Fandango in the Apse! (11 page)

I liked Stacey and over the summer, we often spent time together.  Although
she had the look of a hard-edged city type, Stacey was anything but.  She was –
as most of the women in our small cul-de-sac were – a stay-at-home wife.   She
had one son Oliver, away at school and a cleaner three times a week.

‘Darling, I married Dillon to avoid the necessity of working,’ she
admitted shamelessly one morning over coffee.  ‘Why spend hours of one’s life
toiling away, when one can get a man to do it for you?’ 

‘Well, you have a point,’ I ventured.

‘Don’t get me wrong – I do my bit.  Dillon gets my undivided attention
six weeks of the year when we’re on holiday and a shag once a week – he’s
happy.  The rest of the time I amuse myself.’

‘You mean you…?’

‘God, yes, darling, I’m a veritable slut.’  I nearly choked on my
coffee.  Stacey left her seat at the table and started rummaging in a cupboard
of her ultra-modern kitchen, eventually producing a packet of Bendick’s
chocolate-covered biscuits and a plate to put them on.

‘So, how’s your sex life with Eddie-boy?’ she asked, while nibbling on a
biscuit. 

Stacey’s candid way of speaking was contagious and I found myself willing
to be as open as she.

‘His is prolific by all accounts, mine’s virtually non-existent.’

‘Ah… yes, he struck me as having a roving eye.  You don’t look as if it
bothers you though?’  Stacey licked melted chocolate from her fingers, flicked
back her well-cut, blonde hair, and fixed me with a look that showed interest
without sympathy.  With a thought for my hips, I ignored the proffered biscuits
and answered her.

‘I think I’m past caring, to be honest,’ I admitted.  ‘I have my home and
the children and Eddie is generous, so…’

‘Hmm… you’re wise.  So many people think infidelity is black and white,
but to me it’s not.’

Noticing my frown, she continued.

‘OK, look at it this way,’ she said, warming to the subject. ‘Your Eddie
likes to play the field… and no matter what, if he’s that way inclined you
won’t stop him, so why punish yourself for his misdeeds?’

‘But I’m not.’

‘No, you’re not, but so many women do.  Think about it… they force the
issue, demand a divorce and for what?  A smaller house, less money and another
search for Mr Right.’  I had to admit she was probably right.

‘No – far better to stay put, spend their money and amuse yourself,’ she
said, with a flourish of conviction.

‘Been there, done that,’ I admitted.

‘No!’ Stacey’s expertly kept eyebrows shot out of sight under her fringe,
‘I wouldn’t have thought that.’  Could I see a smidgen of misplaced respect in
her eyes? Oh dear.

‘Although it was more out of revenge than the wish to amuse myself,’ I
admitted quickly. Liar!

‘Revenge is wasted energy, darling… no, far better to adopt an attitude
of  “what’s good for the goose…” don’t you think?’

And that’s exactly what I did.  Now, I’m not going to tell you Stacey was
a bad influence, you should know me well enough by now to know I need very
little encouragement to go off the rails, but I will admit she provided the
perfect foil for me to indulge in what the “gander” had been up to for years. 
I had some catching up to do, I’d lost count of the women Eddie had amused himself
with and I set about balancing the scales with relish. 

It proved quite an easy pastime.  Men are such saps when they think they
are in with a chance of a bit of leg over.  Not that I slept with all of them,
no, but I found it quite amusing at times to see how many meals they would
stump up before demanding payment.  The looks on their faces when they finally
realised they’d been had, was comical.  OK, I know it wasn’t nice, but most of
these men were married – I was doing my bit in providing their comeuppance.

Having got to know the neighbours over the summer it was far easier to
find babysitters in the form of various daughters, desperate to rid themselves
of their mother’s clutches for an hour or two.  If Eddie wondered at my sudden
desire for a social life, he said nothing.  Stacey’s husband was a barrister
and I suspected he tempered his tight lipped, well-concealed annoyance at my
frequent abandonment, with his desire to be “well in” with the Bond family.  Having
a barrister amongst his friends could only increase his standing.  Sad, isn’t
it?

The odd night out was one thing, but when Stacey suggested a weekend
away, that was another matter altogether. 

‘What about Toby and Sam?’ Eddie had asked, when I first mentioned it.

‘You’ll be here, won’t you?’

