A Summer Fling (6 page)

‘Well, we’re here now,’ she said and touched his arm. ‘You’re looking well.’

‘So are you. But then you always do. I ordered us tea already,’ he said, pouring from a waiting teapot. ‘How’s Dad?’

‘Oh, you know, the same,’ said Grace. She didn’t say he sent his love, they would both know that would have been a lie, but it was a lie she wished she could have got away with. ‘Anyway, Happy Birthday.’ Grace handed over a sturdy paper carrier bag. ‘If you don’t like it, I’ve left the receipt in—’

‘Mum, you have great taste and I’ve never had to change a thing you’ve given me.’ He squeezed her hand and Grace hung onto his fingers for a few sad moments. It shouldn’t be like this, skulking around seeing her boy. He should be spending his twenty-eighth birthday embraced in his family home, blowing out silly candles on a cake, even at his age. She had always made a big fuss of them all on their birthdays, the way she wished she had been fussed over by a family.

‘So, what do you have to tell me?’ she said, sniffing back a threatening cloudburst of sudden tears. She didn’t want to spoil this happy occasion with a silly crying fit.

‘Well . . .’ He reached down, fiddled in a briefcase and brought up a file which he opened. He handed over some photos. ‘I’ve bought it, Mum. That is, myself and my business partner, Charles.’

‘You haven’t!’ said Grace, her mouth wide open with excitement. ‘This is the house you were telling me about, presumably?’

‘Yep. Which is mostly the reason for the radio silence, Mum. I’ve been a busy lad.’

Grace looked down at the old manor house set in its own grounds, the one which her talented, caring boy was going to turn into an old people’s home.

‘It’s going to be gorgeous, Mum. Every room ensuite – fourteen, the architect reckons; a fifty-foot conservatory facing east for breakfasts, a library, Internet, webcams, a pool, a cinema . . .’

‘Slow down and take a breath,’ said Grace, but loving his enthusiasm.

‘It will be the most beautiful residential home I can make it. The place is a mess at the moment, which is why I got it for such a good price – and of course add the recession to the mix. But you should see how many of the original features are still there. And the garden will be lovely with a bit . . . sorry,
a lot
of work. I can’t afford to fail at it, that’s for sure. Oh Mum, we can’t wait to get started. Everything was finalized yesterday so now we can. It’s mine, Mum. It’s all mine. God, we should both have taken taxis and had champagne instead of tea!’

His face was radiant with excitement. As long as she had known him, she had been convinced Paul would enter a caring profession and on a grand scale too. This was a deal he had been working towards for years. She had no doubt he would be successful at it. He was a fighter, though some of his energies were taken up with fighting things he shouldn’t be and that saddened her so very much.

‘I’m going to call it Rose Manor, after Granny,’ he beamed.

Grace nodded. ‘That’s a lovely idea. She would have been so proud of you, Paul. And so would your mother.’

‘Really? Do you think they would have been bothered by my sexual proclivity as much as Dad is? I often wonder.’

‘They would have loved you for being you and been proud as Punch of you,’ said Grace definitely. She might not have been able to grow children in her body, but she had grown them in her heart and she felt every bit their mother. But, even though she had never known Gordon’s first wife, Rita, Grace had always been careful never to usurp her position as true mother. Rose had once told her that Rita was a feisty little thing who adored her babies, and when she suddenly and tragically died, she left a space that Grace had been proud to fill, but she did so with reverence to the woman who had borne the children she loved as her own. Pictures of Rita still sat in frames in the house and every Mother’s Day and on Rita’s birthday, Grace had taken the children to her grave in Maltstone churchyard to lay flowers. It was only right she should have the deepest respect for the woman who had given her the greatest gift ever. She had the feeling that Rita would have been her friend had their lives overlapped.

‘Your Nana Rose would have laughed her head off to be told she was having a mansion named after her,’ said Grace.

‘Do you think?’

‘I know so,’ said Grace. She had fallen in love with Rose Beamish on their very first meeting. She oozed life and love and laughter despite the asthma that crippled her. She never once moaned, taking her illness in her stride. ‘Still breathing, aren’t I, pet? That’s more than them poor buggers in the ground,’ she had laughed in her thick Tyneside accent. Grace had been broken-hearted when she died. Gordon had been of the ‘it’s a blessing’ school of sentiment. He wasn’t a man for much emotion. But Grace felt the emptiness in the house for a long time after Rose’s passing.

