The Desperate Wife’s Survival Plan (18 page)

The trouble was that she was beginning to miss Richard when he wasn’t around. That Gareth’s
lips on hers didn’t have the same magical effect.

He moved his head up to hers and kissed her mouth.

‘Okay, baby?’ he murmured.

‘Yeah,’ she replied.

But Samantha wasn’t all right. She was scared that no man could ever match up to Richard.

Caroline had told the others that she was pregnant but hadn’t actually told her husband. She knew she could never tell the girls what she had hoped would
happen in the past couple of weeks. It was too awful, too shocking, to admit. But her prayers weren’t answered. Her period had not arrived. The doctor had confirmed that morning that she was definitely pregnant.

Caroline checked the salmon on the griddle pan. It was beginning to look a bit dry.

‘Jeff!’ she called once more.

She knew he was on the phone about work but it was gone eight o’clock
at night. If she didn’t eat soon she was going to feel nauseous again. But then she knew she might feel sick after dinner anyway.

The classical music wasn’t helping to soothe her nerves. She knew it was better for Flora’s development but sometimes Caroline yearned for pop music. Sometimes she put her Take That CD on in the car when she was alone but would never confess to doing such a thing.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Jeff, coming into the kitchen. ‘The whole house stinks of fish.’

Caroline sighed. ‘It’s good for us,’ she told him, flipping the fish steaks off the pan and on to their plates. A green salad had already been placed on the dining-room table, along with a bowl of couscous.

‘It’s Friday night,’ said Jeff, pouring himself a large glass of wine. ‘Couldn’t we have a takeaway?’

‘Friday is fish night,’ said Caroline.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he muttered. ‘I know.’

Caroline sipped her water whilst she watched her husband push the fish around his plate.

‘I thought you liked this dish.’

‘Just once in a while couldn’t we have fish and chips instead?’ he said.

‘It’s too greasy.’

‘There’s always an excuse with you,’ snapped Jeff, becoming riled. ‘I work hard all day, come home late
and I have to eat this organic rubbish. I’m a man! I want a real meal!’

‘Well, what about me?’ shouted Caroline. ‘I wanted something healthy. Something nutritious, not full of toxins and rubbish.’

Jeff’s looked shocked. His wife never shouted.

Her anger subsided as quickly as it had flared. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s the hormones.’

‘Ah,’ said her husband. ‘Time of the month, is it?’

‘No,’ said
Caroline. ‘I’m pregnant.’

‘You are?’

Jeff flung back his chair and raced around the table to hug her.

‘That’s fantastic! When?’

‘The baby’s due on the first of March.’

‘We’ve got to ring my parents,’ said Jeff, his face flushed with joy. ‘And yours. Wow, this is great!’

Caroline forced a smile, wishing she could share his excitement.

Julie had her hands on her hips and was scowling down
at the puppy.

‘You’re a hooligan,’ she told him. ‘A lout. All you need is a hoodie top.’

She tried once more to wrestle the ruby-red peony from Boris’ mouth but he ran off, thinking it was a game.

‘It was £50!’ she shouted after the retreating dog. ‘I won’t be able to afford another one. It took me months and months of research to find the right one . . . and now look!’

She drew a deep breath
and picked up the petals that had scattered in the puppy’s wake. The peony was the latest casualty in a long line of destroyed items that included numerous pairs of shoes and socks, any long cardigan that Boris could leap up and nip at, and her dressing gown.

But the worst damage of all was to her beloved garden. The lawn was scattered with yellow patches from the dog’s numerous calls of nature.
He had also begun to dig holes from which came earth, clumps of grass, dirt, and bulbs that had remained hidden for many years.

Boris had been caked in dirt himself for most of the week until Julie hadn’t been able to put off the inevitable. He needed a bath.

It was hard to work out who ended up the wettest. Julie was soaked from trying to control the puppy who had been frightened by the shower
head. She found herself feeling slightly sorry for Boris, who shivered in terrified response to his first bath. He did look a very sad sight.

But then she had picked him out of the bath, placed him on the floor, and he did that dog shake thing which meant both she and the rest of the bathroom were showered as well.

Julie chased him through the bedrooms to try and towel him dry. In the end she
closed the bedroom door and turned the hairdryer on him. Unfortunately that resulted in a panicked wee on the carpet. In the end, she gave up and let him run around the house and garden to dry off.

