know who Mrs Castle is,’ I whispered into the handset, shoulders drooping. Tears momentarily threatened. ‘Right-oh,’ I warbled. ‘That’s an excellent idea. Please would you be so kind as to call Mrs Castle and, er, convey my grateful thanks.’

I hung up, beset with rage. She was the last person on this planet whose help I wanted. Fuckity fuckity fuck. And where the hell was the bloody car? Clearly some robbing bastard had nicked it. I hoped it ran out of petrol and the bugger got stranded. Preferably on a busy roundabout. Seething, I rang the local nick.

‘Police and make it snappy,’ I rudely instructed the operator. ‘My car has been stolen.’

I was curtly informed a squad car was within the vicinity and would arrive shortly. Indeed, just minutes later, a police car purred to a standstill.

I launched into a ranting diatribe before the policeman was out of the driver’s seat.

‘We should take a leaf from the books of other cultures,’ I stormed, well and truly in my stride. ‘If a man steals, chop his hand off. That goes for everything – whatever they do, chop it off. Hands, arms, legs, the lot.’

As the policeman turned to face me properly, the breath whooshed out of me.

‘Oh!’ I gasped with horror. Brad Pitt. This was all I needed. What a sodding day this was turning into. ‘Er, hello. Again. My car seems to have been stolen.’

‘So I gather Madam,’ Ploddy replied gravely. He produced a slim notebook. ‘Let’s start off with some details. Your name?’

‘Mrs Cassandra Cherry,’ I mumbled. Of all the policemen in the force, why did I keep running into this one?

‘Make and model of the car?’

‘Nissan Almera.’

‘Colour?’

‘Blade Metallic.’

Ploddy’s pencil momentarily hovered before writing the word silver.

‘Registration number?’

Damn. I’d hoped this piece of information wouldn’t be necessary.

‘Mrs Cherry?’

‘The registration number. Y-e-s. The registration number is, let’s see, the reg-ist-ra-tion number is…it’s ah…it’s ah…it’s ah-’

‘Madam, you do
know
your car’s registration number?’

Two pink spots scorched my cheeks. ‘Of course I know my registration number,’ I snapped. ‘It’s LV – no! It’s LX, yes definitely LX and…um…then a couple of numbers…followed by something something something.’

‘Is that it then? Just an L and X?’

‘One moment Officer,’ I clenched my teeth. ‘I will telephone my husband for the exact information.’

But Stevie was out of the office and nobody knew when he’d be returning. Upon trying his mobile, it was switched off.

‘Has the husband been stolen too?’ Ploddy quipped.

Bastard! My eyes instantly flooded with unshed tears. I blinked desperately, willing the waterworks to subside.

‘As a matter of fact,’ my voice wobbled dangerously, ‘my husband has indeed been stolen.’

Ah. That had his attention.

‘Stolen by another woman,’ I enlightened him. ‘And do you know what Officer, hm? Well I’ll tell you! I wouldn’t have minded so much if it had been some eighteen year old little strumpet with a pert behind, big baby blues and even bigger mammaries,’ I paused, struggling not to hyperventilate, ‘but she wasn’t remotely like that. My husband was stolen by a middle aged Plain Jane with stretchmarks that could challenge National Railways and a backside the size of an armchair. So do you appreciate that you’ve touched a bit of a raw nerve and do not come anywhere close to comprehending exactly what my FEELINGS ARE ON THIS MATTER?’ I bellowed into his face.

Oh God. I’d probably get arrested now for being abusive or disturbing the peace or something. I put my head in my hands and viciously rubbed the heels of my palms over my eyes, thoroughly upset by the series of unfortunate events that seemed to be invading my life at the moment.

An expression flickered across Ploddy’s face. Sympathy? Compassion? He snapped his notebook shut.

‘I trust you have documentation for your vehicle at home Mrs Cherry, so perhaps it would be better to access that data and let us know accordingly. Meanwhile I would be more than happy to run you home. I seem to remember you don’t live far away,’ he added pointedly.

And so for a second time I found myself sitting in a squad car. Ploddy shifted the vehicle into gear and headed towards the exit which took us through a second car park. It was awfully similar to the car park we’d just left. In fact, it looked identical. A horrible churning began to play in my stomach.

‘W-would you mind terribly if we could divert to Aisle J only I need to, well, just check something out.’