All That Mullarkey (14 page)

She looked at the clock and sent them all off to lunch. ‘Five minutes early because you’re all working so hard. I’ll see if I can get you a policy decision on the swearing.’ They all responded to her wide, professional smile as they filed out. Cleo switched on her mobile phone as the last of them left.

Just 4get it. Gr8 at time but over now.

With little appetite for lunch, she made do with a couple of digestives. Another pregnancy symptom? She hadn’t been nauseous but Rhianne said she never had a moment’s sickness with her first pregnancy.

Outside, she discovered that the only local retail outlets were a burger bar and a sandwich trolley; but she felt better in the fresh air, the silky top less cloying. She bought iced Perrier from the sandwich trolley and sank down on a sunny bench, just as Justin’s next message came through.

What r u worried about? Have u email addy I can msg or can I ring? Sorry if u r upset.

Her response was curt.

Not appropriate.

Received back:

What worry? What worry? What worry???

Glancing at her watch, she stabbed at the stupid, unco-operative, titchy buttons, making mistakes and having to work backwards and forwards.

Worry whether u will drop me in shit. Please piss off.

She checked her watch and hurried up to the human resources manager’s office.

After a weary afternoon of being the irate customer in endless role-playing situations, she flopped back into her car and switched her phone back on. It beeped immediately.

Sorry. Accept u r married 1. I withdraw! xxx

She smiled, although her vision was swimming. Replied,
Thx
. Did she feel better now? She ought to.

It took a couple of minutes to delete all Justin’s messages; then she rang Liza. ‘How are you fixed for a drink and a moan tonight? I can’t come out with you Friday because I’ve promised to watch Gav playing football.’

‘Had we arranged something for Friday?’

‘If Gav asks, yes.’

Liza giggled. ‘Cleo, I rather like the unruly you. Do you want to meet me at the flat now, or come back later?’

She thought of the clingy top and hot, window-window-window room she’d been slaving away in all day, and knew she needed a shower. She was glad she had all planning and client account work for the rest of the week. ‘Later, OK?’

And she had to brave the pharmacy. But Bettsbrough, when she hit it, was a mass of roadworks and dust hanging in hot still air, with home-time drivers looking murderous.

‘One more day won’t matter,’ she persuaded her rear-view-mirror self.

‘What’s up?’ Gav zipped the pizza into sections with the stainless-steel cutting-wheel.

Cleo pulled a face. ‘It’s too hot.’

‘Rain’s forecast for tomorrow.’

She watched him polish off four slices of pizza, spooning coleslaw onto each before he folded it up and ate it. Yuk. She swallowed. Was she feeling pregnancy nausea? To divert her mind she told him, ‘I’m going out with Liza tonight. I can eat then.’

‘Again?’ He put his pizza down, wedge five out of eight, one bite taken. ‘I never seem to see you.’

‘I came to the footie last night,’ she pointed out reasonably. ‘And I’m coming again tomorrow night.’

‘Don’t do me any favours.’ He picked up the pizza and took a massive unattractive mouthful.

Silence. Cleo rubbed her temples. How had her marriage suddenly become like everyone else’s? What could she do to eradicate the memory of Gav’s ugly anger? To forget her own conduct and the guilty memory of Justin?

And find some way of fancying Gav again.

The thought kapowed through her brain –
she didn’t fancy Gav
. And perhaps he no longer fancied her, judging by the way he avoided contact.

Tormented by the questions she’d asked herself a hundred times already, she went up for a shower. She hardly even remembered that she’d left Gav downstairs in a big black sulk.

When Cleo stooped to kiss him goodbye, Gav pointedly proffered his cheek. He felt her hesitate. Withdraw and spin on her heel. Heard the rapid thuds of her footsteps returning upstairs, a pause of several minutes, then her footsteps clattered down again. The bag over her shoulder said more than she did. ‘I’ll stay at Liza’s tonight, it’s handy for work in the morning. Be back in time for the footie tomorrow night.’

He kept his eyes on the television.

The front door closed and she was gone. Gav clasped his head. ‘Gav Callaway, you handled that just perfectly. Why did you try to contain her when you know it’s the very thing she objects to?’ Maybe so he’d have some head space to psych himself up for tomorrow ...

