Prime Time (2 page)

‘She had the bloody cheek to tell Stanley the fat content of his pizza!' I said.

Charlotte tutted disapprovingly. ‘You haven't got any biscuits,' she said, plaintively shaking the tin.

‘I ate those last night – but there's more.'

Charlotte got up and opened the door above the bread bin. Because I live a short walk from her office and she likes lots of tea breaks, she knows the inside of my cupboards as well as her own. Her hand hovered over the packets. ‘Digestives or custard creams?'

‘Both.'

I wouldn't mind but he only met Emily because of me. I was the one writing the brochure copy for the presentation of Happy Pig Pies to all the supermarket chains. It was me who'd done such a totally brilliant stayed-up-all-night-to-bloody-finish-it job on the captions for the display boards that Mike, Creative Director of A & G Design & Advertising and my one-time boss till I gave birth, dropped out of the rat race and went freelance from home (a somewhat hit and miss affair. Note for other mothers considering same: do not leave the stills for your company's newest account on the floor when potty-training), suggested I come along and swell the numbers and quaff the free champagne.

It was
me
who asked if Daniel could come too, since he'd been complaining that he'd hardly seen anything of me all week and I thought we could have a nice evening out afterwards.

And there she was – Emily – putting the finishing touches to her Pie Tower, a massive golden structure of interlocking pastry mounds, a veritable triumph of cold-water crust, doing creative things with highly-polished tomatoes and sprigs of colour-enhanced parsley.

Daniel walked over there and I heard him quite distinctly giving that deep-throated chuckle someone once told him was sexy (it might have been me – bastard!) and saying what a turn-on it was to see a woman in a pinny and high heels. And she – instead of slapping him, like any self-respecting post-feminist – simpered. She shouldn't have been wearing heels anyway. What about Health and Safety?

‘You're not listening!' said Charlotte loudly.

‘I am,' I said, guiltily, realising I was holding two custard creams.

‘What did I say then?'

‘I have no idea.'

‘What are you doing tonight?

‘Sleeping.'

‘No, you're not – you're coming out for a drink.

‘I've got too much work on.'

That's what Daniel said, from then on. Too much work on to go out with me, or come home on time. So much work on that he suddenly had a whole lot of calls on his mobile that necessitated him going into another room, and texts like you wouldn't believe! Every time I looked at him he was fiddling with that phone – I picked it up once, when it beeped, just to see what he'd do. Haven't seen him move so fast since we went to Egypt and he insisted on eating the salad.

‘Work,' he said, ‘so much damn work.' Did he think I was totally stupid? Daniel is an inspector at the tax office in Maidstone. In 14 years of marriage I've never known him work past six. It's nine to five with an occasional bit of report-writing in the evenings, so he can knock off at four instead. The whole point of the civil service is that they work to rule.

I did enquire, of course. He looked furtive. ‘A big inspection coming up,' he said vaguely. ‘An investigation to prepare. A seminar on evaluating assets …' Turned out the sort of assets he was evaluating were spread-eagled in a flat in Tunbridge Wells being willingly given up to an in-depth inspection during his flexi-time.

‘He's old enough to be her father,' I said indignantly, reaching for another biscuit.

‘Becky's on a sleepover,' Charlotte said, ignoring me. ‘Though God knows why they call it that. The last time she had one at our place they were still on Facebook at 4 a.m. And Roger and Joe will be glued to the football. So I've told them I'm hitting the town. With you.'

I shook my head. ‘I really don't fancy going out. I'm uptight, bloated, fat, ugly, and bad-tempered with deadlines coming out of my ears and the washing to do.'

‘You're always like that.'

‘And I've got to get some shopping in tonight – those biscuits are the only food in the house.'

‘We'll eat in the wine bar.'

‘There's something on TV.'

‘Video it. I'll see you at Green's at 8 p.m.'

‘I'm tired.'

Charlotte stood up. ‘‘You're boring me now, love.'

I am boring myself.

