Thinking of You (4 page)

“You'll never guess what I did last week.” Even as she said it, Ginny felt herself begin to blush.

“Hey, good for you.” Carla, tanned from her fortnight in Sardinia, gave a nod of approval. “Welcome back to the real world and about time too. So where did you meet him?”

Honestly.

“I wasn't doing
that
,” Ginny protested. “We're not all sex-crazed strumpets, you know.”

“Just as well. All the more men for me.” Amused, Carla said, “So tell me what you were doing instead that was so much better than sex.”

“I didn't say it was better than sex.” Entirely unbidden, the image of that cream four-poster bed with its hangings billowing in the breeze danced once more through Ginny's mind, accompanied by the shadowy outline of a tall, half-dressed figure. “It was horrible. I accidentally shoplifted something and got caught by this vile man who didn't believe I hadn't meant to do it. Don't laugh,” she protested as Carla's mouth began to flicker. “It was one of the worst experiences of my whole life. I was almost arrested.”

“I hate it when that happens. What were you trying to make off with anyway? Something good?”

Friends, who needed them? Aiming a fork at Carla's hand, Ginny said, “I wasn't trying to make off with anything. It was a miniature jeweled peacock. I didn't even like it.”

“Never shoplift stuff you don't like. What were you thinking of?”

“That's just it, I
wasn't
thinking. It was after we'd buried Bellamy. And then I'd taken Jem to the station. I thought a spot of shopping might cheer me up.” Ginny pulled a face. “Now I daren't even go into a shop in case it happens again. At this rate it's going to be tinned carrots and cornflakes at Christmas.”

“You need to sort yourself out,” said Carla. “Get your social life back on track, find yourself a new man. I mean it,” she insisted. “Tinned carrots and a suspended sentence isn't the way forward.”

“I know, I know.” Ginny had heard all this fifty times before; her manless state was a continuing source of pain and bewilderment to Carla. “But not until after Christmas, OK? Jem'll be back soon.”

“There, you see? You're doing it again. Putting your life on hold until Jem comes home.” Swiveling around on her chair, Carla peered accusingly up at Ginny's kitchen calendar. “I bet you've been crossing off the days until the end of term.”

“I can't imagine why I'm your friend. As if I'd do that,” said Ginny.

As if she'd cross the days off on the kitchen calendar where Jem would see it when she got back; she wasn't that stupid. She was crossing them off on the other calendar, the secret one hidden under her bed.

“Anyway, enough about you. Let's talk some more about me,” said Carla.

So far they were up to day eight of her eventful holiday in Sardinia. No man had been safe. “Go on then, what happened after Russell went home?”

“
Thank
you
.” Carla's eyes danced as she refilled their wine glasses. “I thought you'd never ask. Well…”

Ginny smiled. Only nineteen more days and Jem would be back. She'd definitely drink to that.

***

It was the week after Christmas and Ginny was in the kitchen loading the dishwasher when Jem bellowed from the living room, “Mum! GET IN HERE!”

Ginny straightened up. Had a spider just galloped across the carpet?

“Mum!
NOW!
”

In the living room she found Jem no longer draped across the sofa but catapulted bolt upright gazing at the TV screen. It was one of those daytime magazine-style programs and the presenter was talking chirpily about singles clubs. Ginny, her heart sinking, said, “Oh no, I'm not going to one of those, don't even try to persuade me—
oh!
”

The camera had swung round to reveal the person standing next to the presenter.

“I'm so embarrassed,” groaned Jem. “Tell me you had an affair and he's not my real father.”

Ginny, her hands covering her mouth, watched as the female presenter interviewed Gavin about the difference joining a singles club had made to his life. Gavin was beaming with pride and wearing one of his trademark multicolored striped shirts—some might call them jazzy; Ginny called them eye-wateringly loud. In his jolly way he chatted with enthusiasm about the fun they all had together and the great network of friends he'd made since joining the club. Never what you'd call shy, Gavin went on cheerfully, “I mean, I know I'm no Johnny Depp, but all I'm looking for is someone to share my life with, and I know the right woman has to be out there somewhere. That's not too much for a forty-year-old to ask, is it?”

“Forty!” Ginny let out a squeak of disbelief because Gavin—the cheek of the man—was forty-three.

“Uurrrgh, now he's flirting with the presenter!” Jem buried her face in a cushion. “I can't watch!”

Excruciatingly, the presenter and Gavin ended up dancing together before Gavin swept her into a jokey Hollywood embrace. Jem was making sick noises on the sofa. Then that segment of the TV program was over and singles clubs were replaced by a three-minute in-depth discussion on the subject of cystitis.

“I can't believe I'm related to him.” Finally daring to uncover her eyes again, Jem wailed, “God, as if it isn't bad enough having a dad who
joins
a singles club. But oh no, mine has to go one better and appear on TV to boast about it. Without even having the decency to have his
face
blurred.” Reaching for her mobile, she punched out her father's number. “Dad? No, this
isn't
Keira Knightley; it's
me
. And, yes, of course we've just seen it. I can't believe you didn't warn us first. What if all my friends were watching? Why do
I
have to be the one with the embarrassing dad?”

