Читать книгу My Secret Wish List - Пенни Джордан, PENNY JORDAN - Страница 5

SPENT second week sorting out the contents of the attic, in between bouts of tears and eating chocolate.

That was when stepsister rang. We’ve always had challenging relationship with one another. After all, her mother pinched my father from my mother… She got to live with them whilst I had to stay with my mother—who, not having my father to embrace any longer, embraced religion instead. Well, if you call witches’ spells and naked dancing round bonfires religion.

Tara, that’s my stepsister, was sent to St Hilda’s Private School for Girls!

She had a gold watch for her thirteenth birthday and ice skates! My mother wanted to give me a toad, and a book on how to cast spells.

My mother was always ahead of her time. And it wasn’t her fault that the local council refused to see the benefit of her plan to hold parties to recruit new witches. They said that all the naked dancing was causing a nuisance and that people were complaining. And anyway, it was a definite health hazard on account of bare feet touching uncleansed ground of local park. Mother did an interview for local paper, but due to confusion at printers, the interview was printed under name of local v. moral councillor. Councillor was totally outraged when my mother was elected in her place.

Now Mum lives in California, with her fourth husband. I don’t hear from her very much.

Derek never really approved of her. His own parents were very traditional and old-fashioned. We only found out about his father liking to dress up in women’s clothes after he died. He had written in his will that the wanted to be buried in his favourite evening dress. Of course Derek’s mother pretended that it was just a joke, and in the end he was buried in his suit.

Anyway, Tara has her own PR company. She’s never married. For every decade she’s past she’s had another piece of plastic surgery—which is why at fifty she looks thirty, but in a tight, shiny, this-skin-is-killing-me sort of way.

Still, like I said, she caught me at a bad moment. I’d just found the box containing our wedding photographs and cards from Derek which I’d kept!

Had forgotten I was once so sentimental and optimistic! Found the one he sent me when we got engaged, with a rude poem in it which he’d promised to put into practice. Well, it wasn’t his fault that the rugby team decided to walk home down lovers’ lane that night. And at least they had the decency to lift the car back onto the road again afterwards.

It was a bit embarrassing, though, because the car belonged to his father, and the next day, when he went to pick up his boss from the station, Derek’s father opened the glove compartment to give his boss a tissue and handed him my knickers by mistake.

Of course we had to get married after that. Well, you did in those days, didn’t you?

It was the seventies. The sexual revolution might have overwhelmed the moral barricades of the mothers of London’s teenagers. But for us ‘oop North’, believe you me, Victorian ethics still ruled!

Anyway, back to my stepsister’s phone call this week. There I was sobbing, feeling all emotional and crying into the special-price low-fat vanilla ice-cream that was all I could find in the freezer to come anywhere close to self indulgence, when the phone rang. Of course I had to tell her what had happened!

Straight away she said she knew just the thing to get me back on track and turn my whole life around. She said that it had saved her sanity when she had been so stressed out about breaking her nails just before she had to collect the winning contestant from Kidnapped to take to TV Awards Ceremony!

(Kidnapped was a groundbreaking new TV programme where a specially chosen group of contestants had to go out and kidnap someone and the viewers had to give them marks on how real they made it. This contestant had done so well that the person being kidnapped had a heart attack from shock on screen and had to be resuscitated by actors from the accident and emergency soap in next studio.)

Tara said she would ‘treat me’, because this life-coach was just so in demand she charged the earth and that usually she wouldn’t be seen dead coaching anyone who wasn’t someone…

I wasn’t sure.

I mean, a life-coach…just what does that mean?

Jacki and my other friend Rosie were well impressed when I told them!

Jacki did say, though, that she thought I’d have got more benefit from a night with a sexy stud escort!

One of her friends had been given one as a surprise fortieth birthday present by her girlfriends. And then to make it really special they’d had the whole thing videoed. Unfortunately, though, there’d been some crossed wires, and the video had got played at her fortieth birthday party. Her husband said that with a backside like hers she should have been ashamed to have it publicly displayed like that.

Anyway, she’s divorced now, and she’s running an agency that finds out if your husband is likely to be unfaithful by getting some stunning-looking girl to try to seduce him. So far the score is Stunning-looking Girls 100, Husbands 0! Surprise. Surprise.

So the life-coach rang the afternoon I’d just spent comfort-reading my old Georgette Heyer books. Where, oh, where are the Heyer men right now when I could do with one? Dangerous, passionate. And desperately determined to ravish me. That would show Derek!

Okay, okay, I know. That is so shallow. But then I am shallow!

Speaking of sexy, gorgeous-looking men, I have just seen the new owner of house at end of street. The house the poshest in the area—huge garden, detached and completely refurbished by local interior designer who once appeared on TV designer programme.

Her clients, the previous owners, complained that they hated what she’d done and that they couldn’t understand how undyed calico curtains for their drawing room could possibly have cost £5,000 when anyone could buy the same fabric down the market for 30p a metre! It was all sorted out amicably in end, when designer explained that their calico was special import and totally exclusive ’cos was made in a unique way.

Never liked to tell neighbour that I had seen the labels from the bales of cloth delivered when they were away and Derek went scavenging in their skip. (Derek said it was totally neighbourly act since he was concerned that their builders might try to remove and sell on irreplaceable period features, such as the Victorian fireplace he bought off them for a mere £500.) Label on cloth said quite definitely that fabric was from Pakistan and 10p per metre.

