Stockings and Cellulite (8 page)

‘Absolutely. Stevie confessed to a list of conquests
this
long,’ I held up my hands indicating a gap of several feet. ‘The man could have given me an ST.’

Nell looked momentarily stumped. ‘Sanitary towel?’

‘No, you know, sexually transmitted lurgy stuff.’

‘Oh, right. That reminds me of a joke,’ she broke into a few guffaws.

I flashed a wounded look over the rim of my coffee cup.

‘I’m not taking the Mickey, honest. One of the teachers told me this one.’

I sighed. ‘Go on.’

‘Two guys are chatting over their pints together. One said to the other, “Did you get your test results from the doctor?” and the other guy morosely answered, “Yeah. Looks like all those years of phone sex has caught up with me. I’ve got Hearing Aids”.’ Nell paused expectantly. ‘Cue laughter,’ she prompted.

‘Sorry, I’m miserable at the moment.’

‘Then don’t divorce Stevie!’

‘I’m dejected because of something else.’

‘What?’

‘Do you remember that chap I met at Passé?’

‘The looker?’

‘Mm. Well, he took me out the other day and again last night.’

Nell instantly straightened on her stool. ‘Go on.’

‘And then he dumped me.’

‘Dumped you? But I thought you’d only just got acquainted?’

‘Yes, we had. But then he met Stevie.’

‘Why the devil did you introduce him to Stevie?’ she squawked.

I gave her the low down concluding with Jed disappearing over the horizon in his natty little sports car, never to be seen again.

‘I see,’ she considered. ‘Well, if the boot had been on the other foot Cass and you had driven to Jed’s only to find wifey waving him off, what would you have thought?’

Point taken I suppose.

‘Listen, I’m having a little dinner party in a couple of weeks. Why don’t you join us?’

‘No way. I’m not up for any of that being-paired-off-with-the-spare-berk-nonsense.’

‘He’s not a berk,’ she giggled.

‘Ah ha, so there is a spare man!

‘He’s a vicar, very nice and you’re coming.’

Time was passing quickly now that I was working. Suddenly I was once again donning my black suit, this time for Hempel Braithwaite along Boxleigh’s bustling high street.

The receptionist, in complete contrast to the last one, was a merry faced girl in her early thirties with a mass of brown bubbly curls haloing her head.

‘Can I help you?’ she smiled.

‘Hi, I’m the temp, Cassandra Cherry for Mrs Grace Herbert in Personal Injury.’

‘I’m Julia. Take a seat and I’ll let Grace know you’re here.’

As I sat down, I had an awful moment of déjà vu and fervently prayed Mrs Herbert wouldn’t be in the same mould as Mr Morton. Thankfully she wasn’t. Grace Herbert was a dear little apple dumpling of a lady with several chins, ample hips and ankles that folded over the sides of her sensible shoes. Mrs Herbert peered at me over pince-nez spectacles attached to silver chains as she extended a hand in greeting.

‘Hello my dear. I hate formality so do call me Grace. I just know we’re going to get on like a house on fire. Capricorn?’

‘Er, no, it’s Cassandra.’

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Julia stuff a fist in her mouth. She looked like a definite mate.

‘No dear, your birth sign.’

‘Oh! Yes, I believe so.’

‘Excellent!’ Grace beamed as she led me out of reception and along a corridor. ‘I get on extremely well with Capricorns.’

‘Jolly good,’ I smiled uncertainly.

Was that the only qualification required then? Never mind being able to type at one hundred and twenty words a minute or demonstrate a good telephone manner. Just make sure your birth sign was the goat and rest assured you were unlikely to lock horns with this particular solicitor. How eccentric.

The day went quickly and the work was – dare I say it – a piece of cake. Dictation was clear with impeccably given instructions so it was virtually impossible to make mistakes. My fingers whirled over the keys producing reams of printed documents and, as the hands of the clock nudged towards midday, I asked Grace if she would like a cup of coffee.

‘Ooh lovely dear. Three sugars please and put some of the sweet stuff in yours too. It’s very good for shock and I can tell you’ve had a few lately.’

Definitely eccentric.

I went off in search of the kitchen faintly amused. What did she know about my life?

All too soon it was time to get Livvy and Toby from school.

‘Cheerio dear. See you tomorrow. You go and see to those lovely twins of yours.’

