Authors: Elizabeth Oldfield
‘How did his team do?’
He smiled. ‘They won, by six goals to two. Paul scored two of the goals and was thrilled to bits – his dad, also – so when I got home, I had a quick shower and changed.’
‘Very smart you look.’ He was wearing a dark grey suit, mid-blue shirt and green, white and blue tie. ‘I like the tie.’ I leant forward to take a closer look. ‘Dinosaurs?’
’It was a birthday present from Debbie and Paul, and the dinosaurs were chosen because, having attained the grand old age of fifty-three, they consider I’m a dinosaur, too.’
‘You’re fifty-three?’ I said, in surprise.
‘You thought I was older?’
‘Just the opposite, I thought you were younger. Somewhere in your mid to late forties.’
‘Flatterer, though I thought you were younger, too. When I realised from your c.v. that you were an old broad of fifty-five it was one hell of a shock!’
‘Less of the old broad, you ancient dinosaur.’
Steve laughed. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
With chintz green swagged curtains, green velvet-upholstered dining chairs and pale walls hung with tapestries, the restaurant was olde worlde elegant. Men in suits were sitting at a number of round white-clothed tables, interspersed with a few formally dressed women. All, presumably, French travel agents.
As the head waiter showed us to our table, I noticed that several of the men noticed me. And liked what they saw. I tilted my chin, swung my hips and strutted. Being admired – and Steve had complimented me when I’d made my entrance in my new outfit – releases the sex kitten in me. Okay, the sex cat.
When we were seated, the head waiter produced parchment menus and the wine list, then retreated. Not much later, our waiter for the evening – a polite youth called Juan – arrived to introduce himself. Steve ordered a bottle of good, though not massively expensive, Hunter Valley white, and we made our choice of dishes. Left alone again, we clinked glasses.
‘With thanks to everyone who made this possible,’ I said.
Steve nodded. ‘It’s appreciated.’ He took a drink, savoured it, then gazed around. ‘Seems like we could be the only home-grown types here. Or maybe not. That woman seems familiar.’
I turned to look where he was looking, at a table in the far corner of the restaurant. Here a platinum blonde was smiling flirtily at her companion, a man who was half-hidden behind a Chinese screen. The blonde wore a black sequinned boob tube and had been so lavish with the eyeliner she resembled a giant panda.
‘It’s Rita Smith, the Post Office Jezebel,’ I told him.
‘That’s where I’ve seen her, but why do you call her that?’
‘Because she’s forever regaling customers with details of her lovelife, no holds barred, or speculating on what other people may, or may not, be up to in that area. I also call her Jezebel because, despite having had three husbands and any number of ‘hits’ as she calls them, she never stops chatting up men.’
‘When I went into the Post Office recently, she tried to chat me up,’ he said.
‘Tried?’ I raised a brow. ‘She didn’t succeed?’
Steve grimaced. ‘Heaven forbid. Is Jezebel married at the moment? Is that her husband she’s with?’
‘She’s married to Number Three, has been for a couple of years, but she’s forever complaining about him being a couch spud who never takes her out anywhere. And she adores the bright lights.’
‘He must’ve decided to indulge her.’
‘It’d be quite an indulgence for him to bring her to Garth House. The guy’s a bricklayer, but he’s out of work. Seems to be permanently out of work.’
‘How can a bricklayer be out of work in Dursleigh?’ Steve protested.
‘With difficulty, I’d imagine.’ I looked across at the table again, just in time to see Jezebel’s companion, a pouchy-faced man, lean forward to tug playfully at one of her dangly earrings. ‘That’s not her husband. She’s with Ron Vetch!’
‘Ron Vetch? But our noble councillor’s big song at election time is ‘oh, what a trustworthy family man, I am, I am,’ Steve said drily.
‘Yes, though there’s talk of him being offhand with his wife and not too interested in his kids.’
‘I’ve heard the talk, but I’ve never heard one whisper about Vetch fraternising with other women. If word got around that he was having a bit on the side, it’d be a serious blow to his reputation and to his re-election chances.’
‘Especially as the bit on the side is the Post Office Jezebel, not a respectable or respected lady. Though they are only having dinner together,’ I pointed out.
‘True, but why is he sat behind the screen? Did it happen by chance or could he be deliberately hiding? Anyhow, let’s forget about them,’ he said, as Juan appeared bearing our crab starters. ‘That looks good.’
The food was delicious. And the wine. And the frappucinos which were served after the meal. Being with Steve was delicious, too. We never stopped talking, sharing opinions, laughing. I was going to miss spending time with the away-from-work Mr Lingard.
‘Okay if I come up and see Tina and Max on your wide-screen TV?’ he said, as we rose from the table.
‘Of course.’ I looked at my watch. I’d been so busy enjoying myself, I had forgotten about their appearance. ‘We’d better hurry, the programme starts in five minutes.’
We had reached The Clark Gable Room and I was looking in my bag for the key, when a giggle sounded behind us. I glanced back. At the far end of the corridor, the Post Office Jezebel was in the process of opening a bedroom door, with Ron Vetch standing close behind her. He had slid one hand over her shoulder and down into her cleavage – which was the reason for the giggle.
