The Desperate Wife’s Survival Plan (8 page)

He followed her gaze. ‘Do you think they know how bad they look right now?’

She gave a low, soft laugh. ‘I don’t think so.’

He turned
back to sweep his eyes briefly over her before bending forward to whisper, ‘And do you know how good you look tonight?’

She locked eyes with him before smiling. ‘Of course.’

He smiled as he straightened up. ‘Well, I’ll probably take off soon. No rest for the wicked and all that.’

She took a sip of her cocktail as he continued to watch her. Stay cool, she told herself.

‘Do you want to share
a taxi?’

She tried to contain her excitement as she shook her head. ‘Thanks, but someone’s got to show them how it’s done, don’t you think?’

She put down her glass on the nearest table and walked towards the dance floor. Once there, she forced herself to relax into the beat, her body swaying in constant, fluid motion.

Finally, she moved her head to flick her hair behind her shoulders and glanced
across to where she’d been sitting. Yes, he was still standing there, watching her, his eyes heavy with what she was certain was desire.

She was desperate to share that ride home with him, knowing what would happen next. But a drunken kiss after the office party, followed by the inevitable embarrassment, wasn’t good enough for Samantha.

Slowly, slowly, she told herself. Let him do the chasing.
He’ll be worth the wait.

Apparently the average four year old will ask over 400 questions a day. It was only ten o’clock in the morning and Flora was already on number 300. Or so it felt like to Caroline.

‘Why is it raining?’

‘Because the clouds have got moisture in them and need to let some of it go,’ replied Caroline, peering at the recipe book.

‘Why have the clouds got moisture?’ asked
Flora.

‘Because some warm air has passed over the sea and made a cloud.’ Caroline stared down at the mixing bowl. She was certain she had measured the ingredients correctly, so why was her pastry congealing into a soggy mess?

‘Why was the air warm?’

Perhaps if she added some more flour . . . or would that make the pastry too dry?

‘Mummy! Why was the air warm?’

Caroline blinked and stared
across at her daughter. ‘Because it was a lovely warm day. You know, like in summer when we go to the beach.’

‘Can we go to the beach?’

She shook her head. ‘Not today.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s raining!’ Caroline took a moment to calm her agitated tone of voice. ‘It wouldn’t be much fun, would it?’

‘But why is it raining?’

Thankfully Jeff came into the kitchen at that point. ‘Hello, lovely
ladies.’

‘Daddy!’ shouted Flora, running up to him. ‘Can we go to the beach?’

‘Not today,’ replied Jeff, pouring himself out a mug of coffee. ‘Daddy’s got to work.’

‘But only this morning,’ said Caroline, with a smile.

Her husband shook his head. ‘Just got an email requesting a full report. It’s going to take most of the day.’

She frowned. ‘But we were all going out this afternoon.’

‘To
the beach!’ shouted Flora.

‘No, not to the beach,’ said Caroline. ‘But maybe the park.’

‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ said Jeff, turning to leave.

Caroline marched up to him, her hands covered in raw pastry dough. ‘I thought you were going to spend some time with us this weekend,’ she said in a low voice.

‘Work’s got to come first,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You know how tight it is out there at the
minute.’

Caroline suddenly felt very weary. ‘But I could do with a break too.’

‘Well, switch the TV on,’ he whispered.

‘It’s not good for her,’ she replied, also keeping her voice low.

‘Didn’t you ever watch any Disney films when you were growing up?’

‘Yes.’

‘So why is it so bad for Flora?’ Jeff gave her a small pinch on her bottom. ‘After all, you didn’t turn out so bad.’

With a wink,
he left the kitchen.

Caroline sighed as she turned around. There was no way that pastry was going to turn out well. She smiled at her daughter. ‘How about a trip to the supermarket?’

‘Yay!’

Julie finished work at four o’clock and headed home, looking forward to spending a couple of hours in the garden now that the evenings were becoming lighter.

Perhaps once she had finished, she could sit
down on the little wooden bench on the patio and admire her handiwork with a nice cup of tea. Or something even stronger.