A tomorrow of appointments he didn’t fancy. Not least a possible meeting with willowy, scornful Lillian.

He fetched beer from the fridge and armed himself with the phone. ‘Keith, you’re not free to pop over for a pint, are you?’

‘No, I’m flaming not because flaming Dora’s out some-bloody-where, Meggie wants her mum and Eddie wants his supper!’ snapped Keith, raising his voice over the terrible cacophony.

‘I’ll ring back later,’ Gav said hastily. He didn’t want Keith to suggest that he should go and help with the kids.

‘Strikes me,’ observed Liza, wriggling up onto a black bar stool and swigging her drink, ‘that things ain’t what they used to be. Ooh, see that bloke with the dark hair? That’s Angie’s latest.’

‘Yeah?’ Cleo sucked down sweet, cooling mouthfuls of her wine and pushed aside worries about possible effects on the possible foetus.

Liza caught the eye of the dark man and waved before giving her attention to her sister. ‘So, what’s the matter? Gav’s pyjamas? Bodice-bustin’ Justin?’

Cleo laughed. Thank God for Liza, Liza she could tell anything and everything to. Nearly.

She began, ‘I’m trusting you not to pass any of this on to Mum and Dad – I don’t need them poking their noses in as well as everything else. But things are a bit strained at the moment.’

Liza propped her cheek on her hand and studied her sister. ‘Know what?’ she offered, draining the last drips from the bottle into her glass and upending the empty over Cleo’s, as if that made it equal. ‘Mum and Dad would only say what I’m going to say – I think your marriage has had it.’

Chapter Sixteen

Maybe it was the memory of Liza putting her worries into words, but Cleo had a funny, eerie feeling, as if she was close to the edge.

To the edge of what, she wasn’t certain. But the sensation had been strong all day of something that was fermenting, building, gathering to tip her over into some new place.

It was a stupid, unsubstantiated feeling, but she found herself being wary, watchful, so that when the edge appeared she’d be ready for it. Especially when she stepped back inside her home that night, mindful of the foul mood Gav had been in when she’d left the evening before. She paused. Listened.

Gav was singing!

He swooped down on her, beaming. ‘’Evening, sweetheart! Dinner’s nearly ready. I’m sorting my footie kit out.’ He surprised her with an abrupt, intense kiss. ‘We don’t seem to be spending much time together, lately. What d’you say we pop off somewhere tomorrow? Throw some stuff in an overnight bag, find a hotel in the Dales for a couple of days of decadence? Steak dinners, a four-poster … a little champagne? Fancy that?’ He dropped a kiss on the end of her nose, whispered, ‘Bring an end to the celibacy?’ And stroked her bottom.

It sounded as if he were making a lot of effort. She smiled and said lightly, ‘Sounds great.’ Maybe a few romantic trimmings were all they needed to find each other again, exorcise the memory of the recent tension. Perhaps she’d learn to melt again when Gav touched her, to feel her heart trot at the base of her throat. Maybe. And as she shrugged into her jacket she felt a little lift in her heart, as if the edge had receded a bit.

At the sports hall, the spectators’ balcony was thronged. Scores of teenagers in RAF-blue uniforms seemed intent on being the loudest supporters and Bettsbrough was thinly supported in comparison. Cleo had no trouble finding her friends where they’d staked a claim at the railing. ‘Hi!’

Dora looked as if she might’ve been crying; Keith was white and tight-lipped.

Rhianne, in contrast, was bubbling with joy, couldn’t wait to spill her can brimful with golden beans. ‘Cleo! Ian’s got a brilliant new promotion. Brilliant! The salary’s miles higher – isn’t it, Ian? Miles!’ She clenched joyful fists and bounced on the spot. Her pale-blue shiny pumps matched her pale-blue perfectly pressed trousers. ‘Isn’t he clever? Aren’t you, Ian? Haven’t I always said so?’ Rhianne linked happy arms with her husband.

‘Not all the time,’ Ian answered dryly. But he gave her his lop-sided smile and accepted Cleo’s congratulatory hug.

‘And a company car,’ squeaked Rhianne. ‘And performance bonuses!’

‘Supposing I perform.’