‘You’re not my dog!’ she shouted after him.

But every strop she threw, every word she shouted, none of it seemed to matter to Boris. To him she was everything: his mother, his carer, his feeder. He
trusted her implicitly.

Julie remembered when she had been that young. And possibly more stupid. She didn’t want to let him down. But she also didn’t want to let him into her heart. There was no more room in it for any further disappointment.

THE SATURDAY OF
the anniversary party dawned fine and sunny. Fluffy cotton-wool clouds scudded across a bright June sky.

Charley stared out of the kitchen window. The garden was packed with people she didn’t know. There was the odd distant relative or friend of her parents but mainly it was just strangers.

Her parents had managed to cobble together various umbrellas and parasols
to put up around the garden and at three o’clock in the afternoon the majority of people were huddled underneath them, trying not to look sweaty in their smart outfits. Only the very young were skipping around in the blazing sunshine, decorated with coloured stripes of high-factor suntan lotion.

‘Come on,’ said Aunty Peggy, coming to stand beside her at the window. ‘You can’t hide in here all
afternoon.’

Charley wondered when Peggy had become so perceptive. She was indeed hiding from the glances of her parents’ friends, who were no doubt blaming her for this drab garden party instead of the glamorous celebration her mother had been planning for years.

‘I’m making up some ice-cream for the kids.’ Charley picked up a packet of wafer cones and ripped it open with her teeth.

‘Your ice-cream
is too good for them brats. Have you seen what they’ve done to your father’s pond? Your mother’s livid.’

Charley scooped up a ball of chocolate ice-cream and pressed it into place on top of a cone. She leant out of the open kitchen window and handed the ice-cream to a young lad who was loitering outside.

‘My brother says can he have one?’

She gave him a wink and handed him another chocolate
cone.

‘That’s his third,’ said Aunty Peggy, pointedly.

‘He’s only young,’ said Charley. ‘Let him have his fun.’

‘As long as he’s not sick anywhere near me,’ she said. ‘Now, what have you got for the more mature palate? I know you’ve got the good stuff stashed somewhere in here.’

Charley opened up the freezer and took out a couple of Tupperware boxes. ‘Coconut ice. A taste of the Caribbean
for you, madam? Or watermelon sorbet? Very refreshing, I’ve been told, when the mercury is high.’

She waved both the boxes in the air but Aunty Peggy merely raised her eyebrows in reply.

‘You win,’ said Charley, opening up the freezer once more to bring out a third box. ‘Rum and raisin, and it’s heavy on the rum.’

‘That’s my girl. Give us a large one.’

Charley filled her paper bowl with a
couple of scoops and waited for feedback.

Aunty Peggy smacked her lips together after the first bite. ‘Smashing. You’ve a real talent, girl. Don’t let it go to waste.’

‘There isn’t much call for ice-cream on the cleaners’ circuit.’

After Peggy had left, Charley carried on serving up the ice-cream through the kitchen window, which was now acting as a food counter. Once all the children were
dripping with chocolate and strawberry ice-cream, she washed up the empty Tupperware boxes and looked around the kitchen. The majority of the adults’ ice-cream had also been wolfed down so she put the last remaining scoops in the freezer before they melted.

She decided to escape her bolthole via the drinks table as her wine glass was empty and there was no way she was going through this party
sober.

She was just contemplating the wine bottles when her father came to stand next to her.

‘Want a refill?’ he asked.

Charley stared down at her empty glass. ‘I’m wondering if I should stay sober in the hope of a quick getaway.’

‘In that car? You’ll be lucky.’

She nodded in agreement and let him refill their glasses.

Charley took a brief moment to walk into the sunshine on the patio and
let the rays shine down on her.

She was just about to make a bolt back for the security of the kitchen when a cry of ‘Charlotte! Yoo-hoo!’ came from across the garden. A battleship of a woman loomed into view. It was Mrs Trimble, head of the Mothers’ Union.

‘My dear, I must congratulate you. I’ve just heard from Peggy that you made all the ice-cream yourself,’ she boomed. ‘I had quite forgotten
how good the home-made stuff can taste. What’s your secret?’

Charley shrugged her shoulders. ‘To give it a good stir every half an hour until it freezes.’

