Stockings and Cellulite (7 page)

Mr Morton motioned me through an internal door to another room which was, by comparison, about the size of a cupboard. I tried to work out the mathematical formula for squeezing my frame into the space between typist’s stool and keyboard area and momentarily felt like Alice in Wonderland before she drank her shrinking potion.

Mr Morton rattled off a logging on procedure and password before giving a guided tour of the secretarial desk and its burgeoning In Tray. My duties were pretty simple really – field calls, organise the diary and type at one hundred miles per hour.

‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ he said before reversing out of the cupboard.

I slotted a cassette into the dictation machine and started typing. The desk was pushed up against an outside wall set with a small barred window. I beavered away, my back to Mr Morton’s office, face pointing toward the meagre light attempting to filter through the iron bars. Thank goodness this was only a temporary booking, the whole environment was too depressing for words.

The lunch hour was pretty much non-existent. I managed to find the Ladies and a concealed tea and coffee machine along a dark corridor, but upon returning to my desk with a limp sandwich, Mr Morton instantly materialised by my side requesting an urgent document for a two o’clock Probate appointment.

Time slipped by at a frightening rate. I was sure the hands of the clock didn’t gallop as quickly when pottering about at home. Suddenly it was time to dash off on the school run. I hurriedly logged off and delivered the remainder of typing to Mr Morton’s desk.

‘Well Good-bye,’ I trilled. ‘See you tomorrow morning.’

‘Where the devil do you think you’re going?’ Mr Morton barked.

‘Er, did the Agency not explain about my children?’

‘Haven’t you got a childminder?’ Mr Morton asked incredulously.

There then followed a lot of huffing and puffing before he finally dismissed me, muttering about beggars not being choosers.

Ruffled, I turned on my heel and stalked out. I thanked my lucky stars for opting to temp before jumping straight back into the unchartered waters of permanent employ.

That evening just as I’d flopped down in front of the television, the telephone rang. It was Stevie.

‘Cass, enough is enough. I really do think it’s time to stop dangling me on a piece of string. Can I please have a straight answer from you? Preferably now and not after Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?’

I hastily killed the television’s volume. ‘Yes Stevie. Of course. No more prevaricating.’

‘Well?’

‘I care about you Stevie. Really I do.’ I heard his sigh of relief. ‘But-’

‘Oh Cass, no buts please. Let’s just get back together and get on with our lives.’

‘Stevie I do indeed want us to get on with our lives. But not together.’

‘What the hell do you mean
not together
? How else but not together?’

‘I mean living apart. Separate lives.’

‘Listen to me Cass, you’ve had a devastating experience and you’re still reeling. You’re hurt-’

‘Hurt?’ I gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Do you have any idea of the depth of my hurt?’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’

Stevie gave a sigh of exasperation and I could almost visualise him making a gesture with his hands, pushing my answer away – an answer he didn’t want to accept.

‘Stevie, hurt doesn’t just go away. You can’t stick a plaster on it.’

‘Of course not. But in time the pain would recede. Eventually it would go away.’

‘I don’t think so. I think it would always be there, festering.’

‘Nonsense,’ he scoffed. ‘Time is a great healer. Everybody says that. It’s a phrase that’s as old as the hills.’

‘Look, I’m sorry, but after that incredible confession cataloguing precisely how many affairs you embarked upon, I simply can’t trust you any more.’

‘They weren’t affairs!’

‘Oh?’

‘They were mere
distractions
and meant absolutely nothing.’

‘Well unfortunately they meant something to me,’ I countered. ‘And your
distraction
with Cynthia Castle sent me to hell and back again. Maybe I could forgive you in time – but I’m absolutely positive that I would never forget. It would always be there Stevie, rearing its ugly head, causing arguments and endless regurgitated hurt.’

‘Cass please, I’m begging you now,’ Stevie’s voice cracked slightly. ‘I know what I did was wrong. I’ve behaved abominably over the years.’

‘Damn right. And made out that I was some sort of irrational, overly-possessive basket case.’ My voice rose and my heart started to palpitate unpleasantly. ‘When I think back on all the times you didn’t come home, all the times I’d ring one of your mates or a colleague – even your secretary
dammit
– apologising profusely for interrupting their evening and asking if they’d seen you or knew of your whereabouts, making excuses that you’d probably told me but I’d been too preoccupied with the twins to take on board what you’d said – wining and dining a client, attending a boring function – how humiliating was that for me? And how embarrassing for those people having to think up lies to cover your backside?’

