The Desperate Wife’s Survival Plan (19 page)

‘Nothing,’ muttered Julie. She hadn’t had a holiday in years.

‘Me neither,’
said Charley, wistfully thinking about the Caribbean trip she had once planned.

‘You could always come camping with us,’ said Caroline in a hopeful tone.

‘You must be joking,’ said Julie. ‘But perhaps you could take the puppy. He’d love all that fresh air.’

‘Nice try,’ said Caroline, breaking into a smile. ‘But not a chance. Besides, he hasn’t had his inoculations yet, has he?’

‘Vet’s appointment
made for tomorrow, boss,’ said Julie.

Caroline peered at the dip. ‘Is this unpasteurised, do you know?’

‘No idea,’ said Samantha.

Caroline decided to leave her breadstick plain, rather than take a chance.

‘Are you worried about the mayo?’ asked Julie. ‘I ate loads when I was pregnant with Nick so you needn’t worry. Or perhaps that was where it all went wrong.’

But she knew Caroline would
spend the next eight or so months fretting about every bit of cheese or spread. Why did she always worry about the small stuff that wasn’t important?

‘Maybe we should forget about the main course and go straight to dessert,’ said Julie with a gleam in her eye. ‘What flavour have we got?’

‘Chocolate ginger,’ said Charley.

The jar of crystallized ginger had been the latest find from her box of
treasured ingredients. She had also opened up another box to dig out the chocolate she knew was in there somewhere.

‘I thought the ginger would help your stomach,’ she told Caroline.

Her friend nodded and said a grateful thanks.

Mrs Trimble had rung Charley to confirm the order for ice-cream. As the dinner party was a gathering of old school friends, Charley had decided to make hokey-pokey
ice-cream, an old-fashioned recipe using caramel and condensed milk. She had spiced it up with a smattering of pecan nuts but it was still reminiscent of school puddings and childhood.

Her nerves were jangling though. Someone she barely knew was paying for this ice-cream and she needed an impartial opinion. The girls were hardly impartial but it was the best Charley could do.

Caroline and Julie
were still licking their spoons. The silence was killing her.

‘Well?’ Charley finally asked.

Caroline broke into a smile. ‘It’s the best thing I’ve tasted in ages. And you’re talking to a woman who’s been throwing up for the last fortnight.’

‘This woman is paying you?’ said Julie, dipping her spoon into the Tupperware box for another tasting.

‘I hope so.’

‘I think it’s fantastic,’ said Caroline,
ever supportive. ‘And a bit of extra cash for you too.’

Either way, they all enjoyed the ice-cream except for Samantha who was on yet another diet and refused to eat even a spoonful.

Charley told her it didn’t matter though secretly she was hurt.

The following afternoon after work a clean and presentable Charley was standing in front of Mrs Trimble’s mock-Tudor mansion.

Clutching her Tupperware
box, she walked up to the front door and pressed the doorbell. Mrs Trimble opened the door and gave her most gracious smile.

‘My dear, thank you so much for doing me this tiny favour.’

She led her through the vast hallway and into the kitchen which was about the size of Charley’s flat. Placing the ice-cream in a vast freezer, Gladys turned to her with another wide smile.

‘Coffee?’ she said.

She looked tense, her smile just a little too wide. Granny had obviously scared the living daylights out of her so Charley decided to let her off the hook.

‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ she replied. ‘I’m meeting some friends for lunch.’

‘Oh, dear,’ said the other woman, her shoulders dropping with relief. ‘Let me just give you what I owe you.’

She took some notes from the counter and handed over £15
in cash.

‘It’s too much,’ said Charley. The ingredients had only come to about £5.

‘The rest is for your time,’ said Mrs Trimble, pushing away her hand. ‘Please. You’ve done me a great favour.’

Charley’s cheeks were burning and she made her exit shortly afterwards.

‘Perhaps I’ll tell my friends about you,’ called Mrs Trimble from the front door.

Charley sincerely hoped not, as she had visions
of Granny threatening women all over the village that unless they paid her a decent wage they would be beaten to death with one of her mother’s scones.

But it was £15 that she could put aside to give to her parents. With the money she had already saved, that only left £39,975 to go until the debt was fully repaid. Charley shook her head. She would never manage it.

