Authors: Elizabeth Oldfield
Although Jenny was not on duty in her shop, that did not mean she would necessarily be at home, but if she wasn’t I would retrace my steps to the office, picking up something for lunch on the way. Whatever, I was getting exercise.
In listening to my outpouring of anxieties about Lynn, Steve had revealed a surprisingly caring side, I reflected. The guy did have some good points.
Where the road curves away from the High Street and down alongside the river, there is a stretch of a hundred yards or so where it is wider. Here, on the side next to the river bank, cars park, bumper to bumper. Because it’s handy for the shops and free, it’s a popular spot. Vehicles come and go all day.
I was walking along, wondering if Beth had been happy at her playgroup today or if, poor little soul, her parents’ quarrel meant she’d been sad – I hoped not – when a horn blared. Someone had freed up a parking space and another car was attempting to draw in, forcing the vehicles rounding the corner to brake, stop and wait.
Attempting
was the operative word. I saw the car, a low dark car, slowly manoeuvre into the gap, then reverse into the road again. Head into the space at a slightly different slant, only to pause, back out and hover. Traffic was stacking up in both directions.
The horn blared again. It came from a four-by-four at the front of the queue which, losing patience with the fruitless ins and outs, was giving warning that it was swinging past. Four-by-fours are the vehicle of choice among affluent families in Dursleigh who, you can guarantee, never ever go off-road. Come school run times, the roads are full of them. Often driven by reckless young mums.
Seconds later, tyres squealed. The four-by-four, a huge metallic blue job, had met a motor cyclist in black leathers and space-age helmet coming head-on. The motor cyclist swerved, narrowly missing the four-by-four which braked sharply. Juddered. The young woman at the wheel, a hatchet-faced brunette, rolled down her window and poked out her head.
‘Turd!’ she yelled.
The motor cyclist raised a middle finger.
A final try, and the car made it into the space and stopped. At an angle with the rear protruding, it was not parked prettily, but at last the traffic flow could resume.
As I drew closer I saw it was a BMW and realised from the back view of a blonde clad in light beige that the driver was Tina. She had switched off the engine and was sat straight-backed. Her shoulders looked tense. Intending to commiserate, I bent and peered in through the passenger door window. Tears were trickling down her cheeks.
Pushing on the handle, I opened the door and slid into the seat beside her. I patted her arm. Tina may annoy and exasperate me – there are times when I could give her a damn good shake – but I didn’t like to see her so distressed.
‘Don’t cry,’ I said. ‘It’s not the end of the world.’
She turned to look at me through tragic, blurry eyes. ‘No?’
‘I’m no crack-shot at parking myself and so what if you held up the traffic for a couple of minutes.’
She blinked rapidly. ‘Held up the traffic?’
‘While you did the samba, but you managed it in the end.’
‘I samba-ed?’
‘You’re not crying because of the parking,’ I said, as Tina took a tissue from the door pocket. Not only was she oblivious to the chaos she’d caused, but, I realised, the redness of her eyes and stash of soggy, discarded tissues indicated she had been crying for a while. Yet she didn’t look ugly. When I cry my nose and my mascara run, my face gets blotchy, I resemble a deranged Pekinese. Tina just looked… sad. A distressed heroine. ‘So what’s wrong? What’s the matter?’
‘It’s –’ She was unable to get out the words.
‘A bad day and you’re missing Duncan?’ I suggested.
Over the past couple of weeks, she had looked better and seemed happier. Indeed, her excitement about appearing on television had dominated her conversation and she had not mentioned her husband. She had also, I’d noticed, removed her wedding ring. But perhaps she was suffering from delayed shock and, suddenly and cripplingly, his death had hit home.
‘It’s – it’s not Duncan,’ she managed.
‘Then what is it?’
Tina sniffed, peered into the mirror and dabbed at her eyes. Gathering her composure, which took time, she faced me. ‘This morning I had a phone call from the producer of Joe’s show. He said that me taking part was not Joe’s decision, it was his. Seems he had only just heard what Joe was planning and he’d vetoed the idea. He doesn’t want me on because –’ She reached for another tissue. Tears were brimming again. ‘– because I’m past my sell-by date.’
‘The guy didn’t actually say that,’ I protested.
‘He did! He said he would cut the crap and tell it as it is. That Joe might think I was a wet dream in high heels, but so far as he was concerned I was way past my sell-by date and if he let me on as a meeter and greeter I’d turn the programme into a laughing stock. The Joe Fernandez’ fucking old fogeys’ parade.’
I raised my brows. The producer had not minced his words.
‘Does Joe know about this?’
‘No idea. I was so upset I couldn’t face talking to anyone, so I put the answerphone on. But I seem to remember he’s up in Walsall today opening an Internet café, or it could be a launderette, and he hadn’t rung when I came out. I needed some things from the shops and thought a change of scene might help, but as I was driving along I started to think about what the producer had said. I began to cry, could barely see, so I decided to pull in before I had an accident.’
And in pulling in you almost caused one, I thought.
‘The guy was probably thirty-five going on thirteen, with halitosis and zits, and what does he know?’ I scoffed. ‘Has he ever met you?’ Tina shook her head. ‘So he hasn’t seen what you look like and –’
‘He knows I’m in my fifties. Late fifties,’ she muttered, as if the words were like poison on her lips, ‘and that’s all that counts.’