But as she swung her car into the driveway, she realised there was another one already parked up. Her son was home. She told herself she should be pleased but found, in reality, that she was filled with dread. She didn’t want an argument, or to listen to Nick’s lies that evening.
She just wanted to potter in her garden undisturbed.

‘Nick?’ she called, as she opened the front door and walked inside.

‘Hello, Ma,’ he said, coming into the hallway.

His black hair was long, almost to his shoulders. He was a tall, lanky lad – the same build as his father. Facially, he was like him too, with his large nose and pale complexion.

Julie stared at her son for a moment. There had
been no message, no contact from him since his grandmother’s funeral. The funeral which he had omitted to attend. She briefly considered voicing her anger but knew it would only lead to him spouting some excuse.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

‘Aren’t I allowed to visit my dear old mum?’ he said, sweeping her into an awkward hug.

‘You’re a bit late. Mother’s Day was last Sunday,’ she
told him, once released.

It had been a struggle, visiting her mother’s grave so soon after the funeral. Julie had placed a large pink rose on the newly dug ground and said a prayer for her mum. How she missed her.

‘I was gonna call,’ said Nick, following her into the kitchen. ‘But I didn’t have any credit.’

‘Cup of tea?’ she asked, filling the kettle.

‘We could always have something stronger
to celebrate.’

His words hung in the air as she dropped tea bags into the mugs.

‘Celebrate?’

Julie’s heart sank. Her mind reeled as she tried to pick from the various options running through her head. Had he just escaped a lengthy jail term? Got a girl into trouble?

‘Look, I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘I know you’ve been blue since we lost Nan.’

How would you know? thought Julie.

‘You’re
rattling round this old house on your own.’

Julie braced herself. She realised now what was coming.

‘So I’m gonna move in and keep you company for a while,’ said Nick.

She nodded and smiled as she filled the mugs with hot water.

Her Prodigal Son had returned. Unfortunately Julie wasn’t at all happy about it.

ON WEDNESDAY MORNING,
Charley braced herself for her next cleaning job. After the horror of cleaning Miss Fuller’s dog-filled house on Monday, she’d believed it couldn’t get much worse.

But as the door opened she realised how wrong she had been.

‘Hi, I’m Charlotte. Your new cleaner.’

Her words faltered as she stared at the blonde woman standing in front of her.

‘Don’t I know
you?’ said the customer whose name was Mrs Benedict.

Charley sighed. ‘I think we’ve met at the golf club. My husband was a member.’

The woman’s eyebrows shot up as high as her Botox would allow. ‘Really?’ Mrs Benedict coolly appraised her. ‘Yes, I remember now. You’re the one with the shops, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did I hear something about bankruptcy?’

Charley’s humiliation was complete. She
was now a cleaner for someone with whom she used to share drinks at the golf club. Not that Mrs Benedict, or Martina as Charley had previously known her, had been a close friend. But they had been of equal social standing. Until now, that was.

‘How’s Gerry?’ asked Charley, as they went into the hallway.

The woman glanced over her shoulder. ‘I think we’d better keep it as Mr and Mrs Benedict,
don’t you? I’m not sure I want to be on first name terms with my staff.’

Charley blanched at the word ‘staff’ before meekly following Mrs Benedict towards the kitchen. Once there, she was shown the cleaning products and quickly set to work.

But each time she went into a new room, she found Mrs Benedict would quickly follow her. Charley would smile, silently willing her customer to leave her
to get on with her work. But the woman wouldn’t budge and obviously expected Charley to carry on cleaning in front of her.

She was wiping down the sink in the downstairs bathroom when Mrs Benedict appeared once more.

‘Have you everything you need?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

Charley found she hated anyone watching her whilst she cleaned, especially the toilets and bathrooms. It felt so degrading. She
wondered if there would ever be a time when she didn’t feel that way.

The silence was unbearable so she made an effort at some small talk whilst she attacked the taps. ‘How old are your children?’

‘Bethany is six and Felix is eight. We’ve just taken him out of the local school. He’s showing intelligence far superior to the other children in his year so he’s gone private.’

‘Great.’

‘Bethany
is more of a creative child.’

Ah. So she wasn’t blessed in the brains department, translated Charley.