‘’Course you’ll perform.’ Nothing was going to damp Rhianne’s bliss. ‘I’ll buy you a congratulatory coffee! Coming, Cleo? Dora?’ Even in the queue she could barely stand still, jiggling and grinning, squeezing arms. ‘I’m glad I stayed with him, now.’

Cleo stared. ‘Why? Were you ever leaving?’

Rhianne reddened, eyes flickering to a point past Cleo’s head. ‘Well … well, yes, we were talking about a trial separation. Last summer. But we stuck it out, so –’

Cleo slid a sympathetic arm along Rhianne’s slender shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, Rhianne, I’d no idea. It must’ve been dreadful, keeping it to yourself. I’m glad things worked out. How awful to go through something so crappy without anyone knowing.’

Then she caught it. The glance lancing between Rhianne and Dora. The penny dropped. She withdrew her arm and turned to Dora. ‘You knew!’ Dora blushed and studied the floor.

The queue shuffled up. Rhianne bit her lip. ‘Sorry. It was just too …’ But they’d reached the head of the queue. As Rhianne didn’t seem about to, Cleo paid with angry little movements, snatched up the tray of drinks and headed for Keith and Ian. Gav was already downstairs warming up, the clatter and slap of the ball echoing up to the gallery.

Rhianne’s hand on her arm meant she had to stop or risk shooting five cups of coffee across the room. Rhianne’s lipsticked mouth had stopped smiling and her artistically made-up eyes were apologetic. ‘I just couldn’t admit it to you, Mrs Perfectmarriage, that my relationship was in the shit. Sorry, but that’s how it was.’

Cleo managed a frosted smile. ‘OK. Your call.’ She made herself a place at the railing, cheering Gav on, joining in every burst of applause or groan, glued to the match, agonising when full time saw the score at 2-2, the same at the end of extra time. And then the match must be decided by penalties.

‘How bloody for Gav,’ Ian groaned, ‘I can’t watch.’

But if Cleo didn’t watch, she’d have to face Rhianne’s apologetic eyes once more. The ATC began lining up behind the ball as Gav crouched grimly in front of his net. And she’d have to pretend that she didn’t mind that she’d been excluded. When she did.

There were photos and a proper prize ceremony. A trophy that looked ridiculously small in the hands of the team captain; Gav bouncing with joy to be the ’keeper who let in only two penalties and saved the match. The rubber ATC players accepted their even tinier trophy and joked that at least they didn’t have to buy the drinks.

Gav rushed up and, in front of everyone, took a deep, jubilant kiss from Cleo before plunging into an animated ball-by-ball analysis with Keith and Ian. Dora and Rhianne were in a huddle over by the crèche, casting uneasy glances at Cleo.

‘Suppose that means it’s my round.’ But Cleo smiled as she went to join the queue. Their group had never been one to keep score. Well, all right, there was a tiny bias – and it was in favour of Rhianne and Ian, which was OK because Cleo and Gav had two incomes and no kids and Keith and Dora had Keith’s mega-salary. She ordered red wine for the women and pints of lager for the men. Their crowd had been together for ages; it’d be a pity to spoil that over inconsequential matters like whose round it was. Or who’d been kept in the dark.

So she smiled reassuringly at Rhianne and Dora when she proffered red wine that looked like cough mixture and forgave them their secrets. ‘I’ll just take the men their drinks, OK?’

The tray was heavy. Because of her route via Rhianne and Dora, she approached the backs of Gav, Ian and Keith. She’d actually begun to say, ‘Beer’s here!’ But her words were drowned out by the post-match hubbub.

And coincided with Keith turning to Gav and asking, ‘So where did you go? GP or GUM?’

Cleo’s words stuck to her lips. GP or GUM? For a moment the only amplifications she could think of for those abbreviations were General Practitioner and Genito-urinary Medicine.

She opened her mouth to ask what Keith meant, but Gav’s undervoice reply halted her. ‘GP. I put off going for too long, but there was a chance I’d passed something on to Cleo. Bad enough having to get the todger out to show my own doctor but it’d be worse at the clinic. All those strangers and sad bastards with false names, suppurating with VD and …’

GP and GUM stood for precisely what they’d always stood for.

She felt the strength wash from her arms and the three glasses fell to the floor to explode in a shock of glass and foam and interrupted voices.