Take a Chance on Me (3 page)

Something had happened; Abbie’s stomach was in knots and she didn’t know what to do. Maybe if she had more experience with relationships, like her younger sister, it would be easier to cope. (Although Cleo called herself a walking disaster and, before meeting Will, hadn’t had much luck with men at all.)

But when you’d been married for twenty-three years to a cheerful, uncomplicated, completely relaxed man who had become withdrawn and distant practically overnight, it turned your whole world upside down. There was no getting away from it: Tom had the air of someone with a terrible secret. What’s more, he was refusing to admit that anything was wrong, which only made it worse. Usually sunny-natured and able to joke about anything, he was like a different person now. When she had broached the subject again this morning, he had given her a look she’d never seen before and had ended up snapping at her to stop going on, before letting himself out of the house.

It was terrifying. Abbie had spent the last three days eaten up with fear. Since he was a man, top of her list of suspicions was the possibility that, health-wise, Tom knew there was something seriously amiss. Had he discovered a lump? Visited the doctor and been given terrible news? This was her number one fear. Number two, and a suggestion that until this week she would have dismissed as utterly unthinkable, was that he was having an affair. But Tom’s behavior had veered
so
wildly out of character, maybe it wasn’t unthinkable after all. And didn’t they always say the wife was the last to know? Oh God, what if he
was
seeing another woman? Sleeping with her? What if it was someone she knew… the affair had been going on for years, but now her rival was wanting more, putting the pressure on him, threatening to tell everyone in order to force him to take action… dump that boring wife of his and start a new life with her…
maybe she was already pregnant
…

Snap
went the stem of the pink and gold glass apple in her hand. Bugger, and these were the expensive ones, three pounds fifty each.

‘I don’t believe it.
Another
one.’ Des Kilgour, who owned the garden center, spotted the broken Christmas ornament as he loped past. ‘I bet it was that little kid in the red coat, he was over here just now—’

‘It wasn’t; it was me. I broke it.’ Tempting though it was, Abbie knew she couldn’t let an innocent four-year-old take the blame. ‘It just snapped in half. I’m really sorry.’

‘Oh hey, that’s all right, don’t worry about it.’ Seeing that she was upset, Des backed down at once. ‘No problem, accidents happen.’ He paused, raking pale fingers through his reddish fair hair and surveying her with concern. ‘You OK, Caz?’

Abbie nodded, determined to keep it together. Des had always had a bit of a soft spot for her, which was why he wasn’t yelling blue murder now. But he was a good boss, even if it did drive her nuts that he insisted on calling her Caz.

‘Sorry, I’m fine. It’s just been one of those days.’

‘Well don’t break any more, will you?’ He gave her a jovial pat on the shoulder. ‘Those apples don’t grow on trees!’

Good boss, terrible stand-up comedian. Summoning a half-hearted smile, Abbie said, ‘I won’t.’

‘Anyway, it’s nearly six o’clock. Tom picking you up?’

She shook her head. ‘He’s working late tonight.’ Or busy having sex with his mistress, you never know.

Please don’t let him have a mistress…

Des’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘I can give you a lift home if you like.’

It was kind of him to offer, but Abbie shook her head again. The garden center was only a mile from home and the walk would do her good.

‘Right then, I’d better get on. And you cheer up, Caz. It might never happen, eh?’

All her life she’d hated that expression. What if Tom had fallen in love with another woman? What if she was young and fertile and he
did
want to have babies with her? Abbie busied herself sorting the jumbled-up Christmas decorations into their respective color-coordinated compartments. What if everything she most dreaded was happening now?