Derek never said anything. Well, he was in shock for months afterwards once he discovered that the builder was flogging fireplaces just like ours at a local car boot sale for £50.

Anyway, trendy couple who owned house have gone to live on remote island where will be no contamination from modern living. (Actually, have heard that truth is he lost his job and child has been expelled from school for knowing more than teacher.)

New owner was getting out of sleek, expensive-looking black car when he walked past this morning. Furniture van was pulling up outside.

Of course didn’t want to make curiosity obvious, so just took a quick glance.

New neighbour is male—very much so—sexy broad shoulders, shown off in white tee shirt that revealed even sexier athletic-type flat stomach. Thick dark hair, just tinged with grey, gorgeous super-sexy silver-grey eyes and thick black eyelashes!

In addition to immaculate white tee shirt he was wearing well-cut chinos and clean shoes—and no wedding ring! Not that I was paying too much attention. (Not much!) Had to put down bags of supermarket shopping which I was carrying ’cos Derek has taken car.

However, panicked when new neighbour saw me and started to walk over. In rush to get away unobtrusively I forgot how much I had pushed into flimsy plastic shopping bags. Served me right that pack of Vitamins for the Older Woman fell out right in front of him.

Quite proud of my quick recovery, though, when I claimed vitamins were for elderly friend!

Image spoiled when demon skateboarding sons of family from five down skated past and shouted, ‘Move it, Grandma!’

Still, every cloud has a silver lining, and life-coach has said I must always look for positive in everything, so just as well that I was wrapped up against cold in face-muffling scarf and old coat!

Apparently you have to really work at this life-coaching stuff… Life-coach has given me all sorts of exercises to do. Like this one:

Imagine yourself in twenty years’ time. Where do you want to be? Who do you want to be?

Twenty years’ time! Will be seventy-one! OHMYGOD!

Immediately feel depressed and pervy for having spent rest of day fantasising about sexy new neighbour, mentally imagining him in Georgette Heyer hero mode, rescuing me from horrid wicked Sir Jasper type and clasping my delicate, fragile frame in strong male arms…

Anyway, I’d rather imagine myself twenty years ago… Two stone lighter, thicker hair, a belly like a supermodel’s… So okay, maybe I am exaggerating slightly…

Let’s see—in twenty years’ time I want to be like Tina Turner! As she is now!

Think of ten things you want to achieve before you reach your next decade birthday!

Think challenging!! Exciting!!! Innovative!!!!

Oh, yeah! Like what?

In a fit of irritation, reach for notepad and start to write down most implausible things I can think of!

• Learn to inline skate

• Be swept off feet by hero strikingly similar to new sexy neighbour at No. 14, just like in Georgette Heyer’s books!

• Be able to make melt-in-mouth pastry like smug busybody neighbour from three up

• Be able to look so sexy in quick-release thong and see-thru bra that no one cares about pastry!

• Learn to salsa

• Be picked as salsa partner by sexy new neighbour for very private one-to-one lessons

• Own bright red convertible with rude private number

• Discover sexy new neighbour is madly in love with self

• Discover boobs have miraculously un-drooped

• Discover husband has secret prescription for Viagra and burn it!

I read list and find I have the number I need. Well, I think I will forget about pastry-making—and husband!

Look further down list of life-coach’s bossy instructions:

And then think of ten more!

Then write down ten things you like about yourself!

Er…

Good sense of humour—even if Derek always complains that I never laugh at his jokes. Apparently Cheree laughs like a hyena at them—Jacki says that she looks like one as well!

Good friend—okay, so I didn’t tell Rosie when my son said that Rosie’s schoolteacher niece was giving boys at school hands-on sex education lessons. But how was I to know exactly what he meant? I was as shocked as everyone else when news broke in the papers that she had run away with twelve-year-old pupil she was supposed to be giving extra after-school coaching? Anyway, all the fuss has died down now, and Rosie’s niece has moved to another part of the country. She’s got a job there teaching at an all-boys boarding school.

I am a good mother.

Well, I have tried to be a good mother.

Not entirely all own fault that daughter has turned out so odd—probably takes after my mother, and therefore definitely not my fault.

Am an optimist—true. Look at the way am fantasising about new sexy neighbour!

Am good with money—well, I would be if I had any!

How many is that?

Could put down loads more good points, but am too selfless to want to bore on about own virtues!

Think what you would do if you won the lottery.

Would pay off enormous mortgage, for a start, and son’s student loan. Might even have droopy boobs fixed after all.

Whilst I was thinking, Derek rang to say he’d accepted an offer for the house. The only thing was there isn’t going to be as much equity as he’d hoped—but the good news is that once all the expenses have been deducted (apparently he had forgotten about certain unpaid bills), there should still be enough for me to put down a deposit on a small flat. And after all I wouldn’t need anything bigger than that, really. In fact small bedsit would suit admirably … Also v. generously said it would do me good to get a job, if I could get one, that is, at my advanced age!

I am trying to look for job. Rosie says new hypermarket is looking for shelf-packers and is favouring ‘mature personnel’ because they can read the labels on things and don’t spend all day on their mobile phones texting messages that say things like ‘RU there—txt me!’

But I would need a car to get there, since is out of town. Keep checking local paper for suitable work, and suitable flat, but so far haven’t found anything.