Читать книгу Good Husband Material - Trisha Ashley - Страница 14

We’ve been here a whole month now, and I’ve settled into a more professional working schedule: mornings for the book, afternoons for the house. How nice it is not to feel guilty about writing instead of doing housework, and being able to do it without James’s constant interruptions. I don’t know how Jane Austen ever managed to write a word with her family coming and going like yo-yos.

My little room is very inviting, with walls of palest pink (not any kind of cream!) though it needs a touch or two of a strong colour – lime green, possibly. When I’d said as much to James, he’d replied, ‘Why spoil a good colour scheme?’

He hasn’t seen the leaves yet. Or the patchwork curtains.

My desk is set in the little window, with everything neat and tidy: pile of manuscript on one side of the typewriter, unused paper on the other. James says I should be fully computerised, seeing we’re hovering on the brink of a new century, but I’m quite happy as I am: I type my first draft, then rewrite it onto my Amstrad word processor and print it out. I suppose publishers will soon refuse to accept typewritten manuscripts, as they do now with handwritten ones, but I bet if your name is something bestselling like Archer, they’d accept them written in lipstick on slices of bread.

The present book is going well. The heroine is about to meet the radio ham who heard her distress call when her yacht was sinking and so saved her life, and he’s going to be terribly handsome and exciting, although scarred in some way and hiding himself away because of it, only communicating through his radio messages.

I thought Love on the Waves would be a good title, but I don’t know if Thripp, Thripp and Jameson, my publishers, will like it. Mr Thripp – Mr H. Thripp – has appalling taste in titles and book covers.

I need to go into town and find some books on radio-hamming in the library, since I don’t know enough details for even a sketchy outline. It’s very tedious not being able to drive, because the bus service isn’t all that good, besides being very expensive and taking ages.

Fergal tried to teach me to drive once, but he got so furious when I inadvertently reversed into a bush and got a tiny scratch on his beloved sports car, that I refused to try again. He had a thing about that car; he even got cross just because I rubbed Leather Food all over the seats so they made rude raspberry noises when he was being romantic.

As soon as the cottage is sorted out I’ll book lessons. Sometimes I feel quite marooned out here, especially since James has now stayed overnight with Howard three times when he’s had to work late. When I protested, he said, ‘Well, that’s the price you have to pay for living in the country!’ He always comes back next day with chocolates or flowers, but I’d rather he came home, however late.

Really, I don’t know what’s got into him since we moved here. He used to talk about growing vegetables and things like that, but he hasn’t even started planning the garden yet. I’m not sure he’s been in the garden! And as for helping me with the house – it takes constant badgering just to get him to put up a simple shelf or two.

He says his work is serious and very exhausting, and he needs to relax in his spare time; but he even neglects taking Bess for her daily walk, which would do him good.

I can only hope he’s adjusting and will show some interest in the garden once the weather bucks up a bit. And he still has to drive to the supermarket once a week for the shopping, that’s something.

If I need any extras, Mrs Deakin at the village shop is very good, and I don’t really mind paying a few pence more to save the trek into town, except that she’s very persuasive, so I often come out with stuff I never intended to get.

Some things, like natural soya sauce, bran and lentils, I have to buy at the health food shop in Bedford: I’m determined we’ll have a Natural Healthy Diet, whatever James says. I bought some recycled paper loo rolls there, too, which were not a complete success since it took three flushes before it was vanquished. And I didn’t like the horrible chewing gum colour, even if they did assure me it was all totally hygienic. But there’s no point in saving trees if I’m not saving water.

Mrs Peach now delivers our eggs, which she calls ‘free-range’. Certainly the hen-runs are free-range, since they’re on little wheels so she can move them up and down her garden.

The very day after complaining about Toby screaming she came toiling up the drive pulling a little cart behind her made up of a set of pram wheels with an ark-like wooden structure on top. She wore a black cloth coat, very shiny, and a strange pointed woollen hat in magenta with ear flaps that tied under the chin and ended in huge pom-poms dangling on her slumping frontage.

