Читать книгу Five French Hens - Judy Leigh - Страница 9

‘I’ve got no sympathy for you, Tess. You brought it on yourself.’

Alan folded his arms and brought his chin down to his neck so that he looked severe. Tess was feeling terrible. It wasn’t just the sore head and the feeling that she never wanted to drink again unless it was pure cool water, but the sense of having overstepped the mark last night, having been too loud, too exuberant. Perhaps she had offended her friends or – worse – ruined Jen’s special night. She was wondering if she should buy them all little presents or flowers or if she should ring everyone and apologise. She leaned back on the sofa and rubbed her eyes. Alan was still in the doorway, grumbling.

‘… completely over the top. I’ve never seen you like that. I had to go and sleep in the spare bed. I thought you might be sick over me.’

Tess felt sad. ‘You might have looked after me?’

‘You were drunk, Tess. It’s not very appealing to sleep next to someone who is drunk, mouth open, snoring.’

‘You snore all the time,’ Tess retorted.

‘I can’t imagine what the women you were with are like. A group of harridans, screeching and baying and drawing attention to themselves, no doubt.’

Tess expelled air sharply. ‘No, they weren’t, Alan. I just drank too much. I was enjoying myself. Anyway, perhaps you and I should go out more. It was ages since I’d been out – before Christmas – and I really needed to let my hair down.’

Alan shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t want to go to a cocktail bar. I don’t like Italian food much either.’

‘No, all you seem to like is golf.’ Tess didn’t mean to say it. Alan’s eyes widened. For a moment, he seemed cross, then his expression softened.

‘Tess… there are social evenings up at the golf club sometimes. Some of the wives go down with their husbands. Cliff takes Celia most weekends. You’d like Celia. She’s friendly enough.’ He took a deep breath. ‘To be honest, love, I think she might benefit from having you as a friend. She’s a bit dowdy, you know, a bit frumpy, dull. You’d cheer her up – you have so much more fun than she does. You should tag along.’

Tess didn’t feel that she had any fun. She felt inclined to shout at him, to tell him that she’d heard enough about his golf during the daytime and she didn’t want to spend her evenings talking to an equally bored, dull golf wife while the men chatted about irons and caddies and whatever else it was that obsessed them. She stared at her husband and he smiled softly. Something about the twinkle in his eyes, the gentleness that used to be a light in his gaze when he looked at her took her by surprise for a moment. Then a wave of tiredness or nausea came over her, the toxic tingling of too much alcohol. She sighed.

‘Maybe, Alan. Or maybe we could go out somewhere together, just the two of us.’

He came to sit next to her on the sofa, resting his hand on her shoulder. ‘You’re right, Tess. We must do that, soon. We need some quality time together. I need to make more fuss of you.’

Tess thought about covering his hand with hers. Her fingers fluttered, ready to move, then he folded his arms and his hands were lost to her…

His eyes were sad. ‘Tess, I know it’s Saturday and we usually spend the evening together. It’s just – well, the weather is really good today and a few of the chaps are meeting at the golf course this afternoon. I said I’d go down with Cliff. I might be a little bit late home, so – perhaps it might be wise not to cook anything for me this evening.’ He smiled at her, raising his eyebrows. ‘I’ll grab a sandwich. Perhaps you can get an early night. You know, so you feel a bit better tomorrow.’

Tess nodded. ‘OK. I’ll do that.’ She glanced at him. ‘But I thought Sunday was the day you played golf all day.’

His voice was light. ‘Oh, yes – tomorrow’s Sunday session is still on.’ He stood up and shifted back to the doorway. ‘But we’ll go out somewhere next week, love. I promise.’

‘Alan…’ Tess rubbed her temples. ‘Do you ever think you neglect me?’

He shrugged, sauntered back to the sofa and placed a kiss on the top of her head. ‘I’ll make it up to you, Tess.’

With a hint of an apologetic smile, he turned and walked away, towards the hall where he kept his coat, his car keys and his golf clubs.

Tess shook her head sadly. ‘How?’ she asked, but the room was empty.

The spring sunshine streamed into the lounge, pale as melting butter. Rose smiled and tugged the hoover into the centre of the room, switching it on and searching for dust. She’d air all the rooms today, give the house a good spring clean; she’d polish the piano, dust the photos and perhaps even treat herself to a cream slice from the baker’s later. She moved her feet nimbly as she manoeuvred the machine, shoving the nozzle in all nooks and crannies while she was doing a little dance.