‘To him, maybe, but not to everyone. I reckon if you went on the show you’d be a big success.’
‘You think so?’ she said doubtfully.
‘I do,’ I replied, meaning it. ‘We may live in an age obsessed with youth, but there is what’s called the ‘grey market’ which is a sizeable portion of the population, the core, and they’re not going to suffer a fit of the heebie-jeebies if they see an older woman on television.’
‘You don’t see very many.’
I couldn’t argue with that. The females you get as news readers, chat show hostesses, even weather forecasters, all tend to be dolly birds. Bimbos. It is as though once a woman turns forty she automatically turns into an eyesore and, for the sake of the nation’s wellbeing, must be banished from the screen.
‘And why don’t you see them?’ I demanded. ‘Because some callow youth producer says no. What d’you bet Joe will talk to the guy and get him to rethink?’
‘Perhaps,’ Tina said, as though the chance was minimal. Looking into the mirror again, she carefully wiped her eyes. ‘If the weather’s fine tomorrow we’ll be working out on the tennis court and, I hope you don’t mind, but there’ll be three other women with us.’
‘I don’t mind. Who are they?’
‘More of Max’s clients. Seems they don’t know each other, but they’re all keen to have extra sessions and he said that if they could come along and I’d allow him to use the court, he’d give me my week’s work-outs for free. I’d rather it was just you, me and Jenny, but the money from the Merc and the brooches is disappearing fast. After I settled up with the undertakers and Garth House, I realised there were gas and electricity bills to pay, then I saw the cutest pair of beaded mules and –’
‘Economy is the name of the game,’ I warned, and looked at my watch. ‘Sorry, must go. I’m on my way to Jenny’s.’
‘I’ll take you.’
‘No need.’
‘It’s no bother. And Carol –’ She smiled, a genuine smile as though she meant it. ‘– thank you.’
Driving me the few minutes to Jenny’s house may not have been a bother, but getting back onto the road was. Tina had taken six shunts, in and out, to park, but it took her eight to un-park. Once again she held up the traffic and received glares from other motorists – which had me sinking low in my seat and trying to pretend I was invisible – but she seemed gloriously immune. When she finally extracted us, I offered up a prayer in grateful thanks. And I said another when I saw Jenny’s car parked on her drive. She was in. Tina let me out at the kerb, executed a ragged and rapid five-point turn, and shot back off in the direction of the village.
‘Hi,’ I said, smiling when Jenny opened the door. Then I frowned. She looked strained and tense, not at all the usual cheery Jen. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Yes. I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve just got back from Guildford and – oh, Carol,’ she said, ‘it was terrible. Such a shock. So unexpected. I’ll get us some lunch and then –’ she made a noise which sounded like a sob ‘– I’ll tell you about it.’
What had happened? I wondered, as she efficiently, but morosely, produced ham and tomato sandwiches, and cups of coffee. Could she have been mugged? Witnessed a distressing road accident? Become caught up in an argument in a shop? The latter seemed unlikely because Jenny will agree to almost anything rather than cause a fuss. Yet whatever it was, it had seriously shaken her.
Lunch prepared, she sat down opposite me. ‘In the past six weeks, Bruce and I have only made love eight times,’ she stated.
‘Oh,’ I said.
Over the years, the two of us have shared all kinds of secrets, worries and joys, fears and grumbles, delights and aspirations, but Jenny has never ever spoken about her sex life. Divulgences of such an intimate nature are not her style. She’s never talked about lust or desire or how she’d like to get down and dirty with, perhaps, the postman or some charmer from the telly. I, on the other hand, have reminisced about passionate couplings with Tom, extolled the relief of having lovers and, more recently, complained of frustration. And shocked her rigid.
Fellatio and cunnilingus are not words which feature in Jen’s vocabulary and initially I had to explain what they meant. Much to her embarrassment. Nor had she ever set eyes on, let alone used, a vibrator. Though she had been able to tell me, courtesy of her lunchtime newspaper perusal, that Britons buy as many vibrators as washing machines and tumble-dryers, and a third of homes contain one. Also that in 1883 a man named Joseph Mortimer Granville had invented a treadle-operated vibrator which was offered to doctors as a medical aid for women suffering sexual tension.
But now Jenny had shocked me.
I had no idea how often she and Bruce made love – they could restrict themselves to Christmas Eve and Easter Sunday or be at it twice nightly, like rabbits – but the ‘only’ combined with her expression indicated that eight times in six weeks was a pretty poor show. For them, maybe. I’d be in heaven.
‘Is that because of you… or him?’ I enquired gingerly.
‘Him. He always claims he’s too tired.’
‘It’ll be because he’s working out at the gym,’ I said, adopting the soothing role of agony aunt. ‘Bruce is – what, fifty-six?’
‘Fifty-seven.’
‘– and exercising after a day in the office is bound to take it out of him.’
‘That’s what I thought, too, but then this morning in Guildford I saw –’ She broke off, finding it difficult to continue.
‘What did you see?’ I prompted.
Jenny drew in an unsteady breath. ‘Bruce with a woman. A young, well, youngish woman. About forty she was, smart, with fair hair cut in one of those long swinging bobs and wearing a dark jacket and skirt.’
‘She’d be a business colleague.’
‘But she kissed him! I’d gone to collect my contact lenses – remember I told you I’d been for an eye test? – and as I was walking along the cobbled street towards the opticians I saw them coming out of a coffee bar together.’