As It Is On Telly (3 page)

The picture of the woman Graham was involved with was becoming ever more clear. It might even, she thought with horror, be pictorially clear to Charlotte. Getting Netnurse, or whatever it was that stopped children looking up ‘willies’, might not be enough. Not nearly enough.

Bunty swallowed back bile and reached past Kat to the keyboard. ‘Millionaires looking for love’ she typed.

At the top of the list was the Croesus Club.

‘Are you sure you’re ready?’ Kat’s fingers hovered over the enter button as she stared anxiously at her friend.

Bunty nodded across the keyboard. ‘Hit it,’ she said.

*

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Profile:

Club Name: Sugar Bun

Sex: F

Age: 35

Income: n/a

Appearance: I’ve been told I look like Audrey (Hepburn or Tatou, take your choice). Photo attached. Obviously I’m older than one of them and younger than the other one (or, at least, still alive).

Seeking: I am a traditional lady who likes to be at home seeing to the domestic affairs (and that does not mean AFFAIRS) of my busy, professional husband. Seeking a kind, handsome, athletic man who appreciates that in a woman. Non-smoker preferred. I love art galleries and museums, fine wines, and fencing. Please, please, please – utter discretion. My husband doesn’t know I’m doing this.

Payment by: VISA. It’s being used for all sorts these days.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Thank you for your query and payment for membership of the Croesus Club, where the wealthy can also find love.

I’m afraid we have very strict membership rules, and one of those is that our members be single. Of course, we apply the strictest discretion at all times, but we cannot accept you as a member if you are, in fact, married.

Perhaps you could confirm this point for us before we investigate your membership further.

Kind regards

Priscilla.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Dear Priscilla,

Oops. That was meant to be a joke! Of course I’m not married. As if I’d be looking for a new husband while I still have the old one. I was trying to display my GSOH, but obviously that fell a bit flat. My SOH is temporarily AWOL. Many, many apologies, and I hope that you can look into my membership again.

Yours very sheepishly

Bunty

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Of course. We have deducted four hundred pounds from your credit card, and look forward to a long and happy relationship – ours, and yours. Our consultant will call in the next couple of days with details of your first rendezvous.

Best wishes

Priscilla

CHAPTER THREE

For the next couple of days, Bunty skulked around like someone with a body buried in the garden. Even her dreams ran along the same lines: she crept around corners, avoiding the police, knowing that somewhere, recently, she had inadvertently killed someone and stowed them under the patio. Graham, smirking, would hint that he knew, that he was calling in forensics, that she would suffer endlessly for what she had done …
CSI
had nothing on him. Having had quite a lot of time on her hands to look into these things, via the horoscope pages and panoply of self-help and self-development books she had collected over the years, Bunty instantly assumed, waking up in a clammy sweat, that she was manifesting the guilt she felt about going behind Graham’s back. What must Graham’s dreams be like, she wondered. Waco massacres?

When she looked up ‘I’ve murdered someone’ in her dream dictionary, however, she was amazed to discover that this was the most common dream of all:

In the past, you buried some part of yourself, never allowing the real you to surface again. Now your subconscious is prompting you to free that element of your spirit that you have been denying yourself. It’s time to be
you
again.

‘But I don’t know who me is,’ she said to the curlicued page, before slamming the book shut and shoving it back into the bookcase, as if Graham might find it and somehow read her mind. Pearl and Finn of
On
the
Sofa
were chatting away in the background, and, not for the first time, Bunty found herself sitting across the studio from them, knees elegantly crossed on the slick leather couch, pushing her hair winsomely behind her ears as Pearl beamed at her.

Pearl
: So, who
is
the real Bunty?

Bunty
(
smiling
): That’s a very good question, Pearl. I’ve been asking myself that a lot recently.

Pearl
: And why’s that?

Bunty
: Well, my husband had the snip without telling me, and it set off this whole chain of events that had me wondering: Why am I married to this man? What do we have in common? And when it comes down to it, what do I have in common with anyone apart from other housewives these days?

Finn
: He had the snip without telling you?

Pearl
: Finn, trust you to focus on that. Bunty’s baring her soul here. (
Turns
to
Bunty
). This issue of wondering where our real selves have gone is one that affects a lot of us as we approach middle age, isn’t it? What did you used to enjoy that you aren’t involved with any more?

Bunty
: Well, ahem, sex.

Pearl
rolls
eyes
understandingly
and
Finn
starts
to
giggle
.

Bunty
: Nothing unusual. Going out. Live music. Having fun. Talking to other adults during the day about things other than children or the shopping list.

