Читать книгу My Secret Wish List - Пенни Джордан, PENNY JORDAN - Страница 6

STILL haven’t completed first exercise for life-coach—i.e. supply list of ‘goals’—but this morning have doctor’s appointment to check how am doing with HRT.

Doctor’s surgery full of usual dreadful examples of humanity at its worst—the receptionists—whilst poor unfortunate patients cower in dread of incurring their wrath.

I give my name and creep past to find a seat. My doctor is running forty minutes late with her appointments.

Pick up a magazine—a Cosmopolitan that’s twelve months out of date. There’s an article inside: ‘Thirty things you should have done by the time you are thirty’. Start to read it.

1 Had sex in ten different positions

2 That do not appear in the Kama Sutra

3 With ten different men

4 Consecutively

5 Concurrently

6 Snogged your best friend’s brother

7 Snogged your best friend’s man

8 Snogged your best friend’s father

9 Snogged your best friend

10 Got off a speeding fine by using feminine charms

11 Have on at least two occasions woken up in a strange bed unable to remember how you got there or with whom

12 Smoked a joint

13 Had sex in a public place

14 Ended a long-term relationship and discovered it was the best thing you ever did

15 Travelled round the world three times

16 Seduced a younger man

17 Told your mother that she could never be mistaken for your sister

18 Had a religious experience

19 Had a surreal experience

20 Spent twenty-four days scared to death you might be pregnant

21 Spent twenty-four hours crying because you weren’t

22 Had sex at work whilst on phone to boss

23 Had sex with boss whilst on phone to partner or mother

Et cetera.

Realise miserably that have lived totally boring, unachieving life, since I haven’t done any of them.

Sneakily rip page out of mag. Good joke to show friends. Then realise that elderly woman next to me is glaring disapprovingly and looks as though she is about to summon frightening headmistress of a receptionist.

Relief is at hand. (There’s an item about that too, but too rude for me to read.) Finally hear my name called.

My doctor looks like a TV presenter—all glowing skin, thick soft hair and a look in her eyes which says oh-God-not-another-dreary-middle-aged-might-have-been-but-wasn’t.

Tell her my HRT has made me put on two stone. Has also failed to inflate boobs, as described in magazines by confident women MPs. Ask if she can explain mystery as to why for every two hairs that were on head I now only have one, whilst disgusting black wire has started growing on chin.

(Jacki says it could be worse—you can at least have extensions on head. She says too that Afro-Caribbean plaits work almost as well as a facelift at pulling skin tight.)

Doctor looks dubious. Starts to ask me about my diet and my sex life. I try to explain both are total non-starters, but she is already on computer providing repeat prescription. Tells me to think about having a holiday.

Go home and start to clean out kitchen cupboards.

Instruction from life-coach—Remove all unnecessary clutter from life.

Find almost-empty bottle of Christmas pudding brandy—shame to waste it…

Busybody Do-Gooding neighbour from three up knocks on open back door just as I am throwing now empty bottle into rubbish box. Am sitting on kitchen floor surrounded by ‘to throw out’ stuff. See from her expression that she has totally misjudged the situation.

Try to tell her that I am simply following the advice of life-coach and discarding unnecessary clutter from my life—also upholding housewifely thrift of late mother-in-law—never throw away food or drink.

Try to assume control of situation and stand up to give self more authority. But brandy much stronger than I thought. Kitchen spins! Floor becomes a Mount Everest-type incline impossible to stand straight on. Cling to sink whilst neighbour asks if I have ever thought of joining AA.

Am so offended that I deliberately pretend not to understand. Just because have thriftily drunk brandy does not make me an alcoholic!

Tell her that Derek has co-opted car, and so guaranteed home start provided by Automobile Association not really applicable. Talking of car reminds me that I had decided to get son’s bike out of garage and use. V. trendy, and will look good on ‘things to achieve’ list. Can see self now, riding fearlessly into town. Will buy a crisp white shirt and some jeans and will look totally together and Oxbridge, my hair gleaming in the sunlight and my skin glowing with health.

Drift into beautiful brandy-induced daydream and can see myself looking sexily academic. Sexy new neighbour will see me and fall instantly and passionately in love!

Only one problem. Seem to remember son’s bike one of those wheelie things. Suddenly also see hideous mental image of myself in blue cycling shorts to match poor cold blue legs and one of those ant-like helmets.

Do-Gooding neighbour is making tea. Says there’s a good drop-in centre for people with problems like mine at the local church, and that the vicar is very modern.