‘They’re
only
having dinner together?’ Steve murmured, into my ear.
‘Ooh, Ron!’ Jezebel squeaked. ‘You are naughty! Ooooh!’
The councillor had tugged down the sequinned boob tube and was cupping her naked breasts in her hands. They were saggy and heavily freckled breasts.
‘You like it,’ Ron Vetch said. ‘You always like it when I –’ He broke off. He had looked along the corridor and realised they were not alone. With one jerk, the boob tube was pulled back up into place. ‘Get inside!’
‘No need to push,’ Jezebel complained, as he pressed a hand to her back. Then she also saw us. Her companion might be horrified at being spotted, but she wasn’t bothered. ‘Hiya, folks!’ she sang out.
‘Inside,’ Ron Vetch growled, and thrust her forward. A moment later, the door slammed shut.
Steve grinned. ‘There’s someone who’s not a happy bunny.’
Yet I didn’t feel happy about the two-way sighting, either. As I had no doubt the other couple were preparing to embark on sexual high jinks, I knew Jezebel would believe the same about us. And would be quick to relate how she had seen us going into a bedroom together at the Garth House Hotel, etc., etc., etc. Regrettably, her imagined
et ceteras
were destined to be pornographic.
As Steve switched on the television, I sat at one end of the sofa.
‘Just in time,’ he said.
The signature tune of
Sats with Zachs
was fading, to be replaced with loud applause as Zachary Clegg strode through an archway. Casually dressed in a sweat shirt and jeans, the young man was smiling. He welcomed the viewers and the studio audience to his show, told a couple of topical jokes, then introduced a Brazilian dance group who launched into a hectic number.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ I asked.
‘A beer, please.’
I poured him one and helped myself to a fruit juice. Didn’t want to overdo the alcohol.
The next item on the programme was an interview with a so-called ‘It-girl’ and her racing driver boyfriend, a surprisingly interesting couple. After they had departed, Zachs chatted about the events of his week, told more jokes and then–
‘Tonight it is my great pleasure to welcome Max and Tina, the aerobics duo,’ he declared. ‘First we shall see them in action and what action! Then I shall be talking to them.’ He swung a hand. ‘Take it away, folks.’
The beat of music sounded and the camera travelled to Max and Tina, who were stood with hands on hips and bending sideways, first low to the left and then low to the right. Both were graceful, but Max also exuded power – a seductive combination. They were encased in dark blue spandex, with white chevrons at shoulders and hips.
‘With it, but not too extreme,’ Steve remarked.
I nodded. ‘And I like Tina’s plaits.’
Her blonde hair had been drawn back and woven into corn-row braids, which were fastened with blue and white beads and swung as she moved.
Throughout the work-out, they stretched, lunged, shadow-boxed and kept in perfect time with each other. When the music finished and they took a bow, the studio audience erupted into cheers, piercing whistles and loud applause.
‘I know you’re a personal trainer, Max,’ Zachs said, when they joined him, ‘but what can you tell us about the benefits of exercise?’
Max smiled his white, white smile. ‘Exercise is invaluable. It enhances self-image, relieves stress and slows down the ageing process.’
‘Works for me,’ Tina declared.
‘Exercising has given you more confidence?’ the young comic asked her.
‘It has. Also I’ve recently suffered a personal trauma, but exercise has helped me to release my tension and recover. As for slowing down the ageing process –’ she smiled into the camera. ‘At my next birthday I’ll be sixty.’
‘Sixty?’ Zachs repeated, in what seemed to be genuine disbelief. ‘You have to be joking.’
‘If only,’ she said.
I turned to Steve in amazement. ‘Tina’s informing the nation?’
‘Wonders will never cease.’
‘Doesn’t she look fantastic?’ Max appealed to the audience.
‘Yes!’ came a general shout, and there was another round of applause.
Tina looked pleased, but modest. ‘You’re very kind,’ she said. ‘However, I’m not unusual –’
‘You bloody are,’ a voice yelled.
‘– and don’t forget that a third of the nation is now over sixty. But whatever age you are, you’re never going to be younger than you are today, so live to the limit.’
‘Oh Lord,’ I said, ‘she’s started on the cringeable quotes, too.’
‘You work out every day?’ Zachs asked her.
‘I always do a short routine, but my main sessions are twice a week, with Max and my dear friends, Carol and Jenny.’
‘And Carol looks even more fantastic than Tina,’ Steve declared.
I grinned at him along the length of the sofa. ‘So what are you after?’
‘Making love to you.’
My grin faltered. ‘What?’
‘Don’t play the innocent.’ He was moving towards me. Coming close, too close for comfort. ‘I want to make love to you and you want to make love to me. Yes?’
‘No.’
‘Tell the truth, Carol.’
What did I do, lie through my teeth and hope to convince him? But Steve would not be easily fooled.
‘Okay, yes.’ I took a breath. ‘But if we sleep together, it could ruin the rapport and the ease between us at work. Making love with someone changes things for ever and if we got fed-up with each other or fell out, our working relationship would be severely strained and –’