‘You know it makes sense, Lucy.’
I stared at my husband in horror. For the last few minutes, Leo had been talking non-stop about a tiny tumbledown cottage for sale in the next village. And he wanted us to move into it.
‘You’re joking,’ I scoffed.
‘Am I laughing?’ Leo countered. ‘The kids have left home and we have three empty bedrooms collecting dust. We’re rattling around this place like dried-up peas in a drum.’
‘I like rattling,’ I said defiantly. ‘And less of the dried-up reference.’
Leo had hit a nerve. At forty-nine, I was on the verge of a half-century crisis. As much as I tried embracing yet another grey hair and telling myself that silver was still sexy, my heart wasn’t in it. Inside, I was still eighteen. Girly and giggly. But unlike those days, a missed period didn’t send me running to the pharmacy to buy a pregnancy test kit. Oh no. These days a blip in the menstrual cycle was my body’s way of reminding me that it was going through some very different hormonal changes. The menopause was hurtling towards me faster than the local high-speed train at Ebbsfleet International.
Leo folded his arms across his chest. A defensive gesture. He was still a good-looking guy. A fifty-two-year-old version of Robert Redford. Everyone flirted with Leo. Patsy, my next-door neighbour, was forever fluttering her eyelashes at my husband.
‘He’s such a hunk, Lucy,’ she was always saying. ‘You’re so lucky to sleep every night with Leo by your side. If we were sharing a bed, I’d be worn out.’
‘Oh?’ I’d raised an eyebrow quizzically.
‘Because no sleeping would ever get done, darling!’ she’d grinned.
Patsy was a dead ringer for Dorien from Birds of a Feather. A man-eater with a penchant for red lipstick, leopard-print handbags and transparent blouses showcasing various black lace bras, she devours men like Leo for breakfast. And lunch and dinner.
‘Are you even listening to me, Lucy?’ Leo asked, annoyance flashing across his still-handsome features.
‘I don’t want to move,’ I said, abruptly standing up from the kitchen table where we’d been having Sunday lunch together. Heaven knows why I’d cooked a roast in weather like this. A salad would have been far more appropriate for July’s heatwave.
I began clearing away the plates from the table and moved over to the kitchen sink, distancing myself from both my husband and the conversation. I didn’t want to leave the house where our three children had been conceived and subsequently raised. It had memories etched into every room. Even the built-in wardrobes in the kids’ bedrooms still sported the faded marks of a black indelible pen:
Jessica – age nine, 139 cm
Amy – age seven, 119 cm
Daniel – age five, 101 cm
Out of my peripheral vision, I saw Leo visibly huff and recross his arms. He was definitely on the defensive. If I hadn’t been busy clearing up, I’d have resorted to some vigorous arm-crossing myself. Instead I pursed my lips and ignored my husband. How could he be prepared to walk away from our family home so easily? If we moved into the ridiculously tiny dwelling he was talking about, then much of our furniture would have to be discarded too. There would be no room for the huge, solid pine kitchen table, the wood of which still bore white rings from happy hours of painting we’d done with the kids – the jam jars full of dirty-coloured liquid and stained brushes. Every time I looked at those marks, I didn’t see water spoilage. Instead I saw my three kids… younger… smaller… at a time when Leo and I – and not their latest love interests – were their universe. Those rings gave me a warm glow.
‘But why don’t you want to move, darling?’ Leo cajoled.
I glanced at him. He’d dropped the folded-arms-across-chest pose and softened his tone. I could read him like a book. Don’t bully her. Sweet-talk her instead. She’ll come around. After twenty-five years of marriage, Leo was also very good at reading me, too. He would have noted my mouth set in an unattractively obstinate line, along with the rigid set of my jaw and stiff back. He’d go down the flattery route next.
‘Do you know how adorable you are when you’re annoyed?’
See! Told you.
‘You’re still a very beautiful woman, Luce. When you’re all made up, you look just like that actress, Sandra Bullock.’
