As It Is On Telly (2 page)

‘Sorry, how much?’

The operator, sporting a very dubious auburn rinse, grinned cheerfully. ‘Miles away, were you, love? Happens all the time. One hundred and twenty-three pounds and forty-five pence.’

‘Oh Christ!’

It was no more than usual. Too much, but no more than usual. But the feeling in her gullet was far from the norm. Handing over her credit card, she heard Graham’s voice in her head, telling her that he paid the credit card bills. He did. And the mortgage, and Charlotte’s exorbitant private school fees that would have funded a whole state school for a year, and the frequent haircuts.

That was why she had settled for Graham. For dull, steady Graham. He was her very own Flexible Friend. Adam had squandered more than just her love. His requests for money had become more and more frequent. Not until years later, when she was investigating the whole issue as a means of making sure Charlotte avoided it, did she realise that the amounts and frequency of the loans had been directly related to the redness of his eyeballs, the terrible sniffing, and the sallow waxen finish to his skin. Most of the trust fund her great aunt had left her to help her in her education, to set her on her own feet in life, had gone up Adam’s nose.

And then there’d along came Graham, her financial advisor, helping her to save what she hadn’t already wasted on her un-ordinary rock-star hopeful of a boyfriend. He had given her low risk options, locked the last remaining couple of grand into a long-term account that she couldn’t get to, and moved her into his own house within ten days. The fact that a man in his early twenties had a house at all had not struck her as odd; he was her hero, her saviour, and her anti-Adam.

So that’s how it had been for the last sixteen years. Mr Dependable and Grateful, shocked out of his usual steadiness by his adoration of this Bambi, this fawn of a girl, and Ms ‘I settled’. Bunty didn’t like thinking that she’d gone for any easy option, but deep down she suspected that if Graham had been less free with the bill-paying, she might have been a bit less free with her love. Of course, she wasn’t that shallow. They’d got along, very well on occasions. When they weren’t getting along very well, they were getting by. Just fine. And she did love him. How could she not? But did she still? Had she ever … really?

‘Pin number, love?’ the cashier was saying.

‘Sorry. Sorry.’ Bunty keyed in her code, fighting the temptation to hyperventilate.

There was the crux of it. She’d believed he would never leave her. But now he was doing the unthinkable. And no Graham meant no bill paying. No hairdressing. No steak and wine and whole hunks of imported cheese. It would be no fun whatsoever. And she had no discernible talent, other than flirting, with which to make a living for herself.

She stared wildly at her bottle of Penhaligon wine, vastly overpriced because of the import duty from New Zealand. It would all have to stop. Graham wouldn’t see her penniless, she was sure, but the blonde bitch he was likely to take up with would overtake her in the hairdressing stakes, demanding fortnightly highlights. They’d have children. Charlotte would be tossed aside and sent to the local comprehensive, running the gauntlet of the drug runners and knife gangs that Bunty was convinced populated the whole place.

At last her whole chest cavity was flooded with emotion. It wasn’t what she’d imagined – grief, sorrow, sadness for the loss of her husband. It was fear – pure white, flashing, asphyxiating fear. She was about to be discarded from their marriage and she had no options.

‘I need a back-up plan,’ she informed the cashier hoarsely.

Mrs Auburn frowned. ‘Is that like the loyalty card? You’ll have to go to customer services.’

‘Customer services.’ Bunty nodded rapidly, sweeping carrier bags off the conveyor belt and into the shopping trolley, oblivious to the crash of glass, the drip of prized NZ sauvignon blanc onto the tiles.

Back-up plan. Back-up plan. That was it. She chanted it like a mantra as she jogged to the car. It wasn’t customer services she needed. It was Kat.

CHAPTER TWO

Kat listened without comment to Bunty’s plan, as Bunty had known she would, particularly when confronted with a nibble platter of Sainsbury’s best and a large glass of what she had managed to salvage from the shattered wine collection.

