Flings and Arrows

Flings and Arrows

By

Debbie Viggiano

Flings and Arrows © Debbie Viggiano 2012

Kindle Edition published worldwide 2012 © Debbie Viggiano

All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical (including but not limited to: the Internet, photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system), without prior permission in writing from the author.

The moral right of Debbie Viggiano as the author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

www.debbieviggiano.com

For Mr V with much love

Chapter One

Steph Garvey had lived at 42 Jessamine Terrace all her married life. Twenty-four years to be precise. The house was a bit like her. Small. Compact. A little scruffy. The paintwork – like Steph’s eyes – somewhat jaded. But nothing a lick of paint, or in her case a good night’s sleep, couldn’t put right. Si, her husband, had been snoring for England again last night. Gone were the days when Steph could sneak into Tom’s room and kip down on the floor to regain her full eight hour quota. Nowadays Tom made his own loud grunting noises throughout the night. Usually with a string of unsuitable females. Steph sighed. Tom would be off to uni in the not too distant future. And away from Florrie’s clutches. It wasn’t that Steph didn’t like Florrie. She just wished Tom’s infatuations were with females his own age. Eighteen instead of twenty-five. And not pregnant with another man’s child.

Steph sighed again as she moved around the tiny kitchen. It was no good. She needed a cigarette. She opened the cutlery drawer and reached right to the back, feeling for the hidden packet of Silk Cut and box of matches. Si didn’t know about her new habit. It certainly wouldn’t do to have the house reeking of smoke. Withdrawing her treasure, she unlocked the kitchen door and stepped out into the garden. Summer had almost arrived and a gentle breeze ruffled Steph’s bob. She lit up, cupping her hands around the flame and sucked greedily on the cigarette.

‘It’s no good for you!’ admonished a voice.

Steph jumped guiltily. Looking up she saw June, her seventy year old neighbour. She was pruning the roses that ran the length of the waist-high fence between their respective gardens.

‘Don’t tell Si,’ Steph beseeched.

‘No dear.’ June made a criss-cross sign over her heart. ‘What’s made you reach for the weed?’

‘The usual.’ Steph blew a plume of smoke at a fly. ‘Tom. Tom. And Tom.’

June chuckled. ‘Ah. His complicated love life again?’

‘Yep.’ Steph took another drag on the cigarette. ‘The latest is twenty-five. And just found out she’s pregnant.’ June looked horrified. ‘Oh don’t worry. It isn’t Tom’s baby. Florrie said the father is the chap she was dating
before
she met Tom.’ June relaxed. Steph took another anxious puff. Tom wasn’t always very truthful. She’d caught him out a few times in the past. What if Florrie’s baby
was
Tom’s? And Tom was making out the baby was another man’s to avoid Si going ballistic? That was all they needed! Steph really didn’t feel ready to become a grandmother at the age of forty-five. And that would be the end of Tom’s further education. He’d have to get a job to support the child. ‘Why can’t he meet girls his own age June?’

‘I think I may have taken a leaf out of your Tom’s book.’ June suddenly looked shifty.

‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘I’ve met somebody!’

‘Fantastic!’ Steph gave her neighbour a genuinely warm smile. Despite her years, June looked good for her age. She bore a passing resemblance to Shirley MacLaine. Clairol took care of the elfin hair-do and her face was always carefully made up. And Ralph, June’s little dog, kept her waistline trim with regular walks. ‘Do spill the beans!’

‘A little while ago I took up salsa. Just for a bit of fun. All ages go – from pensioners to teenagers. And last week a new chap came along,’ June smiled shyly.

‘You little devil!’ Steph teased. And how very nice. June certainly had a glow in her cheeks. Just like her roses, she was now blushing pinkly. In fact she seemed to be blooming before Steph’s very eyes. ‘So what does meeting this salsa squeeze have in common with my Tom? Please tell me he’s not pregnant.’

June laughed out loud. Steph noticed the way her neighbour’s face lit up. She looked positively transformed. Who was this man?

‘His name’s Harry. But he’s a bit younger than me.’

‘A toyboy!’ Steph smiled. She ground out her cigarette, scuffing the tell-tale ash backwards and forwards with the toe of her shoe. She tossed the butt into a dense shrub. Si shouldn’t find it there. ‘And exactly how young is this chap?’

‘Harry is sixty-four. Do you think six years younger than me is a bit too much?’

‘Don’t be daft!’ Steph assured. ‘You look at least twenty years younger than your real age.’ This wasn’t strictly true. June was no eternally youthful Madonna. But she could definitely pass for sixty-one or two.

‘And he has a bit of money,’ June rushed on. ‘It’s nice to know he’s independent and not simply after getting his feet under my table and sharing my pension book.’ June had previously had a brief
stepping out
as she liked to call it, with a wily octogenarian whose savings hadn’t lasted as long as he had. There had been a rather tense period for June when the octogenarian had claimed to be poorly, been put to bed in the spare room and then outstayed his welcome by refusing to leave ‘home’ for a month. June had tearfully told all to Steph who, in turn, had relayed the tale of woe to Si. Si loved June like a surrogate mum. Without further ado he had despatched the octogenarian and a suitcase of clothes that had somehow found its way into June’s house.

Steph felt a momentary pang of – what was it? Not jealousy. Nor envy. Wistfulness maybe? A momentary yearning for some romance like June. And then she felt disloyal to Si. She loved her husband dearly. But in the last year or so their relationship seemed to have shifted into a different gear. A gear she didn’t particularly care for. Like being in Si’s van with the engine whining when it wanted to go from third to fourth. Or grumbling when it was in third and needing to change down to second. One thing she knew for sure. The pair of them were out of sorts.