‘Not on Friday night or Saturday morning, I have a meeting in Bristol, I
was thinking of staying over.’ 

He was such a liar, meeting my arse.

‘Eddie, in all the years we’ve been together, I’ve only gone away once on
my own.  I’m sorry, you’ll have to cancel or make arrangements for your mother
to have them.’

‘Cancelling is not an option; this is an important client…’

I just bet she is, crossed my mind.

‘And I’m not sure my mother will have them, she was saying the other day
that you never bother going there unless you want her to babysit.’

‘I haven’t asked her to babysit for months!’

 ‘Well if you want her to have them, then you’ll have to square it with
her yourself.’  Eddie’s tone made it very clear that was his last word on the
subject. 

On the Friday, having picked Toby up from nursery school, I braved my
mother-in-law.  After a somewhat stilted phone call, she had agreed to have the
boys.  Both children leapt from the car and scooted into the house.  Their
overnight bags in hand, I followed at a slower pace.  The smell of freshly baked
muffins wafted from the kitchen. 

‘Look, Mummy, Grandma made us buns,’ Toby said, through a mouth full of
muffin.

‘That was nice of her,’ I said, making an effort to smile at the old
witch.  It fell on stony ground.

‘Why do you never make us buns?’ he asked, a crumpled little frown
appearing on his brow.

‘Oh, I’m sure Mummy’s far too busy, Toby. Come now, sit up at the table
with Sam, there’s still a couple of hours before tea, so you can have one
more.’

After a strained ten minutes, I left Jean clucking over the children.  I
was a little miffed that neither boy seemed overly concerned at my imminent
departure.  Both were quite happily looking forward to staying overnight at
Grandma’s.  I should be grateful, I reminded myself, I might have had to deal
with the guilt of leaving two sobbing children. Still… a little emotion would
have been nice, just enough to make me feel missed.  Any mothers reading this
will know what I mean.

You could be forgiven for thinking I’m about to embark on a dissolute
tale of a sex and booze weekend away with Stacey – well, not
with
Stacey. 
I mean in her company, with men.  But you’d be wrong, at least about the sex
and the men; the booze is another matter.  No, we had decided on a serious
shopping trip, and as all women know, men and shopping don’t mix.  With an eye
to spending as much of Eddie’s money as I could get away with, Stacey felt it
was time to introduce me to her idea of shopping heaven – London.  According to
Stacey, it was a “positively orgasmic” experience. 

However, I soon learned my not-inconsequential budget was nowhere near in
the same league as Stacey’s, as in shop after shop she spent without batting an
eyelash.  I managed a stunning outfit, some rather nice perfume and a
wonderfully indulgent little handbag that cost the earth, but would hold little
more than a lipstick, and was happy, while she positively glowed with
hedonistic pleasure each time she handed over Dillon’s card.  To be honest with
you, I found it all a little sickening.  Avarice is not a pleasant thing to
see.  I mean, for God’s sake – how much jewellery does one woman need?

My life with Eddie followed a similar pattern for the next few years.  He
provided, I spent, and very occasionally we got it together.  We had to be
drunk or relatively comatose for it to happen though.  Harsh, I know, but
physically I found him unattractive and I don’t think I was first on his list
of bed partners either.  He still had his suave ways, and a new assurance born
from repeated promotions to the upper echelons of his company and the filthy
lucre that generated. 

However, too much corporate hospitality had adversely affected the fine
body of his rugby days, which, along with most of his hair, was now a distant
memory, although, I’d swear that was still the image he saw in the mirror each
morning.

Amazingly, he retained his ability to attract women; but I’d soon
developed a theory on that. After a sneaky look at his credit card statement, I’d
triumphantly proved my suspicion that it was his generosity in the form of
gifts, that kept them interested.  It hadn’t bothered me, I had what I wanted –
the boys were growing up in a stable environment completely unaware of their
parents’ increasing apathy towards each other, and whatever else he was, Eddie
was a good father.

Well now – isn’t that nice?  I was happily living the high-life, no major
worries, decent standard of living – you may ask; what more could a person want?
Ah! You’re obviously forgetting one thing – nothing in my life ever runs
smoothly.  It was just about the time I decided life was fine, that it reared
up to prove me wrong. 

How?  Well to put it bluntly – my mother died, I lost my mind for a while,
and Eddie morphed into a stranger.  Oh, and Jester choked to death on a chicken
carcass raided from next door’s bin.