Chapter Two

Charlotte likes Greens Wine Bar because it's “happening”. As far as I can see, it's happening to someone else. We've been drinking in Greens for years, seen it through a variety of different owners, menus, and internal décor. Some things have never changed. I've stood at that oak bar with its rows of wine glasses overhead and its floor to ceiling wine racks and scrubbed wooden floorboards on and off since I was 18 and champing at the bit to get to London and begin my glittering career.

In those days, I thought London was happening and didn't realise I would one day crave to be back at the seaside where the water didn't run grey when you washed your hair and the woman in the post office not only knew your name but remembered your mother had just had her varicose veins done.

If I popped down for the weekend I always came in for a drink, even when it went through its grubby dive-like times or once, horrifically, its short-lived fruit machine, plastic stool, and karaoke phase. I've been in lots of pubs in Broadstairs at various stages of my life but it's this bar that evokes the memories, that always makes me think of being young or happy or in love or up the duff …

We finally moved back to Broadstairs when I was pregnant and thought it would be nice to be near my mother (you live and learn). Daniel was taken with the property prices and how much more we could get for our money if we lived down here and he transferred to a Kent office. I think that's where the shock lies, really. He was supposed to be the boring, stable one, who thought about capital growth and pension yields, and I was the bohemian wild child. Now look at us.

I'm walking around in big knickers and a pair of old slippers, nagging Stanley to death and he's buying trendy new trainers (they are quite cool, reported Stanley in surprise) and finding all sorts of uses for a mashed avocado (they apparently have a huge, pear-filled bowl on their granite worktop and I can't imagine her eating them – too many calories).

Now I am thoroughly over Daniel, I would quite like to have a bit of a fling involving a few vegetables myself but where do I find the men? Once I would have come here to Greens. Now, if there are any fanciable blokes in here, I'm old enough to be their mother. And if I'm not, and they're even vaguely good-looking, then they're gay. This does not deter Charlotte.

‘Ooh, look! Clive!' She shot off across the bar the moment we got in there. In a town where “man falls from bicycle” is front page news, Clive enjoys near-celebrity status. He has a TV production company, a weekend cottage in Broadstairs, and a Bollinger habit that keeps him pretty popular with the girls who own Greens.

He was sitting at a round table in the window, wearing Armani and a delicious aftershave I could pick up at ten paces, champagne bucket before him. Charlotte wedged herself down on the window seat next to him. Even though she knows it's Jack behind the bar who Clive hankers after, Charlotte enjoys what she sees as their flirtation.

‘Darlings!' Clive swept back his glossy brown hair with a toss of his head and kissed each of us on both cheeks. ‘How are we doing?'

Charlotte viewed him through lowered lashes. ‘Laura's got shocking PMT so we're here for medicinal purposes.'

‘Have you really?' Clive looked concerned.

‘Oh, it's nothing.' I shook my head, embarrassed, and glared at Charlotte.

She laughed, unabashed. ‘Once we get a few drinks down her throat, her fangs will subside.'

I glared some more. Clive leant out and took my hand. ‘You must come and sit down here. I'll get two more glasses.'

‘I'm quite interested in the whole female hormonal issue,' he said when he had poured us each a glass of fizz and I had drunk most of mine in one gulp. ‘I've been working on a documentary for Channel Four – and they've done some research which suggests that more than half of all women are governed emotionally by their menstrual cycle. We're planning on doing it as a topic for
Rise Up with Randolph
: are women at the mercy of their hormones?'

‘
Rise Up with Randolph
? That oily creep?' snorted Charlotte. ‘I didn't know you did that.'

‘Actually he's very caring,' said Clive. ‘It's been a huge success – the ratings are going up all the time and it's really putting Yellow Door Productions on the map. We've been tackling some really key issues – child abuse, drug addiction, as well as the usual infidelity/he slept with my sister type shows. They always go down well. Now for this PMT programme, we've got a woman who threw her husband down the stairs and another who got six months for threatening to stab the …'

‘I'm not that bad!' I said hotly, pushing the incident with Daniel and the bag of frozen chops to the back of my mind.

