The Queen's Margarine (14 page)

In fact, she began to increase her pace, until she was swinging along with a jaunty, rhythmic stride, and imagining the
barge-horses
clip-clopping along this very path, two centuries back, or more. She could see the clouds reflected in the water and longed to be a cloud herself, floating free and weightless. Passing another longboat, she gave a cheery wave to the owner, who was lounging on deck, with a book and a bottle of beer. The man waved back and, as she returned his smile, she was aware of her stiff face-muscles actually daring to relax. Smiling, like laughing, was a skill she had all but lost.

‘Turning Point, 200 yards,' announced a notice on the bank, and, yes, ahead she could see a widening of the canal, one of many, constructed long ago when the waterways were built, to allow barges to turn round. As she walked towards it, she watched a drake come coasting down to the water, with a flash of its green head and a high-pitched ‘quork, quork, quork'. It went skittering along the surface, landing with a splash, feet-first like a glider, then shook itself with a self-satisfied air, before paddling away on some important mission. Perhaps she'd be a bird, in preference to a cloud: a creature that acted on instinct; that didn't own a watch (or phone); that relished the simple magic of the moment, instead of dreading the future or regretting the past.

A woman was approaching; a small black mongrel gambolling at her heels. ‘Glorious weather, isn't it?' she said, stopping to throw a stick for the dog.

‘Yes, lovely.'

Lovely, too, to encounter people who didn't ask how Morris was, or shake their heads in gloom about the ‘dreadful situation'. Morris, of course, would be expecting her back – or at least Amanda would.
He
'd have totally forgotten where she was and why.

Well, Amanda would have to wait. Because she was suddenly aware that she, too, had reached a turning point: her life would have to widen, change direction, expand beyond its confines. The details were still vague, but her present plan was just to keep on walking, to follow the canal until she had worked out some sort of compromise between her duties as a carer and her longing to escape. She had no food, no drink, no luggage – no shelter for the
night, should she be away that long. But the whole joy of this mad escapade was to be unburdened, for once, with nothing weighing her down; nothing to do except let her mind roam free until it hit on a solution. Rory, of course was part of the imbroglio, but one of the changes she envisaged for the future was an end to all the lies. She hated the deceit she'd been enmeshed in for so long; hated her own hypocrisy, when she had always taught her daughters the value of the truth. And on this occasion, she'd tell Amanda the plain, unvarnished facts: she'd been out on an extended walk, along the Kennet and Avon Canal. Her daughters would be worried; maybe suspect she was losing her marbles, but they were used to that, with Morris, and would simply have to face the prospect of
two
demented parents.

Laughing at the thought, she jumped aside as an old man on a bike wobbled perilously towards her.

‘Good day,' he mumbled, in danger of overbalancing as he tried to doff his hat to her whilst steering a straight course.

‘It's more than just a good day,' she said, clearly and out loud, not caring who might hear. ‘It's a crucially important one, for me.'

‘
Ring
, damn you, ring!'

Could you hate a mobile – a harmless piece of plastic in shades of mauve and pink? Yes. Because, despite carrying it around with her since the first moment she got up, it had remained obstinately silent the whole morning, and that alone made her want to slap its dumb, pink face. He'd promised to ring – today – and surely, even on a Saturday, he wouldn't sleep past lunchtime. Admittedly, he would have got in very late last night, and hadn't actually specified what time he would make the call, but there had been a definite understanding that they would see each other this evening. In fact, she had barely slept at all, reliving their first encounter: two strangers meeting casually, yet knowing in an instant that their fates would be entwined.

Oh my God, it was ringing! At last! Thank Christ! Snatching it up, she stuttered a ‘Hello'.

‘Avril, hi! It's Pam.'

Four short words, yet they possessed the power to pitch her from the highest Himalayan peak to the darkest, deepest hole.

‘Avril, are you OK? Why aren't you saying anything?'

‘Could I … ring you later, Pam?'

‘Actually I was going to ask if you fancied coming shopping. I thought we might—'

‘Sorry, I'm busy today.' No way could she risk missing this
all-important
call. And if he rang while she was in Debenhams or Topshop, it would be terribly inhibiting to have to speak intimately in front of Pam – or anyone.

‘You sound a bit peculiar. Have I interrupted something?'

‘My, er, sister's here.'

‘OK, I'll give you a bell tomorrow, and maybe we can do something then.'

Tomorrow she might be with him still. Please God. ‘I'm afraid my sister's … staying over.'

‘Oh, right. I see. Well, have a good day.'

It would only be a good day if he rang. Fantastic if they fixed a time and place. All her adult life she had been waiting for a man like Todd. OK, she didn't really know him – yet – but gut instincts were invariably correct. There had been a television programme called ‘Thinking Without Thinking', which explained how snap judgements could be more truthful and effective than decisions worked out rationally through a laborious, conscious process of cognition. To gain access to the wisdom of the heart – so a professor on the programme said – you needed to bypass certain aspects of the brain. And, certainly, when her eyes met Todd's, her heart had known, at some profound instinctive level, that this was something special and momentous. And to think it might never have happened! Normally, she hated parties and had only let herself be dragged along to Brenda's fortieth birthday bash to avoid being thought a spoilsport by her workmates.