Her heart felt light. She’d really enjoyed the evening out with the girls. The half a cocktail, a glass of Valpolicella and most of a spaghetti carbonara had left her feeling very sophisticated. She had no pupils for piano lessons today – the one she usually had on a Saturday morning, eight year old Candice, had cancelled, so she was determined to pamper herself. A hot bath with scented bubbles would be in order.

Rose hoovered around the sofa, pushing it back to reach the carpet underneath. Despite the roar of the machine, she was humming a sprightly tune. She paused a moment to recollect what it was: Abba’s ‘Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man after Midnight)’. Rose thought about the very idea of a mysterious stranger sneaking into her bedroom and she smiled.

Sylvester hugged his wife, almost sweeping her off her feet, although they were almost the same height when Della wore heels. She giggled. ‘What foolishness is this now?’

‘I’m taking you out for lunch.’

‘We can’t afford it, Sylvester. Besides, you should be out in the snack van by the sea wall.’

He lifted a lip in a pretend sneer. ‘The van can go to hell right now. I’m taking my pretty wife to lunch. She deserves it.’

‘Are you crazy?’ Della rolled her eyes. ‘I was out last night, partying with the girls. I don’t need two treats in a weekend.’

‘And you came home in such a good mood. I love it when you wake me up for cuddles at midnight.’

‘I didn’t mean to wake you, Sylvester.’

‘Your feet were cold – I had to warm them up.’ He took her hand, kissing the back of it gently. ‘So today, I want to treat you. I’m taking you for lunch. I can do the van afterwards this afternoon – there are enough customers to make it worthwhile. I have a good reputation to keep up – Sylvester Donavan is always out there with hot coffee and rolls, in all English weathers, the cold, the freezing, the ice and the snow.’ He smiled, his eyes crinkling. ‘But I want to spend some time with you today, look into your beautiful eyes across a table and…’

‘… eat fish and chips,’ Della spluttered.

Sylvester was serious. He held up Della’s jacket, waiting for her to slip it on. ‘I want to show my appreciation for my wife. Then we’ll go for a stroll along the headland, just like we did when we were twenty-something and we used to go walking together.’

‘When we were twenty-something we were young and energetic, living in Stepney, strolling through the streets in the dark, with nowhere to go, nothing to do. It was lovely though. We were so poor then. That seems so long ago.’ She sighed. ‘We’re still not well off though…’

Sylvester reached for his coat, shrugging it on and pushing his hat on top of his head. ‘I am a rich man, Della. Rich with love. And I can afford to take my lovely wife out for a romantic lunch.’ He offered the crook of his arm. ‘Come on, sweetheart. Let’s paint Exmouth red.’ He cackled. ‘We can put ketchup on our chips.’

Jen moved her coffee cup out of the way to the side of the desk and wriggled the mouse. An image came up on the laptop screen – a wedding outfit website, a page showing a glamorous woman in her thirties wearing a cream suit, nipped in at the waist, neat, knee length. The suit was expensive and not available in size ten. Jen sighed and clicked the mouse again. Perhaps she’d try something less conventional. Last night’s celebrations with the girls had left her pulse racing. She felt a twinge of rebellion. She could be any kind of bride she liked. It was her wedding, after all.

She clicked on another page. An ivory dress, long, sweeping to the floor, caught her eye. Short sleeves – she’d be too cold in March. Besides, the model in the photo was clearly in her twenties and Jen was seventy-three. She should pick something more appropriate. Eddie would have a smart suit on, impeccably groomed. Jen thought about how she would look by his side: she’d need to be neat, traditional, well presented, in a pale suit and a stylish hat.

She whirled the mouse again. An image caught her eye. A bride was wearing a long red dress, a coronet of tiny flowers in her hair. Jen gasped. The robe was scarlet, vermilion, and in plush velvet with wide sleeves. The woman looked like a sprite, or one of the Celtic brides in the Middle Ages, her hair in ringlets down to her waist and her eyes huge with happiness. Jen wondered what she would look like in such a dress and how Eddie might react if she arrived at the register office looking like Lady Macbeth. She stifled a smile and reached for her coffee. She’d get herself a refill, maybe a sandwich. She didn’t want to eat too much. She was going round to Eddie’s for dinner tonight. They were going to talk about the wedding. He‘d prepared a spreadsheet of all the costs involved and they were going to plan the day and finalise the details. Eddie had said they should consider getting married sooner rather than later.