On sudden unexpected impulse ask her if she has ever smoked a joint.

She looks puzzled, and then says she did do a smoked ham two years ago, for her Christmas Eve party, but that her husband thought it tasted too gamey. She could let me have the recipe, though. She keeps them all filed in a book, together with a note of when she made them. Apparently Delia told her to do that.

In daze hear myself earnestly explaining. No, I am talking about drugs. Things one should have done in life. Like having sex in public and taking drugs.

See she is beginning to look quite pale, so solicitously offer her a glass of the cooking sherry at back of cupboard. She tries to refuse, but I insist and pour her a glass. Assure her that sitting on floor is quite comfortable, and safer too, since floor is now at an acute angle.

Half an hour later have finished sherry, and the box of red wine left over from a dinner party. Neighbour is looking quite flushed.

Says she is sorry Derek has left.

Tell her I that am not sorry. That I am looking forward to being independent. (One of my life-coach statements that I am supposed to repeat every day.)

Neighbour confesses that her husband has not turned out to be the man she expected.

‘He has his funny little ways, if you know what I mean,’ she tells me. ‘And I have tried to talk to him about them!’

Forcing my expression into one of good neighbourly sympathy and understanding, I listen, and ask if she’d like to talk about it.

To my shock, neighbour bursts into noisy tears and says she’s sick of bloody talking about it. She wants to do it and it has come to that point where she has no option but to take matters into her own hands!

Even though I’m feeling a bit tipsy, I know immediately that this is not a subject I want to pursue. So quickly and v. cleverly change it, and ask artlessly if anyone has moved into posh house at end of road as yet…

Neighbour’s face immediately takes on worrying expression that reminds me of starving wild animal salivating at sight of fresh meat. Explains that A MAN has moved in ON HIS OWN—well, on his own apart from a v. undesirable and obviously out-for-what-she-can-get young female.

Neighbour explains that she’s v. concerned for new man and feels that someone should warn and protect him. She has noticed from seeing washing hung up on line in back garden that he doesn’t know how to hang out shirts properly, and that the plants on his patio need re-potting. She has decided to go round and offer her services.

Comment that I am surprised she has been able to see into back garden, since totally enclosed by ten-foot-high fence. Neighbour confides in whisper that actually she is able to see into garden from her bathroom window—if she stands in washbasin and cranes neck!

Confess to her that I find her sense of neighbourly concern and responsibility truly awesome.

Neighbour returns compliment by informing me that new man wears ‘modern’ you-know-whats.

Takes complicated and convoluted ten-minute conversation to discover she means underpants. I immediately start fantasising about new neighbour all over again—this time featuring in a Calvin Klein ad.

Neighbour is holding out her glass for more wine. Funny how I’d never realised before how much we have in common. Ask her if she has ever considered services of a life-coach.

Start to explain to her what one is, and stop when realise she isn’t listening. Discover that the reason for her lack of response is that she is lying flat out on kitchen floor. Out of sisterly consideration I turn her on her side when she starts to snore.

Wake up from truly horrid dream in which I was sitting on kitchen floor drinking cleaning fluid with dreadful nosy parker neighbour from three doors up whilst sexy new neighbour went through whole strip routine from Full Monty! Thank God it was only a dream.

Phone rings. Pick it up.

Caller’s my niece Georgie. Well, actually Derek’s niece. Actually, she started life as Derek’s nephew, but then in all honesty it never was clear right from the start just what he or she was. We all blamed the doctor who delivered George. Well, he wasn’t really a doctor then, more of a medical student who was the conductor on the bus Derek’s sister Alicia was travelling on. Afterwards, he—Travers—said that if he’d had a son with a widget as small as Georgie’s he’d have been glad to have a doctor claim he was a girl to prevent him from suffering any embarrassment when the boy grew up.

Anyway, it all got sorted out in the end. Georgie had the operation ten years ago, and after that she really blossomed. It’s amazing what hormones and a skilled hair-removal practitioner can do.

Georgie says she’s heard the news about Derek and that she and her partner Erica want to come round and offer me their sisterly support.

It’s Derek’s own fault they’ve taken my side. Derek never did mange to hide his squeamishness when Georgie proudly showed him that jar with the widget in it.

Try to explain that I have pounding headache no doubt brought on by stress and grief. (Which life-coach has told me must be eradicated from my thought processes.)

I try also to remember what I am supposed to chant every morning, but then realise am going to be sick. Dash to the loo, and then realise that I have agreed to cook for Georgie and Erica this evening!