***

You knew you’d got it bad when you tried to cook for someone and pretended it was the kind of thing you did all the time. Uncorking the wine and pouring herself a glassful—just to check it was all right—Cleo huffed her bangs out of her eyes and wondered why she was doing it again. Except she knew the answer to that; it was like seeing a dress in a glossy magazine, rushing out to buy it because it looked amazing on the model, then somehow expecting it to make
you
look like her too. And this was all Nigella’s fault. She’d watched the programs. Nigella had made preparing a three-course meal look
soooo
easy. Tricking her, Cleo, into believing it was and, in turn, casually inviting Will to come on over after work and telling him she’d cook dinner for him.

And yes, at the time the words had been spilling gaily out of her mouth, she truly
had
believed it would happen. She’d believed she could do it, that it was actually within her powers to dazzle Will with her culinary capabilities to the extent that he’d realize she was indisputably The Perfect One for Him.

Well, that had been the plan. Instead of which, she was surrounded by chaos, lumpy cheese sauce, worryingly odd-tasting chicken, and incinerated parsnips.

‘Everything OK?’ Will wandered into the tiny, blue and white, eclectically furnished kitchen, clearly wondering if they were going to be eating before midnight.

‘Fine, fine, I’m just… getting everything together…’ Frantically stirring the sauce, Cleo wondered how on earth you were meant to get the lumps out. ‘Won’t be long now!’ It was one of those sauces that was too thick to sieve. It would just sit there refusing to go anywhere. But if she tried using the vegetable colander the smaller lumps would slide through. The only way to do it was going to be by using tweezers and picking them out one by one, which was going to take
ages
…

‘What are those?’

‘Parsnips.’ She knew she sounded defensive. How were you meant to get the fat ends cooked without burning the pointy ends anyway? How did Nigella deal with triangular vegetables?

Eyeing the cheese sauce, Will said valiantly, ‘The chicken looks nice.’

Oh God, the chicken. It had tasted too salty so she’d counteracted it with sugar, then that had been frankly weird so she’d added a coating of satay paste, but the sweetness had still been there and now it was all hideously reminiscent of peanut toffee with a renegade dash of Worcestershire sauce. And garlic. It was no good, she couldn’t let him taste it, the look of horror on his face would be too much to bear. She was going to have to confess. Taking another glug of wine, Cleo shook her head and said, ‘You know what? I’ve made a—’

The crash of the door knocker stopped her in her tracks.

‘Who’s that?’ said Will. ‘Have you invited someone else for dinner?’ There was a note of hope in his voice, as if having another person here to help eat the food might not be a bad thing.

‘No. It might be carol singers.’ Equally glad of the reprieve, Cleo went to the front door and opened it.

Yeek
, not carol singers. Standing on the doorstep, wearing a Barbour with the collar turned up against the cold, was Johnny LaVenture.

‘Cleo, I’d like a word.’

Cleo wavered; whenever people said this, she experienced a wild urge to shout ‘Kittens!’ or ‘Brassiere!’ or ‘Nincompoop!’ But he didn’t look as if he’d find that amusing. In fact his expression was bordering on grim.

‘Fine.’ She stood her ground, wondering what had brought him here. ‘I thought you’d gone back to the States.’

‘I did. And now I’m here again. What’s that diabolical smell?’

Cheek. Then again, he had a point. The broccoli she’d cooked earlier was still sitting in a pan on the hob, waiting to be covered with the cheese sauce just as soon as she worked out how to de-lump it. Offended, she said, ‘It’s dinner.’

‘It’s burning.’ Stepping into the house
without even being asked
, he headed past her through to the kitchen.

‘Excuse me!’ Cleo bridled with indignation as she followed him. The cottage instantly seemed smaller with Johnny in it. He’d better not leave mud on her cream hall carpet.

‘Bloody hell, can’t you smell it?’ Johnny went straight to the stove, picked up the blue enamel pan of drained broccoli and dumped it in the washing-up bowl in the sink. A mushroom-cloud of steam instantly enveloped the kitchen, along with an ear-splitting hiss.

‘That gas ring wasn’t supposed to be on.’ Defensively Cleo blurted out, ‘I thought it just smelled horrible because it was broccoli!’