Jen picked up her mug and headed for the kitchen. She imagined herself in the long dress, her face luminous, glowing, and flowers in her hair. A smile widened across her face. She was going to have a wonderful wedding – it would be her day, and she was really excited about every single thing to do with it. She actually felt like a bride-to-be.

‘I think I might be coming down with something, Elvis. My throat is a bit sore.’ The little black spaniel yapped from the back seat of the car as Pam brought the Volvo to a halt. She held out a hand and he licked her fingers, his tongue slobbering across her palm. ‘I’ll only be a minute. Stay here – be a good boy. I’m only just in the shop here.’

She locked the car and Elvis watched her walk away. His eyes were round and he leapt against the window, putting his paws against the glass. Pam felt the usual tug of guilt at her heart whenever she left him, even for the briefest of moments. But dogs weren’t allowed in Earth Grains Wholefoods. The doorbell rang with a tiny jingle as she rushed into the shop. Everywhere was stacked with goods: toiletries to the right, bagged-up dried foods to the left. Two women were standing at the counter. The taller one, her hair tied in a bright scarf, was weighing out spices for a short woman in a mackintosh. The other, a woman in her thirties with gold-rimmed glasses and short dark hair, was writing something down. Pam approached her. ‘Hi, Anthea – I need some Echinacea.’

The dark haired woman straightened, pushing her glasses back against her face, and grinned. She twirled round and found a packet from a shelf, holding it up.

‘This is the best if you feel a bit under the weather. We use it all the time in here.’

Pam rolled her eyes. ‘I was out on the town last night. I went for a run this morning and felt a bit fuzzy around the edges.’

Anthea winked behind the glasses. ‘Are you sure it’s not alcohol related?’

‘Oh, it definitely was.’ Pam beamed. ‘An engagement party. We had a whale of a time. But my throat is a bit sore so…’ She reached for her purse.

‘What about some yogi tea? I recommend the spice mix for sore throats.’

Pam nodded. ‘I’ll go and have a look. I won’t be a minute.’

She strolled over to the tea display, gazing along the rows of colourful boxes. Chamomile tea, fennel tea, women’s blend. She picked out a box called Throat Comfort. Behind her, the doorbell pinged. She turned round with her purchase. A man in a smart coat was talking to Anthea, his back to her. Pam thought she recognised the voice, although the man was talking in almost a whisper.

‘… so I wonder if you could recommend something to help – you know – the older man.’

‘What did you have in mind?’ Anthea pushed a hand through her short hair. ‘Do you mean a vitamin supplement to increase energy levels?’

‘Well, yes.’ The man paused. ‘Energy and – well – I need something to make me more, you know, active. Er, active as in – virile. You see, I’m getting married soon and I’ll probably need to…’

Pam compressed her lips, stifling a smile. She recognised the man, his handsome, confident appearance. She’d seen him once before; the colour and texture of his coat were familiar. Elvis had leapt up at him when she was jogging on the beach and the gentleman had been arm-in-arm with Jen. Pam wondered if she should call out to Eddie and remind him that they had met.

Anthea was reassuring. ‘Oh, yes, I have the very thing. These are specifically designed for all aspects of male health for gentlemen over forty.’ She handed him a packet of something that looked like vitamin pills. Eddie reached for his wallet, handed over a note and slipped the magic pills in his pocket. Pam hovered behind him, grasping the tea, trying not to smile.

Eddie turned brusquely and lurched forward, brushing against Pam. ‘Oh – so sorry – I didn’t see you.’ He showed no sign of recognition or remorse as he blustered towards the door.

‘Oh, don’t worry – it’s the story of my life,’ Pam called after him. She grinned as she heard the doorbell jingle and moved to the counter. ‘Women become more and more invisible as they get older.’ She held out the box of tea. ‘Thanks, Anthea. And the Echinacea and a packet of healthy doggie treats, please. How much do I owe you?’