Extraordinary how different she felt since that magical encounter. She was no longer odd man out; the only one without a husband or partner – which meant she was pitied as a loser, sometimes even shunned. And the whole weekend had been transformed, as well. Most weekends were so much empty time. The odd shopping-trip or lunch with some acquaintance couldn't really disguise the fact that she was basically alone. But now she was a woman with a diary; someone fanciable, desirable; at this very moment awaiting her lover's call.

He
would
call, and they
would
be lovers – all it needed was patience. There were a dozen different places a bloke might be on Saturday: the football field, the squash court, the pub, the gym, the launderette. Once he got back, he'd phone. And at least she had used the morning to good purpose. Her toenails and her fingernails were painted an alluring red; her legs were waxed; her whole body buffed and polished and anointed with a frangipani lotion that smelled wonderfully exotic, and she'd tried on all the
knickers she possessed, before opting for the sexiest. Her outer clothes she'd left undecided as yet. No point getting out her party gear again if he suggested a session at the ice-rink before they went to bed.

Bed! They might come back here, to
her
bed, and she hadn't spared a single thought for the condition of the flat. Whilst primping and preening herself, she had left the place in a complete and utter mess. Worse, her sheets were in need of a wash, and there was nothing to drink beyond a bottle of cheap Chardonnay and some stalish mineral water. Last night, he'd been drinking beer. Should she go out and buy a six-pack? No. The flat must come first.

She dashed into the bedroom to inspect the duvet and the pillows. Both looked distinctly grubby, but as she ripped off the two pillowcases, her mobile shrilled again. Despite the pounding of her heart, she paused a moment, to rehearse her tone of voice. It was essential to sound sexy and flirtatious, so as not to disappoint him.

‘Hello –o,' she said in a husky purr. ‘Avril here.'

‘It's Mum, dear. I wondered if you could come over right away? I need a hand with the shopping. My leg's giving me gyp and I can't seem to get my balance.'

She closed her eyes, as if that way she could block out her mother – her mother's leg, her mother's endless ailments.

‘I hope it won't be any trouble. I know you said you were at a bit of a loose end today.'

‘Er, things have changed. I'm … going out.'

‘What, now?'

‘Well, soon-ish.'

‘Be an angel and pop over first. You know what a wreck I am, once my leg swells up like this.'

‘Mum, I don't think I can make it in time. I'm sorry, honestly. How about Marguerite? Can't she lend a hand?'

‘She's taken the children to the cinema.'

‘Well, Carmen, then?'

‘No, she and Guy are away for the weekend.'

Avril cursed her sisters. Not only were they married, their lives were so enviably full, they had every excuse not to help out in a
crisis.
She
was the one always landed with her mother. ‘Why not ask that nice kind soul at number 23?'

‘Eliza? Oh, I couldn't bother
her
– not at the weekend. She works so hard all week, it's the only time she sees Michael and the kids.'

Lucky Eliza. Lucky elder sisters. ‘Look, I'll try and rearrange things, Mum. I'll ring you back in a sec, OK?'

She
ought
to help. Life was pretty dismal for her mother, who had fallen prey to a whole host of minor health problems, since being widowed eighteen months ago. If she tidied up the flat first, so that everything was ready for an evening with her lover, there would still be time to do her mother's shopping. In fact, while she was out, she could buy some beer and snacks for Todd, and perhaps some candles and a bunch of flowers to make the place look more romantic. And, actually, if she answered the phone while she was out and about on errands, it would give a better impression. She would seem busy, in demand, racing from one engagement to the next, rather than staying in the whole damned day, counting every second till his call. And at least it was good weather: neither clammy-hot nor shivery-cold, and with no April showers to muss her hair, which she'd spent an age washing, then de-frizzing, then moisturizing and volumizing, and finally straightening with her special heated tongs.

Having found some off-white nylon sheets, she quickly changed the bed, wishing they were silk and slinky black. But she must concentrate on
him
tonight, so that he wouldn't notice the bed linen or the cramped and shabby bedroom; drive him to such heights of passion, all else would fade and blur. The problem was, she was completely out of practice, as well as unspeakably nervous, so she was bound to make a hash of things.

No, she mustn't be so negative. Wasn't it a feather in her cap that he'd insisted on taking her phone number? Blokes only did that if they had serious intentions. True, she didn't have
his
number, but only because he'd dashed off from the party to some other ritzy dive. Which made him more of a catch, in actual fact. This guy had friends, a pulsing social life, yet it was her he'd chosen from all the scores of people he might meet. Even his name was special. She had never known anyone called Todd. Was it just
a nickname, or short for something exotic? And was it spelled with two d's or just one? Two were better – gave him extra weight. She had no idea of his surname, but that was a mere detail. In time, she would know everything about him.