“It's his mission in life to make you cringe,” said Ginny.

Jem, having listened to her father speak, rolled her eyes at Ginny. “He says he's feeling a bit peckish.”

“He's always feeling a bit peckish. That's why he has to wear big stripy shirts to cover his big fat stomach. Go on then,” Ginny sighed, “tell him to come over.”

“Hear that?” said Jem into the phone. She broke into a grin. “Dad says you're a star.”

“He doesn't know what we're eating yet.” Ginny wiped her wet hands on her jeans. “Tell him it's salad.”

 

Gavin roared up the drive an hour later in his filthy white mid-life crisis Porsche and they ate dinner together around the kitchen table. Jem's efforts to shame him, predictably enough, failed to have the desired effect.

“Where's the harm in it?” Breezily unrepentant, Gavin helped himself to another mountain of buttery mashed potato. “I'm expanding my social life, making new friends, having fun. I've met some smashing girls.”

Girls
being the operative word. Ginny found it hard to believe sometimes that she and Gavin had ever been married. These days he was forever announcing that yet again he had met the most gorgeous creature and that this time she was definitely The One. Needless to say, Gavin was an enthusiastic chatter-upper of the opposite sex but not necessarily a sensible one. The girls invariably turned out to be in their twenties with short skirts, high heels, and white-blond hair extensions. These relationships weren't what you'd call a meeting of minds. They usually only lasted a few weeks. When Gavin had come round over Christmas he had spent all his time extolling the virtues of his latest amour, Marina. And now, ten days later, here he was extolling the virtues of a singles club.

“What happened to Marina?” Ginny dipped a chunk of bread into the bowl of garlic mayonnaise.

“Who? Oh, right. Her ex-boyfriend got jealous and kicked up a bit of a fuss. They're back together now.”

“And you're back to square one,” said Ginny. “Aren't the women at this singles place a bit older than you're used to?”

“So? Not a problem. Some of them have cracking daughters.” Gavin was unperturbed. “And don't give me that look. You should try it yourself.”

“What? Chatting up fifty-something women, then running off with their daughters?”

“The club. It'd do you the world of good. Jem's back at uni next week,” Gavin went on. “You want to be getting out more. Come along with me, and I'll introduce you to everyone. It'd be fun.”

“Are you mad? I'm your ex-wife.” Ginny couldn't believe he was serious. “It's not normal, you know, to take your ex-wife along to your singles club. Even if I did want to go to one, which I
don't
.”

Gavin shrugged. “You've got to move with the times. And think of what you're going to do with the rest of your life.”

“Dad, leave it. This is like when you keep trying to persuade me to eat olives just because you love them. Mum's fine; she's not desperate like you.”

“I'm not desperate.” Gavin was outraged at this slur on his character.

“No, you're just a bit of a tart.” Reaching over, Jem gave his hand a reassuring pat. “And that's not a criticism; it's the truth. But Mum isn't like that. She's happy as she is.” Turning to Ginny, she added, “You never get lonely, do you, Mum? You're not the type.”

“Um… well…” Caught off guard by what had clearly been a rhetorical question, Ginny wondered if this might perhaps be the moment to confess that sometimes, if she was honest, she did get a bit—

“Thank
God
,” Jem continued with feeling. “And let me tell you, I seriously appreciate it.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I mean, you wouldn't believe what some parents are like. There are some completely hopeless cases out there. Like Lizzie, one of the girls on my course, her mum and dad ring her up almost every day; they have no idea how embarrassing they are. Everyone bursts out laughing whenever her phone rings—it's like her parents are living their whole lives through her. And Davy's another one—crikey, he's in an even worse situation. Poor Davy, his mother wouldn't even let him leave home. He's just, like,
stuck
there with her and everyone teases him. I mean, can't the woman get a grip? Doesn't she realize she's ruining his whole life?”

Poor Davy. Poor Davy's mother. Poor
her
. Feeling sick, Ginny drank some water. Part of her was relieved that Jem hadn't an inkling how utterly bereft she felt. The other part realized that, clearly, from now on, she was never ever going to be able to admit it.

“She doesn't mean to,” Ginny protested on Davy's mother's behalf.

“Yes, but it's so… pathetic! I mean, it's not as if we're babies anymore.” Jem waved her fork around for emphasis. “We're
adults
.”

“It's not very adult to tease a boy just because he's still living at home.” Ginny recalled how Jem, as a toddler, had sat in her highchair imperiously waving her plastic fork in exactly that fashion. “I hope you haven't been mean to him.”

“Oh, Mum, of course I haven't been mean. It's just a bit of a nerdy thing to do, isn't it? And it means he doesn't fit in. It's like if a crowd of us go out for a drink we always pile back to somebody's rooms or flat afterward for beer. But what can Davy do, invite everyone round to his mum's house? Imagine that! Sipping tea out of the best china, having to sit up straight and make polite conversation with somebody's
mother
.”