He tilted the still-steaming pan towards her. The broccoli florets were blackened and stuck to the bottom. Oh well, at least it meant she didn’t have to wonder any more how to get the lumps out of the cheese sauce. Raising an eyebrow at the half-charred parsnips, the sauce, and the chicken quarters, Johnny said to Will, ‘Are you seriously going to eat that?’

Wonderful though it would be if Will were to punch Johnny in the face, there was the danger that he might agree with him instead. Cleo said heatedly, ‘Hang on, I don’t remember inviting you into this house.’ It might not compare with Ravenswood but it was her home; it was where she’d grown up and she loved every cozy, crooked, cottagey inch of it.

‘No?’ Johnny looked at her. ‘Well, do you remember talking to the couple who were interested in buying
my
house?’

Oh. Bugger.

‘What?’

‘Don’t pretend you don’t know. Come on, I didn’t come over here to sample your cooking.’ Pityingly, he shook his head. ‘I spoke to the estate agents. Then I called the couple who’d been put off after talking to someone in the village. Before that, they’d been really interested.’ His eyes glittered. ‘Until they heard about the gangs of Hell's Angels we have marauding around this village every night.’

‘And you’re saying Cleo told them that?’ Will was defending her at last. ‘I don’t think she did, you know.’

Honestly, why couldn’t he have defended her when he was supposed to?

‘Well I’m sure you’re right,’ Johnny drawled. ‘It’s just that when I asked them to describe the person they’d spoken to, they said it was a girl in her late twenties with magenta streaks in her hair and a big freckle under her right eye.’ He paused. ‘So you can see why I’d jump to conclusions.’

Cleo sensed Will’s shock.

‘OK, so it was me.’ She defiantly straightened her back. ‘But you should have seen them. They wouldn’t have fit into the village
at all
.’

‘And I expect you thought it would be fun to piss me off,’ said Johnny. ‘Well congratulations, you managed it. If I don’t find another buyer before Christmas, I’m going to lose that apartment I’ve been trying to buy. So the reason I came over is to ask you not to do it again. Because, trust me, I don’t find it funny.’

And that was it. He turned, he left. When the front door had closed behind him, Will gazed across the kitchen at Cleo.

‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.’

Oh God, a man with morals. ‘I just hate it that he always gets everything he wants.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘Are you shocked and disappointed? Have I blotted my copybook and let myself down?’

A slow smile began to spread across his face. ‘I’ll forgive you.’

Phew, thank goodness for that! And while they were on the subject of confessing their faults… ‘There’s something else,’ said Cleo. ‘I’m really bad at cooking.’

‘You don’t say. I’d never have noticed.’ Grinning now, Will moved towards her. ‘Come here and give me a kiss. Who wants to eat vegetables anyway?’

‘Or chicken. That’s awful too.’ Between kisses, Cleo said, ‘We can get something to eat at the pub. What are you doing?’

His hands had slid under her top… whoops, and now he was unfastening her lilac satin bra.

‘Bed first,’ Will murmured in her ear. ‘Pub later.’

The smell of scorched broccoli had pretty much spoiled her appetite too. Wrapping her arms around his neck, Cleo said happily, ‘That sounds like an excellent idea to me.’

Abbie, lying beneath a layer of bubbles in the bath on Saturday evening, was listening to a problems phone-in on the radio. Hearing about other people’s difficult lives and dilemmas was meant to be taking her mind off Tom but it wasn’t having the desired effect. He’d gone away for the weekend on a fishing trip with a couple of friends from work.
Allegedly
. Then again, the trip had been arranged months ago, so maybe it was true.

She no longer knew what to think. His friends might be in on whatever his big secret was and be covering for him. Every time she thought of Tom with another woman, Abbie’s heart gave a lurch of fear and nausea rose in her throat. Then shame kicked in when a sweet lady on the radio broke down in tears because her husband had died and the doctors had just given their profoundly disabled son six months to live. Faithful or not, at least Tom was still alive. Oh God, unless he too had had terrible news…

‘…And now we have Eric on the line,’ said the female radio presenter. ‘Welcome, Eric. What’s your problem this evening?’