‘As opposed to when I’m not made up and just look like a bullock?’
‘Can’t I pay my wife a compliment?’ he said, feigning hurt.
‘Stop trying to charm me, Leo,’ I protested.
‘I wasn’t!’
‘You know perfectly well that you’re only sucking up to me because you have an ulterior motive,’ I replied, blasting hot water into the sink and swishing washing-up liquid under the tap’s flow. My temper was starting to bubble, just like the soap suds. Leo had been mentioning this wreck of a cottage on and off for the last year. It had been a softly-softly approach at first, but now it was like a relentlessly dripping tap. Just like the one in front of me. I shut off the faucet with a flourish.
‘This needs a new washer,’ I said, stabbing a finger at the spout. ‘Shall I ring a plumber?’
‘Not really worth bothering about it if we move.’
‘I. Just. Told. You,’ I enunciated. ‘I’m not moving.’
‘Lucy,’ said Leo, his tone becoming one of wheedling. ‘Please don’t be so stubborn. This place is too big for us. We’re throwing money away on huge heating bills—’
‘So you want us to throw money away on a clapped-out cottage instead?’
‘Not at all,’ said Leo hastily. ‘It would be an investment. Something with character and on which we can put our own unique stamp. You could have one of those charming wood burners in the inglenook fireplace, and a nice range in the kitchen. You know how you love that look.’
‘I could have those things here if I wanted,’ I pointed out.
‘But it doesn’t really go in a house like this one, does it?’ Leo countered. ‘An oblong seventies detached isn’t great for imitating that rustic olde-worlde look.’
‘Patsy has beams in her house,’ I argued.
‘Mm. Plastic ones. Not quite the same thing, is it?’
‘They look real enough to me. And she loves them. And anyway, I like it here. And I like our neighbours.’
‘No you don’t!’ said Leo, snorting. ‘You moan endlessly about Colin on the corner starting his motorbike up at six o’clock every morning… and Pete, whose car needs a new exhaust, and the racket it makes when it backfires like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang as he goes off to work. And let’s not forget Patsy, who spends her summer evenings out in the garden having noisy romps on her patio with her latest lover. Getting away from her alone would be positively blissful.’
I suspected that Patsy’s love life was an issue for Leo. Our neighbour’s much younger lovers were a constant reminder that he wasn’t as virile as they were. For him, the days of heady impulsive sex seemed to be over. Mind you, it wasn’t necessarily because he didn’t feel like it. Sometimes he did. It was the wife who wouldn’t oblige. My sex drive had done a bunk. I wasn’t sure why. Presumably it was due to falling oestrogen levels.
Patsy was a whole year older than me, so quite why she was in a perpetual state of sexual arousal was a complete mystery. We’d got to know each other when she’d moved into our road ten years ago. Fresh out of the divorce courts, she’d said hello over the garden fence and we’d immediately hit it off. She wasn’t shy either, and confided all sorts. I knew, for example, that her current beau was twelve years younger than her, looked like a Greek God, but had a poor track record on commitment – which didn’t bother Patsy in the slightest.
‘Who wants commitment, darling?’ she’d often say, blowing a cloud of vape directly over my head as we shared coffee together. ‘It’s so overrated. I’ve been married three times, and what did it do for me? Three kids that constantly bounce back and—’
‘I thought you said you had two kids?’ I’d interrupted.
‘Yes, you’re right. But the third kid was my last husband. A total man-child. In the beginning I thought it was endearing, but at the end it was simply annoying. It’s much easier – and more fun – to stick to lovers,’ she’d smirked. ‘That way you get all the joy without dirty socks and dropped clothes. Let’s face it, men are messy buggers.’
‘Lucy, would you please stop switching off?’ Leo implored. ‘I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you.’