‘And you didn’t even use one of those new-fangled machines? How extraordinary.’ Mrs Trimble took her elbow and led her on to the lawn. ‘I was wondering, my dear, if I could ask a little favour of you.’

Charley thought that she really didn’t
want to do any more cleaning. She was barely getting through each day without collapsing with exhaustion as it was.

‘I’m having a small soiree for some old school friends in a fortnight and was contemplating serving up some of your marvellous ice-cream for afters.’

‘You want me to give you the recipe?’

‘Oh, no! I’ve not got time for that. There’s an Annual General Meeting coming up plus the
monthly beetle drive. No, I was thinking you could knock up a batch for me.’

Charley blinked a couple of times. ‘You want me to make the ice-cream? Aren’t you better off buying some from the shops?’

‘Best not to, I think. One of my girlfriends says she’s Cordon Bleu so there’s always a bit of one-upmanship. Mind you, I swear last time I spotted a load of M&S packaging in her recycling box when
we left.’

‘What did you have in mind?’ asked Charley.

‘Something creamy and wicked, I think. And organic, obviously.’

‘Obviously,’ she parroted, still in a daze.

‘And I’ll pay you for your time as well as all the ingredients.’

Charley’s mind was reeling but the idea of extra money was appealing.

‘Marvellous,’ boomed Mrs Trimble, taking her silence for agreement. ‘I’ll give you a call this
week, if I may? And mum’s the word, eh? You’ll keep it strictly between us?’

Charley nodded. ‘Yes, I will.’

‘No, she will not,’ thundered Granny, storming up to them.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Mrs Trimble, as they both stared at Granny in astonishment.

‘You can beg all you like, Gladys Trimble, but you’re not taking all the glory for my granddaughter’s talent,’ snapped Granny.

Mrs Trimble
looked like thunder. ‘That wasn’t what I meant, Elvira Sweeney, and you know it.’

‘That was precisely what you meant, Gladys, and I’m not standing for it. Nobody takes advantage of my family.’

‘I wasn’t taking advantage. I was going to pay the girl.’

‘And then take all the credit, as per usual. The whole village knows that fruit loaf which has won you first prize for the last two years at the
summer fête is shop-bought.’

Mrs Trimble’s face was purple by this time. ‘How dare you! That recipe has been handed down from generation to generation.’

‘Whose generations were they? Tesco’s?’

Both women had planted their court shoes squarely, faces drawing closer and closer. For a fleeting moment Charley enjoyed a daydream of seeing fists flying between her grandmother and the head of the
Mothers’ Union. But her own mother had now arrived to referee.

‘Mum, what’s going on here? Mrs Trimble . . . anything I can do for you?’ She looked from one stony-faced pensioner to the other and back again.

‘You can write down our Charlotte’s telephone number,’ said Granny, not taking her eyes off Mrs Trimble. ‘Gladys wants her to make up a batch of her ice-cream.’

‘You do? How wonderful,’
said Maureen, giving her daughter a quick hug. ‘I keep hearing how good everyone thinks it is.’

‘Gladys is going to pay her a good price for her time and effort, as well as telling everyone that our Charlotte made it.’

‘Super!’ said Maureen, trying to ignore the atmosphere and glaring eyes. ‘I’ll jot down that number for you, Gladys.’

Mrs Trimble nodded in reply and forced a smile on to her
face as she looked at Charley.

‘And that is acceptable to you, I hope?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Charley quickly. Anything to keep the peace.

She let her grandmother lead her away.

‘You make sure she gives you a good price,’ she hissed at her granddaughter.

‘Yes, Granny.’

‘Don’t let her walk all over you.’

‘Yes, Granny.’

‘And if she gives you any lip, you tell me. I’ll give her what for.’

‘Yes, Granny.’

As Charley climbed into bed that night, she was still basking in her small victory. Someone thought she had talent. Someone actually wanted her ability as a cook rather than a cleaner. Still in shock, she fell fast asleep without crying beforehand for the first night in a long time.

‘
SO WHAT’S EVERYONE
doing for holidays this year?’ asked Samantha who was bronzed after just returning from a long weekend in Ibiza with her single friends from work. It had been fun, picking up various men and getting drunk, but something had been missing. She had a horrible feeling that it was Richard.