As Bunty drew to a close, Kat nodded, put her glass down, and said, ‘You’re kidding, right?’ in a tone that suggested she knew full well Bunty was entirely serious. Bunty gazed levelly at her, fixing Kat’s wide blue eyes with her own almond-shaped hazel ones. Unblinking, Kat stared back at her. She wasn’t really waiting for an answer, although she was hoping for one. Kat knew Bunty far too well for that. They had been friends since their early twenties, when Kat had worked briefly for the same company as Graham, and they had both run rings around him. She had the kind of sweet nature that would have made her a far more suitable partner for the trusty Graham, but at that time she had been focussing on her career. Unfortunately, that now meant that she was heading into her late thirties without a partner, desperate for children and contemplating the turkey baster. Matters had improved lately when she started a relationship with Simon Francis, but since he lived on the other side of the world, babies seemed somewhat off the agenda.

‘Go on then,’ said Kat eventually, topping up both their glasses. ‘How exactly do you think you’re going to manage Operation Sugar Daddy? Mmm, like the sound of that. I should get one,’ she added, far more keen on the ‘sugar’ element than the ‘daddy’ part.

Operation Sugar Daddy. Bunty liked the sound of it too. She had worked it out in the car as she bounced the Mini off several kerbstones, driving home from the supermarket with the mobile attached illegally to her ear and her heart in spasms. It made sense. What was going to happen to her? Graham would trade her in for his newer model, and she would be cast aside like the weekend’s papers. What could she do about it? Very little, assuming that the vasectomy, weight loss and subterfuge over the squash games meant what most wives would try to ignore – that Graham was already test-driving someone new. So how was she going to live?

That was the critical question. There would be alimony, of course, and Charlotte’s upbringing paid for. The courts would see to that. She’d probably get the house if she pushed hard enough, although for some reason, the prospect of downgrading rather appealed. A cosy terrace in Brighton, maybe. Close enough to commute, far enough away to start again. Less rooms to clean; less bland magnolia and beige tiles (beautiful, expensive, but still beige) in the double shower, which had never been used for more than one person – at least to her knowledge.

But what could she actually do? She had no skills, no trade, no experience, not even any ancient qualifications. Breaking up with Adam had caused her such grief that she’d given up on her A levels, done odd jobs, and lived off her aunt’s legacy until Graham had stepped in and taken charge. Having spent the fifteen years trying out coffee groups, testing pottery classes, tennis and various other hobbies to fill in time while Charlotte was at school, and becoming the world’s leading expert on daytime TV, she had nothing to offer any employer. Nada. Nil. The only advantages she had that she could possibly utilise were her naturally skinny frame and long-lashed eyes that could be batted at opportune moments.

Previously that had been purely for sport, to wind Graham up. Now she had to put those traits to good use. If Graham could trade up to someone newer, shinier, then she too could upgrade. To someone fun. Someone sexy. Someone … she hated to think it would come to this, but the truth was staring her in the face … someone rich. As Graham had pointed out after the Adam debacle, it was just as easy to fall in love with someone wealthy as it was with someone impoverished.

Bunty took a slug of her wine. ‘I don’t know how to do it. That’s why I need your help. I don’t even know where to start. You did all that dating stuff, didn’t you?’

‘Me?’ Kat belched out a hollow laugh. ‘Yes, you see how successful it was for me. I couldn’t find anyone for myself. Had to have Cally’s cast-offs.’

‘Well, there’s a thought. Cally’s cast-offs,’ said Bunty with a grin. ‘You and me. The Cally’s Cast-offs club.’

‘Don’t even think about it.’

Cally, the third member of their trio, the three musketeers, had gone from closeted single-motherhood with daughter Paige to unmarried bliss with her sort-of father-in-law, via a near miss with his son, her ex, Alan, and with the delicious Simon Francis. Kat now had her talons into Simon, though admittedly at rather a distance. And Alan … Well, Bunty didn’t want to think about that too much. It had been revealed on the eve of Cally’s wedding to Alan that Bunty and the groom had once snogged at a party when Alan was already involved with Cally and Bunty, to her shame, was married with a young baby. It had only been a kiss – a sad, desperate, clinging-to-a-life-raft type of a kiss that had led to nothing. Bunty had cringed about it throughout her marriage. Infidelity did not come naturally to her. And yet Graham seemed to have taken to it with ease. In fact, with considerable skill and forethought, the vasectomy enabling him to have sex with impunity.