JULIE WAS LATE
for the vet’s appointment. She had come home to find that her housetraining wasn’t working at all and that Boris had weed on the newspaper she had laid down on the kitchen floor before then ripping it to shreds. By the time she had tidied up, it had all become a bit of a rush.

She hurried up to the reception desk, holding the puppy in her arms.

‘Hi,’ she panted.
‘I’m so sorry. I’m late for our 4.30 appointment.’

‘Name?’

‘Julie Morgan.’

The receptionist arched an eyebrow. ‘Is that the dog’s name?’

‘No,’ replied Julie. ‘He’s called Boris.’

‘Boris Morgan,’ repeated the receptionist. ‘Take a seat.’

It was only whilst Julie waited in the seating area that she realised that only the names of the pets were called out, not those of the owners. She rolled
her eyes, pretty sure that ‘Fluffy Jones’ wouldn’t be picking up the bill.

The W. J. Seymour veterinary clinic was packed in the post-school rush. An assortment of guinea pigs, cats, dogs and rabbits eyed each other up. It was a pet apocalypse just waiting to happen. Julie clutched tighter at Boris’ collar.

‘Boris Morgan,’ called the receptionist. ‘Room One.’

Julie stood up and headed towards
the back of the clinic. Finding the door to Room One closed, she knocked softly and went in.

She found herself gulping. The vet was enormous, a mass of muscles that seemed to fill the room. With his shaved head, he wouldn’t look out of place in a wrestling ring.

‘Hello there,’ said the man, suddenly breaking into a smile. ‘I’m Wes.’

‘Hi,’ said Julie, only giving him a small smile in return.

This wasn’t about making friends. This was about getting the dog his injections and getting the hell out of here.

‘And this little fella is Boris?’ said the man, picking up the puppy and placing him on the table.

The pronounced accent was definitely antipodean. Julie took a guess at Australian as it was quite strong.

‘So . . . what can we do for you this arvo?’

Julie blinked. ‘This what?’

‘Sorry,’ said Wes. ‘I mean afternoon. It’s the Aussie in me. You’d think I’d have lost some of it after being here a couple of years.’

‘Oh. Well, I thought the puppy should have a check-up,’ she replied.

She watched as he began to feel all over Boris’ body, his huge hands remarkably tender as they felt for any abnormalities.

‘How old is he?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied Julie eventually, in a small
voice.

‘Do you know his date of birth?’ asked the vet.

‘No.’

His smooth forehead briefly creased but he continued the examination. ‘I would put him at approximately ten weeks. You’ve never had anyone check him over?’

She shook her head. ‘He was given to me as a present.’

‘With no history? No paperwork?’

‘Nope.’

‘I see.’ His initial warmth had cooled down to distinctly frosty. ‘Look, I’m
not gonna ask you where you got this dog, but I feel it’s my responsibility to tell you that getting a pet without any kind of health history is just asking for trouble.’

Julie remained silent, sick of having to defend Nick over and over to everyone she met.

‘I mean,’ carried on the vet, ‘I’ve just had to put down a six-month-old pup because he didn’t have any inoculations and had contracted
the parvo virus.’

Again, no reply from Julie whose cheeks were growing pink.

‘So, I’ll give him his first injection now. You’ll need to come back here in two weeks’ time for his second bout of jabs. I’m also going to recommend a worming treatment, to be safe. Until his second lot of injections have taken effect, which will be about a week afterwards, you can’t allow Boris here to come into contact
with any dogs that have not had their injections. He’s at huge risk right now of all kinds of infection. He’s okay at home and in the garden, but that’s it.’

It was like being ticked off by a school teacher, thought Julie as she stared up at the vet’s craggy face. His nose had been broken on at least one occasion. Obviously someone had come to a similar opinion of him as Julie had.

‘Listen,’
she said in a quiet but tense tone, ‘my son gave me this dog with the stupid idea that it might help cheer me up after losing my mother. So I’m stuck with the thing until I find it a better home. I am not cruel to the dog. I do not starve the dog. I’m trying to make the best of what was hopefully the last of many bad ideas that my son has had. No, I don’t have the first clue what I’m doing, but will
you please just give me a break, all right?’

She stopped and found herself breathless, tears stinging her eyes. When she eventually dared herself to look up at the vet, she found he had a hypodermic in his hand.