Three hours later am now feeling well enough to go to shops and buy something for Georgie and Erica to eat.

Remembering life-coach’s stern warning that I must not let myself go, and that pride is equal to self-respect, I shower, put on best clothes and make-up.

This has nothing to do with fact that am going to walk past No. 14, of course. Am simply following life-coach’s instructions!

Just get close to No. 14 when I suddenly feel sure I have seen beginnings of a run in tights. I put down basket and inspect my leg, casting surreptitious look towards drive of No. 14 at same time.

Obviously I would have made an excellent detective as I see immediately that expensive shiny black car is in the drive.

Unfortunately I do not see equally shiny and expensive young woman getting out of passenger side of it until hear her exclaim in anxious voice. ‘Oh, Tate, look at that poor woman there. I think she must be feeling ill. Her face looks dreadfully red.’

Mortified, I stand up quickly—too quickly in view of delicate state of stomach. Red face must have been reflection from my skirt, ’cos it now feels very green.

Shiny expensive young woman is even more shiny and expensive at close quarters—bare, tanned legs, tight-fitting denim skirt clinging to the narrowest little hips I have even seen, bare, tanned midriff, thick glossy mane of streaked blonde hair…

Sexy man has protective hand under her elbow—no doubt afraid a breeze might blow her away. I see him frowning as he looks at me, so I make a grab for my basket and walk quickly away.

Suddenly feel very old and lonely—must be the red skirt. Personally, I never liked it. Derek chose it because it was in the sale…

At shops feel so low that am forced to buy huge block of chocolate with milk money, and decide Georgia and Erica will have to make do with spag bol from freezer.

Punish myself by walking long way home, so that I don’t get to go past sexy man’s house.

Get home and spend rest of afternoon getting ready for Georgie and Erica’s visit.

Drink glass of red wine whilst cooking spag bol to cheer self up. Also take off red skirt and pull on comfy joggers and old shirt of Derek’s with iron burn on back.

Heard the doorbell ring and go to answer it, yanking door back with wide smile and cheerful speech.

‘Small willies must run in your family, because Derek’s—’

Discover it’s not Georgie and Erica standing outside, but new sexy neighbour!

Now my face is bright red! Neighbour glances back to where black shiny car is parked outside his house.

‘I think you dropped this earlier,’ he tells me in the most gorgeous sexy American accent I have ever heard, as he hands me dog-eared prescription for next lot of HRT! Must have fallen out of bag when I checked tights.

Out of corner of my eye, see Georgie’s car pull up. It’s an ancient Beetle covered in many battle wounds, which she drives with total disregard for law and traffic.

Georgie gets out accompanied by Erica. Erica is inflated by v. obvious baby bulge.

I am too shocked to be able to reply coherently to neighbour, who is now walking back to his own house, whilst Georgie carefully shepherds Erica up the path.

‘We’ve got a surprise for you.’ Georgie beams as soon as they get into the house. ‘Erica is pregnant.’

Am not sure what to say, so offer weak smile.

Once in kitchen Georgie and Erica explain that the baby’s father has been chosen carefully so that baby will grow up with no sexual hang-ups. Georgie informs me that sperm donor chosen by them has incredibly high IQ, so baby will probably win Nobel prize and become an icon others will turn to for inspiration.

Erica gives me a dreamy look and adds that donor also six foot three, blond-haired, and a superb athlete.

Start to feel slightly anxious about the distinct froideur in the air as parents-to-be begin a polite and earnest discussion about the relative merits of brain over brawn. Erica gets my vote when she says there’s no reason why their son shouldn’t have both.

Further earnest discussion ensues about the colour scheme for the nursery. I put television on to catch up with soaps and give them privacy to discuss in peace, but Georgie requests that it be turned off. Apparently they are afraid of baby being contaminated by rubbishy TV programmes and are only allowing him to hear sounds that educate and enlighten him.

Must be red wine that entices me to comment that he must have found argument between them about colour of nursery very enlightening.

When Georgie sulks she looks very like Derek. Feel glad for baby’s sake that it was fathered by donated sperm.

However, immediately feel v. guilty when, after spag bol—Erica is only eating organic food from known recommended sources—Georgie announces that they want me to be an older adult member of the baby’s specially-chosen life circle of non-biological family.

Georgie and Erica ask about my plans for future. I explain about lack of money and necessity of having to get a job. Also tell them that Derek is determined to sell house.