‘Oh my God,’ she blurted, squirting wine through her teeth. ‘I just thought of something. You know last year when we were in Fiji for Cally’s wedding – nearly wedding? Do you think it started then? I bet Graham started shagging around as soon as my suitcase was in the taxi.’

Kat cocked her head sympathetically. ‘You had just left him, Bun-Bun. He might have even … had a right?’

‘It was a trial separation. One month. And … oh, bloody hell, he’s got a nerve.’ More memories flooded back to her. Graham looking all persecuted and wounded when one of their many arguments had led to her confession of the Alan-snog. It had been meant to reassure him, let him know that that was the very worst she’d ever done; instead, he had informed her their marriage was over and she ought to move out. ‘He was
looking
for an excuse. He actually wanted a little holiday from our marriage. Think about it – he had the perfect excuse for heading off to look for someone else. He was hurt. I’d cheated on him. I’d left him. He was rethinking our future.’

‘Exactly the time he’d start an affair with someone. A sympathetic work colleague. Someone who ‘understood him’.’ Kat was away, thoroughly enjoying the
Cosmo
psychobabble. ‘Just one drink too many and one thing leads to another. It’s actually quite romantic.’ She caught Bunty’s eye and swallowed hastily. ‘Sorry. I’m sure none of that happened. He took you back, didn’t he?’

He had taken her back. That much Bunty had to concede. She’d come back from Fiji, chastened by the exposure of her past tiny indiscretion and the near loss of her cherished friendship with Cally, bewildered by the fact that she could ever have been attracted to Alan in the first place – such an Adam-type – and begged Graham to try again. ‘It was only because he had such a hard time with Charlotte,’ she said. ‘He had no idea what it was really like to deal with a truculent nearly twelve-year-old, day-in day-out.’

Charlotte had started her periods while Bunty had been away, and Graham’s handling of the situation had been of the chocolate teapot variety. Both Charlotte and Graham had fallen on her with cries of delight when she’d returned from Fiji with an olive tan and collection of raffia ornaments. Mum was home. That was what they’d both thought, she was sure. Mum was home. Not Bunty. Not Graham’s wife. Just someone who could deal with hormones, menstruation and homework logs.

Bunty’s eyes filled up and she almost rejoiced. At last – some sort of regret! ‘I can’t believe I was so taken in,’ she said softly, waggling her empty glass at Kat. ‘Of course he’d need me here. He couldn’t go off to all those, ahem, squash games with Charlotte hanging around his neck, could he? It’s probably been going on all this time.’

‘I’m afraid you’re probably right,’ said Kat. ‘The signs are all there.’

‘So what do I do?’

Kat smiled, patted Bunty’s hand and sauntered over to the computer. ‘Operation Shug D begins. That’s code, so Graham doesn’t know what you’re up to and chuck you out first.’

With a few agile taps of the keyboard, she brought up Match.com. Page after page of photographs panned across Bunty’s eyes. ‘They all look like convicts,’ she said. ‘I can’t meet any of them. I might never get home to Charlotte. They might actually be
after
Charlotte.’

‘They’re not that bad, really. Most of them take their own photograph, and it always looks terrible, like they’re looking in a hub-cab, or the back of a spoon. But the ones you want to be careful of are the ones with professional photos. Usually idiots. Big egos.’

Bunty drew in a deep breath. ‘I don’t care about the size of their egos. Just their wallets. How about that one?’

She pointed to an Onassis-looking chap half-silhouetted against a soft background, billowing chins flowing down his chest like the ruffles on a dress shirt.

‘Eeuw,’ said Kat. ‘You are not that desperate.’

‘Not yet,’ said Bunty darkly. She drained her glass.