Pearl
: And …

Bunty
: Fencing! I love fencing.

Pearl
: Well! That’s unusual. And is fencing something you could pick up again?

Bunty
: I need to. Right now. The guy’s here to look at the drains.

Pearl
: Pardon?

Finn
rolls
onto
his
side
in
abject
mirth
and
Pearl
,
too
,
starts
to
giggle
.

Bunty shook herself out of her reverie. She’d completely forgotten that the investigation of the constant pool of water at the bottom of the garden was due today. The excess moisture had churned up the mud near the fence to the extent that her lovely six-foot Waney Lap panels had toppled over in a light summer zephyr. There was no way it was going to survive the autumn, and while she could stomach an impromptu pond, she couldn’t abide the thought of having to replace the wood she had so carefully creosoted then painted a denim blue. Graham was talking about concrete, for God’s sake. She raced to the door.

‘Sorry, just … on the loo,’ she told the bemused drainage specialist.

‘Fine. I’m Dan,’ he said, holding out a hand, apparently without thinking twice about Bunty just having got off the toilet. He was probably up to his shoulders in crap every day anyway.

‘Dan? Dan, Dan the drainage man.’ Bunty clapped a finger to her mouth in an attempt to shut herself up.

He raised an eyebrow – an attractive auburn eyebrow, exactly the shade the cashier in the supermarket had been aiming for. ‘That’s me. Perhaps I could … have a look at the problem?’

‘Yes. Yes!’ Bunty pulled herself together and led him through the house and out into the garden.

Like so many gardens in the area, this was a small, fully enclosed space, half-decking, half-lawn, flanked by the odd rhododendron bush and some random bedding plants. Just to the side of one of the sorry-looking flowerbeds was the offending pool, Bunty’s beautiful pine fencing panels leaning drunkenly towards it like Narcissus hoping to spot his reflection.

‘I only noticed it when my fence got wobbly,’ said Bunty, trying to recover from their introduction and sound at least a little sensible. The thought danced across her mind that Dan was probably very used to middle-class, middle-aged housewives simpering, losing their cool. He was rather attractive for a drainage man. Well, for any kind of man really.

Flexing his green uniform across his burly shoulders, Dan crouched down to study it more closely, looking left and right, and then poking a stick into the depth of it. Bunty tried to ignore his bottom, sitting atop the heels of his muddy boots like a pair of very edible cabbages. ‘It goes down quite a long way. Suspect it’s the overflow from the house behind, running up the road there.’

‘Oh, that would make sense. It’s Mary’s garden. She hasn’t been able to look after it properly since her husband died. It is fixable?’

He grinned. ‘Everything’s fixable, for a price.’

‘Price doesn’t matter, but can you save my fence?’ Bunty looked down at him anxiously. ‘I’m very fond of fences. I took a long time over this one.’

‘It’s … very nice.’ Dan stepped around the puddle and studied the foundations. ‘You might need new concrete posts. These are quite crumbly.’ Then he smiled at her. ‘But I think your fence will be okay.’

Bunty smiled back. It was ridiculous, she knew, to be so concerned about a few panels of wood, but her very first job, her Saturday job, had been selling fencing in the local DIY store, and she had held an affinity for it ever since. The feeling of power brought about by being able to inform some rough-skinned, paunchy, middle-aged man (Graham, in fact) exactly what he needed to enclose his garden was completely enervating. She, a tiny fifteen-year-old, had known every variation of fixing, panels, trellises, and capping known to mankind. Womankind. It was hard to believe now, looking back. And for the first time she realised why she was so fond of her fences. For one, they made her feel safe. Contained, but prettily. But for another, they reminded her of the woman she used to be. ‘The real me, Pearl,’ she whispered.

‘Sorry?’

‘Nothing!’

‘Oh.’ Dan straightened from his prodding and squelching activities. ‘I’ll just get my camera.’

For a moment, Bunty thought he was going to take a picture of her. Why else would he want a camera? He was attracted to her! Wanted a memento. He might … might even kiss her. She could have sex! Well, why not, she thought, eyeing him surreptitiously. He really was quite tasty, and Graham was tarting around like a seventeen-year-old. What was to stop her? Apart from the fact that attractive drainage men probably got propositioned on a daily basis. She might catch something vile. Just think where those hands were most of the day. And how very clichéd, how very Lady Chatterley.

It was only when he hauled up the iron square over the drain that she realised what he meant. ‘Your special drainage camera.’ Oh my God, she thought, groaning inwardly. What on earth was wrong with her head these days?

‘Are you okay?’ Dan stopped on his way to the van. ‘You’ve gone a funny colour.’