‘Will do,’ I smiled.

I couldn’t wait to see my children’s happy faces as they spilled through the school gates with their friends. Swinging my handbag jauntily over my shoulder, I was half way across the car park before being brought up short. How did Grace Herbert know my children were twins? I stood stock still until a car tooted me out of its way. Oh how silly Cass! The agency must have told her. Of course.

But the following day Grace Herbert stunned me by making reference to the legal appointment with Morton Peck & Livingston. I was one hundred per cent positive I hadn’t mentioned anything about it in conservation. Her blue eyes twinkled over her little spectacles as she smiled mysteriously at me.

‘Sometimes I’m privy to certain information dear.’

I wasn’t at all sure I understood that comment.

Once home I telephoned Stevie to advise him of the impending appointment with the solicitor. I didn’t want him being unprepared for the letter that would duly plop through Cynthia’s letterbox.

He gave a sigh of resignation. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this Cass.’

‘Stevie please. I don’t want to start arguing. I just want to get on with my life.’

‘We don’t need to be divorced for you to get on with your life.’

I thought back to the fiasco with Jed.

‘I think it’s better this way.’

‘Are you absolutely sure this is what you want?’ he asked grimly.

I took a moment to desperately try and recapture just the smallest of sparks. Sadly there wasn’t even a splutter.

‘Quite sure.’

‘You won’t turn into one of those bitter and twisted women who withhold access or use children as an emotional weapon?’

‘Of course not!’ I retorted, deeply offended.

We then had a surprisingly amicable chat about finances. Stevie said he was prepared to sign over the entirety of the house to me on condition I accept only a small monthly payment for the twins. The mortgage was paid off two years ago so the house represented a solid amount of equity. If I drew upon my bond’s annual interest and continued temping, then financially things would be stable.

‘Tell this legal bod to keep it straightforward. I’m not messing around with solicitors myself, so just give me the paperwork, show me where to sign and we’ll split the bill. Agreed?’

I couldn’t say fairer than that.

As I approached Morton Peck & Livingston’s building the following afternoon, I repressed a shudder. Shouldering open the door, nothing had changed. What a dreary place.

‘Cuthbert Livingston, pleased to meet you Mrs Cherry.’

My solicitor shook my hand before indicating a chair opposite his desk. Dapper and with a warm manner, he was nothing like Mr Morton.

Nervously I sat down. While Mr Livingston selected a clean page on his scribble pad and searched for a functional biro, I glanced around his office. Fake wood panelling encased all four walls. Grey light filtered through dusty Venetian blinds. Battered filing cabinets lined the far end of the room. It was with a pang of sorrow that I realised the first steps to formally ending my marriage should end in such a gloomy room, in utter contradiction to the way it had all begun. A warm day, bathed in lemon sunshine, a young bride floating amidst a sea of white lace, tumbling hair sprinkled with a rainbow of confetti.

The receptionist suddenly barged in bearing a tea tray. With a jangle of cheap bracelets, she set down the regulation china and stale shortbread, simpered to Mr Livingston and even managed to bare her bleached teeth in my direction. Clearly paying clients were entitled to a free smile. I gave a chilly one in response.

After the best part of an hour outlining general divorce procedure and taking copious notes, Mr Livingston told me not to worry about anything and to leave matters in his capable hands.

‘Is that it then? Don’t you need any proof of adultery?’

‘Not at all Mrs Cherry. The days of private investigators jumping out of bedroom wardrobes and catching couples playing
coitus
are long over.’

‘I saw my husband and Cynthia Castle with my own eyes. Believe me Mr Livingston, neither of them were playing quoits.’

I continued to work at Hempel Braithwaite and found myself enjoying it. Julia, the receptionist, was definitely a new pal.

‘So how are you getting along with our Gracie then?’ she asked one lunchtime over a whiffy egg mayo bap.

‘Fine. She’s great to work with. Just a bit, oh I don’t know-’

‘Weird?’

‘A little,’ I admitted. ‘She seems to know an awful lot about me and my personal circumstances, but I’m at a loss to understand how.’

‘She’s known as Godly Grace in the firm.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she’s psychic.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ I guffawed and promptly choked on a crumb. Julia thumped my back until I could breathe again. ‘You mean,’ I croaked, larynx struggling for complete recovery, ‘that she wraps a shawl around her head, pops a pair of gold hoops in her earlobes and then consults a crystal ball?’