But after a hysterical half-hour trawling through the pages, Bunty had to agree that she really was not that desperate. It was fine to imagine that all she was really interested in was income, but when it came down to it, it simply wasn’t true. The ones who specified that their income was substantial tended to sound like arrogant pricks; the ones who looked good appeared either to be car mechanics (and not the garage owner) or police officers with ‘very open minds, looking for fun’.

‘This is hopeless,’ she said, after ‘ROByoublind’ had outlined his spiritual journey on his yacht and included details of his many experiences of Tantric sex. ‘They all sound like pervs, or no-hopers. I can’t go meeting them all in the hope of finding one who’s looking for a … well, a wife.’

It was all she knew how to be, and yet most of the characters on the screen seemed to be searching for fun, or friendship, or possibly relationship after friendship (‘they’re the ones that are just shagging anything that moves,’ Kat had told her knowledgeably).

Kat looked up thoughtfully. ‘You’re absolutely right. You’re after something quite specific. Someone looking for marriage, with a good income. Let’s say … six figures as a minimum?’

‘Sounds good.’

‘Well, they might be there on these ordinary sites,’ said Kat, pulling the keyboard towards her, ‘but I’m betting they go somewhere more exclusive. Why don’t we look up … um … ‘wealthy males searching for love’.’

Bunty shrugged. ‘Are they really going to be listed on here? I did see something like that on
Doctor
Phil
once – ‘Millionaire Marriages’ or something. But that was in America, Hollywood even. There won’t be anything like that here.’

‘Google will find them.’ Kat smiled mysteriously and started to type in ‘wealthy’ with a flourish.

Before she’d got as far as the ‘e’, a drop-down menu appeared before their eyes, and the images of hopeful Matchdotcommers shimmied out of the way for some new pictures.

‘Oh my good God!’ screamed Bunty. ‘Turn it off. Off!’

Kat fumbled with the mouse. ‘I didn’t … How did that …?’

‘Christ, if Charlotte ever saw that lot …’

They watched, horrified, fascinated, as the noughts-and-crosses board filled with images of a variety of penises faded away, along with the photo of Prince William (his face, not his penis) and, inexplicably, a bearded older man who apparently was writer and comedian Willy Rushton.

‘How the hell did they come up? What’s that got to do with ‘wealthy’?’

Kat peeked through her fingers at the screen. ‘Are they gone? How disgusting. I don’t know how they got there. I’d only typed in “w” …’ She peered more closely at the screen. ‘Oops!’

‘What?’ Bunty thrust her head over her friend’s shoulder. ‘What does ‘oops’ mean?’

Kat pointed to the drop-down menu that had appeared with the insertion of the letter ‘w’. Every item beginning with that letter that had been searched for over the last few months was listed there. Wealth management – that was probably Graham. Wicker chairs – Bunty, looking to replace the ancient Lloyd Loom in their bedroom. And top of the list: willies.

Bunty felt sick. ‘Jesus. Was that Charlotte?’

‘I’m guessing … yes.’ Kat grimaced, then tried not to giggle.

‘What else has she been looking at?’

They spent the next fifteen minutes thinking up rude words that might have been keyed in by a thirteen-year-old girl and her friends, striking out with most but hitting gold with ‘people having sex’, ‘viginas’ (which, amazingly, had over four hundred entries despite the misspelling) and the one that finally floored them under the listing for ‘b’– big wiggling bums.

Bunty smacked Kat in the side. ‘It’s not funny.’

‘Big wiggling bums? It’s hilarious.’ Kat’s cheeks were pink with constrained giggles.

Bunty’s face broke too. ‘Maybe she meant ‘Buns’? Something to do with me?’

‘Since when did your arse look like that?’ shrieked Kat, unable to hold it in any longer.

They held onto each other, sobbing with laughter, until a horrible thought occurred to Bunty. ‘Kat, what if they’re not all Charlotte? I mean, I can see the willies and what have you being her doing, but ‘big wiggling bums’? Like you said, my arse has never looked like that.’

At which point, Kat looked rather green. ‘Oh. Sick bastard. Most men would be overjoyed with your pert little tush. They certainly prefer it to my chair-wobbler.’