‘Of course not, poppet,' Clive patted my hand. ‘Irritability?' he asked soothingly. ‘Short temper? Weight gain, bloating, feelings of low self-worth …?'

I scowled.

‘She's got all of them,' said Charlotte.

‘Not all the time,' I explained crossly. ‘On Day Two I feel a deep sense of calm and on Days Three and Four I'm really quite sane and energised – give or take that I'm carrying around four pounds of extra fluid and look like a hippo. Then Days Six to Nine, I feel terrific – get loads done, am perfectly normal and positive, then there's a bit of a wobble on Day Ten and then …'

‘This is fascinating,' Clive was gazing into my eyes. ‘You are so in touch with it all – so precise …' He stared at the ceiling, hand outstretched before him as if about to make a great pronouncement, and then looked back at me again. ‘How is that?'

I shrugged. ‘I went to a nutritionist. She got me to keep a diary. How I felt, what I ate –' I paused, thinking I would spare Clive the details of the in-depth analysis of bodily functions and girth measurements I had also undergone. ‘And there was a clear pattern.'

‘How fascinating' said Clive again, still gazing at me with something close to rapture.

‘Yes, my husband thought so too,' I said waspishly. ‘It was his idea.'

Because, having jogged along quite happily for a decade with me being gruesome for several days a month, he suddenly decided that he couldn't stand it. And then, having spent six months shagging himself stupid with another woman and barely speaking to me, he had the barefaced cheek to blame the break-up of our marriage on my mood swings.

‘And has it helped?' Clive asked eagerly.

‘Yes – he left me.'

Charlotte smiled brightly. ‘But she's much better off without him and we're going to find her someone else lovely.' She gave me a kick under the table. ‘So it's all for the best.'

‘It's all terrific,' I growled. ‘I am ecstatic.'

It was probably Emily who suggested the nutritionist. Emily is a vegetarian who eats no dairy and only does organic. Her moods are totally stable and she probably takes the pill all year round. I should imagine periods are much too messy for her to contemplate.

‘Have you tried any supplements?' enquired Clive, looking from one to the other of us with a slightly desperate smile. ‘One of the researchers was talking about oil of evening primrose …'

‘Yeah, and starflower oil and B vitamins and magnesium and zinc … I've got them all at home.'

‘I think you're supposed to take them,' said Charlotte.

I pulled a face at her.

‘I believe a lot of it is down to diet,' said Clive, hurriedly refilling glasses.

‘Yes this nutritionist – Kristin – she's a friend of Charlotte's, actually  '

‘She's boring,' Charlotte added. ‘Doesn't drink …'

‘She said to cut out wheat, sugar, and alcohol,' I continued.

‘And has that helped?' Clive asked earnestly.

Charlotte raised her eyebrows at me.

I took another swallow of champagne. ‘Er – not really.'

The bar had filled up with a lot of young girls who I noticed were, each and every one of them, very thin. I studied the one nearest to me who was about 25. She was wearing a cropped T-shirt and revealing a band of perfectly flat, brown stomach. Her upper arms were beautifully toned, her thighs enviably slim.

When did young people start getting so attractive? When I was in my 20s, I was a slightly less blobby version of how I am now, with fewer wrinkles and probably a smaller bum. But I didn't look like that. Now everyone under 30 is totally gorgeous. There was a song playing that I didn't know the name of but I remembered it was one Stanley liked. I felt like everyone's grandmother and wished I could go home.

But Clive had ordered another bottle of Bolly and Charlotte, somewhat uncharacteristically, seemed to have forgotten we were going to eat. So I was also getting light-headed. ‘Crisps, anyone?' I asked.

‘Not for me, darling.' Clive got a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and gazed at them longingly.

Charlotte looked apologetic. ‘Oh, sorry, I was so starving I had to have a sandwich before I came out.'

‘Thanks,' I muttered. ‘I thought we were eating here.'

Charlotte shrugged. ‘OK then, I'll have some cheese and onion. But aren't you supposed to be eating lots of vegetables?' she added.

I hate her sometimes.