They had another pot of tea and then the time came for Grace to make a move to go home. Tall as she was, she was dwarfed by her big, handsome son. When did he become a man? The boy had never given them a minute’s trouble in all those years and he was now treated as a pariah by his father because he was gay. The unfairness of it all pained her heart.

‘We’ll meet again soon,’ she said at the door.

‘Look, I can’t see you next Saturday, but can you sneak off the weekend after – Easter weekend? Meet you here, same time? I’d like to introduce you to Charles. He’s been dying to meet you after all I’ve told him about you.’

‘Aw, bless you,’ said Grace, adding, ‘So is Charles a
partner
as well as a partner?’

Paul grinned. ‘He’s a partner. He is someone’s
partner
but more about that one later.’

‘I’ll be here, same time,’ said Grace. They kissed again. He looked happy.
Her boy.

‘Good. Anyway, I’m relying on you to come and help me pick out some wallpaper and furniture eventually. I want it to be bright but restful.’

‘I’ll help you all I can, you know that,’ said Grace. She touched his face, his strong, handsome face. His features reminiscent of Gordon, but a Gordon who was pliant, a Gordon who didn’t think it was a weakness to
feel
. If only her husband thought about people with as much affection as he thought about caravans.

The weekends were the worst for Anna. A desert where her thoughts tormented her and the bed seemed bigger than ever. Time wasn’t a great healer. She was feeling increasingly worse, not better. It had been nearly two months now since she had walked in, needing Tony’s arms around her more than ever, but all she found was a strange quiet about the house and saw the note on the table.
Sorry, need some time to think and we need some time apart. There is no one else though – honest.
Obviously, with Tony having an elastic relationship with the truth, there was indeed someone else. Lynette Bottom, aged nineteen with a peachy derrière and bobbly tits. He had taken her on in his barber’s shop as a Girl Friday about six months ago. Now she was official bed-warmer. Anna wondered if he’d put her hourly rate up for that.

Anna hadn’t heard from him since he had left, which was good in a way, she tried to tell herself, because he hadn’t come back for his stuff or asked for a split of assets. And his share of the mortgage and council tax was still going into the bank. But she so wanted to hear his voice and see him. It took every bit of strength she had not to make a detour past his shop on the way to the train every morning. She honestly didn’t know what she would do if she saw him. She couldn’t quite trust herself not to leap on him, force him to kiss her, beg him to come home. Or worse – fly at Lynette Bottom and grab her by the hair and totally embarrass herself by saying something wild and angry and chavvy. So she let him do what he had to, unharassed, under absolutely no pressure, and hoped one day that the answer machine would be flashing a message that he’d had his fun and wanted to come home.

It was an effort to get out of her dressing gown at the weekend, let alone put her face on. Whereas a few weeks back she wouldn’t have gone out to the wheely bin in less than full war-paint, now she was going shopping in Morrison’s without wearing even a blob of foundation. Grey roots were pushing out of her tired-looking chestnut hair. Her hair had always reflected her mood. When she was happy, it was bright and conker-shiny, but it looked dull now, even after she’d just washed it. Her unmade-up eyes were puffy through lack of sleep. She looked knackered and ten years past her age. She was one step away from going to the local shops in slippers and pink terry towelling pyjamas. And
the
dreaded birthday was just around the corner when life apparently would begin, so the saying went. Fat chance. She wondered if slitting your wrists in a warm bath was a painless way to die or if that rumour was as much bollocks as the rest of her life was.

‘Wakey, wakey, rise and shine!’

Raychel’s eyelashes fluttered open to Ben’s gentle awakening. She made a leisurely stretch and he tutted.

‘Take your time, why don’t you?’

Raychel laughed and shuffled to a sitting position so Ben could put the tray on her lap. Every Sunday morning he made them breakfast in bed. He had done since they had moved in together when they were seventeen, although in those days he hadn’t been confident enough to tackle the Full English and it had just been toast and coffee with a daft flower in an eggcup at the side.

He sat down beside her with his own tray and began to tuck in.