‘Cass, listen to me. Hands up! I led you a merry dance. I admit that I made out you were imagining things. Yes, I am mostly the guilty party.’

‘What do you mean –
mostly
the guilty party?’

‘Well it takes two to break a marriage you know. You can’t put all the blame on me.’

‘Are you saying that I’m responsible for your affairs?’

‘Only in the sense that you
were
always preoccupied with the twins. There was never any time for me.’

For a moment I felt wrong-footed. Had I neglected my husband then? Was it actually
my
fault he’d sought solace elsewhere? I cast my mind back to the early days of motherhood – the endless sleepless nights with two babies being fed on demand. I’d come to know exactly how a dairy cow felt as two little mouths clamped down on me. Eventually I’d resorted to bottle feeding. But barely had that got off the ground when the colic set in. And no sooner had the colic resolved then the teething had started. Perhaps, instead of shuffling exhausted from the nursery back to my bed, I should have cellotaped my eye-lids open and slipped into a French Maid’s outfit. Injected a bit of oo-la-la into my sex-starved marriage? And then I came back to the present.

‘Okay, maybe I was permanently exhausted in the early days and unable to give you my full attention. But that doesn’t excuse you for the more recent flings. It certainly doesn’t justify your affair with Cynthia. In fact Stevie, how
dare
you try and point the finger of blame at me.’ Tears stung my eyes. But they weren’t tears of sorrow or self-pity, they were tears of anger. And justifiably so. ‘How bloody
dare
you!’ I shrieked.

Stevie instantly realised he’d overplayed that particular hand and tried to retract the statement.

‘Calm down Cass, I’m not saying it was
all
your fault because it wasn’t. You were a wonderful wife and an excellent mother-’

‘Oh good. I’m glad to hear you say that Stevie because for one moment I thought you were trying to lay all the blame at my door.’

‘No, no, not at all,’ he soothed.

‘Excellent. So let’s get this conversation back on track. Where was I? Oh yes, separate lives-’

‘Cass you’re making a mistake-’

‘No! Hear me out please. I need to be true to myself from now on. I don’t want any reconciliation. In fact,’ I took a deep breath, ‘I want a divorce.’

Following my request for a divorce, Stevie’s immediate reaction was one of dismissal.

‘You’re not thinking properly Cass,’ he’d stormed. ‘When you’ve removed your brain from your backside we will resume discussing our future. A future
together
.’

Work provided a welcome distraction even if Morton Peck & Livingston’s staff were as much fun as a leaking roof. On the home front I had since owned up about my whereabouts between nine in the morning and three in the afternoon. Both children seemed relieved that I was out of the house every day and otherwise occupied. Another happy diversion came in the form of Jed who telephoned me on my mobile in Friday’s lunch hour.

‘Am I speaking to the gorgeous Cassandra?’

Swooning slightly, I squeaked confirmation into the handset.

‘I know it’s rather short notice, but I wondered if you’d like to go to the cinema this evening?’

I squeaked a bit more as mutual times were agreed. It was only after Jed had rung off that I realised a small matter of babysitting arrangements were outstanding.

Hastily I punched out Stevie’s mobile number.

‘Have you come to your senses yet regarding our reconciliation?’ he barked.

‘Er, no. Would you like to see the twins tonight while I go out?’

‘Are you asking me to babysit my own children?’ he asked incredulously.

I considered. ‘Yes.’

He sighed irritably. ‘Of course I’ll have them, but Cynthia is having a Girls’ Night In tonight. It might be better if I see them at home.’

Home
. He still thought of our house as his home. It was inevitable that at some point we would need to get around to sorting out the house, its ownership, our belongings.

‘We still have talking to do,’ I ventured.

‘Damn right we do,’ Stevie huffed. ‘You need to stop and think carefully before making nonsensical demands like divorce.’

‘If you live in a glass house you shouldn’t throw stones.’

‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Did you ever stop and think carefully before permitting Cynthia Castle to strip you down to your socks and impale upon your person her PERMANENT DEPOSITS OF SUBCUTANEOUS FAT?’ my voice rose to a shriek.

There was a moment’s silence.

‘I’ll see you at seven,’ Stevie snapped before hanging up.

A hand lightly touched my shoulder. I looked up, cheeks pink with anger, to regard Mr Morton boggling at me.

‘Er, could you type this up Mrs Cherry?’

Blast and damnation. He must have heard everything. But did it really matter? Especially when Carmel telephoned with the good news of another booking next week for a law firm in nearby Boxleigh.

‘And you have made them aware about the part-time hours and the fact that half term is looming?’ I whispered into the handset.

‘The Personnel Officer is desperate to secure any sort of available assistance so I can promise it isn’t a problem,’ Carmel assured.

Before leaving Morton Peck & Livingston for the last time as a temporary employee, I made discreet enquiries via Reception as to who was the matrimonial solicitor. An appointment with Mr Livingston was pencilled into my diary.

Stevie turned up at six, an hour earlier than arranged and consequently caught me wearing just a bath towel and applying full party make-up.

‘Going out with Nell?’ he enquired.

‘No.’

When I failed to elaborate Stevie followed me into the bedroom, observing my indecisive wardrobe riffling.

‘Sorry, do you mind?’ I jerked my head toward the open door indicating he leave.

Ten minutes later I tiptoed downstairs in a cloud of perfume intent on blowing hasty kisses to the twins before scampering round the corner to wait for Jed. Stevie was watching television, a child tucked under each armpit. The bottom stair creaked and Livvy turned.

‘Wow, you look nice Mum.’

Stevie instantly disentangled himself from the children and followed me to the shoe cupboard.

‘Who did you say you were going out with?’

‘I didn’t,’ I said just as the doorbell rang.

Stevie got there first.

‘Er, hi. Is Cass there?’ I heard Jed ask.

I rammed my feet into a pair of stilettos.

‘Are you taking my wife out?’ Stevie spluttered.

‘Jed!’ I trilled, barging past Stevie. ‘How lovely to see you.’ My eyes were wide with unspoken meaning which I desperately hoped he would cotton on to. I turned back to my slack-jawed husband. ‘Back about midnight. Toodle-oo!’

As we drove off, Jeff gave me a side-long look.

‘Cass, I’m not getting into a tangled web am I?’

‘Not at all!’ I laughed shrilly. ‘That’s my ex. He’s simply seeing the children while I’m out. No big deal. We’re cool,’ I was appalled to find myself slipping into Toby-speak. Jed looked unconvinced.

The evening was blighted from the start. At the cinema we watched a romantic comedy, but all hopes of flirty hand holding were off the agenda. Afterwards we went to a little eatery which lacked any sort of atmosphere and reflected the widening chasm as Jed mentally distanced himself. I found myself jabbering nonsense to fill the silences. Flustered, I began to feel more and more upset.

When Jed dropped me home I was horrified to see Stevie silhouetted in the lounge window like a sentinel. After a few agonising seconds, Jed cleared his throat.

‘Cass, exactly how
ex
is your ex?’ he asked.

‘Well, you know,
ex
as in over and done with.’

‘But not divorced?’

‘Oh yes definitely. Well, you know, almost definitely. It’s just a matter of finalising things.’

‘So you’ve got your Decree Nisi?’

I bit my lip and didn’t answer.

Jed took a deep breath and contemplated his hands folded firmly in his lap.

‘Cass, I’m terribly sorry, but I’d rather steer clear until your husband is most definitely a fully fledged ex-husband.’

So that was that.

‘And you’ve got the nerve to bang on about
my
adultery!’ Stevie hissed as I drooped through the door.

‘I have not committed adultery with anybody,’ I snapped. ‘I’ve simply been out to dinner with a friend. Now please leave my house because I’m not in the mood for an argument.’

‘This is my house too Cass and don’t you bloody forget it.’

With that he snatched his jacket from where it lay over the banister and stomped off into the night, the door slamming behind him.

The following day I caught up with Nell who kindly agreed to look after the twins when I have my appointment with Mr Livingston, the matrimonial lawyer.

‘Are you sure about going through with a divorce?’ she asked placing a large mug of steaming coffee in front of me.