‘Just a … a hot flush.’

He almost winced visibly, and Bunty could have kicked herself again. Now she was menopausal in her late thirties? Nice. She leaned on the fence, fanning herself, as Dan’s green back retreated up the garden. No doubt planning to leap into his van, drive away, far away, and never come back.

A light touch on her hand made her jump. ‘Hello, Bunty. Are you all right?’

Mary’s kindly wrinkled face was peering up at her from the garden behind. ‘I was hanging out the washing and saw you there.’

‘Mary, how are you?’ Bunty still found it hard to talk to her lovely neighbour without a lump forming in her throat. It was ten or more months since Colin, her equally kindly husband, had fallen down in the supermarket with a stroke from which he had never recovered. Mary was still doing her washing every Tuesday, hanging out her sad, gigantic knickers that must have hung like flags without any wind on her rather wasted frame – another result of Colin’s stroke.

Mary waved a pair at her. ‘I’m fine thanks, love. Just hanging out my smalls. Is that man sorting your fence out?’

‘Oh, Mary.’ Bunty scratched her head. Where to start? ‘He’s a drainage man. We’ve got this pool of water in here, and he thinks it might be coming from your pipes.’

At that, Mary paled, her hand fluttering to her throat. ‘Oh, love,’ she said in tones of huge dismay. ‘Will he have to dig up my garden? Only Colin spent so long on the borders, and Flinders is buried under the tree. And … oh, it’ll cost a fortune, won’t it?’

‘It won’t cost you a thing,’ said Bunty firmly. This was some more tube cutting and diverting that Graham could bloody well pay for, as well as the exhumation and re-burial of Flinders, their tabby. ‘And whatever happens, we’ll make sure they respect everything. Everything.’

Mary nodded, mollified, her eyes slightly less rheumy than they had been a moment ago. ‘Colin always dealt with all that stuff, you know. I’m good with the washing and the polishing and Victoria sponge, but tradesmen were always his area.’

‘I know,’ said Bunty gently. Theirs had been a happy division of labour, not like hers and Graham’s.

Of course, at first she’d been content just to be looked after, post Adam. And then there’d been Charlotte. Then kitchen and bathroom renovations, fixing up the drive, painting fences. What exactly had she done for the last few years, though? Charlotte was at secondary school, barely there. Graham was at work, or squash (which she now took to mean ‘at another woman’s’ or possibly ‘in surgery’), and was also barely there. The house was perfect, and so brimful of labour-saving devices that the housework practically did itself. What did she do? What was it that she, Bunty McKenna, actually contributed to this life? Whatever it was, or wasn’t, it had created a pool of festering resentment, not unlike the stagnating puddle at her feet. But
Judge
Judy
,
Trisha
and any number of daytime chat shows led her to believe that being there for the children was a worthwhile activity, that she should be recompensed enormously for the massive workload of sitting on her sofa watching …
Judge
Judy
,
Trisha
, and any number of daytime chat shows.

‘Better get on,’ said Mary, tweaking on her clothes pegs. Bunty did so much of her drying in the tumble dryer that she would have been hard pressed to say where her paltry stock of clothes pegs actually was.

Suddenly Bunty grabbed the other end of the peg. ‘Why? Why do you have to get on, Mary?’ She probably looked rather feverish, and Mary did recoil slightly, but Bunty persevered. This was a time for change. For new routines. For not ‘getting on’, but actually getting off if the mood required it. ‘Leave the washing. Go and get some of that Victoria sponge, and come and have a cup of tea with me.’

Mary looked confused, hesitant, and Bunty realised how much her routine meant to her. She clung to it as if she was hanging onto a bit of Colin. ‘It’ll start to smell if I don’t hang it out. I’ll just end up washing it again.’

‘I’ve got a tumble dryer,’ said Bunty. ‘While we’re having a natter, it will dry to a fluffy softness you could never imagine.’

Mary’s eyes brightened. ‘I’ve only got a bit of Bakewell tart.’

‘Fantastic,’ said Bunty. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

It wasn’t much of a change, inviting a woman in her seventies round for English Breakfast (the closest Bunty had to ‘ordinary’ tea) and a slice of Bakewell tart – tart that the guest had to provide herself due to the sickening healthiness of Bunty’s cupboards. But it was a start. It was something new. She was reclaiming her life. Her Buntyness. And it didn’t involve shagging the gardener, which had to be a good thing.

But after her naughty hour with Mary, which they both enjoyed with the cheeky glee of kids playing hooky, she answered the phone to a slightly bigger change. A date, tomorrow, with a Croesus Club member called Jason.