Ginny winced inwardly. Why didn't Jem just stab her all over with the fork? It couldn't hurt any more than this.

“Don't bother with him. Just leave him to get on with it.” Gavin, who was to political correctness what Mr. Bean was to juggling, said, “Concentrate on your other friends. That one sounds like a nancy boy, if you ask me.”

***

Ginny was balanced on a stepladder singing along to the radio at the top of her voice when she heard the distant sound of the front doorbell. It took a while to wipe her hands on a cloth, clamber off the ladder, and gallop downstairs.

By the time she reached the hall, Carla was shouting through the letterbox, “I know you're in there; I can hear all the horrible noise. Are you crying again? Come on, answer the door. I've come to cheer you up, because that's the kind of lovely, thoughtful person I am.”

Ginny opened the door, touched by her concern. “That's really kind of you.”

“Plus I need to borrow your hairdryer because mine's blown up.” Impressed, Carla said, “Hey, you're not crying.”

“Well spotted.”

“You're wearing truly revolting dungarees.”

“Not much gets past you, Miss Marple.”

“And there's bright yellow stuff all over your face and hands.” Carla paused, considered the evidence, and narrowed her eyes shrewdly. “I conclude that you have been having a fight in a bath of custard.”

“You see? That's why the police never take a blind bit of notice when you try and interfere with their investigations.”

Carla grinned and followed her into the kitchen. “Any man having his ‘investigations' interfered with by me is definitely going to take notice. So what's brought all this on? What are you painting?”

“Spare bedroom.”

Carla, who was no DIYer, raised her eyebrows. “For any particular reason?”

“Oh yes.”

“Am I allowed to ask why?”

Ginny made two mugs of tea and tore open a packet of caramel wafers. “Because I've had enough of feeling sorry for myself. It's time to sort myself out and make things happen.”

“Well, good. But I don't quite see where decorating the house comes in.”

“Jem rang last night. She and Lucy were on their way out to a party. She sounded so happy,” said Ginny. “They're having such fun together. Lucy got chatting to one of the boys from the rugby team and he invited her and Jem along to the match on Saturday.”

“Poor Jem, having to watch a game of rugby.” Carla, who liked her creature comforts, shuddered and unwrapped a caramel wafer. “I can't imagine anything more horrible.”

“But that's not the point. She's making more friends all the time. And before you know it, she'll be meeting
their
friends,” Ginny explained. “Once you start, it just carries on growing.”

Carla couldn't help herself. “As the bishop said to the actress.”

“So last night I decided that's what I should do too. Here's this lovely house with only me in it and that's such a waste. So I'm going to advertise for—”

“A hunky rugby player of your very own! Gin, that's a fabulous idea! Or better still, a whole
team
of hunky rugby players.”

“Sorry to be so boring,” said Ginny, “but I was thinking of a female. And preferably not the rugby playing kind. Just someone nice and normal and single like me. Then we can go out and do stuff together like Jem and Lucy do. I'll meet her friends, she'll meet mine, and we can socialize as much as we want. And when we don't feel like going out, we can relax in front of the TV, just crack open a bottle of wine, and have a good gossip.”

Carla pretended to be hurt. Inwardly, she
felt
a bit hurt. “You mean you're going to advertise for a new friend? But I thought I was your friend. I love cracking open bottles of wine! I'm great at gossip!”

“I know that. But you already have your life exactly the way you want it,” Ginny patiently pointed out.

“You'll like her better than you like me!” Carla clutched her hand to her chest. “The two of you will talk about me behind my back. When I turn up on your doorstep, you'll say, ‘Actually, Carla, it's not really convenient right now. Doris and I are just about to crack open a bottle of wine and have a good old girly gossip. '”

“Fine.” Ginny held up her paint-smeared palms. “I give in. You can be my new lodger.”

Now Carla was genuinely horrified. “You must be joking! I don't want to live with you! No thanks, I like my own space.”

“Well, exactly. But I don't. I hate it,” Ginny said simply. “I'm used to having someone else around the house. And as soon as I get this room redecorated, I can go ahead and advertise.” Brightening, she added, “And now you're here, fancy giving me a hand with the painting?”

“Are we still friends?”

“Absolutely.”

“In that case I'm sure you'll understand,” said Carla, “when I say I'd rather eat raw frogs than give you a hand with the painting. Why don't you just lend me your hairdryer and I'll leave you to it? Too many cooks and all that.”

Ginny grinned as Carla rose to her feet and brushed wafer crumbs from her perfect black trousers. “Except you've never cooked anything in your life.”

“Ah, but I have other talents.” Carla experienced a rush of affection and gave Ginny a hug. “And you're not allowed to replace me. If a lodger's what you want, then that's great. But I'm your best friend and don't you forget it.”