‘Look, Leo,’ I said, stacking dripping plates in the dish rack, ‘how many times have I got to keep saying that I don’t want to move? What is this fascination with a half-derelict cottage, which, although not a million miles from here, is still in a very isolated spot? If it’s such a great investment opportunity, why hasn’t it been snapped up by a local builder, or a pair of young professionals looking for a weekend retreat?’
‘Okay,’ Leo nodded, ‘I’ll give you some very valid reasons as to why we should give this serious consideration.’ He pushed back his chair and stood up from the table. As he came towards me, he began ticking off the details on his fingers. ‘Firstly, it’s quiet. I long to have peaceful Sunday morning lie-ins without the likes of Colin, Pete and Patsy disturbing me.’
‘Okay, Colin and Pete are a bit of a nuisance, but I like Patsy.’
‘Secondly,’ said Leo, sweeping on, ‘if we sold this house we would be able to buy the cottage outright, afford to do it up, and still have some money in the bank and—’
‘Hang on,’ I interrupted, ‘who, exactly, is going to be doing the “doing up” bit?’
Leo had a lot of good traits, which had been partly why I’d married him. Patience was top of the list, followed by great father potential, and he’d never got irritated by my mother – which was a huge brownie point because my mother could be more irritating than itching powder. But one thing Leo had never possessed was practicality. A trip to Ikea, in the early years of marriage, had seen him looking very uneasy at the checkout. I’d discovered why when he’d later tried putting the flat-pack furniture together. Two words. Impractical person.
‘Well, you’re the hands-on one out of the two of us,’ Leo retorted. ‘You’re brilliant with a paintbrush.’
‘Leo, that cottage is going to need a lot more than a lick of paint. It probably needs replastering, replumbing, re-everything. The last time I avoided the traffic and doubled back through the country lanes, I couldn’t even see the cottage because of its overgrown garden and hedgerow. However, I did spot the chimney pot and there was a sapling growing out of it.’
Leo flapped a hand. ‘All fixable. We could get someone in to sort it out, and you could be Project Manager.’
‘Me?’ I dried my hands on a tea towel and planted them on my hips. ‘Why not you?’
‘Because you’re the one at home all day,’ he said simply.
‘I work too, you know,’ I cried. ‘Just because I don’t drive to London like you, it doesn’t mean I have time to share gossip and cups of tea with a builder as he takes a break from knocking down a wall.’
My ‘career’ wasn’t exactly high-flying. I worked from home making curtains and also provided a service for clothes alterations. If I wasn’t hemming drapes, I was taking in waistbands or letting them out again. On the very odd occasion, I’d even made simple wedding dresses. Dressmaking was something I’d always enjoyed as a hobby. When the children had come along, I’d turned my skills into a means of bringing in some extra cash. I’d continued with it once they’d started school, running up things like made-to-measure blinds between the hours of nine and three, and had consequently been lucky enough to never require expensive childcare.
‘And exactly how does my sewing fit in with plaster mess? I can see a client’s face right now as I invite them to step on to a dust sheet for a fitting, and to please mind the nails sticking out of the door frame.’
‘It would all be a temporary transition, Luce,’ Leo soothed, ‘and anyway, you haven’t listened to the third reason why we should move.’ My husband’s face suddenly clouded.
‘Go on then,’ I snapped, ‘spit it out. What is this wonderful final reason why we should pack up this house and downsize?’
‘Because,’ said Leo, his voice faltering slightly, ‘there’s something I haven’t told you. Something monumental. I kept it to myself because I didn’t want to worry you, especially if nothing came of it.’ His tone had taken on an ominous note and I had a sudden sense of foreboding. For a moment we just stood there, staring at each other, me with my hands still on my hips, and Leo with his Adam’s apple yo-yoing nervously up and down his windpipe. ‘But now… now I need to face up to the reality of the situation.’
‘What situation?’ I demanded.
‘Er, well, there’s been some changes, Lucy. At work. Mainly, a new CEO with a fresh broom approach.’
‘Meaning?’ I said, my voice quavering slightly.
