Stockings and Cellulite (2 page)

For one idiotic moment I’d nearly fallen for it. Almost believed him. Which just left one outstanding question.

‘Where were you last night?’

‘Ah. Now you might not believe what I’m about to tell you, but I swear it’s the God’s honest truth.’

Wearily I rubbed my red-rimmed eyes. ‘Get out Stevie.’

As the front door banged shut, I wondered whether he’d go to
her
.

That evening, as I spooned baked beans over triangles of buttered toast, Toby regarded the empty space at the head of the table.

‘When’s Dad coming home?’

‘Ah yes,’ I quavered brightly. ‘I forgot to tell you both. Something cropped up at the office and Daddy has had to go away on urgent business.’

‘But he didn’t say good-bye,’ frowned Livvy. ‘He
always
says good-bye before he goes away. Where’s he gone?’

‘Well, here and there,’ I replied vaguely. ‘It’s something frightfully important and all a bit hush-hush.’

Precisely what could be so top secret that a bog standard surveyor should take off without any farewell fortunately bypassed the twins.

‘When will he be back?’ asked Toby cramming an entire toasted triangle in his mouth.

‘Not sure,’ I mumbled miserably.

The following morning, as I stared at a soggy mass of cereal willing my oesophagus to swallow a few spoonfuls, the doorbell exploded with frantic ringing. It was Nell.

‘Cass, you silly cow, why the hell didn’t you confide in me?’

‘Probably because I was trying to come to terms with the situation before anybody else got wind of it,’ I replied looking at her meaningfully.

There was almost nothing Nell didn’t know about the residents of our cul-de-sac and I had certainly been deluding myself hoping the infidelity fiasco would go unnoticed.

I chucked the congealed cornflakes in the bin and made some fresh coffee for us both while Nell spilled the gossip beans. It transpired that my love rival was a neighbour. She’d moved into the ivy-clad detached at the far end about a month ago. As I scalded my mouth on boiling coffee, I tried to silently count small blessings – well just the one blessing actually. My house was the first in the road and hers the last, so at least we wouldn’t bump into each other on a Monday morning when the bins were put out. Nell also confirmed that my adversary was a divorcee, had four children, and Dylan was in the same class as her eldest boy. That was only one down from the twins. Oh God. I’d have to move.

‘What’s her name?’ I hissed.

‘Cynthia.’

‘
Cynthia
?’ I shrieked, making Nell jump. ‘Who the hell is called Cynthia in this day and age?’

‘Fat old bags?’ asked Nell hesitantly.

‘What am I going to do?’ I wailed massaging my temples.

Nell considered. ‘Well, the way I see it there are three options.’ She held up her fingers and began to tick them off. ‘Move, stay put or-’

‘Murder Cellulite Cynthia,’ I growled.

Nell left about an hour later, eyes bright after such a gossip feast. This was the best scandal since Mr Witherspoon a few doors down had been rescued by the Emergency Services. Although nobody had ever fully understood quite why he’d felt the need to shove his penis up the spout of the bath tap. Especially the hot one.

Stevie sent a text proclaiming he loved me and had made a huge mistake. I let out a snarl and hurled the mobile to the floor. Fortunately we were the only house in the cul-de-sac never to have got around to laminate flooring. The mobile landed intact on the shagpile.

Settling down with a notepad and pen I made some financial calculations – essential if one was seriously considering going it alone – and happily discovered that I was not necessarily financially dependent upon Stevie. Two years ago my darling octogenarian parents had left me reeling when they died within weeks of each other. As their only daughter they had bequeathed me the entirety of their worldly goods which, although modest, was not to be sniffed at. The money had been quietly sitting in a bond earning a tidy sum of annual interest. If I was thrifty it could easily support the twins and myself.

On the pretext of wanting an early night, I was in bed soon after Livvy and Toby. In truth I wanted to privately release a torrent of weeping. Burying my face in the pillow to mute my howls of anguish, I wondered what Stevie and Cynthia were doing right now. Were they curled up together on the sofa watching telly? Cuddling? Kissing? Even worse, at it? The pain was so acute I thought it would dislodge my heart.