‘Sort of, but without the props.’

‘Oh don’t be ridiculous. You don’t believe all that mumbo-jumbo do you?’

‘I’m telling you Cass, Grace Herbert could probably tell you what colour knickers you’re wearing
and
when you last bonked your husband.’

Even I didn’t know what colour underwear I’d hurriedly pulled from my knicker drawer earlier this morning. Grotty Grey probably. And as for when I’d last – well it was unthinkable.

‘Gracious,’ I eventually replied.

‘Gracious Grace,’ Julia giggled. ‘Ask her to give you a reading some time. She’s really rather good.’

As another working week drew to a close the Personnel Officer, Susannah Harrington, summoned me to her room. Tall and thin with a beaky nose, iron grey hair and coal black eyes, she wouldn’t have looked out of place as the Governess of a female prison. Susannah was, in fact, absolutely charming but her officious presence automatically reduced me to check stockings for ladders and fingernails for dirt.

Timidly I tapped upon her door.

‘Come,’ a voice boomed from within. ‘Don’t look so scared Cassandra,’ she chided as I scuttled over to her desk. ‘This isn’t a disciplinary hearing. In fact,’ she rearranged some paperwork and then switched her telephone to voicemail, ‘I want to praise you.’ She smiled and the austere features instantly softened.

And it was indeed high praise, so much so that Hempel Braithwaite wished me to join them permanently as a floating secretary.

‘How wonderful!’ I enthused before realising the ramifications of full time work. ‘But, I’m so sorry Susannah. I have to stick to temping because of my children you see.’

‘I fully understand my dear and that is exactly what Hempel Braithwaite would like you to do. But within our stable of employment rather than the recruitment agency’s. We suggest you carry on working from nine to three and spend school holidays with your delightful children, but on the proviso you work exclusively for this firm.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ I gasped as the full realisation of what Susannah was suggesting hit me. My God! How absolutely brilliant – I wouldn’t need a childminder and I’d be earning a guaranteed regular wage.

‘Just say yes dear. We will give you a fixed rate of hourly pay which will be higher than the agency’s rate, but no doubt lower than we are currently being billed by them. So, what do you think?’

‘I think, well I think yes! Thank you! Thank you so very much!’

Meanwhile Julia’s gossip regarding Godly Grace had left me both intrigued and curious, so much so that I succumbed to a ‘reading’! However, unlike Julia, I was not remotely sold on Grace’s so-called predictions. Okay, a few trivial incidents were accurately touched upon, like the time I fell off my bike as a child. But what child hadn’t ever fallen from their bike? Liv and Toby were mentioned, but I wasn’t convinced Grace hadn’t somehow found out about them previously. She mentioned my pending divorce – a lucky guess? – and the fact that Stevie was ‘a loveable rogue dear, but definitely a rogue’. Yes, well, I would imagine a good percentage of divorced men were dumped on the grounds of them being
lovable rogues
. Personally I preferred to call them unfaithful bastards.

Regrettably it wasn’t a thrillingly atmospheric reading. Grace didn’t slip into a trance across a tasselled tablecloth. Instead she matter-of-factly stated that I’d already met my future husband – naturally a soul mate – and would be married by the end of the year.

Right. So exactly who was this hunky soul mate? I’d been out with precisely one man – Jed. That friendship had barely wobbled off the ground before it came to a big fat full stop. That left the competition being divided between the postman with teeth so stained by nicotine they resembled a burnt picket fence, or the newspaper boy with hair raising halitosis. The fact that one was old enough to be my father and the other young enough to be my son was mere detail.

I politely thanked Grace for her amusing predictions privately thinking she was as nutty as a fruitcake.

That evening the telephone rang.

‘Are you still on for tomorrow night?’ Nell asked anxiously.

Hell. I’d forgotten about her dinner party and the blind date.

‘Can’t wait,’ I fibbed wondering if this would be a convenient moment to develop a throbbing migraine and bail out, but Nell was two steps ahead of me.

‘I was just phoning to make sure you weren’t getting cold feet.’

‘Ha ha – as if! Although I’d feel a lot happier knowing you and Ben won’t be nudging each other smugly over the petites pois if, by some dint of good fortune, this chap and I do happen to hit it off.’