Chapter Two

Si jumped into his van slamming the door hard behind him. It had been a tedious day. In the good old days he had enjoyed Sundays off. But not any more. The recession had seen to that. Today had not been productive enough. One blocked sink and a couple of quotes. He needed to turn the latter into pounds and pence. But the recession had affected everybody. More than half of the big jobs on his books had been deferred. Some even cancelled. Cash flow was not good.

The engine turned over. The clutch groaned as the gear struggled to engage. The van could do with a service. More expense. Si tried to think soothing thoughts. He couldn’t wait to get home. Which was quite perverse. Because usually by morning he couldn’t wait to escape. Si felt his house was no longer his own. The trouble with a ‘two up, two down’ was that there was nowhere to go. If Tom was in the lounge, that only left the kitchen which tended to be Steph’s domain. If he plonked himself down at the kitchen table to chat with his wife, she’d look up from her laptop with a pained expression. That left the bedroom, but there was no telly. On one occasion Si had lain down on the bed with the newspaper. But then Tom and his girlfriend had thundered up the stairs. Si had been subjected to reading the Sports Page while Tom’s bed banged against the bedroom wall. He couldn’t even read his newspaper on the loo because the bathroom was also adjacent to Tom’s bedroom. Si couldn’t wait for the boy to go to university. Although he was dreading funding it. Why couldn’t Tom have followed him into the plumbing profession? Si had so liked the ring of Garvey & Son. Instead Tom had grand ideas about studying the Arts and talked vaguely of becoming an actor. What sort of profession was that? Didn’t he know that ninety-nine percent of actors were unemployed and working in restaurants? Frustrated, Si took one hand off the wheel and ran it through his hair. He was amazed he had any left these days. Although a few grey hairs were starting to infiltrate the dark wavy curls.

Si used to love the anticipation of going home. Kicking his shoes off. Sinking into an armchair. A glass of amber nectar and footie. These things were his paradise. As Si negotiated traffic, just the thought of fingering the remote control soothed him. But nowadays he was lucky to achieve such a result. Most of the time Tom was parked on the sofa. Usually horizontal with a leggy creature coiled around him. Instead of footie, some daft romance would fill the screen. Once, Si had tried to oust the pair of them by sitting it out. He’d sat rocklike, pretending he was riveted at the chemistry between Julia Roberts and Richard Gere, hoping his presence would irritate his son and girlfriend into evacuating the room. But the war of wits had been won by Tom. When Richard Gere had snogged Julia Roberts senseless, Tom had taken his cue to do exactly the same to his girlfriend. Who had responded with alacrity. Right in front of Si. He’d not known where to look. He’d made his excuses on the pretence of going to help Steph with dinner – not that they’d even noticed his departure. And as for that girl – Lorrie? Florrie? She looked just like a stripper. No wonder she had a bun in the oven. Although Tom had assured it wasn’t his bun. In which case why hadn’t Tom finished with the girl?

The mobile phone interrupted his thoughts. After all the fuss about mobile phones and driving, Si had installed hands-free. From the display he saw the caller was Steph.

‘Hello love, I’m on my way. Traffic’s a bit slow.’

‘No worries.’ He could hear the smile in his wife’s voice. He visualised her pale blue eyes crinkling as she grinned, one hand tucking a stray piece of light brown hair behind an ear. She was still a lovely looking woman. Every day Steph would moan about some body part or other that was apparently failing. Her eyes were too baggy. Her boobs were too saggy. Si would repeatedly assure her that none of this was true. And he meant it.

Si had loved Steph from the moment he’d first met her. Which had been when he was Milk Monitor at primary school. Back then she’d hardly noticed him. Very occasionally Steph and her click of friends had played kiss chase with Si and the other boys. Si had never managed to plant a kiss on Steph. In those days it had been another boy, Barry Hastings, who had succeeded. Si had hated Barry. Not just because he always got to kiss Steph, but for being everything that Si wasn’t. Football captain? Barry Hastings. Swimming champion in the annual school gala? Barry Hastings. Only boy to pass his Eleven Plus and go to grammar school? Barry Hastings. But actually that had been a blessing for Si. Because Barry Hastings had gone one way and Steph and Si had gone another. To the local comprehensive. Which meant that when puberty arrived bringing attraction to the opposite sex, Si had finally succeeded in catching Steph’s interest. And by her side he’d remained. From the days of sitting with their heads close together pouring over algebra equations, to the current time. Si hadn’t ever wanted to be with anyone else. So why did he now sometimes catch himself disloyally dreaming just that?

‘What’s for dinner?’ he asked.

‘I thought I’d spoil us tonight. I bought a couple of fillet steaks and a bottle of wine.’

‘Sounds superb. See you in twenty minutes.’

Si ended the call and shot into the outside lane. How thoughtful of Steph. If money wasn’t so damned tight at the moment he’d have suggested going out. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d been to a restaurant. Somewhere along the way they’d stopped going out together. Now Si remained in front of the telly – if he could get there before Tom – and Steph sat in front of her laptop. Si frowned. He didn’t really approve of the laptop. It was a conversation killer. Steph had laughed and volleyed his argument right back. Wasn’t footie the same thing? Well no. Not in Si’s book. He was more than willing to discuss the offside rule or why Ryan Giggs was a prat. But what could they discuss about a laptop? The colour? The jingle it played when firing up? Steph had bought it with her Tesco staff discount and an interest-free credit offer. Most nights it would be perched on the edge of the kitchen table while she tapped away. God knows what Steph did on it. The last time he’d peered over her shoulder she’d got all annoyed. She’d been on some daft website or another. Facebook? Si wasn’t into all that social networking malarkey. Perhaps she was discussing Tom with friends and trying to get other parents’ opinions on the love lives of teenagers.