I eventually sank into a tortured mixed up dream. Sitting astride Stevie I repeatedly yelled, ‘
Liar, liar, liar’
. As I pneumatically bounced around, Stevie morphed into Cynthia. ‘
Bitch, tart, home wrecker,’
I shrieked lashing out with my fists. She grabbed me by the shoulders shaking me furiously. ‘
Cow! Pig!’
I screeched, thrashing about and wishing she’d stop rattling me so violently because my brain was starting to hurt. If only I could just bunch my fist up one more time and biff her really hard on the nose it would be –
ouch
– it would be –
argh
– what was my rival doing to me?

‘Mum! Can you hear me? Wake up!’ Toby was gripping my shoulders and shaking me like a terrier with a rag doll. Behind him stood Livvy managing to look both disdainful and pained.

‘Do you know what time it is?’ she admonished. ‘It’s nearly eight o’clock. We go back to school today and there’s no bread to make our packed lunches.’

Oh my goodness. What sort of parent was I? Aside from a heartbroken single one of course? I leapt out of bed, experienced a bit of a head rush, then belted down to the kitchen to ransack cupboards for crackers, crisps, biscuits and anything that bore the labels monosodium glutamate and millions of E numbers. Why couldn’t I be like some of the other school-gate mothers channelling my energies into raising a vegetarian family, buying organic ingredients and knocking up nutritious home baking? Perhaps if I’d been more like that I’d have had a faithful husband by my side. Meanwhile bags of crisps, sugary drinks and stale Ryvita would have to do.

Shame washed over me as I realised that wallowing in self-pity had resulted in neglecting my precious offspring. Bugger Stevie for doing this to me. For the first time since the catastrophic events of
that
party, anger reared its head.

I slapped Tupperware lids on lunchboxes and frisbeed them to my patiently waiting children. Belting back upstairs and ignoring my burgeoning bladder, I pulled my long coat from the wardrobe, grabbed handbag and car keys and legged it out to the car.

After blowing noisy kisses to the twins’ rigid backs (public displays of affection were apparently uncool) on sudden impulse I headed off to Fairview Shopping Centre. There was nothing like a spot of retail therapy to lift the spirits. And right now I needed to do everything possible to keep the pecker up. Just
visual
ising handing over a little rectangular piece of plastic was putting some roses back in my pasty cheeks. This was definitely going to be good. I could feel it in my water. And talking of water, I really should find a loo very soon.

Inside the shopping mall, distraction was immediate in the form of glittery denim jeans in the window of River Island. Low slung, belted and boot legged they’d look absolutely terrific on an eighteen year old. I was a battle worn thirty-nine – feeling furiously rebellious.

I strode into the disco-lit interior where blaring music instantly assaulted my eardrums. Businesslike, I began moving around the shop floor loading up. It was hot work. Ten minutes later I flung the garments over my shoulder and shrugged off my heavy winter coat. Instantly refreshed I headed off to the fitting room vaguely aware that two teenagers were regarding me with ill-concealed amusement. When I swished the fitting room curtain aside with a flourish the reason for the girls’ mirth became apparent. My reflection, caught in a full length mirror and lit in a blaze of down-lighting, revealed a white faced black-eyed woman clad in nothing but a nightdress. I groaned and sank to the floor in mortification. At that moment I hated Stevie. How could I have let him reduce me to this?

I bought the jeans and several tops, one fabulously clingy making my boobs look far bigger and better than
hers
.

Once home, I dumped the carrier bags in the bedroom and sank into lethargy. Exhaustion overwhelmed me. Why was I so tired? Downstairs a pile of ironing awaited. Dropping onto the bed I closed my eyes. Just for five minutes.

Three hours later I awoke with a jolt. The school run!

Liv came through the school gates looking poker-faced and Toby was sporting a puffy purple eye. Both children flatly refused to offer any explanation until we were away from the school and on the road.

‘Well?’ I demanded. ‘Who did this? I want names Toby, because I’m going to complain bitterly.’

Toby promptly burst into tears.

‘He had a fight with the new kid in Year Four,’ Livvy answered in a monotone.

‘Oh indeed? And what horrible child was this? From the council estate perchance? I suppose it was one of the Sykes family. Nell said there was talk of them joining our school.’ A pelican crossing loomed and I slowed down. ‘Their father’s in prison you know. Got caught trying to rob a bank apparently. Nell said something about him waving a concealed gun around wrapped in a carrier bag. Turned out to be a banana. You see children? This is what happens when you don’t pay attention at school. If Sykes Senior had bothered to learn his times tables and worked out floor areas and angles of infra red beams, he’d have stood a far better chance of success.’ I thumped the steering wheel to underline my point. ‘You can’t enter into something half cocked, brandishing a banana.’ The last of harassed mothers with their offspring crossed the road. Shoving the gear into first I sped off. ‘I’m telling you, the Sykes family make a plank look intelligent.’