‘Meaning out with the old and in with the new. And I’m one of the old. I think I’m going to be made redundant.’
‘Redundant?’ I echoed.
My insides felt as though they were physically recoiling in horror. Was this what you had to half-expect as you grew older? The possibility of getting laid off because you were no longer seen as fresh-faced and dynamic? Did Leo’s new CEO regard my husband as a has-been, rather than a loyal and long-serving employee? Oh my God, redundant! It was a word that had been hovering on the edge of my thoughts ever since our youngest left home, because I’d felt redundant as a parent. And now Leo was going to be redundant as a worker.
‘But what’s been going on?!’ I cried. ‘You haven’t mentioned anything to me about this before? Not one word!’
‘As I said, I didn’t want to worry you.’
‘Worry me?’ I repeated. ‘So, you thought it would be better to spring it on me instead, along with a house move, yes?’
Leo shrugged helplessly. ‘I didn’t know what to do for the best.’
‘Are you absolutely sure you’re going to be made redundant?’
‘There has been talk of cost-cutting exercises for the last year, Lucy, plus they’ve now started a Notice Period procedure with me. The third and final one is on Monday.’
‘Right,’ I said faintly. ‘And, er’ – I wracked my brain, trying to collect my thoughts – ‘have they offered you an alternative position?’
‘No,’ Leo shook his head. ‘They say there isn’t one.’
‘I see,’ I replied. Actually, I didn’t see. How could they consider throwing away thirty-plus years of service just like that? ‘But, hang on, you said they were making way for new blood. Are they planning on replacing you? I’m pretty sure there must be employment laws about stuff like that.’
‘Oh I know they’re replacing me,’ Leo gave a mirthless laugh, ‘because Fergie told me.’
‘Fergie?’ I repeated, looking blank.
‘Steve Ferguson. He knows somebody who knows somebody else in the industry and they told him that the company are looking for someone in the south. Apparently, this guy has already been interviewed.’
‘But that’s outrageous!’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you told HR that you know about this?’
‘Yes, and they denied it. Lucy, I’m just a small fish in a very big pond. I’m tired of swimming and getting nowhere and exhausted trying to keep things afloat.’
‘Right,’ I croaked. Redundancy put a different complexion on things. But then again, I was still working.
‘And before you say anything about the pair of us managing on your income, the answer is no.’
I bristled. ‘Are you saying my financial input isn’t enough? I could increase my hours.’
‘No, darling,’ Leo soothed. ‘Don’t be so prickly. But your contribution has always tended to be on the things you can’t put a price on… like being far more readily available than me to drop everything if one of the kids needs a parent’s helping hand. Your sewing projects have been perfect when it has come to flexibility with our three kids.’
This was true. ‘Sew Easy’ wasn’t just the name of my part-time business; it was also ‘so easy’ to just abandon a job to rush out the front door at a moment’s notice. It wasn’t something Leo had ever been able to do. He was, metaphorically, chained to a desk from nine in the morning to long after five at the end of the day. It was me who turned my back on putting zips in those newly made cushion covers in order to dash off to Jessica when she’d pranged her car and rung me in floods of tears saying she was shaking too much to move her vehicle onto the hard shoulder, and please could I come? Now? Or the time when Amy had locked herself out of her flat and asked if I could pop over with the spare key she’d given me, because boyfriend Jack was out on a jolly with his mates and nobody was answering the phone at the lettings agency. More recently our youngest had moved into university halls, and it had been me who’d helped Daniel pack umpteen boxes and load up the car. Not Leo.
‘But… but… if you’re redundant and I’m working, then you could be the one to rush off at a moment’s notice, and leave me to work without interruption,’ I pointed out.
‘Darling, it’s so lovely of you to offer to be the breadwinner, but I can’t have that.’
‘I don’t mind,’ I cried.
‘But I do,’ said Leo quietly. ‘I’m not the sort of man who wants to be kept by his wife.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I spluttered. ‘You wouldn’t be.’