I opened the
door one morning to a sombre-looking gentleman in a shiny suit.  He was holding
onto a battered briefcase as if his life depended on it.  His watery eyes
peered over the glasses perched right on the end of his nose.  He looked
seventy if he was a day. He harrumphed nervously before he spoke.

‘Mrs Roberts?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mrs Katie Roberts, daughter of Mrs Margaret Hessey?’

‘Yes.’  My surprise at hearing my mother’s name was evident to the man
and looking extremely uncomfortable, he pressed on.

‘Mrs Roberts, I wonder if I may come in to have a word with you?’

Once seated in the lounge he rummaged in his briefcase, which looked more
like an old-fashioned satchel and at least as old as its owner. 

‘Would you like a cup of tea,             Mr…?’

‘Bowman, Henry Bowman of Bowman and Wallis, Solicitors.’  He stood again
to extend his hand and dropped the case from his lap, spilling the entire
contents on the carpet.  As I helped him with a couple of files, an assortment
of pens and a tube of Polygrip, I struggled to keep my face straight.  Mr
Bowman looked like anyone’s idea of a batty professor.  Once he settled back on
the sofa, I tried again.

‘Tea?’

‘That’s very kind, but no.’

‘OK, in that case, how can I help you?’  I asked politely.

‘Err… yes of course.’  He harrumphed again and shifted uncomfortably in
his seat.

‘I’m afraid I have some sad news for you, Mrs Roberts.  It falls upon me
to inform you that your mother passed away a fortnight ago.  I’m very sorry.’

‘Oh!’

‘Yes, it was very sad. Margaret was a friend of my wife as well as a
client of mine,’ he said.  ‘She will be greatly missed.’ 

I was shocked to the core.  In the fifteen years since I’d last seen my
mother, I’d never contemplated her death. 

‘I’m sure she will, Mr Bowman.  Erm… you must be aware my mother and I
didn’t have contact with each other, so I’m very grateful you took the time to
come to see me.  Can I ask how she died?’

‘Of course, m’dear, I should have told you… it was cancer.  She fought
hard, but it got her in the end.  She was a brave woman to go through that
alone.  Oh, I do apologise, Mrs Roberts, I didn’t mean…’

‘It’s all right, Mr Bowman, it was my mother’s choice we were estranged.’

‘I see, Mrs Roberts, I must inform you I’m also here in a professional
capacity.’

‘Of course, there must be so much to do, the funeral arrangements,
informing people…’  Thinking about everything I had to do added life to the
numbness I was feeling.

‘But, Mrs Roberts, your mother has already been buried.’  The
consternation in his expression spoke volumes – Mr Bowman would have given
anything to be elsewhere at that particular moment.

‘What?’

‘Yes, well you see, when she knew she was dying, your mother made all the
arrangements herself.  Her express wish was that you shouldn’t be informed
until it was over.’ 

‘I see. Did she give any reason for that?’ I asked.  An icy feeling
gripped my heart.

‘No, not to me, Mrs Roberts.’

Sensing a change in my attitude, Mr Bowman obviously felt on safer
territory and continued in a more business-like manner.  The purpose of his
visit, apart from telling me about my mother’s death, was to ask me to meet him
the following day at her house.  There were matters to sort out and the will to
be read.  I agreed to meet him at noon.

The following day Mr Bowman’s ancient, but pristine Rover was parked by
the curb outside my mother’s house when I arrived.  The shine on his equally
ancient suit seemed more pronounced in the weak autumn sun.  Offering the hand
not holding the now familiar briefcase, he greeted me.

‘Shall we go in?’ he asked. 

The stomach-churning nausea I’d been experiencing all morning cranked up
a notch.  Looking at the house, I couldn’t help noticing the differences.  The
front door, which had always been blue, was now green.  The lawn was overgrown
and the bedding plants had gone to seed.  Tubs planted at the beginning of the
summer had dried up, their contents unrecognisable.

‘How long had she been ill, Mr Bowman?’

‘Let me see, it was
quite quick, four months from start to finish I think.’

He had paused in the action of opening the door to answer me and had
turned back to push it open,
ushering me in front of him.  I stepped over the threshold and the first thing
that struck me was how small it was; in my memory it had seemed much bigger.