When I reluctantly opened the front door she was licking the end of a pencil attached to a little notebook by a piece of greasy black string.

‘You’ll be wanting eggs, then,’ she announced tersely, without looking up. ‘How many a week?’

Over her shoulder I could see that the Perambulating Ark was stacked with battered egg boxes. ‘I get my eggs in town. Free-range ones.’ (Nice, clean ones, in new boxes!)

‘That’s right – free-range brown is what I’ve got. Save you the journey. How many?’

I capitulated. ‘Half a dozen please.’

‘Mondays. Save the boxes.’ And off she stumped, her ark bouncing on the rutted pathway, and that was that.

Now every Monday she comes, receives her egg boxes and money, hands me the eggs in return and then, with a muttered, ‘Let’s see that cunning old bird, then!’ she stumps right past me into the living room to stare greedily at Toby. Charmed by her attention he invariably runs through his entire repertoire at top speed (and volume).

Then she silently departs, only betraying her enjoyment by the occasional quiver of her collapsed cheek.

I expect she regales the entire village with the awful things he says when she does the rest of the egg round, and everyone will think he learned them from us.

The library did have a couple of radio ham books, although they didn’t look very up to date. But I don’t suppose it changes that much, and I also managed to buy a magazine on the subject, which James seized when he got home. Then he lay on the bed immersed in it, though he’s never shown any interest in that sort of thing before.

I suppose he just wanted something to read – but why can’t he come downstairs and do it? I tried snuggling up next to him on the bed, but apart from pointing out one or two interesting passages he took no notice of me, so I went back downstairs and read one of the books instead.

Bess woke me with hysterical whining at the crack of dawn next morning – she must have eaten something that disagreed with her. James pulled the sheet over his head and pretended not to hear her, as usual.

After she’d got the worst of it over I thought we might as well carry on and have our usual little morning walk up the lane. There’s an old, overgrown driveway to the Hall further up, and a rough pathway through the tangle where I can let her off.

But as I was about to release her I saw a hare, and it’s true what they say about mad March hares, because this one was bouncing all over the place. Then another joined it, and they had just begun a sparring contest when Bess whined and spoiled it; in a flash they were racing off.

Hare today, and gone tomorrow …

For some reason they reminded me of the vicar.

Bess seemed fine later, which was just as well, because I had to go up to Town to meet a literary agent who specialises in romance. Having just reached the end of a three-book contract with Thripp, Thripp and Jameson, I thought it would be interesting to see what an agent could do with my next one.

I got him out of The Writer’s and Artist’s Yearbook, although I must admit that I thought Vivyan Dubois was a woman until I got there. He’s quite young, eager, intelligent and gay. I liked him immediately.

He’s read some of my books and is sure he can get me a better contract with another publisher, and also that there would be a market for them in America!

He was very enthusiastic, and delighted that I’m such a fast writer. I’m to send various contracts for him to pore over, and Love on the Waves when it’s completed.

After this I was dying to impart the glad news to someone, so popped in to see Mother and Granny.

Granny was in a grumpy mood. ‘If you fell into the Leeds-Liverpool canal you’d come up with a trout in your mouth!’ she said dourly.

‘Aren’t you going to give me any credit for hard work, Granny?’

‘I’m sure we’re very pleased, dear,’ Mother said. ‘But when you said you had wonderful news I did hope for a moment … I mean, I know how much dear James longs for a son, and I’d love a grandchild.’

‘Let the girl alone!’ snapped Granny. ‘She hasn’t been in her new house five seconds.’

‘But it isn’t a new house, is it? There are all sorts of hazards in old houses for tiny tots – and they’re always damp and unhygienic. I did so much prefer your last home, darling, because at least you knew that no one else had ever lived in it – or died in it!’