‘Um… well, it’s been a problem for years.’ Eric sounded incredibly nervous. ‘But up until now I’ve always managed to keep it under control. The thing is, I don’t think I can do it anymore. I can’t keep it a secret from my wife. I love her, you see. I hate having this… this
thing
between us. I’ve got to come clean, but I’m so scared I’ll lose her. I mean, what if she can’t handle it?’

‘Eric, you sound like a caring husband to me. And
very
well done for having plucked up the courage to make this call.’ The presenter’s tone was lovely and soothing, like honey being drizzled over warm toast. ‘So why don’t you tell me what your secret is?’

Abbie waited. He’d had an affair with his secretary. Or he’d gambled away the family’s life savings. Or he’d murdered his mother.

‘Um… the thing is, I’m a transvestite,’ said Eric. ‘I’ve been cross-dressing for the last twenty years.’

Is that all
? Abbie exhaled with disappointment. After the anguish she’d been going through, she’d be ecstatic if Tom broke down and admitted that the reason he’d been acting all weird lately was because he liked to wear women’s clothes. God, Eric’s wife didn’t know how lucky she was.

‘Oh Eric, can I tell you something? This is actually a lot more common than most people realize. Many, many men secretly put on their wives’ dresses or take pleasure in wearing silky knickers under their work clothes.’

‘I do that.’ Eric sounded relieved. ‘I’m a company accountant. If people knew what I was wearing under my grey suit… well, I’d never let that happen. I just want to share it with my wife.’ Unable to help himself, he added proudly, ‘And it’s all good stuff, you know. Nothing cheap, no man-made fibers. One hundred percent silk from La Perla.’

‘Oh Eric, La Perla’s
lovely
. You have great taste.’ The presenter was filled with admiration for him. ‘But it must be tricky, keeping it all hidden from your wife.’

‘It is, it’s a nightmare. I have to wrap them up in polythene and hide them in the loft, in the bottom of a box of old curtains. And I just can’t do it anymore… I want my wife to know what I do and still love me. My dream would be for the two of us to go shopping together.’ Eric sounded wistful. ‘But what if she finds the idea repulsive? What if she wants a divorce?’

Abbie put down the bath sponge and sat up, two things hammering through her brain. First, highly unlikely though it seemed, what if Tom
was
a transvestite? When they’d been invited to a fancy dress party a couple of years back, he’d gone as a drag queen! It had never occurred to her that he might have done it because he longed to wear a blond curly wig, full makeup, and a turquoise satin evening dress in public. Even if he had resembled one of Cinderella’s Ugly Stepsisters and his leg hairs had poked through his fishnet tights. And secondly, until now it hadn’t occurred to her to search for clues. Which just went to show how completely… well,
clueless
she was. If she hunted through the house, who knew what might turn up?

And what was she waiting for? Anything would be better than this awful not knowing. With a
swoooosh
, Abbie hauled herself out of the bath, dried herself, threw on her dressing gown. Then, hair dripping, she ran into their tidy, pale green bedroom and pushed up her sleeves. Here first. Office next, where Tom kept all his paperwork. And if neither of those threw up any clues, up the ladder into the loft with the spiders and the dust. OK, if she were Tom with something incriminating to hide, where would she hide it?

Forty minutes later, she found it. Just as she’d been about to give up on the bedroom, there it was. In Tom’s sock drawer, of all the unimaginative places. She almost hadn’t even bothered to look somewhere so obvious. But the moment she heard a crackle of paper and her fingers closed around the folded-up envelope, she knew this was what she’d been searching for.