The phone! Again! Every time it rang, she seemed to suffer a minor heart attack; became tingly, shaky, weak, as if all her bones had turned to bendy straws. She let it ring three times, for luck, before she picked it up, then gave a terse ‘Hello', refusing to waste more sexy purrs on her mother or a friend.

‘Is that Miss Avril Burrows?'

‘Yes,' she said nervously, failing to recognize the voice. A deep, attractive male voice – a friend of Todd's perhaps, phoning with a message for her.

‘As one of our valued customers, you have been selected to receive a special free—'

‘Look, sorry, I can't talk now.'

‘I'd be grateful for a minute of your time, madam. This is an offer you won't want to refuse.'

‘What is it?' she asked, intrigued despite herself. Free offers were always tempting. It might be a CD of Songs for Lovers, or a jar of miracle face-cream, or cut-price calls at the weekends – all extremely useful if she and Todd became an item.

The man spoke in a breathless tone, as if announcing Oscar winners. ‘As a member of the Erotica Book Club, you are entitled to a copy of
Sex and Sensuality
– the ultimate lovers' guide. The retail price is £18.99, but this will cost you nothing.'

Her cheeks were flaming with embarrassment. ‘I'm
not
a member. I cancelled six months ago.' She had joined last year, after meeting Mike at her ‘Brush up Your German' evening class. Once she realized sex was on the cards, she had immediately started panicking about being out of practice, but knew full well she just didn't have the nerve to pick out blatant sex-books in a shop. She'd be watched by sneery sales people who would consider her too dull and plain to be mugging up on advanced erotic techniques. In fact, she had never got beyond the basics with short-sighted, skinny Mike. After the first dizzy week, the whole relationship had collapsed, and he had even stopped attending the classes, as if determined to avoid her at all costs. Which made it still more crucial that things worked out
with Todd, who was muscular, with perfect sight, and very nearly dishy. Perhaps she ought to accept the free offer. An ultimate lovers' guide would come in very handy. The previous sex-books she had purchased from the club had all emphasized the point that the best way to a man's heart was through his rampant cock.

‘It doesn't matter, madam,' the man was saying, ‘whether you're a member or not. You have privileged-customer status, which means the offer is still valid.'

‘Great! I'll have it, then.'

‘Hold on a second. I need to take some details.'

‘But, if you're ringing me, you must have my details already.'

‘Not all of them. This is a different division of the Club. Now if you'll bear with me a minute—'

She ‘bore with him' for twenty; only losing patience when she cottoned on to the fact that the book wasn't free at all, but just a lure to persuade her to rejoin. She cursed the wasted time, although in one way she felt sorry for the chap. Making cold calls to ex-customers couldn't be the best-paid of jobs, nor the most rewarding. Like her, he was at the bottom of the heap, and she felt a sudden urge to leap the miles between them and put her arms around him; reassure him that better things were on the way – with luck. The problem was, an impatient, busy Todd might well be trying to reach her, so she couldn't really extend the conversation. The minute she rang off, she checked for missed calls (none), then for texts (only an annoying one from Carmen, sending sisterly greetings from some posh hotel in Scarborough).

None the less, she was determined to be well-prepared, so she raced around the flat, cleaning, clearing, tidying – and trying not to blame herself for the cold-caller's loss of commission. Between her mopping and dusting, she kept darting back to the kitchen to add things to the shopping list: black fishnet tights, new pillowcases, lavender-scented room-spray, bacon and eggs, in case he stayed for breakfast – her Special K wouldn't suit a bloke. Then, having rung her mother, to get
her
shopping list, she finally dashed towards the High Street, feeling a curdled, clotted mixture of elation and sheer terror.

Two hours later, she was back, weighed down with heavy shopping and with a sense of increasing dread. Still he hadn't phoned or texted, and it was getting on for five now. How could they meet this evening, when he didn't even know if she was free? She tried to recall his exact words when they'd parted. Had he spelled it out in black and white that they were meeting tonight, for definite? Yes. Well, more or less. Perhaps he was a casual type, the sort who'd dispense with the phone-call and just turn up on her doorstep, expecting her to
be
there.

Which meant she must look her best, so as to give a good impression the instant she let him in. The room-spray and the pillowcases could wait. She was the one in need of further transformation.

She stood in front of the dressing-table mirror, wishing she could swap bodies with Marguerite or Carmen. Her sisters were attractive,
she
the ugly duckling, who had never succeeded in turning into a swan. Marguerite was always described as ‘feminine', and wore frills and ruffles and lots of baby-pink, whereas Carmen was ‘dramatic', and went in for daring outfits in bold colour-combinations like mustard and magenta, or emerald and slate. She herself had never had a label – she was simply Avril; not ‘the clever one' (Marguerite), or ‘the sporty one' (Carmen); not ‘striking' (Carmen again), or ‘elfin' (Marguerite). Or glamorous, or elegant, or fashionable – or
anything
.