‘No, Lucy,’ said Leo, his tone firm. ‘Call me old-fashioned, but I’ll be looking for another job. At my age I’ll be lucky to get anything like the position I have now. But I don’t mind. At fifty-two, I’m happy to slow down.’
Slow down? My husband might be happy to ‘slow down’, but those two words were anathema to me. How could Leo be happy to willingly embrace such a transition? I flinched with horror at the very idea. I wanted to be skiing down mountains at eighty, not settling down in front of the telly and falling asleep in front of Corrie.
‘I’ll consider any sort of employment,’ said Leo. ‘A sales desk at the local double-glazing company, or shelf stacking at Sainsbury’s.’
‘Double glazing? Shelf stack—?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘You’re a businessman.’
‘I’m not proud.’
‘Look, I’m not saying that selling double glazing or shelf stacking are unworthy jobs,’ I said hastily. ‘I take my hat off to those who do it. But, somehow, I can’t see you whistling away as you neatly arrange tins of baked beans, or point out the merits of uPVC, when you’ve been used to organising a team of staff… poring over spreadsheets… studying logistics… putting presentations togeth—’
‘Lucy, enough. Please.’ Leo drew me towards him, wrapping his arms around my waist. ‘Believe it or not, I’m more than happy to turn my back on just that. I want less stress. Don’t you see?’
I was quiet for a moment, and silently studied the soft chest hair peeking over the V of my husband’s T-shirt. When I’d first met Leo, his hairy chest had been a major turn-on for me. I’d run my fingers through the soft brown curls and practically purr with happiness. With a jolt, I noticed the hair was now mostly white. When had that happened? I couldn’t remember. Just like I couldn’t remember the last time we’d made love. Was it last week, when Leo had waggled his eyebrows suggestively as I’d come out of the shower? I’d pretended not to notice, and he’d ended up returning to the telly to watch Question Time. I’d sighed with happiness and snuggled down under the duvet with Amazon’s latest Number One on my Kindle. Or was that a fortnight ago? Or even last month? I didn’t know. And the awful thing was… I wasn’t sure I even cared.
The rest of Sunday passed in something of a daze. Leo helped me dry the dishes before retiring to the lounge… no, not ‘retiring’, Lucy… Leo has simply walked to the lounge before reclining back on the sofa… to watch Formula One racing. Half an hour later, not wishing to listen any further to the background noise of engines, and feeling a strong need to absent myself to process what the hell I was going to do, I picked up Pip’s lead. Instantly, the family dog reared up out of her basket, tail rotating like a high-speed helicopter rotor.
‘Walkies?’ I enquired.
Pip responded with a joyful woof.
‘Let’s see if your master can tear himself away from the box and enjoy an afternoon stroll, eh?’
No, Lucy! Not ‘stroll’. An afternoon walk. And a power walk at that.
I stuck my head around the lounge door. Despite the television’s volume being up, and it only being three o’clock in the afternoon, my husband was fast asleep.
‘Looks like it’s just you and me, Pip,’ I said, resisting the urge to add the words ‘again’. But I didn’t fancy walking alone while Pip darted off to chase squirrels and stalk hares. I wondered if Patsy might be up for joining me. God, Lucy, how desperate are you for company on a Sunday when you resort to seeking out sex-mad Patsy? Leo had recently dubbed our neighbour ‘Patio Patsy’ after one particularly late-night sexual encounter which had taken place on her terrace and involved a sun parasol acting as a screen, and a packet of butter for… well… who knew what. Leo had been affronted.
‘You can bet your shopping list she’s not spreading that Kerrygold over bread,’ Leo had murmured, as he’d peered through a crack in the bedroom curtains trying to make out shapes in the starlit night. Seconds later, Patsy had ecstatically shrieked, ‘Oooh, you’ve made me all slippery.’
‘Stop spying,’ I’d rebuked Leo.
‘Yes, darling,’ my husband had sighed, before getting back under the duvet and mumbling, ‘It’s the nearest I get to seeing any action these days.’