‘Mum,’ Livvy snapped, ‘the new kid in Year Four happens to live in our road and was taunting Toby at break time. He said our dad is now his dad.’

I nearly crashed the car.

Naturally an explanation had to be given. I told the children in a matter of fact voice that Daddy and I had been experiencing difficulties and were spending a few days apart to do some quiet thinking.

‘So why is Dad living with Ned Castle’s mum?’ asked Liv.

Good question. And one to which I didn’t know the answer.

Within minutes of returning from the school run, the headmistress telephoned.

‘Good afternoon Mrs Cherry.’ The greeting was pleasant enough but one could detect the steel at ten paces. ‘I’m sorry to have to report an incident earlier today between Toby and another pupil. I feel it would be appropriate if you could come to the school so we can discuss the matter properly.’

There then followed a bit of mutual diary checking and we agreed upon ten o’clock the following morning.

Nell, ever the good Samaritan, appeared on the doorstep at tea time weighed down with an enormous casserole.

‘I’ll bet you’re not eating properly,’ she fussed setting the dish down on the kitchen table. ‘Also I’ve got some more info for you on
you know who,
’ she rolled her eyes meaningfully.

Suddenly my legs wouldn’t support me. I sat down. Despite loathing my love rival, I wanted to know everything about her. Apparently she is forty-five years old – which makes her five years older than Stevie. Hardly dolly bird material. She’s also on the look out for fresh male company having just ended her
third
marriage.

‘By all accounts she’s looking for Husband Number Four,’ confided Nell.

‘And obviously set her cap at my husband, the thieving bitch!’ I snarled.

The following morning I painstakingly combed my wardrobe for appropriate apparel. It was vitally important to appear well presented – impressions were everything. Miss Jenner would look up from her desk to observe a mature and sensible woman, an exceptionally capable mother of two star pupils – one of whom had regrettably strayed under the severest of provocation. Yes, absolutely.

‘Mum, I’m so sorry,’ said Toby miserably as he dressed for school.

‘Hey! No worries little man,’ I smiled and ruffled his hair affectionately. ‘Playground scrapping happens all the time. Meeting the Head is just a formality,’ I assured ignoring my churning stomach.

At exactly five minutes to ten I knocked on the secretary’s door and was immediately led through to the headmistress’s office.

‘Ah, Mrs Cherry,’ Miss Jenner proffered her hand and gave mine a strong shake. She was a typical headmistress – tweedy, iron grey hair and of indeterminable age.

‘Miss Jenner,’ I smiled graciously.

‘Do sit down Mrs Cherry,’ she beckoned to an empty seat in front of her desk.

As she shut the door I registered the bulky presence of another person who had initially been obscured. Seated to the side of Miss Jenner’s desk was Cynthia Castle. My jaw hit the ground.

‘You!’ I spluttered. ‘It’s her!’ I informed the Head.

‘Please sit down Mrs Cherry.’

The cut glass voice defied argument. I sank into the indicated chair, my cotton shirt instantly drenched in sweat, heart hammering wildly. It really hadn’t entered my head that Ned Castle’s mother would also be at this meeting. Stupidly I’d thought this morning would be a straightforward one-to-one discussion. Faced so unexpectedly with the opposition, I completely wimped out. What a lost opportunity considering the many hours invested in daydreaming dark revenge fantasies – like liberally decorating Cynthia Castle’s car with paint. And why stop at the car? I had a sudden urge to whip out a lipstick from the depths of my handbag and scrawl all over Cynthia Castle’s face, but regrettably could not summon the wherewithal. In fact, it was as much as I could do to remain upright on the chair and not sprawl in an ungainly heap.

The headmistress cleared her throat, gravely acknowledged delicate issues between both parties before going on to say that nonetheless she couldn’t have pupils knocking seven bells out of each other. I sat in a shocked haze watching Miss Jenner’s mouth move and form words, but failed to actually
hear
anything further. When I did finally tune back in it was to catch Cynthia Castle whimpering about
her Ned
being
victimised
. Victimised? By Toby? How
dare
she! I jumped up but, sensing trouble, Miss Jenner stood up too.