‘Don’t worry,’ he told her, breaking into a smile. ‘It’s not for you. Can you hold Boris for me?’

Julie reached forward and held on to the puppy. Boris whimpered a little when the needle
went into the roll of skin that the vet was holding but it was over in moments. The vet rubbed the puppy’s furry head with a gentle touch before straightening up.

‘I’m sorry about your mum,’ said Wes.

Julie stiffened. ‘Thank you.’

‘Dogs can be a great source of comfort during difficult times,’ he carried on. ‘They’re very loyal and loving.’

‘I’m sure,’ replied Julie. ‘And I’m sorry about my
ranting before.’

‘No worries,’ he said with a shrug.

‘This dog stuff just isn’t for me,’ she told him. ‘My friends are trying to find him a family home to go to. In the meantime, I’ll keep up with the injections and treatments.’

The vet nodded. ‘We’ll see you in two weeks’ time.’

‘If he’s not rehomed by then,’ said Julie, before picking up Boris and quickly leaving the room.

IT WAS TUESDAY
morning and Charley was crouched down cleaning kitchen cupboard doors. Perry Como could sing all he wanted to but this most definitely wasn’t a magic moment.

Thankfully she was almost finished and just had the floor to clean. On her hands and knees, of course. She threw open the back door to let some air in. July was turning out to be humid and cloudy. Water
shortages and a breakdown of public transport loomed.

She headed towards the cupboard which housed the bucket but nearly bumped into Mrs Smith who came into the room with a strange man. He looked startled to see Charley. She was equally surprised. She had never seen a bald man in tight, electric blue leggings before. She tried not to stare at his bare torso. He had the chest of an eight-year-old
boy.

‘I’ve left the money on the side for you.’ Mrs Smith gestured towards the kitchen. ‘I’ll be in the conservatory with my prayer teacher for the next hour so I’ll see you next week.’

As they turned away, Charley saw the bald man raise his eyebrows in a query.

‘She’s just the cleaner,’ she heard Mrs Smith stage-whisper to him.

That was Charley. Just the cleaner.

They disappeared soon after
that. Spirituality was the latest thing in seeking peace from the hectic world beyond. Her world wasn’t very hectic but Charley knew what Mrs Smith was praying for. She was praying that her husband didn’t find out how much the prayer tutor cost.

As she filled up the bucket with hot soapy water, she thought it had been a very strange couple of weeks.

Mrs Trimble had placed another order for ice-cream.
Then another. Then a couple of other women had called, citing Mrs Trimble as their secret source, asking to buy it from Charley. It was all very puzzling but at least her bank balance was looking slightly healthier than of late. And it had given her a small thrill of excitement that people thought her ice-cream was that good.

As she wiped the floor, Charley’s mind drifted towards her recipe books.
She enjoyed running through the different ways she could include her favourite ingredients or give a new twist to an old classic.

She would have loved to have returned to Gino’s delicatessen and stock up her cupboard with Limoncello, to add an alcoholic depth to her lemon sorbet. Or perhaps some Calvados to add to an apple granita she had dreamt up.

Her weekly food bill was low but she always
kept back a little bit of money to pick up a different ingredient to experiment with. Nothing expensive, just something that would make a difference. Last week it had been coconut milk, which made the ice-cream lovely and creamy.

In a reverie, she didn’t hear Mike come in through the back door until he was almost a third of the way across the kitchen.

‘Stop!’ she shouted. ‘I’ve just cleaned
there!’

‘Sorry,’ he told her, reversing towards the back door.

Charley sighed, staring at the dusty footprints. ‘This house is difficult enough to clean without having to wash the same tiles over and over.’

‘I know and I did apologise.’

To be fair, she only needed to bend down and quickly wipe where he had been. The ground outside was dry from the lack of rain so the mess wasn’t too bad.

‘By the way, I meant to tell you what a nice job you’ve been doing on Mrs Wilberforce’s house,’ said Mike, in a casual tone. ‘The place looks much better these days.’

Charley knew she was doing well at her job as she was getting good feedback from all the customers via Patricia. Apparently nobody understood the demands of wealthy women better than an ex-wealthy woman.

But she stared at Mike for
a beat. ‘Wow. A compliment,’ she said, feigning surprise. ‘Is it a leap year? Or perhaps I’m just high from the expensive perfume I’m still using up.’