I attached Pip’s lead to her collar and, gathering up house keys and mobile, let myself out. I didn’t need a coat, or even a hoodie. The July sun had been relentless, baking lawns to the colour of saffron and leaving plants gasping. August loomed and promised to be the driest on record.
‘I was just coming to see you,’ said a familiar voice.
I turned and saw Patsy standing at the end of my driveway.
‘That’s a coincidence, because I was going to knock on your door.’
‘Oh really?’ Patsy raised her eyebrows, swiftly crossing the block paving as she came towards me. Our driveways were identical, and only a row of withered shrubs marked the division between our properties.
‘You go first,’ I said, pulling the door shut behind me. ‘What’s up?’
‘Sadly, absolutely nothing,’ Patsy replied, her shoulders drooping. ‘I’ve been dumped.’ She reached down and patted Pip’s head. ‘At least you still love me, eh, darling girl.’
‘I thought you and Henri were going to be for keeps? Didn’t you recently say you thought he was “The One”?’
‘Henri? Good God, no! I keep telling you I don’t want to get married again. But it would be nice to have a long-term lover. It’s all so annoying having to get to know someone all over again. And, anyway, Henri was two months ago, Lucy. This one was Patrick. He had a gorgeous body and divine looks but announced he’s going back to his wife.’
‘He was married?’ I gasped.
‘Darling, they’re all bloody married,’ Patsy huffed. ‘Either that, or divorced with a trail of nagging ex-wives bouncing along in their wake – in which case they might as well still be married. So why were you wanting to see me?’
‘I was going to ask if you fancied keeping me company. Leo is napping on the sofa, and I’m fed up doing things by myself.’
‘Yes, perfectly understandable,’ Patsy nodded. ‘Thank God for Dave, otherwise I’d be having to do “that” by myself too now that Patrick has gone.’
‘Dave?’ I queried, gathering up the lead. ‘I’m going to Trosley by the way,’ I said, jerking my head in the direction of the local country park. One of the joys of living in Vigo was the nearby woodland area, a magnet for dog walkers, cyclists, horse riders and young families with toddling children. It also had a very pleasant café that sold hot drinks in cold weather and thirst-quenchers on days like this one. ‘Is that all right with you?’
‘Yes, why not. After all, I’ve nothing else to do, and no one else to do it with.’
‘So who’s Dave then?’ I arched an eyebrow.
‘Oh, Dave isn’t a person, darling.’ Patsy gave a shriek of laughter as we set off. ‘Dave is my dildo.’
I nearly dropped Pip’s lead.
‘You have—?’
‘Yes! Dave is my favourite vibrator. A huge pink one. I named it after one of my ex-husbands because he was the biggest prick on the planet.’ Her lips pursed in annoyance at the memory of the unfortunate Dave. ‘If Leo isn’t up for obliging you, then perhaps you should buy one for yourself. I know a very good online company that I can highly recommend. Very discreet. Their bestseller is Percy Penis. It has lots of bobbly bits that are absolute heaven’ – Patsy rolled her eyes, indicating she’d died several times and gone there – ‘when it comes to hitting that elusive G-spot. So many men have absolutely no idea where to find it, even if you arm them with a compass and Ordnance Survey map. Do you know, once…’
And Patsy was off, regaling me with the horrors of yet another ex-husband who’d had a bank balance thicker than a coil of rope, but privates the width of string. I let her ramble on as we crossed Waterlow Road and ducked into the relative coolness of Trosley’s tree-lined pathway. Normally the tracks were muddy, but now the ground was hard and fretted with fissures. Leo usually mowed the lawn on a Sunday, but currently there was nothing to cut on account of the grass looking like a farmer’s stubble-burnt fields after the hay harvest. I stooped to let Pip off the lead. There was a split second where my mongrel impersonated an Olympic sprinter leaving a starting block, her whippet-like body te. . .
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