‘I’ll never eat all this!’ she said. ‘You always give me far too much.’

‘Get it down you. You’ve no fat on your bones. No pudding unless you finish it!’ He wagged his finger at her and she speared a sausage and dipped the end in ketchup. She never did finish the huge breakfast he served up; he always had to help her out.

‘Just think, there will only be another three Sundays in this house, then we’ll be in our own place.’

‘Aye, well enjoy it then because once I start paying a mortgage we’ll only be able to afford to split a Pop Tart for breakfast,’ replied Ben, through a mouthful of bacon.

‘I won’t mind,’ said Raychel, sighing as she thought of the new flat they would be moving into soon.

‘As if!’ said Ben. ‘I like making your breakfast.’

‘You spoil me,’ smiled Raychel. She leaned over and gave him a kiss on his stubbly face.

‘Give me that sausage if you’re not going to eat it,’ said Ben.

‘Get lost,’ said Raychel, playfully stuffing the whole sausage into her mouth so Ben couldn’t have it.

‘I didn’t know you could do that!’ gasped Ben with a cheeky grin. ‘Raychel Love, I think you just might have to stay in bed for a bit longer and show me that trick again.’

Ben abandoned his breakfast immediately and jumped on a shrieking Raychel. Some things were more important than a Sunday morning fry-up.

‘Morning, girls!’ said a cheerful Christie to her troupe of four. It was five to nine on Monday morning and they still looked furtive, as if they were sneaking in late. They made her laugh. This job was just what she needed. She was so grateful she had mentioned the fact to James McAskill that she was looking for a full-time job. The ladies intrigued her though, each in their own unique way; they all seemed locked in their own little worlds. Grace, for instance. How many women in their fifties refused healthy offers of early retirement – not once, but twice? What was she running from? And young Dawn was positively schizophrenic. Sometimes she had that glow of a girl in love, only for it to be replaced by the world’s biggest worries showing on her face – what was all that about? Little Ray was a sweetheart, but so jumpy. Nails constantly in her mouth, and when there were no more nails, her fingers bled from the skin being ripped around them. Anna intrigued her most of all. Had she ever bloomed? Christie wondered. She had the air of one who never had. That would have been so unfair if she had not. Every woman should have her moment of flowering. Everyone should have days to look back on when they could say, ‘I was at my most beautiful then.’

‘Morning, everyone,’ said Malcolm, swaggering through the office. The ladies returned the greeting politely enough.

‘Morning, Christie,’ said Malcolm, leaning over her desk. Christie looked up to find a man who was decidedly more orange in the face than she remembered from Friday. Mahogany even. She had the sudden desire to spray some Mr Sheen on him. Poor man, did he realize how silly he looked?

‘I thought we might have lunch together. Let me take you through some of the ideas for the department that I never got to implement.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Christie. She didn’t really like the corporate lunch thing, but the man was making an effort to be friendly and it would have been very rude of her to rebuff him. ‘Shall we say twelve in the canteen?’

‘Or we could go to the Italian around the corner?’ he angled.

‘The canteen is fine by me,’ said Christie in such a way that brooked no discussion.

‘Oh . . . er . . . canteen it is then,’ he said and cocked his finger at her. ‘Right, best go and sort out the troops. Catch you later.’ He clicked his tongue and then strolled back down the office with a satisfied grin.

Christie’s eyes dropped back to her work, otherwise she would have seen four grimaces as each of her ladies imagined the prospect of lunch with Orange Malcolm.

At twelve, Christie clocked Malcolm settled at a canteen table with a generous serving of shepherd’s pie and salad. She picked up a plate of ravioli, sprinkled it with parmesan, and joined him. Gallantly he stood up while she took a seat.

‘Food’s not bad here,’ he said, unaware of a clot of tomato on his chin.

‘Yes, it’s very good,’ said Christie and speared a cushion of pasta.

‘Mr McAskill eats down here a lot. That’s a good sign.’

‘A very good sign,’ she agreed.

‘But then I suppose you know that already.’

Christie veered away from the subject that she suspected Malcolm wanted to bend towards. She was quite aware that people were intrigued by her relationship with James, but she had no intention of revealing her private life to strangers. This was a working lunch, not a chat between familiars.