Now the nausea came in waves, getting stronger and stronger. Trembling, Abbie pushed the drawer shut and sank down onto the edge of the bed. Oh yes, this was it, no doubt about it. A blue envelope, first class stamp, postmarked eleven days ago. Tom’s name and this address on the front, written in a female hand. If this was from his mistress, she’d taken a risk sending it. Unless that was the whole point and she was pushing for the secret to come out.

Abbie closed her eyes. Once you knew something, you couldn’t un-know it. Her life was about to change forever.

Right, here goes.

She slid the sheet of writing paper out of the envelope. As she unfolded it, a photograph dropped to the floor. Her bare toes scrunched with fear, Abbie left it there and began to read:

Dear Tom,

OK, you haven’t been back in touch and you promised you would, so I’m writing again. Were you hoping that if you ignored me, I’d go away? Because I promise you, that’s not going to happen! All my life I’ve wondered who my dad was, and now I’ve tracked you down, I’m not giving up—
no way
. I’m glad you aren’t questioning it, by the way, or trying to say you might not be my father, but Mum says I do look a lot like you. Anyway, here’s a photo of me taken last year (during my mad hat phase!), so you can judge for yourself. I’m not too ugly, am I?!

And I’m really sorry if it’s awkward for you with your wife but that’s not my fault, is it? Please ring me
soon
so we can fix a date to meet. You have no idea how desperate I am to see you! (Mum says hi and she’s sorry too, but you already know what she’s like!)

Love,

Your very keen to meet you daughter,

Georgia

Abbie bent down, picked up the photograph, and turned it over. As if any further proof were needed, Tom’s laughing, light-blue eyes gazed up at her out of a teenager’s heart-shaped face. A girl, beaming away, with Tom’s cheekbones and the unmistakable outline of his mouth. Tendrils of fair hair were escaping from her purple butcher-boy cap. She was wearing big hooped earrings and a white denim jacket.

She wasn’t too ugly. She was beautiful. And she looked so like Tom it was ridiculous.

Slowly, Abbie nodded to herself. So that was it; now she knew the truth. Tom wasn’t ill. He wasn’t having an affair either. But he’d had one, years ago. Her loving, straightforward, utterly trustworthy husband had been unfaithful to her, and his mistress had given birth to a girl who was now—understandably—desperate to meet her father.

After everything they had been through together, it was like being stabbed in the stomach, over and over. Clutching her chest, Abbie let out a low-pitched broken wail of grief as her world crumbled. Now she knew, and she couldn’t un-know. Life would never be the same again.

***

The phone rang an hour later. Caller ID told her it was Des from work. Feeling utterly wretched, Abbie answered and mumbled ‘’Lo.’ Oh God, her throat was so swollen from crying she didn’t even sound like herself. Too late, she wished she hadn’t picked up.

‘Caz? Is that you?’ Des sounded surprised.

‘Yes.’ She cleared her throat, tried again. ‘Hello.’

‘Listen, I’m here doing the rota, and Magda’s got her uncle’s funeral on Wednesday, so we’re short-staffed. Any chance you could swap your day off to Thursday?’

‘Um… er…’ Her brain was like cotton-wool; he was talking about four whole days away.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, yes… yes, I’m fine…’

‘No you’re not. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing…’ The fact that he was being kind, sounding as if he really cared, was what finished her off. A huge uncontrollable gulpy sob burst out like a cannonball.

‘Right, that’s it. Is it Tom?’ His voice rising, Des said urgently, ‘Is he beating you up?’ Like Superman, ready to swoop to the rescue.

‘N-no, Tom’s not here. He’s gone f-fishing.’ Another involuntary sob escaped. Her face was tight and salty from all the tears.

‘And you’re on your own? OK, don’t move, wait there. I’ll be five minutes.’

‘No… you don’t have to…’ But it was too late, Des had already hung up. He was on his way.