‘I can do you some crudités and hummus,' said Sarah, one of the owners of Greens, from behind the bar. ‘Are you OK?' she said peering closer. I looked over to the open door and beyond, where Clive and Charlotte were puffing away on the pavement outside. Charlotte suddenly threw back her head and laughed and nodded vigorously in my direction, clearly agreeing I was a mad old bag.

‘Just tired, old, fat, and hormonal.'

‘Sounds like me,' Sarah said cheerfully (and wildly inaccurately – since she is a slim and attractive redhead who is younger than me). She deftly opened a bottle of red wine and reached up for glasses. ‘I've eaten four packets of Maltesers today, screamed at the kids, and threatened Richard with divorce at least twice.'

‘Hmm,' I said, ‘I must get on to that …'

Sarah had turned to ring something up on the till. ‘Don't rush into anything,' she said over her shoulder.

Sarah was lovely when I told her about Daniel. Her first marriage had broken up a couple of years back, leaving her with three kids to look after on her own. ‘It's hard, I know,' was all she'd said, but she'd poured me a large glass of wine on the house and been full of concern and sympathy ever since.

‘How's Stanley?' she asked now, coming back to stand opposite me.

I shook my head, feeling suddenly miserable. ‘I don't know really. It's all very difficult for him, it must be. Father clears off, new school, me all stressed out …'

‘It gets easier,' said Sarah. ‘Charlie went through a bad patch when Paul and I split up but he came out of it – he's really happy now, gets on well with Richard, has adjusted to the new situation. You look after yourself,' she continued. ‘If you're OK, he'll be OK.'

‘I'm starving,' I said, ‘and not for raw carrot.'

‘Stodge is what's needed,' said Sarah, picking up a notepad. ‘What about a plate of nachos and some chips?'

‘So,' said Charlotte, tucking into the chips with gusto, ‘these programmes are going well, then? She looked meaningfully at Clive.

‘Ah, yes,' he said. ‘The hardest bit is finding audience participants who are intelligent and articulate.' He shone a smile in my direction. ‘For example, this programme on PMT and things …' He touched my arm sympathetically. ‘We're still looking for some more …'

‘Ooh,' said Charlotte, in a dismal attempt to sound surprised, as if they hadn't just spent the last ten minutes discussing it.

‘You've got to be joking,' I said.

‘I think you'd be terrific,' Clive said seriously, refilling my glass. ‘You're bright and eloquent and you'd bring a lot to the debate. He leant across the table. ‘A lot of women would really appreciate hearing what you go through.'

‘She is such a cow when she's got it,' put in Charlotte. ‘And clumsy! You're always dropping things, aren't you? Remember when you smashed that milk jug and you were so cross you threw the sugar bowl across the room too? And when Daniel asked you if you'd put on weight and you got hold of him by the throat and –'

‘Perfect!' cried Clive, clapping his hands.

‘I'm not discussing all that on breakfast television,' I said heatedly, grabbing a handful of nachos before Charlotte could swallow them all.

‘Well of course you wouldn't be expected to do anything you didn't feel comfortable with,' soothed Clive. ‘That's not what it's about at all. It would just be a group of people – mostly women – discussing their feelings. You can say as much or as little as you want.'

Charlotte grinned. ‘You could tell the nation Daniel's got smelly feet and a vinyl fetish …'

Clive winced. ‘It's a lovely day out,' he said firmly. ‘We'd send a car for you, give you lunch, you'd have your hair and make-up done –'

I picked at a strand of melted cheese and dug a chip into the sour cream. ‘I'd feel completely stupid.'

‘You'd be really helping other women not to feel so alone.'

Charlotte nodded, trying to look serious. ‘You owe it to others, really – it needs somebody to speak out.' She pulled the plate back toward her.

I snorted. ‘You do it then.'

‘I don't get it.'

‘Well that's debatable. What about when you –'

‘Now don't fall out, ladies!' Clive swung the bottle of champagne about with affected jollity.

‘Imagine,' said Charlotte forcefully. ‘Television – it will be fun! What an experience. People would give their right arm –'

‘I've got too much work to do.'

‘It's only one day – you can catch up at the weekend.'