‘Thank you for sharing that thought, Mother.’

‘Mummy, dear. And I only say these things for your own good, Leticia.’

‘Tish,’ I corrected. Fair is fair.

I set off early for home, calling off to purchase a bottle of inexpensive champagne on the way, then took a taxi from the station (but that was just because my being out for so long puts such a strain on that daft dog’s bladder).

However, she’d been good, and was rewarded with biscuits and a walk to the village pond, where she chased the four Muscovy ducks until one turned and gave her a hard stare. Then she slunk off with her feathery tail between her legs.

James was late home, didn’t eat much, and said cheap champagne wasn’t worth buying. ‘Are we celebrating something?’

‘Well, we never really celebrated moving in here, darling, and it’s almost April already! And you know I went up to see that agent today?’

He nodded, and I told him all about it, though he couldn’t seem to grasp the importance of it to me – to us – at all.

‘But is it worth it? After all,’ he said, sloshing down the despised cheap champagne like lemonade, ‘once you’ve got a baby to look after you won’t have time for writing, will you? Now I’m a full partner in the firm we can manage without your writing to bring in any little extras.’

My mouth must have dropped open several inches. It took me a few minutes to get my voice back. ‘It’s more than a little extra! Besides, I like writing, and I can’t just turn it off like a tap. I don’t want to turn it off!’

‘You say that now, and I know how much your little hobby means to you, but when you have a baby to look after—’

‘There might not be a baby.’

He smiled indulgently. ‘I don’t see why not; we’re both healthy and I don’t think we should leave it much longer. I want my sons while I’m young enough to play football with them.’

‘Sons? They may be girls, James! Or girl – I don’t think I want more than one. And my writing isn’t a hobby, so I’m not going to stop doing it!’

(I don’t think I could stop, actually. It would all dam up inside me until I burst.)

We carried on like this for some time, because James couldn’t be persuaded out of his old-fashioned, stupid ideas and just kept repeating, ‘Wait and see!’ in his solicitor’s voice.

He’ll wait and see for ever, if he keeps this up.

Although the idea of starting a family once we moved to the country was on the agenda, I find now I’ve got cold feet. I might not – horror of horrors – enjoy motherhood at all! My biological clock seems to have a very quiet tick.

Thinking back, I felt much the same about pets, before the arrival of Toby and then Bess …

And just how much of the childcare would James actually be prepared to do?

Still, I suppose babies sleep a lot, and then I would be able to write. I don’t know, I’ve never so much as held a baby and know nothing of them. They sort of fascinate and frighten me at the same time, so goodness knows what sort of mother I’d make!

Not one like mine, at any rate, who is so unsure of my love that she is incapable of letting go for a second. It’s pretty sad, really, that she never realises such tactics have the opposite effect to the desired one.

I wish I had a close female friend I could discuss it all with, only I seem to have lost touch with college friends, and my schoolfriends vanished after I met Fergal – no one else existed for me when he was around.

I do have a good friend I made when I joined the Society for Women Writing Romance (there are two organisations for romantic novelists, and I chose to join the SFWWR because my favourite author, Tina Devino, is a member), but Peggy, who is older than I am, lives in Cornwall, so mostly we chat on the phone.

I used to think James and I thought as one on all the important things and that there was nothing we couldn’t discuss, but either he’s changed or I was seeing him through rose-tinted spectacles … He didn’t even seem to be aware of the fundamental chasm opening beneath his feet.

Just to round the evening off nicely, I had a peculiar phone call. Not peculiar in the sense of being obscene: just silence, although I was convinced there was someone at the other end of the line. The caller withheld their number.

The Chinese may have the Year of the Rat, but March is clearly Month of the Lavatory.

The fatal day got off to a good start when James forgot to duck under one of the low beams and gave his head such a crack that he was writhing and swearing for a full five minutes, with Toby listening to every juicy word. One day I expect James will become accustomed to the beams, and react automatically like Pavlov’s dogs. A sharp blow to the head early in life has been the making of a lot of men – Augustus John springs to mind – but unfortunately I think James is too old now for it to make any difference.