Abbie just had time to wash her face and gaze miserably at her piggy-eyed reflection in the mirror before the doorbell rang downstairs. If Cleo had been free, she would have asked her to come over. But Cleo was in Bristol with Will, and now that Des was here, she was grateful for the company… the urge to talk things through was welling up unstoppably like water in a garden hose and Des, a genuinely kind soul, would be a good listener.

When she opened the front door he took one look at her face and exclaimed, ‘Oh Caz, tell me what’s wrong.’

‘It’s Tom. He’s had an affair.’ As she led the way into the living room, Abbie saw it with fresh eyes. Everything was immaculate, because they had both always taken great pride in their house. From the pale yellow Colefax and Fowler wallpaper and matching curtains to the polished wooden floor and cream rugs, it was all perfect. She looked at the happy smiley framed photographs of her and Tom together, arranged on tables and window-ledges around the room. She tipped the nearest one over. ‘And a baby.’ Saying the word aloud caused her to shudder.
Bang
, went the next photo-frame, face down. ‘A daughter.’
Crack
went the glass in the lovingly polished silver frame containing a picture of them taken on their wedding day. Oh yes, the happiest day of her life. ‘Called Georgia.’
Crash
.

‘Oh Caz, God, I’m sorry.’ Des looked appalled. ‘And she’s just been born?’

Abbie shook her head, pulled the envelope from her dressing gown pocket and gave it to him. She watched him look at the photograph first, then read the letter.

‘Jesus.’ When he’d finished, Des said, ‘This is pretty major. But she doesn’t say how old she is. Maybe it happened before you two got together.’

‘Nice try.’ Abbie’s jaw ached with the effort of keeping the muscles rigid. ‘But it didn’t. We’ve always been together. Since we were fourteen, if you can believe that. Childhood sweethearts.’ The words curdled on her tongue; everything was spoiled now. ‘We lost our virginities together on my sixteenth birthday. All we ever w-wanted was each other, forever and ever, for the rest of our lives. Ha, and to think I actually believed that!’
Craaaacccckkkk
, glass from the next frame shattered on the floor and she flinched as a shard ricocheted off her bare foot.

‘Right, stop it. Come here.’ Grabbing hold of her by the hand, Des yanked her away from the glass. ‘You’re going to hurt yourself.’

‘And you think I’m not hurt already?’ Hyperventilating with rage and grief, Abbie howled, ‘You can’t
begin
to understand how I’m feeling! Des, did you ever wonder why me and Tom didn’t have children?’

There was bemusement in his grey eyes. It had clearly never occurred to him to question it. ‘No.’

‘Well, it’s because I
couldn’t
have children. At all. Ever.’ Was she completely losing it now? Abbie didn’t care. Possibly not caring that she might be losing it was a sign that she really was. Dimly aware that Des was herding her away from the broken glass—oh great, now he was treating her like a mentally fragile
sheep
—she burst into tears and sobbed, ‘Which makes all this quite h-hard to bear, really, seeing as it was all I ever w-wanted in my life.’

Superman took charge, guiding her firmly out of the living room and in the direction of the stairs. ‘Tell me where you keep your vacuum cleaner. Then go and get yourself dressed. You’re not staying here on your own.’

When you were at the end of your tether and didn’t know what to do, being given clear, simple instructions was such a relief. Getting dressed, she could manage that. While the Dyson crackled and roared downstairs, slurping up splinters and shards of glass, Abbie pulled on jeans and an old oversized blue V-neck sweater. Everyone had always said she and Tom had the happiest marriage they knew, and she’d been gullible enough to believe them. Whereas behind her back, whilst she’d been feeling ridiculously happy and loved, Tom had kept the secret of his own infidelity. And once you’d had one affair… well, why stop there? For all she knew, he could have had dozens.

It didn’t bear thinking about. So she didn’t. Having attempted to comb the tangles out of her hair, Abbie gave up and tied it back with a green scrunchie instead.

Were you meant to vacuum up broken glass with a Dyson, or would it irretrievably shred the innards and render it useless?

Oh well, she knew how
that
felt.