‘She’s a natural actress, though. Always the star of the school plays. Last term she shone as part of the forest in Narnia.’

The child had been in the star role of a tree?

‘How lovely,’ said Charley, with a fake smile. She was an actress too.

‘You will wipe down the tiles, won’t you? And
polish them?’

Thankfully Mrs Benedict didn’t wait for any reply and left the room. Charley could then allow herself the exasperated eye rolling which she had been saving herself from.

Eventually she had finished the majority of the rooms downstairs and headed up to the bedrooms. She felt exhausted. Cleaning was so much harder than it looked. She had renewed respect for poor old Cinderella, not
least because she’d had an enormous castle to clean.

She’d expected to enjoy cleaning the children’s bedrooms but these particular ones were slightly creepy. Although toys and drawings were in evidence, they were outnumbered by the amount of embroidered pictures hung on every wall.
Love Thy Mother and Father
, said the majority. Perhaps the kids needed reminding, thought Charley.

She had been
hard at work for three hours when she finally began work on the kitchen. No offer of a refreshing drink had been forthcoming.
Love thy parents but never the cleaner
.

Charley continued to scour, bleach and wipe every surface until her head was thumping from the heady smell of chemicals.

She had just finished the kitchen floor when Mrs Benedict appeared.

‘My husband’s been in the en-suite and
thinks the shower glass is looking a bit streaky. You will have another go at it before you leave, won’t you?’

Charley couldn’t prevent herself in time from shooting her customer a long look. Although she had managed to fix a smile upon her face, her eyes must have betrayed her as Mrs Benedict quickly left the room again.

Charley trudged back upstairs, hoping not to bump into the man of the
house. Gerry Benedict had always invaded her personal space whenever she had met him. His reputation as the club’s resident creep was assured, as far as she was concerned.

Charley went into the en-suite to discover that the shower door was only slightly smeared. It was streaky from cleaning products, not dirt, and the next time it was used, it would become spotty from the water again. But she
polished and rubbed the glass until the shine was bouncing off the walls.

With a loud sigh to herself, she went back into the hallway to head downstairs when she unexpectedly bumped into Gerry Benedict, who was wearing only a dressing gown. Charley had no idea where he had been hiding all this time and didn’t really care.

‘Hello,’ she said, eager to leave before he recognised her.

‘Hello,’
he said, breaking into an oily smile. ‘You must be the new cleaner.’

He didn’t know who she was, Charley realised. Out of her designer dress, to him she was just the cleaner. She found herself quite grateful not to have explain her circumstances once more.

But when she tried to move around him to go downstairs, Gerry Benedict blocked her path. She watched in slow motion as he slowly untied the
belt on his dressing gown and opened it up to reveal his naked glory.

The creepy smile remained fixed on his face as he asked, ‘What do you think?’

Charley took a beat before replying, ‘I think it looks like a penis only smaller.’

She quickly brushed past him and headed downstairs.

She spotted Mrs Benedict in the kitchen, eating her lunch and leaving crumbs all over the counter Charley had
only just cleaned. But she didn’t care. She just wanted to get the hell out of there.

‘I’ve finished,’ said Charley, grabbing her handbag.

‘There’s your money,’ mumbled Mrs Benedict through her full mouth, pointing a finger at the kitchen table.

Charley picked up the notes and stuffed them into her bag.

‘We’ll see you next week, I hope. For some reason we seem to have terrible trouble keeping
cleaners from one week to the next.’

Charley stared at the woman. ‘Well, if your husband keeps flashing at them all, I’m not surprised.’

And she quickly ran out of the house.

Later on, she received a phone call from her new boss.

‘Look,’ said Patricia with a sigh, ‘you’re gonna get perverts. But they’re paying perverts, okay?’

‘I can’t go back there,’ said Charley, still feeling somewhat
hysterical. ‘I won’t and you can’t make me.’

‘All right. Keep your knickers on.’

‘Thank God I did,’ replied Charley with a shudder.

‘Men!’ grunted Patricia down the line. ‘From monkeys to morons in four million years.’

Charley put down the phone, grateful that her husband’s only shortcoming was his business sense.