After he’d finally driven off to work, pale, martyred and armed with a whole bottle of paracetamol, I climbed up onto the toilet lid to try to unjam the shower curtains. This proved not to be a great idea, for there was a sudden cracking noise, and I ended up with one very soaked velvet mule and some nasty scratches round my ankle. This was doubly upsetting for, apart from the shock and pain, I’d have all the embarrassment of trying to order a new toilet lid, and since the bathroom is ancient and old-fashioned I’d have to take the remains of the old one with me to ensure I got the right type. I didn’t think I could persuade James to do it for me.

I at last unjammed the shower curtains by fetching the kitchen stool, and was standing under the hot spray in my mules, directing the nozzle at the one that went down the loo, when it occurred to me that I hadn’t examined myself for lumps recently, what with one thing and another.

So I did, and when I got to that portion of my anatomy where my left breast becomes my armpit, I wished I hadn’t, because I felt something. A lumpy quality. A faint tenderness.

Fighting down panic, I felt again, and it was still there … The next thing I knew I was sitting on the side of the bath thinking: this sort of thing can’t happen to me!

Then I pulled myself together and tried comparing the other side, and there was definitely a difference on the left – although surely not that single hard lump you’re supposed to look for? Also, I thought I’d read somewhere that there’s no pain with breast cancer until it’s terminal?

Of course, once I’d let the dreaded words terminal and breast cancer into my mind, cold, shaky panic crept in too, even though I kept trying to assure myself that I had just pulled a muscle scraping paint or something. I felt perfectly fit and well, after all.

So there was no need to go to a doctor. If it was – if it didn’t go away – I didn’t want to know …

I didn’t think I wanted to know.

Only that was stupid. I decided to wait and see.

To add to my misery, the fluffy fake fur trimming on my very expensive mules went all stiff and matted like a dead cat, and I didn’t feel the same about them any more.

One week of pure hell followed.

James wouldn’t notice if I was dragging myself round on crutches, since he’s begun a new craze: ham radio. This also foiled my attempts to distract myself by getting on with my writing, since he’s cut several things out of my ham radio magazine, and hogs my library books.

I can only hope it is temporary. It’s bad enough him slipping back into the habit of meeting his cronies after work in the pub (which is turning dinner into supper practically every evening, now he has so far to drive home), or risking arrest by consorting with Howard, without him having his nose glued to my books whenever he is here and I want him to do something.

Friday morning, the Lump still being present, I went to see my new doctor, which I should have done at the start.

Not that she – brisk, brusque and overworked – was very reassuring.

She said she didn’t think it was anything to worry about, but would refer me to the hospital anyway and I’d be sent an appointment.

This meant another wait, although I knew that if she’d only been pretending not to be worried by the lump I’d be sent for instantly.

So the longer the wait, the less important she’d found it …

It didn’t do anything to stop me worrying.

Fergal: April 1999

‘WHO IS BRITAIN’S SEXIEST STAR? YOU VOTE!’

Trendsetter magazine

SEXY?

I’m not about to become celibate for life, but seeing Tish like that … well, if you crave champagne, then water is just something you quench your thirst with when you can’t get what you really want.

Nerissa – the latest thirst-quencher – is turning tricky now I’m losing interest. I don’t have much respect for women prepared to lie down at the drop of a famous name, but I don’t want to hurt her.

She was just a girl who threw herself at me, and prettier than most. Only now it turns out she used to go to school with Sara, Carlo’s fiancée, and she’s using that old friendship so that she always knows where I’m going to be next, trying to turn a casual affair into some kind of relationship, though I made sure she knew right from the start that it would never be that.

Now she’s always there. Especially after a gig, when I’m on a high …

She always seems to be there whenever the cameras flash, too.